Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Well, in that case …’ He handed the file back. ‘Let’s not keep the young lady waiting.’

  It took about five minutes for Logan to become completely and utterly lost.

  Beatrice leant forward. ‘Actually, my thesis is going to be investigating the role of sublimation and suppression in the intimacy-versus-isolation phase of psychosocial development, with direct reference to the role played by the media’s celebrity bias.’

  Goulding nodded. ‘Erikson and Freud, I like it. Have you considered including Kohlberg’s ideas of self-focused morality?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, that would make sense. Celebrity culture often portrays examples running contrary to the negative consequences of transgressing the perceived moral law.’

  ‘Glad I could help.’

  The one thing Logan did understand was that the longer Beatrice spoke to Goulding, the more her true Birmingham accent came out in response to his Liverpudlian one. And the less she sounded like the bunny-boiling fruitloop they’d interviewed that afternoon.

  Goulding opened the folder, and pulled out the photos of her room. ‘Now that we’ve established a rapport, Beatrice, I’d like to ask you about these …’ He laid them out on the scarred tabletop.

  She picked at the skin around her finger again. ‘I know you’re probably thinking I’m being obsessive, but it … I think she’s an inspiration. A loving mother, a single, independent woman, and she’s a super-talented singer, and she’s doing a degree …’ Beatrice reached for one of the photographs, a close-up of the watercolour with the tinfoil halo. ‘People believe in the strangest things, don’t you think? Some tribes worship a tree, Scientologists think we’re all descended from aliens. Mormons, Anglicans, Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, Buddhists – all have their own little quirks.’ A shrug. ‘I chose to invest my faith in something human. Does that sound strange, compared to believing there’s an invisible magic man who watches everything we do and can damn us for all eternity?’

  ‘Do you feel it’s a normal response?’

  ‘You think I might be displacing my need for a maternal role model?’

  Goulding smiled. ‘Is that what you think you’re doing?’

  On and on and on and on. Psychologist and psychology student, sounding like a self-help seminar for Martians.

  Logan rapped his knuckles on the table. ‘What did Alison think about you having a shrine to her on your bedroom wall?’

  Beatrice shifted in her seat, hands flattening out the photo on the table in front of her.

  ‘Did she know about it?’

  ‘She … came round this one time to borrow some lecture notes. There was a knock at the door, and I opened it, and there she was. I mean right there – at my door.’ Beatrice nodded, up and down, and up and down, curly bleached blonde hair falling over her eyes like a curtain. ‘I mean, God, can you imagine it? Right there in front of me. And I couldn’t speak. I mean, literally couldn’t speak. And she said, “Hi Beatrice, can I come in?”’

  The student looked up, a huge smile stretching her mouth wide, eyes glittering. ‘She knew my name. Alison McGregor knew my name. And I asked her in and she saw the wall … And she said, and I’ll never forget it, she said, “Wow. That’s a lovely painting, did you do that?”’

  A tear broke free, running down through the foundation on her cheeks. ‘She loved it. She said it was nice to know that someone loved her, like I loved her. That other people didn’t understand. And I ran down to the shop and got us a bottle of Chardonnay and we sat and she told me about Jenny’s mumps and I told her about my mum and it was the best night of my whole entire life.’ Beatrice stroked the photograph. ‘She was just perfect.’

  And the bunny-boiling fruitloop was back.

  ‘I was worried about her – all those photographers and crazed fans pestering her all the time. So I followed her home on the bus a few times. Just to, you know, make sure she was safe. She never even knew I was there … But I kept her safe.’

  Tell that to Jenny and her missing toes.

  ‘Did you follow her on Wednesday night – the night she went missing?’

  Beatrice wrapped her arms around herself, as if she was trying to stop herself bursting apart. ‘No … The one time it mattered, and I let her down.’ She stared straight into Logan’s eyes, tears running down her cheeks. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I tried, but she didn’t take the bus, someone pulled up outside the lecture theatre and she got in his car. And they drove away. And I never saw her again.’

  Why did no one ever think about calling the police? Logan sat forward. ‘Did you get a photo of the car? Do you know who was driving? Did she mention meeting anyone?’

