Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 30

Hot water, soothing away a hangover brought on by too many beers and too many vodkas. Logan stood with his forehead against the cool tiles and let the shower wash over him. What the hell had he been thinking? ‘Summer Nights’ from Grease was not a good song to duet with DI Steel, no matter how drunk you were. His arse was still tender from where she’d pinched it during the caterwauling finale.

Woman had fingers like bloody pliers—

The phone’s shrill ring invaded the steamy peace of the bathroom. Logan shouted, ‘Go away!’ at it, but it just kept going. Only stopping when the answering machine picked up.

He strained his ears, trying to tell who it was, but the ringing just started up again. ‘Oh, for God’s sake …’

Logan wrapped himself in a towel and dripped his way through to the lounge, snatching the phone out of its cradle. ‘What?’

DI Insch’s voice blared in his ear: ‘You were supposed to be at work hours ago!’

‘It’s my day off. So’s tomorrow. I’ve been on since—’

‘Listen up and listen good, Sergeant: you want a nine to five, Monday to Friday job? Go work in a bloody office. You’re supposed to be a police officer!’

Logan closed his eyes and tried counting to ten.

‘Hello? You still there?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. We’ve had a call from an old friend of yours: Angus Robertson.’

Logan froze. ‘What does that little shite want?’

‘Says he’s got information about Wiseman. Said he’ll only talk to you.’

‘Tough: I don’t want to talk to him. Little bastard can rot in his—’

‘Get your arse up to the station, we’re going to Peterhead whether you like it or not.’

The inspector’s Range Rover had developed an overwhelming reek of dog. Lucy, the spaniel responsible, lay behind the grille that separated the boot from the rear seat on a tatty tartan blanket, snoring and twitching as Insch drove them up the A90 to Peterhead. Logan in the passenger seat, Alec in the back, fiddling with his camera.

‘So …’ Alec plugged in a couple of radio mikes. ‘I know this is just meant to be you and him, one-to-one, but think Robertson will let me film it?’

Logan scowled at the scenery drifting past. ‘It’ll all just be bollocks anyway. He’s a nasty, ignorant, murdering wee shite; he doesn’t know anything. This is a complete waste of time.’

Alec scooted forwards, till his head was poking between the driver and passenger seat. ‘But he’s the Mastrick Monster! This’ll make a brilliant scene for the documentary. Fancy doing a quick piece to camera when we get there? Go over the background: why he’ll only speak to you?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, come on, please?’ The cameraman turned to Insch for backup. ‘Inspector, you understand dramatic narrative, we—’

Insch just growled at him: ‘Sit back and put your bloody seatbelt on. I won’t tell you again!’

‘And how come,’ said Logan, poking the dashboard, ‘Robertson suddenly has information about Wiseman? Why should we believe anything he says?’

‘Because they were on the same wing for nearly a year.’ The inspector was starting to go red, but Logan didn’t care.

‘Doesn’t mean they were friends!’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’ said Insch, biting off the words, ‘You’re so wrapped up in your petty little world—’

‘The fucker stabbed me twenty-three times: I died on the operating table!’ Logan wrapped his arms around himself and glowered out the window. ‘Sorry if you think I’m being irrational, but that sort of thing kind of puts a shitter on your day.’

An uncomfortable silence settled into the car. Outside, the green-brown landscape roared by, punctuated with little floral tributes, marking where people had died in road accidents. Insch cleared his throat. ‘Look, I understand this is going to be hard for you, but it happened three years ago: Wiseman’s out there killing people right now. And we need all the help we can get.’

Peterhead Prison wasn’t the prettiest of buildings: an old-fashioned Victorian lump of concrete and barbed wire, home to three hundred and twenty of Scotland’s worst sex offenders and other vulnerable prisoners. People who’d get the shit beaten out of them in any other prison. People like Angus Robertson.

Logan paced back and forth in the little office with ‘THERAPY ROOM – 3’ on the door, trying not to hyperventilate. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans. Christ, it was hot in here, even with the window open.

He turned and looked out through the bars. From here you could see over the high outer wall with its festive topping of razor wire, across the south breakwater of Peterhead harbour, and past that to the North Sea. Dark grey water flecked with white. Sky the colour of ancient concrete. And between the two, seagulls wheeled in lazy circles, waiting for the fishing boats that were becoming rarer every year.

What the hell was taking so long?

His hands were damp again.

Logan nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened. It was a prison officer with a plastic cup of water. She handed it over. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘I want you to know we don’t approve of this. We’ve worked too long and too hard to get Angus where he is. But I’m agreeing to this meeting because there’s a clear and immediate danger to human life. I need you to understand that if you reinforce his negative behavioural patterns, it could put him back years.’ She paused, giving Logan a chance to say something, but he didn’t. ‘I’ll bring him up from the cell block.’ She paused, halfway to the door. ‘We don’t like to handcuff them when they’re in the treatment rooms. Are you going to be OK with that?’

