‘It must be hard, keeping it up: the posturing, the swearing, the constant scratching … You’re like someone’s stereotyped idea of a man. More manly than the men you have to work with. I imagine you consider yourself a bit of a womanizer too, don’t you? Always trying to compete …’
She scowled at the psychologist. ‘Up your hole with a loo-brush, you saggy-chinned wee cockshite.’
Well, that was helping.
Logan placed the next picture of Anthony Chung next to the first. ‘Dr Marks, Agnes Garfield is probably a danger to herself, she’s certainly a danger to other people.’
The psychologist popped his glasses back on. ‘Your father always wanted a son, and you thought that was the only way to get his approval. So you’ve built this whole vile persona around the selfish wishes of a dead man. Did he ever—’
Steel slammed her hand down on the tabletop. ‘YOU LEAVE MY DAD OUT OF IT AND ANSWER THE BLOODY QUESTION!’
A sigh. ‘I can’t breach doctor-patient confidentiality. Even with a warrant. Even if they try to compel me in court. The people who come to me for therapy have to be able to trust me with their darkest thoughts, desires, and secrets. If they can’t, I can’t help them.’
Logan put down the next photo – a close-up of Anthony Chung on the cutting table, his chest opened up and hollowed out. ‘Where’s Agnes Garfield?’
Dr Marks sat back again, looking at Steel over the top of his glasses, his voice soft and low. Soothing. ‘It must have been very painful for you, having to live up to so many expectations. But it’s not too late to be the real you, instead of this … projection you’ve become. I’d love to help, I genuinely would.’ A smile tugged at one side of his sausagey face. ‘I’d give you one of my cards, but they confiscated them when they took my belt and my shoelaces. But I want you to know that you can get better.’
Steel stared at him. ‘And you can get bent.’
The Police Custody and Security Officer printed ‘DR RICHARD MARKS’ on the board beside the door of cell number eight. Then frowned. Then smiled. She pointed. ‘Look: his name’s Dick Marks. What kind of parent calls their kid Dickmarks? No wonder he turned out a total knob …’
‘Just make sure he gets noisy neighbours tonight, OK? Someone who likes to sing on one side, and someone with Tourette’s on the other.’
‘Do my best.’
Steel was standing just outside the back door, smoking her cheeks hollow and glowering at the rain. It bounced back from the roof of grimy patrol cars, sparkling in the rear podium’s security lights. ‘He fall down the stairs yet?’
‘There’s going to be another victim.’
‘Little prick. Where does he get off with all that psychobabble, eh? Sod all wrong with me …’ She took another vicious puff, the cigarette trembling between her lips. ‘He’s the one with bloody issues!’
‘Stacey Gourdon. Anthony Chung was sleeping with her behind Agnes’s back. No one’s seen her since Friday night.’
‘That’s all we sodding need. Media department are already getting phone calls about Chung and his magic circle. Some greasy bugger’s tipped off the papers.’
Brilliant. As if this wasn’t hard enough. ‘Do they know it’s him?’
‘Will do soon enough: ACC’s doing a press conference at eight. Wheeling out Anthony’s mum and dad, so they can tell the world how they’re worried about Agnes and want her to be safe.’
‘It’s not her I’m worried about.’
A couple of uniforms slogged their way up the rear ramp, water dripping from the brims of their peaked caps. No point in hurrying, they probably couldn’t get any wetter.
One last puff, then Steel pinged her cigarette butt out into the downpour. It bounced off the Chief Constable’s Bentley, sparking against the paintwork. ‘And for the record: I don’t give a flying monkey’s willy-warmer what my father thought.’
A knock at the office door, then Chalmers slipped inside. ‘Guv?’
Logan signed the last form in the stack and stuck it in his out-tray. Halle-bloody-luiah. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Chasing down some leads on the Garfield case.’ She shrugged, gave him a half smile. ‘Nothing but dead-ends, sorry. But I wanted to ask if—’
‘If it’s not toe-curling urgent: go home.’ He stood, paused, then cricked his head to one side, then back the other way – something in his neck popped and creaked like a fistful of gristle.
‘I want to volunteer for the soup-kitchen job.’
