'Sir?'
'I want you to call me as soon as you get him back to FHQ. Understand? The minute you get him back here, you let me know.'
'OK, I'll-'
Steel stuck her head out of the car window. 'We haven't got all sodding day, Sergeant — move it!'
'I'll call you back.' Logan parked the CID pool by the back doors to FHQ. The rear podium lay beneath a veil of blue shadows, the security lights already on, even though it was only half past eight. Up above, the sky was the colour of varnished duck eggs, and down below, DI Steel was still arguing with Kevin Murray as she dragged him out of the back seat:
'Yes you bloody well will!'
Kevin shook his head. 'No. Nu-huh. No way. I'm no' sayin' nothin'. I arsoned that place on my own. No one else involved.'
Logan pulled out his phone and called Finnie — as instructed — letting him know they were back.
'OK,' said Finnie, 'give me five minutes, then get him to number three.'
Steel poked Kevin in the ribs as Logan hung up. 'Don't be such a moron. They'll throw the book at you. And when you get out… in about four years, the McLeods'll hammer your kneecaps into the middle of next week.'
'You deaf? I'm no' sayin' nothin'! The bastards'll come after my kids if I grass them up.'
'Don't be so melodramatic.' Steel gave him a shove towards the battered back doors, where a couple of support staff were eating crisps and smoking cigarettes.
'No! It never happened! I was lying, OK?' His voice was getting louder and louder. 'I burned the place down coz I was pissed at Creepy. You can't prove nothin'…'
'You really don't know me very well, do you?'
'I'm no' grassin' them up!'
He kept it up all the way through processing: while his photo was being taken, and his fingerprints — the only time he shut up was when Steel stuck the DNA swab in his mouth. Kevin was still complaining as Logan hauled him along the corridor to interview room three.
'I told you, I did it. Me. On me own. No one forced me to do bugger all.'
The inspector had another go. 'Protective custody: you, your mum and the kids. No one could touch you.'
'Aye, like I'd trust you lot. Protective custody? I seen what happened to Big Rob Barkley, and it's no' happenin' to me.'
Steel poked him in the arm. 'That was an accident.'
'Gets talked into grassin' up Malk the Knife and the next thing you know: splat, he's under an articulated lorry.' Kevin glanced up and down the corridor, and the next time he spoke it was in a whisper. 'Look, most of you bastards are on the take, right? I mean, everyone knows it. So how about you make this go away and I'll give you two… no, three grand. Eh?'
This time Steel did more than poke him in the arm, she shoved him up against the wall. 'I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Kevin. Because no' even you could be thick enough to think you can buy me for three-' She bounced him off the wall. 'Lousy-' Again. 'Grand!'
'I was only saying.'
'I'm no' for sale, you manky sack of crap!'
The interview room door opened and there was DS Pirie, dragging a handcuffed man out into the corridor. Short spiky haircut, designer stubble goatee, eyebrow ring, a gauze pad taped over one ear, a dark red stain on the shoulder of his white T-shirt, broad Mancunian accent: 'Let go of us! You Fookin' haggis-munchin' bastards is all the same…'
The man trailed off into silence, staring at Kevin Murray. 'You! You dirty fooker!'
Kevin scrambled backwards. 'No-no-no-no-no…'
The guy in the T-shirt lunged, but Pirie stopped him short.
'You Fookin' told, didn't yez? You grassed us up.'
'I never said nothin', I promise! It-'
T-Shirt's left foot lashed out, probably aiming for Kevin's balls, but the trainer slammed into his thigh instead. 'Yer Fookin' dead, you hear me? Dead. You and your whole Fookin' family! Yer-'
DS Pirie twisted him round, and sent him crashing to the floor. Accidentally bouncing his head off the green terrazzo.
'Aaagh… dirty bastard…' And then Pirie was on top of him, knee pressed into the small of his back. 'Gerroff!'
'Shut up and hold still, you ugly wee shite.' Pirie grinned up at Logan and Steel. 'We caught this one battering the living hell out of a doorman on Bon Accord Street. Didn't take kindly to being chucked out.' He leant harder, getting a squeal of protest in return. 'Trying to flog heroin to a bunch of drunk girlies on a hen night, weren't you?'
Logan couldn't make out T-Shirt's response, but it sounded filthy. Kevin Murray's interview didn't go very well. After running into the thug from Manchester, it was all he could do to confirm his name and address for the tape. After that it was nearly impossible to get anything out of him.
DI Steel gave it an hour before giving up, then told Logan to get him out of her sight.
Down in cell number six, Kevin Murray limped up and down the side of the bed — little more than a thin plastic mattress slapped down on a concrete platform built into the wall. 'You have to tell him,' he said as Logan pocketed the handcuffs, 'I didn't grass them up, yeah? You'll tell him?'
'Don't know if it'll do any good. Would you believe me, if you were him?'
Kevin collapsed onto the mattress, buried his head in his hands. 'They're gonnae kill my kids…'
Logan sat next to him. 'Tell me who they are and maybe I can help, OK?'
The thin man rolled onto his side, face to the wall, knees drawn up against his chest. 'I'm no' a clype.'
There was a knock on the cell door and Kevin flinched. 'It's them!'
'Don't be ridiculous. You're in a police station.'
Kevin backed away from the door. 'I know how it works! You're in on it — you're all in on it!'
The door opened and DCI Finnie was framed in the glow of a fluorescent tube. He clasped his hands together and nodded at Kevin. 'Just checking everything's in order with your room, Mr Murray. Bed comfortable? Enjoying the view?' There wasn't one. The room's single window was three rows of rippled-glass bricks, six foot off the floor. 'Would you like a newspaper, or an early morning wakeup call?'
Kevin just sat on the thin blue mattress. 'I never grassed them up.'
Finnie stepped into the cell. 'I've got this from here, Sergeant. Why don't you knock off? I understand DI Steel is organizing a trip to the pub, maybe you could have one for Kevin here. Would you like that Kevin?'
The thin man scowled, face all puckered up around his gauze-covered nose. 'You're a right bastard.'
Finnie loomed over him. 'Oh, you have no idea.'
25
'Got any spare change?'
Logan stopped in his tracks, and looked down at the figure huddled in the entrance to Lodge Walk — a little alley that ran between the Toll Booth museum and the pub on the corner, connecting Union Street to Force Headquarters. It was a shortcut in regular use by uniform and plainclothes officers. Not the usual place for beggars. And at five to seven on Thursday morning, it was a bit early too.
She was sitting cross-legged on a dirty orange Kenny-from-South-Park-style parka, gazing up at him with panda eyes. She'd done her best to make them match, but the left eye was all swollen, the bruising barely hidden by a thick layer of pancake makeup and too much eyeliner. Bright-red veins spidered their way across the white of her eye, making the pupil look like an emerald floating in a sea of Tabasco. It was Tracey — the girl who'd fingered Creepy Colin McLeod for battering Harry Jordan's head in with a hammer.
She was dressed in a short black skirt and a lacy top that still had the security tag hanging from the side,
