‘I see. And what about this Frank Baker?’
DI Steel narrowed her eyes at Green for a moment. ‘We’ve got sightings from Nairn to Portsmouth and back again. His face is in every regional newspaper in the UK, and most of the nationals as well; posters up at every ferry terminal, bus station, and airport.’
Green nodded. ‘I knew he was involved from the moment I spoke to him.’
‘Oh aye? And did you no’ think it’d be a good idea to let us know so we could keep an eye on him before you scared him off?’
‘I can’t be expected to do your job for you, Inspector.’ Then followed five minutes of arguing, moaning, and trying to pass the buck.
Logan stared at the screen. The Knife Man had a stick-on conference-style name badge just like the two in the abduction video. It was difficult to make out, but it sort of looked like ‘Sylv-’ something. Sylvia? Sylvester?
Logan tried them both out on his notepad. Sylvia, David, and Tom. Sylvester, Tom, and David.
Didn’t really make any difference — they were fake names. No one went to all the trouble of producing forensically-neutral crime scenes and notes, then stuck a big sticky label on their chest with their real name scrawled across it.
No, this was Reservoir Dogs territory.
The badges were so they could tell who they were talking to, when they were all done up in their SOC suits and masks. All humanity obscured.
Sylvia, Tom, and David.
Sylvester, Tom, and David-
Someone elbowed him in the ribs.
Logan looked up from his notepad. The whole room was staring at him.
Finnie pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. ‘I know you’re new to this, Detective Inspector McRae, but generally we like to pay attention in case strategy meetings.’
Logan could feel the heat prickling at the back of his neck. ‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced down at the notepad in front of him. He’d been doodling — a Dalek, complete with sink-plunger arm, and beady eye.
Not Sylvester, Tom, and David. Put them in the right order- ‘For goodness sake, DI McRae, are you listening to a word I’m-’
‘Doctor Who.’ Logan stood. ‘Tom Baker, Sylvester McCoy, David Tennant all actors who’ve played the Doctor. It’s their naming system.’
That got him a sea of blank looks.
Superintendent Green raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes well, that’s fascinating. But it still doesn’t help us determine-’
‘Hold on a second…’ Logan flipped back through his notebook.
Green snorted. ‘Sergeant, I mean Inspector McRae, a little career advice: if you can’t focus for two minutes, how-’
‘Here.’ Logan poked the page with a finger. ‘Stephen Clayton, he’s on the same psychology course as Alison McGregor. He tried to chat her up, but she knocked him back pretty hard. He called her — and I quote — “a stuck up, holier than thou, lying, two-faced bitch.” Said, “getting kidnapped was the best thing that ever happened to that manipulative cow”. And he’s a Doctor Who fan: signed posters, remote-controlled Dalek, the works.’
The Chief Constable sat forward, silver buttons sparkling on uniform black. ‘Is he a viable suspect?’
‘Who else have we got?’
No one leapt in with any helpful suggestions.
Steel had a scratch under the table. ‘How’s a wee psychology student tosser pull all this off?’
‘Well…’ Logan looked up at the screen. ‘What if Clayton gets other students to help him? We know one of them has medical training: he could be studying to be a doctor.’
Acting DI Mark McDonald shook his head. ‘Couldn’t be. I’ve been over McPherson’s case notes half a dozen times — the hospital say access to the pharmacy’s restricted to doctors and authorized nurses. No exceptions.’
I’ve got a mate who’s a medical student, fi xes me up now and then. Steel leant over and rapped her knuckles on the top of Mark’s head. ‘Hello? This thing on? Testing, testing.’
‘Get off!’
‘McPherson couldn’t investigate shite for sweetcorn. Sticky-fingered medical student helps himself to a bunch of surgical drugs, does a wee bit of amputation, and Bob’s your builder. No’ like it’s open heart surgery, is it?’
‘Right, Andy,’ the Chief Constable pointed at DCI Finnie, ‘I want this Clayton brought in for questioning. I’ll sort out the warrant with Sheriff McNab personally, you just make sure Clayton’s in custody within the hour.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll get a firearms-’
‘Actually,’ Green folded his arms across his chest, puffing himself up, ‘that might not be the best course of action.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared off into the middle distance. ‘If we snatch him, he’ll just clam up. The deadline will come and go, and he doesn’t have to tell us anything. Why would he cooperate?’
