my lad, God smiles on us.’
Sandy Moir-Farquharson was waiting for them in a ground-floor detention room. He didn’t look very happy. There was a thin white plaster crossing the, now squint, bridge of his nose and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. If they were lucky those bags would settle into a pair of beautiful black eyes.
His briefcase was sat in the middle of the table in front of him and he drummed his fingers impatiently on the leather surface, glowering at Insch and Logan as they entered.
‘Mr “Far-Quar-Son”,’ said the inspector. ‘How nice to see you up and about again.’
Sandy the Snake scowled at him. ‘You let him go,’ he said in a low, threatening voice.
‘That’s right. He made a statement and has been bailed to return here on Monday at four.’
‘He broke my nose!’ The words were punctuated with a fist, slammed down on the tabletop, making the briefcase jump.
‘Oh, it’s not that bad Mr Far-Quar-Son. In fact it lends you a rugged, manly air. Doesn’t it, Sergeant?’
Logan kept his face straight and said that it did.
Sandy frowned, but couldn’t tell if they were taking the piss or not. ‘Really?’ he said at last.
‘Yes,’ said Insch, poker-faced. ‘Someone should have broken your nose a long time ago.’
The lawyer’s frown became a scowl. ‘You do know that someone’s been sending me death threats? That someone threw a bucket of blood over me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that this Martin Strichen has form for violence?’
‘Now, now Mr Far-Quar-Son, Mr Strichen was in police custody when you were attacked with that blood. And we’ve analysed your death threats. There are at least four people sending the letters and none of them were postmarked Craiginches Prison. So it’s probably not Mr Strichen.’ He smiled. ‘But if you like we could take you into protective custody? I have a number of lovely cells downstairs. A couple of throw cushions, some flowers, it’ll be just like home!’
A silent scowl was the only reply he got.
Insch beamed. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse us, Mr Far-Quar-Son, we have real police business to attend to.’ He stood and motioned for Logan to do the same. ‘But if anyone makes good on any of those death threats, you make sure and give me a call. DS McRae will show you out.’ His smile widened. ‘Try and keep him from stealing the silverware, Logan: you know what these lawyers are like.’
Logan walked the lawyer all the way to the front door.
‘You know,’ said Sandy, scowling at the rain hammering down out of the ash-coloured sky. ‘I have children too. The way that fat bastard goes on, you’d think I lived to put perverts back on the streets.’
Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘You got Gerald Cleaver off.’
The lawyer buttoned his coat. ‘No I didn’t.’
‘Yes you did! You picked the bloody case to pieces!’
Moir-Farquharson turned and looked Logan in the eye. ‘If the case had been solid I couldn’t have picked it apart. I didn’t let Cleaver off: you did.’
‘But—’
‘Now if you’ll excuse me, officer, I have other matters to attend to.’
Back in the interview room Duncan Nicholson was fidgeting as if someone had stuck a mains cable up his bum. His shirt was drenched with sweat and his eyes roamed the room in perpetual motion, never settling on one thing for more than a moment.
Logan went back to the seat nearest the tape machine and got the thing ready to start recording again.
‘I . . . I want protective custody!’ said Nicholson, before Logan had managed to press the record buttons.
‘Craiginches secure enough for you?’ asked Insch. ‘Just till you go to Peterhead of course.’
‘No! Like on the films: protective custody. Somewhere safe. . .’ He scrubbed at his sweat-drenched face. ‘They’ll kill me if they find out I’ve talked!’ His bottom lip trembled and for a moment Logan thought he was going to dissolve into tears again.
Insch dug his packet of fizzy shapes out and stuffed a couple into his mouth. ‘No promises,’ he said around a mouthful of orange-and-strawberry dinosaurs. ‘Start the tape, Sergeant.’
Nicholson hung his head, staring fixedly at his hands, trembling away on the tabletop in front of him. ‘I . . . I’ve been working for some bookies, moneylenders, you know. . .’ His voice cracked and he had to take a deep breath before he could go on. ‘Kinda like a debt control researcher, you know: I follow people who won’t pay up. Take photographs of them and their families. I . . . I print them out at home and give the pictures to the people they owe money to.’ He drooped even further in his seat. ‘The bookies use the pictures to threaten them. Encourage them to pay up.’
Insch curled his lip. ‘Your mum and dad must be so proud!’
A tear ran down Nicholson’s cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. ‘It’s no’ illegal to take photos of people! That’s all I did. Nothing else! I didn’t touch any kids!’
DI Insch snorted. ‘What a load of bollocks!’ He leaned forward in his chair, planting his huge fists on the table. ‘I want to know what you were doing in a ditch in the Bridge of Don with the mutilated body of a three-year-old boy. I want to know why you had an envelope full of cash and jewellery.’ He stood. ‘You’re a dirty wee shite, Nicholson. You deserve to go down for the rest of your miserable little life. You can stay here and lie all you want; I’m going to speak to the Procurator Fiscal. Get him all fired up to nail your arse to the wall. Interview suspended at—’
‘I slipped.’ Nicholson was in floods of tears, the panic clear in his eyes. ‘Please! I slipped!’
Logan sighed. ‘You told us that already. What were you doing there?’
‘I . . . I was on a job.’ Nicholson stared into Logan’s eyes, and Logan knew they’d broken him.
‘Go on.’
‘I was on a job. Little old lady. Widow. Keeps a bit of cash in the house. Some silver. Bit of jewellery?’
‘So you ripped her off?’
Nicholson shook his head, teardrops falling like diamonds to explode against the dirty Formica tabletop. ‘Didn’t get that far. I was out of my face. Way too stoned to do a house. Been keeping the stuff I nicked under a tree on the bank above the river. You know. Keeping it out of the way in case you lot come round and search the house.’ He shrugged, his voice becoming more and more of a mumble. ‘I was rat-arsed. Wanted to count it before I did the old lady’s house. It was pissing with rain. Slipped and fell all the way down the bank. What, twenty foot? In the dark, in the bloody rain. Ripped my jacket, jeans, nearly cracked my head open on a big fuckin’ rock. Ended up in the ditch. Tried to pull myself out with this big dod of chipboard, only it’s loose. It moves and there’s this
