seized from your shop turned out to be some sort of home-video footage.’ He paused, leaving a gap for her to jump in and fill. She just yawned. ‘It shows someone being strapped to a table and killed. It’s a snuff film.’ Which wasn’t strictly speaking true: Jason Fettes didn’t actually die on camera, but going by the date/time stamp in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture, he was dead less than an hour later.
‘Cake …’ she lurched to her feet, and squatted down in front of one of the kitchen cabinets, struggling with the cupboard door, and then a collection of Tupperware boxes, peering into each, then stacking them on the floor, one by one, like building bricks.
‘Mrs Stewart, the video?’
‘Can’t have our brave boys in blue starving to death now, can we?’
Insch slammed a fat hand on the worktop — it sounded like a gunshot. ‘Where did you get the video?’ He was already starting to turn scarlet.
‘You know,’ she said, taking hold of the inspector’s hand, ‘my Jamesy, God bless him, took a stroke when he was about your age; fell down stone dead. Just like that. You should try relaxing a bit more.’
And that was when DI Insch went off the deep end.
‘I think she’ll be OK now,’ said Logan, slouching back through to the lounge. The room was tidy, covered in flock wallpaper, china dogs, plates and photos of smiling grandchildren — just like the betting shop. A collection of crude watercolours depicting Benachie had been framed and given pride of place above the fireplace. The only thing that didn’t look like it belonged in an old lady’s house was DI Insch, sitting on the settee practising his breathing technique, eyes screwed shut, two fingers pressed against the side of his neck. Logan closed the door quietly and sank down into one of the armchairs, keeping his mouth shut until the fat man had finished. He was beginning to wonder how long it would take before something inside the inspector burst. There was no way this was healthy for a man that size.
‘We might be better off appealing to her sense of decency,’ said Logan, when Insch had returned to a more normal, human colour. ‘We could-’
‘Decency? You’ve got to be kidding me: she sells porn to schoolchildren!’
‘Yes, but she thinks that’s fair game. If she doesn’t do it, how will they learn about sex?’ He held up a hand before Insch could do more than open his mouth. ‘I know, but it makes sense to her. I think if we show her the video and maybe some PM photos she’ll come over all community spirited.’
The inspector snorted, but Logan ignored him. ‘She helps out with jumble sales for the old folks, she raises money for the local scout troop. She sees herself as a bastion of the community.’
‘She’s a bloody nightmare more like!’ He was starting to go purple again.
‘Er …’ he was probably going to regret this. ‘Are you OK, sir? You seem a bit …’ there was no good way to finish that sentence.
Insch glowered at him. ‘Thirteen stone, OK? You happy? That’s how much they told me to lose.’
‘Oh.’
‘How the hell are you supposed to lose half your body weight? Nothing like setting realistic bloody goals, is there? Bloody Fit Bloody Like — if I ever find the bright spark-’
‘I’ve made tea.’ Ma Stewart marched into the room looking a lot more like her normal self, wearing a floral skirt and blouse, pastel cardigan, beaming smile and far too much make-up. You’d never have known she’d just spent fifteen minutes bawling her eyes out because Insch had yelled at her. She even gave him the biggest slice of cake. And thirteen stone or not, the inspector ate it.
Logan waited until Insch had a mouthful before saying, ‘Ma, I’ve got a film I want you to watch.’ He pulled out the DVD case with cartoon penguins on it. ‘It’s the one we found in your shop.’
She clapped her hands. ‘I’ll get the sherry!’
She watched the home movie unfold in silence, impassive as Jason Fettes screamed and struggled against his leather restraints. ‘It’s not very good,’ she said at last. ‘I mean the special effects are all right, but who’d want all that whinging? It’s not very sexy.’
‘It’s real.’ Logan opened the case file and pulled out the glossy shots of Jason Fettes’ post mortem. ‘Jason was twenty-one.’ He put a photo on the coffee table. ‘He wanted to be an actor. He was writing a screenplay. He died in agony. His mother and father came back from holiday to find out he was dead.’ Laying out one picture for every sentence, until the coffee table was covered in stomach-churning Technicolor.
‘I …’ She ran a dry tongue over her scarlet lips. ‘I’d like a glass of water please.’ Closing her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at the photos.
‘Who did you get the film from?’
‘I’m feeling a bit sick …’
‘A young man’s dead, Ma. He was in the Scouts when he was wee. Just like your grandsons.’
‘I don’t … Oh God …’ She scrambled out of her seat, rushing through to the kitchen. They could hear her retching from the lounge. Logan picked up the photographs and put them back in the folder.
It didn’t take long before she was back in her chair again, looking decidedly unwell, clutching a glass of water.
‘So,’ said Insch, ‘do you want to tell us where you got the film from?’
Ma shuddered. ‘I never knew. I thought it was just … you know. Someone messing around. If I’d known …’
‘So who was it?’
‘I get most of my stuff from this bloke from Dundee. Comes round once a month with DVDs and …’ She suddenly stopped talking, as if realizing she was about to say something she
‘Ma,’ Logan leant across the table and took one of her cold, flabby hands, ‘the film. It’s important.’
She took a deep breath, stared at her hand in Logan’s and said, ‘Sometimes people are stretched a bit, and maybe they’ve been unlucky on the horses. They give us things to look after … or sell for them.’ Which was the most genteel description of seizing property for non-payment Logan had ever heard. ‘The …’ She pointed at the television and shuddered. ‘That film was in a DVD player someone handed in.’
Insch leaned forward in his seat. ‘Who?’
‘I don’t know, I’ll have to check.’ She got up and rummaged in an old sideboard, coming out with a tatty blue exercise book, flipping through the pages, talking to herself. ‘Derek MacDonald.’ She scribbled the details down on a piece of pink notepaper with roses round the edge and handed it over.
Insch accepted it with a grunt then passed it to Logan.
‘Recognize the name?’
‘Derek MacDonald?’ Logan shrugged. ‘Could be anyone. Hundreds of them living round here. Assuming it’s even the guy’s real name. The address rings a bell though …’
‘Call it in.’
So Logan did, standing out in the hallway with the lounge door closed, listening as Control came back to him with details on half a dozen Derek MacDonalds with police records in the north-east. Only three of them lived in Aberdeen: one with a drink driving conviction, one with a couple of assaults to his name, and one unlawful removal — nicking cars in Tillydrone. None of them lived at the address Ma had given them. But according to Control the building was under surveillance by the drug squad — part of an ongoing operation to pick up some likely lads from Newcastle who were having a serious go at moving into the Aberdeen market. Which meant Insch would have to clear it with the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID before he went barging in there like a bear with piles.
‘Address is flagged,’ said Logan, back in the lounge. ‘DI Finnie. But there’s no Derek MacDonald at that address.’
Ma tutted, arms folded under her enormous, pasty bosom. ‘Trust me, there is. We’re very careful about that kind of thing. When people owe you money, it always pays to know where they live.’
46
