Logan sat back in his seat and stared at the ceiling, trying to think of anything else he should be asking. 'Did he have any visitors since he got back from hospital?' Like two large gentlemen from Edinburgh, for example. She didn't know, but she could find out. One quick phone call later and the answer was yes – yesterday evening: Jamie's girlfriend. That made no sense and Logan said so. 'Girlfriend? How can he have a girlfriend? The love of his life's just been beaten to death.'
Luckily the visiting room was one of the few places in the prison where the CCTV cameras still worked. Logan and Rennie sat in the security office, staring at a flickering monitor, looking back in time to yesterday evening. The screen showed an empty room, tables arranged in straight lines, plastic chairs on either side. Logan prodded the fast forward button, horizontal lines shuddering across the image as the tape whirred on. A guard appeared in the corner, as if by magic, and then the first inmate whooshed into view, followed by two more, each choosing a table as far away from the others as possible. The whirring stopped and the picture settled down into normal time. Jamie McKinnon was sitting at the back left, under the poster telling visitors what they weren't allowed to pass across to the prisoners. And then the girlfriend arrived, limping into shot with her back to the camera. But Logan didn't need to see her face to know who it was: black leather jacket, torn jeans, pink spiky hair.
Logan stabbed the screen with his finger. 'Suzie McKinnon, Jamie's sister. How come they thought she was his girlfr-'
Suzie leaned across the table and slipped a big French kiss into her brother's open mouth. 'Oh. I see.'
'So,' said Rennie, watching as the pair parted, both wiping their mouths on the backs of their sleeves. 'She was slipping him more than just tongue.' A small parcel of drugs, passed from mouth to mouth under the guise of a long, passionate kiss.
Logan nodded. 'Looks like it. Come on, we have to pay her a visit anyway; she's next of kin.'
Suzie McKinnon wasn't in her usual drinking spot with the rest of King Edward's advisors – the rain keeping even the most stalwart monarchist alcoholics indoors – so they tried the address in Ferryhill they'd followed her to last time. The lights were on in the basement flat, shining out into the gloomy afternoon. Suzie was home.
'Right,' said Logan, unfastening his seatbelt. 'Here's the plan: I go inside and knock. Rennie: you wait out front like last time, I don't want her hopping out through the front window and buggering off into the monsoon.' He turned to the family liaison officer they'd picked up during a quick detour back to headquarters, the same nervous young man assigned to Grandma Kennedy. 'You take the garden out back.'
The communal door still wasn't locked so Logan let himself in, picking his way down the dark stairs to the basement flat, the glass from a shattered light bulb scrunching underfoot.
The McKinnons' front door had taken a beating since he was here last – a large boot print next to the lock, the wood around it buckled and cracked. Logan knocked and it swung open beneath his hand, only stopping when the door chain reached full stretch, the wooden surround was splintered where the lock and deadbolt had been ripped free. A nervous face appeared at the opening, took one look at Logan, then ran for it. Suzie McKinnon. The lounge door slammed: she was going out the front window. He found her outside, struggling with DC Rennie, her pink hair plastered to her head, white make-up starting to run in the heavy rain, as if her face was melting. She sank her teeth into Rennie's arm and he let out an 'Ayabastard!' losing his grip for a moment: just long enough for Suzie to wriggle free and slam a knee into his groin. Rennie went white, but didn't let go, hissing curses between clenched teeth as she writhed and swore.
Logan grabbed her arm before she could inflict any more damage and said, 'Jamie's dead, Suzie.' She froze, staring at him in disbelief while the rain fell all around them. Up close he could see that her make-up had been hiding more than just spots. As it dissolved in the rain, bruises and scrapes were coming to the surface.
Her mouth worked up and down, until the word 'How?' finally made it out.
'Looks like an overdose. But we won't know for sure until…' He stopped, not wanting to go into detail about what Isobel would do to Jamie's body. 'Until later. We won't know until later. Come on, let's go inside.'
