‘They talked to me like I was a fucking child! OK? Like I’d done it on purpose! Like I was just some stupid bloody woman who couldn’t keep her big mouth shut!’
‘Come here.’ Logan helped her to her feet, then wrapped her in his arms.
The shit hit the fan, first thing Thursday morning – Logan could smell it as soon as his copy of the Press and Journal was delivered at ten past seven. TOLD YOU I DIDN’T DO IT! was the headline, above a photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly, big-eared head. Logan read the article in the kitchen, his cup of coffee going cold beside him. There was a brief account of how DI Steel and local police ‘hero’ DS McRae had charged a known sex offender with one of the rapes Macintyre was supposed to have committed, leaving the footballer in the clear. According to the paper, Macintyre’s legal team were going to the Sheriff Court to have the whole case abandoned. And last, but not least, was a nice big quote from Sandy the Snake telling everyone how this just went to prove that his client had been the victim of a cynical campaign by Grampian Police.
Logan didn’t need to look at the by-line to know who’d written it: Colin Bloody Miller rides again. He noticed for the first time that the word ‘hero’ Miller always attached whenever he mentioned Logan in the papers now came in ironic single quotes. Grimacing, he sluiced the last filmy remnants of his morning coffee down the sink and went to work.
DI Steel wasn’t there, so Logan had to start the morning briefing without her. Again. She slouched in five minutes before the end, complaining about having to go see the ACC first thing. Logan finished up then looked expectantly at her. ‘Anything you’d like to add, Inspector?’
‘Damn right …’ She held up a clenched fist. ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ Silence. ‘Come on people, we’re not leaving here till you do it. We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ And this time everyone joined in, Logan trying not to groan as Steel went into her, ‘I can’t hear you!’ routine. Eventually she’d had enough and told them all to get their backsides in gear. Logan hung back as they filtered out.
‘Did you see the paper this morning?’
Steel nodded. ‘Why do you think the ACC hauled me into his office? The Fiscal goes off on holiday with a lovely cast-iron case against Macintyre and twenty-four hours later it’s falling apart.’
‘They’ve still got the other six rapes to do him on.’
‘Phffff …’ She pulled out her cigarettes and stared morosely into the packet. ‘Yeah, but this thing with Watt’s going to make a jury itchy: we were wrong about Laura Shand, who’s to say we’ve not fucked up the other ones too? And all the time Rob Macintyre will be sitting there like an ugly wee angel with Hissing Sid polishing his halo for him.’ She shook her head. ‘Tell you, Insch might be a grumpy fat bastard, but I’d no’ wish that case on anyone.’
She pulled herself out of her seat and performed an elaborate stretch, ending with a grimace. ‘If anyone asks I’m off for a fag. You got anything on this morning?’
‘Laura Shand’s coming in at ten for the ID. Other than that: nothing.’ It wasn’t until the words were out that he realized his mistake. Steel now had an excuse to give him something to do.
‘Good, you can go chase up the IB for those results on Watt’s house, see if the little sod isn’t responsible for more of Macintyre’s victims. And while you’re at it, get some more bodies on that e-fit, someone must know who he is!’ She stopped for a moment and had a thoughtful scratch. ‘And chase up whatever slack bastard’s going through the dental records; tell them to get a shift on. This is a murder investigation, no’ a slumber party!’
The constable responsible for coordinating the dental records search was sitting behind a small desk in the corner of the incident room, surrounded by piles of paper. PC Rickards, phone clamped to one ear while he scribbled something down on a form. Logan waited till he’d hung up. ‘Well, any luck?’
Rickards scrunched up his face and sighed. ‘Needle in a haystack. Most of these dentists have about three thousand patients on their books, and the inspector wants me to check every dental practice from Dundee to Peterhead. It’s taking forever.’
‘You’ll get there.’ Logan turned to leave, but Rickards grabbed his sleeve.
‘Er, sir …’ lowering his voice to a whisper, ‘I was wondering about the victim …’ A blush started at the white collar of his police shirt, rapidly turning his face the colour of boiled ham. ‘Does … does he have a scar on his backside?’
Logan frowned. ‘Hang on.’ He went and dug the post mortem report out of the filing cabinet, flicking through it to the exterior examination. There were two diagrams of the body: front and back, marked up with the burns, cuts, ligature marks, contusions, and scars.
‘Well?’ Rickards asked.
‘Left or right cheek?’
The PC thought about it for a moment. ‘Left.’
‘Got it in one.’
‘Then I think I know who he is.’
DI Steel had her feet up on the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, and an unlit cigarette bobbing about between her lips as she spoke. ‘So how come Rickards recognizes this guy’s arse then? He been there?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Says he saw it on one of the DVDs they confiscated from that brothel raid. He’s getting it out of evidence now.’
‘Excellent. Nothing like a spot of hardcore porn in the morning to set you up for the day!’
They convened in the board room, Rickards fighting with the DVD player while Steel examined the case. ‘James Bondage?’ She peered at the small print on the back, holding it at arm’s length to get it in focus. ‘Hey, this is shot in Aberdeen! Brilliant! Never knew we had our own dirty film industry.’
The constable sat back on his haunches and smiled as the TV flickered into life. ‘They do quite a few titles. Not bad actually, once you get past the accents. They …’ He drifted to a halt as he turned and saw the look on DI Steel’s face. Then he went bright red. ‘I mean, that’s what the guys we arrested said. Em …’ He coughed, fidgeted, then said, ‘We’re, em … ready to go …’
‘I’ll bet you are.’ Steel plonked herself down on the end of the conference table as the screen faded to dark blue, then there was a copyright notice, and a warning that this presentation had been rated R18 by the British Board of Film Classification. And then the production company logo appeared and Logan couldn’t help laughing: CROCODILDO FILMS LTD! featuring what could only be described as a rampant, battery-operated reptile. And then the titles started, along with a thinly-veiled pastiche of the James Bond music.
Rickards stabbed the buttons on the remote control, and everything whirred into fast forward: sports car, house, what looked like Balmedie beach, people whizzing about at sixty-four times normal speed. Suddenly the screen filled with pink and the inspector shouted, ‘Play! Press play!’, but Rickards didn’t.
‘It’s coming up in a minute.’
‘But I want to see this bit!’ More cars, a fancy house, a brunette in a bikini, a fat man with a goatee, and then more pink. ‘Oh come on! Let us see something!’
‘Just a … this is it!’ Rickards hit play and the jerking figures settled into something more recognizable. And explicit. It was clearly meant to be a take-off of the old ‘Secret Agent is captured and tortured for information before being left alone to escape’ routine. Only this time the man in the tuxedo was being strapped, face down, onto a customized