Logan pointed at the inspector’s cigarette. ‘They’ll throw a fit if you light up in here.’
‘Jerry Bloody Cochrane – silly sod went and died on us, so now every bastard under the sun wants to know what we’re going to do about it.’ She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and stuffed it back in the packet. Then took it out again. ‘Shite – why the hell did I have to get this sodding case, why couldn’t Fatty Insch have it instead? He should be used to PR disasters by now. I don’t need any more horrible cases …’ she trailed off as she finally noticed Logan’s suit and shirt were clarted in dried blood. ‘Oh fucking hell! Could you no’ have changed? We’re on in seven minutes!’
‘I was at the hospital!’
‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck …’ She screwed her face up, then stared at DC Rennie. ‘Right, the pair of you: find somewhere quiet and swap clothes. You’re both about the same size.’ Rennie opened his mouth to complain, but the inspector beat him to it. ‘NOW!’
There was no one in interview room number three so they used that – Logan grimacing his way out of his shirt, jacket and trousers while Rennie stripped down to his Fred Flintstone boxer shorts, took one look at Logan’s bruised ribs and scar-spangled stomach and said, ‘Bloody hell – you look terrible.’
Logan couldn’t muster up the energy to scowl at him. ‘Thanks a heap.’
He got back to the briefing room with thirty seconds to spare and limped up to DI Steel. ‘Happy now?’ he asked, making it clear that he wasn’t. If he sat down too quickly, there was every chance he and his borrowed trousers were going to part company. She gave him a quick once-over.
‘You’ll do. But could you no’ have combed your hair? You look like a burst bloody mattress.’ Which was rich coming from her. Logan did his best with his fingers. Steel nodded. ‘Better. Did you get—’ The doors at the far end of the room banged open and the Chief Constable marched in. ‘Oh bollocks – God’s here.’ Deep breath. ‘Right, remember: we are not at home to Mr Fuck-up …’
The table was longer than usual, set up so there’d be room for a Family Liaison officer and a pale, sixty-eight-year-old woman with puffy red eyes and trembling hands: Mrs Cochrane, the victim’s wife. Logan waited for her to sit down before taking his place next to DI Steel, lowering himself carefully into his chair, trying not to aggravate his bruised ribs or split Rennie’s trousers.
‘Right,’ the Chief Constable stood, his silver hair glowing like a shampoo commercial in the bright television lights, ‘before we start today I want to make one thing crystal clear: Mrs Cochrane has had a terrible shock today. She’s lost her husband of nearly fifty years. She’s here because she wants to help us catch those responsible. But the first person I hear making inappropriate comments or asking tactless questions is going to get thrown out on their ear and barred. Do I make myself clear?’ There was an uncomfortable silence. The CC nodded. ‘Good.’ And sat down again.
‘Today, at eleven minutes past twelve a pregnant woman shopping in the St Nicholas Centre was accosted by a gang of children, ranging from six to nine years old. They tried to steal her purse, but she resisted, so they subjected her to a vicious assault. Mr Cochrane went to intervene on her behalf …’
Logan didn’t need to listen to the rest, he’d been one of the first ones on the scene – having nipped out to buy a sandwich and bag of crisps from Markies for lunch. Hearing the screams, running through the jumpers and trousers into the shopping centre, just in time to see Sean Morrison help himself to the old man’s wallet and scarper. Calling for backup, running over to the victim, trying to staunch the bleeding. Telling the store detectives to keep pressure on the knife wound till the ambulance got there, then chasing after the little bastards. And not catching them.
He listened to Mrs Cochrane make an impassioned plea for anyone who knew where her husband’s killers were to come forward and tell the police, tears sparking in the harsh media spotlight, running down her pale, lined cheeks. And then the Chief Constable thanked her for her bravery and threw the briefing open to questions.
Mostly it was the usual: ‘Do you have any suspects?’ ‘Are you anticipating any arrests?’ Then the woman from Sky News asked the Chief Constable about the trial of Iain Watt: was he going to be charged with the other rapes supposedly committed by Rob Macintyre?
The Chief Constable glowered at her – the ‘Granite City Rapist’, as the papers had started calling Watt, was a something of a sore point. And with that, the press briefing was brought to an abrupt close.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
