shit came at me, crying about his mummy.’
‘Not think you’re in enough trouble, Ken?’
‘What are they going to do: arrest me?’
Fair point.
‘I’ve got a message for you. From DI Insch.’
‘Let me guess: he’s going to kill me? Only way I’m getting out of Peterhead Prison’s in a body-bag?’ Wiseman snorted. ‘Heard it all before. His mate Brooks said the same thing. Look what happened to him.’
Silence.
‘He says he’s sorry.’
The ex-butcher frowned, sat back in his seat and pursed his lips, looked down at the handcuffs holding his left wrist to the plaster cast on his right, then up at the camera bolted to the wall. ‘What for?’
But there was no way Logan was going on record saying Insch assaulted a prisoner, even if it was seventeen years ago. ‘I want to talk to you about your confession.’
‘Thought that’s what we were talking about.’
Logan pulled the plastic envelope from his pocket and placed it on the desk. ‘“I did it. I did it and I am sorry. I did not mean to hurt her, but I did. There was a lot of blood—”’
‘I know what it says.’
‘“Afterwards I did not know what to do, so I proceeded to dispose of the body by cutting it up—”’
Wiseman lurched forwards, banging his grubby fibreglass cast on the scarred tabletop. ‘I said I know what it fucking says!’
Logan smiled. He’d just been using the confession and Richard Davidson’s assault as an excuse to pass on Insch’s message, but somehow he’d managed to hit a raw nerve. The butcher was so blasé about everything else… ‘Who was she?’
‘She wasn’t anyone. I made it up. It’s what they wanted to hear. They said they’d—’
‘Remember Angus Robertson? The Mastrick Monster?’
‘I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.’
Logan pointed at the interview room, the camera, the officer standing by the door. ‘Prison, remember: not a social club. Robertson said your cells were next to each other. That late at night you’d tell him about the woman you dismembered and the guy you beat to death in the showers.’
‘You going to take Roberson’s word for it? Lying little bastard killed fifteen women—’
‘Who was she?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Your car boot was full of blood.’
‘And you’re full of shite.’
Another sip of horrible coffee. ‘Why did you run, Ken?’
‘You deaf? I said …’ It seemed to take him a moment to catch up with the change of subject. ‘What was I supposed to do? Sit around and wait for that fat wanker to stitch me up again? Like last time?’
‘Someone’s still out there killing people.’
‘My heart bleeds.’
‘Who was she? The woman?’
‘Fuck. You.’
Logan tossed his plastic cup of plastic coffee in the bin, a little geyser of milky brown erupting as it hit the bottom. ‘Fine. Lie all you want, but I’m going to find out.’
Wiseman burst out laughing. ‘Oh, big scary policeman!’
‘Get him out of here.’
Logan made it back to FHQ just in time see a line of Grampian’s finest disappearing into the boardroom. DI Steel, loitered at the back, scowling at him. ‘What did I bloody tell you?’
‘Traffic was awful, OK?’
She grabbed his arm, speaking in a sharp, smoky whisper, ‘Listen up: you follow my lead in there – no volunteering information, no verbal diarrhoea, no pointing bloody fingers. We present a united front to these Weegie bastards. Understand?’
A voice from inside: ‘Inspector? We’re ready to start.’
‘Just a minute.’ And back to whispering again, ‘Everything was done by the book.’
‘Thought this was supposed to be a review to help us identify new ways to tackle the case.’
‘Oh don’t be so sodding naïve. What do you think they’ll do to Insch if they think he cocked this one up? Give him a pat on his fat arse and a big bag of sweeties?’
That voice again: ‘Inspector?’
‘Remember – everything done by the book.’ She turned and pulled Logan into the boardroom. ‘Sorry, sir, DS McRae was having difficulty tying his shoelaces and I had to supervise.’
DCS Bain waved them towards a pair of empty seats. ‘When you’re quite ready.’
Logan settled in beside Steel, and … oh … fuck was the only word that sprung to mind. The Strathclyde contingent were at the head of the boardroom table. The DCI they’d sent up to run the case review sat in the middle – red hair, sharp suit, statuesque in a mid-forties kind of way; to her left was a bearded sergeant with a face full of acne scars; and on her right, taking notes, was PC Jackie Watson. Fuck, fuck, and thrice more: fuck.
‘Will you sit down? Making me feel sick, pacing about …’ Steel was onto her second stick of nicotine gum, chewing with her mouth open as Logan marched up and down the history room. Pretending to read a witness statement from January 1988.
‘Why did it have to be her?’
‘Why do you think? She’s got a foot in both camps, she knows all our dirty little secrets and – look either you sit your arse down or I’ll twat you one.’
‘Didn’t look at me the whole meeting, as if I was a bloody stranger.’
‘Hell hath no fury like a ballbreaker scorned.’ Steel puffed out her cheeks and tried to blow a bubble with her gum. No luck. ‘What time is it?’
‘Twenty to five.’
‘Time for one last cuppa before we hit the pub then. Get them in, eh?’
Logan started collecting the mounds of dirty mugs. ‘Can’t tonight, I’ve got a prior appointment.’
‘Oh aye? Hot date? Randy Rachael from the PF’s office sniffing around again, is she? Or have you got yourself an eighteen-year-old nymphomaniac like Rennie? Trying to make Watson jealous, are we?’
He wasn’t rising to that. ‘Faulds kept saying we should go see Trinity Hall, speak to someone in the Flesher’s Incorporation about the original investigation. I got an appointment with their Boxmaster.’
‘What is he, a superhero? Boxmaster and Carton Boy, saving the world from the evil forces of plastic packaging?’
‘Sort of a cross between deputy club president and accountant, I think.’
‘And this can’t wait till tomorrow?’
‘Only time the guy could make it. You want tea or coffee?’
‘Surprise me.’
When Logan got back from the canteen, Alec was slumped in one of the visitor chairs, moaning about DCS Bain. ‘You know where I spent all day? Bored off my tits filming meetings. Yesterday too.’
Logan handed the inspector’s coffee over.
‘Ooh, ta.’ Steel took a slurp. ‘That’s what you get for following Bain about, isn’t it? Should have stuck with the A-team, you disloyal bastard.’ She swept a hand through her startled-terrier hair. ‘We’re much