Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  Finnie bristled. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, did I somehow give you the impression I was running a democracy here? I don’t need your permission to decide who can and can’t come to work, understand?’

  Wonderful. Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, rubbing them until little yellow dots sparked in the darkness. ‘I’m fine, I just need—’

  ‘Andy, for Christ sake, his girlfriend’s lying up in intensive care. In a sodding coma!’

  ‘I am well aware what the situation—’

  Then do something about it! Send him home! He can crash at my place, Susan’ll look after him.’ Another poke. ‘Don’t be a prick all your life!’

  Finnie’s eyes went wide, fists trembling at his sides. ‘That’s enough! If you ever speak to me like that again, you’re going to be on a disciplinary charge, do you understand?’

  ‘You’re no’ being—’

  ‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ Spittle flying everywhere.

  Steel’s chin came up, pulling the wattle of skin beneath it taut. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘DS McRae,’ Finnie shot a finger in Logan’s direction, ‘you will not go anywhere near the arson investigation. You will confine yourself to Trisha Brown’s disappearance and reviewing the McGregor investigation, is that in any way too vague and fuzzy for you?’

  Logan shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘If I find you even thinking about interfering: you’re out of here.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Finnie glowered at Steel a moment longer, then turned and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Pause.

  Steel let out a huge hissing breath, then sagged against the plastic covered wall. ‘Oh thank God … Thought the rubber-faced bastard was going to fire me for a minute there.’ She pulled out her e-cigarette and took a deep drag. ‘You really sodding owe me one: this reverse psychology lark is no’ as easy as you’d think.’

  Logan stared at her. ‘You called him a “prick” on purpose?’

  ‘Like I’m no’ stressed enough as it is.’ She dumped the newspaper on the desk in front of him. The Aberdeen Examiner, evening edition. ‘POLICE HUNT FOR MISSING SEX BEAST.’

  The photo of Frank Baker wasn’t recent – probably hauled out of DI Ingram’s files and issued as a ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN’ poster. A smaller picture showed a huge man with a draft-excluder moustache: Spike, Baker’s friend from the fabrication yard. The one who’d marched over to defend him.

  ‘“DON’T COME BACK!” PAEDO FRANKIE’S WORKMATES KEPT IN THE DARK ABOUT HIS FILTHY CRIMES.’

  Steel flicked Spike in the face. ‘So now we’ve got a nationwide manhunt to deal with, because sodding Green had to go stirring things up. And he’s all, “Look at me, I was right!” … Wanker.’

  Logan skimmed the article. ‘You think Baker’s in the frame for Alison and Jenny?’

  There was a knock on the door, then Rennie stuck his head into the room. ‘How’d it go?’

  ‘Coffee, milk two sugars. And get something for Laz too.’ Steel picked the stack of student interview forms off the desk and rifled through them. Then glanced back towards the door. ‘You’re still standing there, Constable.’

  Rennie nodded at Logan, then held up a couple of bulging black plastic bin-bags, both sealed with a knot of yellow-and-black ‘CRIME SCENE’ tape – the stuff only the IB used. ‘Elaine Drever says you wanted these?’

  He dumped them on the floor.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The constable grinned. ‘Did you hear about McPherson? Apparently, right, he was supposed to come in for a bollocking this morning, and halfway down Union Street he nips across the road, dodges a bus, overshoots and goes arse over tit down those stairs onto Correction Wynd. Broken leg and concussion. They got the whole thing on CCTV, if you fancy a laugh?’

  ‘And some chocolate biscuits too.’ Steel waved a hand at him. ‘Run along, there’s a good wee soul.’

  As soon as Rennie was gone, Steel dumped the forms back on the desk. ‘Here’s the deal: you work till five, then we go home to my place and you let Susan fuss over you. You have a few drams, watch the telly, have tea, brush your teeth, and go to beddy-byes, all where I can keep an eye on you. You’re no’ going back to that manky wee caravan by the jobbie farm to mope, brood, and fester in the dark.’

  ‘I …’ Logan could feel the heat rushing up his cheeks. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Should think so too. Meantime: who torched your flat?’

  Don’t look away. Keep eye contact. ‘I’ve no idea. Been trying to figure it out all day, but …’ Frown. Shrug. Nice and natural. ‘Has to be someone I put away. Can’t just be random.’

