She paused for a second, looked him up and down, then spat. 'My Tony was worth ten of you!'
Finnie wiped the glop of spittle from his leather jacket with a paper handkerchief. 'Thanks, Agnes, but we'll get a DNA sample after they've done your fingerprints.' Then to the pair of constables escorting her: 'Show Mrs McLeod to the penthouse suite, gentlemen.'
They went to move her, but she dug her heels in. 'I can walk myself!' She dusted herself down, then let them lead her away.
'Ahhh…' DCI Finnie leant back against the wall — eyes closed, head thrown back — as they disappeared down the stairwell to the cells. 'I've wanted to do that for years.' Then he turned and slapped his hands together. 'Right, now we-'
There was a commotion outside. Raised voices and the high-pitched yapping bark of a small dog. A police officer saying, 'I'm sorry, ma'am, you can't come in here.'
A woman shouting, 'You have no bloody right!'
Finnie's smile grew even wider. 'Get the doors, will you Pirie?'
The DS did as he was told, throwing them wide open. It was Hilary Brander, and her scabby terrier. Today the dog was dressed in a blue and green raincoat decorated with little sheep; it ran around on the end of its leash, barking at the uniformed officer blocking the way. 'All enquiries from the public have to be made at the front desk!'
'It's all right, Constable,' said Finnie, 'let the nice lady in.'
She stormed into the station and straight up to the DCI. 'You dirty, conniving, underhand bastard!'
'Ah, Ms Brander. How nice to see you. If you're looking for your mother-in-law, you've just missed her. But don't worry, she'll only be here till we can get her a court appearance.' He checked his watch. 'Which will be Monday.'
'Monday? You can't do that!'
'I'm so sorry, Ms Brander, but the court doesn't operate Saturday or Sunday, so your mother-in-law's just going to have to enjoy our hospitality till then. It's such a pity, but what can I do?' He gave a theatrical shrug, not bothering to hide the smile on his rubbery face.
'You should be ashamed of yourselves: arresting an old woman when her son's been blinded!'
'I know, it's a wonder I can sleep at night.' The DCI crossed his arms and leant forwards till he was inches from her face. 'Now, would you like to tell us your whereabouts on Wednesday night?'
'What?' She backed up a step. 'I was at home, with Simon.'
'Really? Shame…'
'A shame? He's blind, you moron.'
'You see, I've got Colin on attempted murder, his mum for perverting the course of justice, and I only need Simon to make the full set.'
'You're an arsehole.'
'Why, Ms Brander, such language from a young lady!' Finnie picked himself off the wall. 'Anyway, lovely though this is, I really do have to get going. I'm sure someone will see you out. McRae, my office: ten minutes.' He turned on his heel and sauntered away, whistling a happy tune.
As soon as Finnie was gone, the terrier stopped barking.
Pirie slapped Logan on the back, 'All yours mate,' and hurried after the DCI.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
'I'm sorry about that,' said Logan. 'Chief Inspector Finnie can be a bit-'
'He's a slimy git.'
The little terrier gave a yap, and Logan bent down to ruffle the tuft of fur between his ears. 'How's Simon doing?'
'How do you think? He's blind!' She snatched the dog up, clutching it to her chest. 'And you useless bunch of bollocks should be out there finding whoever did it, not arresting his mother!' Her voice was getting louder and louder and louder. The terrier started to bark again.
Logan held up his hands. 'Look, I'm sorry, but we-'
'You should be catching the… the bastards…' She was fighting it, but the tears were there. Making her green eyes sparkle. Deep, shuddering breath. 'You should be out there.'
'Then tell me who's trying to move in on Simon's territory?'
'I told you he's a legitimate-'
'How are we supposed to catch them if you won't cooperate?'
She bared her teeth. 'So it's my fault now? Bloody typical! Blame the victims!'
'Was it Wee Hamish Mowat?'
Hilary stood, staring at him. 'You're an idiot. No wonder you can't catch the people who attacked my Simon. Call yourselves policemen? You useless bastards couldn't catch a bloody cold!' '…and PC Buchan says, "listen up, you old boot, either you drop the knife or I'll…"' Finnie's anecdote drifted to a halt as Logan walked in. The DCI had his feet up on the desk, hands tucked behind his head. 'Ah, McRae, bang on time. Did Ms Brander give you any trouble?'
