at the FHQ car park as a black BMW pulled up and a smug-looking bastard climbed out into the rain and a barrage of questions. Sandy Moir-Farquharson, defence lawyer extraordinaire: tall, well-dressed, with greying hair, a slightly squint nose, and a junior to hold his brolly for him. Rob Macintyre got out of the back seat and bounced along beside him, grinning from ear to ear – despite the swollen lip Jackie had given him – in a very expensive-looking charcoal-grey suit, his trademark ruby earstud twinkling in the camera lights. It was a blatant rip-off of other, much more famous footballers from the English leagues, only Macintyre’s was red, Aberdeen Football Club’s team colour. Finally a large, grey-haired woman emerged from the car wearing a triumphant, satisfied smile – the one who’d been shouting at Big Gary last night.
Standing beneath an umbrella purloined from the lost and found, Logan grimaced. ‘This doesn’t look good.’
DI Steel snorted, arms crossed, face screwed up tight. ‘Never does when Hissing Bloody Sid’s involved.’
The lawyer raised his arms and the crowd of journalists fell quiet. ‘I am delighted to say that the court has agreed to give my client Mr Macintyre the opportunity to challenge these ridiculous charges in a court of law.’
‘Wonderful,’ Steel dug in her pockets and came out with a packet of cigarettes, ‘we’re prosecuting the little sod, and he’s making out it’s all their idea!’
‘Mr Macintyre’s innocence,’ said the lawyer, ‘will be proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, and Grampian Police will be forced to put an end to their hateful campaign to ruin his reputation once and for all. We can only assume that someone up there,’ he pointed at the looming black-and-white hulk of FHQ, ‘really doesn’t want Aberdeen to win the Scottish Premier League!’ That actually got a laugh. And then the questions started, all of them fielded by Sandy Moir-Farquharson before his client could open his mouth: ‘Will you be playing this Saturday against Falkirk?’ ‘What does your fiancée say about all this?’ ‘Is it true you’ve been offered a place with Manchester United?’ Only one journalist asked about this not being the first time Macintyre had been accused of rape, but Sandy ignored her, answering a much more cuddly question about Macintyre’s upcoming marriage instead. The only person who seemed to have noticed was Macintyre’s mum, who spent the rest of the conference scowling furiously at the woman who’d dared to bring up her son’s past.
The lawyer took a couple more questions, then led a smiling Macintyre – and his mum – back to the waiting BMW. They disappeared in a flurry of flash photography. DI Steel took a long sniff, then spat out into the rain. ‘Slimy wee shite. And we thought Insch was in a bad mood before. He’ll be fucking apoplectic now.’ She set a lighter to her cigarette, the smoke getting trapped inside the brolly. ‘Speak of the devil …’
Insch strode down Queen Street, coming back from the Sheriff Court, face set in an ugly line, his huge, fat body barely shielded from the rain by a massive golf umbrella. Someone stepped out in front of him – thin, bearded, glasses, looking furious – and the inspector paused, then grabbed the man by the arm and steered him in through the main doors to FHQ. Logan caught, ‘It’s him isn’t it? Why the hell are you letting him go? What’s wrong with you people—’ before the doors shut.
Steel stayed outside to finish her fag while Logan hurried in out of the rain to make sure everything was ready for the briefing, keeping his head down as he passed Insch and the angry man, not wanting to get involved. Ignoring the inspector as he promised to put Macintyre away for a long, long time.
Four o’clock and the briefing room was full of men and women in uniform, a handful of detective constables in suits, and an overweight detective sergeant eating cheese and onion crisps. There was still no sign of DI Steel so Logan did the roll call. Then the introduction. Then the background. He was just launching into the CCTV footage when she turned up with the Assistant Chief Constable in tow. Trying not to look as pissed off as he felt, Logan got one of the CID blokes to turn off the lights. ‘Right,’ he said, pressing play as Steel and the ACC found seats, ‘this was taken at twelve minutes past ten last night.’
The large screen behind his head flickered and the entrance to Accident and Emergency appeared. An ambulance sat in front of the doors, lights off and nobody home. Then a ratty old Volvo estate shuddered to a halt, half mounting the kerb, the driver an indistinct blob behind the steering wheel. The blob unclipped its seatbelt, wrenched the door open and leapt out of the car. Logan hit pause and everything stopped. ‘Blue jeans, black trainers, grey hooded top, dark green baseball cap.’ The face was invisible, hidden in the cap’s shadow.
‘The car’s number plate’s been purposely obscured – probably with electrical tape – so all we have is make and model. I’ve put out a lookout request for a blue or green Volvo estate: the details are in your briefing packs.’ He paused and looked around the room, trying to make eye-contact with as many people as possible. ‘The backseat’s soaked in blood, so the killer will either try to hide the vehicle, or get rid of it. We need to find it first!’
He pressed play again and the hooded figure sprinted round the front of the Volvo, opened the rear passenger door, and dragged the dying man from the back seat. Then jumped back into the car and got the hell out of there.
‘This,’ said Logan as the picture became a fuzz of static and white lines, ‘is the camera at the security barriers …’ The screen settled into a shot of a bright orange booth with a uniformed old man in it, reading a newspaper. He looked up, smiled and waved as the Volvo slowed down. The driver wound down his or her window and slipped the ticket into the machine. A brief pause, the barrier slid up, the Volvo drove off, and the guard went back to his paper.
‘So we have a witness. If you turn to the back of your pack, you’ll find an e-fit.’ Logan switched off the video and clicked on the projector. Behind him a computer-generated identikit picture sprang onto the screen: round face, big moustache, glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee. ‘According to our security guard the suspect has an Irish accent—’ A uniformed constable stuck up her hand. ‘Yes?’
‘Northern or southern Irish?’
‘He says it was like that thick priest on Father Ted, so southern. Our suspect was calm enough to exchange a few words about the weather, even though he’s just dumped someone who’s bleeding to death outside A&E.’
Logan hit the button and the e-fit disappeared, replaced with a post mortem photo of the dead man’s face. ‘This is our victim. And this is what the killer did to him …’ Click – and everyone in the room squirmed.
Logan worked his way to the end of the briefing, finishing up with everyone’s teams and assignments, then DI Steel creaked to her feet and told them all the Assistant Chief Constable wanted a word. ‘Now then,’ said the ACC, going for a friendly smile, ‘as you know, the health of our officers is of primary importance to us all …’
When at long last everyone was gone, Steel slumped into a chair at the front of the room, head back, groaning at the flickering fluorescent lights. ‘God, that man’s hard work.’
‘I had to start without you.’
Steel nodded. ‘I saw. Well done you. Top of the class. I would’ve been on time, but the rotten sod was hanging about outside the women’s toilets. Pervert. Had to tell him what we were up to.’ She worked a hand under her jacket and fiddled about in her armpit. ‘Concerned about the health of their officers … If they think I’m going to take part in their stupid “Fit Like” programme they can kiss my sharny arse!’
Logan finished tidying up. ‘Where do you want to start?’
Steel
