out of the dirty white van and started fighting with the blue plastic scene-of-crime tent, trying to get it up over the scorched wreck, ‘there’s no need to look so damn pleased with yourself – it doesn’t get us any closer to catching him, does it?’ She rolled down her window and pinged the last tiny nub of her cigarette out into the rain. ‘Beginning to wonder if this whole case isn’t a waste of time. Isn’t like Fettes was battered to death, is it? He was into kinky sex. It went wrong. He died.’ She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and sighed. ‘The poor sod on the other end didn’t do it on purpose, did they? Can you imagine having to live with that on your conscience?’
There was silence as they watched the IB getting drenched trying to protect trace evidence that probably wasn’t there any more.
‘This is such a bloody waste of time,’ said Steel at last. ‘Come on, let’s get the hell out of here. If they find anything they’ll call us.’
They didn’t.
Quarter to nine in the morning was far too early to be hanging about outside a licensed sex shop on Crown Street, waiting for it to open. But Logan didn’t have any choice – this was where DI Steel wanted to be. She was sitting in the passenger seat, munching her way through a packet of Bacon Frazzles, a tin of Irn-Bru sitting on the dashboard in front of her. A thin drizzle misted the windscreen, slowly turning the granite tenements a darker grey to match the sky. Logan yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, then settled down into his seat, wondering if it’d be OK to have a quick nap. Steel poked him in the shoulder. ‘Heads up,’ she said, pointing through the windscreen at a small bald man with glasses, all bundled up against the cold, carrying a big bunch of keys.
The shop was discreet, just a frosted window with the words SECRET TIMES etched on it in powder pink. The little bald bloke hunted through his keys, then squatted down and took the padlock off the roller grille covering the entrance. They waited until he’d unlocked the front door before climbing out of the car and into the cold drizzle.
Inside, Secret Times was lined with videos, DVDs and moulded latex. Mr Bald was in the process of peeling off his coat. ‘We’re no’ open till ten,’ he said, without a smile.
‘Now is that any way to greet a valued customer, Frank?’
‘Eh?’ The man took off his rain-misted glasses, polishing them on the corner of his cardigan, before putting them back on again. ‘Inspector Steel! How nice t’see you again.’ This time he did smile, showing off a huge number of perfect white teeth, as if they’d come out of a packet. He cast a quick look at Logan, then back to Steel, lowering his voice to a stage whisper: ‘I’ve no’ got that thing in for you yet. They say it’s still out of stock.’
Steel shook her head. ‘I’m no’ here about that, Frank. I need to know if you’ve seen this bloke.’ She waited for Logan to pull out a copy of the e-fit picture – baseball cap, round face, glasses, huge moustache, goatee beard.
The bald man took the picture and frowned at it. ‘Fit’s he done?’
‘None of your business. Recognize him? He’ll be one of the BDSM crowd.’
Frank peered some more then handed it back. ‘Nope. But we get a few of them in here; you want I should ask around?’
‘Couldn’t hurt.’ She turned to leave then froze on the doorstep, turning back. ‘And try lighting a fire under your supplier, eh? I’m in my sexual prime here, no point wasting it, is there?’
They tried the other licensed sex shops in Aberdeen, then had to make a last-minute dash back to FHQ for a meeting Steel had forgotten about with the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID. ‘If anyone asks,’ she said, jumping out of the car, ‘we were detained questioning a suspect, OK?’ And then she was gone, scurrying into the building, complaining about not having time for a cigarette all the way.
Logan parked the car.
Up in the incident room, things carried on as normal – occasional telephone calls from public-spirited idiots claiming to have seen a blue Volvo estate, others who said they knew who the man in the e-fit was, some with alternative IDs for Jason Fettes, and a couple who actually claimed to have seen him shopping in Boots that morning. Even though he was still lying in a refrigerated drawer down in the morgue.
Logan sat with the admin officer, a skeletally thin woman in her mid-forties, going through the reams of actions churned out by the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, and assigning them to the available officers. After that he went through the progress reports. And then, with nothing else needing his attention, wandered off to the archives to see how Jackie was getting on. Only she wasn’t there.
Up at the reception desk, Big Gary looked at him as if he’d been dropped on his head as a child. ‘She’s in court, you idiot – they’ve got that special hearing thing for Macintyre.’
‘Sodding hell.’ He’d forgotten all about it.
‘If you hurry, you can still go cheer on your beloved.’ Gary dunked a KitKat in his huge mug of tea, then sooked off the melted chocolate. ‘Eric says she’s next up.’
Court One was a lot busier than normal – the public galleries crammed with people here to see Sandy Moir-Farquharson trying to get Rob Macintyre off with rape. The place always made Logan think of a converted cinema: magnolia walls, balcony and stalls, the screen replaced by a tall wooden platform topped with pillars and a portico, and above all that the royal coat of arms keeping watch over the proceedings. Even if it was covered with elastic bands, presumably pinged up from the floor below when the court was empty and no one was watching. An oval podium sat in front of the bench, the court clerk and his assistant on one side facing the unwashed masses, the prosecution and defence on the other – looking up at the Sheriff in his robes and silk drop.
Normally all this would have been done in a little room round the back, behind closed doors, but the defence had requested a hearing in open court and to everyone’s surprise Sheriff McRitchie had agreed. According to station gossip it had something to do with his being a lifelong Dons fan in search of an extra season ticket.
Hissing Sid was in full flow as Logan sneaked in the back doors and found a seat at the end of a row, right behind DC Rennie. The constable was wearing his ‘court appearance’ suit – the one that always made him look like the accused, rather than a police witness.
Logan inched forward and whispered in Rennie’s ear: ‘How’s it going?’
The constable turned and gave him a pained look. ‘Not good. I thought Insch was going to tear Hissing Sid a new one when he started banging on about police bias and harassment.’
Logan pointed at the dock where Jackie glowered down at Sandy the Snake as he postured and played to the court. ‘How’s she doing?’
‘Well … she’s not hit anyone yet.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, you see, Milord,’ said the lawyer with a flourish, ‘every time Grampian Police have investigated my client they have been forced to drop the charges, because the malicious claims of these women have been proven groundless. My client is an irritation to Inspector Insch and his ilk: an innocent man they can’t “fit up” with—’
The
