A little smile curled at the corner of Dave’s mouth. ‘Is he a suspect in something? Please tell me the baldy sausage-faced old moron’s a suspect. Is it molesting sheep? I’ll bet it is, he looks like the type, doesn’t he? ’
‘We think Agnes Garfield might have killed Roy Forman. Professor Marks is quoting doctor-patient confidentiality.’
Dave blinked. Then his eyes pinched nearly shut and he sank down into his big leather chair. ‘Roy’s dead? ’
‘We ID’d his body a couple of hours ago from a facial reconstruction. He was the necklacing victim.’
‘I can’t believe Roy’s dead. We’d made so much progress. . .’
‘Dave, we have to find her before she hurts anyone else. I need you to go talk to Professor Marks. It’s a murder investigation, I can get a warrant if I have to, but if he cooperates it’ll make everyone’s lives a lot easier.’
A deep breath. A nod. Then he stood, straightened the cuffs on his stripy shirt, and marched for the door. ‘Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll get Little Miss Stroppy to get you a pot of tea.’
Clunk. And they were alone in the room.
Chalmers sat on the chaise longue thing, then lay back on it, putting her feet up. ‘So . . . therapy, eh? ’
‘I’ve been stabbed, shot at, blown up, made to eat human flesh,’ Logan held up his left hand and showed her the two thin scars in the palm, ‘someone nailed my hand to the floor with a nail-gun, then tried to do the same with my head. Someone else set fire to my flat with me in it. My girlfriend’s still in the hospital after that one. . .’ He wandered over to the window, looking down on a patch of green dotted with trees. The goths from the High Street had heaped up their long black coats in a big pile so they could chase back and forth after the Frisbee, laughing and squealing like children. ‘So yes: they sent me for therapy. It was that or be invalided out.’
‘Oh. . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry, Guv. I didn’t. . . Sorry.’
Silence.
Yeah, everyone was always sorry.
‘Get on to Control: I want someone watching Agnes Garfield’s house. Round the clock. If she wants her personal stuff she’ll have to go back for it. Chase up the lookout call on Anthony Chung’s car too. And talk to the PF’s office: I want a warrant for searching Dr Marks’s files faxed over to this office within the hour.’
‘I thought you said we could kill two birds with one stone? ’
‘Just in case. You know what these academics are like, stroppy bunch of sods can’t—’
A crash sounded from somewhere down the corridor. Then the sound of raised voices filtered through.
‘Unprofessional bastard!’ Liverpool accent, so that would be Dave Goulding.
‘Get off me! Help! Someone call the police!’ And that wasn’t.
‘Oh crap. . .’ Chalmers scrambled out of the chaise longue and ran for the door.
Logan followed her, charging out into the reception area.
The receptionist was standing by the door to the corridor, one hand to her mouth, eyes gleaming as she shifted from foot to foot. She was muttering to herself, voice barely audible over the shouting and scuffling coming from outside. ‘Go on, hit him again, right in the balls. . .’
‘Agh! No biting!’
Logan stuck his head out of the office door. Dr Dave Goulding had a short bald man in a headlock and was dragging him – kicking and swearing – down the corridor towards them.
29
‘I want him arrested!’ Professor Marks sat on the edge of a black leather armchair, a wad of damp paper towels pressed against his bottom jaw. His hair was little more than a memory, clinging in grey wisps around a shiny bald head. Big gold-framed glasses covered in fingerprints. No chin. His face just sagged its way down into his neck. Goulding was right: the man looked like a sausage. ‘You’re finished at this institution, do you hear me? Finished!’
Goulding stood with his back to the window, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. His right cheek was swollen, the skin shiny, already beginning to darken into a bruise. ‘Shut up, and tell them what you told me.’
‘Coming into my office, shouting the odds—’
‘You knew she was dangerous!’
Logan massaged his temples. ‘Is this really—’
‘He attacked me!’
Goulding took a step towards Professor Marks. ‘I’ll knock your bloody head off, you unprofessional git; she killed Roy Forman!’
‘You can’t know that it’s—’
‘Do you have any idea how much time and effort I put into fixing Roy? And you just set your pet psycho loose to kill him!’
