The figure on the mattress stirred, rolled over onto her back, one arm flopping across her eyes. Her hip bones stood proud beneath her sallow skin, sores on her forearms, ribs on show. How the hell could anyone think hed get naked with her?
Bang, bang, bang. Trisha!
A muffled voice came from the next cell. Fuckin shut it! Some of us trying to sleep here
Bang, bang, bang. Trisha Brown!
Another disembodied voice. Christs sake, dont wake her up daft bitch only just stopped screaming.
The figure on the bed, moved her legs, sat up. Blinked. Then twisted sideways and sprayed yellow vomit all over the dark-red terrazzo floor, chunks of orange and pink splattering everywhere. She heaved a couple more times, then wiped a trembling hand across her chapped lips. Thirsty
Logan banged his hand on the door again. Do you know who I am?
She squinted at him. Fuck off. Then collapsed back on the mattress. Not well
Bang. Who the fuck am I?
Leave us alone!
Logan turned to DI Bell. See? She hasnt got a bloody clue. The inspector pushed Logan out of the way and shouted through the hatch. Trisha? Remember when we brought you in? What were you saying?
A loud sigh. Then she dragged herself up off the thin mattress, bare feet splatching through the puddle of sick as she made for the door. The bitter, eye-tightening stench of vomit wafted out of the hatch. I was raped. RAPED! A dull thunk, as she rested her head on the metal. I was raped.
Logan banged his hand on the door again and she flinched back. Who?
Trisha pulled her halter top up, exposing tiny wrinkled breasts covered in penny-sized bruises. DS LOGAN MCRAE was written on the bony expanse of chest below her clavicles in black ink block capitals. Trisha frowned at it, a drip of spittle dangling from the tip of her chin.
Trisha pulled her halter top up, exposing tiny wrinkled breasts covered in penny-sized bruises. DS LOGAN MCRAE was written on the bony expanse of chest below her clavicles in black ink block capitals. Trisha frowned at it, a drip of spittle dangling from the tip of her chin.
Him. He raped me
Logan stared at his own name. Lying cow. He slammed the hatch closed again, then turned on DI Bell. She hasnt got a bloody clue. Did you do a rape kit?
I told you, it doesnt matter if-
Did you or didnt you?
Bell threw his hands in the air. We couldnt, OK? She was tearing the place up. Nearly ripped my balls off!
Get her in an interview room and well get her to retract the-
No, no, no, no, no. Thats not the way it works, and you know it. No way in hell you can be in on an interview of a rape victim youre supposed to have raped!
Logan paced down to the end of the little cell block and back again. Fine, you do it.
Bell ran a furry hand through his hair. Looked away. I cant.
Yes you bloody can. Stick her in number three and find out who put her up to it.
Why would anyone-
Shes got my name written on her! What, did the graffiti fairies break into her house and have a go with a black marker pen?
Bell shrugged. Maybe she wrote it herself?
Moron. If she wrote it herself itd be upside down, wouldnt it?
Well, maybe I dunno, a mirror? He must have caught the expression on Logans face, because he took a sudden interest in examining his own hands. OK, OK, someone else wrote it on her. Fuck. The inspector worried at a hangnail. Ill speak to her. But you know, if Professional Standards find out I did a sneak-around, Im blaming you, understand?
Chapter 16
On the little screen, DI Bell pushed a sheet of paper across the scarred interview room table. Im showing Ms Brown a selection of photographs reference: one fi ve zero fi ve zero one. Can you identify the man you say raped you?
No she bloody cant. Logan took another swig of coffee. Bitter and dark, which was pretty sodding appropriate. The caffeine fizzed through his arteries, making his eyeballs itch.
Sitting on the other side of the table, Trisha Brown rocked back and forth, then chewed on the side of her thumb. Theyd chucked the ID sheet together using a bunch of random faces from the database local criminals: a couple of rapists, some burglars, a paedophile Logan, George Clooney, and the current head of the BNP. Nine faces for Trisha Brown to pick from.
Trisha? Can you pick him out?
Logan leaned forward until his nose was just inches from the TV screen. It was mounted on a rickety old table in what was laughingly referred to as the Downstream Observation Suite. Itd been a broom closet before the last refit, and still had that pine and bleach smell.
Trisha?
She took her thumb out of her mouth, held it above the ID sheet, then turned it down, like a Roman emperor, and jabbed it into one of the faces.
DI Bell scratched his hairy head. OK I see. Are you sure?
A nod.
You have to say it out loud for the tape.
Aye, it was him. Number Five.
A silent pause. Then the inspector scraped his chair back from the table. Right, well, interview terminated at He checked his watch. Three thirty nine AM. Constable Gray will take you downstairs to the duty doctor for a wee examination, OK?
Logan watched them filter out of the interview room, then clicked off the set.
A minute later DI Bell clunked open the door and slumped back against the wall. He folded his arms, tufts of hair sticking out from the ends of his shirt cuffs. He wasnt smiling.
