Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin - Stuart MacBride - Страница 28

The atmosphere in the car never got much beyond polite as they made their way through the remaining bookies on Logan’s list. WPC Watson called him ‘sir’ and answered his questions, but she never volunteered anything unless it was directly pertinent to the case.

It was a crappy afternoon.

They slogged their way from the car to one betting shop after another.

‘Have you seen this man?’

‘No.’

Sometimes the ‘no’ came with a free ‘fuck off’ and other times the ‘fuck off’ was silent. But it was always there. Except for the owner and staff at J Stewart and Son: Bookmakers est. 1974 in Mastrick. Who were surprisingly nice to them. Disturbingly, suspiciously nice.

‘Jesus, that was freaky,’ said Logan as they clambered back into the car. ‘Look, they’re still smiling at us.’ He pointed through the windscreen at a large woman with ratty grey hair tied into a bun on the top of her head. She waved back.

‘Seemed nice enough to me,’ said Watson, negotiating the car out of the car park. It was the most she’d said for about an hour.

‘You never met Ma Stewart before?’ asked Logan as they headed back towards the station. When WPC Watson didn’t reply he took that as a no. ‘I arrested her once,’ he said as they drifted onto the Lang Stracht, the wide road carved up into bus lanes and weird pseudo-box-junctions liberally sprinkled with bollards and pedestrian crossings. ‘Pornography. She was peddling it to school kids out the back of an old Ford Anglia. Nothing too heavy – no animals or anything like that. Just good old-fashioned German hard-core. Videos and magazines.’ He snorted. ‘Half the bloody children in Mastrick knew more about sex than their biology teacher. We got called in when this eight-year-old asked if you could get pregnant from fisting.’

A small smile flickered round the corners of WPC Watson’s mouth.

The offices of the Press and Journal went by on the left and Logan winced. With all the excitement and panic of being put in charge of the bin-bag case he’d forgotten all about Colin Miller’s visit this morning. He still hadn’t talked to DI Insch about the reporter’s request for an exclusive. And Miller said he had more information on ‘Geordie’ too. Logan pulled his phone out to call DI Insch, but didn’t get any further than punching in the first two numbers.

A crackly voice boomed out of the radio. Someone had beaten up Roadkill.

They hadn’t meant it to go this far. That was what the ringleaders said when questioned by the Police and the Press. They just wanted to make sure their children were safe. It wasn’t right, was it? A grown man like that hanging around the school gates. And it wasn’t the first time he’d done it either. Most afternoons he was there, just when the kids were getting let out. And he wasn’t right in the head. Everyone knew he wasn’t right in the head. He smelled funny. It wasn’t right.

So what if he got roughed up a little bit? It wasn’t as if they’d meant it to go that far. But kids were missing! You know: kids. Kids like the ones that went to Garthdee Primary School. Kids like theirs. If the police had come sooner it wouldn’t have got out of hand. If they’d come when they were called, none of this would have happened.

So when you really thought about it, it was all the police’s fault.

The man sitting on the other side of the interview table had seen better days. Yesterday for example. That was the last time Logan had set eyes on Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill. He’d been pretty tatty-looking then, but at least his nose hadn’t looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Bruises were already running rampant across his face and one eye was swollen shut, the skin an angry purple. His beard was clean and spiky on one side where the hospital had washed away the dried blood. His lip was swollen up like a sausage and he winced every time he smiled. Which wasn’t often.

The accusations levelled against him by the ‘concerned parents’ who’d beaten him up were too serious to ignore. So as soon as he was released from Accident and Emergency, he had found himself in police custody. And he fitted the Lothian and Borders profile: white male, mid-twenties, mental health problems, menial job, no girlfriend, lives alone. The only error was the claim that he wouldn’t do well academically. Roadkill had a degree in medieval history. But, as Insch said, see how much bloody good that had done him.

It had been a long, difficult and convoluted interview. Every time it looked as if they were about to get some sort of consistent statement out of Roadkill off he’d go on another rambling tangent. All the time gently rocking back and forward in his seat. As Roadkill was mentally ill they’d had to drag in an ‘appropriate adult’ to make sure everything was above board, so a social worker from Craiginches Prison had to sit next to Roadkill as he rocked and rambled and smelled.

