Steel crossed her arms and leaned back against the windowsill. ‘Let me guess, suspended without pay?’
Logan flicked through the transcript. ‘Slap on the wrists. Apparently Napier thinks it was “irresponsible to involve a civilian in the attempted apprehension of murder suspect known to be violent”.’
‘Aye, well, the copper-topped Nosferatu’s got a point.’
‘What was I supposed to do, let her go?’
‘Did that anyway.’
He got to the end of the transcript. There wasn’t a single clue: no confession, nothing of any help at all. He pulled the next one from the stack. ‘Are you actually here for a reason?’
Steel took another puff, making the end glow. ‘Stroke of genius, hauling a pair of cannabis farms out your backside like that. Wriggling off the hook. Convenient.’
‘Yeah, well—’
‘How long you been sitting on them?’
‘It’s not—’
‘Supposed to be a team here, Laz.’ The eCigarette stood to attention, the tip glowing an angry red. ‘That means you don’t get to park your arse on information! Did you think you’d raid them single-handed, shower yourself in glory, that it?’
‘I only found out about them this morning, OK? Haven’t had time to do anything about it.’
‘Oh …’ She frowned out of the window, scratching at the side of one boob. ‘Well … look on the bright side. I’ll tell people the info was yours if the raids come off OK.’
Logan stared at her. ‘Raids?’
A cough. ‘Thought you were playing silly buggers. So … I’ve got Leith raiding the house in Westhill, and Ding-Dong’s doing the one in Blackburn. At least it’ll keep them from twatting each other.’
‘Thanks. Thanks a bloody heap.’
She stopped scratching and pointed at him. ‘Well, you should’ve told me, shouldn’t you? Instead of sneaking about.’
He folded forward until his forehead was resting on the badly typed transcript. ‘God forbid I get any of the bloody credit …’
‘Don’t moan, it’s your own fault. Now where are we with Agnes Garfield?’
‘And how come Ding-Dong’s not suspended? I should be the one raiding the place, it was my—’
Something bounced off the back of Logan’s head. He straightened up. Steel was scrunching another sheet of A4 into a ball.
She lobbed it at him. Missed. ‘Focus: Agnes Garfield.’
‘Got patrol cars trawling Mastrick. So far, no sign.’
‘She’s sodded off, that’s why. The one chance we’ve had to grab her, and you let her go.’
‘Don’t start. Got enough of that from Napier. We didn’t have any choice – it was too short notice to set anything up. If your bloody firearms team hadn’t sodded off with the keys to the armoury—’
‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel took one last puff on her fake cigarette, then pulled it from her mouth and twisted the end till it clicked. ‘When our delightful colleagues from Strathclyde do their review of this morning’s fiasco, try and no’ make it look like we can’t pee in a bucket without someone getting stabbed, eh?’
‘It wasn’t my fault!’
She pushed away from the windowsill and ambled towards the door, hands in her pockets. ‘Might be an idea to sod off out of it for a bit. Let the dust settle. Maybe … oh, I don’t know … have a bash at catching Agnes Garfield for a change?’
Logan did her the honour of a full two-finger salute.
‘So,’ Logan leaned back against the cell wall, ‘Professor Marks: how’s it going?’
What was left of the psychologist’s hair stuck out in random directions from the circumference of his big bald pate; his eyes two dark holes in a pale face; two fingers covered in brown scabs where he’d been picking at them. ‘I … I got them to call you because … because I want to cooperate.’
A bit late for that, given Goulding had already done them a profile, but what the hell. ‘Have you now?’
‘They keep putting loud people in the cells next to mine. Swearing and singing and shouting …’
Logan checked his notebook. ‘And look at that: they’ve got you down for the last slot in the Sheriff Court schedule.’ It took a bit of effort, but he managed not to smile. ‘Anyone would think they were doing it on purpose.’
‘I’m going to release all my files on Agnes Garfield. If you need me to interpret them, I can do that too. Just please get me out of here.’
Logan didn’t even blink.