Well?
Bad news.
Oh fuck. Shed picked him out. Nine faces to chose from, and Trisha Brown had chosen his. She only recognized him because he was the idiot shouting in through the hatch of her cell. Stupid. Stupid. Fucking. Idiot.
Come on, Ding-Dong, you know its not- Weve got to go arrest George Clooney. His fans are going to be gutted.
Sarge? Sarge, you awake?
Logan jolted upright in his seat, grabbing the desk for support. He sat there, staring at the blurry screensaver on his computer monitor for a moment. What time is it?
A lanky young lad with a streaky-bacon complexion, watery eyes, and a PCs uniform fidgeted with the Airwave handset clipped to his stab-proof vest. The numbers on his epaulettes marked him out as one of the years new recruits. God knew how hed ended up on nights, he looked as if a strong fart would blow him over. DI Bell says thats the duty doc done with your junkie. Says you can sod off home if you like?
Logan yawned, stretched out in the seat, shuddered, then slumped. Where is he?
Had to go out on a shout some tadgers taken a scaffold ing pole to Vicious Vikkis Ford Fiesta.
He say what the result was?
The constable nodded. Cars completely buggered.
Not the window, you idiot, the rape kit.
Dont know, Sarge.
Logan creaked his way out of his swivel chair, stuck his palms against the small of his back and tried to straighten the knots out of his spine. Then let out a big hissing breath.
Constable Streaky-Bacon was still standing there. Anything else?
Shrug. Get back to sodding work then.
Dr Donna Delaney looked up from the copy of the Aberdeen Examiner open on the desk in front of her, covering the key board of a battered laptop. LOCAL PSYCHICS PLEA TO POLICE. A white porcelain teapot with matching cup and saucer trailed the lemon-washing-up-liquid smell of Earl Grey into the tiny office set aside for the on-call duty doctor.
She peered at Logan over the top of her trendy glasses, then smiled. Hows the stomach?
You did a rape kit on Trisha Brown?
Yes Lovely young lady. Apparently I tried to, now how did she put it, Lez her up. Let me see your hands.
He held them both out, and she scooted her chair closer on squeaky castors, took hold of his left hand and peered at it. Two little scars marked the middle of the palm, about half an inch apart, the skin all pink and shiny. She turned it over and peered at the back. Two more scars.
Still giving you gyp?
Shrug. Depends on the weather.
Well, let me know if they start to throb, or you get swelling, or stiffness moving your fingers. Dont want to end up with cysts.
Rape kit?
Hmm? Oh, yes. Well, theres vaginal bruising consistent with forced intercourse, some tearing to the anus as well, more bruising on the breasts and inner thighs.
Semen?
Dr Delaney bit her top lip. Some.
But?
Well, you see, someone like Trisha, with her habit, has to get money somewhere. So while it does look like shes been raped, it wasnt today, and the semen Ive got to send off to the labs is probably going to be from her last bunch of punters. Shes not big on using protection.
She say anything?
Other than, get your hands off me you dirty lesbian bitch? Not really, no. The duty doc scooted her chair back to the desk. Itd be nice to think that shell get herself some help kick the drugs, settle down somewhere nice with her wee boy. But I get the feeling we all know where shes going to end up.
Yeah. Sooner or later, Trisha Brown would go from being Dr Delaneys patient to Doc Frasers corpse.
Shh Its going to be OK, sweetheart. Its going to be OK
Mummys voice sounds like something sticky, caught on broken glass. Arms wrapped around her Good Little Girl, rocking her from side to side in her lap. Sometimes, when youre scared, Mummy is the warmest place you can be
Sometimes.
She sniffs and wipes her sleeve across her eyes. Then only just stops herself from sucking her thumb. Sucking your thumb is naughty, it makes your teeth all squint like a nasty rat.
Teddy Gordon watches her from the foot of the bed, plastic eyes glittering and black.
He has eyes like a rat.
Like a crow tearing chunks out of a squished rabbit.
Like the lens of a video camera.
Shhhhhhh Shhhhhh Mummy shudders.
Something lands in her hair, then trickles down to her scalp warm and wet. Mummy never cries. Not since they put Daddy in a box in the ground so he could be with the angels.
Mummy strokes her hair. Im sorry, sweetheart, Im so sorry Itll only hurt for a little bit, I promise.
When the monsters come back to take her toes.
Chapter 17
Trisha Brown sniffed. Her eyes were Barbie-pink, her pupils two tiny black dots as she peered out through the hatch in her cell door. The shakes had come early, bringing a sheen of sweat with them. The hard-edged stench of BO and stale vomit radiated off her in waves.
Logan tried again. Who wrote DS Logan McRae on your chest?
Im not well
Trisha, its quarter to five in the morning, my shift starts in two and a bit hours, and Ive been up all bastarding night because of you. Now who wrote my name on your bloody chest? Trying hard not to shout.