Logan pulled the spork out of the mound of chicken and chorizo casserole and helped himself to a bite. Well, Henry Scott wasn’t going to miss it, was he? It tasted as good as it smelled, even if it was getting cold.
‘Logan-’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Voices echoed through Grampian Police Force Headquarters as nightshift clocked on and shuffled out onto the rain-misted streets, fluorescent yellow waistcoats on over their black uniforms. Moaning.
Logan ran a hand through his hair and flicked the water off against the painted breezeblock wall of the cell block.
One of the nightshift PCSOs scowled at him from the other end of the corridor, carrying a tray with half a dozen steaming mugs on it. His pornstar moustache bristled. ‘You’re dripping on my floor!’
‘I’m not stopping, Andy. Just checking up on a couple of prisoners.’
‘Bad enough I’ve got drunks puking and peeing on it, without you CID scumbags dripping all over the place.’
Logan helped himself to one of the mugs. ‘Thanks.’
‘Hey!’ He snatched it back. ‘Those are for the guests. You want a cuppa? Get it yourself.’
‘Who stuck an angry badger up your bum? ’ Logan slid back the hatch on the nearest cell, the one with ‘STACEY GOURDON ~ BOTP’ written on the board by the door, and peered inside. ‘She give you any trouble? ’
Stacey sat on the blue plastic mattress with her back against the wall, blood-flecked knees drawn up against her chest. No scabs left, she must’ve eaten them all. She looked up, smiled, then made the universal gesture for ‘wanker’.
Lovely girl.
Stacey stood and padded across the cell floor on bare feet. ‘You here to interrogate me too? Think you can beat a confession out of me? Well, I’ll tell you exactly the same thing I told your hairy little friend: I don’t have to tell you where I was when Anthony went missing, or where I was when he died. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’
Why did it sound as if she was auditioning for the part of ‘Suspect number one’? Making herself look more dodgy than she needed to. Playing him. .
Logan paused, then sighed. Of course she was. ‘Yes, well done. Very melodramatic.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t you patronize me.’
‘You really think this is the best way to get your daddy’s attention? Get tied up in a murder enquiry? Maybe sell your sordid little story to the papers? Scandalize the neighbourhood? ’
Stacey stuck out her chest, her smile wide, voice silky. ‘I had a threesome with the victim and the girl who killed him. I think I’m entitled to some compensation for my grief and distress, don’t you? It’s not my problem if you-’
Logan slammed the hatch shut on her. ‘Andy, feel free to spit in her tea, OK? ’
Downstairs, in the lower set of cell blocks, the sound of a pissed-up rendition of ‘American Pie’ warbled and roared out from the cell next door to Dr Marks’s. Whoever was on the other side screamed a non-stop barrage of abuse and threats at someone called Baz for sleeping with his girlfriend.
It wasn’t quite Tourette’s, but it was the next best thing. Which meant Logan probably owed Kathy a couple of pints at least.
Dr Marks sat on the floor, backed into a corner, rocking gently away, chewing on the side of his thumb. ‘I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work. Doctor-patient confidentiality is imperative in my line of work.’
Logan settled down on the end of the mattress. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’
‘You can’t. . I won’t betray my principles.’ Blood dripped from the end of his chewed thumb. He stuck it in his mouth and sucked. ‘I won’t.’
‘If you think a couple of hours in the cells is bad, just wait till the Sheriff gives you a week in Craiginches for contempt.’
‘I can’t. .’
‘She’s out there killing people, and you can help us stop her. Think about it.’
He sniffed, blinked. Chewed on his bleeding thumb. ‘I can’t. .’
In the cell next door, ‘American Pie’ was replaced by Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man’, roared out like a football chant.
Logan stood and smiled down at Dr Marks. ‘I’ll pop past in the morning: say goodbye before they drag you off.’ A wink. ‘Have a nice night.’
Police. They spill out of the ugly striped building like woodlice from beneath a rotting log. Marching about, dragging coils of fizzing blue and red behind them like angry tentacles. Reaching along the granite streets, searching, probing.
