Logan scowled at the scenery drifting past. Itll all just be bollocks anyway. Hes a nasty, ignorant, murdering wee shite; he doesnt know anything. This is a complete waste of time.
Alec scooted forwards, till his head was poking between the driver and passenger seat. But hes the Mastrick Monster! Thisll make a brilliant scene for the documentary. Fancy doing a quick piece to camera when we get there? Go over the background: why hell only speak to you?
No.
Oh, come on, please? The cameraman turned to Insch for backup. Inspector, you understand dramatic narrative, we
Insch just growled at him: Sit back and put your bloody seatbelt on. I wont tell you again!
And how come, said Logan, poking the dashboard, Robertson suddenly has information about Wiseman? Why should we believe anything he says?
Because they were on the same wing for nearly a year. The inspector was starting to go red, but Logan didnt care.
Doesnt mean they were friends!
You dont get it, do you? said Insch, biting off the words, Youre so wrapped up in your petty little world
The fucker stabbed me twenty-three times: I died on the operating table! Logan wrapped his arms around himself and glowered out the window. Sorry if you think Im being irrational, but that sort of thing kind of puts a shitter on your day.
An uncomfortable silence settled into the car. Outside, the green-brown landscape roared by, punctuated with little floral tributes, marking where people had died in road accidents. Insch cleared his throat. Look, I understand this is going to be hard for you, but it happened six years ago: Wisemans out there killing people right now. And we need all the help we can get.
Peterhead Prison wasnt the prettiest of buildings: an oldfashioned Victorian lump of concrete and barbed wire, home to three hundred and twenty of Scotlands worst sex offenders and other vulnerable prisoners. People whod get the shit beaten out of them in any other prison. People like Angus Robertson.
Logan paced back and forth in the little office with THERAPY ROOM 3 on the door, trying not to hyperventilate. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. Christ it was hot in here, even with the window open.
He turned and looked out through the bars. From here you could see over the high outer wall with its festive topping of razor wire, across the south breakwater of Peterhead harbour, and past that to the North Sea. Dark grey water flecked with white. Sky the colour of ancient concrete. And between the two, seagulls wheeled in lazy circles, waiting for the fishing boats that were becoming rarer every year.
What the hell was taking so long?
His hands were damp again.
Logan nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened. It was a prison officer with a plastic cup of water. She handed it over. Right, she said, I want you to know we dont approve of this. Weve worked too long and too hard to get Angus where he is. But Im agreeing to this meeting because theres a clear and immediate danger to human life. I need you to understand that if you reinforce his negative behavioural patterns, it could put him back years. She paused, giving Logan a chance to say something, but he didnt. Ill bring him up from the cell block. She paused, halfway to the door. We dont like to handcuff them when theyre in the treatment rooms. Are you going to be OK with that?
Not really. No... Logan took a sip of water. We... didnt get on too well last time we met.
I know. Hes still got the scars.
Logan tried for a smile, but it wouldnt stick. Snap.
Logan tried for a smile, but it wouldnt stick. Snap.
She looked him up and down, her voice softening. He really has made a lot of changes. The STOP programme
I just want to get this over with. OK?
She shrugged. Youre the boss.
No he wasnt because if he were the boss he wouldnt bloody be here.
Angus Robertson really had changed. The scruffy man in the boiler suit was gone, replaced by an HM Prison mannequin: blue and white striped shirt buttoned up to the chin, a sharp crease in his jeans, black shoes polished till they shone. Hed even slicked back his thinning brown hair.
Robertson sat perfectly still in one of the rooms two soft armchairs, hands folded in his lap. Face expressionless. And when he spoke it was as if something dead had slithered into the room. Youre looking well.
Logan just stared at him.
Why thank you, Robertson gave a fleeting smile. Ive been working out.
I didnt say anything.
Please, Ive rehearsed this conversation so many, many times. It would be a shame to waste
Whats with the fake English accent?
Robertson smiled. Accent?
Fine, I dont care. Logans palms were sweating again; the man made his skin crawl. You said you had information
Ah yes, Kenneth Wiseman. He was in the cell next door. Lovely man. We had many interesting chats about... Robertson made a tiny hand gesture. Life and death.
Where is he?
Now, now, now, lets not get ahead of ourselves. What are you going to give me in return?
Do you, or dont you know where Ken Wiseman is?
Quid pro quo, Sergeant McRae: I want my own meals. Prepared by someone who understands the needs of a gourmet like me, not the boiled crap they serve
Youre kidding, right? Gourmet? The closest you ever got to being a gourmet was saying aye tae a pie. Youre not Hannibal Bloody Lecter: youre a nasty wee shite from Milltimber.