Marks scrubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Look, it’s … I know you say Agnes killed her boyfriend, but it’s simply not possible. She worships him, and I don’t mean that in a sloppy romantic clichéd way, I mean she actually worships him. As if he was a god. She believes he’ll make everything better, that he holds the keys to everything she wants and needs out of life.’
‘Yeah, well – he’s lying on his back, in the mortuary, with three hundred and sixty-five stab wounds all over his body. And then she garrotted him.’
‘Agnes is not a killer.’
‘Really?’ Logan folded his arms. ‘Because I saw her stab a friend of mine this morning, through the chest, with a movie prop. He’s in intensive care. She nearly killed him.’
Marks’s scabby hands trembled up to his temples. ‘She’s …’ A deep breath. ‘If she’s not taking her medication, the psychotic episodes will get worse. It’ll be a terrifying time for her, she’ll be operating in a world populated with monsters and witches, good and evil. And she genuinely believes she’s on the side of good. Everything she does will be because she thinks she’s saving people. It’s not her fault.’
‘What did you talk about: when she called after she went missing?’
‘She came in to see me a couple of times. She was … excited. Jubilant even. She was making a difference, doing the Kirk’s work.’
‘And you didn’t tell anyone. You just let her parents worry.’
‘I couldn’t, she made me promise. I have to respect my patients’ wishes.’
Weaselly little shite.
‘Did she tell you she’d killed someone?’
‘She didn’t kill anyone. She couldn’t. Not unless Anthony Chung told her to.’
Which would make his torture and death one of the most half-witted suicides on record. Goulding was right: Professor Marks was an idiot.
Logan pointed at the mattress. ‘Wait here. I’ll go have a word with the PCSO. Maybe we can get you out of here without being hauled up in front of the Sheriff.’
A huge smile broke across Marks’s face, tears glittered in his eyes. ‘Thank you.’
‘But that means you have to come up with something that can help us catch her, before she hurts anyone else.’
A nod. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’
Logan stepped outside and closed the cell door behind him.
The PCSO stood in the corridor, head down, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she thumbed away at her mobile phone. ‘Told you we’d break him.’
‘Remind me never to piss you off …’ A frown. The sound of voices filtered down from the floor above – where the female cells were. Then a cheer echoed through the breezeblock staircase. ‘What’s all the ruckus?’
‘Didn’t you hear? We’ve got ourselves a bona fide celebrity in: assault.’
‘Not that dick from the radio again, is it? The one who was on that reality TV singing thing?’
‘Nope, a genuine Hollywood starlet. Half the dayshift are up there like a pack of randy goats, volunteering to give her a strip-search.’
For God’s sake … Logan pointed at Professor Marks’s cell. ‘Get him processed and out of here. We’re dropping the charges.’
‘Thanks to my evil genius.’
‘Yes, thanks to your evil genius.’ Logan stuck his notebook in his pocket. ‘And if you’re tweeting about us having someone famous banged up, you can stop right now. This is a police station, not the News of the World
.’
Pink spread across the PCSO’s cheeks. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
Yeah, right.
Logan headed up the bare concrete stairs to the next floor, where all the noise was coming from.
The corridor was jammed with uniformed and plainclothes officers, all staring straight ahead at something hidden by the press of bodies. Another cheer.
Logan tapped the nearest PC on the shoulder.
Guthrie turned and grinned at him, a Babybel mini-cheese half unwrapped from its red wax coating in his hand. His pale eyebrows shot up above two watery red-rimmed eyes. ‘Isn’t this great?’ He bit the tiny cheese in half.
‘What are you all doing?’
Guthrie nodded towards the crowd, chewing with his mouth open. ‘She’s posing for photos. Of course, half these idiots haven’t a clue, they just think she’s the woman who got her kit off in Three Dead Men, but she’s done some excellent indie films.’
‘And she’s posing for photographs?’ Logan dragged in a deep breath. ‘GET BACK TO WORK, YOU BUNCH OF MORONS! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE POLICE OFFICERS!’
