the post-mortem results are in.’ He reached the opposite pavement. New plan: cross the bridge, down the steps onto Shore Lane, and he could go around the back of the Castlegate. Sneak into Divisional Headquarters via East North Street. ‘Giving a bunch of arrogant sexist tossers a dose of the squits doesn’t change any of that.’
A long slow breath. Then, ‘Thanks, Sarge.’
‘Besides, I double-dosed DS Dawson this morning.’
‘Urgh … I know I said I wanted to kill him, but I didn’t mean we should actually—’
Whatever she said next, it was drowned out. ‘YOU!’
Logan stopped. Turned.
The young man from the court – the one with the long black hair – was climbing out of the taxi. Glaring at him. ‘YOU LYING BASTARD!’ Stephen Bisset’s son.
Great, because today wasn’t special enough.
‘Sorry, Janet, got to go.’ Logan hung up. Put the phone back in his fleece pocket. Held his hands out. ‘I need you to calm down.’
He’d loosened his tie and it dangled around his neck like a waiting noose. ‘YOU LIED. WHY DID YOU LIE?’
His sister clambered out of the taxi behind him. Close up, she was obviously younger than him. Barely a teenager. ‘David, come on, we spoke about this. If you calm—’
‘I WILL NOT CALM DOWN!’ His face was heading an unhealthy shade of reddish-purple, tears streaking his cheeks. ‘DAD IS NOT A PERVERT!’ He stormed down the hill towards Logan, hands curled into fists. ‘YOU LIED!’
For God’s sake …
‘I didn’t lie. We followed the trail of messages, that’s how we found your dad. He—’
‘SHUT UP! YOU SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!’
His sister caught up with him, grabbed his arm like she’d done in court. ‘You have to stop this.’
‘No! He lied, Catherine, he lied under oath!’
‘It’s OK, it’s OK. Shhh …’ She tried to pull him back towards the taxi, but he wouldn’t budge. ‘Come on, David, let’s go home. Please?’
Logan backed off a step. ‘Look, I’m sorry if it upsets you, but I didn’t lie. I did everything I could to get your dad back safe and sound.’ Yeah, because that worked.
David Bisset bared his teeth, forced the words out between them as if they were made of acid. ‘You call that safe and sound?’ He jabbed a finger in the rough direction of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. ‘Do you? HE’D BE BETTER OFF DEAD!’
‘I know it’s difficult, but—’
‘LIAR!’ David Bisset shook his sister off and lunged, fists swinging. Wide and amateur. No idea what he was doing.
Logan sidestepped, grabbed one of the flailing arms and twisted it round behind David’s back. Slapped his other hand down on David’s elbow, locked the wrist into place and closed the gap. Reached out and took hold of the other shoulder and pulled him upright.
Classic hammer lock and bar.
‘LET GO! LET GO YOU—’
Logan put the pressure on.
‘AAAAARGH!’
‘Calm down.’
The girl, Catherine, snatched at the sleeve of Logan’s fleece. ‘Please, he didn’t mean anything, he’s upset, please don’t hurt him.’
‘GET OFF ME!’
‘Are you going to calm down?’
‘Please, it’s not his fault. He’s upset … We all are.’
David went quiet. Breath hissing in and out through his gritted teeth.
‘Are we all calm? David? Are we good?’
She chewed on her fingernails. ‘David, please don’t …’
His breathing slowed. He stopped struggling. His head dipped. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘OK.’ Logan released his grip. Stepped away. ‘No harm done.’
David leaned against the granite wall of the nearest building, one hand rubbing his abused shoulder. He stared down at his feet. ‘Dad’s not a pervert.’
‘If it’s any help, I know what it’s like—’
‘No.’ His jaw tightened, the words barely making it out between gritted teeth. ‘You don’t. You don’t have any bloody clue.’
Deep breath. ‘My girlfriend fell.’ Logan turned and pointed down Marischal Street, at the top-floor flat that belonged to someone else now. ‘Right there. Five storeys, straight down. Four years in a coma. I know what it’s like to have someone you love hurt and stuck in a hospital bed, unable to move or talk.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s horrible. And it’s not fair. And it stinks. But he’s still your dad.’
David glared back, mouth a hard trembling line.
Then his sister took his arm and led him back towards the taxi. ‘Come on, David. Let’s go home. It’s OK.’
‘He’s not a pervert …’
‘I know.’
They climbed back into the taxi, him hunched over, one hand wiping the tears from his eyes, her rubbing his back between the shoulder blades.
Logan stood where he was as the taxi drove past him.
David was in full flood now, face screwed up, back heaving. But his sister stared out of the window, her eyes locked on Logan’s. Face dead and expressionless.
And then they were gone. Down to the bottom of Marischal Street and left, disappearing onto Regent Quay.
Graham Stirling ruined more than Stephen Bisset’s life, he screwed up Bisset’s kids too. Screwed them up so much they might never get past the sight of their father lying on his back in the High Dependency Unit with tubes and wires hooking him up to machines and drips and bags.
Four months and he’d barely moved. Hadn’t said a word. Just lay there.
A small shiver danced across the back of Logan’s neck.
Four months as a stump of a man, waiting for death. And Logan couldn’t even put the bastard who’d done it behind bars.
David Bisset had been right to have a go at him.
He deserved it.
Logan’s seat rattled as the big diesel engine changed down to climb the hill. Outside the windows, granite tenements shone in the afternoon light. Trees glowed green and gold. Roses made frozen scarlet fireworks in gardens.
He dug into his carrier bag and pulled out the first tin of beer. Still cold from the chiller cabinet. Little beads of condensation prickling on the metal surface. He clicked the tab, took a deep swig. Ground his teeth together and swallowed. Bitter. Which fitted perfectly.
The number 35 was nearly empty. A couple of oldies sat up front near the driver. Neither of them talking – him buried in his newspaper, her staring out of the window. Leaving Logan with most of the bus to himself.
Another swig.
Bloody Sandy Moir-Bloody-Farquharson.
What the hell was he supposed to do: let Stephen Bisset die?
He took his peaked cap off the seat next to him and stuffed it in the carrier bag. Followed it up with the epaulettes off his T-shirt. OK, so the sleeves still had ‘POLICE’ embroidered on them, but rolling them up a couple of turns hid that. Now he was just another skinhead, dressed in black, drinking cheap beer at the back of a bus. Glowering out at the city as the driver took