‘Nothing to do with me: it’s DI Bell’s shout.’ Logan sat back down again. ‘Where are we with the GSM trace?’
‘Still nothing. I got in touch with their phone companies: neither of them’s used their mobiles for a week and a bit. No outgoing calls or text messages.’
He swivelled his chair from side to side, staring up at the ceiling. ‘So they’ve not used their phones for a week, but Agnes Garfield still manages to get in touch with her therapist …’
‘Probably just picked up a new pay-as-you-go SIM card. Bet Dr Marks has got the number though.’ A shrug. ‘If we could get him to talk.’
Whatever happened to the good old days, when you could batter a suspect around the legs and back with a length of rubber hose till they confessed? Still, with any luck Goulding was right and a night in the cells surrounded by drunken idiots would break Dr Marks like a stale biscuit. ‘Go home. Get some rest.’
‘But, Guv, the soup kitchen is—’
‘They don’t start serving till nine. Gives you nearly an hour and a half. Tell DI Bell I said you’re to help him out till midnight, no later. I want you in bang on time tomorrow. And look …’ He picked Agnes Garfield’s stolen dittay book off his desk, then followed it with Chalmers’s report on its contents. ‘I’m taking both home to read tonight. Just make sure that next time, you hand them to me.’
‘Yes, Guv.’ She smiled, showing off those sharp little teeth of hers. ‘Thanks, Guv.’
‘Oh, and this soup-kitchen job: don’t think you’re getting any overtime for it, OK?’
Standing in the corridor, Logan locked the office door. Closed his eyes. Rested his head against the cool wooden surface. Home … Quarter to eight: forty-five minutes to get back to the caravan and get the lasagne in the oven.
His phone buzzed in his pocket: text message.
Do U want me 2 pick up some wine or something?
Logan thumbed in a quick reply, then froze.
A voice behind him: ‘Guv?’
He slipped the phone back into his pocket. ‘Rennie, unless your head’s on fire, I’m not interested.’
‘Got something for you?’
Probably another moan. He took the keys out of the lock and dumped them in his pocket. ‘Thought you were back on days now?’
‘No, you’re going to love this one …’
Logan turned, slumped back against the door. ‘I swear to God, if this isn’t good, I’m going to knee your testicles into orbit. Deal?’
Rennie grinned. ‘You know you’ve got Chalmers looking for Stacey Gourdon? Well, guess who I found?’ He contorted his face into a Popeye wink. ‘Go on, I bet you can’t …?’
The cell block reverberated with the sounds of what could almost be called singing. As long as you didn’t care too much about lyrics, melody, or adhering to any one key.
Kathy the PCSO led the way to the block of cells where they kept the female prisoners. ‘Still haven’t found anyone with Tourette’s, but the night’s young.’
She stopped outside the cell at the end of the corridor. Then slid the hatch open. ‘Stacey Gourdon: breach of the peace. Otherwise known as staggering blootered down Belmont Street at three in the afternoon with her dress hoiked up around her armpits and no pants on, shouting at random strangers to, and I quote, “Taste the rainbow of fruit flavours.” Uniform turned up and she tried to stab them with her high heels.’
Classy.
Rennie hooked his thumb at the cell door. ‘
See? What did I tell you?’
Logan stepped up and peered inside.
A young woman sat on the edge of the blue plastic mattress, holding onto the bed, staring at the other side of the room, mouth hanging open, blinking in slow motion. Her short black dress was rucked up on one side, her knees scraped red and speckled with scabs. Bruises made a violet tattoo on her bare shoulder. Short black hair sticking out in all directions, like a punk pixie.
Not dead then.
Logan knocked on the metal door. ‘Stacey? You up to answering a couple of questions?’
Her voice sounded as if it belonged at the bottom of a well. ‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Didn’t do what?’
‘Whatever it is you’re trying to pin on me. That’s the “what” I didn’t do.’
‘Anthony Chung.’
She turned to look at the hatch. Her mascara and lipstick was all smeared to the right, as if her head was suffering from motion blur. ‘Now that I did do.’