He pushed his way into the crowd. ‘You heard me: get out of it!’
Moans. Pouting. Grimaces. ‘Aw, but, Guv …’
‘Back to work! Go on!’
Slowly they drifted away, slouching and scuffing their feet, until the only ones left were Logan, a shuffling PCSO with a porn star moustache, and Morgan Mitchell.
Her bright-red hair shone in the overhead light, turquoise eyes surrounded in layers of dark makeup, a CSI New Orleans T-shirt and blue jeans, high-heeled boots. She smiled at him. ‘Inspector Logan, hi. Did you come for a photo?’
Logan glowered at the PCSO. ‘You better have a bloody good explanation for this, Andy.’
‘It … I thought … It …’ He cleared his throat, then looked at Morgan. ‘Erm …?’
‘It was my idea. Thought the troops could do with a bit of a lift. And I don’t mind, you know, long as no one tries getting to second base.’
‘Andy, if your prisoner’s not in her cell in thirty seconds, a bollocking from Professional Standards is going to be the least of your worries.’
‘Yes, Guv. Sorry, Guv.’ He wiped his hands down the front of his white short-sleeved shirt, then took hold of Morgan’s arm. ‘If you don’t mind, Miss …?’
She went in without a fuss, grinning back at Logan as the door clanged shut, hiding her from view.
Andy shuffled his feet. ‘It wasn’t really a big deal, I mean she’s not getting preferential treatment or nothing like that, it was just a couple of pictures for—’
‘Shut up. What’s she in for?’
‘Yes …’ He scurried off to a shelf on the wall and came back with a clipboard and a whiteboard marker. Then printed the words ‘MORGAN MITCHELL ~ ASSAULT’ on the little A5-sized board beside the cell door. ‘Look, it really wasn’t—’
‘I’m pretty sure you’ve got something important to be getting on with, Andy. So I’m going to count to three.’
‘But—’
‘One.’
‘It really—’
‘Two.’
‘Erm …’ Andy stuck the clipboard under his arm and hurried away, shoes squeaking on the concrete floor.
Logan closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was like working in a sodding primary school.
Then he slid back the hatch in the cell door.
Morgan stood in the middle of the small space, arms out, nostrils flaring, rocking gently from side to side as she did a slow-motion pirouette. When she was facing back towards the door again, she lowered her arms and smiled at him through the little hatch. ‘I like a man who knows how to take charge.’
‘You think this is funny?’
She flipped the scarlet curls back from her face. ‘You wouldn’t arrest me, so I had to improvise.’
‘By assaulting someone.’
‘Thought you would’ve loved getting me in a pair of handcuffs.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘I can be very naughty.’
‘And this film you’re doing next, is it worth getting a criminal record for?’
She just smiled at him.
Perfect. Logan stared back. ‘Let me guess: tomorrow, just as you’re about to go up in front of the Sheriff, whoever it was you assaulted is going to miraculously drop the charges. No criminal record. No problems getting in and out of the country.’
‘Witchfire is a really important stepping stone for my career. I turn in a great performance here and next time I’m the one playing the lead in the Hollywood blockbuster. I’ll get to pick and choose my projects. I’ll get to work with legends.’
‘Not if I do you for wasting police time, you won’t.’
‘You know, when Nichole and I found out we were going to be in Witchfire, the pair of us arranged to stay with this coven in Wyoming. They’ve got a compound way up in the hills, where “The Man” can’t get at them. And we learned what it’s like to be a witch in real life.’
‘Wasting police time is an offence.’
‘Did you know voodoo dolls have got nothing to do with voodoo? They originated in Europe: “Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble.”’
‘Who did you bribe to say you assaulted them?’
‘You see, that’s what it takes to turn in a really great performance – you have to throw yourself into the character, not just turn up and drone out your lines like an amateur. You have to inhabit the part: live it. That’s what makes the difference between—’
Logan slammed the hatch shut. Bad enough they had genuine criminals out there without the cells being full of nutjobs getting themselves arrested for the fun of it.