The interview room stank to high heaven. Eau de Rotting Animal and BO Pour Homme. Roadkill really, really needed a bath. DI Insch had grabbed the first opportunity to get the hell out of there, leaving Logan and the social worker to suffer while he went off to check on Roadkill’s incoherent statement.

Logan shifted in his seat and wondered for the umpteenth time where the inspector had got to. ‘Do you want another cup of tea, Bernard?’ he asked.

Bernard didn’t say anything, just went on folding a bit of paper in half and in half again. And, when it was folded so tight it was a little solid lump that couldn’t be folded any more, he unfolded it carefully and started all over again.

‘Tea? Bernard? You want some more tea?’

Fold. Fold. Fold.

Logan slumped in his seat and let his head fall back until he was staring at the ceiling. Off-grey ceiling tiles, the pockmarked kind. The ones that looked like the surface of the moon. God this was dull. And it was going on six! He was supposed to be meeting WPC Jackie Watson for a quiet drink.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

Logan and the social worker complained about Aberdeen Football Club’s latest performance for a bit before lapsing into gloom and silence again.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

Six twenty-three and the inspector stuck his head round the interview room door and asked Logan to join him in the corridor.

‘You get anything out of him?’ asked Insch when they were both outside.

‘Only a really nasty smell.’

Insch popped a fruit pastille into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. ‘Well, his statement checks out. The council van drops him off after work in the same place just before four every day. They’ve been doing it for years. He gets the four twenty-two bus to Peterculter, regular as clockwork. Wasn’t hard to find a bus driver who remembered him, the smell’s hard to forget.’

‘And the bus stop is—’

‘Right outside Garthdee Primary School. Apparently he used to go to school there, before he went mental. Probably feels safer with a familiar routine.’

‘And did any of our “concerned parents” bother to ask him why he was there every afternoon?’

Insch snorted, and helped himself to another pastille. ‘Did they bollocks. They saw a ragged-arsed bloke who smells funny, hanging about outside the school and decided to beat the crap out of him. He’s not our killer.’

So it was back into the smelly interview room.

‘Are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell us, Mr Philips?’ asked Insch, settling back down into his chair.

There wasn’t.

‘Right,’ said the inspector. ‘Well, you’ll be happy to know we’ve managed to corroborate your version of events. I know you’re the one who was attacked, but we had to make sure the accusations against you were groundless, OK?’

Fold. Fold. Fold.

‘OK. I’ve asked the council to make sure that you get dropped off somewhere else after work from now on. Further along the road. Nowhere near the school. The people who attacked you aren’t very bright. They might decide to have another go.’

Silence.

‘We’ve got their names.’ It hadn’t been hard, the silly sods had identified themselves with pride! They’d taken a paedophile off the streets! They’d saved their kids from a fate worse than death! That they’d just committed criminal assault didn’t seem to cross their minds. ‘I’d like you to make a statement so we can press charges.’

Logan recognized his cue and pulled out a notepad, ready to take down Roadkill’s complaint.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

The paper was getting loose along the seams where it’d been folded again and again. A perfect square flapped away from one corner and Roadkill scowled at it.

‘Mr Philips? Can you tell me what happened?’

Carefully the battered man pulled the square of paper free and placed it in front of him. It was perfectly lined up with the edges of the desk.

And then he started folding again.

Insch sighed.

‘OK. How about the sergeant here writes down what happened and you can sign it? Would that make things easier?’

‘I need my medicine.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Medicine. It’s time for my medicine.’

Insch looked at Logan. He shrugged. ‘They probably gave him some painkillers at the hospital.’

Roadkill stopped folding his paper and placed both hands on the desk. ‘Not painkillers. Medicine. I need to take my medicine. Or they won’t let me go to work tomorrow. They wrote me a letter. I have to take my medicine or I can’t go to work.’

‘It’ll only take a few minutes, Mr Philips. Perhaps—’

‘No statement. No minutes. Medicine.’

‘But—’

‘If you’re not going to arrest me, or charge me, I’m free to go. You can’t force me to make a complaint.’

It was the most lucid thing Logan had ever heard him say.

Roadkill shivered, hugging himself with his arms. ‘Please. I just want to go home and take my medicine.’

