Colin?
The TV blared into life again: Interrupt your programming to bring you a news bulletin
DI Steels phone was ringing too. Can a girl no have a wee drinkie in peace?
believe that? Colins voice was almost inaudible over all the racket.
Logan stuck his finger in his other ear. Hello? Colin?
I said, theyve sent another package, aye: to the BBC! Mate of mine works there, hes just called.
Crap. What is it? What did they send?
I mean, why didnt they send it here? They always send stuff here fi rst.
Colin: what did they send?
Steel was on her feet. Shite She stuck her phone against her chest. Theyve sent more toes to the BBC.
Rennie crashed back into the snug. You got to come see whats on the telly!
Have I no done everythin theyve asked for? Hows that fair? Everyone in Dodgy Petes stared up at the big TV, where a straight-backed reporter was doing a bit to camera. just five minutes ago. There was a perfectly framed shot of two tiny toes in high-definition. Pale pink digits with swollen ends, the edges of the cut dark and discoloured. Unlike the big toe sitting on ice in the mortuary, these had definitely been cut from a living person.
Colin: Laz? Laz, you still there?
Shut up a minute.
The toes were delivered to BBC Scotland offi ces in Aberdeen, along with a DVD and instructions to play it on air. The following footage contains graphic scenes and may distress some viewers
Steel had her phone to her ear again. Aye, were watching it. The screen went black, then faded up on a graffiti-covered room, bare floorboards, sunlight streaming in through the chinks in a pair of boarded up windows. The whole image swung around, the autofocus taking a moment to catch up. A pair of tiny feet, stained orange-brown around the sides. Chipped pink nail varnish.
The two little toes were missing, the stumps where they should have been puffy and red, the skin stitched together over the holes with black thread. The knots looked like spiders, bursting out of the angry flesh.
Holy fuck Someone in the bar dropped their pint. A crash of splintered glass.
The camera swung upwards. There was no mistaking the wee girl lying on her back, on what looked like a swathe of white plastic sheeting. Blonde curls, that long straight nose, the apple cheeks. Eyes half shut, a sheen of drool streaking down from the corner of her open mouth. An IV line was taped to the inside of her left wrist.
She groaned and twitched.
A purple-gloved hand moved into shot, holding a copy of the Edinburgh Evening Post. TOE NOT JENNYS BUT POLICE STILL DENY HOAX. The camera zoomed in on the date. It was todays edition.
The picture faded to black, then the familiar artificial voice burst out into the silent bar.
This is not a hoax. You have four days left. If you raise enough money, they will live. If you do not, they will die. Do not let Jenny and Alison down.
A pause, then the newsreader appeared back on the screen. Harrowing footage there. We go live now to Grampian Police Headquarters and our correspondent Sarah Williamson. Sarah, what can you tell us?
A pause, then the newsreader appeared back on the screen. Harrowing footage there. We go live now to Grampian Police Headquarters and our correspondent Sarah Williamson. Sarah, what can you tell us?
Chapter 21
mans a complete prick. Biohazard Bob wrinkled his nose. The Wee Hooses door was closed, muting the noise from the main CID room: phones ringing; constables and support staff running about, trying to cope with the sudden barrage of calls from people whod seen the broadcast. Youll never believe what he said to me yesterday: gave me this big monologue about the McGregor case and then-
One things for certain, Rennie struck a pose, Were dealing with no ordinary kidnappers! Like he thinks hes on TV.
Bob raised his big hairy eyebrow. You too?
Logan nodded. And me.
DS Doreen Taylor sighed. And there I was, thinking I was special.
The sound of phones and borderline panic got louder as the door swung open. DI Steel slouched into the room. Right, listen up, cos I cant be arsed saying this twice. She nudged the door shut with her heel, then stared at Rennie. Well? Move it!
The constable stood, and perched himself on the edge of Bobs desk instead.
Steel groaned her way into the vacated chair. In light of recent developments were having a wee reorganization. McPhersons trying to track down the dead kid the first toe came from; Acting DI MacDonalds taking over the hospital enquiries; Evans has the vets, and Im sticking with the sex offenders.
Rennie held up his hand. Does this mean-
Im no telling you again.
He put his hand down. The medias going mental. The Chief Constables arse is knitting buttons. SOCAs rubbing its grubby wee hands. And Bains decided to give Superintendent Green a more active role in the investigation.
Here we go. Apparently hes got experience with kidnap cases.
Every bloody time. So, Steel dug a hand into her armpit and rummaged, we need someone to facilitate Greens interactions, whatever the hell that means. Logan-
Why? Why does it always have to be me? Why do I have to babysit every tosser that comes up to Aberdeen?
