They got more drinks and the day-shift started squelching in, the pub slowly filling up with off-duty police men and women. Logan knew most of them by name well, except for some of the younger ones but hed only ever seen one of them naked: PC Jackie Watson, marching towards them, bearing beer, a scowl, and tomato sauce flavour crisps.
She plonked herself down next to Logan and offered the crisps round. Jesus, what a shitty day.
And hello to you too. Logan grinned at her: the effects of two pints on a nearly empty stomach. We saw Hissing Sid outside the courthouse.
Jackie scowled. Little bastard. How come every bloody case hes involved in has to have a press conference on the steps outside FHQ? You know anyone else who does that?
Logan shrugged. Hes a media whore.
Aye, said Steel, polishing off her drink, hes a whore, but were the ones getting screwed the whole time. Anyone for another? She took their orders and stomped off to the bar, leaving Logan and Jackie alone.
Can you believe he had the cheek to say I assaulted his rapist bastard client while he was cuffed and on the ground? Jackie scowled. And get this theyre saying he was only out jogging. He approached me to ask directions. She even made little sarcastic quote-bunnies with her fingers. With a knife. Can you believe that?
Logan knew better than to say anything, just sat there and nodded. Letting her rant. And the bloody media! According to them hes already been found innocent! Bastards. And the bloody search team couldnt find their arses with both hands and a map. All through Macintyres house and not one bloody trophy. No knickers, no jewellery, nothing. Not a bloody thing! There was more, but Logan gradually tuned it out. Jackie just needed to let off a bit of steam: get it out of her system.
Logan knew better than to say anything, just sat there and nodded. Letting her rant. And the bloody media! According to them hes already been found innocent! Bastards. And the bloody search team couldnt find their arses with both hands and a map. All through Macintyres house and not one bloody trophy. No knickers, no jewellery, nothing. Not a bloody thing! There was more, but Logan gradually tuned it out. Jackie just needed to let off a bit of steam: get it out of her system.
Jackie was still going strong when DI Steel wobbled back to the table with a handful of glasses. The inspector clinked them down on the tabletop, with an apologetic, I forgot what everyone wanted, so I got whiskies.
And slowly, but surely, they all got very, very drunk.
5
Wednesday mornings half-seven briefing was a lot more painful than Tuesdays, but at least this time Logan got to slouch in a seat at the back of the class, while DI Steel grumbled her hungover way through the days assignments, finishing off with a subdued chorus of, We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up! The whole team joined in, trying to make Logans head split in two.
Three cups of coffee later and he was beginning to feel slightly less terminal, even if he was bored out of his pounding skull. The incident room was busy, everyone still all excited and determined to get a quick result, the walls lined with maps and pin-boards and post mortem photographs. The local papers had been full of speculation about Rob Macintyre, but Steels unknown body had still managed to make the front page of the P amp;J. Theyd printed the touched-up morgue photo, the killers e-fit, and a story that somehow managed to make it all sound like Grampian Polices fault.
Which wasnt surprising, considering who wrote it: Colin Miller, the Press and Journals star reporter. He certainly knew how to hold a grudge.
Sighing, Logan folded the paper and dumped it in the bin. So far the response had been lack-lustre, only about a dozen people had phoned in claiming to know who the dead man was. No one had recognized the killer yet. But all that would change as soon as the press conference went out on the lunchtime news; then theyd be swamped. Televised appeals always brought the nutters out in droves. Still, you never knew
Hoy, Laz.
Logan looked up to see a thin man in a sergeants uniform and huge Wyatt Earp moustache. Sergeant Eric Mitchell, peering over the top of his glasses and grinning like an idiot. Your lady friend about?
Logan frowned, suspicious. Which one?
Watson, you daft sod. Is she about?
Back shift, wont be in till two.
Aye, well you might want to tell her to call in sick he tossed a rolled-up copy of the DailyMail onto Logans lap, winked, then sauntered off. Whistling happily to himself.
But before Logan could ask what was going on, DI Steel plonked a pile of files on the table in front of him. This bloody things killing me, she said, fiddling with her bra strap. Get a couple of uniforms to go through these, OK? See if we cant find someone on the dodgy bastards list who matches that e-fit. Then you can go chase up that dental records lot. She gave up on the strap and started hauling at the underwire. And while youre at it-
Actually, said Logan, cutting her off, I thought I might go out and follow up a couple of those possible IDs for our victim. You know: show willing for the troops. Which had the added advantage of getting him away from the inspector before she could think up any more crappy jobs for him to do.
