or picking its arse.
'Did DI Steel not tell you about Brendan 'Chib'
Sutherland?'
Insch said that no, she hadn't, so Logan filled him in on the way back to the station, including Colin Miller's promise to find an address for the Edinburgh hoodlum.
'How come we've got to rely on that Weegie shitebag?
No, on second thoughts, don't tell me. I don't want to know.
But when you get that address, you tell me. I'm not leaving that daft old cow…' He threw a swift glance at Logan and harrumphed. 'I mean, DI Steel has enough on her plate right now. I wouldn't want her to be distracted going after something that wasn't directly related to her investigation.'
Logan grinned and kept his mouth shut.
That night's stakeout operation was nearly cancelled. The rain had steadily built in tempo until it was chucking it down, bouncing off the pavements and swallowing the gutters. Faint light flickered overhead, followed by a pause: one, two, three, four – thunder boomed out across the blackened skies. 'Four miles away,' said the inspector, settling back in her seat with one of Councillor Marshall's specialist insertion magazines.
Logan shook his head. 'It's less than a mile. Sound travels at seven hundred and fifty miles an hour, so that means he trailed off into silence. Steel was glowering at him.
'Four miles away!' she said again and went back to looking at the dirty pictures by the light of the glove compartment.
Occasionally saying things like, 'Jesus, that's not natural!' and, 'Ouch!' and once or twice, 'Hmmm…' Logan scrunched down in the driver's seat and peered out through the windscreen.
WPC Menzies was swearing and grumbling down at the other end of Shore Lane, shifting from one stiletto- heeled foot to the other, trying to keep warm. In the interests of health and safety, she was wearing a long fur coat from the
I
lost-and-found store over her whore outfit tonight. Clutching an umbrella.
Her voice crackled through the radio. 'This is ridiculous! Nae bastard's going taste come oot here in this pishin' weather!' Sounds of agreement immediately came through from WPC Davidson: it was nearly midnight and they'd not had a single bite. This was a waste of everyone's time. Logan had to agree they had a point. But the inspector was not for turning, they'd been given sanction to keep this going for five nights and she was damned if they were giving up before then. In the end everyone settled back into unhappy perseverance.
Steel snored, WPCs Menzies and Davidson whinged and moaned, Logan brooded. This was such a stupid idea twenty-six police men and women, sitting in the dark, waiting for some sicko to abduct an unattractive WPC wouldn't prove anything. He might as well strip down to his underpants and run around the docks in the rain for all the good it would do.
DI Steel had settled into a steady buzz-saw-in-a-washing machine drone, one of Councillor Marshall's dirty magazines open in her lap, spot-lit by the open glove compartment, exposing something Logan did not want to see. He leaned over the inspector and snapped the glove compartment shut.
'Umn, scrrrrrrnch, emph?' Steel cracked open an eye and peered blearily at him leaning across her. 'Dirty wee shite.
I'm no' fuckin'…' She drifted to a halt and yawned, the motion ending with a small burp. 'What time is it?'
'Half twelve,' said Logan, rolling the window down, letting some fresh air into the car, bringing the steady roar of torrential rain with it. Steel gave another yawn, stretching and groaning in the passenger seat as Logan finally decided to take the plunge: 'Why don't you want Councillor Marshall prosecuted?'
'Hmm?' She peeled the plastic wrapper off a pack of twenty cigarettes, throwing it over her shoulder into the rubbish-tip back seat. 'Cos you can catch more flies with shite than vinegar. You look out there,' she said, setting a lighter to the end of her cigarette, 'and you see guilty or not guilty, yeah?
Black or white. Well sometimes it's no' that clear cut-'
'He was paying a fourteen-year-old girl for sex!'
'Didn't know she was fourteen though, did he?'
He couldn't believe what he was hearing, 'Does it matter?' 'See – there you go again, black or white. It pays to have people in your debt, Logan, especially people who…' She stopped, peering out into the night. There was a figure walking down Marischal Street, dressed in a featureless ankle-length raincoat buttoned all the way up to the neck. Bald as a coot, clutching an umbrella, the black surface shrouded in mist as the rain hurled itself towards the ground. Detective Inspector Insch.
'Boy, boy,' said Steel, 'it's Uncle Fester.'
DI Insch marched slowly across the road and around the car to Logan's side. Something congealed in Logan's innards as he looked up into the inspector's impassive face. Insch's voice was like a graveyard. 'It's Constable Maitland,' he said, and suddenly Logan could hear each and every drop of rain.
'He's dead.'
22
Flames reached up to the sky, devouring wood and plastic, paper and flesh. The blaze crackled and sparked in the rainy night – the downpour doing nothing to quench its hunger.
He'd put way too much petrol through the letterbox for that.
His very own makeshift crematorium.
The location was perfect: a little winding road down by the river in the south of the city. High stone walls on one side – keeping the lowlife out of some sort of hotel grounds – scattered, detached houses on the other. Secluded enough to stop the alarm being raised too soon, and with plenty of cover for him to hide in and watch the place burn. And even if someone did raise the alarm, the fire engines were busy elsewhere.
He knew he shouldn't be here. Not so soon after the other fire. He knew he would get in trouble for this one, but he just couldn't help himself. Standing in the shadows, on the other side of the road, he grimaced, pounding away at his erection as the upstairs windows exploded outwards in a shower of glass.
God, this was beautiful.
The screaming had lasted for ten whole minutes. Four petrpl bombs in through the bedroom windows. Someone had even braved the inferno in the hallway, hammering frantically against the front door, not knowing he'd screwed it shut, just like the one round the back. He bit his bottom lip, imagining their flesh crackling and popping in the heat.
Flames raging downstairs, flames raging upstairs. Nowhere to run. All they could do was die. He grunted and shuddered … squeezing tighter, trying to make it last, but it was too late. He threw back his head and moaned in ecstasy as the roof finally gave way, sending an eruption of orange and white sparks spiralling up into the night. Then the fire brigade arrived – charging about with their ladders and their hoses, but it was far too late for the family of four charring away beneath the burning rubble.
He really shouldn't have burned the house; he was bound to get in trouble.
But right now, he just didn't care.
Seven forty-five, Friday morning, tired, bleary and hung over. It hadn't been a good night for Logan; DI Steel had sent him home early, where he'd made friends with a bottle of twelve-year-old single malt whisky. Getting drunk and maudlin and thoroughly depressed. One minute PC Maitland was lying there in his persistent vegetative state, and the next he was gone. DI Insch had told Logan not to worry: it was dreadful, but these things happened. It wasn't his fault.
It would all blow over. And when the inspector had gone, marching back up the road in the rain, DI Steel told him that Insch was talking bollocks. This was a perfect opportunity for the slimy bastards to crawl out of the
