window cracked open and a bleary face peered out. ‘Go away!’
Logan put on his best, friendly smile. ‘Come on Frank, let us in: it’s freezing out here.’
‘I’m not well.’ And it looked like he was telling the truth: dark purple bags under his eyes, a day’s worth of blue-grey stubble stretched across his double chin and pallid cheeks.
‘I can get a warrant if you like?’
The man’s face went even paler, then disappeared. Thirty seconds later a low buzzing sound came from the door lock. They pushed through into the stairwell, marching up to the third floor. Things had changed in the twenty- four hours since they’d searched Garvie’s apartment. Now the word PERVERT!!! was sprayed across the front door in dripping scarlet paint.
Garvie hurried them into the flat, slamming the door and locking it behind him. The tiny hallway stank of disinfectant and the lingering taint of burning paper and excrement. They settled in the dark lounge, curtains drawn, the only light coming from the huge projection screen, with one of the starships
‘Depends on you, sir.’ Logan settled into a matching black armchair. ‘We …’ he trailed off. ‘That new?’ Pointing at a stainless steel hook bolted to the ceiling. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before.
Garvie barely glanced at it. ‘No. What do you want?’
‘Tea with milk would be nice. Rickards, do the honours would you?’ The constable nodded, and headed off into the kitchen. Soon the sound of drawers and cupboards being opened and closed filtered into the living room. ‘We’ve got a problem, Frank,’ said Logan, holding up the Victorian film canisters. ‘When we searched your house we found these.’
Garvie’s eyes flashed up, then back down to his lap. ‘I don’t know anything about those.’
‘They were in your bedside cabinet with your home movies and socks. Ring any bells?’
‘I …’ And then he was silent again.
‘They’re stolen property. Someone broke into ClarkRig Training Systems and made off with these and a number of other items from your exemployer’s private collection. Bit of a coincidence that, isn’t it?’
Garvie stared at the films. ‘I didn’t steal them!’
‘Come on Frank, you knew Clark had these, you knew what they were worth, you broke in and-’
‘I bought them!’
Logan sat back, looking sceptical. ‘Bought them?’
‘From a guy. In the pub. I …’ he coughed, cleared his throat, and tried again. ‘I knew they were Zander’s. I was going to give them back to him. I just … didn’t get round to it …’
‘And does this guy in the pub have a name?’
‘I …’ Garvie’s eyes went back to his curry-stained jogging bottoms. ‘I never met him before.’
Logan stood, shaking his head sadly. ‘You’ve got to be one of the worst liars I’ve ever seen. Frank Garvie, I’m arresting you for possession of stolen goods, you do not have to say anything-’
‘Ron! Ron Berwick. He sometimes sells stuff round the pubs in Bridge of Don — has a place outside Balmedie. I didn’t have anything to do with it, I swear!’
‘Where outside Balmedie?’
And Garvie told them everything.
The afternoon was crisp and clear, frost still dusting the shadowed grass and skeletal brambles like icing sugar. Up above, the eggshell-blue sky faded to hazy white on the horizon, a thin, dark blue line marking the sea, just visible from the small clump of houses nearly eight miles north of Aberdeen. They’d been a farm steading at one point, a wide, horseshoe-shaped, single-storey granite barn for cattle or pigs, but someone had turned them into six terraced houses with lots of varnished wood and dormer windows, a row of single garages sitting off to the left. According to Control, Ronald Berwick lived in the end house, with his wife, three kids and a Labrador.
‘Er, sir,’ said Rickards, wriggling in the driver’s seat of their scabby CID Vauxhall, watching as half a dozen firearms-trained officers piled out the back of an unmarked filthy-white van, ‘is this not a bit …’ He pointed at the men and women scurrying towards Ronald Berwick’s house, dressed all in black: black body armour, black scarves wound round their faces, bulky black helmets on their heads, bent nearly double over their black Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistols, Glock nine millimetres strapped to their hips. ‘Well … over the top?’
‘No.’ It had taken some doing to convince the inspector running the control room to let him have a firearms team, but there was no way Logan was going to have a repeat of what happened last time he’d raided a property for stolen goods. He never wanted to attend another police funeral, let alone be responsible for one.
Two of the black-clad officers flattened themselves on either side of the front door, a third standing ready with the hand-held black battering ram, while the others hurried round the back. A wee boy’s face appeared in the window of one of the houses opposite, nose pressed against the glass, eyes wide. A metallic bleep came from Rickards’ Airwave handset and the lead officer’s voice crackled into the car: ‘
Another bleep: ‘
Logan gave the word and the door was battered off its hinges, falling into the hallway while the three SAS- style bobbies charged inside, shouting, ‘POLICE! ON THE FLOOR NOW! NOBODY MOVE!’ Five minutes later the head firearms officer appeared where the front door used to be and gave the thumbs up. And all without a single shot being fired.
Berwick’s home smelled of fresh paint. There wasn’t a single picture on the walls, the lounge carpet covered with newspapers, a stepladder stood by the electric fireplace, open tins of magnolia sitting next to it. A shout came from the back of the house, ‘I said keep your hands where I can see them!’ followed by a terrified shriek.
Logan hurried through the lounge into a small hallway where a black-clad, gun-wielding PC was pointing her machine pistol in through an open door. ‘I’m not going to tell you again!’ Someone inside whimpered. Peering round the door Logan saw a terrified man in his early thirties sitting on the toilet, trousers round his ankles, bare legs trembling, face pale, eyes screwed shut, and hands in the air.
‘Ronald Berwick?’
‘Please don’t kill me!’
Logan told the constable to lower her weapon. ‘When you’ve finished up there Mr Berwick, I’d like a word with you in the kitchen. And don’t forget to wash your hands.’
The kitchen-come-dining-room was just as bare as the rest of the house, as if someone had stripped the life out of it. A large, American-style fridge sat in the corner, humming away quietly to itself without a single magnet or kid’s drawing to break up the monotony. The walls were equally spartan: no calendar, no knick-knacks, no flowers, nothing.
Ronald Berwick was marched through from the bathroom at gunpoint and forced to make nine cups of tea: six for the firearms squad, one each for Rickards and Logan, and one for himself. He even managed to produce a packet of Penguin biscuits. ‘There we go,’ said Logan as the man jittered his way into a seat at the kitchen table, ‘how you feeling?’
Berwick stared at him. ‘I was having a crap and someone kicked the bathroom door in and stuck a machine gun in my face, how the hell do you think I’m feeling? Scared the shit out of me.’
Logan tried not to smile. ‘I’ve got a warrant to search these premises for stolen goods.’
The man groaned. ‘Great. First Margaret, now this.’ He sagged forwards till he was hunched over his mug, staring gloomily into the depths muttering, ‘Fucking fuck, fuck, fuckering fuck …’
They went through every room in the house, but there was no sign of stolen Victorian sexual ephemera. ‘OK,’ said Logan after one of the firearms officers stuck their head down from the loft hatch to tell him there was nothing in the attic, ‘let’s try the garage then.’
They trooped outside. The little boy who’d watched them break down Berwick’s front door had been joined by his younger sister, staring at the policemen as if they were the most exciting thing to happen round here for ages. By the time Berwick had led Logan and his team to the last garage on the row they were bustling out the door, desperate not to miss a single moment.
Logan let Rickards do the honours, unlocking the red garage door and hauling it up. Inside it was like