‘Not really. No …’ Logan took a sip of water. ‘We … didn’t get on too well last time we met.’

‘I know. He’s still got the scars.’

Logan tried for a smile, but it wouldn’t stick. ‘Snap.’

She looked him up and down, her voice softening. ‘He really has made a lot of changes. The STOP programme—’

‘I just want to get this over with. OK?’

She shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’

No he wasn’t – because if he were the boss he wouldn’t bloody be here.

Angus Robertson really had changed. The scruffy man in the boiler suit was gone, replaced by an HM Prison mannequin: blue and white striped shirt buttoned up to the chin, a sharp crease in his jeans, black shoes polished till they shone. He’d even slicked back his thinning brown hair.

Robertson sat perfectly still in one of the room’s two soft armchairs, hands folded in his lap. Face expressionless. And when he spoke it was as if something dead had slithered into the room. ‘You’re looking well.’

Logan just stared at him.

‘Why thank you,’ Robertson gave a fleeting smile. ‘I’ve been working out.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Please, I’ve rehearsed this conversation so many, many times. It would be a shame to waste—’

‘What’s with the fake English accent?’

Robertson smiled. ‘Accent?’

‘Fine, I don’t care.’ Logan’s palms were sweating again; the man made his skin crawl. ‘You said you had information—’

‘Ah yes, Kenneth Wiseman. He was in the cell next door. Lovely man. We had many interesting chats about …’ Robertson made a tiny hand gesture. ‘Life and death.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Now, now, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What are you going to give me in return?’

‘Do you or don’t you know where Ken Wiseman is?’

‘Quid pro quo, Sergeant McRae: I want my own meals. Prepared by someone who understands the needs of a gourmet like me, not the boiled crap they serve—’

‘You’re kidding, right? Gourmet? The closest you ever got to being a gourmet was saying “aye tae a pie”. You’re not Hannibal Bloody Lecter: you’re a nasty wee shite from Milltimber.’

‘I want my own chef!’

‘Get fucked.’ Logan stood. ‘We’re done here.’ He was beginning to tremble – adrenaline priming the fight-or-flight mechanism. And right now ‘fight’ was winning – grab the little bastard by the throat and batter his head off the floor till it burst.

‘But … but I made you! I … if it wasn’t for me—’

‘You’re pathetic. A slimy piece of shite who had to kill women before you fucked them, because nothing living would have anything to do with you!’

Robertson clamped his hands over his ears. ‘I didn’t—’

‘WHERE’S WISEMAN?’

‘Stop shouting at me! Stop shouting!’ The fake English accent was beginning to slip, exposing the Aberdonian underneath. ‘I’m no’ a bad boy! I’m no’!’

‘WHERE’S FUCKING WISEMAN?’

‘He told me stuff … about the woman he killed … and the man in the showers … at night, when everyone else was asleep …’

Logan took a deep, shivering breath. ‘I’m not going to ask you again.’

Insch put his foot down, the windswept countryside flying past in shades of grey and miserable. Gusts of wind raked the trees and hedges outside the Range Rover’s windows, making the car shudder as they flew down the A90 to Aberdeen.

‘God, that was bloody brilliant!’ Alec fiddled with his camera and grinned. ‘It’s going to look great when it goes out.’

‘Oh Jesus …’ Logan turned round in his seat. ‘You can’t put that on the TV!’

Alec grinned. ‘They’re going to send me a copy of the treatment room’s CCTV tape.’

‘But—’

‘And Angus Robertson signed a release.’

No surprise there: the little bastard would be desperate for another fifteen minutes of fame.

‘I’ll look like an arse!’

Insch nodded. ‘Yup.’

‘Nah,’ Alec flipped the camera’s tiny viewing screen round so Logan could see it. It was a shot of the CCTV monitor in the security room – where everyone else had gone to watch the interview. ‘We’ll slap in a bit of narration about how you’re playing “bad cop” to get round his defences … maybe get a psychologist in …’ On the screen a little Logan exploded out of his seat and started shouting, his voice tinny through the camera’s built-in speaker. Then a prison officer barged in, claiming that this was setting Robertson’s rehabilitation back years. Alec shrugged. ‘You’ll be fine.’

Logan groaned and went back to scowling at the scenery.

Heather lay back on the smelly mattress and stared up into the blackness. Dark. No sound. No light. No idea of time. Beginning to wonder if she was already dead – if she’d passed away and just not noticed.

She couldn’t even cry any more. She’d lain for what felt like years, bawling her eyes out, sobbing for her husband and child, until there was simply nothing left. Not even—

‘Are you OK?’

Heather screamed, scurrying back into the corner, flailing her arms around, trying to ward off the voice.

‘Jesus, Heather, you look like a complete spaz. Calm down for fuck’s sake.’

