bedpost and hauled.
‘Inspector, I really don’t think this is a good-’
‘He’s been raped, you bloody idiot!’ Steel yanked on the T-shirt again. ‘Laz, into the kitchen: get me a pair of scissors, knife, something.’
‘But-’
‘NOW!’
Logan ran through the house, plastic booties slipping on the vinyl floor. He rummaged through the drawers, grabbed a pair of kitchen scissors and a box of freezer bags. Then hurried back to the bedroom.
Steel was kneeling on the floor next to the bed. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Er…’ Constable Irvine glanced at Logan and back again. ‘Harry. Harry Weaver. He used to be a-’
‘Harry? Can you hear me, Harry?’
Logan stopped at the foot of the bed. ‘Anyone got a camera on their mobile?’
‘Yeah, but it’s not-’
‘Harry? It’s going to be OK.’
‘Better than no photos at all, right?’
Irvine unzipped the front of her oversuit and reached inside, coming out with some sort of fancy touch-screen thing, then zipped herself up again. ‘Right…’
She stepped up and held the phone out, pressed something and it went
‘Does it do video?’
She nodded. ‘You can upload to Facebook and-’
‘Just video the bloody scene.’
‘Harry? Come on, Harry, you’re safe now.’
‘Oh…Right.’
Logan pointed at the T-shirt with his scissors. ‘Close up.’
Irvine did what she was told, then Logan carefully cut through the shirt where it looped around Harry’s ankle. ‘Other leg.’
‘Harry? Come on, speak to me, Harry!’
‘Wrists…’
Finally the naked man was free.
There was a muffled groan.
‘Harry? Can you hear me? You’re safe now.’
His eyes were swollen shut, the skin around them purple and deformed, his nose crooked, the lower half of his face smeared with dark-red clots.
‘He’s got something in his mouth…’ PC Irvine stuck her phone in his face, till Steel batted her away, leaving scarlet smears on her white oversuit.
The inspector cupped one hand around Harry’s forehead, supporting it while she pulled a matted lump of black from his mouth. Logan popped open one of the freezer bags.
‘What are you playing at?’
‘Didn’t have any evidence ones with me.’
She dropped the gag in, then jerked back from the bed, as Harry retched — blood and bile spattering out across the stained sheets.
‘Fuck.’
Someone knocked on the front door. ‘Hello? Anyone in?’
Logan stepped out into the hall. A pair of sweaty paramedics were puffing and panting in the corridor outside. One wiped a hand across his forehead and scowled. ‘You the funny bastard taped off the lifts?’
‘Erm…’
‘Any idea how much one of these bloody stretcher bed things weighs?’
‘Well…could’ve been worse, I suppose.’ DS Mark MacDonald swivelled his chair back and froth a couple of times. ‘I mean, they’re both still alive, right?’
The Wee Hoose was quiet, just Mark and Logan in the little walled-off area, with the door shut, muting the sounds from the busy CID office. Phones going, people bustling about trying to look busy, the occasional bout of shouting. The predictable aftermath of something going seriously wrong.
Mark nodded at the room outside. ‘Media briefing at eleven. You going?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Logan took the whiteboard eraser and scrubbed off the counterfeit goods investigation. One less thing to worry about.
‘Don’t blame you. Finished that big fraud case yesterday, so Finnie’s got me down for “Information Support”.’ Mark took another sip at his coffee. ‘I bloody
Logan went back to his desk and checked his email again. Success: the big IB lab on Nelson Street had rushed through the DNA from the bite marks on Harry Weaver’s back and thighs. Their report was full of the usual disclaimers and bet-hedging, but right at the bottom was the bit Logan wanted: the DNA was a ninety-nine-point- nine-eight percent match for Richard Knox. Not only that, the bite pattern was identical to the teeth marks they had on file from William Brucklay, Knox’s Newcastle victim.
Not exactly unexpected news, but everything that tied Knox to the attack helped.
The rest of the forensic evidence was still being examined — fibres in the bedroom, the soil from a partial footprint in the hallway, something that looked like tears on the back of the victim’s thighs.
Logan turned back to Mark. ‘You talked to Bob recently?’
‘Biohazard?’ The DS shuddered. ‘Not since he had that curried mackerel. Jesus, we should get danger money.’
‘You think he’s OK?’
Frown. ‘What’s he done?’
Logan shrugged. ‘It’s probably nothing…’ He swivelled back to his computer. A pile of statements took up most of his desk — the firearms team accounting for what had happened last night and why they’d felt it necessary to shoot Norman Yates three times in the chest. Logan had checked — they all matched, but not in a way that screamed ‘cover up!’ Yates had shot a police officer — it was his own stupid fault.
The statements went into an internal mail envelope, along with his own report, and marked for the attention of DI Steel. With the statements out of the way, there was a rare clear patch on Logan’s desk. The Post-it note about phoning Dildo first thing sat right in the middle of it, staring up at him. Must have fallen off his monitor. Damn.
Logan picked up the phone and dialled Dildo’s extension at Trading Standards, flicking through the rest of his emails as it rang.
The worst was from Professional Standards: Douglas Walker’s estate-agent lawyer had made another official complaint. Apparently his client had been ‘subjected to undue harassment and unwarrantedly heavy-handed interrogation techniques’. Would Logan care to comment?
Yes. Two words: ‘get’ and ‘fucked’.
It wasn’t even as if they’d made a special case of the art student. Just interviewed him once on Friday, stuck him in the cells for the weekend, then had a final crack at him before he went up before the Sheriff on Monday. How the hell was that, ‘undue harassment’?
‘Dildo, it’s Logan. We-’
‘Er…’ He skimmed through the next few — and there it was, from Dildo’s official email address, sent about an hour ago and completely ignored. ‘Yeah, got it right here…’
It was some sort of proposal for two-man teams to stake out various dodgy pubs in Aberdeen, looking for people selling counterfeit goods. ‘Yes, very good. Very…thorough.’
