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 checked her watch, thought about it, then said, ‘A large white wine. And some chips. And some fags. Nearly knocking off time.’
‘But—’
‘Look, the papers will run the victim’s photo and the killer’s e-fit tomorrow. All the dentists’ surgeries will be closed by now so we can’t start searching dental records. We’re no’ going to get an ID tonight. The only thing left to do is get the incident room set up, and the admin officer can do that. You and me are going for a pint.’
‘But—’
‘That’s an order, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Archibald Simpson’s used to be a bank before it became a pub. A huge granite edifice on the east end of Union Street, complete with Corinthian pillars, portico, ornate ceiling, shiny brass fittings, chandeliers, and cheap beer. Being just round the corner from FHQ it was the standard police drinking hole after a hard day’s sodding about in the rain.
Steel made Logan get the first round in, taking her usual seat in the aisle just off the main banking floor, in the corner, under the television. One large white wine, two portions of chips, and a pint of Stella. What he really wanted was to go home and get some sleep, but if he did that the inspector would sulk and he’d end up lumbered with all the crappy jobs on the investigation. So he stayed and talked shop, listening to her moan on about her other cases, like the dead tramp they’d found in Duthie Park – natural causes, but no one knew who the hell he was – and the series of housebreakings in Tillydrone, Bridge of Don, and Rosemount. And the man flashing his undercarriage on Guild Street. By the time the chips arrived she was moaning about her girlfriend Susan and how she was always on at her to get a cat, but Steel knew it was just the warm-up act for a baby and she wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.
They got more drinks and the day-shift started squelching in, the pub slowly filling up with off-duty police men and women. Logan knew most of them by name – well, except for some of the younger ones – but he’d only ever seen one of them naked: PC Jackie Watson, marching towards them, bearing beer, a scowl, and tomato sauce flavour crisps.
She plonked herself down next to Logan and offered the crisps round. ‘Jesus, what a shitty day.’
‘And hello to you too.’ Logan grinned at her: the effects of two pints on a nearly empty stomach. ‘We saw Hissing Sid outside the courthouse.’
Jackie scowled. ‘Little bastard. How come every bloody case he’s involved in has to have a press conference on the steps outside FHQ? You know anyone else who does that?’
Logan shrugged. ‘He’s a media whore.’
‘Aye,’ said Steel, polishing off her drink, ‘he’s a whore, but we’re the ones getting screwed the whole time. Anyone for another?’ She took their orders and stomped off to the bar, leaving Logan and Jackie alone.
‘Can you believe he had the cheek to say I assaulted his rapist bastard client while he was cuffed and on the ground?’ Jackie scowled. ‘And get this – they’re saying he was only out jogging. He approached me to “ask directions”.’ She even made little sarcastic quote-bunnies with her fingers. ‘With a knife. Can you believe that?’
Logan knew better than to say anything, just sat there and nodded. Letting her rant. ‘And the bloody media! According to them he’s already been found innocent! Bastards. And the bloody search team couldn’t find their arses with both hands and a map. All through Macintyre’s house and not one bloody trophy. No knickers, no jewellery, nothing. Not a bloody thing!’ There was more, but Logan gradually tuned it out. Jackie just needed to let off a bit of steam: get it out of her system.
Jackie was still going strong when DI Steel wobbled back to the table with a handful of glasses. The inspector clinked them down on the tabletop, with an apologetic, ‘I forgot what everyone wanted, so I got whiskies.’
And slowly, but surely, they all got very, very drunk.
Wednesday morning’s half-seven briefing was a lot more painful than Tuesday’s, but at least this time Logan got to slouch in a seat at the back of the class, while DI Steel grumbled her hungover way through the day’s assignments, finishing off with a subdued chorus of, ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ The whole team joined in, trying to make Logan’s head split in two.
Three cups of coffee later and he was beginning to feel slightly less terminal, even if he was bored out of his pounding skull. The incident room was busy, everyone still all excited and determined to get a quick result, the walls lined with maps and pin-boards and post mortem photographs. The local papers had been full of speculation about Rob Macintyre, but Steel’s unknown body had still managed to make the front page of the P&J. They’d printed the touched-up morgue photo, the killer’s e-fit, and a story that somehow managed to make it all sound like Grampian Police’s fault.
Which wasn’t surprising, considering who wrote it: Colin Miller, the Press and Journal’s star reporter. He certainly knew how to hold a grudge.
Sighing, Logan folded the paper and dumped it in the bin. So far the response had been lacklustre, only about a dozen people had phoned in claiming to know who the dead man was. No one