  ‘No, I mean yes … I saw him.’

  Silence.

  For God’s sake. Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Bald. And he had a silly little patch of hair on his chin, sideburns with a sort of zigzag cut into them.’ She wrapped her arms even tighter. ‘It was that Gordon Masuire: the TV producer guy who owns the record company.’

  Logan stifled a yawn. Shuddered. Then put the phone back on the hook. Stretched in his seat. Sagged. ‘Christ …’ He ran a hand over his face. ‘What do you think?’

  Goulding raised an eyebrow. ‘Could Beatrice have hurt them? Oh yes, definitely. She seems to have compartmentalized her life – the dedicated student, the obsessive fan, the dutiful friend, the loyal protector … If she thought Alison McGregor had rejected her, I wouldn’t be surprised to see her falling back into her old behaviour patterns. Mummy has spurned me again, I will punish her. I will—’

  The door banged open and there was DCI Finnie in all his rubber-faced glory. ‘Well?’

  ‘The Met are on their way to the studio.’ Logan pointed at the phone. ‘Maguire’s still broadcasting the round-up of tonight’s semi-final.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent.’ The head of CID rubbed his hands together. ‘Are they flying him up to Aberdeen?’

  ‘Can’t. The CPS say we don’t have enough to arrest him. I’ve asked for a video-conference thing when they talk to him, so at least we’ll get to sit in.’

  Finnie’s smile slipped. ‘Oh, well, I suppose we shouldn’t lose sight that it’s a result. And this all came from interviewing the Eastbrook woman? The Eastbrook woman McPherson was supposed to have interviewed?’

  ‘Ah …’ Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Yes, well—’

  ‘I think I might have to have a few words with Detective Inspector McPherson, don’t you agree? I might start with, “idiot” and see how it goes from there.’ A nod. He reached out and patted Logan on the shoulder, keeping his body stiff, as if he’d heard about this kind of thing, but had never done it before. ‘Good work, Sergeant.’ A pause. ‘Now, have you written up that formal complaint yet?’

  ‘No, I don’t …’ Logan sighed. ‘I know, but what am I supposed to do?’

  The silence on the other end of the phone kept on getting colder.

  He took a sip of tea, watching as the macaroni cheese and chips congealed on his plate. Killing time with Goulding, waiting for the Metropolitan Police to call and say they were ready to question Gordon Maguire.

  The canteen was quiet, just a couple of the back shift in for bacon rolls and strong coffee.

  ‘Sam, it’s the only break we’ve had in nearly two weeks, I can’t—’

  ‘It’s half nine! We were supposed to book a holiday tonight, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but you know what the job’s like, I—’

  ‘Don’t you dare play the “job “ card with me, Logan McRae. Every time there’s a big case on you disappear up there and never come home. Well, if you’d rather hang out with that wrinkly lesbian mother-substitute of yours than come home to me, you—’

  ‘She’s not even here! It’s just me and Finnie and Goulding. We’re waiting—’

  ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just now and then, but it’s all the sodding time.’

 
; ‘—Gordon Maguire, because he lied and—’

  ‘And I know there’s a little girl and her mum missing, but killing yourself isn’t going to change—’

  ‘—video conference. I’ll be home as soon as I—’

  ‘And you can pick up a bottle of wine as well.’

  ‘It’s …’

  She’d hung up.

  Wonderful. Logan stuck the phone back in his pocket.

  Goulding leaned forward. ‘So, do you fancy Aberdeen’s chances against Toulouse this weekend?’

  ‘Don’t even pretend.’ He stabbed a chip and dragged it through the wrinkly cheese sauce. ‘And before you start: I know she’s right, OK? I’m knackered, I’ve not had a day off in ages, and Big Gary keeps moaning about the overtime bill.’ The chip was cold, the sauce lukewarm. ‘But what am I supposed to do: sod off home and miss Gordon Maguire’s interview?’

  ‘Well,’ the psychologist dabbed the napkin at the corners of his mouth, ‘I suppose that depends on what you feel’s more important. Doesn’t it?’