The Chief Constable shook his head. ‘Grampian Police will not sit stand idly by and do nothing while a little girl and her mother are killed!’
‘I’m not suggesting you do nothing, sir.’ A flash of perfect white teeth. ‘I’m suggesting we establish surveillance on DI McRae’s student: like DI Steel should have done with Frank Baker. If he really is one of the kidnappers, he’ll lead us right to them. After all, they’ll want to regroup before the midnight deadline, won’t they?’ Green nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘Then we swoop.’
Logan stared at him.
Swoop? The silly bastard really did think he was in a TV cop show. ‘With all due respect-’
‘Tell me,’ Steel fiddled with her fake cigarette, ‘this “watch and wait” approach’s no’ got anything to do with stringing things out, would it? SOCA hang on till the deadline’s past, take over the investigation; Alison and Jenny get released; then you “swoop”, pick up the only suspect we’ve had in a fortnight, and take all the sodding credit while we get our arses kicked in every newspaper in the country?’ She smiled at him. ‘How am I doing?’
Green scowled back. ‘You have a very strange idea of collaborative policing, Inspector.’
‘Coming from you?’ She turned to the Chief Constable. ‘We could sit about on our thumbs, waiting for Clayton to lead us to his nasty wee Doctor Who appreciation society, or we can go kick in his door and actually do something about it.’
‘And what happens when the rest of the gang find out we’ve snatched him?’ Green leaned on the desk. ‘They abandon the whole enterprise, kill Alison and Jenny, then disappear. At least my way we have some chance of getting the McGregors out alive.’
The Chief Constable sat back in his seat. ‘I think we need to take a break and consider our options. In the meantime, DCI Finnie, get surveillance organized on Mr Clayton ASAP. If we do decide to take him, I want to know where he is. We reconvene back here in twenty minutes.’
Robert ‘Marley’ was lying on the cell’s blue plastic mattress. The nightshift had obviously confiscated his clothes for forensic analysis, because he was partially dressed in a white paper SOC suit. He’d stripped off the top half, tying the arms around his waist, exposing a broad brown chest and the kind of wash-board abs that didn’t belong on real people. One hand behind his head, the other tucked into the makeshift waistband.
He didn’t look in the least bit worried about being banged up in a holding cell, facing three counts of murder, one of animal cruelty, and skinning Shuggie Webster’s fingers…
And somehow Logan couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to congratulate him on that last one.
Robert Marley looked up from his bed. He’d dyed his hair red and fluorescent orange, as if his head was on fire. ‘The fuck you lookin’ at, mon. I an’ I ain’t some fuckin’ peepshow for whitey.’
Logan slammed the hatch shut.
The Police Custody and Security officer standing next to him in the corridor puffed out her cheeks. ‘Pfff… Don’t let the fake Jamaican accent fool you; heard the pair of them talking last night in broad Mancunian — had to split them up in the end. Probably never been south of London in their lives.’
/> Logan’s phone rang. He ignored it. ‘They’re up before the Sheriff at half-two. You want me to stick Bobby the Pseudo-Yardie in an interview room?’
He flexed his right hand, feeling the skin pull tight over his swollen knuckles. ‘Not yet.’
‘Want to see the other one? Got him downstairs?’
His phone was ringing again. ‘Hold on,’ He pulled it out. ‘McRae.’
‘LoganDaveGoulding.’ The psychologist pronounced it as if it was all one big Liverpudlian word. ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with-’
‘You heard about the fire.’ Of course he had, it’d been in all the evening papers.
‘Well, yeah, but I wanted to know how you’re doing. I’m sorry about Samantha.’
Everyone was sorry about Samantha. Every bastard he passed in the corridor was sorry about her, as if that helped.
Logan held the phone against his chest, and turned to the PCSO. ‘Thanks, I’ll get back to you.’
She wandered off, twirling her big bunch of keys like Charlie Chaplin’s cane.
He put the phone back to his ear. ‘…be mad as hell at the bastards.’ A small pause. ‘Look, I’ve got to give a lecture at ten on “pluralism in regard to the self”, but I’m free from eleven if that’s any good?’
Logan stared at the closed cell door. ‘I’m kinda busy right now.’
