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?’
‘I’m not well …’
‘Trisha, it’s quarter to five in the morning, my shift starts in two and a bit hours, and I’ve been up all bastarding night because of you. Now who wrote my name on your bloody chest?’ Trying hard not to shout.
She blinked. Then a frown made little wrinkles in her shiny forehead. ‘You’re him?’
‘Who wrote it?’
She placed a bony hand against her chest, rubbing the halter-top where it hid Logan’s name. ‘You’re the one did that raid on Billy’s house, yeah? Took Ricky round to stay with mum?’
What about it?’
She licked her pale, chapped lips. ‘You seized all that gear, right?’
‘We—’
‘You’ve still got it, right? You know, where you can get at it?’
Trisha – focus. Who wrote my name on you?’
‘Cos you’ve got to give it all back to me. Everything you’ve got.’
‘No chance.’ Logan slammed the hatch shut.
‘No, you have to! The guys Shuggie got it off want paid – if we haven’t sold it we gotta give it back!’
Logan opened the hatch again. ‘You got six bricks of heroin and a suitcase full of mephedrone on sale or return?’
‘They’re gonna fuck him over if we can’t get the money …’ She stepped closer to the hatch, sour breath washing over Logan. What if they come after me and Ricky again? He’s only a wee kid.’
‘Here’s the deal: you give up your suppliers, Shuggie turns himself in and coughs to the drugs charges, and I’ll get you and your little boy into protective custody.’
Trisha looked away for a moment. And when she came back she was pouting. She licked a finger, then stuck her hand up inside her halter-top and rubbed at shrunken breast. ‘How about you let us have the gear and you get anything you want. Yeah? I do it all. Rough as you like. You can bring your mates too, if you like?’
Logan shrank back from the hatch. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Bet a big guy like you could make me come and come and come. Mmmmmm … Oh yeah. I’d be a dirty bitch for—’
Logan slammed the hatch shut, before Trisha wasn’t the only one smelling of sick.
Davey ‘English’ Robertson, AKA: Daniel Roberts (69) – Rape, Indecent Assault, Attempted Murder
‘… so you see, it wasnae my fault, was it? Fucker came at me in the shower wi’ a fuckin’ hard-on, what was I supposed ta dae? Bend ower and spread ma arse cheeks? Fuck that.’ Davey Robertson squared his shoulders inside the threadbare suit jacket. Grey-stubbled chin coming up. Poof bastard was askin’ for it.’
Logan stifled a yawn. God it was hot. Even with the window open, the hotel room was like a microwave. He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Can we just stick to the—’
‘And anither thing, fit wye do you think I’ve got nithin’ better ta dae than ponce about in here wi’ you lot? Saturday mornin’: should be gettin’ ready for the match.’
‘Alison and Jenny McGregor, Mr Robertson. Did you—’
‘I seen her man oan the telly, after that rag-head cock-pirate blew him up. Fuckin’ disgrace. IEDs … Every retard’s makin’ bombs out of washin’ up liquid and Blu-Tack these days. What’s the point of spendin’ millions on tanks when you can blow holes in the fuckers with crap you find under your sink? Should nuke all them Muslim bastards and have done with it.’
Logan slammed his palm down on the arm of the chair. ‘Did you, or did you not know Alison and Jenny McGregor?’
Robertson’s chin came up again. ‘I’m no’ a young mannie, loon, but I could still kick yer arse from here tae Rhynie and back.’
Logan rubbed at the palm of his hand – both scars stung and throbbed like cuts laced with Tabasco. He gritted his teeth. ‘Just answer the question, Mr Robertson, and we can all get out of here.’
‘Seen the pair of them at that civic thing the cooncil hud for those visiting French bastards. Even got tae say, “fit like” tae the pair of them. Ken this: Alison wis nice tae everyone. No’ like these stuck-up cows you see on the telly. Hud the common touch like.’
Logan nodded. ‘And what did you talk about?’
Davey Robertson grinned. ‘Asked me back tae her place for a tin of Special and a blow-job.’
Silence.
‘What the fuck d’you think we talked aboot? The weather, her bein’ oan the TV, my lumbago. The usual.’
‘Not much better than yesterday. You?’ Logan squeezed himself a cup of coffee from the pump-dispenser thermos in the hotel meeting room. The rest of the team were slumped around the tables, speaking in low voices while DI Steel grumbled her way through the interview notes DI Bell’s team had filled in yesterday evening. Trying to find out if any were worth watching on video.
DS Doreen Taylor pulled a face. ‘A nice young man offered to “bang the living shit” out of me.’ She’d abandoned her usual twinset-and-pearls for a pair of jeans and a fuchsia hoodie with ‘ANGEL’ picked out in sequins across the back. Like someone’s mum trying to convince herself she was still down with the cool kids. ‘I swear, after a morning questioning rapists and other assorted sexual degenerates, DI Steel’s lifestyle is becoming a lot more appealing. You men are disgusting.’
Steel didn’t look up from her paperwork. ‘I heard that.’
‘No one connected to any hospitals or vets’?’
‘One dentist done for molesting his sister’s little girl, but he’s not allowed to practice any more.’ Doreen took a sip of coffee. ‘Have you spoken to Mark recently?’
Logan grimaced. ‘Acting DI MacDonald? Yeah.’
Another sip. ‘The first fortnight, I went home and cried my eyes out – every night. Dealing with Finnie was the worst. You think he’s bad when you’re a DS? Wait until it’s your turn in September.’
‘Yeah, I got the same motivational speech from Mark.’
A bee buzz-bumped against the window, braining itself, retreating in dazed loops, then smacking its head into the glass again. So at least they weren’t the only ones.
Logan’s phone went off in his pocket. ‘McRae.’