The chain was still on the door, so they had to clamber in through the lounge window, treading wet footprints into the tatty settee on their way to the carpet. They stood there in silence for a moment, Suzie chewing on her black-painted fingernails while Rennie limped off to the kitchen under orders to make tea, grumbling non-stop about being kneed in the balls.
'What happened to the front door?'
She frowned, as if his words were coming from a long way off. 'Door? Oh, it…' she shrugged, wincing at the motion. 'Ah forgot ma key.' She wouldn't meet his eyes.
'I expect you fell down the stairs too. What with it being dark out there and all.'
Suzie closed her eyes and nodded, tears sparkling over her lashes and falling onto her bruised cheeks. Logan sighed.
'You and I both know that's bullshit. Someone kicked the door in, then did the same to you. And I'll bet you all the tatties in Scotland I know who did it.'
'Did… Did he really overdose?'
'Far as we can tell. We're not sure if he did it on purpose or not.'
'Oh God.' She buried her head in her hands, rocking back and forth with silent sobs. 'I killed him!'
Logan watched her cry for a moment. 'Where did you get it from, Suzie?'
But she wasn't listening to him any more. 'Oh God, Jamie…' Tugging at her wet pink hair she mourned for her dead brother.
It was ten minutes before anyone remembered the FLO was still standing in the back garden in the rain.
32
They headed back into town, DC Rennie behind the wheel, clutching at his groin every thirty seconds, making sure it was still there. Logan stared morosely out of the window, watching the people and traffic go by. At least the rain was letting up, blue sky breaking through the lowering clouds, the wet tarmac sparkling in the sunshine. Rennie pulled up behind a huge BMW four-by-four and waited for the lights to change. Another flashy motor with a personalized number plate – the city was rife with them, like some sort of disease.
Logan frowned. Flashy motor, flashy motor… why did that sound familiar?
The lights changed and the four-by-four rumbled away, taking a left onto Springbank Terrace, with Logan staring after it. When the answer wouldn't come he pulled out his phone and checked his messages – just the one from Brian, Isobel's assistant: Jamie McKinnon's post mortem was being delayed until four. Dr MacAlister wasn't feeling too well.
Logan closed his phone, tapping the plastic casing against his chin as he frowned out the window. It wasn't like Isobel to show any sort of weakness: she'd have to be half dead to postpone a post mortem. Four o'clock… It was just coming up on two now. 'Right,' he said, stuffing the phone back in his pocket and pulling out the wad of messages from Mrs Cruickshank. 'We've got a couple of hours to kill before they fillet Jamie. I've got a treat for you: we're off to Westhill.'
Westhill was an ever-expanding suburb seven miles west of Aberdeen. It had started off as a collection of pig farms before the developers got their claws into it, and now it sprawled all the way from the main road up the hill, slowly encircling the golf course with pale brick arms. By the time Rennie had negotiated the roundabout by the business park and was heading into Westhill proper the rain was gone and everything shone in the warm sunshine. Half a dozen magpies leapt and chattered in the grass of Denman Park, strutting back and forth like barristers as they drove by. And then it was past a cramped shopping centre, up the hill, and left making for Westfield Gardens: home to the adulterous Mr Gavin Cruickshank. The house sat three quarters of the way around the cul-de-sac, backing onto Westhill Academy. Out front the garden was pristine, laid out with circular rose beds, the yellow and pink blooms glittering with raindrops caught in the sun; built-in garage; red, part-glazed front door; twee wooden plaque with Cruickshanks' Repose carved into it.
The lampposts all the way around the street were decorated with bright-yellow, laminated A4 posters: a picture of a huge Labrador, its features grainy and indistinct from the photocopying, and the words: Moppet's Missing!!! The address given was for the house next to Cruickshanks' Repose – an identical building, but not so well kept. The garden was a mess of dandelions and clover, the front door in need of a fresh coat of paint. The garage was lying open, revealing a rusty Fiat nestling amongst piles of old newspapers, paint tins, empty bottles and bits of
