Thats not true. We found evidence that Stephen Bisset had responded to Stirlings personal ad, seeking sex with what he believed to be a pre-operative transsexual and-
LIAR! A young man was on his feet in the public seating area. Shoulder-length black hair, black tie, a shirt that still had the creases from where it had been folded in the packet. Thin face flushed and swollen around the eyes. Spit glowing in the sunlight. YOURE A LIAR! MY DAD WOULDNT DO THAT!
The Sheriff cracked her gavel against her desk, three sharp raps. Mr Bisset, I wont tell you again. While the court is sympathetic to your distress, it-
YOURE A LIAR!
The young woman sitting next to him grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back down into his seat. She had the same dark hair, the same thin face. David, dont
DAD WASNT A PERVERT!
Another three raps. Thats enough, Mr Bisset. This court isnt-
MAKE HIM TELL THE TRUTH!
Clerk, I want this man removed.
And all the way through it, Graham Stirling didnt move. He sat there, still, silent. Blinking slowly. A million miles away as his victims children were escorted from the room.
Are you denying that you threatened to kill Graham Stirling, Sergeant McRae?
Logans fingernails dug into the pale wood of the witness stand. I did not threaten to kill him.
Really? A look of surprise. So you deny saying, I should kick the living shit out of you.?
Tick. Tick. Tick
Sergeant?
I dont remember. Id just discovered Stephen Bisset. Hed been-
How about this one. Did you, or did you not tell your superior officer, I need an ambulance and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree?
Logan hunched over the sink. Drips fell from his face, making ripples in the water that spread out in overlapping rings. He dug his hands into the basin again and sploshed more on his face. Cold against his skin. Leaching away the burning heat.
Bastard.
The court toilets were clean enough, filled with the scent of air-freshener and disinfectant.
Another faceful of water. Letting it drip back into the bowl. All those overlapping circles, knotting together then fading away, leaving nothing behind to show that theyd ever existed.
His phone buzzed on the surface between the sinks. Then the Imperial March sounded.
DCI Steel.
Ignore it. Let it go to voicemail.
The toilet door thumped open and the Procurator Fiscal marched in: short grey hair combed forward above scowling eyebrows. His military moustache bristled, the mouth behind it chewing through the words in a booming Glaswegian accent that was far too big for someone who barely scraped five foot four. What the sodding hell was that?
What was I supposed to do, lie under oath?
Of course not. But It In four steps he was at the nearest cubicle door. It got a kick with a highly polished brogue. A pause. Then the Fiscal ran a finger along his moustache, as if making sure everything was in order. Theyve effectively killed Stirlings confession. After that little farce, its going to be ruled inadmissible.
Logan grabbed a handful of green paper towels, stacked by the broken hand-drier. I didnt have any choice, OK? Scrubbed his face with the gritty green sheets. Dropped them in the bin. If Id stuck to procedure, Stephen Bisset would be dead now. Hed probably still be missing, lying out there, rotting in a shack in the middle of the BLOODY FOREST! Logan closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed, screwed his face up. Breathed out. Sorry.
The Fiscal made a hissing noise, as if he was deflating. You couldve recorded his confession on your mobile phone. Couldve used your Airwave to broadcast it. Something.
Logans head fell back, thumped against the wall. Did it again. And once more for luck. I know.
Yes, well, I suppose Descartes was right: hindsight is a treacherous mirror. We just have to hope the DNA evidence convinces them.
Sitting next to the sink, Logans phone started in on the Imperial March again. He let his hands fall at his sides. You going to need me again?
The phone rang out onto voicemail.
The PF cleared his throat. I think youve probably done enough.
Logans phone burst into song as he was thumping down the stairs. Not the Imperial March this time, but the theme tune to the Muppets. He checked the screen: NICHOLSON.
His thumb jabbed the button. Is it important? Because nows really not a good time.
The phone rang out onto voicemail.
The PF cleared his throat. I think youve probably done enough.
Logans phone burst into song as he was thumping down the stairs. Not the Imperial March this time, but the theme tune to the Muppets. He checked the screen: NICHOLSON.
His thumb jabbed the button. Is it important? Because nows really not a good time.
Sarge? Its Janet. Thought youd like to know we got the Big Car back.
He made it to the ground floor. Janet, I genuinely couldnt give less of a toss if-
Smells fusty though. Like somethings died in there. Her voice went all whispery. Look, about the teas and coffees last night I kind of feel a bit, you know, guilty.
Sod them. I will not have a bunch of MIT scumbags treating anyone on my team like a glorified Mrs Doyle.
Yeah, but theyre working a murder enquiry, and from what I heard most of them spent half the night impersonating a Soyuz rocket.