I want my own chef!
Get fucked. Logan stood. Were done here. He was beginning to tremble adrenaline priming the fight-or-flight mechanism. And right now fight was winning grab the little bastard by the throat and batter his head off the floor till it burst.
But... but I made you! I... if it wasnt for me
Youre pathetic. A slimy piece of shite who had to kill women before you fucked them, because nothing living would have anything to do with you!
Robertson clamped his hands over his ears. I didnt
WHERes WISEMAN?
Stop shouting at me! Stop shouting! The fake English accent was beginning to slip, exposing the Aberdonian underneath. Im no a bad boy! Im no!
WHERes FUCKING WISEMAN?
He told me stuff... about the woman he killed... and the man in the showers... at night, when everyone else was asleep...
Logan took a deep, shivering breath. Im not going to ask you again.
Insch put his foot down, the windswept countryside flying past in shades of grey and miserable. Gusts of wind raked the trees and hedges outside the Range Rovers windows, making the car shudder as they flew down the A90 to Aberdeen.
God that was bloody brilliant! Alec, fiddled with his camera and grinned. Its going to look great when it goes out.
Oh Jesus... Logan turned round in his seat. You cant put that on the TV!
Alec grinned. Theyre going to send me a copy of the treatment rooms CCTV tape.
But
And Angus Robertson signed a release.
No surprise there: the little bastard would be desperate for another fifteen minutes of fame.
Ill look like an arse!
Insch nodded. Yup.
Nah, Alec flipped the cameras tiny viewing screen round so Logan could see it. It was a shot of the CCTV monitor in the security room where everyone else had gone to watch the interview. Well slap in a bit of narration about how youre playing bad cop to get round his defences... maybe get a psychologist in... On the screen a little Logan exploded out of his seat and started shouting, his voice tinny through the cameras built-in speaker. Then a prison officer barged in, claiming that this was setting Robertsons rehabilitation back years. Alec shrugged. Youll be fine.
Logan groaned and went back to scowling at the scenery.
Heather lay back on the smelly mattress and stared up into the blackness. Dark. No sound. No light. No idea of time. Beginning to wonder if she was already dead if shed passed away and just not noticed.
She couldnt even cry any more. Shed lain for what felt like years, bawling her eyes out, sobbing for her husband and child, until there was simply nothing left. Not even
Are you OK?
Heather screamed, scurrying back into the corner, flailing her arms around, trying to ward off the voice.
Jesus, Heather, you look like a complete spaz. Calm down for fucks sake.
D... Duncan? She peered into the dark. But... you cant be...
One minute there was no one there, and the next: Duncan, wearing that goofy smile that always appeared when he thought hed just done something awfully clever. Like coming back from the dead. Ta-da! There was a hole in the top of his head. It glowed bright red, glittering in his hair, making it shine like a scarlet halo.
Heather closed her eyes and punched herself in the stomach again.
Come on, Honey, stop it.
Teeth gritted. Another punch, torturing the already bruised skin.
Heather! Stop it! Stop! Duncan grabbed her hand. Stop.
Let go of me youre dead!
Shhhh... its OK, its OK.
No it isnt! I
Justin misses his mummy.
He... Tears ran down her cheeks. Hes alive? Oh thank
Im sorry, Honey: everybodys dead, but you.
Noooooo... She went limp and let her dead husband rock her in his arms.
Shhhh... He kissed the top of her head and she found her tears again. Youve been through a lot, and youve not been taking your pills, have you?
Heather could barely get the words out: Duncan... Im... so sorry... She cried and cried and cried. Then the sobbing trailed off and she just lay there, being held.
There you go, feel better? He smiled down at her wet face. I meant what I said: everythings OK, really.
She almost laughed. Im trapped in a little metal box, everyone I love is dead, and Im talking to a ghost. How is that OK?
Ill look after you.
Heather smiled, blinked, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, enjoying the warmth of Duncans body. Is this what going mad feels like?
There was a moments silence, then Duncan said, Yes, youre finally turning into your mother.
Youre such an arsehole.
Dont you know its bad luck to speak ill of the dead? But he kissed her head again.
Youre still an arsehole. She closed her eyes and snuggled into Duncans shoulder. He smelt of Old Spice and fresh blood. Did it hurt? Dying?
Shhhh... go to sleep.
And she did.
Insch leant on the horn again. Get out the bloody way! Up ahead the tractor took no notice, just continued to trundle down the A90 at thirty miles an hour, huge globs of mud flying from its rear wheels.
Logan turned up the volume on his mobile phone and stuck a finger in his other ear, trying to hear the voice of Control as Insch launched into another bout of horn blowing.