They should be on the same side, but they’re not. They don’t see. Don’t see the Beasts and the Angels, the Witches and the Kelpie, the Wraith and the Ogres and the Ghosts. Don’t see the Hand of Death as they prowl the street.
They think everyone is Sheep.
They think she is Sheep.
But she’s so much more than that.
Rowan takes a deep breath and crosses the road — walks out into the middle of them.
The Kirk is my sword and my shield.
A pair of them laugh at a shared joke, shoulders hunched against the rain. They don’t even see her.
Then there he is.
In the tunnels beneath the earth he looked so normal, but here. . His aura is different from the others. It’s blue and red, but ribbons of gold and black undulate around his head. A halo of light and darkness. Is he an Angel, or a Hand of Death? Does he even know himself?
And if she told him, would it make any difference?
He turns up his collar and runs across the road to his weary battered Fiat, fumbles with his keys, swearing in the rain, then gets in behind the wheel. Reverses out of the parking space in a cloud of greasy exhaust, his aura lighting up the inside of the car like an angry disco.
Rowan steps out onto the road, watching him disappear into the rain. Then reaches into her pocket and feels the knot of bones, safe in its nest of tissue paper.
Soon. .
She turns her face to the heavy orange clouds and closes her eyes. The rain is cool and soothing on her skin, tiny cold kisses from the heavens. Making everything-
The hard blare of a car horn makes her flinch. She spins around and there’s a patrol car less than three feet away. Its headlights flash at her, and she holds up a hand, then steps back onto the pavement.
The patrol car drives by. Its occupants don’t even look in her direction. They think she’s just another Sheep.
Rowan steps back out into the road. His Fiat is nothing but a memory written on tarmac with raindrops. But that’s all right. She has plenty of time to wander back to where her own car’s parked.
After all, there’s no need to rush: she knows where he’s going.
Wednesday
36
The kettle’s grumbling rattle came through from the kitchen, fighting against the sound of Breakfast News in the living room where, apparently, everyone was getting great weather except for the north-east of Scotland. As bloody usual.
Logan lay back on the bed, arms folded behind his head. Have to get up in a minute. Any minute now. .
A clunk and the kettle lost its battle with the weatherman.
Jackie padded through wearing nothing but a Strathclyde Police Judo Team T-shirt, with a mug of tea in each hand and a slice of toast sticking out of her mouth. ‘Mnnnphnnn gnnph? ’
He sat up and accepted the proffered mug. ‘Still raining? ’
She pulled the toast out and chewed. ‘Give me two reasons why I should stay with Bill.’
Oh great: this again. ‘He’s Rory’s father? ’
‘That’s one. And it’s not even that good a reason. He’s still a selfish prick.’ She tore a bite out of the toast. ‘I am not moving to London, I don’t care if this is the job opportunity of a lifetime.’
The sigh escaped before he could stop it. Logan swung his legs out of the bed. ‘If you don’t like him, why do you stay with him? ’
‘That’s what I just asked you.’
Logan picked yesterday’s
socks and pants off the floor and dumped them in the laundry basket, before shuffling and yawning through to the bathroom for a pee and a shower.
By the time he got back, Jackie was levering herself into the feat of mechanical engineering that was a concrete-coloured Doreen Triumph bra. Making it look as if she was wearing two halved zeppelins from the 1930s. The shiny crescent-shaped scar above her industrial grey pants disappeared as she hauled on her suit trousers.
At least she only had the one scar.
A linen shirt went over the bra that time forgot. ‘What are we doing? ’
Good question. Logan sat on the bed and pulled on a fresh pair of socks. ‘Same as usual, I suppose.’ Next: a pair of lucky bright-red pants, then suit trousers. ‘Reaching out because we’re lonely. Looking for a little comfort. A little human warmth. . What? ’
She was staring at him with her mouth hanging open. ‘I meant what are we doing tonight? Not what,’ she pointed at them both, ‘whatever this is.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Heat raced up his neck into his cheeks and ears. ‘OK. Well, if you’re not going back to Glasgow, we could-’
‘Are you feeling guilty? Is that it? Guilty because she’s in the hospital? ’
Logan picked the nearest shirt in the wardrobe. ‘Yes.’