  Steel rolled the fake cigarette around her mouth, the plastic end clicking off her teeth. ‘IB’s running DNA tests on some stuff they got off your front door. We’ll get a match, and we’ll catch the bastard, and I’ll make sure he gets done for attempted murder.’ She stood, rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You trust your Auntie Roberta: that wanker is going to pay.’

  Logan’s phone blared its drunken, sinister waltz. He hauled it out and checked the display: Steel.

  ‘Thought we had a bastarding deal!’

  Logan flattened himself against the two-tone green wall as a huge hospital bed was wheeled past – a pale old man in an oxygen mask staring at the ceiling, his face slack and greasy. A woman in blue scrubs and squeaky white trainers tutted at Logan as they went past. ‘You’re not allowed to use your mobile in the hospital!’

  ‘Sorry.’ He watched them disappear.

  ‘I called Finnie a prick for you! I nearly got sodding fired: and soon as my back’s turned—’

  ‘I’m up at the hospital.’ He started down the corridor again. ‘Someone has to tell Trisha Brown’s mother her wee girl’s been abducted.’

  ‘You could at least’ve taken Rennie!’

  ‘I wanted … They say I can sit with Samantha for fifteen minutes.’

  A pause. ‘Fuck’s sake, Laz, I would’ve come with you. You know that. Could’ve sat in the canteen ogling nurses while you were in with her.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’ He hung up before she could say anything else.

  The plump nurse eyed Logan up and down for the third time in as many minutes as she led him towards a curtained-off area at the far end of an eight-bed ward. It was oppressively hot in here, even though the windows were open, letting in the droning rumble of traffic and the occasional screeching wail of ambulances.

  ‘Now, I need you to understand that Mrs Brown isn’t to be excited.’ The nurse ran a hand across her chest, just above the massive shelf of bosom. Then checked the watch pinned to her blue top like a medal. ‘She’s not due another dose of methadone for two hours and she’s a bloody nightmare when she gets going.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  The nurse grabbed a handful of curtain and wheeched it back.

  Helen Brown lay on top of the covers, head back, mouth hanging open, snoring gently. No teeth. A wad of gauze was taped over one eye, the rest of her face a patchwork of bruises and stitches. Her right arm was encased in a fibreglass cast from palm to elbow, her left leg from the ankle all the way to the thigh. But her right leg came to an abrupt end at the knee, the exposed thigh stained yellow and green.

  Logan winced. The attack must have been horrific. ‘They cut her leg off?’

  ‘About three years ago. Gangrene.’ The nurse checked the chart hanging on the end of the bed. ‘That’s the trouble with intravenous drug users. Don’t know when to stop.’ She looked up at Trisha’s mum. ‘Mrs Brown? Helen? There’s a policeman here to see you.’

  A mumble.

  ‘Helen?’

  Trisha’s mum squinted with her good eye. ‘Fuck off …’

  ‘Come on, Helen. What have we talked about your language?’

  She struggled over onto her side. ‘Fuckin’ fat bitch. Where’th my painkillerth?’

  A sigh. ‘You know you can
’t get anything more till five. Now there’s a policeman here to see you; do you want a glass of water?’

  ‘I need my fuckin’ painkillerth! In fuckin’ agony here …’

  Logan settled into the seat beside the bed. ‘Mrs Brown, my name’s Detective Sergeant McRae. I need to speak to you about Trisha.’

  The nurse nodded. ‘Well, I leave you to it then.’ She stepped away from the bed and pulled the curtains closed again, shutting Logan in.

  Trisha’s mum scowled at him. ‘Fuckin’ bitch never gives me anything for the pain.’

  ‘She was seen getting into a car on Saturday evening—’

  ‘Oh, here we go.’ Helen curled back her lips, exposing a pair of bruised and battered gums. ‘Just ’cos she sucks someone off in—’

  ‘The person in the car attacked her. She was seen being beaten.’

  ‘Oh …’ Helen rolled over onto her back. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘We don’t know. He drove off with her still in the car.’

  Silence. Helen rubbed the fingers of her good hand up and down the blanket. Then a tear rolled its way down her bruised cheek.

  Logan looked away. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? You’re fuckin’ sorry?’ An empty plastic tumbler bounced off Logan’s shoulder. ‘Why aren’t you out there? Why aren’t you looking for my little girl?’

