to rule on it, just smiled his oily smile and apologized. ‘I merely meant that while we all have our crosses to bear, Grampian Police seem to have their axe to grind …’
Logan scanned the court. It didn’t take long to make out the huge, angry figure of DI Insch, looking as if his head was about to explode. He was going to be a nightmare to deal with after this. Rachael Tulloch – the deputy fiscal left in charge while the PF was off sunning herself on a beach in the Seychelles – wasn’t looking any happier, sitting at the central desk next to the prosecution scribbling furiously while Moir-Farquharson put on his one-man show.
The lawyer held up a clear plastic evidence pouch so everyone could see the contents. ‘Can you identify this item, Constable Watson?’
Jackie nodded. ‘It’s the knife Macintyre attacked me with.’
The lawyer smiled. ‘That would be for a jury to decide, Constable. You say he attacked you with this knife, but your labs couldn’t find a single fingerprint from my client on it. Could they?’
‘He was wearing gloves.’
‘So you have no proof at all that this knife belongs to my client, or that he’d ever used it?’
‘He attacked—’
‘Please answer the question, Constable.”
‘We … we have no empiric evidence, but—’
‘You have no evidence.’ He turned and faced the Sheriff, smiling up at the man. ‘They have no evidence, Milord. My client was out jogging in preparation for tomorrow’s match against Falkirk and stopped this woman to ask for directions. She attacked him.’
‘That’s a load of—’
‘Constable!’ Sheriff McRitchie waggled his gavel at her. ‘I will not warn you again!’
Jackie shut her mouth and seethed.
‘Thank you, Milord. You assaulted Mr Macintyre, didn’t you, Constable Watson? Even after you had nearly crippled him, cracked two of his teeth, and had him handcuffed on the ground – you assaulted him!’
‘Boll …’ she stopped herself. ‘I restrained him: that was all!’
‘You kicked him in the ribs, it’s in the photographs!’ Hissing Sid held the glossy eight-by-tens up as proof.
‘He fell. Ask DC Rennie.’
‘You’ve been warned for excessive force before, haven’t you, Constable?’ And that was how it went for the next five minutes: he attacked Jackie’s credibility as a witness, made her out to be little more than a thug with a warrant card. She looked ready to throttle him by the time he was finished.
‘Milord,’ he performed a slow pirouette, and pointed at the footballer, sitting all prim and proper like a good boy, holding his mum’s hand, ‘Robert Macintyre is an upstanding member of this community, a hero to many, an inspirational figure to children everywhere, a man who works tirelessly for local charities. We all heard Constable Watson admit that there is no evidence against my client. I’ve shown that the identifications obtained from these so-called “victims” are flawed to say the least. Let’s not forget that Grampian Police were adamant that Laura Shand was attacked by Robert Macintyre, yet now we find that someone else has confessed to that crime. And most important of all: my client has an alibi for each and every night these rapes are supposed to have taken place. Milord, given all these facts, I have to ask why this frivolous and malicious case is being pursued. Surely it behoves the Procurator Fiscal’s office to cease these proceedings before they waste even more of the taxpayers’ money.’
The Sheriff pursed his lips, cogitated for a moment, then asked the Deputy PF if she had anything to add at this point. Rachael Tulloch didn’t look happy as she stood to say she’d have to consult with her superiors. She’d pulled her long, frizzy, not-quite-red hair back in a severe ponytail and it was beginning to unravel along with her case.
There was an exasperated sigh, then the Sheriff called for a half-hour recess.
Jackie marched down from the stand, glaring at Hissing Sid the whole time. The lawyer just turned his back on her and shook the hand of his smiling client. ‘Can you believe this shite?’ she demanded, back at the prosecution bench. ‘Where the hell did Macintyre get an alibi from?’
‘His bloody fiancée,’ said the Deputy PF, groaning. ‘She now swears blind he was with her every night. Why does stuff like this always have to happen when the PF’s away?’
Jackie stared at the footballer with his expensive suit and sticky-out ears. ‘He’s going to walk, isn’t he.’ It wasn’t a question.
The Deputy PF scowled and dug out her mobile phone. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’
Logan slumped in the visitor’s chair on the other side of DI Steel’s desk, while the inspector battered away at her computer keyboard. ‘Oh, cheer up for God’s sake,’ she told him, ‘it’s not the end of the world, is it?’
He shrugged and went back to staring out at the grey granite bulk of Marischal College. The misting drizzle had given way to heavy rain, bouncing off the jagged spires, hammering down on the black tarmac streets and concrete pavements. Drenching the just and unjust alike.
‘You know,’ Steel stopped typing for a moment, ‘I remember when Macintyre was a kid, wee bugger was never out of trouble, but you could always rely on his mum to lie for him.’ Putting on a broad Aberdonian accent for, ‘“Oh, no, he couldnae hiv burnt doon yer man’s sheddie, he wiz with me a’night!”’
‘Arson’s a long way from rape. And it’s his fiancée this time, not his mum.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve got to start somewhere, haven’t you?’ The inspector finished typing with a flourish. ‘Right, they’ve cut our manpower budget, but I think we can still do this if we concentrate on the bondage scene and porn merchants.’ She smiled and hoicked her feet up onto the desk, scattering a small pile of reports. ‘I tell you, Laz, I’ve got a really good feeling about this one. We’re going to get a quick result. I can feel it in me water.’
Three weeks later.
Logan skidded to a halt, scanning the empty street. Nothing but parked cars, a skip full of builders’ rubble, and the rain. No sign of Sean Morrison, or any of his nasty little friends. Shite. He did a slow turn, trying to figure out where the wee bugger had got to. He’d been right behind Sean all the way down North Silver Street; nearly lost him in Golden Square when some idiot in a people carrier reversed out without looking; and now Logan was standing halfway down Crimon Place with blood all down the front of his suit, and Sean Morrison was nowhere to be seen.
It was all residential on the right-hand side of the street – flats at one end and small terraced houses at the other, their granite walls contrasting with the dark-glass-and-concrete office units opposite. Logan was pretty sure Sean hadn’t gone into one of the
