Witness Room. Logan tucked his peaked cap under one arm and pulled out his mobile. Headed through the doors to the stairwell, selecting Deano’s number from the contacts as he climbed up to the next landing. Leaned against the windowsill as the phone rang. Outside, Marischal Street’s granite terrace reached away down the hill, took a break for the bridge over the dual carriageway, then finished up at the harbour. Three storeys of grey stone, flecks of mica glittering in the sunshine. Rooftop dormers mirroring back the glare. A supply vessel loomed at the bottom of the road, its yellow-and-black hull streaked with lines of rust.
Probably start off in Blackfriars after the trial. Couple of pints, then across the road to Archies for pie-and-chips and more beer. Then on to the Illicit Still. The Prince of Wales. Ma Cameron’s … All the old haunts. Maybe even—
‘Hello?’
‘Deano? Logan. Yeah, thanks, barbecue sounds good.’
‘Cool. Janet and Tufty are coming too. Got a box of ribeyes big as your head.’
‘We’re on for the warrant tomorrow. Got the extra bodies.’
‘Even better. Be good to finally get Gerbil and that idiot Klingon banged up.’
‘Can you get the team to keep an eye on the place tonight? Probably peeing in the wind, but I don’t want them cutting their shipment up and wheeching it out till we’ve had a chance to dunt their door in. Keep it low-key though.’
‘Will do.’
‘You need me to bring something on Thursday?’
‘Potato salad? Coleslaw? Something like that. Aye, and not from a tub: homemade. Oops, got to go – don’t want to burn my cornbread.’
Logan almost had his phone back in his pocket when it blared out its generic ringtone. ‘Sod …’ He pulled it out. Unknown number. Hit the button. ‘Logan McRae.’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
A thin, nervous voice filled his ear. ‘Is this … is this Sergeant McRae? You saved my mum’s life last night.’
Frown. He did? ‘Oh, Mrs Bairden.’ The old woman in the bath.
A heavy-set man in a black robe, white bow tie and wing collar, appeared through the door on the next landing down. Scanned the stairs down to the floor below, then looked up at Logan. Small ears and small nose, eyes hidden in folds of drooping grey. The Macer checked the clipboard in his hand. ‘Sergeant McRae?’
Logan nodded, held a hand up. Back to the phone: ‘Is she OK?’
‘The doctors say she had a stroke. If you hadn’t got to her …’ Pause. ‘Thank you.’
Warmth spread through his chest, like a sip of malt whisky. ‘Glad I could help.’
‘Sergeant McRae, they’re ready for you.’ A frown. ‘And you shouldn’t be using your mobile phone in here.’
‘Really, really thank you …’
‘It was my pleasure. Wish her well for me.’
‘Sergeant McRae, I must insist—’
‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. I’m in court today.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Thank you …’
When she’d hung up, he smiled. Switched off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Put his peaked cap on his head and marched downstairs to where the Macer was waiting. Patted him on the shoulder. ‘You know, some days, I remember why I joined the police.’
The courtroom didn’t look anything like the ones on the TV. It was bright and modern, with pale varnished wood and cream-coloured walls. Long and narrow, divided in half by a waist-high partition. A cross-section of Aberdonians had squeezed themselves into the rows of public seating, faces shining in the warm room. The table for the press was packed with hunched men in sweat-ringed shirts, tapping away into laptops or scribbling into notepads.
In the middle of the partition, an eight-foot-high screen of bullet-proof glass wrapped around three sides of the defendant’s box. Graham Stirling sat flanked by two huge G4S guards. He’d dropped the blue sundress for a sombre suit – his hair longer than it had been, curling around his ears. Looking more like an accountant than a manipulative, vicious, sexual predator. He turned his head, avoiding Logan’s eyes.
Should think so too.
A large oval wooden table took up most of the space on this side of the partition. Prosecution team on one side: an Advocate Depute and his junior in their black robes, suits, and ties; and sitting next to them, the Procurator Fiscal in grey pinstripe with matching hair and military moustache. The defence team sat on the other side: the QC and his devil in robes, short wigs, and white bow ties; the instructing solicitor looked as if he should be selling houses in Elgin.
The court clerk was stationed between them, like a referee in No Man’s Land. The jury lurked behind the defence, facing the witness stand, flanked by flat-screen TVs. Another two huge screens on opposite walls to display evidence on.
No mahogany. No Victorian pseudo-gothic twiddly bits. No smell of antique cigarettes seeping out of threadbare carpet tiles. The only nod to antiquity was the carved coat of arms hanging over the Judge’s seat and the mace mounted on the wall beside it.
Well, that and the Judge’s outfit.
She straightened her white robe – stained a mild shade of pink, presumably because of the two big red crosses on the front of it and a washing machine on too hot a cycle. Her short white wig sat on top of her long grey hair. A pair of severe glasses perched on the bridge of her long thin nose. One hand stroking the tip of her pointy chin, watching as Logan took the stand.
The Macer waited until Logan was in place, before turning to the Judge. ‘M’Lady, we have witness number six, Sergeant Logan McRae.’
‘I see.’ She stood, held up her right hand. ‘Sergeant McRae, repeat after me: I swear by Almighty God, that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’
‘So, Sergeant McRae,’ Sandy Moir-Farquharson took off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his black robe, ‘are you seriously expecting the jury to believe it was a coincidence that you happened to be in Cults that evening?’ He slipped his glasses back on and smiled. It emphasized the twist in his nose. Grey hair swept back from the temples, the bald spot at the top covered by the short white wig. A suit that probably cost more than Logan made in six months peeking out between the front of his robes.
Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all. Graham Stirling was there, attempting to acquire a second victim, so—’
‘Objection.’ He turned a smile on the Judge. ‘Milady, the witness is indulging in supposition.’
A nod. ‘Sustained.’ The Judge peered down at the witness stand. ‘Sergeant McRae, please restrict yourself to the facts.’
‘I