Her voice came through, muffled from the other side. ‘So … you want to take a raincheck on those handcuffs?’
45
Logan stuck his feet up on his desk, a cup of tea in one hand, his paperback copy of Witchfire in the other, while the speakerphone rang and rang and rang.
‘You’ve reached Lorna Chalmers. I can’t come to the phone right now, but you can leave a message after the beep.’
‘It’s half three: where the bloody hell are you?’ He leaned over and stabbed the red button, hanging up.
No joy from her mobile, and no joy from the number for the flat she was renting on Jasmine Terrace either.
He tried Rennie instead. ‘You heard from Chalmers yet?’
Rennie’s voice boomed out from the speakers. ‘Course not. Why should her holiness have to come into work like the rest of us plebs? Probably hung-over, kneeling on some dirty old man’s bathroom floor, with her knickers round her ankles, vomiting lobster-and-chips all over the porcelain.’
‘Yes, very funny. Tell me, Detective Sergeant, have you found your missing tramp yet?’
A pause. ‘Actually … it’s a bit complicated. I—’
‘Then you’re in no position to be a smartarse, are you? Get on to Control – I want the nearest patrol car sent round Chalmers’s flat. Unless she’s dying of flu, I want her in here right now.’
‘Gah …’ Logan pulled a face, then spat the cold tea back into the mug. He moved it across to the other side of the desk, where it would be out of reach for next time.
He scanned down the page, looking for where he’d left off. Mrs Shepherd was just about to pull out someone’s fingernails …
A knock on the door and PC Sim stuck her head in. ‘Guv? Alpha-One-Three’s just been on the blower: no sign of DS Chalmers at her flat.’
He put the book down again. Stared out of the window for a bit.
Sim cleared her throat. ‘Guv?’
Wasn’t like someone like Chalmers to just fall off the map, was it? An ambitious career-obsessed go-getter like her? No: she was the brown-nosing and hard-work type. The type who wouldn’t take a sick day if her leg fell off.
Not unless she’d done something really stupid …
‘Guv, do you need me, or can I—’
�
�Get your coat. We’re going round.’
The trees on Jasmine Terrace trembled in the wind, dusty dark-green leaves hissing against each other. Sim stood in a lonely blade of sunlight, one hand holding onto her black bowler as she stared up at Chalmers’s flat.
The other side of the road was a long terrace of traditional granite buildings, but Chalmers’s place was part of a slightly more modern block, set back from the cobbles behind a rectangle of parched grass. Three storeys with a flat roof and Dutch-barn-style upper floor. Four units, with six flats in each. Only a five-minute walk from FHQ.
Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Anything?’
‘Nope.’ Sim tried the intercom again. Waited for a bit. Then stepped back to watch the top-floor flat. ‘Maybe she’s not in?’
Maybe …
Logan pressed the ‘SERVICES’ button, holding it down until someone got fed up of the noise and buzzed them in.
It was nice inside. Clean. He followed Sim up to the top floor.
The door to flat number five had a sticky label underneath the doorbell: ‘LORNA CHALMERS’.
Sim thumbed it and a grating drrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! sounded on the other side of the door followed by a long high-pitched yowl. She hunkered down, levered the letterbox open, and peered inside. ‘Mail on the doormat … Oh, hello, puss. Who’s a pretty boy or girl then?’
The yowling got louder.
‘Guv?’
Logan squatted down beside her, sniffing at the letterbox. Something floral and plasticky, a hint of pine that could’ve been disinfectant? At least it didn’t smell as if anything – or anyone – was rotting away in there. ‘Try the neighbours, see if anyone’s got a key.’
As soon as Sim was off knocking on doors, Logan pulled out his phone and called Control. ‘Does DS Chalmers own a car?’
‘Hud oan …’ The nasal Aberdonian accent faded away, replaced by the sound of a rattling keyboard. ‘Aye: it’s a Mini, you want the number plate?’
Logan jotted it down in his notebook. ‘I want a lookout request on her and her vehicle. And get me a GSM trace on her mobile.’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 80
