The table was longer than usual, set up so thered be room for a Family Liaison officer and a pale, sixty-eight-year-old woman with puffy red eyes and trembling hands: Mrs Cochrane, the victims wife. Logan waited for her to sit down before taking his place next to DI Steel, lowering himself carefully into his chair, trying not to aggravate his bruised ribs or split Rennies trousers.
Right, the Chief Constable stood, his silver hair glowing like a shampoo commercial in the bright television lights, before we start today I want to make one thing crystal clear: Mrs Cochrane has had a terrible shock today. Shes lost her husband of nearly fifty years. Shes here because she wants to help us catch those responsible. But the first person I hear making inappropriate comments or asking tactless questions is going to get thrown out on their ear and barred. Do I make myself clear? There was an uncomfortable silence. The CC nodded. Good. And sat down again.
Today, at eleven minutes past twelve a pregnant woman shopping in the St Nicholas Centre was accosted by a gang of children, ranging from six to nine years old. They tried to steal her purse, but she resisted, so they subjected her to a vicious assault. Mr Cochrane went to intervene on her behalf
Logan didnt need to listen to the rest, hed been one of the first ones on the scene having nipped out to buy a sandwich and bag of crisps from Markies for lunch. Hearing the screams, running through the jumpers and trousers into the shopping centre, just in time to see Sean Morrison help himself to the old mans wallet and scarper. Calling for backup, running over to the victim, trying to staunch the bleeding. Telling the store detectives to keep pressure on the knife wound till the ambulance got there, then chasing after the little bastards. And not catching them.
He listened to Mrs Cochrane make an impassioned plea for anyone who knew where her husbands killers were to come forward and tell the police, tears sparking in the harsh media spotlight, running down her pale, lined cheeks. And then the Chief Constable thanked her for her bravery and threw the briefing open to questions.
Mostly it was the usual: Do you have any suspects? Are you anticipating any arrests? Then the woman from Sky News asked the Chief Constable about the trial of Iain Watt: was he going to be charged with the other rapes supposedly committed by Rob Macintyre?
The Chief Constable glowered at her the Granite City Rapist, as the papers had started calling Watt, was a something of a sore point. And with that, the press briefing was brought to an abrupt close.
13
The sun was hot enough to turn the car into a microwave oven, but when Logan clambered out into the late February morning it was so cold his nipples instantly pointed due north. His back was killing him: the bruises where Sean Morrison had kicked and battered him spreading like green and purple ink on wet blotting paper. Kings Gate stretched downhill from the Kings Cross roundabout on Anderson Drive to where they used to film The Beechgrove Garden, and the view from the top of the hill was stunning a slice of Aberdeen: grey granite shining in the sunshine, dark slate roofs, church spires, the North Sea glittering like a vast, deep-blue sapphire, a neon-orange supply vessel slowly making its way south towards the harbour. Just a shame it was bloody freezing.
Jesus Effing Christ! DI Steel stamped her feet, swore, dug out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke whipped away by the icy wind. My fridge is warmer than this!
Logan ignored her, looking down the street at the Morrison residence a large granite two-storey job with a huge BMW 4x4 sitting outside. Not exactly the type of place youd expect a nasty, thieving, murderous little bastard like Sean Morrison to come from. Parked cars lined either side of the road many of them containing bored-looking journalists, cameras and notebooks at the almost ready. No one seemed to have noticed that the inspector and Logan had arrived yet. You want me to get started? he asked, one hand rubbing the small of his aching back. The painkillers theyd given him last night were about a fifth of the strength he was used to might as well have been Smarties for all the good they were doing. At least they would have tasted better.
Steel shivered, hands jammed deep into her armpits, puffing away on her cigarette like mad. Give us a minute I only get one fag this morning and Im going to bloody well enjoy it if it kills me.
Logan sighed and made a show of checking his watch. Nearly half eight were going to have to get a shift on if were going to make the PM.
Nicotine patches my arse The inspector squinted into the bright sunshine Anyway, think Im going to give this one a miss. Not like we dont know what killed the old guy, is it?
Suppose not. He watched the bright orange supply boat disappear behind the tombstone slab of St Nicholas House. What do you want to do about Jason Fettes?
What about him? The whole bloody things dead in the water. No ones got any idea who did it, and no one cares either. Except the bloody parents and those fuckers at the P amp;J. Colin Miller leading another campaign for justice as an excuse to give Grampian Police an extra kicking. The inspector scowled, cigarette smouldering away between her lips. Weve got no evidence, no witnesses and no bloody clue.