‘In the name of the wee man. .’ She grabbed her jacket. ‘Where did I leave my shoes? ’ Then stomped out of the bedroom, making the caravan floor shake.
Yes, because it was all his fault. He followed her into the living room, hauling the shirt on. ‘So you don’t feel guilty for cheating on Bill? ’
‘She’s been up there for two years, Logan, you really think that’s what she wants? You feeling guilty for having sex three or four times a year? ’
A wrinkled satchel of a face frowned out at them from the TV. ‘. .important to remember that these are the people who support police investigations. They help catch killers. How can they do their job if the SPSA keeps changing everything? ’
‘You didn’t answer the question.’
‘I. .’ Her face pinched, eyes narrowed, then she turned and grabbed a pair of low-heeled boots from under the coffee table. ‘Going to be late.’
Mr Satchelface was replaced by a woman in an ugly blouse. ‘Aberdeen now, and Grampian Police have issued a fresh appeal for information regarding the whereabouts of Agnes Garfield. .’
‘Jackie, it’s-’
‘Of course I feel bloody guilty! OK? And I shouldn’t, he doesn’t deserve my guilt — he’s a selfish, thoughtless bastard who never even sees me any more. Even when he does come home, it’s like I’m not there.’
‘. .any information to call the hotline number, or contact your local police station. .’
Jackie thumped down on the couch and hauled on her boots. ‘But would I leave him? Nooooo, I had to make it work for Rory’s sake, didn’t I? Why be happy in life when you can be bloody miserable? ’
‘So leave him.’
‘What about Rory? ’
‘In other news, police checkpoints are in place on the A96 between Kintore and Blackburn. .’
Logan sat down on the couch beside her. ‘What’s going to be better for him growing up: you happy, or you miserable? ’
‘. .witnesses following the discovery of what appears to be a satanic murder inspired by the bestselling novel Witchfire on Monday evening. .’
She stared at the screen. ‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Never is.’
‘We spoke to two the film’s stars, Nichole Fyfe and Morgan Mitchell.’ Onscreen, Mrs Uglyblouse was replaced by the familiar PR setup of Nichole and Morgan sitting in front of Witchfire posters.
‘What am I going to do, Logan? Leave Bill and come back and shack up with you? You me and Rory crammed in your girlfriend’s caravan? ’
Oh dear God. . Don’t say anything. Don’t even breathe!
Jackie stood. ‘That’s what I thought.’
Nichole leaned forward. ‘First I have to say on behalf of everyone working on the film, that our hearts go out to those poor families.’
Morgan nodded. ‘They really do. It’s awful that these guys went through what they did-’
‘I can’t. There isn’t. .’
‘You’re just going to sit here, like a bug stuck in fucking amber till she comes back.’
‘. .so important to stop this happening to anyone else. Which is why we’re going to do everything we can to help.’
‘I am not stuck in amber.’
‘LOOK AT YOURSELF! It’s been two years and you’re still here. Why haven’t you finished fixing up the flat? I’ll tell you why: because you can’t move on. You were always the bloody same!’ She turned and banged out of the room.
‘Jackie!’
Out into the corridor.
‘Jackie, wait.’
She was in the bedroom, grabbing her rucksack from the floor. ‘You want a sign, Logan? Here’s your sign.’ She ripped down the sheet of paper Sellotaped to the wardrobe mirror and hurled it at him. ‘That’s what’s wrong with you.’
She shoved past, wrenched open the front door, then slammed it hard enough to make the mugs in the kitchen clatter.
Silence.
‘-ask if anyone’s seen, or knows anything about these terrible deaths, to come forward.’
‘That’s right, people, you have to call the police before anyone else gets hurt.’
Bit late for that.
Logan bent down and retrieved the sheet of paper. Smoothed it out against the wall. ‘LIKE IT OR NOT, YOU’RE STILL ALIVE’ printed in big black letters.
‘And now here’s Russell with the weather.’
‘Thanks, Steve. Well, it’s going to be an unsettled couple of days-’
The doorbell rang out its long mournful chime.
He reached for the handle, paused. The pickaxe handle waited patiently, propped up in the corner. He took it and peered through the spyhole.