Stacey Gourdon sat on the chair with her knees up against her chest, picking away at her scabby knees. ‘This whole interrogation gestalt is so passé, isn’t it? What happened to the good old-fashioned smoky room, with the single light bulb? Sometimes there’s comfort in cliché, don’t you think?’
Building Maintenance had given interview room two a fresh coat of paint. It was a bit like putting an Elastoplast on a tumour.
Logan sighed. ‘For the last time: you can’t have a cigarette.’
‘But I can have a lawyer.’
‘If you want one. But I’m not interested in you, I want to know about Anthony Chung and Agnes Garfield.’
‘Gagh …’ Stacey’s mouth opened wide and down, as if she’d just swallowed something bitter. ‘They are so high maintenance. A sweet couple, but just … completely …’ Stacey stopped picking and twirled a forefinger at the side of her head instead.
‘You know they’re missing?’
‘You’re not asking the right question.’
OK … ‘What’s the right question?’
‘Do I know where they are now?’
Logan sat back in his seat. ‘And do you?’
‘Nope.’ She went back to picking. ‘Next question.’
‘You haven’t heard from them at all?’
A chunk of brown scab came loose, the skin beneath it pink and shiny. A dot of red oozed to the surface. ‘Of course, Anthony treated poor Agnes appallingly. She was obsessed with him and he wrapped her around his little finger. And you know what? She was just as bad.’ Stacey popped the liberated chunk of scab in her mouth and chewed. ‘Now, your next question is, “Did she know I was shagging dear Anthony at the same time?” And the answer is: of course she did. He told her.’
‘He told her?’
‘Oh, he did more than that: Anthony arranged a three-way. Me, him, and fiery little Agnes.’ Stacey smiled at Logan, long and slow. ‘You might not think it to see me now, but I do scrub up very nicely.’
‘And Agnes was OK with that?’
‘Well, she wasn’t really into the whole girl-on-girl part of proceedings, but she did her best. For him. And she did have a lovely little body …’ Stacey sighed, then popped another scab into her mouth. ‘We met up every couple of weeks after that, until Anthony got bored. Always fluttering from one thing to another is our Anthony, like a little American butterfly with Attention Deficit Disorder.’
Logan frowned. OK, right now Stacey looked as if she’d slept in a skip and smelled like the floor of a pub after a rowdy night, but under the stale alcohol haze, the smeared makeup, messy hair, and scabby knees she probably was a very attractive young woman.
‘Agnes did it to please Anthony Chung, but what was in it for you?’
A grin lit up her face. ‘Darling, he has the most wonderful weed you’ve ever smoked in your life. And it pissed Daddy off no end that I was shagging a Chinaman.’
Maybe not so attractive.
‘Well, your dad can rest easy: Anthony Chung’s dead.’
‘Ah …’ The grin faded from Stacey’s face. ‘In that case, I think I will take that lawyer after all.’
DI Bell stopped in the middle of the corridor. He tightened his grip on the folder under his arm and narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘And hello to you too.’ Logan locked his office door. Again. Second time lucky.
‘I don’t need you checking up on me, I’m perfectly capable of organizing a simple op at a soup kitchen. I was a DI long before—’
‘I’m going home, OK? Had to process someone who was sleeping with Anthony Chung. And Agnes Garfield.’
Ding-Dong sidled closer, big hairy paw fidgeting with the knot on his tie. ‘Why?’
‘Because soon as she heard Anthony was dead, she clammed up and demanded a lawyer. Sound suspicious to you?’
‘And you think this woman and Agnes are in it together? They both killed Anthony Chung and Roy Forman?’
Logan stuck the keys in his pocket. ‘Or she’s just messing with us, because that’s the kind of thing she enjoys. Either way, I’m going home.’
Ding-Dong took a step back, looking away down the corridor in the vague direction of the cell block. ‘You think I should have a pop at interviewing her?’
‘You can if you want, but it’s …’ A frown. Wait a minute … DI Bell’s suit looked immaculate, as if it’d just been pressed, the shirt freshly ironed. His shoes shone like new buttons too. And what was that smell? Logan sniffed: aftershave. Ding-Dong never wore aftershave. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing wrong with being a team player.’