Steel thought about it, head on one side, focusing on a spot between Logans ears, as if she was trying to read his brain. OK, she said at last, but you can take she did a slow turn, pointing at a constable in the corner, scribbling something up on the incident board, yeah, take Rickards with you. Do the poor wee sod good to see the outside world. Might stop the short-arsed bastard whining for a change. Hes-
Inspector? It was the admin officer, waving some more paperwork at them.
Oh God, Steel groaned and then whispered to Logan, cover for me, will you? Im dying for a fag. She turned and told the admin officer she had an urgent meeting with the ACC to get to, but DS McRae would deal with whatever it was. Then made herself scarce.
With a sigh, Logan accepted the sheets of paper.
He signed for a CID pool car one of the many scabrous Vauxhalls in the FHQ fleet and made Constable Rickards drive, so he could slump in the passenger seat and doze. At least he was starting to feel a little better now. After the whisky theyd gone onto vodka, then some weird little bloke had tried to chat Jackie up, and theyd all had a good laugh at him, and then it was more beer, tequila, and then it was kind of blurry until they were standing outside the kebab shop on Belmont Street. And when they finally got home, Jackie had fallen asleep in the toilet.
Logan ran a hand over his face, stifling a yawn he was getting too old for this
Yesterdays rain had gone, leaving the city sparkling clean. Everything glowed in the light of an unseasonably warm February sun, glinting back from chips of mica trapped in the pale grey granite. Rickards drove them down Union Street, heading for a small semi-detached in Kincorth a blob of houses on the south-side of the city and an old woman who claimed to know the dead man from the papers.
So, said Logan, as the PC swung the car across the King George IV bridge, the water sparkling like sharpened diamonds on either side, you were in on that big brothel raid in Kingswells last week?
Rickards mumbled something about a team effort. Kinky dungeon, wasnt it? said Logan, watching a pair of seagulls fighting over an abandoned crisp packet. Whips and chains and nipple-clamps and all that?
Ah er yes it erm Rickards blushed, the twisted line of scar tissue that snaked up the middle of his top lip standing out white against red, as if someone had tried to give him a hair lip with a broken bottle. Logan smiled it looked as if the constable wasnt exactly a man of the world. He resisted the urge to take the piss, and went back to watching the world go by.
The old ladys house was three-quarters of the way down Abbotswell Crescent, with a view out across the dual carriageway, over the Craigshaw and Tullos industrial estates. Lovely. Especially with Torry in the background, the sunshine and blue skies fighting a losing battle to make it look attractive.
Fifteen minutes, two cups of tea and some Penguin biscuits later, they were back in the car.
So much for that. Logan called DI Steel with the bad news, only to be given another two addresses: one in Mannofield, the other in Mastrick. Both of which were equally useless.
Rickards squirmed in his seat, as if his underwear was trying to eat him. So what now?
Logan checked his watch: coming up for eleven. Back to the station. We can- His mobile phone went into its usual apoplexy of bleeps and whistles. Hold on. He dragged it out. Hello?
Where the hell are you? DI Steel, sounding annoyed.
Mastrick. You sent us here, remember?
Did I? Oh Well in that case, why havent you finished yet?
We have. Were just heading back now.
Good press conference is at twelve. Were going to be on the lunchtime news. And when I say we I mean you too. Dont be late. And you can check out another address on your way in woman phoned to say the dead guy lives next door with his parents. And remember: if youre no back here by twelve, Ill kill you.
We have. Were just heading back now.
Good press conference is at twelve. Were going to be on the lunchtime news. And when I say we I mean you too. Dont be late. And you can check out another address on your way in woman phoned to say the dead guy lives next door with his parents. And remember: if youre no back here by twelve, Ill kill you.
Logan took down the address and hung up with a groan. Change of plan weve got one more stop to make.
Blackburn was more like a building site than a dormitory town: sprawling developments of tiny detached houses crammed into minuscule plots of land, spilling away to the north and west, costing an arm and a leg, even though it meant living like a battery chicken. The address Steel had given them was for the second-last house in a half-completed cul-de-sac that didnt even have a proper road yet, just a thin layer of rutted tarmac covered in drying mud and potholes, the rumble of earthmovers battling for supremacy against the screech of circular saws and the bang of nailguns. Everything was slowly disappearing beneath a pale cloud of cream-coloured dust.