  Guilt – even better. ‘I’m not …’ His phone was ringing again. He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘Sam, I’ve been thinking: how about—’

  ‘All your fucking fault.’ Shuggie Webster. ‘It’s all your fucking fault!’

  Not again. ‘It’s getting old, Shuggie. We know about Trisha, OK? If your mates Jacob and Robert have got her we can help. But you’ve got to stop—’

  ‘I want them fucking drugs back, and if you won’t give us them …’

  ‘Stop sodding around and turn yourself in. OK?’

  ‘I warned you. I fucking warned you.’

  ‘Shuggie—’

  ‘Consequences …’

  Consequences? Silly bugger. This wasn’t the bloody Godfather, and Shuggie Webster was no Al Pacino. Logan hung up on him.

  ‘You know what?’ He pushed his plate away. ‘I’m getting sick and tired of …’

  His phone. Again.

  He stabbed the button. ‘God’s sake: what?’

  ‘Logan?’ Samantha. ‘Look, I’m sorry … it’s been a crappy day. I didn’t mean to be a nag.’

  ‘Sam, I—’

  ‘If you’ve got someone for the McGregor thing, nail the bastard to the wall by the balls.’

  Pause. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Spent the whole day scraping bits of brain and skull off the roof of some poor sod’s bedroom. I hate suicides.’

  Logan smiled. ‘Well, at least you’ve finally got something in common with Biohazard.’

  ‘Urgh … Great: now I feel dirty and depressed.’

  ‘How about I take you out to dinner tomorrow night? And I’ll be home as soon as I can. Promise.’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  ‘Well I sodding hate you!’ DI Steel stood at the end of the table, arms folded, face creased into a scarecrow scowl.

  ‘Sam? I’ve got to go …’ He put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

  Dr Goulding pulled on a smile. ‘Good evening, Inspector.’

  ‘Fuck off, Ringo.’ She stabbed a finger at Logan. ‘He’s gone. Done a runner.’

  ‘Who’s—’

  ‘Frank Sodding Baker, that’s who. Didn’t turn up for work this morning – the Diddymen went round tonight and his flat’s a tip. Packed his clothes, his toothbrush, and sodded off!’

  Logan stared at her. ‘That’s not my fault. How’s that my fault?’

  ‘You and that cock-burger Green! Charging about like—’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t.’ He stood, chest out, shoulders back.

  Goulding groaned. ‘Logan, maybe now’s not the best time to—’

  ‘One: Green was the one doing all the shouting. Two: I tried to stop him! The bastard wouldn’t listen—’

  ‘Oh, don’t give me that, you—’

  ‘I put in a formal complaint about it. In writing!’

  The psychologist held up his hands. ‘I really think you should both—’

  ‘Shut up.’ Steel ran a hand across her eyes. ‘Are you telling me you put in a formal, written complaint about Stupidintendent Green?’

  ‘Yes. I had nothing to do with—’

  ‘Are you mental? Never go on the record moaning about a superior officer, no matter how much of a tosser they are!’ She clenched her fists at the ceiling. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘The minute you made it official, you gave that arsehole Green a target.’

  Goulding stood. ‘I really think—’

  Steel glared at him. ‘What part of “shut the fuck up” do you no’ understand?’

  The psychologist just pointed over her shoulder.

  Oh … bollocks. Logan turned.

  Superintendent Green was standing in the canteen doorway with DCI Finnic The man from SOCA stuck his nose in the air, turned, and stormed from the room.

  35

  ‘Well, that could have gone better, don’t you think?’ Finnie settled into the chair on the other side of the boardroom table, then shuffled around until he was facing the screen.

  Logan doodled a little skull and crossbones in the corner of his notepad. ‘I didn’t know he was there.’

  ‘I hardly think that’s relevant. Do you, Doctor?’

  Goulding shrugged. ‘Sometimes it’s better to get interpersonal issues out in the open. If we never let people know how we feel, how can we expect them to change?’

  The TV flickered, then settled on a view of a small room. A round table with a chair behind it – facing the camera, two more on this side, facing away.

  A voice boomed out of the speakers. ‘How’s that? Any better?’ Then a figure bent into frame and waved at them. He was too close for the camera to focus properly.