Jackie scowled back at him, her features distorted by the lens.
He opened the door. ‘You already had the last word.’
Her eyes went from his face to the pickaxe handle. ‘Didn’t think you were so sensitive.’ Then she hoiked a thumb over her shoulder at a green-haired lanky young man leaning back against Logan’s Fiat. One of Wee Hamish Mowat’s boys, with a courier’s satchel slung over one shoulder. ‘You got a visitor.’
The young man grinned at him as Jackie roared off in her Audi. ‘Bit on the side, eh? McRae, you old hound you.’ Acne scars pocked his cheeks, disappearing into a set of wiry sideburns. Eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Shoulder-length lime green hair swept back from his forehead. ‘Though, how you manage to pull the chicks drivin’ this manky piece of crap. .? ’ He rapped his knuckles on the Punto’s bonnet.
The bloody magpies had been at the car again, spattering it with grey-and-white droppings, wedging twigs into the windscreen wipers. Logan hefted the pickaxe handle onto his shoulder. ‘What do you want, Jamie? ’
‘No’ to be up at this soddin’ hour. Brutal, man.’ He nodded at the caravan. ‘You gonnae invite me in? ’
‘How’s your friend Reuben? ’
‘Yeah. ..’ Jamie stuck the tip of his pale-yellow tongue out between his teeth. ‘I heard you and him had a thing. What can I say? The Rubester’s a passionate man.’ He pulled his sunglasses down to the end of his nose and winked a bloodshot eye. ‘But just so you know: if there’s a change of management and that, I’d have no problems workin’ with the new administration. Just between us.’
‘What — do — you — want? ’
Jamie dipped into the satchel and came out with a large brown envelope. ‘Been lookin’ into your battered Chinkies for Mr Mowat. Sod-all clue who the other side are, but the ones doing the hammerin’ are definitively the McLeod brothers.’
No surprise there.
Jamie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m just sayin’, you know, if the time comes, you can rely on us. The Reubinator’s great and all that, but it’s like
doing Strictly Come Dancin’ through a minefield some days.’
‘I’m not taking over, and I’m not killing Reuben.’
‘Ahhh. . Right. Just a wee coma or a bit of brain damage. Gotcha. Anyway, Mr Mowat says he’s keen on this batterin’ cannabis thing being over soon as. Word is Creepy and Simon McLeod are going after anyone they think’s in on it — and they’re all about the “cripple first, ask questions later”.’
‘No coma. No brain damage.’
Jamie shrugged. ‘We’ll talk later. Meantime,’ he waggled the envelope at Logan, ‘got a couple addresses for the McLeod’s cannabis farms: Blackburn and Westhill. Might wanna get your boys to take a squint? ’
Logan didn’t move. ‘Seriously? Handing over a brown envelope, in a public place? You got someone lurking in the bushes taking pictures? ’
He sighed, pushed his glasses back into place again. ‘Man, you are cynical.’ He slipped the envelope under one of the Fiat’s windscreen wipers, sending a little avalanche of twigs and grass tumbling onto the bonnet. ‘No skin off my nose, man. But if you’re no’ going to sort it out. .’ Jamie bared his teeth and sooked air through them. ‘Gonnae get messy.’
‘Always does.’
‘Later, OK? ’ He backed away, grinning. ‘And I meant what I said about Reuben.’
‘. .talk of industrial action across the whole Scottish Police Services Authority. We spoke to Grampian Police Assistant Chief Constable Denis Irvin. .’
Logan turned the radio down a bit, shifted his phone from one ear to the other, and changed down into third as Mounthooly roundabout loomed into view. A vast hump of grass and trees, easily big enough for a full-sized football pitch, like an island in the stream of traffic. ‘Look, how difficult can it be? Just get a copy of Anthony Chung’s criminal record from San Francisco.’
On the other end of the phone, PC Guthrie groaned. ‘You know what getting anything out of the Yanks is like.’
‘. .inconceivable they’d do anything as counterproductive and ill-judged as strike. .’
‘Someone’s got to have a liaison officer with the US Justice Department: try the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.’
Close to the Bone lm-8 Page 33