Prof. Marks opened his mouth and ran a pale-yellow tongue across his premolars. ‘You chipped my tooth. I should sue you.’
‘I’ll do more than—’
Logan slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘All right, enough!’
Silence.
Goulding settled back against the windowsill again. ‘Tell him what you told me, Marks, or I swear to God. . .’
The professor cleared his throat, shuffled in his seat, looked away. ‘Doctor-patient confidentiality prohibits me from—’
‘He’s been in touch with her, since she went missing. He’s talked to her.’
Professor Marks stared at him. ‘I told you that in strictest confidence! You can’t breach—’
‘Oh grow up. I’m not bound by doctor-patient confidentiality; she’s not my patient. If she was, she wouldn’t be out there necklacing poor bastards who fought for their country!’
Logan glanced over at Chalmers. She sat on the chaise longue, scribbling away in her notebook. Good. ‘We’ve got a warrant on the way. Soon as that gets here, you’re either going to talk to us, or we’re going to arrest you for obstruction, drag you down to the station, and throw you in a cell.’
‘You can’t do that. I’m the victim here, it’s this violent Scouse—’
‘And tomorrow morning, you’ll go up in front of the Sheriff and he’ll send you off to Craiginches till you decide to cooperate.’
Marks licked his lips. ‘You. . . I’m a doctor, I can’t just—’
‘And meanwhile, Agnes Garfield is out there,’ Logan stabbed a finger at the window, ‘killing people! Do you really want to be responsible for another death? ’
‘I’m not responsible for anyone’s death. Whatever happened to Roy Forman wasn’t a result of my actions. If Agnes—’
‘She beat the crap out of him, chained him to a stake, throttled him, stuck a tyre around his throat and set fire to it.’ Logan reached into his pocket. ‘Do you want to see the pictures? Want to see what that looks like? ’
Professor Marks’s knees twitched, then drew together, as if Logan had just offered to kick him in the balls. ‘I’m bound by my Hippocratic oath to—’
Goulding lunged for him and Marks squealed, scrambled back into the armchair.
Chalmers was on her feet, blocking the way, one hand in the middle of Goulding’s chest. ‘All right, let’s everyone just calm down. OK? ’
He stared over her shoulder. ‘Tell them, Marks.’
The professor closed his eyes, curled into himself. ‘I took an oath.’
Goulding stared out of the office window, shoulders slumped, one hand on his forehead. ‘Are you really going to arrest him? ’
Logan looked up from his phone. ‘Soon as they fax the warrant over.’
‘Good.’
Thin grey light seeped in through the glass, the room darkening with the afternoon. It was a lot quieter without Professor Marks moaning on about his rights and his chipped tooth. Of course, Chalmers wouldn’t be happy – having to babysit Marks in his own office, making sure he didn’t do a runner for darkest Fife, or the hedonistic fleshpots of Inverurie – but tough. It was character building.
Or at least that’s what Steel always told him when she was handing out the crappy assignments.
Logan went back to his phone. According to the s
creen, there were nine voicemail messages waiting and half a dozen texts too. Half of which were from Steel:
You rancid wee shite! I’m going to rip your nutsack off and make you wear it as a hat!
You knew I wanted help with this meeting!
Get your arse back here NOW!!!!!!
Again with the scrotum threats. Still, say what you like about Steel, at least she didn’t resort to text-speak.
Delete.
He deleted the other ones too, not bothering to read past the first line, all of which contained at least one swear word.
Goulding cleared his throat. ‘I know dragging Marks down the corridor by the scruff of his neck must have seemed a little . . . unprofessional, but—’
‘You had him in a headlock.’
‘Roy Forman was making so much progress, coming on so well. To just throw it all away like that. . .’ A sniff. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was the necklacing victim? This morning, when I was interviewing Robert Whyte? ’
‘Didn’t know you knew him. If I did, you couldn’t have talked to Whyte: conflict of interest.’
The next text message was from Rennie, moaning on about how Henry Scott wasn’t there by the time he got to Gilcomston Church, and why was Chalmers always the favourite, and it wasn’t fair. Wah, wah, wah.
