The inspector looked at him, one eyebrow raised, the liquorice straw sticking out of his mouth like a thermometer. ‘You’re getting a bit …
‘Point is these people are probably local. And if they’re active in the Aberdeen scene we can find out who they are from their bondage names. Hell, Rickards might even know them!’
Insch tipped the last of the sherbet into his mouth, tapping the empty paper tube to get every last milligram of powder out. ‘Well? Go get him then!’
‘Yes, sir.’
According to Control, Rickards was out on a shout with DI McPherson, so Insch would have to wait. In the meantime Logan had paperwork to catch up on. That DVD of Fettes was causing no end of grief — Garvie was dead because they’d screwed up and jumped to conclusions, and as if Logan didn’t feel guilty enough about that, the Chief Constable was on the rampage. Insch was determined to keep Garvie in the frame: the person in the bondage suit might be female, but there was still the driver with the Irish accent — Garvie fitted the description perfectly … but Logan was beginning to have doubts about the whole thing.
He was heading downstairs to watch the CCTV footage from the hospital again, when shouting and swearing echoed up the stairwell from the custody suite. Crash, bang and wallop. More swearing. Whatever it was, Logan wanted nothing to do with it. He’d got as far as the ground floor when half a dozen constables charged past, heading for the disturbance. Another loud crash and more shouting.
Logan left them to it.
‘Fucking hell …’ DI Steel lurched over to Logan’s table in the canteen, clutching a blue icepack against the side of her head, and nearly collapsed into the chair opposite. ‘Don’t ask. And go get us a coffee: three sugars. And a doughnut or something.’
Logan opened his mouth, but Steel cut him off: ‘I said: don’t ask.’ He shrugged and went up to the servery.
‘They’ve no doughnuts, so I got you a KitKat.’
The inspector didn’t seem to mind, just slurped and munched and winced. ‘Fucking McPherson’s a bloody disaster magnet,’ she said at last. ‘You know how many days the bastard’s had off sick in the last four years?’ Logan didn’t and said so. Steel frowned. ‘Me neither, but I bet it’s heaps. Probably has more days off than he works.’
‘What happened?’
‘Which part of “don’t bloody ask” do you no’ understand? And how come you’re in? Did I no’ tell you to take a couple of days off?’
‘We got a last-minute lead on the Jason Fettes killing.’ He stood, stacking his empties back onto a tatty plastic tray.
‘Yeah?’ She polished off the last chocolate finger and scrunched the silver paper up into a little ball. ‘I thought Insch the Amazing Fatty already solved that one.’
‘Yes, well … we unsolved it.’
The inspector pointed at Logan’s vacated seat. ‘Sit. This I want to hear.’
‘Not much to tell. We found a film of Fettes strapped to a table, getting spanked and fisted. He pretty much bleeds to death on camera.’
Steel grabbed her coffee and stood, ‘Well, come on then, let’s see it.’
‘But-’
‘Fettes is my case remember? DI Fatboy is just helping me out. So get your finger out and make with the film.’
She watched it all the way through in silence. ‘Let’s see it again.’
Logan set the DVD playing once more. There was a knock on the door as the mystery woman started dripping hot candle wax onto Jason Fettes’ back. PC Rickards stuck his head in and said, ‘Sergeant Mitchell said you wanted to see me, sir?’
‘I’ve got a list of pseudonyms I want you to go through and …’ he trailed off, realizing there was something wrong with Rickards’ face. Or more wrong than normal. His left cheek was all swollen. ‘What happened to you?’
‘DI McPherson.’ As if that was explanation enough.
Steel didn’t take her eyes off the screen, ‘What was the verdict?’
‘Broken arm, two cracked ribs and a concussion, ma’am. They’re keeping him in overnight.’
‘Wonderful. Of course you know who’s going to get stuck with his caseload, don’t you?
Logan waited for someone to elaborate, but they didn’t. So he pulled out the list he’d made of Jason Fettes’ BDSM contacts and gave it to the constable. ‘I need real names and addresses for all of them.’
Rickards blanched. ‘Ah, yes … er, sir, I can’ t … I mean it wouldn’t be ethical of me to … they …’
‘Come here,’ said Logan, pointing towards the screen where the hot wax had given way to the leather ping- pong paddle. ‘See that? That’s our victim, the guy who’s backside got turned the wrong way out. You think it’s more important for your bondage mates to remain anonymous, or for us to catch whoever killed him?’
‘Well … I … it’s just …’ The sound of spanking grew louder, mingling with muffled grunts from the shackled and gagged Fettes. And then the strap-on came out. ‘Look,’ said Rickards, blushing, ‘we can probably eliminate half the names, get rid of anyone not into penetration …’ he took out his pen and started scoring his way through the list. ‘Sometimes a top will change their MO to accommodate a bottom’s new fantasy, but most just like what they like.’
He watched until things got serious, then his blush went nuclear. ‘Er … that kind of fisting isn’t all that common …’ More names disappeared. There were only three left after Rickards had finished: ‘Big Dunk’, ‘Dirty Nicky’ and ‘Mistress Barclay’.
Insch was in his office, grinding his teeth as Logan handed the shortlist over. The fact that DI Steel was slouched in the inspector’s visitors’ chair, fiddling about with her bra strap,
‘Bring them in anyway. Big Dunk too. If we lean on them they’ll …’ The inspector ground to a halt and stared at DI Steel. ‘What?’
She shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing. I just think you’d have more luck playing this one a bit more softly, softly.’
Insch scowled at her. ‘Thank you for your valuable input,
‘Look, I’m only saying, OK? I’ve met a few of the spanking crowd and they’ll clam up like a virgin’s legs if you come on all rough and ready. They’re no’ wee scroats you can just push about: they’re accountants and lawyers and bloody business analysts.’
Logan had to agree with her. ‘It’s a pretty middle-class thing, BDSM.’
‘Oh for God’s … fine. OK, bring them in and we’ll give them tea and bloody biscuits.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Steel, giving up on her bra, ‘you should get a lookout request going for Jimmy Duff. Watch him though, he’s a slippery wee shite.’
Insch was rapidly heading from pink to purple. ‘Yes,
‘Oh, aye: I’m going to have to borrow Laz here for a wee while.’
‘But we-’
‘You let me know how you get on, OK? Be nice to see a proper result on this one. No’ like last time.’ She was out of the office door before the fat man started swearing, with Logan hurrying after her, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked, looking back over his shoulder at Insch’s door, almost expecting to see the inspector come crashing out into the hallway and go on the rampage like an angry pink Godzilla.
‘Sean Morrison’s: hate mail, threats, remember?’
‘But, Jason Fettes-’