‘Yeah, but you’re being all possessive about this soup-kitchen thing – a lead I turned up, by the way – you want to interview Stacey Gourdon, you’re dressed up like you’re off for a job interview, and you smell like a tart’s underwear drawer … What have you heard?’
A blush coloured his freshly shaven cheeks. ‘I don’t see what’s wrong with—’
‘Making a good impression? It’s Steel, isn’t it? You’re angling for the DCI’s job.’
‘Now you’re just being—’
‘What’s the ACC told you? … They’re looking to get shot of her, aren’t they? They think she’s not up to the job and you want to take her place.’
Ding-Dong raised his chin, letting a tuft of black fur poke out over his shirt collar. ‘I’m not going to dignify that with a response.’
Logan stared at him for a couple of beats. ‘OK, fine. Whatever. Nothing to do with me: I’ve got an appointment anyway.’
‘Good.’ He turned and lumbered down the corridor, broad shoulders rolling beneath the straining shirt.
‘Watch your back, Ding-Dong. She’s bloody vicious if you cross her.’
DI Bell stopped with one hand on the door handle. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ And then he was gone.
Logan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Another text message:
Where R U? Thot we sed 8:30?
Speaking of which …
He picked out a reply on the mobile’s little keyboard:
On my way now. See you soon.
After all, it wouldn’t do to keep a lady waiting. Especially not one that could kick his arse from Grampian to Strathclyde.
34
The words of an old song echoed out from the bathroom, mingling with the roar of the shower: a Pink Floyd number rendered with more enthusiasm than talent or musical ability. Couldn’t carry a tune if it was bound, gagged, and locked in the boot of a car.
Logan stretched out, flat on his back, the duvet rumpled down about his chest. Warmth oozed through his limbs, pulling him down into the fresh sheets. Mmmm …
‘Stop grinning.’ Samantha settled on the edge of the bed. ‘Makes you look like a smug hamster.’ The oversized black T-shirt rode up around her thighs, Marilyn Manson glaring out from her boobs with his lopsided contact lenses. One of her knee-length red-and-black striped socks had a hole
in it, a little toe poking out – nail painted shiny black. ‘See you got rid of Shakespeare.’
A big sigh inflated Logan’s chest, then let it go again. Warm and fuzzy … ‘Couldn’t have him ogling you in the nip. That’s my job. Union won’t stand for it.’
She laid a hand on his chest. Looked away towards the bathroom, then back down at him. ‘Do you love her?’
‘I love you.’
‘Don’t avoid the question, Captain Stabmarks: do you love her?’
‘I … No. I used to, but it was a long time ago.’
‘Good.’ Samantha nodded, a smile curling one side of her mouth. ‘Just remember: you’re mine, Sunshine.’
A clunk, then the bedroom door opened and DS Jackie Watson stepped into the room, head on one side, drying her long dark hair on a grey towel, a big blue one wrapped around her middle, hiding all the naughty parts. A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Thought I heard voices?’
Logan turned, but Samantha was gone. ‘Just … talking to myself.’
‘Got to watch that.’ Jackie sank down onto the bed, in the exact same spot that Samantha had just vacated. ‘Bad enough you work with a bunch of nutjobs without turning into one.’ Water droplets shone on her pale shoulders, sitting in the hollows carved into her skin by bra straps.
She reached out and picked Agnes Garfield’s dittay book from the bedside cabinet. ‘A red leather journal? Maybe it’s too late after all …’ She flipped through it, one eyebrow climbing further and further up her forehead with every page. ‘Oh God, you write poetry now?’
‘It’s not mine. It’s from the necklacing case.’
Jackie took a deep breath, creating a swell of cleavage at the border of the towel. ‘Listen to this:
“I give my love a token,
of all the hearts he’s broken,
The lungs that are exploding,
the harsh words that were spoken,
He’ll fear what he’s awoken,
And back to earth he goes.
In darkness walks the liar,
We’ll cleanse his house with fire,
Come build the funeral pyre … ”’
She clumped the book shut again. ‘Bet Pam Ayres is shaking in her boots.’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 70