He slipped out of the side entrance, onto Marischal Street, avoiding the media scrum at the High Courts front doors. And?
A pause. Its a wee girl, Sarge.
Someone beeped their horn. There was a taxi parked in the middle of the road, blocking traffic while it picked up a fare.
A wee dead girl Nicholson had a point.
Perfect: more guilt.
If it makes you feel any better, they werent going to achieve anything last night anyway. He crossed over to the other side. No point heading up the hill, thatd put him in the cameras firing lines again. One: everyone and their maiden aunt is already out looking for Neil Wood. Two: until they identify her, they cant build a viable list of suspects. Three: with no ID and no witnesses, theres very little they can do until the post-mortem results are in. He reached the opposite pavement. New plan: cross the bridge, down the steps onto Shore Lane, and he could go around the back of the Castlegate. Sneak into Divisional Headquarters via East North Street. Giving a bunch of arrogant sexist tossers a dose of the squits doesnt change any of that.
A long slow breath. Then, Thanks, Sarge.
Besides, I double-dosed DS Dawson this morning.
Urgh I know I said I wanted to kill him, but I didnt mean we should actually-
Whatever she said next, it was drowned out. YOU!
Logan stopped. Turned.
The young man from the court the one with the long black hair was climbing out of the taxi. Glaring at him. YOU LYING BASTARD! Stephen Bissets son.
Great, because today wasnt special enough.
Sorry, Janet, got to go. Logan hung up. Put the phone back in his fleece pocket. Held his hands out. I need you to calm down.
Hed loosened his tie and it dangled around his neck like a waiting noose. YOU LIED. WHY DID YOU LIE?
His sister clambered out of the taxi behind him. Close up, she was obviously younger than him. Barely a teenager. David, come on, we spoke about this. If you calm-
I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! His face was heading an unhealthy shade of reddish-purple, tears streaking his cheeks. DAD IS NOT A PERVERT! He stormed down the hill towards Logan, hands curled into fists. YOU LIED!
For Gods sake
I didnt lie. We followed the trail of messages, thats how we found your dad. He-
SHUT UP! YOU SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!
His sister caught up with him, grabbed his arm like shed done in court. You have to stop this.
No! He lied, Catherine, he lied under oath!
Its OK, its OK. Shhh She tried to pull him back towards the taxi, but he wouldnt budge. Come on, David, lets go home. Please?
Logan backed off a step. Look, Im sorry if it upsets you, but I didnt lie. I did everything I could to get your dad back safe and sound. Yeah, because that worked.
David Bisset bared his teeth, forced the words out between them as if they were made of acid. You call that safe and sound? He jabbed a finger in the rough direction of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. Do you? HED BE BETTER OFF DEAD!
I know its difficult, but-
LIAR! David Bisset shook his sister off and lunged, fists swinging. Wide and amateur. No idea what he was doing.
Logan sidestepped, grabbed one of the flailing arms and twisted it round behind Davids back. Slapped his other hand down on Davids elbow, locked the wrist into place and closed the gap. Reached out and took hold of the other shoulder and pulled him upright.
Classic hammer lock and bar.
LET GO! LET GO YOU-
Logan put the pressure on.
AAAAARGH!
Calm down.
The girl, Catherine, snatched at the sleeve of Logans fleece. Please, he didnt mean anything, hes upset, please dont hurt him.
GET OFF ME!
Are you going to calm down?
Please, its not his fault. Hes upset We all are.
David went quiet. Breath hissing in and out through his gritted teeth.
Are we all calm? David? Are we good?
She chewed on her fingernails. David, please dont
His breathing slowed. He stopped struggling. His head dipped. Im sorry.
OK. Logan released his grip. Stepped away. No harm done.
David leaned against the granite wall of the nearest building, one hand rubbing his abused shoulder. He stared down at his feet. Dads not a pervert.
If its any help, I know what its like-
No. His jaw tightened, the words barely making it out between gritted teeth. You dont. You dont have any bloody clue.
Deep breath. My girlfriend fell. Logan turned and pointed down Marischal Street, at the top-floor flat that belonged to someone else now. Right there. Five storeys, straight down. Four years in a coma. I know what its like to have someone you love hurt and stuck in a hospital bed, unable to move or talk. He cleared his throat. Its horrible. And its not fair. And it stinks. But hes still your dad.
David glared back, mouth a hard trembling line.
Then his sister took his arm and led him back towards the taxi. Come on, David. Lets go home. Its OK.
Hes not a pervert
I know.
They climbed back into the taxi, him hunched over, one hand wiping the tears from his eyes, her rubbing his back between the shoulder blades.