‘D … Duncan?’ She peered into the dark. ‘But … you can’t be …’

One minute there was no one there, and the next: Duncan, wearing that goofy smile that always appeared when he thought he’d just done something awfully clever. Like coming back from the dead. ‘Ta-da!’ There was a hole in the top of his head. It glowed bright red, glittering in his hair, making it shine like a scarlet halo.

Heather closed her eyes and punched herself in the stomach again.

‘Come on, Honey, stop it.’

Teeth gritted. Another punch, torturing the already bruised skin.

‘Heather! Stop it! Stop!’ Duncan grabbed her hand. ‘Stop.’

‘Let go of me – you’re dead!’

‘Shhhh … it’s OK, it’s OK.’

‘No it isn’t! I—’

‘Justin misses his mummy.’

‘He …’ Tears ran down her cheeks. ‘He’s alive? Oh thank—’

‘I’m sorry, Honey: everybody’s dead, but you.’

‘Noooooo …’ She went limp and let her dead husband rock her in his arms.

‘Shhhh…’ He kissed the top of her head and she found her tears again. ‘You’ve been through a lot, and you’ve not been taking your pills, have you?’

Heather could barely get the words out: ‘Duncan … I’m … so sorry …’ She cried and cried and cried. Then the sobbing trailed off and she just lay there, being held.

‘There you go, feel better?’ He smiled down at her wet face. ‘I meant what I said: everything’s OK, really.’

She almost laughed. ‘I’m trapped in a little metal box, everyone I love is dead, and I’m talking to a ghost. How is that OK?’

‘I’ll look after you.’

Heather smiled, blinked, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, enjoying the warmth of Duncan’s body. ‘Is this what going mad feels like?’

There was a moment’s silence, then Duncan said, ‘Yes, you’re finally turning into your mother.’

‘You’re such an arsehole.’

‘Don’t you know it’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead?’ But he kissed her head again.

‘You’re still an arsehole.’ She closed her eyes and snuggled into Duncan’s shoulder. He smelt of Old Spice and fresh blood. ‘Did it hurt? Dying?’

‘Shhhh … go to sleep.’

And she did.

Insch leant on the horn again. ‘Get out the bloody way!’ Up ahead the tractor took no notice, just continued to trundle down the A90 at thirty miles an hour, huge globs of mud flying from its rear wheels.

Logan turned up the volume on his mobile phone and stuck a finger in his other ear, trying to hear the voice of Control as Insch launched into another bout of horn blowing.

BREEEEEEEEEEP!

‘—three cars and—’

BREEEEEEEEEEP!

‘What?’

‘Shift it! POLICE!’

‘—no one there when—’

BREEEEEP BREEEEEEEEEEP!

Logan slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Will you lay off it for five minutes? I can’t hear a bloody word!’

The inspector’s face took on its familiar about-to-explode tinge, but at least he was quiet in the run-up to detonation. Logan asked Control to go back to the start, then gave Insch the edited version: ‘They’ve got two cars at the address Robertson gave us.’

‘And?’

‘The bastard lied to us. Wiseman’s not there.’

The inspector swore. ‘Tell them I want the place watched – twenty-four-seven. At least two teams, low profile.’ BREEEEEEEEEEP! ‘Move that bloody tractor!’

Logan passed on the instructions and hung up as the tractor finally indicated and pulled into a rutted, muddy track, the farmer giving them the one-fingered-salute as they roared past.

‘You really think Wiseman’s still got keys to the place?’

Insch shrugged and put his foot down. ‘He better, it’s the only bloody lead we’ve got.’ The inspector’s trousers started singing at them. Insch dragged his mobile phone out, and handed it over. It was all warm. ‘Don’t just sit there: answer it!’

Logan hit the button. ‘DI Insch’s phone.’

A man’s voice, old, rough round the edges. ‘Who’s this?’

‘DS McRae. Who’s this?’

‘Put David on.’

‘He’s driving.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake: half the country uses their mobile phone while driving!’

Now that they weren’t stuck behind four tons of farm machinery the Range Rover was tearing down the road.

‘Well?’ said Insch, ‘Who is it?’

‘No idea.’

‘Tell him it’s Garry Brooks.’

‘It’s a Garry Brooks?’

The inspector groaned. ‘What does he want?’

‘I want to know what he’s doing to catch that bastard Wiseman. Tell him no one down the station’ll talk to me!’

Logan did as he was told. And Insch swore quietly. ‘Tell him we’re working on a couple of leads. I’ll give him a shout when we have something more concrete.’

‘He says—’

‘I heard him! I’m retired, not deaf. Tell him: tonight. Redgarth. Half seven. He’s buying.’ And then the crotchety old man was gone. Logan shut the inspector’s phone and handed it back.

‘He says you’ve got to buy him a pint tonight.’

