lurking about outside Rob Macintyre’s house?’
McGillivray peered out between his arms. ‘I’m no’ well, man, no’ well …’
Logan pulled a rumpled packet of Benson amp; Hedges from his pocket — filched from DI Steel’s office — and placed it on the table, drawing McGillivray’s eyes like a magnet, making him lick his lips in anticipation as Logan placed a cheap plastic lighter beside the cigarettes. ‘Now then, how about I start you off?’ The sweaty, shivering man sat up and nodded, never taking his eyes off Steel’s stolen fags. ‘While I was running your prints through the computer, guess what else I found? They match a set of partials we took from a Mr Moir-Farquharson’s car. He was assaulted yesterday evening at around nine fifteen, just before you got a free glimpse of some woman’s boobs, remember?’
‘I … no, I was at home with-’
‘I’ve got you on CCTV, Russell. So let’s try again, shall we? We caught you lurking outside Robert Macintyre’s house, and yesterday you were hanging round where his lawyer was beaten up. Want to explain why?’
Twitch, judder. ‘I … I was … Come on, just one ciggie …’
Logan shook his head and picked up the lighter, twirling it between his fingers, before sticking it back in his pocket. Then reached for the cigarettes-
‘Oh, come on! I’m beggin’ here …’
‘Must’ve been sweet,’ Logan pulled on an ‘all chums together’ smile, ‘kicking the living daylights out of some slimy lawyer, eh? Who’d blame you?’
‘One puff! Just a wee one. Come on …’
‘Talk first, cigarette later.’
It took nearly an hour, but in the end McGillivray came clean, and all for the price of a smoke. ‘I needed the money, OK? I need the money for, you know … for somethin’.’ Rubbing away at the crook of his arm, reliving the memory. ‘He’s a lawyer, right? Knew he’d be loaded. Cash and that … Thought the footballer would be good for a bob or two, too. You know?’ Whimpering like a puppy. ‘Come on, you said, eh? If I told you, you said!’
Logan let him help himself to Steel’s cigarettes.
34
‘Ungrateful bastard.’ Insch, stood with his back to the window in his office. Saturday lurked over the city behind him — slate-grey skies threatening a proper fall of snow to coat the thin crust of frozen slush that lined the pavements, street lights glowing like amber fires in the dark, dreary morning. ‘Hissing Sid gets him off with nicking some pensioner’s life savings four years ago, and McGillivray still goes and beats the living crap out of him.’ He chewed thoughtfully. ‘Not that I’m complaining, but honour among nasty wee bastards and all that.’ He unwrapped another chocolate toffee eclair and popped it in his mouth. ‘But it’s a result, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.’
‘I’ve got Moir-Farquharson coming in at eight to get photographed,’ said Logan, checking the paperwork. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many people have been asking for an extra set of prints …’
‘Aye? Put me down for a couple too. If you can get a good one of his ugly mug all battered and bruised, it’s going on my Christmas cards.’ Insch levered himself off the desk and stretched, groaning his way into a yawn. ‘These late nights are killing me. I tell you: never, ever volunteer to direct a bunch of talentless half-wits doing Gilbert and Sullivan. Christ knows what it’s doing to my blood pressure …’ Two fingers going to side of his neck to check. ‘Don’t fancy coming along to prompt do you?’
‘I think I’m busy that night, sir.’
Insch just stared at him.
‘Ehm …’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Ah, well, I’ve got to go get the paperwork done for … that thing.’ Backing towards the door. ‘I’ll just …’ pointing over his shoulder, and out into the corridor. He almost made it.
‘Half-six, Baptist church hall on Summer Street. And wear your thermals: it’ll be freezing.’
A last-minute phone call from DI Steel — whinging on about how someone had stolen a whole packet of Benson amp; Hedges from her desk and what was the world coming to/police station her sharny arse — meant that Logan was running behind schedule. By the time he made it downstairs Sandy Moir-Farquharson had been sitting in the lobby of Force Headquarters for nearly fifteen minutes, while a procession of Grampian’s finest manufactured excuses to walk past and have a bit of an ogle at his battered face and black eye. ‘Are you quite finished?’ Logan asked as Big Gary marched through the coded entry door from reception into the corridor again with a big grin on his face.
‘Gets better every time I do it!’ he said, ‘Here, what do you call a lawyer with the shit kicked out of him?’
‘Gary-’
‘No, wait a minute, it’s what do you
‘I’m taking him up to get his photo taken before he files another complaint.’ Logan went through into reception, trying not to listen as the desk sergeant shouted out, ‘A medal!’
It wasn’t much of a photo studio, just the corner of a room on the third floor with a rumpled roll of grey backing paper, a bare seat and a couple of fill-in flashes on tripods.
Sandy the Snake demanded the door be closed before he’d take off his shirt, disappointing the crowd in the corridor. The photographer clicked a huge Nikon digital camera onto a tripod and wired the flashes up while the lawyer struggled to get the sleeve over the cast on his broken arm.
It had only been a day and a half since the attack, but already the bruises were spectacular — a web of purple, black, green and blue that stretched nearly all the way around Sandy’s torso.
‘Trousers too, please,’ said the photographer, firing off a couple of shots, then checking them on the little screen.
‘I don’t see why I should-’
‘Relax, it’s just for evidence, we need-’
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! You and that bunch of jackals out there — you just want to humiliate me!’
Logan sighed. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson, we do this with all victims of serious assault. You know that. The more evidence we have, the longer your attacker’s sentence is going to be. You want him put away for as long as possible, don’t you?’
He could see Sandy thinking about it, probably struggling with the idea of putting someone behind bars, rather than helping them get away with it, for a change. The lawyer scowled. ‘If I see, or hear of, any of these images being used for non-evidential purposes I’m going to sue.’ And then he reluctantly stripped. Standing there in his socks and pants, embarrassed and semi-naked, the lawyer looked like a very different man. Thin legs, slight pot belly, grey hairs dusting his chest. He was bruised all over — Russell McGillivray had
The photographer was quick and efficient, documenting the lawyer’s injuries, especially the one on his left shoulder: a boot-print-shaped mass of dark purple, clear enough that you could see the individual treads where his attacker had stamped on him. When it was all over, and Sandy Moir-Farquharson had climbed gingerly back into his clothes, Logan pulled out the identity booklet he’d printed out earlier: a dozen faces from the force database, including one Russell McGillivray. He handed it over, but the lawyer refused to pick anyone out, saying only, ‘It was dark.’
‘Are you sure?’
The lawyer scowled at him, one eye clear and blue, the other vampire-red, the iris floating on a whorl of blood. ‘Of course I’m sure! It was dark. If I saw the person I’d identify them.’ He took another glance at the collection of faces. ‘I’ll not help you fit up an innocent man, just because you can’t be bothered to find who actually did it! I knew this would happen if-’
‘We’ve got a fingerprint and a confession.’ Logan went to take the booklet back, but the lawyer held it firm, bloodshot and good eye locked on the row of little faces. ‘The ungrateful bastard!’
‘Surprisingly enough, sir, that’s what DI Insch said.’
He escorted Hissing Sid back out the front door and told him he’d be in touch as soon as a trial date had been set. Much to Logan’s surprise, the lawyer had shaken his hand and told him he was doing a good job — sounding as