Logan looked at the tattered, bruised figure and put down his pen. Roadkill was right: they couldn’t force him to make a complaint against the people who blackened his eye, split his lip, loosened three of his teeth, cracked one of his ribs and kicked him repeatedly in the goolies. They were his goolies after all. If he didn’t want the people kicking them to be punished, it was his call. But Grampian Police weren’t about to just turn him loose on the street either. The stupid people would still be out there. And by now the Press would be too. ‘LOCAL MOB CAPTURES KIDDIE FIEND!’ No, ‘mob’ sounded too negative. These violent, stupid people were heroes, after all. ‘PARENTS CAPTURE COUNCIL PAEDOPHILE!’ Yes, that was much more like it.

‘Are you sure about this, Mr Philips?’ asked Insch.

Roadkill just nodded.

‘OK. Well in that case we’ll get your possessions returned and DS McRae here will give you a lift home.’

Logan swore very quietly. The social worker beamed, glad not to have been lumbered with the task. Smiling from ear to ear, he shook Logan’s hand and made good his escape.

While Bernard Duncan Philips was signing for the contents of his pockets, Insch tried to make it up to Logan by offering him a fruit pastille. It would be going on half-seven, eight before he got back into town. He’d have to tell Jackie he was going to be late. With any luck she’d wait for him, but after this afternoon’s performance that was far from certain.

‘So he’s definitely not our boy, then?’ said Logan, accepting the sweet grudgingly.

‘Nope. Just some poor mad smelly bugger.’

They stood and watched the battered and bruised figure as he painfully bent down and rethreaded his shoelaces.

‘Anyway,’ said Insch, ‘got to go. It’s curtain up in an hour and a half.’ He patted Logan on the shoulder and turned on his heel, whistling the overture.

‘Break a leg,’ Logan told the inspector’s retreating back.

‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Insch gave a cheerful wave, without turning round.

‘No seriously,’ said Logan. ‘I hope you fall and break your bloody leg. Or your neck.’ But he waited until the door had closed and Insch was well out of earshot.

When Roadkill was finally reunited with his personal possessions Logan forced a smile onto his face and escorted him to the car park at the back of the building. A flustered-looking PC grabbed them just as Logan was signing for yet another car. ‘Desk sergeant says you’ve got another two messages from a Mr Lumley.’

Logan groaned. The Lumley’s Family Liaison Officer should have been handling these calls. He had enough on his plate as it was. He felt guilty almost immediately. The poor sod had lost his son. The least he could do was return the man’s phone calls. He rubbed at the headache growing behind his eyes.

‘Tell him I’ll see to it when I get back, OK?’

They went out the back way. The front of Force Headquarters was all lit up, television camera spotlights making everything stand out in sharp relief. There were dozens of them. Roadkill’s face was going to be all over the country before the end of the day. And it didn’t matter if he was innocent or not, by breakfast time tomorrow half the nation would know his name.

‘You know, it might be a good idea if you took a couple of weeks off work. Let the idiots forget about it?’

Roadkill had his hands wrapped round the safety belt, tugging it gently every six seconds, making sure it was still working. ‘Need to work. Man has no purpose without work. It defines us. Without definition we do not exist.’

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘OK. . .’ The man wasn’t just schizophrenic: he was crazy.

‘You say “OK” too much.’

Logan opened his mouth, thought better of it and closed it again. There was no point arguing with a crazy person. If he wanted to do that he could go home and talk to his mother. So instead he drove them through the fading rain. By the time they’d reached Roadkill’s small farm on the outskirts of Cults it had stopped entirely.

He took the car as far up the drive as there was road. The council clear-up crew had been hard at work all day. Two large metal waste containers loomed in the car’s headlights. They were each the size of a minibus, their yellow paintwork chipped and scratched, sitting in the weeds next to steading number one. Huge padlocks kept the container doors shut, as if anyone was going to break in to get at the rotting animal corpses inside.

Logan heard a small sob from beside him and realized the padlocks were probably a good idea.

‘My beautiful, beautiful dead things. . .’ There were tears running down Roadkill’s bruised cheek into his beard.

‘You didn’t help them?’ Logan asked, pointing at the containers.

Roadkill shook his head, his long hair swinging back and forth like a funereal curtain. His voice was tortured and low.

‘How could I help the Visigoths sack Rome?’

He got out of the car and walked over the trampled weeds and grass to the steading. The door was lying open, letting Logan’s headlights fall on the bare concrete floor. The piles of dead animals were gone. One steading down, two more to go.

Logan left him sobbing gently outside the empty farm building.