'Just an ear-bashing.'
'Oh… Never mind, can't have everything I suppose. Assaulting a police officer would have rounded off the day nicely.' He waved Logan towards one of the visitor's chairs. 'I was just telling Pirie about the battle for Mrs McLeod's parlour.'
There was a knock on the door.
'Enter.'
It was PC Karim. He held up a plastic bag with the Oddbins logo on it. 'One bottle of champagne, from the chiller cabinet…' He stuck it on the chief inspector's desk, then went rummaging in a trouser pocket, coming out with a few pound coins and a smattering of silver. 'And your change.'
Finnie took the bottle from the bag, 'Heidsieck Monopole, vintage. Good choice.'
'Thank you, sir.' Karim stayed where he was, looking hopeful as DS Pirie rummaged three crystal tumblers out of the filing cabinet's bottom drawer and blew the dust out of them.
Finnie ripped the gold foil off the cork. Then stopped and frowned at the constable. 'Is there something else?'
Karim blushed. 'No, sir.' He stomped out; Logan could hear him muttering about what a bunch of tight-fisted bastards CID were.
Finnie popped the cork — Pooom! — and sloshed champagne into the tumblers, froth rushing up the glass and over the lip. Soaking into the ballistics report he was using as a coaster.
He stood. 'Gentlemen, a toast: the Clan McLeod. May they rot in jail.'
They repeated, 'Rot in jail,' then drank.
Pirie smacked his lips. 'Not bad at all.'
Finnie topped them all up then sat back down, feet up on the desk again. 'You know what, I fancy a curry tonight. Anyone? My treat.'
Logan took another mouthful of champagne. Stifled a burp. 'Aren't you going to interview Mrs McLeod?'
'Nope. The old battleaxe can stew in her own juices till tomorrow. She's already been charged, so there's no rush. She's not going anywhere till Monday. A weekend in the cells will do her the world of good. Be practice for when she gets sent down.' He grinned. 'Oh, and before I forget: we have another reason to celebrate. Baz Hartley, our escaped Manchester hoodie, tried to kill Kevin Murray's mum last night. Broke into the family home and had a go at her with a butterfly knife. Revenge for her Kevin grassing them up.'
'Oh Jesus.' Logan sank into one of the chairs. 'What about the kids?'
'Didn't wake up till the ambulance got there. Seems our mate Baz was off his face at the time: slipped on the way in through the kitchen window and banged his head on the working surface. Mrs Murray finds him staggering around on the linoleum and beats him unconscious with a stainless steel breadbin. Wonderful woman.' Finnie held up his glass, twisting it to catch the fluorescent light. 'Oedipus is no more, the McLeods are behind bars, God is in Her heaven, and all's right with the world. Well… except for that caravan load of guns.'
Finnie raised his glass again. 'To Detective Sergeant Logan McRae. Believe it or not, you've actually made my week.'
37
The alarm went off at six fifteen — as usual. Logan slammed his hand down on the off button, rolled over, and burrowed deeper into the duvet. A Saturday off was something to be treasured. He only dragged himself out of bed when the double call of headache and straining bladder ganged up on him. They'd finished off the champagne, then hit the Light of Bengal: king prawn jalfrezi and four pints of Cobra beer. Filthy McNasties: two pints of Stella. The Bells: another two pints, and a whisky chaser…
After that things started to get a little fuzzy.
Did they go to the Howff next, or the Grill? Probably both from the feel of things: a pair of overweight rhinoceroses were skateboarding around the inside of Logan's skull to very loud rap music, and his stomach wasn't much better.
Two aspirin, a carton of orange juice, two paracetamol and an unsuccessful rummage in the fridge later, Logan winced his way out of the front door, heading up to Archibald Simpson for breakfast.
The pub was relatively quiet, just a few old men in for their Saturday-morning pint. Logan ordered the vegetarian fry-up and a huge mug of tea.
He was wiping up the last remnants of egg yolk with a chunk of veggie sausage when PC Karim crumpled into the seat opposite.
'God, it's murder out there…'
He wasn't in uniform, so Logan didn't tell him to sod off. 'Shopping?'
