still be in the cells.’
‘And that’s one pound fifty you owe the swear box.’
‘No I don’t.’
‘Yes you do. One “bloody” one “bastard” and a “shite”. Fifty pence each.’
The inspector opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘You are such a…’ Scowl. ‘Well, you called Pirie a wanker!’
She had him there.
Down in the cell blocks, the sound of someone yelling echoed around the concrete and breezeblock walls. ‘POLICE BRUTALITY! HELP! SOMEONE CALL A LAWYER! FUCKING BASTARD FUCKERS! HELP!’
Steel stopped on the stairs. ‘Maybe we should come back when things are a bit less shouty?’
‘You want me to do it?’ asked Logan, one hand on the stairwell door.
‘Oh aye, and take all the credit? No thank you.’ She pushed past him into the depressing grey corridor.
‘POLICE BRUTALITY!’
One of the Police Custody and Security Officers was standing in the middle of the cellblock, grinding her teeth.
‘What’s all this then?’ said Steel. ‘You been beating up our prisoners again? How often do I have to tell you that’s CID’s job?’
‘POLICE FUCKING BRUTALITY!’
The PCSO gave cell number six a filthy look. ‘Says he found a pubic hair in his tea. As if! Lucky we give the bastards breakfast at all. Next time he’s brought in I’m farting on his rowie.’
‘Come on then, Celebrity MasterChef, which one’s Rory Simpson in?’
‘He’s not—’
‘WHAT ABOUT MY BLOODY HUMAN RIGHTS?’
The PCSO banged on the cell door with the palm of her hand. ‘WILL YOU SHUT UP!’ There was a moment of blessed silence. ‘Rory Simpson’s been here since Friday afternoon so he got dibs on an early court hearing. They took him first thing. Got released on bail – trial date’s been set for three weeks.’
‘Oh for fff…’ Steel ground to a halt. ‘I mean, oh dear.’ She turned and marched back towards the rear doors. ‘Rory’s a creature of habit: he’ll go straight home from court, pausing only to pick up a wee bottle of brandy and a packet of custard creams to make himself feel better. We’ll pick him up there. Not a problem.’
Wrong.
According to the Police National Computer, Rory Simpson rented a top-floor flat in a seventies development in Ruthrieston – not too far from Great Western Road, but just far enough from the local primary school to avoid breaching the exclusion zone required by his registered sex-offender status. The block was three storeys of bland, white-painted concrete – about two dozen flats in total – the walls streaked with grey and patches of green mould.
Logan abandoned their CID Vauxhall in the empty car park out back, then they worked their way round to the front of the building, avoiding the collection of broken wheely bins. The contents were being artistically spread all over the tarmac by a pair of cackling magpies.
‘So,’ said Logan, ‘why the sudden desire for a swear box?’
‘Told you, language in the department is appalling. Supposed to be professionals…’ The inspector drifted to a halt. They’d reached the building’s front door. The lock had been ripped right out of the wooden frame. She placed a hand against the door and pushed – it swung open on a tatty stairwell.
DI Steel peered inside. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’
Logan reached out a hand and pressed the buzzer marked ‘R SIMPSON’. An electronic grinding noise sounded from somewhere above.
No answer.
‘Maybe we should call for backup?’
‘You always want backup.’
‘Yeah? Well look what happened last time.’
She stepped across the threshold and started up the stairs. ‘We’ll just take a quick peek.’
Logan watched her disappear into the gloomy hallway. Swore. Then followed her. ‘Still say this is a bad idea…’
Whoever the landlord was he hadn’t wasted any money making the block of flats look homely. The stairwell and landings were bare concrete, the walls a cheap shade of builder’s magnolia.
Rory’s flat was right where the computer said it would be. The front door was hanging from a single hinge, wide open, exposing a hallway cluttered with broken furniture and crockery.
‘That’s it,’ Logan dragged out his phone, ‘I’m calling for backup.’
But Steel was already heading inside.
‘Damn it.’ He snuck in after her, mobile clamped to his ear, waiting for Control to pick up.
The hallway led onto a lounge that looked like a bombsite. Everything was smashed. The small bedroom was the same, drawers torn from the bedside cabinets, their contents scattered about the place. A loose mosaic of Polaroids spilled from the upturned bed onto the floor – all little girls in their school uniforms. Albyn School, Robert Gordon’s, Springbank Primary, Victoria Road, Hamilton… All these and many more. Rory seemed to like it best when they were running around the playground, especially if he could capture a flash of white pants.
Steel picked her way through the devastation to the window, looking out at the magpies and their collage of nappies and takeaway food containers. ‘You know what I think? I think our Rory’s nasty little habits finally caught up with him. Some outraged parent finds out there’s a paedophile living next door and decides to do something about it.’ She looked down at the Polaroids. ‘Can’t say I blame them.’
They searched the rest of the flat, but there was no sign of its owner. Or his battered body. The inspector found a brand-new half bottle of supermarket brandy lying on the carpet behind the broken front door. ‘It’s no’ been touched… Better get a couple of uniforms over here sharpish. I want everyone in the building given the full Spanish Inquisition, and don’t spare the thumbscrews.’
Logan took another look around the lounge. ‘You’d think there’d be signs of a struggle.’
Steel pointed at the broken picture frames, the upturned sofa, the smashed CDs, the television set with a coffee table embedded in it. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No. You attack someone, they fight back, a couple of things get knocked over; broken. This place has been trashed. If they had Rory, why do all this? And why isn’t there any blood?’
Shrug. ‘Maybe… Well… How the hell am I supposed to know?’
‘I