If youd shut up moaning for ten sodding seconds and let me fi nish Logan: youre excused from Mongtown with Bell doing the back shift were nearly through them anyway. As of now youre on arse-covering duty. Go over everything weve done so far: victim profile, door-to-doors, everything, make sure theres nothing a public enquiry can do us for screwing up. Get yourself a minion. She gave up on the armpit and started hauling at her bra instead. Doreen: Superintendent Green has chosen you to hold his hand. Try an no get carried away, eh? We know what you horny divorcees are like.
Bob reached over and patted Doreen on the shoulder. See, you are special after all. Then he grinned at the Inspector. What about me, Guv?
Steel sniffed. You found Stinky Tam yet?
Well Not as such
Then youd better get your finger out, hadnt you?
Logan paused the video. Swore. Hauled out his ringing phone and cut Lydia The Tattooed Lady off short. Sam?
Her voice nipped from the earpiece. Forget something did we?
No, I didnt. Im coming home in a minute.
Where are you, like I need to ask?
He looked around the gloomy room. It was a scruffy admin office on the fourth floor, one of the ones slated for refurbish ment, which was the only reason hed been able to commandeer it. Half the ceiling tiles were missing, loops of grey cabling snaking between the concrete supports for the floor above. A little oasis of dirty green carpet tiles clung to one patch of grey floor, and that was where Logan had set up the desk hed conned from Building Services.
One desk. One chair. One laptop. And two heavy brown cardboard boxes full of files.
Ill be home soon, OK?
Half-seven, McRae Im holding you to it. Oh, and Ive got a box of Stella and a couple of Markies lasagnes in. We can make a night of it.
Soon, I promise. Pause. Look, Ive got to go.
Half-seven, remember?
And she was gone.
Logan pressed play again.
On the laptop screen, Alison McGregor was being bundled down the stairs, kicking and struggling, trying to head-butt the guy in the SOC suit carrying her. Through the hallway into the kitchen. The guy was wearing one of those stick-on name badges they handed out at conventions. It was nearly impossible to read, but the BBCs Crimewatch had chucked a pile of licence-fee-payers money at a digital imaging house to pull out the word, TOM.
A little girl in Winnie the Pooh pyjamas was huddled in the corner by the fridge a pillowcase or something over her head. Hands fastened in front of her. Trembling.
Alison McGregor froze, then exploded. Legs flying, kicking out at random, bucking, writhing. Eyes bugging out above her duct-tape gag.
The guy holding her finally gave up: slammed her into the fridge, then bent her over the working surface and fastened her ankles together with thick black cable-ties. A bag over her head. Then someone stepped into frame and brained her with a cosh, or something similar.
Alison went limp.
All done in total silence.
Whoever hit her, bent and hauled her up into a firemans carry. For a whole two frames his name badge was perfectly clear: DAVID. Fifteen seconds later they were out through the kitchen door and into the darkness of the back garden.
Fade to black.
Then the artificial voice: You will raise money for the safe return of Alison and Jenny McGregor. You have fourteen days, or they will be killed. You will tell the police. You will tell the television stations. You will tell the public. Or they will be killed. If you raise enough money within fourteen days, Jenny and Alison will be released. If not, they will be killed.
You still here?
Logan turned. DI Bell stood in the doorway, a slice of toast in one hand, a mug of something in the other. A warm, meaty smell drifting out of it. Just heading off, Guv.
Bell stepped into the room, wandered over to the window, stuck the toast in his mouth like a rectangular ducks beak and peeked through the blinds.
Logan powered down the laptop. Thought you were in charge of back shift interviews?
The inspector let go of the blind, took the toast from his mouth. Chewed. Got a call from Trisha Browns mum nine, nine, nine. Completely off her face: says someone was round there with a cricket bat smashing her prized heirlooms to smithereens. Another bite of toast. Wasnt you, was it?
Very funny, sir.
Who says Im being funny?
Logan just stared at him.
DI Bell shrugged. Anyway, when McHardy and Butler got there the place was even more of a craphole than normal. Shed been given a going over too.
Drugs? Logan clunked the laptop shut and slipped it into its carrying case.
Poor old Helen probably tried to buy them off with a freebie, but being clean-living and sensible sorts, they beat the shite out of her instead. And the answer to your next question is no: your girlfriend Trisha wasnt there.
Drugs? Logan clunked the laptop shut and slipped it into its carrying case.
Poor old Helen probably tried to buy them off with a freebie, but being clean-living and sensible sorts, they beat the shite out of her instead. And the answer to your next question is no: your girlfriend Trisha wasnt there.