Delete.
Next one was from Tim Mair at Trading Standards.
Where the hell are you, McRae? We said 3 pm! I brought biscuits & everything!!!!!
Arse. Three. Ah well, never mind.
Logan poked out a reply with his thumbs:
Don’t be such a girl. Got caught up on murder enquiry.
Better leave it till later. Make it 17:15-ish?
‘Did you know Roy was in Operation Desert Storm? Right behind enemy lines, fighting the Republican Guard. His squad was pinned down by sniper fire, then the mortar rounds started falling. They lost their commanding officer and half of the team. Roy caught a bit of shrapnel in the eye. Half-blind, bleeding heavily, he carried one of his mates three miles back to base camp, under fire the whole way.’
Logan looked up from his phone. ‘He told DCI Steel he was caught in a roadside bomb.’
‘Look, the point is, he was a hero. He was damaged fighting for his country, and he was out on the streets. And he was getting better.’ A glower. ‘Until Professor Skid Marks got involved.’
The last text was from Dr Graham:
Gt the SIA rslts bk frm Dundee
Vktm ws lcl
Gv me a phn & ill tlk U thru thm
What the hell did ‘SIA’ mean? The woman was a nightmare.
Goulding left the window and settled behind the desk. ‘How’s Samantha getting on? ’
Logan thumbed out an answer:
I’ll give you a call when I’m back in the station.
How’s the facial reconstruction coming?
He hit send. ‘Just great. We went clubbing in Brechin last night. Going to the Maldives in July – do a bit of scuba diving.’
‘I see. . .’ He steepled his fingers. ‘I’ve arranged for a Mental Health Officer to see Robert Whyte at four this afternoon. I’d be very surprised if he isn’t in a secure ward by the end of the day.’
A nutjob, but not the right nutjob.
Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket. ‘I think we’re getting a cat.’
‘That’s good. From a therapeutic point of view it’s probably a bit more effective than discussing all your problems with an imaginary person.’
For God’s sake. He slumped in his seat, both hands covering his eyes. ‘Here we go again. . .’
‘I’m just saying it’s not entirely healthy. And you know talking therapy works. Look at all the progress we’ve made over the last two years: we cured your vegetarianism, didn’t we? You’re drinking less, you’ve lost weight, and you’re a lot less irritable.’
‘Leave it, OK? ’ Jesus, nag, nag, nag.
‘Logan, I’m serious: it’s really not healthy to keep—’
‘Take the bloody hint.’ He dropped his hands from his face and jabbed a finger in Goulding’s direction. ‘I can still do you for assaulting Professor Marks.’
Silence.
Goulding sighed, then wandered over to his wall full of whiteboards. ‘I’d like to work up a profile on Agnes Garfield. We know who she is, but it might help tell us where she is and what she’s going to do next. And much though I hate to impugn the professional reputation of my esteemed colleague: Professor Richard Marks is a dribbling idiot.’
‘I don’t have any say on the budget for this one.’
‘I’ll do it for free, on the condition that you catch her. Roy didn’t deserve to die like that.’
‘Free? ’ Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘In that case, knock yourself out. I’ll get the case files sent over. And if it helps, I think she might have tortured someone to death in Kintore too.’
The office door swung partially open, and there was Chalmers. She froze on the threshold, then knocked. As if they didn’t already know she was there. ‘Sorry, Guv. That’s the warrant in now.’
Logan stood. Put his phone away. ‘He still refusing to cooperate? ’
‘Won’t say a word.’
‘Cuff him, then call Control and tell them to send a patrol car: give Marks the full blues-and-twos treatment. March the little sod out the front door in handcuffs so everyone can see.’
She nodded. ‘Guv, about Agnes Garfield. . .? ’
‘You stay with him till the patrol car gets here. Make sure he’s processed properly – fingerprints, DNA, the lot.’