‘Of course you are: sorting out home insurance, visiting the hospital…?’
He scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘You know, don’t you?’
‘That you’re at work? Well, let’s call it an educated guess. You need time to grieve, Logan.’
‘She’s — not — dead!’
‘It’s not about death, Logan: most times grief’s about change. And I know it’s a cliche, but sometimes it really does help to talk about it. Rant. Shout. Throw things.’ Goulding sighed. ‘You know you’re not alone, so why shut yourself off?’
‘Excuse me, sir…’ The PCSO was back, pulling a gaunt-faced teenager by the arm. ‘Emily here needs a word.’
Emily looked like she needed a meal, and a bath, and to stop shooting heroin into every vein she had. She licked her lips and stared at him. ‘You the copper looking for that Trisha Brown, yeah?’
Logan stuck the phone against his chest. ‘You a friend?’
‘There a reward for, you know, information and that?’
‘Depends on the information.’
She rubbed a hand up and down her needle-tracked arm. ‘You got them Marley fucks in, right?’
‘Why?’
‘They’re going down, right? You’re not gonna let the fuckers out?’
Logan stared at her. ‘What’ve you got?’
Her left leg trembled, as if it wasn’t really connected to the rest of her. ‘You ask them about Trisha?’
‘Why would-’
‘Bob, right? Big ginger-haired darkie bastard. He did this…’ She pulled up her ‘BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG PORN STAR’ T-shirt, showing off a set of xylophone ribs covered in green-and-blue bruising. ‘Fucker said I should be grateful. If I wasn’t careful I’d end up like Trisha Brown.’
Logan stared at the cell door again. Then went back to his phone call. Goulding was still talking. ‘…point being the strong silent type, it’s not-’
‘Speak to you later.’ He hung up. ‘So, you know, do I get a reward or something?’
‘We’ll see…’
‘Whatever you want, it’ll have to wait. We’re swamped.’ The IB tech took off his dusty plastic goggles and wiped them on the tails of his lab coat. He nodded over his shoulder at a stack of blue plastic crates loaded with evidence bags. ‘You got any idea how much drugs Ding-Dong brought in last night? Like Pete Docherty’s bathroom cabinet in here today.’
‘Where’s Elaine?’
‘Ah.’ The tech nodded. ‘Give us a sec…’ He was back two minutes later with a manila folder. He placed it carefully on the light table. ‘I’m off for a cup of tea, or a pee, or something.’ Then backed up, turned around, and walked out of the room.
The lab door closed, leaving Logan alone with half a million pounds’ worth of drugs.
He opened the folder. Inside were the preliminary forensic results from the flat fire. Traces of accelerant in the hall, no fingerprints on the door or letterbox. The DNA result was hidden away at the back: Elaine Drever had been right, they’d swabbed the door and managed to find viable samples.
Logan read the conclusion twice. It didn’t make any sense — they’d run the profile through the database and not made a single match. Not one.
That wasn’t possible. Bob and Jacob Marley were in the cells, they were in the system, their DNA was on file from two murder scenes.
How could there not be a match?
He rammed the results back into the folder and stormed out into the corridor. Elaine Drever’s office was two doors down — he barged in without knocking.
Logan waved the folder at her. ‘Who fucked up?’
The head of the Identification Bureau pursed her lips. ‘Sorry, sir, something’s come up. I’ll have to call you back.’ She hung up. ‘Sergeant McRae, I-’
‘Who was it? Who screwed with the DNA sample?’
A long pause. ‘No one screwed with anything.’
‘Run the match again.’
‘It’s not going to-’
He slammed the folder down on her desk. ‘Run — it — again!’
Elaine Drever stared at him. ‘We did. Six times. Then we went back and redid the samples. Twice. There wasn’t-’
‘Then why didn’t you find a bloody match!’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Samantha’s one of ours; you really think we’re not doing everything we can to catch the bastards?’ There wasn’t a match. No match. Zero. Whoever did it, they’re not in the database.’
‘They have to be! They-’
‘We’ve been over the scene with a nit comb; we can’t find what isn’t there.’ She picked up folder. ‘You catch the bastard and this’ll convict him. One hundred percent. Not even Hissing Sid could get him off. But whoever did it, they’re not in the system.’