  ‘We’re doing everything we—’

  ‘SHE COULD BE FUCKIN’ DEAD FOR ALL YOU KNOW! Dead. Raped in a fucking ditch! My wee Trisha …’

  ‘If you can think of anyone who threatened, or—’

  ‘And they send round a fuckin’ sergeant? Alison McGregor gets the Chief Constable and half the pigs in Scotland, and all Trisha gets is a fuckin’ sergeant! WHAT FUCKIN’ GOOD ARE YOU?’

  ‘Mrs Brown, I want to assure you that Grampian Police are taking this very seriously.’

  The curtains burst open and the big nurse was back. ‘What did I tell you about upsetting her?’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘TRISHA!’

  ‘Come on Helen, quieten down: you don’t want to disturb the other patients, now do you?’

  She grabbed a grey cardboard bedpan and threw it at the nurse. ‘MY WEE GIRL’S MISSING! I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOUR FUCKIN’ PATIENTS!’

  ‘We’re doing everything we can to find—’

  ‘You bunch of bastards. You think she’s just a junkie hoor, she’s not worth anything. SHE’S MY LITTLE GIRL!’ Helen Brown swung her fibre-glass cast at Logan’s head. ‘I’LL FUCKIN’ KILL YOU!’

  He jerked back out of the way, the plastic visitor’s chair tipping over, clattering to the floor, as he stood.

  ‘Right, that’s enough.’ The nurse lunged, pinning Helen to the bed.

  ‘GET OFF ME YOU FAT BITCH! AAAAAAGH!’

  ‘I said that’s enough!’ The nurse scowled up at Logan, teeth gritted. ‘I think you’d better go, don’t you?’

  ‘You’re looking well. No really …’ Logan squeezed Samantha’s hand. ‘Very goth.’

  She didn’t look ill, there was barely a scratch on her. At least, not on the bits he could see. They’d taped her eyelids shut. A breathing tube snaked in through the side of her mouth, a pulse monitor clipped to her right index finger, an IV line plugged into a shunt on her right wrist.

  ‘I moved back into the caravan. Place smells worse than your dad. All mouldy …’

  Wee Hamish’s flowers were sitting in a large vase on the windowsill. A vast arrangement of roses and carnations and fuzzy-white-spray-stuff and leaves and twirls of bamboo. Extravagant, but tasteful.

  ‘Elaine picked up all your clothes, by the way. The pants and boots and things.’ He sank forward until his head was resting against her chest, rising and falling on the swell of her mechanically-assisted breathing. ‘Fuck … I don’t know if you can hear me or not. But it’s going to be OK. I promise.’

  Lying bastard.

  ‘Starting to think you’re stalking me.’

  Logan scrubbed a hand across his eyes, kept his head facing the corner. ‘Sorry …’ It took him a couple of beats to realize where he was – a subterranean corridor, deep within the bowels of the hospital. The thrum of the ventilation system, the smell of over-boiled cauliflower and industrial floor polish.

  He sniffed. Wiped his eyes again. ‘I used to wander the corridors … you know, after the stabbing. Must’ve worn out three pairs of trainers by the time they let me go home. Always ended up down here.’ Staring at four watercolours framed on the scuffed cream walls. A single landscape split over the seasons, the colours so vibrant they were surreal.

  The APT moved around, peering at him, her fiery-orange hair swinging like a pendulum. ‘You OK?’

  He almost laughed. ‘Been a rough couple of days.’

  Silence.

  ‘You want a cup of tea, or something?’

  ‘Milk, two sugars.’ She placed a steaming mug on the desk in front of him.

  Coffee. He could smell it over the bleach and formaldehyde. Over the smell of institutionalized death. ‘Thanks.’

  The Anatomical Pathology Technician glanced over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about Mrs Sawyer, it was very peaceful.’ An old lady – laid out on the cutting table, just her head and bare feet sticking out from beneath the white plastic sheet. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘No.’

  A nod. ‘Well, tell you what, I’ve got something that might cheer you up …’ She was back a minute later, carrying the laptop from the other room. It went on the desk, next to Logan’s coffee, then she fiddled with the touch-pad. ‘Remember you were looking for dead girls who’d been given morphine and thiopental sodium?’

  The screen was fuzzy, out of focus. He blinked. It was a little girl, her eyes half shut, face covered with scrapes and bruises, blood crusting around her nose. Bowl haircut and a razor-sharp fringe.

