Number seven was a four-bedroom executive villa built on a postage stamp. Logan got Rickards to ring the doorbell while he stared out over the rolling hills to the north. Wondering how long it would take the developers to carpet them in more houses.
The door was answered by a flushed-looking woman in baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, balancing a small child on one hip. Hello? Sounding slightly nervous.
Logan went for a reassuring smile as the womans kid stared at him with open mouth and wide blue eyes. Mrs he checked his notes, Brown? Hi. You phoned us this morning about this man? Logan held up the photo.
She nodded. I think so. He sort of looks like the guy next doors son. Jason I think it is. The toddler wriggled and she shifted him, bringing him round till he was sitting in the crook of her arm, clutching her hair and peering out at the policemen on the doorstep. Hes looking after the house while theyre on holiday.
Youre sure its him? Logan handed her the picture and she bit her bottom lip.
I It looks a lot like him Nervous giggle. I asked Paul and he said it might be
When did you last see Jason?
She shrugged. Its been kind of hectic. Couple of days?
OK. Logan took the photo back and the child began to squeal. Whats Jasons last name? Having to speak up over the noise.
Sorry: we only moved in three weeks ago, everythings still in boxes. She bounced the child up and down, making cooing, Whos Mummys big boy? noises. Maybe the site office would know?
Thanks for your help.
Logan and Rickards went next door, tried the bell, peered in through the front window a pristine living room with tasteful furnishings and paintings on the wall then walked round the house. The back yard was a morass of mud flecked with grass seed, a solitary whirly standing in the middle like a marooned antenna, the yellow plastic cable sagging and empty. There was nothing in the garage either, just a dark black splot of leaked motor oil.
Rickards walked back to the unfinished road, staring up at the houses empty windows. What do you think?
Much the same as every other sighting weve had today bloody useless. Logan climbed back into the car and checked the time. Jesus, its twenty to twelve! Come on, wed better get a shift on: Steel will kill us if were late.
6
They made it back to the station by the skin of their teeth. The room was already filling up: television cameras, journalists, and photographers staking out their territory among the rows of folding chairs, all eyes focused on the raised stage and table at the front. Thought you was never going to turn up!
Logan turned to find DI Steel standing directly behind him, fiddling with a packet of cigarettes, turning them round and round in her hands, like nicotine prayer beads. You get anything from those addresses?
Nothing.
Bugger. The cigarette packet got a few more twists.
Problem?
Steel shrugged, looked over her shoulder, then back at the gathering mass of reporters. Just could do with a swift result on this one. Were keeping a lid on the cause of death, but you know what this place is like: sooner or later, someones going to say something stupid. She paused and sneaked a glance at Logan. Course, you know all about that.
And whats that supposed to mean?
Nothing, nothing. She backed off, grinning. Who cares what the Daily Mail says anyway? Shite, theres the ACC Logan watched her go, wondering what on earth she was talking about.
The briefing started at twelve oclock prompt, and as the ACC launched into his thank you all for coming speech, Logan let his attention wander. He wouldnt be needed until they threw the thing open to questions and probably not even then. So instead he scanned the assembled journalistic horde, looking to see if he recognized anyone. Colin Miller was sitting in the third row, face like a wet fart, mumbling into a small digital recorder. Probably getting ready to give Grampian Police another kicking in tomorrows P amp;J. There were a couple of others Logan knew from previous conferences, and some he recognized from the telly, but his eyes kept going back to Miller, his surly expression, and his black leather gloves. Not exactly playing the happy expectant father. The reporter looked up from his Dictaphone and saw Logan watching him. He scowled back, obviously still blaming Logan for the loss of his fingers, as if hed been the one wielding the poultry shears
The ACC threw the conference open to questions and the moment was gone.
* * *
As soon as they were finished, Logan hurried down to the incident room. Steel was the second person to make cryptic comments about the Daily Mail and Logan wanted to know why. The copy Eric had thrown at him was still sitting where hed left it, so Logan skimmed quickly through the paper, looking for DS LOGAN MCRAE SCREWS UP AGAIN! but not finding it. What he did find was a centre-page spread titled, POLICE HOUND ABERDEEN STRIKER! with a big photo of Rob Macintyres ugly face and an article charting his meteoric rise to fame; describing Grampian Polices investigation as part of an ongoing campaign to cripple Aberdeen Football Clubs only chance of winning the Scottish Premier League.
