card, or Switch.’
‘No way we could be that lucky.’ He turned the scrap of paper over in his hands. Eggs, wine, posh cream and avocadoes. . . The line under the last item caught Logan’s eye and a smile began to blossom.
‘What?’ Watson looked annoyed. ‘What’s so funny?’
Logan held the receipt aloft and beamed at her. ‘Sir,’ he said into the phone, ‘WPC Watson’s found a supermarket receipt in the bag with the body. . . No, sir, he paid cash.’ If Logan’s smile were any wider the top of his head would have fallen off. ‘But he did collect his Clubcard points.’
South Anderson Drive was a bastard at this time of day, but North Anderson Drive was even worse. The traffic was nose to tail all the way across the city. Rush hour.
The Procurator Fiscal had finally turned up, bustled about the crime scene, demanded an update on the investigation, complained that this was the second dead child to be discovered in as many days, implied that it was all Logan’s fault, and sodded off again.
Logan waited until he and WPC Watson were safely cocooned within the fogged-up car before expressing what he’d like to do to the Fiscal with a cactus and a tube of Ralgex.
It took them well over an hour to get from the tip at Nigg to the huge Tesco at Danestone. The store was situated in a prime spot: not far from the swollen River Don, within spitting distance of the old sewage works, the Grove Cemetery and the Grampian Country Chickens slaughterhouse; and close to where they’d found little David Reid’s bloated corpse.
The store was busy, all the office workers from the nearby Science and Technology Park picking up booze and ready-meals for another night at home in front of the telly.
There was a customer service desk just inside the entrance, manned by a young-looking man with a long blond ponytail. Logan asked him to get the manager.
Two minutes later a small, balding man with a pair of half-moon glasses arrived. He was wearing the same uniform-blue sweater as the rest of the staff, but his name badge said: ‘COLIN BRANAGAN, MANAGER’.
‘Can I help you?’
Logan pulled out his warrant card and handed it over for inspection. ‘Mr Branagan, we need to get some information on someone who was shopping here last Wednesday.’ He pulled out the receipt, now safely encased in a clear-plastic evidence wallet. ‘He paid cash, but he used his Clubcard. Can you give me his name and address from the card number?’
The manager took the see-through envelope and bit his lip. ‘Ah, well I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘You see we’ve got to abide by the Data Protection Act. I can’t just go giving out our shoppers’ personal details. We’d be liable.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
Logan dropped his voice to a near-whisper. ‘It’s important, Mr Branagan: we’re investigating an extremely serious crime.’
The manager ran a hand over the shiny top of his head. ‘I don’t know. . . I’ll have to ask Head Office. . .’
‘Fine. Let’s go do that.’
Head Office said sorry, but no: if he wanted access to their customers’ records he’d have to make a formal request in writing or get a court order. They had to abide by the Data Protection Act. There could be no exceptions.
Logan told them about the little girl’s body in the bin-bag.
Head Office changed their minds.
Five minutes later Logan was outside clutching an A4 sheet of paper on which was printed a name, address and total number of Clubcard points earned since September.
Norman Chalmers lived in a tightly-packed, three-storey tenement off Rosemount Place. The long one-way street curved away to the right, the dirty grey buildings looming over the crowded road cutting the sky until it was nothing more than a thin strip of angry clouds, tainted orange by the streetlights. Cars were parked along the kerb, jammed in nose to tail, the only break formed by the massive, communal wheelie-bins, chained together in pairs, each one big enough to hold a week’s rubbish for six households.
The endless rain drummed off the roof of the CID pool car as WPC Watson cursed her way around the block, yet again, looking for a parking spot.
Logan watched as the building slid by for the third time, ignoring WPC Watson’s murmured swearing. Number seventeen looked no different to the rest of the tenement block. Three storeys of unadorned granite blocks, streaked with rust from the decaying drainpipes. Light seeped out through the curtained windows, the muffled sound of after-work television just audible under the downpour.
On the fourth time around Logan told her to give up and double park in front of Chalmers’s flat.
Watson jumped out into the wet night, splashing between two parked cars to the pavement, the rain bouncing off her peaked cap. Logan followed, cursing as a puddle engulfed his shoe. He squelched his way to the tenement door: a dark-brown, featureless slab of wood set back behind an elaborate architrave, though the carved woodwork was so heavily coated in years of paint that little detail remained. A steady stream of water splattered off the pavement to their left, the downpipe from the guttering cracked halfway up.
Watson squeezed the transmit button on her radio, producing a faint hiss of static and a click. ‘Ready to go?’ she said, her voice low.
‘Roger that. Exit from the street is secure.’
Logan looked up to see Bravo Seven One idling at the far end of the curving street. Bravo Eight One confirmed that they were ready too, watching the Rosemount Place end, making sure no one was going to do a runner. Bucksburn station had loaned Logan two patrol cars and a handful of uniforms with local knowledge. The officers in the cars were doing a lot better than the ones on foot.
‘Check.’
The new voice sounded cold and miserable. It would be either PC Milligan or Barnett. They’d drawn the short straw. The road backed onto another curved avenue of tenements, the back gardens sharing a high dividing wall. So the poor sods had to clamber over the back wall from the adjoining street. In the dark and the mud. In the pouring rain.
‘We’re in position.’
Watson looked at Logan expectantly.
The building didn’t have an intercom, but there was a row of three bells on either side of the doorway, the buttons clarted round the edges with more brown paint. Little labels sulked beneath them, each one giving the name of the occupant. ‘NORMAN CHALMERS’ was written in blue biro on a square of bloated cardboard sellotaped over the name of the previous owner. Top floor right. Logan stepped back and looked up at the building. The lights were on.
‘OK.’ He leaned forward and rang the middle buzzer, the one marked ‘ANDERSON’. Two minutes later the door was opened by a nervous man in his mid to late twenties, big hair and heavy features, with a large bruise riding high on his cheekbone. He was still dressed from work: a cheap grey suit, the trousers all shiny at the knee, and a rumpled yellow shirt. In fact most of him looked rumpled. His face went pale when he saw WPC Watson’s uniform.
‘Mr