I know, but youre supposed to do an update for the ACC today, remember?
Is that today? Steel swore. Tell you, between that, this thing, and those bloody housebreakings, my crime statistics look sodding awful. Still, the cigarette was flicked out into the middle of the road, where it got crushed beneath the wheels of a number twenty-three bus, at least were guaranteed a quick result this time.
Logan had heard that one before.
They marched down the pavement, making for the Morrisons front door where a lone uniformed officer stood looking cold and miserable. They were still one house away when a baldy wee man appeared in front of them, clutching a digital recorder. Ken Inglis Radio Scotland. Inspector, have you found the boy yet? It was as if someone had dropped a dead zebra in a tank of piranha: as soon they smelled blood there were reporters everywhere.
No yet, said Steel in a sudden barrage of camera flashes. But we are pursuing several lines of enquiry. Now if youll excuse-
ITN News: is it true Morrisons been in trouble with the police before?
I really cant comment on any-
Has Constable Nairn recovered consciousness yet?
Joanna Calder Guardian: How worried are you for the boys safety?
Steel gave the uniformed PC guarding the Morrisons house a wave and he shambled into action, forcing his way through the cameras and questions, holding them back and keeping them there, so Logan and Steel could get to the front door. Right at the very edge of the pack, dour-faced civilians stood, glowering after them. None of them carried placards yet, but it would only be a matter of time.
Logan leaned on the bell.
Inside, chez Morrison was like an advert for furniture polish. Everything gleamed. Logan stood by the fire, roasting the backs of his legs, while Steel sat on the couch, working her way through a china mug of tea and a couple of digestive biscuits. Mrs Morrison was on the other sofa looking plump, startled and a lot older than she should have at thirty-two, while her husband paced, wringing his hands, flipping from worried to angry to apologetic and back again. Seans never done anything like this before! he said, and the inspector snorted.
I should bloody hope not! Knifing seventy-year-old men and police officers isnt something you want becoming a habit.
Logan tried a slightly less confrontational approach. And Seans not been home since yesterday?
The mother shook her head, curly brown hair bouncing around her oval face. Puffy, pink eyes sparkling with tears. He went out to school in the morning and we havent seen him since! All night! What if somethings happened to him? What if hes hurt?
Steel put her mug down on the coffee table. I think we need to be more concerned about him hurting other people.
Hes a good boy!
Hes just killed someone!
The father scowled at her. Hes only eight.
And Jerry Cochrane was seventy-two, but hes still dead. And were bloody lucky he didnt kill that policewoman too! Your darling wee son is a-
Logan cut her off before she could say anything else. Mr Morrison, have you checked the outbuildings in case Sean snuck back last night?
Fat chance of that happening with all those bloody journalists camped out on our doorstep! Its like a-
Mr Morrison-
Yes. Of course I checked, and so did your damn search team twice last night and once this morning.
And you cant think of anywhere else he might have gone? A friend, or a relative: anything like that?
Why arent you out there looking for him? It was below freezing last night! Hes only eight! He- The phone rang and Mrs Morrisons eyes went wide, bottom lip trembling. Backing away from the thing. Her husband just stared at it.
Mr Morrison-
Yes. Of course I checked, and so did your damn search team twice last night and once this morning.
And you cant think of anywhere else he might have gone? A friend, or a relative: anything like that?
Why arent you out there looking for him? It was below freezing last night! Hes only eight! He- The phone rang and Mrs Morrisons eyes went wide, bottom lip trembling. Backing away from the thing. Her husband just stared at it.
Steel gave it five rings before asking, You going to answer that, then?
Er yes Mr Morrison licked his lips, wrung his hands, and picked up the phone. Hello? He recoiled back from the earpiece, then slammed the handset back down into its cradle.
Let me guess: wrong number?
Theyve been calling ever since it was on the news. About the the old man getting hurt. They say terrible- The ringing started again. This time Steel was the one who grabbed the phone, slopping a wee tidalwave of tea on the coffee table in the process.
Aye? she demanded, Whos this? Then listened, face screwed up in concentration, as if she was trying to place the voice. Listen up, shite-face, this is the police. You call here again and Im gonnae find out where you live, come down there and ram my boot so far up your arse youll be tasting athletes foot powder for a month! She held the phone away from her ear. Hung up, fancy that Then she punched 1471 into the handset, repeating the automated voice as it recited the callers number, so Logan could write it down. She smiled at Mr Morrison. Well send a patrol car round: give her a hard time. You in the phonebook? The man nodded. Aye, well, said Steel, putting the phone back and picking up her tea again, change your number and go ex-directory.