Insch’s fat hands tightened on the steering wheel. ‘Why didn’t you tell him I couldn’t make it? We’re going to be watching Wiseman’s bolthole! You knew that!’

‘I didn’t get the chance! The old git hung up on me.’

‘That “old git” was policing Aberdeen before you were born!’

Alec scooted forward again. ‘Brooks? Not DCI Brooks? The guy who—’

‘I’m not going to tell you to sit back again, I’m going to slam on the brakes and send you flying through the bloody window!’

‘Come on, you’ve got to meet with him! The continuity’s great – Brooks heads up the investigation in 1987 and now he hands over the torch to his protégé, twenty years later. We get Logan there too and we’ve got three generations of policemen, all dedicated to catching the Flesher, discussing the case over a pint …’

‘No.’

‘Please?’

‘No!’

‘Oh Christ,’ said Rennie, hiding behind a stack of missing persons reports, ‘don’t look now: it’s Grumpy and Grumpier.’

DI Insch and DI Steel were at it again, arguing in front of the big map of Aberdeen that dominated one wall of the main Flesher incident room. From the sound of things Steel wanted to go into the address they’d got from Robertson with all guns blazing. Insch wanted to keep it under surveillance. And while the two of them fought, Alec filmed the whole thing from less than three feet away.

Finally Steel threw her hands in the air and marched out, banging the door behind her.

Insch stood for a moment, like a gathering storm, then marched out after her, with Alec hot on his heels.

‘Bugger …’ Logan got the nasty feeling he was about to win his bet.

He watched the door swing shut, and then Rennie elbowed him in the ribs.

‘Ow, what was that—’

‘Aren’t you going to do something?’

‘Are you crazy? He’d kill me.’

‘But you’re supposed to be—’

‘Fine! OK, I’ll go.’ Logan hauled himself to his feet and out the door, muttering under his breath the whole way.

There was no sign of Insch in the corridor outside, but Logan could hear the stairwell doors battering back and forth on their hinges. He broke into a jog as raised voices echoed down from the floor above.

Insch: ‘You’re being ridiculous, we—’

Steel: ‘God’s sake, I’m just saying, OK? He could still be in there!’

Logan took the stairs two at a time.

Insch: ‘If we tear the place apart, he’ll know. This discussion is over – we’re not going in … Will you get that bloody camera out of my face!’

Alec: ‘I’m just doing my job … hey … where are—’

Logan pushed through the stairwell doors just in time to see Steel march into the gents’ toilet, shouting, ‘Don’t you walk away from me! We’re not finished.’

Logan hurried in after her.

The toilets were a depressing shade of green: three walls painted a nasty institutional spearmint; the fourth – where the long, trough urinal was – done in the same speckled green terrazzo as the floor. But unlike the floor, years of police officers’ piddle had bleached white streaks into the surface, looking disturbingly like dried milk. Or sperm.

Steel stood by the line of cubicles, arms outstretched, preventing DI Insch from disappearing inside. ‘No – we are going to talk about this like adults!’

‘Get out of my bloody way.’

Alec shifted to get a better angle and Insch turned on him: ‘WHAT DID I BLOODY TELL YOU?’

‘I’m just—’

Insch stuck a hand against Alec’s chest and shoved – sending the cameraman clattering back into the urinal trough.

‘Aaaah! Fucking hell—’

Steel stared. ‘Have you gone mental?’

Snarl. ‘GET OUT!’

‘You can’t just—

‘Jesus … I’m covered in piss!’

Insch turned, grabbed Steel by the lapel and shoved her back against a cubicle door. ‘Listen up and listen good, you foul-smelling—’

Logan stepped forwards. ‘Excuse me, sir!’

‘I’m busy. Sergeant.’

‘The Assistant Chief Constable wants to see you in his office.’

‘Tell him I’ll be there in a—’

‘Get your fat hands off me!’

‘He did say it was urgent, sir.’

Silence.

‘Fine.’ The inspector stepped back and let go of Steel. ‘I’m finished here anyway.’

She straightened her jacket. ‘You ever grab me like that again and you will be – I’ll tear your fucking balls off!’

Alec was back on his feet, face a picture of disgust as he shook one foot and then the other, sending little droplets flying onto the grubby, green floor. ‘Fucking piss everywhere! I was only trying to do my job!’

He picked up his camera and wiped it on his sleeve. ‘You any idea how much these bloody things cost? I’m making an official complaint, you can’t treat me like I’m some sort of—’

‘Oh, God …’ Logan saw the punch coming long before anyone else: Insch curled one huge hand into a fist and swung.

Alec didn’t stand a chance. So Logan lunged forwards, shoving him out of the way. The cameraman went sprawling, right back into the urinal again – and that was when Logan realized he’d not thought this through properly.

Insch’s fist whistled through the gap where Alec used to be and clattered into Logan’s face.