‘Christ, I remember that one. Bloody hell, how come when a rotting, suppurating carcass gets dragged in here for some poor bugger to cut up, it’s always yours?’
Logan didn’t smile. Last year it had been a little boy and a little girl, neither of them much over four years old. Both of them dead a long time. ‘Just lucky I guess,’ he said at last.
‘Here.’ She rummaged through a filing cabinet, emerging with a slim Manila folder. ‘Fido was dismembered with a boning knife: seven-inch single-sided blade – scooped near the handle, straight for most of its length and curved at the tip. They come in most kitchen sets, so nothing distinctive. Find the knife and we’ll probably be able to match it, but the carcass is pretty far gone … can’t guarantee anything.’ She flipped through the pages, her lips moving as she skimmed the text. ‘Here we go … one thing might help: Fido was drugged before he was killed. Amitriptyline: prescription antidepressant. Works a bit like a sedative, so they give it to people who’re wound up, anxious, calms them down. We got what looks like minced beef and about half a bottle of the things from the stomach contents. And you do not want to know what that smelled like.’
Logan agreed. He didn’t. ‘What about the suitcase?’
Carole shrugged. ‘Pretty standard fare. ASDA in Dyce, Bridge of Don, Garthdee and Portlethen all had them on special a couple of months ago. Sold hundreds of the things.’ Logan swore and she nodded. ‘Also, fingerprints: bugger all. Same for fibre: clean as a whistle. Whoever did this wasn’t keen on getting caught.’
The rest of Logan’s night was spent getting together e-fit identikit pictures of the Lithuanian fourteen-year-old and her pimp, then shoving them under the noses of everyone in the station; putting the pictures up on the intranet and briefing pages; emailing them to all the other stations in the area – hoping someone could ID them.
By the time he got back to the flat, the rain had formed an uneasy truce with the early morning sunlight; purple-grey clouds scudding across the sky at a great rate of knots. Jackie was still asleep, curled up under the duvet like an unexploded bomb. She blew up when Logan told her he’d have to go back into work at half eleven to help DI Steel interview Jamie McKinnon. ‘What the hell do you mean you’ve got to go back in? You’ve just got off night shift! She’s already screwed up our whole weekend and now you’re going back into work? I had plans! We were going to do things today!’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s—’
‘Don’t you bloody “sorry” me, Logan McRae! Why can’t you just stand up to the woman and tell her no? You’re supposed to have time off! It’s only a job for Christ’s sake!’
‘But Rosie Williams—’
‘Rosie Williams is dead! She’s not going to get any less dead, just because you work more bloody overtime! Is she?’ She stormed off to the shower, leaving a deluge of foul language in her wake. Fifteen minutes later she was fighting with the hairdryer, trying to work a comb through her wet hair with the fingers of her broken arm. Swearing and muttering at her reflection in the mirror.
Logan stood in the doorway, watching her angry back, not knowing what to say. Ever since she’d moved in – three months ago – they’d rubbed along fine. It was only recently that he’d started to piss her off. And he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. ‘Jackie, I’m sorry. There’s always tomorrow…’
She gave one last tug of the comb, losing it in the long curls of her dark hair, swore, dragged it out and hurled it onto the dressing table, sending jars and tubes of moisturizer clattering. ‘Fucking thing!’ She stood staring down at the mess. ‘I’m going out.’ Jacket, keys and gone.
Logan stood alone in the kitchen. Swearing.
The Black Friars was a real-ale pub at the top of Marischal Street, all dark wooden floorboards and beams, split over three levels, following the downward slope of the road. Weekday mornings were usually pretty quiet, just the occasional pensioner washing down the full Scottish breakfast – eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, black pudding, tattie scones, clootie dumpling, mushrooms and toast, all slathered in tomato sauce – with a couple of beers. Logan perched at the end of the lower bar, eating his breakfast and drinking a pint of Dark Island. So what if it was half nine in the morning? He was supposed to be on holiday. With his girlfriend. Who wasn’t speaking to him, thanks to DI Bloody Steel and her guilt trip. They could have still been in bed, with nothing to do but laze about playing doctors and nurses. Logan scowled, downed the last of his pint and ordered another.
‘Bit early to be gettin’ hammered isn’t it?’
Logan groaned, put down a forkful of beans, and turned to see Colin Miller, the Press and Journal’s golden boy, leaning on the bar next to him. As usual the wee Glaswegian was dressed up to the nines: sharp black suit, silk shirt and tie. He was wide, in a broad-shouldered, muscular kind of way, with a face that took a little getting used to. At least Isobel had tamed down the man’s taste for flashy gold jewellery: instead of the three and a half tons of cufflinks, rings, chains and bracelets he used to wear, Colin was restricted to a single silver band on his left pinkie. Like a misplaced wedding ring. But his watch was still big enough to cover the national debt of a small third-world country. He levered himself up on the next barstool and ordered himself a mochachino latte with extra cinnamon.
‘What you doing here anyway?’ Logan asked. ‘Looking for me?’
‘Nope, got an appointment: wanted to make sure it was on neutral territory. You know how it goes.’ Miller scanned the bar before taking a drink. ‘So then, Laz, how’ve you been, eh? No’ seen you for ages, man.’
‘Not since you gave me duff information on that bloody warehouse, no.’
Miller shrugged. ‘Aye, well, can’t be right all the time, eh? My source swore blind it was kosher, like.’
Logan snorted and washed the last of his fried egg down with a mouthful of beer. ‘And who was that, then? No, don’t tell me: journalistic integrity, protecting your sources, none of my fucking business, etcetera.’
‘Jesus, man, who rattled your fuckin’ cage? Did I no’ keep your name out the papers, eh? You see one story blamin’ you for what happened?’ When Logan didn’t say anything, Miller just shrugged and took another sip of coffee. ‘And I can tell you who my source was this time: Graham Kennedy. Remember him? One of the squatters got all burned up in the fire the other night? He was the one told me about that warehouse bein’ full of nicked gear, like. No point being anonymous if you’re dead.’
Logan groaned. He’d forgotten all about Graham Bloody Kennedy – he still hadn’t told DI Insch about him. One more thing he’d screwed up. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me all this on Wednesday?’
‘Didnae know you was holdin’ a grudge.’ He paused, coffee halfway to his lips. ‘Oops, gotta dash, that’s my half ten appointment turned up.’ He pointed through the bar, up the stairs to the middle level, where a dangerous-looking man in an expensive charcoal-grey suit was scowling at an OAP in an Aberdeen Football Club bobble hat.
‘Who’s the thug?’ asked Logan.
‘He’s no’ a thug, Laz, he’s a “corporate investment facilitator” and if he hears you callin’ him a thug, he’ll break your legs. Policeman or no’.’ Miller forced a smile. ‘If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, start dredging the harbour.’ He waved, gave a hearty hello, marched up and shook the ‘facilitator’s’ hand, then led him off to a quiet corner. Logan watched them for a while, his breakfast congealing, forgotten on the plate. Miller was smiling a lot, laughing more than was probably
