‘Can you make it or not? Finnie needs you to do downstream monitoring and advice.’
‘Yes or no?’
Silence.
‘Cancel it.’
‘We’re talking about saving a little girl and her mum here, Dave.’
This time the silence stretched on and on and…
Down on the street below, a man in a dark-blue suit stopped in the middle of the road to stare at the Porsche piddler. He dropped the collection of green Marks amp; Spencer bags he’d been carrying and ran at the guy who was using his pride-and-joy as a urinal.
‘That’s blackmail.’
The piddler lurched back and sideways, his legs looking as if they weren’t really under control. And then the Porsche’s owner cracked a fist into his face. The pair of them tumbled to the pavement, arms and rebellious legs flailing.
‘Just make sure you tell the front desk you’re here to interview Stephen Clayton. If I’m not about you can start working up some questions.’
A pair of uniform charged across the road, peaked caps held down with one hand. Logan watched them haul the piddler and the piddlee apart.
Logan glanced over at DC Leggett. He was holding up a set of car keys.
‘I’ll be back soon as I can. Just got to take care of something first.’
Chapter 45
The beige council van grumbled to a halt outside a shabby bungalow in Blackburn.
The van’s engine gave one last diesel rattle, and there was silence.
DC Leggett pulled the keys out of the ignition. ‘Sure your witness wasn’t taking the piss?’
‘Nope.’ Logan climbed out into the warm morning.
The bungalow’s grey-harled walls were streaked with green and brown; the front garden a jungle of knee- high grass and bright-yellow dandelions, bordered by misshapen bushes. A red helicopter droned by overhead, taking a detour around Kirkhill Forest on the way out to the rigs.
Logan marched up the path, raised his finger to the doorbell, then stopped. There was an old blue Citroen parked on the driveway beside the house, in front of a single garage with a heavy wooden door.
Leggett sniffed. ‘Fits up?’
‘Edward Buchan — the guy who sat on his arse and watched Trisha Brown getting beaten up and abducted — said they were driving a blue saloon.’
The doorbell made a dull buzzing noise deep inside the house.
‘I’m still no’ seeing Dodgy Darren grabbing a fully grown woman.’ The constable scuffed his shoe through a tuft of green, whipping the head off a daisy, then sighed. ‘His poor auld dad would have a fit if he knew what a state the place wis in noo.’
Logan tried the doorbell again.
‘Nice couple, his mum and dad — could nivver figure out fit they did to end up wi a child molester fir a son.’
This time he kept his finger on the button, letting the buzz drone on and on.
‘Wis his mum who dobbed him in the first time. Found a bunch of filthy photos under his mattress when he was sixteen. Wee girls. No’ pretty.’
The door yanked open and there he was: Darren McInnes, fists and jaw clenched, lips flecked with spittle, lank yellow-grey hair flying about his head. ‘Bugger off out of it!’ His breath stank like an ashtray.
He must have had the television and radio turned up full volume, because the noise was almost deafening, a TV advert for toothpaste fighting against Jenny and Alison’s version of
Strange — they hadn’t heard it through the closed door… Logan held up his warrant card. ‘Remember me, Mr McInnes?’
McInnes took a step back, eyes narrowed, goatee beard jutting out. ‘I told you: I’ve never even
‘That’s not why we’re here.’
DC Leggett waved. ‘Fit like the day, Darren: keepin’ well?’
‘What do
The constable stepped over the threshold into the hallway, forcing McInnes to back up again. ‘You’ll no’ mind if we come in for a fly cup, eh? Thirsty work keeping tabs on registered sex offenders.’
‘On the scrounge, are you? Well you can bugger off. I’m not running a soup kitchen.’
Leggett backed him up another couple of paces, making enough room for Logan to step inside and close the front door. The hallway was crowded with stacks of dusty cardboard boxes, piled up between the doors — high enough to brush the ceiling.
‘Now, now, Darren, you’re no’ refusing to cooperate with a supervising authority, are you?’
‘You’ve got no business barging in here. This is my home. I’ve got rights.’
‘Aye.’ Another couple of steps and they were in the kitchen. A portable radio sat on top of a stained fridge, blaring out the instrumental bit of the song. Leggett flipped the switch, killing the racket. Now it was just the television, shouting to itself in the lounge. ‘And right now you have the right to stick the kettle on and produce a packet of chocolate biscuits.’ He leant back against the working surface as McInnes stuck a dirty kettle under the cold tap, then slammed the thing down on the worktop and plugged it in. ‘Not supposed to be having a visit till next week…’
Logan stared at him, keeping his face neutral. ‘We know.’
McInnes froze for a moment, then opened a cupboard and pulled out three chipped mugs. ‘Don’t play clever buggers with me, Sergeant. I’m not some moron you can intimidate and manipulate. I haven’t done anything wrong, and you know it.’ He dropped a teabag in each mug. ‘You’re fishing.’
‘Trisha Brown.’
There wasn’t even a pause. ‘Never heard of her.’
‘Really? Because we’ve got a witness who saw you assault and abduct her.’
‘They’re lying.’ The kettle gave a low growl. ‘When we take your car down to the station, how much do you want to bet it’s full of her DNA, hair, fibres, blood?’
The theme tune to
‘Thought you said you’d never heard of her?’
‘I don’t have any milk.’
Leggett shook his head. ‘Darren, you silly sod. She’s no’ even your type.’
‘Maybe I like to pick up prostitutes now and then. I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Where is she?’
