you can do about it.”’
Moir-Farquharson shook his head. ‘No, Sergeant, I didn’t ask you what you claim to have heard, I asked if anyone could corroborate it.’
Tick. Tick. Tick …
‘We were alone in the garden at that point, but—’
‘I thought not.’ The smile was wide and white. Good dental work. Couldn’t even see where most of his teeth had been kicked out. ‘So, you assaulted Graham Stirling: headbutting him and breaking his nose. Tried to break his wrist, and then miraculously got this confession that no one else heard.’
The prosecution’s Advocate Depute was on his feet. One arm jabbed out at his learned colleague. ‘Objection!’ Long grey curls swept back from a high forehead and pinched face. Voice a booming Morningside: ‘Sergeant McRae applied reasonable force in restraining a suspect who was vigorously resisting arrest. To paint this as some sort of confession obtained by torture is disingenuous, to say the least.’
Moir-Farquharson held up a hand. ‘My apologies, Milady. No such implication was intended.’
‘Uncorroborated confessions seem to be something of a trademark of your evidence, don’t they, Sergeant? I refer, of course, to the one allegedly obtained by yourself in the back of the unmarked police car.’
Tick. Tick. Tick …
Logan straightened his police-issue T-shirt. ‘Graham Stirling insisted my colleagues leave the car before he would talk.’
‘So no corroboration.’
‘We believed, correctly, that there was a clear and imminent danger to Stephen Bisset’s life. It was important to—’
‘Your statement claims you were told,’ he held up a sheath of paper and peered at it over the top of his glasses, ‘“You will never find the shack without me, it is not on any maps. By the time you find him, Stephen Bisset will be dead.” Is that correct?’
‘It is.’
‘How very convenient …’
‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, is it normal Police Scotland practice to deny a suspect access to a solicitor on their arrest?’
God’s sake …
‘These were unusual circumstances, Stephen Bisset was seriously injured and dying—’
‘You have heard of Cadder versus HM Advocate, haven’t you, Sergeant? Do you make a habit of contravening your suspects’ human rights?’
Tick. Tick. Tick …
‘Sergeant?’
‘We didn’t … I took the decision that, given the time constraints, it was more important to save Stephen Bisset’s life!’
‘I see.’ Moir-Farquharson turned to the jury. ‘So, yet again, ladies and gentlemen, Sergeant McRae decided to ignore procedure, bend the rules, and cut another corner.’
‘To recap: once more, we have only your word for it, Sergeant?’
Deep breaths. Calm.
Logan stared straight ahead. ‘Graham Stirling refused to show me where the shack was, unless DS Rennie and DS Marshall remained behind at the car. My choices were to go with him, or let Stephen Bisset die.’
A sigh. A shake of the head. Then a turn to the jury. ‘Bending the rules, yet again.’
‘I had no choice! And he knew the combination to the padlock, he—’
‘You make a disturbing habit of ignoring procedure, Sergeant McRae. How do we know that your sense of right and wrong isn’t similarly compromised? How far will you go to obtain a conviction?’
‘Objection!’
‘I put it to you, Sergeant McRae, that you nominated Graham Stirling as being responsible for Stephen Bisset’s disappearance and manufactured the circumstances and evidence to fit.’
‘That’s not true. We found evidence that Stephen Bisset had responded to Stirling’s personal ad, seeking sex with what he believed to be a pre-operative transsexual and—’
‘LIAR!’ A young man was on his feet in the public seating area. Shoulder-length black hair, black tie, a shirt that still had the creases from where it had been folded in the packet. Thin face flushed and swollen around the eyes. Spit glowing in the sunlight. ‘YOU’RE A LIAR! MY DAD WOULDN’T DO THAT!’
The Sheriff cracked her gavel against her desk, three sharp raps. ‘Mr Bisset, I won’t tell you again. While the court is sympathetic to your distress, it—’
‘YOU’RE A LIAR!’
The young woman sitting next to him grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back down into his seat. She had the same dark hair, the same thin face. ‘David, don’t …’
‘DAD WASN’T A PERVERT!’
Another three raps. ‘That’s enough, Mr Bisset. This court isn’t—’
‘MAKE HIM TELL THE TRUTH!’
‘Clerk, I want this man removed.’
And all the way through it, Graham Stirling didn’t move. He sat there, still, silent. Blinking slowly. A million miles away as his victim’s children were escorted from the room.
‘Are you denying that you threatened to kill Graham Stirling, Sergeant McRae?’
Logan’s fingernails dug into the pale wood of the witness stand. ‘I did not threaten to kill him.’
‘Really?’ A look of surprise. ‘So you deny saying, “I should kick the living shit out of you”?’
Tick. Tick. Tick …
‘Sergeant?’
‘I don’t remember. I’d just discovered Stephen Bisset. He’d been—’
‘How about this one. Did you, or did you not tell your superior officer, “I need an ambulance and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree”?’
Logan hunched over the sink. Drips fell from his face, making ripples in the water that spread out in overlapping rings. He dug his hands into the basin again and sploshed more on his face. Cold against his skin. Leaching away the burning heat.
Bastard.
The court toilets were clean enough, filled with the scent of air-freshener and disinfectant.
Another faceful of water. Letting it drip back into the bowl. All those overlapping circles, knotting together then fading away, leaving nothing behind to show that they’d ever existed.
His phone buzzed on the surface between the sinks. Then the ‘Imperial March’ sounded.
DCI