  Logan clicked the button on the conference phone. ‘We can see you now.’

  ‘I bloody hate IT.’ He sat with his back to the camera, just the edge of his shoulder visible on the screen.

  Logan let go of the button. ‘That’s DI Broddur, he’s the one’s been looking into Maguire for Mark.’

  Finnie shifted in his seat. ‘Can they see us?’

  ‘Video link’s one way. The inspector can hear us, but only if you press the “talk” button. He’s got an earpiece so no one else in the room knows what you’ve said.’

  Finnie drummed his fingers on the boardroom table. ‘You do realize that Superintendent Green is probably going to demand an apology?’

  ‘I told him threatening Frank Baker was would just make him run.’

  Broddur’s voice crackled across the room. ‘We ready?’

  Logan pressed the button. ‘Whenever you are, Inspector.’

  A blurry hand waved across the screen. ‘Bring him in, Charlie.’

  Gordon Maguire looked very shiny over a video link, his bald head flaring in the overhead light. He took the chair facing the camera and scowled. ‘You do know we’ve got a live update on the voting in fifteen minutes, don’t you? Not to mention half a million other things that have to be—’

  Broddur: ‘You’ve not been entirely honest with us, have you Mr Maguire?’

  The producer licked his lips. ‘This is all a big misunderstanding. Like I told those Aberdonian idiots: I can’t afford to have Alison and Jenny out of circulation. If I don’t get that album out soon I’m going to lose everything.’

  Logan pressed the ‘TALK’ button again. ‘Then why did our witness see Alison McGregor getting into his car the—’

  ‘Yes, I was actually getting to that.’ Broddur leant forward, showing more of his back to the camera. ‘Then why do we have a witness that saw Alison McGregor getting into your car the night she went missing?’

  ‘Ah …’ Maguire looked off to the left. ‘Well, yes, but you see … we had to discuss some business. So I gave her a lift home.’

  ‘And you conveniently forgot to mention that fact, e
ven though you’ve been questioned three times?’

  ‘Look, it’s … God.’ Maguire scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘We were … seeing each other. We went back to my hotel, had a few glasses of wine, and …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Look, do I really have to spell it out for you?’

  ‘Some of my colleagues north of the border can be a bit dim when it comes to the social niceties, Mr Maguire. Better make it nice and clear.’

  He sighed. ‘We met last year during the auditions for Britain’s Next Big Star. We got chatting, ended up having coffee, then dinner We got on, liked each other.’ He rubbed a hand across his bald scalp. ‘If anyone found out I was … involved with one of the contestants there’d be people shouting, “fix” and it’s not true: I didn’t influence the judges. I didn’t have to. She was brilliant.’

  He shifted in his seat, scooting back and forward. ‘On Wednesday night we went to my room, and afterwards I gave her a lift home, then went back to the hotel to pack. Had to get the redeye back to London. That’s it, I swear: I know nothing about her going missing.’

  He fidgeted in silence for a minute.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone about me and her will you? You know how the media like to blow stuff like this out of all proportion.’

  ‘Hey kiddo, how you doing?’ A robot voice in the darkness.

  Eyes are all crusty … Jenny wipes the eye-bogies away and blinks, screwing her face up against the light. ‘Sleeping.’

  ‘I know, but it’s time for another shot, OK?’ SYLVESTER pulls up her sleeve, his white suit all rustly. ‘Should be getting good at this by now, shouldn’t we?’

  The scratchy bee stings. Jenny bites her bottom lip and doesn’t cry. She is a Brave Little Girl.

  ‘OK, perfect, we’ll just give that a wee swab …’ He rubs a little cloth across the sting. ‘And a plaster …’ Small, round, and pale as Barbie’s skin. ‘And we’re done.’ He holds a lollipop in his purple-gloved hand.

  Jenny takes the lollipop. Unwraps it. Sniffs it.

  ‘It’s cola-flavoured. Chewy in the middle too. Just don’t tell your mum.’

  Never take sweeties from strange men. She puts the lollipop on the mattress, next to the chain around her neck.