Chapter 44
It had to be them. Had to be. If it wasn’t… Logan ran a hand across his face. If it wasn’t them, then everything he’d done to Shuggie Webster was…
His pulse thumped in his ears, heart beating hard enough to make his whole body rock. Thump. Thump. Thump. Oh Jesus.
‘You OK, Sarge?’ Someone sat down on the other side of the canteen table. ‘I mean, you know, Inspector?’ A cough. ‘Sorry, Guv.’
Logan looked up from his coffee and the canteen snapped back into focus. The sound of officers and support staff gossiping and laughing. He blinked.
PC Guthrie shrugged, his shoulders coming up to touch his red-tipped ears. ‘Force of habit.’
‘Yes.’ Logan took a sip of coffee. Cold. God knew how long he’d been sitting here.
The constable unwrapped a Tunnock’s Teacake, carefully smoothing out the paper until it was mirror-smooth. ‘Going for a record attempt later, thought I’d get some practice in.’ He put his hands behind his back and loomed over the teacake. It looked like a little brown breast — a circle of biscuit topped with a dome of marshmallow and dipped in chocolate. ‘Sergeant Downie’s on four point five seconds.’
Logan pushed his mug away. ‘Have you done the door-to-doors?’
Guthrie licked his lips, not taking his eyes off the teacake. ‘Trisha Brown? Yup — no one recognized the e-fit. Did a search for other properties Edward Buchan had access to, like you asked: allotments, lock-ups, garages, caravans, friends on holiday, that kind of thing. Doesn’t look like he’s got anywhere to keep her.’
‘No one recognized the e-fit at all?’
‘Sorry, Guv. Did two streets either side and put up a couple of “have you seen this man?” posters as well. Nothing.’ He lined the teacake up with the edge of the canteen table. ‘OK, we ready?’
Maybe no one recognized the e-fit because Edward Buchan had mad
e the whole abduction story up to hide the fact he’d killed Trisha and dumped her body somewhere. Unless… Logan frowned. According to ‘Britain’s Next Big Porn Star’, Robert Marley told her if she wasn’t careful she’d end up like Trisha Brown.
‘OK: three, two, one- Hey!’
He grabbed the teacake and took a big bite. ‘We’ve got two Yardies in the cells downstairs: I want the one calling himself “Robert” in an interview room in ten minutes.’
‘I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ without me lawyah.’ Robert Marley lounged back in his plastic chair, bare arms and chest shining with a faint sheen of sweat, flame-coloured hair glowing in the light from the interview room’s narrow window. ‘I knows me rights.’
‘Do you now?’ Logan tilted his head on one side and stared, letting the silence stretch.
Standing with his back to the wall, Guthrie unwrapped the replacement teacake Logan had bought to stop him moaning.
Outside, the wail of a patrol car’s siren rose, then faded.
Logan tapped the scarred Formica tabletop. ‘What about Trisha Brown’s rights?’
‘Eh, mon, I told you: I an’ I ain’t sayin’-’
‘Oh grow up, Charles, you’re not kidding anyone with the mock-Jamaican patois. You sound like a stereotype from a seventies sitcom.’
The Yardie bared his teeth, showing off a line of gold crowns. ‘You got no bizzzzness disrespectin’ me cultural heritage, white boy.’
‘Cultural heritage?’ Logan checked his notes. ‘You were born in Manchester, you did two years at Leeds University studying political science, your mum’s Welsh, and your dad’s in the Rotary Club. Have you even been to Jamaica?’
‘I an’ I is honourin’ me roots.’
‘Then why didn’t you become a quantity surveyor like your dear old dad?’
Charles Robert Collins, AKA Robert Marley, narrowed his eyes. ‘I don’t have to answer any of your questions without a legal representative.’ He raised his chin, all trace of Jamaican accent gone. He didn’t even sound Mancunian, so he’d probably been putting that on too. ‘This is an infringement of my civil liberties.’
‘Scottish legal system, Charlie. You should have done your research before you decided to sell drugs here.’ Logan dug a photo out of a blue folder and slapped it down on the table between them. A bruised face glowered out from an ID shot — Trisha Brown, holding up a board with her name spelled out in magnetic letters. ‘What did you do to her?’
Shatter the Bones lm-7 Page 32
