to say to that, but DI Steel’s face fell.
‘Sorry, Lazarus.’ She dropped the cigarette and ground it into the wooden floor. ‘It’s been a shitty day.’
‘It’s not your fault they let Cleaver go. If anyone’s to blame, it’s Hissing Bloody Sid.’
‘I’ll drink to that!’ she said, and did, downing a large whisky in a single gulp.
A familiar-looking DC on the opposite side of the table was staring up at the television above their heads. He grabbed the inspector by the arm. ‘It’s coming on!’
Logan and DI Steel twisted round in their seats as the opening titles of the local news flickered across the screen and the noise level in the pub took a sudden dip, as every off-duty police man and woman in the place turned to face the nearest television.
Someone a lot less attractive than she could have been was speaking seriously into the camera from behind her news desk. The volume wasn’t loud enough to pick out any real words, but a photo of Gerald Cleaver’s face appeared over her left shoulder. Then the scene changed to an exterior shot of Aberdeen Sheriff Court. The crowd were thrusting their placards in the air and suddenly a woman in her mid-forties filled the screen, clutching her ‘DEATH TO PEDIPHILE SCUM!!!’ placard with pride. She banged her gums with righteous fury for all of fifteen seconds, not one word of it audible in the crowded pub, before being replaced by another shot of the courthouse through the crowd. The big glass doors were opening.
‘Here we go!’ said DI Steel with glee.
Sandy Moir-Farquharson appeared through the doors and proceeded to read his client’s statement. The camera zoomed in, just in time to see a figure lunge from the crowd and smack his fist into Sandy the Snake’s face.
A huge cheer went up from the pub.
The newsreader’s concerned and serious face reappeared, said something, and then the punch was shown again.
Another huge cheer.
And then it was something about traffic on the Dyce to Newmacher road and everyone went happily back to their drinks.
DI Steel had a misty-eyed smile on her face as she gulped another large whisky. ‘Wasn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?’
Logan agreed that it was pretty damn good.
‘You know,’ said Steel, lighting up another cigarette, ‘I would love to shake that kid’s hand. Hell, I’d even be tempted to go straight for a night. What a star!’
Logan tried not to form a mental picture of DI Steel and Martin Strichen going at it like knives, but failed. To take his mind off it he glanced back up at the television. Now it was showing a full-screen photo of Peter Lumley, missing since last Tuesday. Ginger hair, freckles and smile. Cut to an exterior of Roadkill’s farm. Then to a press conference with the Chief Constable looking stern and committed.
The good mood slowly ebbed out of Logan as the pictures flickered in front of him. Peter was lying dead somewhere and Logan had the nasty feeling they still hadn’t got the man responsible. No matter what DI Insch thought.
And then it was adverts. A garage in Bieldside, a dress shop in Rosemount and a government road safety thing. Logan watched in silence as the car screeched to a halt, but not before striking the boy crossing the road. The kid was small, the grille and bumper catching him in the side, making his legs flail out as he pin-wheeled into the bonnet, cracking his head against the metal before sailing off to smack into the tarmac. It was in slow motion, every impact horribly clear and choreographed. The legend ‘KILL YOUR SPEED, NOT A CHILD’ blazed across the screen.
Logan stared up at the screen with a growing look of pain on his face. ‘Son of a bitch.’
They’d got it wrong.
It took till eight o’clock to get everyone gathered in the morgue. DI Insch, Logan and Dr Isobel MacAlister, who looked even less happy at being dragged back into work than the inspector, being dressed up to the nines in a long black dress, cut low at the front. Not that Logan was afforded much in the way of gratuitous skin to ogle. Isobel had pulled a luminous orange fleece over the evening dress, hands stuffed deep in the pockets, trying to keep warm in the cold, antiseptic morgue.
She’d been at the theatre. ‘I hope this is important,’ she said, giving Logan a look which made it clear that nothing could be more important than an evening with her bit of rough at Scottish National Opera’s new production of La Bohème.
Insch was dressed in jeans and a tatty blue sweatshirt. It was the first time Logan had ever seen him out of his work suit, not counting his pantomime villain outfit. He scowled as Logan apologized for dragging them all down here at this time on a Saturday night. Again.
‘OK,’ said Logan, selecting the refrigerated drawer that held the remains of the little girl they’d found at Roadkill’s steading. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it open, staggering back as the putrid smell fought against the room’s antiseptic tang. ‘Right,’ he said, his face creased up, trying hard to breathe exclusively through his mouth. ‘We know the girl died from blunt trauma—’
‘Of course she did!’ snapped Isobel. ‘I told you that in my post mortem report. The fractures to the front and back of her skull would have caused massive brain damage and death.’
‘I know,’ said Logan, pulling the X-rays out from the case file and holding them up to the light. ‘You see this?’ he asked, pointing at the ribs.
‘Broken ribs.’ Isobel glared. ‘Did you drag me out of the theatre to show me things I bloody well told you in the first place, Sergeant?’ The last word came out dripping in venom.
Logan sighed. ‘Look, we all thought the injuries were caused by Roadkill beating the girl—’
‘The damage is consistent with a beating. I said so in the post mortem! How much more time do we have to spend going over this? You said you had new evidence!’
Logan took a deep breath and stacked the X-rays end on end so they formed the skeleton of a complete child. Broken hip, leg, ribs, fractured skull. The image was less than four feet tall. Dropping down onto his knees, Logan held the skeleton image so that its feet were touching the floor. ‘Look at the ribs,’ he said, ‘look how far they are off the ground.’
DI Insch and Isobel did. Neither of them looked impressed.
‘And?’
‘What if the damage isn’t down to a beating?’
‘Oh come off it!’ Isobel said. ‘This is pathetic! She was beaten to death!’
‘Look how far the broken ribs are off the ground,’ Logan said again.
Nothing.
‘Car,’ said Logan, moving the X-rays like a macabre shadow puppet. ‘The first point of impact is the hip.’ He twisted the image around the waist, lifting it as he turned the top half clockwise. ‘The ribs hit the top edge of the radiator.’ He moved the X-ray girl again, bending the head hard right. ‘Left hand side of the skull smacks into the bonnet. Car slams on the brakes.’ He pulled the X-ray upright and rotated it back towards the morgue’s floor. ‘She hits the tarmac, the right leg snaps. Back of her head caves in as it hits the deck.’ He laid