Macintyre (21), the paper said, was an obvious target for desperate women: young, successful, wealthy, and going all the way to the top! But that wasnt the bit DI Steel and Sergeant Eric Mitchell had been dropping hints about.
It was a pull-out quote, big white letters on a bright red background: OF COURSE HES B****Y GUILTY THE LITTLE S*** ATTACKED ME! attributed to PC Jackie Watson (28) with a couple more choice sentences further on in the article about how little b******s like him should be banged up for life. Logan groaned. No wonder Eric said Jackie should call in sick she was in for one hell of a bollocking when she reported for duty. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Which would be in about fifteen minutes. Crap!
He dialled the flat, hoping to God she hadnt left for work yet. She hadnt.
He dialled the flat, hoping to God she hadnt left for work yet. She hadnt.
Jackie picked up the phone with an angry, What?
Too late. Youve seen the paper then?
Ive seen the lounge! Were living in a bombsite!
Oh God Look, do you remember talking to a journalist?
What? Ive got to get ready for-
Its in the Daily Mail: Of course hes bloody guilty the little shite attacked me. Sound familiar?
There was a moments silence from the other end of the phone and then the swearing started. Lots and lots of swearing. Bastard never said he was a journalist!
Who?
That greasy little fuck in the pub last night remember? I told you he bought me a drink, was all oh, I saw you on the telly, and what a great job you policewomen do and can I have your phone number? Bastard!
You know whats going to happen, dont you?
Count Bloody Dracula.
Eric thinks you should call in sick.
Jackie laughed. Short and hollow. Fat lot of good putting it off will do
No, I suppose not.
So what we got? DI Steel loomed over Logans shoulder, peering down at the report in his hands, her breath reeking of stale cigarettes and extra-strong mints.
Logan sighed and started ticking things off on his fingers: Sixty callers say they know who our victim is, but none of them agree. Weve got seven teams of two going through them. As for the suspect, theres five men on the sex offenders list who look like the e-fit: two rapists, one paedophile, a flasher, and guy who sexually assaulted a priest.
Yeah? Steel smiled, Makes a change from them molesting choirboys I suppose.
Dont think any of them are likely though: flashers are all mouth and no trousers; the victim was too old to be of interest to a paedophile; both rapists only attacked women; and the priest fiddlers just come out of Peterhead, so hes under a supervisory order. According to his handlers he was locked up in his hostel when our guy was dumping his victim outside A amp;E.
She stared off into the middle distance for a bit, then said, Better interview them all anyway. Even the priestophile. If nothing else itll look like were doing something. Steel lowered her voice to a whisper. You heard from Watson yet?
No. As soon as Jackie signed in shed been escorted straight up to Professional Standards.
Shame you cant get that Weegie journo of yours to cover for her. But the days of Colin Miller doing favours for Logan were long gone.
So, you want me to get those guys picked up?
Another thoughtful pause, then, No. Lets go see them. If Im no in the office this mornin I cant have my medical for that stupid Fit Like programme. She twirled her cigarettes in her hand. Put it off for long enough and they might forget all about me.
It took the inspector fifteen minutes before she was fed up with the first rapist. And only seven before she leaned over and whispered, How about we accidentally kick the shite out of him? at the seconds house. And the flasher wasnt up to much, not after DI Steel shouted, Lets see it, then! as soon as theyd been let in through the front door. Iain Watt was probably taller than he looked, standing hunched into himself, thinning brown hair, cardigan, overweight, mid thirties. The archetypal Mr Nobody, living in a big empty house on Don Street that overlooked the main route students took between the halls of residence and Aberdeen University. As Steel stood at the lounge window, a handful of young women sashayed past, laughing and joking, all long hair and unexplored curves. Logan could have sworn he heard her groan.
So, hows it work? she asked, when the students finally disappeared round the corner, you see them coming, nip out and flash them a glimpse of your turgid member? That it?
I Watt wouldnt meet her eyes, just kept staring at the spotless sheepskin rug in the middle of the room, Ive had counselling Im on pills.
Yeah? Cant get it up any more, eh? She drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness, leaving just a sliver of light that fell across Watts bald spot. If I hear so much as a rumour about someone showing their willy off down here, youre not going to need pills. Im going to permanently fix you with the toe of my boot. Understand?
He blushed, head still down. I havent I havent felt the need. I had counselling.
Yeah, you said. She stood in silence for a moment. So why did you do it then?