Crying like a frightened child, Colin picked up the remains of his butchered hands and did as he was told.
30
'You wee beauty!' DI Steel stood by the window in her office, having a sly fag, reading the preliminary forensic report on the hair samples from Neil Ritchie's brand-new Audi. They were a perfect match for the ones taken from a hairbrush in Holly McEwan's flat. She turned and beamed at Logan as he entered the room, technically an hour and a half late for work, but as he'd worked the two days he was supposed to be off he didn't think it would matter that much. And anyway, he wanted to put off seeing the inspector for as long as possible. That winking red light – when he'd finally plucked up the courage to find out what it was at half past four this morning – turned out to be a recorded voice telling him his phone number had won a Caribbean cruise, five thousand pounds cash, or a certificate as the world's most gullible bumhole. He hadn't called them back.
Steel waved him over and shot him a grin. 'Lazarus, just the man I've been waiting for all my life…' She paused and checked her watch. 'Well, since seven am anyway. Still, never mind,' she said. 'You're here now.'
Logan frowned. This wasn't exactly the welcome he'd been expecting. Why hadn't the inspector ripped a chunk out of his backside yet? 'Er…' Change the subject. 'What did you charge Ritchie with?' With no body it would be hard getting a conviction.
'Nothing yet. Get this: he's still on a volyl He's no' even been detained yet!' Her face lit up like the Stonehaven Christmas lights. 'How cool is that?' The six-hours detainment rule wouldn't start until Ritchie was formally detained. He was still here voluntarily; as it was, they could keep him as long as they liked. Or at least until he asked to leave. 'Spent most of last night blubberin' about how he hadn't done nothing and it's all some dreadful mistake.' She grinned. 'Had that pompous tosspot Bushel interview him, doing his criminal psychiatrist bit. Four- eyed git was so excited he nearly wet himself – Ritchie fits the profile to a tee: absent mother, domineering father who liked to shag prozzies, miserable childhood, blah, blah, blah, nobody loved him. The usual stuff.'
'Wait a minute – the profile said he's supposed to have a menial job; Ritchie's a hydrocarbon accountant!'
'So what? Profiling's hardly an exact science, is it? Anyway, the forensic evidence ties him to Holly McEwan – the PF agrees, Ritchie's our man.'
'What about Michelle Wood and Rosie Williams?'
'Don't complicate things. We've still got Jamie McKinnon if we can't do Ritchie for all three tarts. In the meantime…'
She rummaged about in the mess of paperwork that covered her desk, coming out with an address. 'Ritchie claims he didn't have his shiny new car when Holly went missing.
Probably bollocks, but I want it checked out. And take Rennie with you: he's getting right on my tits this morning.'
Wellington Executive Motors was a single-storey glass box, lined inside and out with top-of-the-range motorcars that cost more than Logan's two-bedroom flat. The showroom sat on Crawpeel Road, in Altens – an industrial estate on the coast road south out of Aberdeen, packed with oil-service companies. Here and there huge architectural monstrosities ill steel and glass loomed over the yards and warehouses major oil companies making sure everyone knew who was boss. But this early on a Sunday morning, Wellington Motors was the only place open.
Still worrying about why DI Steel hadn't chewed him out for landing her in it to Insch, Logan had barely heard a word Rennie said on the way across town from FHQ. Which was probably just as well; today the detective constable was on his high horse about some sub plot in Coronation Street being identical to one in Brookside years ago.
He was still banging on about it as they pushed through the glass doors onto the showroom's dark, rubber flooring.
The whole place smelled of new car and freshly brewed coffee, Vivaldi emanating discreetly from hidden speakers.
'Good morning, gentlemen.' They turned to find a saleswoman smiling at them with all her teeth. 'Welcome to Wellington Executive Motors.' She indicated the showroom with a sweeping gesture, just in case they didn't already know where they were. 'I'd be delighted to assist you in selecting a model to test drive, but while we do: cappuccino?
Biscotti?' Logan asked for the manager and her smile faltered, before scrambling back into place. 'Is there anything I could help you with?' No, there wasn't. 'Well, er… Mr Robinson's with a customer at the moment. Can I offer you something while you wait? Cappuccino? Biscotti?'
Mr Robinson was a round and jovial man with a light grey comb over and a neatly trimmed beard, all smiles and handshakes until he found out Logan and Rennie were policemen.
Then it was all pensive horror, wringing hands and, 'Has something happened?'
Logan put on his best disarming smile. 'Nothing like that, sir, I need to talk to you about a car you sold to one Neil Ritchie last week. Brand new-'
'Audi. Yes, Audi. Executive model, air-conditioning, sunroof, satellite navigation, power-'
'When did he pick it up?'
Mr Robinson spluttered. 'I… No, no, it's out of the question.
I couldn't discuss a client's details, Wellington Executive Motors values our-'
'It's important.'
'I'm sorry, but I'm sure you would need some sort of warrant-'
Logan pulled out two sheets of folded paper from his pocket and held them up4. 'I have a warrant.' No he didn't it was just a printout of the e-fit pictures of Kylie and her pimp, but Robinson didn't know that. The fat man blanched and Logan hid the pages away again, just in case he asked to see them. 'According to the car's registration papers he bought the car last Monday. When did he pick it up?'
With much harrumphing and muttering the showroom manager explained that unfortunately Mr Ritchie was regrettably unable to collect his vehicle on the Monday due to an inopportune incident with a seagull, requiring the bonnet to be resprayed. Logan cursed under his breath – that meant Ritchie wasn't the one who- 'However,' Robinson smiled with pride, 'we were able to drop the vehicle off at Mr Ritchie's home on Tuesday, along with a complimentary bottle of Veuve Clicquot to compensate him for the delay.' Holly McEwan didn't go missing until after eleven on Tuesday night – Ritchie would have had plenty of time to take delivery of the car, pick her up, transport her out to the Tyrebagger Woods and batter her to death. Which meant Ritchie was back in the shit again.
'We'll need to take a statement from whoever dropped off the car.'
The manager peered out through the showroom's glass wall, pointing at a bland man in a grey suit talking to an overweight woman in a bright yellow cardigan. I'm afraid he's with a customer at the moment. But while you wait cappuccino?
Biscotti?'
292
I
They had their coffee and biscuits by the front door, looking out at the forecourt as the first wisps of rain started to fall, speckling all the expensive metal parked outside. The man in the grey suit escorted his becardiganed customer inside to the sales desk, fawned over her a little, complemented her on her excellent taste as she put down a staggeringly large deposit on a new BMW, and escorted her back to her own car with one of the company umbrellas. Rennie cornered him as soon as he returned. Yes he'd delivered Mr Ritchie's car – drove it round there on the Tuesday after work.
Apparently some seagull had done a monster crap on the bonnet, then danced about on it for a while. Made a hell of a mess of the paintwork. Logan let the constable take the statement while he went back to worrying about