Karim grimaced. 'Wedding present for Her Indoor's sister. "Oh," she says, "why don't you hit the shops when you get off night shift?"' He sighed. 'Tell you, never get married. I thought I was getting a life partner to love and cherish, she thought she was getting a taxi driver, private bank, and personal shopper.' He hauled a plastic bag from John Lewis onto the table. 'Keep an eye on that while I go for a slash, eh?'
Logan thought about taking a peek, but pulled his phone out instead. He switched it on and called Samantha. Listened to it ring for a bit. And then a muzzy voice came on the other end.
'Emmmph?'
'Did I wake you?'
'Wmmmm?' Yawn. 'What time is… oh Christ…'
'Sorry. I can call back later if you-'
'It's not you. I'm supposed to be at the sodding lab in twenty-five minutes. Didn't get home till three. Urrrgh, sambuca…' Another yawn crackled through the phone. 'What happened to you last night? Tried to call.'
'Teambuilding with Finnie and Pirie. How about tonight? I've got the day off and-'
'Done… Oh God, look at the time!' And she was gone.
Karim came back to the table, carrying two mugs of coffee. 'Here.' He handed one over. 'Look like you need it.'
'Ta.'
The constable sank back into his chair. 'God what a night. Bloody Union Street's like Beirut after the pubs shut.' He shuddered, then dunked his biscuit in his coffee. 'Oh, and by the way, word to the wise: if you see Steel coming, run. She's in a bloody horrible mood. That bloke she was after? He turned up last night with his arms, legs, and jaw broken.'
Logan rattled his mug back in the saucer, stood, said thank you for the coffee and legged it for the station. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was on the front desk, slumped over a copy of that morning's Aberdeen Examiner with a ballpoint pen, drawing moustaches on people. But however much ink he used, it was never going to come close to the huge furry creature lurking on his own top lip: a full-blown Joseph Stalin job.
He looked up as Logan puffed and panted to a halt.
'Thought you were supposed to be off this weekend?'
Logan grabbed the edge of the reception desk and tried to get some oxygen back into his lungs. 'I… ahh… it…'
'Jesus. Where did you run from, Inverness?'
'Arch… Archies.'
'That's just round the corner! How unfit do you have to be to-'
'Karim told me… Rory Simpson… turned up… last night.'
Blank look.
Logan tried again, 'Beaten up? Broken arms… and legs?'
Sergeant Mitchell pulled out the day book and flicked through it. Frowning. 'Nope… No one's seen your child-molester friend since he did a runner.'
That bastard Karim had been winding him up.
'What we do have,' said Mitchell, running a finger across his facial topiary, 'is a Duane Cowie. Anonymous call from a pub payphone: said they'd seen a man being assaulted on the Kings Links, down by the beach. Alpha Sixteen found him about two hundred yards from the petrol station.'
'Duane Cowie? Who the hell is Duane Cowie?'
'No idea.' Sergeant Mitchell punched away at a keyboard beneath the level of desk. 'Says here Steel had a lookout request on him. Something about a Polish girl getting raped in a porn film?'
'Damn. Knew it was too good to be true.'
'Aye, well I'm sure Duane Cowie shares your disappointment.' He went back to vandalizing the paper. 'And speaking of Steel: she wants a word, if you're about?'
'I'm not. You've not seen me.' Logan turned to leave. Stopped. Then went back to the desk. 'What's the book at now for the new DI's position?'
Sergeant Mitchell smiled. 'You should've put money on when you were eighteen to one. Steel did.' He raised an eyebrow. 'Speaking of which…'
The side door banged open and DI Steel marched into reception with a face on her that would curdle linoleum. 'Where the hell have you been?'
Logan sidled towards the exit. 'It's my day off. I just came in to-'
'My office. NOW!' Steel slumped behind her desk and glowered at Logan. 'This is all your fault.'
'What? How is it my-'
'Don't interrupt. You sodded off yesterday and I had to take DS Beardy Sodding Beattie! Continental drift moves faster than that fat git. Duane Cowie did a runner.'
'Yes, but Eric said he was-'
'Which part of "don't interrupt" are you having problems with?'
Logan shut his mouth.
'If you'd sodding well been there, Duane Cowie wouldn't have got away, someone wouldn't have battered the crap out of him, and I'd have another suspect to sodding question!' She dug a folder out from her in-tray and tossed it across the desk at him. 'Read it.'
