‘You and I both know Insch is going to get bugger all done till they pick up Jimmy Duff. So what’s the point hanging about watching him screw up them BDSM interviews?’ She slapped Logan on the back. ‘Come on, think how much more fun you’ll have without his fat ugly face looming over you.’
But all Logan could think of was what Insch would do to him when he got back.
47
There was a Bon Accord Glass van sitting outside the Morrison house, a couple of guys struggling with a large sheet of plywood, trying to keep it from sailing off in the blustery wind. Hesitant raindrops made polka-dot patterns on the pale wood as they heaved it up against the shattered window frame and started fixing it into place. The view was stormy today: dark clouds, dark sea, and gloomy buildings, but Logan barely glanced at it as he hurried after DI Steel into the house.
Mr Morrison wasn’t coping well: the bags under his eyes were deep purple, his cheeks sunken and speckled with stubble, hair sticking out all over the place. He let them in without a word, slouched through into the living room, fell into an armchair and stared at the big sheet of plywood that blocked out half the light. A radio on the sideboard burbled out local news into the darkened room: something about floral tributes flooding in for Rob Macintyre, then on to a piece about some local band who’d just been signed to a major record label.
A large lump of granite was sitting in a splash-pattern of broken glass. It must have taken two or three people to heft something that heavy through the double glazing — the thing was huge.
‘Indoor rockery. Classy.’ Steel scratched away at her shoulder, then dug out a packet of nicotine gum, offering it round as if it were cigarettes. ‘Any more hate mail, or was it just the dirty big stone?’
Mr Morrison didn’t even look at her. ‘Someone could have been hurt. Gwen’s not well …’
‘Aye, you’re right. Sorry.’ Much to Logan’s surprise, she actually sounded genuine. ‘You still getting the phone calls?’
He shook his head. ‘We went ex-directory when Sean was … found.’
‘Well, that’s something at least.’ She picked her way across the carpet, glittering shards crunching beneath her boots, and peered out of the one remaining pane of glass. ‘What happened to all the journalists?’
Morrison shrugged. ‘We just want our son home.’
‘Uh-huh. Got any idea who’d chuck a lump of granite through your window?’
‘They’ll let him home to visit his mother, won’t they? She’s not well …’
Steel closed her eyes, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with nicotine-stained fingers as if she were trying to shift a headache. ‘Sergeant McRae, maybe you should go make us all some tea, eh?’ she said at last. ‘And see if you can find any biscuits.’
The Morrisons’ kitchen was a mess: unwashed dishes piled in the sink; overflowing laundry basket; a black, oily crust of burnt-on food like scabs on the hob; stuffed black bags sitting next to the bucket, as if Sean’s dad was scared to go outside and put them in the wheely bin for collection. Feeling nosy, Logan had a good rummage through the kitchen, pretending he was looking for tea bags. The cupboards were bare, not so much as a tin of soup. Like it or not, Mr Morrison was going to have to go outside soon, or they’d starve to death in here. Logan wondered if the man would be safe enough ordering takeaway, or if it would come delivered with a free side order of sputum and dog shit. Nothing like being the parents of an infamous child.
There was a small container on the work surface marked TEA, but it was as empty as the food cupboards. In fact, other than plates, gadgets and cutlery, the only thing Logan could find in the kitchen was a drawer full of envelopes. Some opened, most not. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled one out: YOUR SON IS AN ABOMINATION! THAT OLD MAN DESERVES BLOOD! It went on for a page and a half, but the basic message was that they should bring back the death penalty and give it to Sean Morrison. Even if he was only eight. And hanging was too good for him.
Logan picked them all out of the drawer and carried everything through to the lounge. ‘Sorry,’ he said, setting them down on the coffee table, ‘there’s no biscuits. Or milk. Or tea.’
‘Oh.’ The inspector looked disappointed, but she perked up again when she saw the stack of letters.
‘I found them when I was looking for the teabags.’
Morrison shuddered. ‘We’ve been keeping them, like you said. I don’t open them any more …’
Steel nodded, borrowing Logan’s gloves so she could poke through the pile, pulling sheets from the open ones and squinting at them in the dim light. ‘Aye, nasty wee shites one and all.’ She flicked through another couple then asked if Logan had an evidence bag on him. ‘We’re going to take these away and see if we can get anything off them. And I’ll get someone from fingerprints to come down and give your rock the CSI treatment. OK?’
Morrison didn’t reply, just went on staring at his boarded-up window.
‘I was wondering,’ said Logan as they stood to leave, ‘Sean’s friend: Ewan. Has his dad been in touch with you at all?’
The man looked puzzled, as if trying to remember why they were there. Logan got the feeling he probably hadn’t slept in a week. ‘No. Not since Sean stopped going round there. Not since we came back from Guildford.’
‘So he hasn’t said anything to you about his house getting vandalized?’
‘Look, I’m sorry but Gwen needs her medication.’ He levered himself out of the armchair. ‘She’s not been well.’
They let themselves out, scurrying through the rain to the car. ‘Can you no’ keep your mind on one thing at a time?’ asked Steel as Logan cranked the blowers up to full. ‘Vandalism, my sharny arse.’
‘You never wondered about Sean-’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, no’ this again: I get enough grief from the bloody social workers. He’s a wee shite. That’s all there is to it.’
Logan pulled out from the kerb, heading downhill back towards FHQ. ‘I don’t buy it: you don’t go from being a well-balanced wee boy to a thieving little thug who knives old men and policewomen for no reason. Something happened.’
Steel sighed. ‘Look, and I want you to pay attention this time: I — don’t — care! OK?’
‘Oh, come on, you’ve got think it’s a bit-’
‘I — don’t — care! Bloody hell. In the good old days you caught the bad guy, you banged them up, and you forgot about them for seven, eight years. Nowadays it’s all “community-fuckingservice” and “addressing offender behaviour”. That social work department needs a stiff kick up the arse with a pointy boot!’
‘Why was he vandalizing his ex-best-friend’s house?’
‘We speakin’ the same language here? Hello? I couldn’t give a rat’s arse!’
‘How come the family never reported him for all the damage he did to their house? They
‘OK! OK, FOR GOD’S SAKE!’ She sat and seethed. ‘Ten minutes. We go round there for ten minutes, and if we don’t find anything you never, ever get to mention that wee shite again? Understand? Like a bloody broken record …’
Ewan Whyte — Sean’s ex-best friend — was still at school and his dad was at work, but his mother and little sisters were in: the girls finger-painting in the kitchen while Mrs Whyte made sure they didn’t do anything stupid, like eat the paint, or start colouring in the walls. DI Steel begged a cup of coffee and a custard cream while Logan went outside to talk to the grandfather.
The old man was in the shed at the bottom of the garden, the little wooden hut smelling of engine oil and hand-rolled cigarettes as he cleaned the blades of an old-fashioned lawnmower. Rain drummed on the roof. He smiled and waved when Logan shouted, ‘Hello?’
‘Here, hold this bit, will you?’ Mr Whyte Senior tipped the mower up on its side.
‘You remember when I was here before,’ said Logan, as the old man started in with the WD40, ‘we talked about Sean Morrison?’
Whyte nodded. ‘I read all about his arrest in the paper — can you believe they used pepper spray on the poor wee soul? He’s only eight … Thanks, you can let go now.’
‘I wonder why your son didn’t report Sean — for all the vandalism.’