‘See, I was thinking: Roy Forman was in the Gordon Highlanders, right? A trained soldier, unarmed combat and all that? Would an eighteen-year-old girl really be able to subdue him, tie him up, and burn him like that? Wouldn’t he fight back? ’
Ah. . . Chalmers had a point. ‘Maybe she had help? ’
Goulding picked up a dry eraser. ‘Roy was an alcoholic. Give him a bottle of meths and a straw and he’d do anything you want.’ The eraser cut a swathe through a scribbled mind-map, leaving the ghost of words behind. He picked up a red pen and wrote ‘AGNES GARFIELD’ in the middle of the board and trapped it in a lopsided box. ‘When you stick that idiot Marks in his cell, do me a favour? Make sure there’s someone noisy and smelly next door. It’ll drive him mad.’
Logan took the grumbling Punto for another tour of the surrounding streets. Still no sodding parking space. In the end he had to dump the car on the Beach Boulevard and walk.
A cold wind stirred sand and grit in the gutter, made the trees shiver.
On the other end of the phone, Samantha sighed. ‘Well . . . maybe Wee Hamish is right? Maybe you’ll have to sort Reuben out sooner rather than later.’
‘I’m not killing Reuben.’
‘Who said anything about killing him? I said sort him out. Make a deal with him.’
Logan grimaced. ‘Yeah, because Reuben’s the negotiating type.’
The little red man went green. A hatchback lurched to a halt, the bmtch-bmtch-bmtch of driving bass thumping out through the closed windows.
‘So get him banged up for something. Don’t just sit about and wait for the scar-faced fat scumbag to turn up on the doorstep with a machete and a power drill.’
Logan wandered across the road, taking his time, getting the evil eye from the hatchback’s acne-ridden boy-racer driver. ‘I’m not killing him, and I’m not fitting him up either.’
A scrunching noise – probably Samantha putting her hand over the mouthpiece – then a muffled conversation.
He nipped across the other side of the road, weaving his way between cars and trucks waiting at the roundabout. ‘Look, I’m going to have to go. I’ll give you a call later, OK? It’s—’
And she was back. ‘Listen, these bones of yours – the ones outside the caravan – your historian said they were for protection, right? What if they’re not there to protect you? What if they’re there to
protect whoever made them? ’
‘And that helps because. . .? ’
‘Remember, in the book, the Vodun bokor sticks one in Rowan’s pack, so she won’t track him down? ’
Onto Justice Street, where a pair of bulky tower blocks loomed over the surrounding granite buildings, dark windows glinting in a stray beam of struggling sunshine.
‘Sorry, but I don’t—’
‘God, how slow can you be? Think about it: when did you get the first knot of bones? Before Roy Forman was burned, right? Maybe even before she tortured the other guy? ’
He stopped. ‘She’d planned it all out. She knew I was looking for her, because I’d been to her house. So. . .’ A frown. ‘She tracked me down, followed me home. . .’ Something cold caressed the back of his neck.
Logan spun around, his free hand clenched into a fist.
No one there.
A thin drizzle drifted down from the clay-coloured sky, misting the windscreens of parked cars, painting an anaemic rainbow in that one slice of sunlight.
‘Don’t be such a big girl. The bone knots are to protect her from you. She’s scared of you. You’re like a witch-finder finder.’
‘Ah, right. . .’ Jumping at his own shadow, like an idiot.
‘You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get tarted up for my new physical therapist. He’s a bit hunky.’ And Samantha was gone.
She was right: Agnes Garfield wasn’t a criminal mastermind, or the next Hannibal Lecter, she was just an eighteen-year-old girl with mental health problems who wasn’t taking her medication any more.
The poor girl was more scared of him than he was of her.
A warm breath escapes her lips, curling white in the light of the open chest freezer. Shiny packages wrapped in tinfoil, so many precious things. . .
Rowan leans forward until her cheeks rest against the cold plastic tray. Soothing. Calming. Damping down the fire in her head.
Everything will be OK.
The fifth tenet: ‘Do not fear the darkness, make it fear you.’
She closes the freezer lid and the room goes black, just the gurgle and buzz as the compressor kicks in, taking it back down below zero again.
Shapes fade out of the gloom: the boxy outline of the big chest freezer, the scythe leaning against the wall, the lonely pegboard stained by the ghosts of implements past. The old wooden table. The sickly sweet stench of death.
Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8) Page 27