Inside was an interview transcript: present DI Steel, DS Beattie, and Allan Rait. The other dog-mask rapist. Logan skimmed through it. 'That's one pound fifty: "sodding" still counts as a swearword.'
'No it sodding doesn't.'
According to Allan Rait's statement, Krystka Gorzalkowska was acting. There was no rape. It was all make-believe. The magic of cinema. Logan stuck the transcript back in the folder. 'What does Krystka say?'
'What the hell do you think? Like interviewing Marcel Marceau.' Steel slumped back in her chair. 'If she made a complaint I could nail them to the wall, but right now we've got fff… sod all.'
She scowled for a bit, drumming her fingers against her forehead. Then: 'What about the company who hired her out?'
'Kostchey International Holdings Limited.'
'Aye, you got that address yet?'
'Er…' Logan dragged his phone out and checked for messages from Zander Clark. 'No.'
'Oh for God's sake! You're now officially in my bad books.'
'Oh, come on. That's not fair-'
'Boo-hoo. Life's not fair.'
'It's my day off-'
'Want to know how you can get back in my good books?' She pulled out the empty plastic cup and stuck it on her desk.
Logan groaned. 'Not again with the sperm!'
'Aye, again with the sperm. You've got millions of the wriggly little buggers, you'll no' miss a couple of tablespoons, will you?'
'Tablespoons?'
'Oh don't be such a drama queen.' She dug a hand into her shirt and started hauling on her bra strap. 'Susan's being a complete nightmare. Now she wants to cash in all our savings, sell my car, and go pay for artificial insemination in the States.'
'Well, maybe that's not a bad-'
'If I don't want Rennie's sperm, why the hell would I want some American tosser's? Gene pool's bad enough as it is.'
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Logan stood. 'Well, I'd better get going, you know: day off and-'
'Not so fast. What else we got on Kostchey International Whosit?'
Shrug. 'Nothing.'
'What about that mobile number we got from Gary the Toilet Diver?'
'Pay-as-you-go — no registered details.'
She hauled at her bra for a bit. 'What did the Polish police say?'
'Eh?'
'You were supposed to chase them up! You forgot, didn't you?'
'Well… McPherson's the liaison officer,
and he's still off on the sick…'
Steel spoke very slowly and very clearly. 'And it never occurred to you to phone them yourself?'
'Er… well, I-'
'For God's sake, you're supposed to be a Detective Sergeant!'
'But if Krystka Gorzalkowska won't make a complaint, how does it-'
'Don't be an idiot: half the girls they import are probably from Christ-knows-where-istan. Illegal immigrants. People trafficking. And the mucky film industry's no' exactly booming in Aberdeenshire, is it? So what happens to the poor cows who can't be porn stars?' She tapped her desk with a finger. 'Do the words "forced into prostitution" mean anything to you?'
Logan opened his mouth, but the inspector got there first: 'And before you say anything, you'll phone them because I sodding well told you to. Me: organ grinder, you: monkey, remember?'
Silence.
'Now get the hell out of my office.' Detective Inspector McPherson's room was a mess of file boxes, sandwich wrappers, and random bits of paper. Coffee mugs lurked on various surfaces, full of brown-green scum, evolving their own life forms in the heat of the radiator: turned up to full. The whole room smelled musty and stale.
Logan cleared a copy of Monday's Aberdeen Examiner off the chair and settled — carefully — behind the desk, looking at McPherson's piles of paperwork and plague of Post-it notes. The contact details for the Polish Liaison Officer had to be in here somewhere.
Not that Logan really wanted to touch anything.
There was a half-eaten Mars Bar in the top drawer and a stack of ancient receipts. Next drawer: notebook, paperclips, pens, hundreds of random business cards. He dragged open the bottom drawer. It was meant to be for files, but McPherson seemed to be using it as a paperwork glory hole.
On top of the pile was the same memo Logan had seen on Steel's desk: the one asking for nominations for a new Detective Inspector. Blah, blah, blah, regret to inform you that DI Gray has tendered his resignation; blah, blah, blah; opportunity to reward performance; blah, blah, blah; suggestions by next Wednesday.
McPherson had scribbled, 'BEATTIE?' in the margin in red biro.
Idiot.
Logan stuck the memo back in the drawer. Detective Sergeant Beattie couldn't arrest his own backside with three patrol cars and a search warrant.
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