continuing. ‘He made dirty movies for Crocodildo Films, which is how our very own PC Rickards was able to identify him.’
A sudden barrage of wolf whistles and off-colour comments were thrown in Rickards’ direction – the constable looked mortified. He went even redder when Steel started talking about Jason Fettes’ bondage set. ‘So,’ she said, as Logan clicked the screen onto a picture of the rubber romper suit, laid out on the incident room floor, ‘we need to start asking around the sex shops and wherever else it is the bondage crowd hang. Like Ellon. And Westhill.’
While the inspector spoke, Logan kept an eye on Rickards: it seemed as if he was about to say something, but thought better of it.
‘Current theory: this was a sex game gone wrong, so Fettes probably went home with this person of his own free will. There’s no blood at the victim’s house, so they must have gone to Mr Moustache’s bondage bachelor pad.’ Click and the e-fit appeared.
‘We’re pretty sure the victim was contacted through this site …’ Steel paused, waiting for Logan to catch up – the image behind her changing to a pink and black website called ‘BONDAGEOPOLIS!’. ‘Fettes had an advert on there, the IT guys found a copy on his hard drive …’ She paused and dug out a printout from the briefing pack, reading aloud: ‘Real life porn star seeks switch for no-holds-barred action.’
It was DC Rennie who stuck his hand up. ‘What’s a switch?’
‘Well,’ said Steel, ‘let’s ask our resident sexpert.’ She stared at PC Rickards, until he came out with, ‘It’s a BDSM term: someone who can be either dominant or submissive. Top or a bottom.’ Blushing furiously as most of the room started making ‘bottom’ jokes.
‘OK,’ the inspector tipped the embarrassed constable a wink, ‘that’s enough out of—’ Rennie’s hand was up again. ‘What now?’
‘BDSM?’
‘Bondage, Domination and Sadomasochism. Pay attention, for God’s sake. See Constable Rickards afterwards if you want a demonstration.’ More laughter. Gradually a sense of order returned, but the rest of the briefing was marked by giggles and sniggering. Now that this was ‘death by misadventure’ rather than murder, it didn’t seem quite so … serious. When Steel called the meeting to a close, Rickards was the first one out the door.
‘You should go easy on him,’ said Logan as the last few people wandered off, ‘I get the feeling he’s not exactly seeing the funny side.’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ She rolled her eyes and dug out a packet of cigarettes, shaking them, then peering inside. ‘What is it with bloody prima donnas in this place? OK, OK, I’ll talk to him. Can I at least have a fag first?’
While the inspector was off sacrificing a lung to the gods of nicotine, Logan went looking for Jackie, finding her in the same place as yesterday: covered in dust, down in the basement archives.
‘How’s it going?’
She looked up and shrugged. ‘Same shite, different day. You?’
‘I got to tell someone their son had been killed.’
‘Shite too, then.’ She scribbled something in her notebook then slid a set of case files back on the shelf. ‘You hear about Macintyre? Hissing Sid’s got him an interim hearing. Says he has “new evidence”. We’ve got to present tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow.’ Jackie slammed another box down on the concrete floor. ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable isn’t it? Things you can get away with if you’re famous.’ She yanked the lid off and dropped it at her feet. ‘I tell you, if that slimy lawyer bastard gets Macintyre off I’m going to make his life a living hell. Him and Macintyre both.’
Logan believed her. ‘You want to go get something to eat tonight? We could try that tapas bar on Union Street? Get a bit squiffy? Go home and fool around?’
‘“Squiffy”? What the hell is this, Five Go Mad in Mastrick? I don’t get “squiffy”; I get paralytic, shit-faced, drunk. Maybe tipsy at a push.’ She grinned at him. ‘But the rest of it sounds fine.’
Only Logan never got that far.
Half past seven and the rain was coming down like icy nails, bouncing off the rutted car park floor, misting in the headlights as Logan pulled up and killed the engine. The sun had set long ago, leaving behind a cold, bleak night; Brimmond Hill was a dark mass looming above them, only the winking red lights on the transmitter at the summit giving any indication of where the top was. And even then it was lost in the downpour most of the time. Alpha Two Zero was parked at the far end, blue and white lights rotating lazily, made fuzzy by the rain.
DI Steel sat in the passenger seat, listening to it drumming on the car roof. ‘Buggering arse-monkeys. We’re going to get soaked …’ She pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes, automatically offering one to Logan, before remembering he didn’t any more and lighting one up herself. She pointed her lighter at the burnt-out hulk sitting between the two cars. ‘They sure it’s his?’
Logan nodded, coughed, then rolled down his window, letting the smoke out. The steady hiss and clacker of rain hitting the gorse bushes, heather and potholes oozed in. ‘The silly sods found the thing on Tuesday, didn’t put two and two together because it wasn’t blue.’ Which was fair enough, the burnt-out hulk was an off-grey-brown colour, mottled with black. ‘They only ran the chassis number this afternoon so they could issue a fixed-penalty notice to the owner for dumping it here. Someone recognized Fettes’s name.’
Steel swore. ‘We could have had an ID two bloody days ago!’
Logan just shrugged.
Someone clambered out of the patrol car opposite, turning up his collar and hurrying towards them, the rain drumming on his peaked cap as a dirty, battered-looking white Transit van bumped its way into the car park. The constable bent down and stuck his head through Logan’s open window. ‘You want us to cordon off the scene before the IB get started?’ he asked, dripping.
Steel squinted at him through the smoke. ‘No bloody point now, is there? Everything’ll be washed away! Why the hell didn’t you call it in when you found the sodding thing?’
The constable shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me: I was off sick!’
‘Fine, yes, go. Cordon to your heart’s content.’ She scowled as he scurried off. ‘Fat lot of bloody good this’ll do us: damn thing looks like a charcoal briquette. You imagine any forensic evidence lasting through that, and all this?’ indicating the torrential rain.
‘Not really, no. But at least now we know that whoever did it is local.’
Steel nearly choked on her fag. ‘Come on then, Miss Marple, astound me.’
‘They spotted the Volvo on Tuesday night, yes? That means it was dumped and burned on Monday night/early Tuesday morning. Whoever did it was able to get home from here without a car.’
Grudgingly, Steel admitted he had a point – Brimmond Hill wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere, but it was close – anyone setting fire to the car they drove up here would be facing a long, slow trek into town. ‘Kingswells?’ It was on the other side of the hill.
‘Maybe,
