started blurring into each other. Blink. Rapist. Blink. Rapist. Nod… blink. Paedophile.
Yawn. Blink, blink… darkness.
'Mmmphf…?' Logan snapped upright, eyes wide and dilated, what the hell was – he dragged his mobile out, wiping the small trail of drool from the side of his mouth with his other hand. Blink, blink. The clock on the interview-room wall said seven minutes past five: he'd been asleep for three whole hours. 'Hello?' trying not to sound like he'd just woken up. It was DI Insch.
Mrs Kennedy's lounge was a disaster area: chairs and tables overturned, paintings slashed, photo frames smashed, china poodles reduced to glittering shards on the carpet. Mrs Kennedy sat in a ruptured armchair, fat orange cat clutched to her bosom like a security blanket. It eyed the detectives standing in the middle of the room with evil distrust, yellow eyes narrowed to slits, ears back.
'Honestly,' said the old lady, shaking. 'I don't want to cause any fuss, I'm fine. Really…' She'd been out at the time, but the downstairs neighbour had heard the destruction and called 999. They couldn't bear to think of poor old Mrs Kennedy lying up there in a pool of blood, battered to death!
They were basically well meaning, but no bloody help whatsoever.
They didn't see anything, didn't peer out the spy hole in their door to watch the bad guys come down the stairs.
Didn't even look out the window to see if they got into a waiting car, or a bus, or a taxi, or clambered aboard a passing elephant. They were scared someone would see them looking. It was a pain in the arse, but Logan could understand their reticence. They were in their seventies, why risk being seen by violent thugs who might come back and get them? Instead they'd kept their heads down and called the police. It was still more than a lot of people would do.
Whoever the vandals were, they'd done a pretty good job of bankrupting Mrs Kennedy's insurance company. The lounge, kitchen, and both bedrooms had been thoroughly trashed.
But there was something odd in the lounge, something that seemed a bit out of place amidst all the devastation. Smack bang in the middle of the far wall the words 'STOP NOW had been scrawled in dripping, fluorescent orange paint. 'Any idea what it is they want you to stop doing?' asked Logan, pointing at the bright, spray-painted letters.
Mrs Kennedy shook her head and hugged the cat even tighter, causing it to wriggle. 'I… I help organize a youth club for local youngsters? Up at the school? We have football matches and jumble sales…'
'Hmm,' said Insch. 'Well unless you're caught in the middle of a turf war between the Boy Scouts and the Girl Guides, I think we can rule that out. Anything else?'
'I still tutor some children. Since I had to retire I sometimes think it's the only thing that keeps me going.'
'Oh aye?' Insch was poking about in the remains of a large china dog with his shoe. 'Piano? French?'
'Chemistry. I was a chemistry teacher for thirty-six years.'
She smiled, eyes misty with recollection. 'I taught thousands and thousands of children in my time.' She sighed. 'And now all I have is this…' DI Insch made his excuses as the tears started, but Logan decided to do the decent thing and make her a cup of tea. The kettle was dented, but otherwise functional, so he set it to boil and went hunting for some teabags. They were scattered all over the floor by the upended bin, mingling with broken eggshells, potato peelings and other debris. He found one that didn't look too unhygienic – after all it was going to get boiling water poured over it and plopped it in a mug that still had its handle attached.
While the bag was stewing, Logan rummaged about, looking for milk and sugar. He found it in the fridge: a large, clear plastic bag of something that looked like fresh herbs, only not so wholesome.
The sound of footsteps crunching on debris and Logan spun around to see Mrs Kennedy standing there, sans cat.
Hands clenching and unclenching, she watched aghast as he stood up, holding the bag of 'herbs'. Logan popped open the zip-lock top and took a tentative sniff at the contents.
'I… I can explain…' she said, voice low, eyes darting down the hall where a uniformed PC was writing down details of the damage on a large clipboard. 'It's for my arthritis…' She held up her trembling hands. 'And my sciatica.'
'Where do you get it from?'
