up with a creak and a yawn, Logan headed back out into the night, wanting to take one last look for Kylie. So much for knocking off at two.
There wasn’t a lot of activity down at the docks; Wednesday wasn’t really a night for hard drinking so there were fewer drunken idiots staggering out of the nightclubs and strip joints to prowl the streets in search of a cash-based romantic interlude. And that meant most of the prostitutes went home too. Now it was just the hard-core left. The women who were the most desperate. Who hadn’t had much luck earlier in the night. The ones with varicose veins and no teeth. The ones like Rosie Williams.
Logan walked the docks again, but there were only four working girls still out, three of whom he’d spoken to earlier. The last ‘girl’ was in her mid to late forties – difficult to tell in the flickering streetlight – dressed in a cheap miniskirt and PVC raincoat, a pair of black plastic kinky boots finishing off the ensemble. Seeing her, Logan wasn’t surprised she only came out in the wee small hours, when all her punters would be at their most pissed and least picky. Her face was odd, distorted, lumpy… And that’s when he realized: someone had beaten the crap out of her recently. That’s why her smile was twisted and her face uneven, swollen from the blows. She’d tried to plaster over the bruises with make-up.
She saw Logan staring at her and said, ‘You lookin’ for a good time?’ The words were slurred, slightly lisping – probably missing a couple of teeth. ‘Good-lookin’ guy like you, must be lookin’ for a good time…’ She wiggled her hips at him, winced and opened her PVC raincoat wide, exposing a black lace bustier over white skin covered in bruises. ‘See anythin’ you like?’
There was no way Logan could answer that honestly. ‘Someone give you a going over?’
She shrugged and dragged a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket, sticking one between her swollen lips and lighting it with a petrol-station lighter. ‘You a cop?’ She looked him up and down. ‘Naw, don’t bother answerin’ that. Course you’re a fuckin’ cop.’ The first good lungful of smoke set off a coughing fit, eyes closed, left arm clutching her ribs as she hacked and grimaced.
‘Those things’ll kill you.’
She stuck her middle finger up at him and wheezed to a rattling stop, before spitting a dark wad out onto the street. ‘I want health advice I’ll go to my fuckin’ doctor. What do you want? Kickback? Freebie?’
Logan tried not to shudder. ‘Rosie Williams,’ he said instead. ‘Got herself killed night before last. I’m looking for anyone who saw the bastard that did it.’
The woman flinched, wrapping the PVC raincoat tightly around her bruised chest. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Rosie?’
Logan nodded. ‘Monday night. You working then?’
She shook her head. ‘Naw.’ She pulled in another large lungful of smoke. ‘Had a bit of an accident couple of nights back.’ She gestured at the mess of her face. ‘Walked into a door.’
‘Must’ve been a really big door to do all that.’
‘Aye. Fuckin’ big door.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘But I wasnae here Monday night. Couldn’t fuckin’ move Monday, let alone work.’ She sighed. ‘No’ that I’m gonnae do much business lookin’ like this…’ Her voice trailed off into silence, her eyes focused on the past rather than the darkened streets.
‘Then why are you out here?’
She shrugged. ‘Got mouths to feed. You know? And heroin’s a fuckin’ hungry wee bastard.’
Twenty-two hundred hours: the start of Thursday’s night shift. It had been a day for lounging about in bed, only getting up when Jackie came back from work at five. Fish and chips for dinner/breakfast and then back to bed for a bit. This time with company. So it was a pretty happy Logan who sauntered up the street to FHQ at ten to ten. There was an air of doom and gloom about the place as he pushed through the front doors. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was sitting behind the reception desk, engrossed in a copy of the Evening Express, the lights reflecting off his ever-expanding bald spot. He looked up, displaying a wide Wyatt Earp-style moustache, and scowled. ‘What the hell you looking so damn cheerful about?’
Logan smiled back. ‘And good evening to you too, Eric. I am smiling because it has been a lovely day. What’s got your moustache in a twist? Big Gary nick all the custard creams?’
Eric just scowled and held up the Evening Express so Logan could see the paper’s front page with its headline, POLICE RAID WRONG ADDRESS! There was a large photo: dozens of patrol cars, vans and uniformed officers milling about outside a converted church in Tillydrone.
Logan tried not to grin. At least he wasn’t the only one to screw up a raid this month. ‘Where were they supposed to be?’
‘Kincorth.’ Eric slammed the paper back on the desk. ‘Silly bastards. Like we don’t have enough to worry about!’ He poked a sidebar next to the picture. POLICE INCOMPETENCE: CITY COUNCILLOR SPEAKS OUT. ‘Wee shite’s been gagging for another excuse to make us look like arseholes.’ Eric scowled at the little black-and-white photo of Councillor Holier-Than-Thou Marshall doing his usual smug slug impression. Then Eric remembered he had a message for Logan. ‘DI Steel says get your arse up to her office, soon as you get in.’
Just like Inspector Napier’s lair, DI Steel’s office reflected its owner: cramped, untidy and stinking of stale cigarettes. She was sat behind her desk, feet up, cup of coffee in one hand, mobile phone in the other, fag dangling out the corner of her mouth. She waved Logan to take a seat as she pinned the phone between her ear and shoulder, before rummaging about in a desk drawer, coming out with a little black notebook and a pen.
‘Course I love you,’ she said, the end of the cigarette bobbing up and down, letting loose a half-inch avalanche of ash. ‘Yes… You know I do… No, I’d never do that…’ She scribbled something awkwardly on the pad and threw it across the desk to Logan. ‘You know I do… Susan, you’re the most important thing in my life… Yes… Yes…’
Logan peered at the spidery scrawl. YOU IDENTIFIED THAT TART YET? He gave the inspector a puzzled look and she rolled her eyes, waving a hand at him, asking for the pad back.
‘Yes, Susan, you know I do…’ She scribbled another note. LAST NIGHT – THE ONE WHO SAW MCKINNON? Logan shook his head and Steel said, ‘Damn… What? Oh, no, not you, Susan, I dropped something … yes … uhuh…’ She demanded the pad back and left Logan a final message: FUCK OFF TO THE CANTEEN. I’LL BE UP IN A BIT.
He was on his second mug of milky tea and halfway through a bacon buttie when DI Steel finally slouched into the canteen. ‘Christ, I’m fucking starving,’ she said, slumping down on the other side of the table and sighing. ‘Right, first things first.’ She dragged out a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal and placed it on the tabletop. ‘Care to explain this?’ She pointed at the headline: DRY RUN FOR SUITCASE-TORSO MURDERER. Colin Miller had worked his usual magic, weaving Logan’s suspicions into a pretty good story. Not surprising he was the newspaper’s golden boy.
‘I spoke to him last night,’ said Logan as he read, groaning at every mention of ‘Police Hero Logan “Lazarus” McRae’. Whenever Miller put him in the bloody paper, Angus Robertson – the Mastrick Monster – was always wheeled out to justify Logan’s ‘hero’ status.
‘And the reason you screwed over my investigation?’ Steel’s voice was level, cold. Dangerous. But Logan didn’t notice.
‘Whoever it is, they’re counting on the dog
