wee hands. And Bain’s decided to give Superintendent Green a “more active role in the investigation”.’
Here we go.
‘Apparently he’s got experience with kidnap cases.’
Every bloody time.
‘So,’ Steel dug a hand into her armpit and rummaged, ‘we need someone to “facilitate” Green’s “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 you’d shut up moaning for ten sodding seconds and let me finish … Logan: you’re excused from Mongtown – with Bell doing the back shift we’re nearly through them anyway. As of now you’re on arse-covering duty. Go over everything we’ve done so far: victim profile, door-to-doors, everything, make sure there’s 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 Tarn yet?’
‘Well … Not as such …’
‘Then you’d better get your finger out, hadn’t 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 didn’t. I’m 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 refurbishment, which was the only reason he’d 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 he’d conned from Building Services.
One desk. One chair. One laptop. And two heavy brown cardboard boxes full of files.
‘I’ll be home soon, OK?’
‘Half-seven, McRae – I’m holding you to it. Oh, and I’ve got a box of Stella and a couple of Markies’ lasagnes in. We can make a night of it.’
‘Soon, I promise.’ Pause. ‘Look, I’ve 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 BBC’s 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 fireman’s 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 duck’s 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 Brown’s 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. ‘Wasn’t you, was it?’
‘Very funny, sir.’
‘Who says I’m 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. She’d 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 wasn’t there.’
He hefted the laptop bag over his shoulder. ‘Anyone found Shuggie yet?’
‘If the bugger’s got any brains he’ll be lying low in Dundee or Glasgow by now. Blending in with the scheemie smack-heads till the heat dies down.’
Logan stood. ‘That’s me off.’
‘Right … Right.’ Bell finished off the last chunk of toast, washing it down with whatever was in the mug. ‘I’m not going to have to give you another call at three in the morning, am I?’
‘Christ, I hope not.’
Logan stuck his head through the open door to the main incident room. It was a bit swankier than the one he’d commandeered on the
