He stopped, gave Logan his second scowl of the night, then waved him over with a big hairy paw. ‘Where have you been?’ Voice not much louder than a whisper.
‘Thought you were meant to be on back shift? How’d you get on with Steel’s sex offenders, anything—’
‘Want to explain this?’ Bell pointed at the cell in front of him.
Logan checked the name scrawled on the little board beside the door: name, alleged offence, and last time checked. ‘TRISHA BROWN ~ O.A.M.H.O. ~ 02:30’ Which meant she’d probably been done for taking a swing at some poor PC.
‘So?’
DI Bell hauled open the hatch, and Logan peered into the little cell.
Trisha Brown was lying on the blue plastic mattress, with her knees drawn up against her hollow ribs. She was wearing a skimpy halter-neck top, exposing a swathe of sickly-pale skin that almost glowed in the harsh strip-lighting, a couple of bruises, and a tattoo. Bare feet with long toes, like an extra set of fingers.
Logan shrugged. ‘She working tonight?’
The inspector closed the hatch again. ‘Says you raped her.’
‘She …?’ Logan backed off a step. ‘Are you kidding me? I wouldn’t touch her with fucking Bob’s never mind mine! She’s lying!’
Bell grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him away to the stairwell. ‘She better be … But soon as she makes the complaint official, you know what happens: Professional Standards explore your colon with a searchlight. Something like this, you’re probably looking at gardening leave while they investigate.’
‘But it’s—
‘It doesn’t matter if it’s a load of old shite or not – it goes down on your record.’
‘No. Fuck this.’ Logan turned and marched back to the cell, slammed the flat of his hand against the metal door. Bang, bang, bang. He hauled the hatch open. ‘Trisha Brown! WAKEY WAKEY!’
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 he’d 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. ‘Christ’s sake, don’t 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 hasn’t 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.
‘Him. He raped me …’
Logan stared at his own name. Lying cow. He slammed the hatch closed again, then turned on DI Bell. ‘She hasn’t got a bloody clue. Did you do a rape kit?’
‘I told you, it doesn’t matter if—’
‘Did you or didn’t you?’
Bell threw his hands in the air. ‘We couldn’t, OK? She was tearing the place up. Nearly ripped my balls off!’
‘Get her in an interview room and we’ll get her to retract the—’
‘No, no, no, no, no. That’s not the way it works, and you know it. No way in hell you can be in on an interview of a rape victim you’re supposed to have raped!’
Logan paced down to the end of the little cell block and back again. Tine, you do it.’
Bell ran a furry hand through his hair. Looked away. ‘I can’t.’
‘Yes you bloody can. Stick her in number three and find out who put her up to it.’
‘Why would anyone—’
‘She’s 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 it’d be upside down, wouldn’t it?’
Well, maybe … I dunno, a mirror?’ He must have caught the expression on Logan’s 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. ‘I’ll speak to her. But you know, if Professional Standards find out I did a sneak-around, I’m blaming you, understand?’
On the little screen, DI Bell pushed a sheet of paper across the scarred interview room table. ‘I’m showing Ms Brown a selection of photographs reference: one five zero five zero one. Can you identify the man you say raped you?’
‘No she bloody can’t.’ 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. They’d 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