'I… an ex-pupil of mine. He said it had helped his father.
He brings me some every now and then.'
'There's a lot here,' he said shaking the bag. 'All for your own use?'
'Please believe me.' The tears were starting again. 'It makes the pain go away: I never meant to break the law!'
Logan stood watching her as thick tears rolled down her cheeks, a thin dribble of snot starting on its way south from her nose. She fumbled a handkerchief from her pocket and he stared at her hands: swollen joints, squint fingers, just like his grandmother's had been for the last fifteen years of her life. 'OK,' he said at last, popping the bag back in the fridge and closing the door. 'I won't tell anyone if you don't.'
He let himself out. STOP NOW: a funny thing to scrawl on an qld lady's wall. Esoteric. Probably made perfect sense to whatever drug-addled halfwit scrawled it up there. But still…
The sky was a dirty dove-grey as Logan stepped out of the front door. The white and orange of the patrol car had attracted the same audience as last time: a trio of small children, all watching the policemen with awe. It must be just like having the telly come to life, right outside your house. Who knew what sort of exciting things you could see…
Logan crossed the road and walked up the steps to the little cluster of kids, dropping down on his haunches so he wouldn't tower over them. Two little boys, four or fiveish with snotty noses, wide blue eyes and bowl haircuts, and a little girl in a stroller. She couldn't have been more than two and a bit: frizzy blonde hair done up in pigtails, teddy bear clutched in one hand, sucking her thumb and looking up at Logan like he was a hundred feet tall. 'Hello,' he said, in his best non threatening voice, 'my name's Logan. I'm a policeman.' He pulled out his warrant card and let one of the bowl haircuts handle it with grubby fingers. 'Were you here earlier?'
The little girl pulled her thumb out, a long trail of spittle stretching from lips to finger before falling onto teddy's nose.
'Man.'
'Did you see a man?'
She pointed a dribble-covered finger at him. 'Man.' Then held the bear up, so he could see that she'd chewed most of the fur off one ear, and said 'Man' again. Logan's smile began to falter. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
DI Insch sat behind the wheel of his filthy Range Rover, peering out through the windscreen as the first flecks of moisture gave way to a steady downpour. 'So much for a sodding barbecue tonight,' he said as Logan leapt into the passenger seat and out of the rain. 'How'd you get on with the Grampian Police Fan Club?'
Logan sighed and tried to wipe sticky fingerprints off his warrant card. 'Tom's doggy did 'big ones' in daddy's slippers last night and had to sleep in the toilet. Other than that: bugger all.' He glanced up at the building and saw Mrs Kennedy's scared face staring down from the kitchen window. Probably terrified he was going to tell the inspector her dirty little secret. He turned to see the three children staring at him as well.
'Do you think it's odd the same kids are always hanging around?'
Now it was Insch's turn to stare at him. 'Ever occur to you that they might actually live here?'
'OK, point taken.' Logan pulled on his seatbelt. 'So how come you dragged me over here to see this?' he asked as the inspector did a three-point turn on Union Grove and headed back towards the Holburn Street junction. 'Come to that: what are you doing here? Breaking and entering not a job for uniform?'
Insch shrugged and told Logan to look in the glove compartment, which revealed an old packet of sherbet lemons, the yellow lozenges gluey from sitting in the car for God knew how long. The inspector clutched the bag to the steering wheel with one hand while he dug about in the sticky packet with the other, eventually emerging with a lump of three or four, all welded together. He stuffed them in his mouth and sucked his fingers clean, before offering the bag to Logan, who politely declined. 'I suppose,' said Insch around a mouthful of boiled sweets as he forced his way into the stream of traffic, 'I was thinking there might be a connection – you know, with her grandson dying in the fire. And we've still got bugger all to go on with Karl Pearson. Someone tortures the hell out of the ugly wee toe rag and all we can do is cart him off to the morgue and carve him up some more.' He sighed and Logan got the distinct impression that once again Grampian Police's left hand didn't know if the right one was scratching its elbow
