for their rusty Vauxhall. Watson got there first and cranked on the blowers. They sat and steamed gently as the blowers did their best to clear the windows, sharing a packet of mints, watching hazy figures running for the shop doors to get in out of the rain for a mid-afternoon chicken chowmein, or the latest issue of Leather and Chains Monthly.
Simon McLeod was up to something. But then the McLeods were always up to something. The trouble was proving it. They were from the old school: the kind in which lessons were taught with a claw hammer. No one ever saw anything. No one ever squealed.
‘So where now?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Next bookies on the list I suppose.’
WPC Watson stuck the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space. The headlights clicked on, turning the stair-rod rain into silver daggers. They’d almost reached the main road when a rust-and-green estate car appeared out of nowhere. Watson slammed on the brakes, shouted ‘Fuck!’ and stalled the engine.
As the estate parked roughly in front of the Turf ’n Track, she wound down the window and hurled a mouthful of abuse out into the rain. Most of which involved the driver of the offending car’s rectum and WPC Watson’s boot. She stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Oh, God. Sorry, sir!’
Logan raised an eyebrow.
She blushed. ‘I kinda forgot you were there. I mean he didn’t indicate or anything. Sorry.’
Logan took a deep breath and thought about what DI Insch had told him about the privileges of rank. He couldn’t just sit there and say nothing. She was in uniform for God’s sake! What if it got back to the papers? ‘Do you think a policewoman, in full uniform, leaning out of a car window, swearing her head off, does a lot for the Force?’
‘I didn’t think, sir.’
‘Jackie, when you do something like that you make us all look like a bunch of arseholes. You piss off everyone who sees it, or hears about it second-hand. And you put your job on the line.’
Her blush went from strawberry to beetroot. ‘I . . . sorry.’
He let her stew in silence for a slow count of ten, silently cursing inside. He’d hoped for a chance to impress her with his witty repartee, or his deductive acumen. Make her see what a great guy he was. The sort of guy you slept with twice. Giving her a dressing down hadn’t been part of the plan. An ‘undressing’ down maybe. . .
Eight. Nine. Ten.
‘Come on,’ he said, trying out a friendly smile on her. ‘I won’t say anything about it if you don’t.’
Not looking him in the eye, she said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and started the car.
The atmosphere in the car never got much beyond polite as they made their way through the remaining bookies on Logan’s list. WPC Watson called him ‘sir’ and answered his questions, but she never volunteered anything unless it was directly pertinent to the case.
It was a crappy afternoon.
They slogged their way from the car to one betting shop after another.
‘Have you seen this man?’
‘No.’
Sometimes the ‘no’ came with a free ‘fuck off’ and other times the ‘fuck off’ was silent. But it was always there. Except for the owner and staff at J Stewart and Son: Bookmakers est. 1974 in Mastrick. Who were surprisingly nice to them. Disturbingly, suspiciously nice.
‘Jesus, that was freaky,’ said Logan as they clambered back into the car. ‘Look, they’re still smiling at us.’ He pointed through the windscreen at a large woman with ratty grey hair tied into a bun on the top of her head. She waved back.
‘Seemed nice enough to me,’ said Watson, negotiating the car out of the car park. It was the most she’d said for about an hour.
‘You never met Ma Stewart before?’ asked Logan as they headed back towards the station. When WPC Watson didn’t reply he took that as a no. ‘I arrested her once,’ he said as they drifted onto the Lang Stracht, the wide road carved up into bus lanes and weird pseudo-box-junctions liberally sprinkled with bollards and pedestrian crossings. ‘Pornography. She was peddling it to school kids out the back of an old Ford Anglia. Nothing too heavy – no animals or anything like that. Just good old-fashioned German hard-core. Videos and magazines.’ He snorted. ‘Half the bloody children in Mastrick knew more about sex than their biology teacher. We got called in when this eight-year-old asked if you could get pregnant from fisting.’
A small smile flickered round the corners of WPC Watson’s mouth.
The offices of the Press and Journal went by on the left and Logan winced. With all the excitement and panic of being put in charge of the bin-bag case he’d forgotten all about Colin Miller’s visit this morning. He still hadn’t talked to DI Insch about the reporter’s request for an exclusive. And Miller said he had more information on ‘Geordie’ too. Logan pulled his phone out to call DI Insch, but didn’t get any further than punching in the first two numbers.
A crackly voice boomed out of the radio. Someone had beaten up Roadkill.
They hadn’t meant it to go this far. That was what the ringleaders said when questioned by the Police and the Press. They just wanted to make sure their children were safe. It wasn’t right, was it? A grown man like that hanging around the school gates. And it wasn’t the first time he’d done it either. Most afternoons he was there, just when the kids were getting let out. And he wasn’t right in the head. Everyone knew he wasn’t right in the head. He smelled funny. It wasn’t right.
So what if he got roughed up a little bit? It wasn’t as if they’d meant it to go that far. But kids were missing! You know: kids. Kids like the ones that went to Garthdee Primary School. Kids like theirs. If the police had come sooner it wouldn’t have got out of hand. If they’d come when they were called, none of this would have happened.
So when you really thought about it, it was all the police’s fault.
The man sitting on the other side of the interview table had seen better days. Yesterday for example. That was the last time Logan had set eyes on Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill. He’d been pretty tatty-looking then, but at least his nose hadn’t looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Bruises were already running rampant across his face and one eye was swollen shut, the skin an angry purple. His beard was clean and spiky on one side where the hospital had washed away the dried blood. His lip was swollen up like a sausage and he winced every time he smiled. Which wasn’t often.
The accusations levelled against him by the ‘concerned parents’ who’d beaten him up were too serious to ignore. So as soon as he was released from Accident and Emergency, he had found himself in police custody. And he fitted the Lothian and Borders profile: white male, mid-twenties, mental health problems, menial job, no girlfriend, lives alone. The only error was the claim that he wouldn’t do well academically. Roadkill had a degree in medieval history. But, as Insch said, see how much bloody good that had done him.
It had been a long, difficult and convoluted interview. Every time it looked as if they were about to get some sort of consistent statement out