  The APT poked the screen. ‘Olivia Brook. Five and a half. Car accident. Riding her bike and got broadsided by a teenager in a VW Polo. I was going to email you after we’d seen to Mrs Sawyer.’

  Logan stared at the photo. Poor little sod … ‘I thought you searched—’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t die. They had to take her left leg off just above the knee. Was hanging by a thread anyway; blood supply was completely compromised; the bones were all crushed; nothing they could do.’

  ‘Where’s the leg?’

  ‘We incinerate hospital waste.’ She raised her hands to the ceiling tiles. Giving her head a little shake, one eyebrow raised. ‘So …?’

  ‘So no one would notice a missing toe.’ Bastards.

  ‘But we do have blood samples on file. I can send one over, if you want to try for a DNA match?’

  ‘Yeah, could you make it—’

  Logan’s mobile rang, deep in his pocket – the generic tune marking the call as one from an unknown number. If it was Shuggie Bloody Webster calling to talk about consequences he was in for a fucking nasty shock. Logan dragged the phone out. ‘What?’

  A small, rustling pause, then, ‘Logan?’ A man’s voice, the accent a whispery, gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Wee Hamish Mowat.

  Logan licked his lips. Sat up straight. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I thought you might like to know that we’ve managed to locate your missing … friend.’

  40

  A small warehouse in Dyce – not much bigger than a double garage, oil stains on the concrete floor, metal shelving around the bare breezeblock walls loaded down with dusty boxes.

  A layer of thick, clear plastic sheeting was spread out on the floor, the corners held down with chunks of rusty machinery.

  One of the roller doors was open, letting in the bang and clank of the industrial estate, the whumping roar of helicopters on their way to and from the rigs. A dented Transit van had been backed part way into the warehouse, its rear wheels sitting on the plastic sheet, its front end sticking
out into the sunny afternoon. Engine idling.

  The young man with the green hair sniffed, then picked up a metal attaché case, popped open the catches, and held the thing out to Logan, as if he was starring in a spy film. Jonny Urquhart – From Mastrick With Malice. He smiled, showing off a set of perfect teeth, his cheeks a moonscape of old acne pockmarks. ‘Don’t worry, totally clean, like.’

  Logan looked into the case. It was a big semi-automatic pistol, wrapped in a clear plastic zip-lock food bag. Another bag had the clip. One more, a handful of snub-nosed 9mm bullets.

  ‘Hollow point.’ Urquhart winked. ‘They’ll fuck you up good.’

  Logan’s palms were suddenly damp. He wiped them on his jeans. ‘No. Thanks, but no.’

  ‘Ah, going hands-on, eh? Old school: like it.’ He slammed the case shut again, twiddled with the combination lock. ‘You got gloves? No? Don’t worry, I’ll sort you out.’

  He hauled open the Transit’s back doors and clambered inside, then backed out again, hauling a fully-grown man by the armpits.

  Shuggie Webster: hands fastened behind his back, legs kicking out in random directions. THUMP, he hit the concrete floor … or rather, the plastic sheeting. A muffled grunt from behind a duct tape gag. He was still wearing the same filthy hoodie as before, but his shoes were gone, exposing a pair of socks with a hole in one toe. Urquhart dragged him into the middle of the sheeting, then let go.

  Shuggie lay there, eyes wide, breath hissing out of his nose.

  Logan swallowed.

  ‘There we go, one tosspot, delivered as promised. Like FedEx for fuck-heads.’ Urquhart dug another zip-lock bag from his pocket and tossed it across to Logan. ‘Compliments of the house.’

  Three pairs of gloves: one leather, two latex – the skin-tone ones you never saw on crime scenes any more.

  ‘Now, you sure you don’t want that gun?’

  On the ground, Shuggie tried to shout something, bucking and writhing.

  ‘No one fucking asked you.’ Urquhart took two steps and slammed his boot into Shuggie’s side.

  That got him a muffled grunt.

  ‘See? This is what happens when you buy your drugs off fucking foreigners.’ Another kick. ‘Support local businesses!’ Urquhart clapped his hands together. ‘Right, I’ll leave you guys alone. Give us a knock when you want me to come help you get shot of what’s left, OK?’ He swaggered over to the back of the van, reached in and produced a portable stereo the size of a bulldog. Fiddled with it for a moment, then clicked a button.