45
Two days later.
'How much of this is true?' asked Insch, tossing Logan's report back across the desk. Fifteen pages of lies and half-truths, printed out this morning when he'd got back from the hospital. Outside the inspector's window morning sunshine caressed the city, making the monolithic glass tombstone of St Nicholas House sparkle and gleam as summer put in a farewell appearance. From now on the weather forecast was doom and gloom. Thank you Aberdeen, and goodnight…
'All of it. Every last word.'
Insch just looked at him, letting the silence grow, waiting for Logan to step in and fill the void with something incriminating.
Logan kept his swollen mouth shut. Two days on and Chib's fist was still making its presence felt. 'Fine,' said the inspector at last. 'You'll be interested to know that the lab's come back on the bullet they dug out of PC Jacobs believe it or not, it matches the one they found in PC Maitland. Same rifling marks. Same shooter.'
Same shooter? Logan closed his eyes and groaned. 'The van.'
Insch stopped and stared at him. 'What van?'
'Outside Miller's house: grubby blue Transit. It was the same van that turned up at the warehouse when Maitland was shot. I knew I recognized it!' He swore and stared up at the ceiling. There never had been any stolen property in that warehouse; it was Chib's drugs distribution point. Miller said Graham Kennedy was the one who'd tipped him off about the place being full of nicked electrical goods, but Kennedy just wanted the police to get rid of the competition for him.
Turn up, find the drugs, arrest the new boys from Edinburgh.
Fine if it had worked, but it hadn't: Chib and his pals got away. Then they returned the compliment, only Chib didn't piss around with anonymous tip-offs, he went straight in with the abduction, torture and mass murder. Gotta love someone who takes their work seriously. Logan swore again.
'You OK, Sergeant?'
'Not really, sir, no.'
Insch nodded and creaked his massive frame out of his chair, scrunching up an empty Jelly Babies packet and tossing it into the bin. 'Come on, Fatal Accident Enquiry's not till half four, I'll stand you a bacon buttie and a cup of tea.'
Logan's stomach churned. 'No, thanks, but I'm not really in the mood for bacon.' All he could think about were Miller's friend and his pigs. 'If you don't mind, I've got something I need to take care of.'
He picked up a pool car and went looking for someone in uniform to take with him. WPC Buchan was standing by the back door, smoking a cigarette and chewing at her nails. She looked as if she hadn't slept a wink since he'd ordered her off his crime scene two days ago. 'It's half ten, how come you're still on?' he asked and she flinched. 'Thought night shift finished at seven.'
She looked at the ground beneath her feet and shrugged.
'Put in for a green shift. Couldn't just go home and wait for Professional Standards to call. Climbing the walls…'
'Come on,' he said, tossing her the keys. 'You're driving.'
They made it as far as Hazlehead before she cracked and asked him when he was going to file his complaint against her.
'You know you've been behaving like a complete arsehole, don't you?' said Logan as the tower blocks drifted past and the countryside opened out on either side of the car. Her back stiffened, but she kept her mouth shut. 'If I could go back,' he said, 'and fix things so Maitland and Steve didn't get shot, I would. I never wanted it to turn out like this.' The road up to the crematorium went past on the left, the building hidden behind a hill and a stand of trees. Logan sighed. I'm not putting in a complaint. I'm giving you another chance.'
She squinted at him from the corner of her eye. 'Why?'
Suspicious.
'Because…' Pause. 'Because everyone needs a second chance.' Or in Logan's case a third and fourth. Things still weren't back to normal with DI Steel – this morning's headline in the P amp;J hadn't helped any…
Silence settled back into the car again. It stayed there until the Kingswells roundabout had been and gone. Now it was just fields and the occasional house until Westhill, the grass shining emerald green in the sunshine. That was one of the great things about Aberdeen: no matter where you lived, the countryside was never more than fifteen minutes away.
Except during rush-hour. 'I…' WPC Buchan cleared her throat. 'First I thought he was just having an affair, but…'
Deep breath, the words coming out in a rush. 'But I think he's been sleeping with the women down the docks. The … prostitutes. Letting them off with cautions if they-'
Logan held up a hand. 'It's OK, you don't have to tell me.'
He'd already guessed: that was why Michelle Wood and Kylie didn't have criminal records, and why the Lithuanian schoolgirl had offered to do him for free – because he was a policeman.
I
I
'I kicked the bastard out.'
'Good.'
I
Ailsa stood at the kitchen window, watching the children playing in the schoolyard: the younger ones running around like mad things, the older, cooler kids kicking back on the grass, soaking up the sun. The horrible woman from next door had been remanded without bail. That's what the papers said this morning. Remandgd without bail: charged with the gruesome murder of Gavin Cruickshank. There was even a small picture of her ugly, hate-filled face staring out of the Press and Journal's front page as they led her from the court building. Of course Gavin's death wasn't as important as some local sex scandal – Gavin only merited three short columns at the bottom of the page, but it was enough to let everyone know what a bitch Clair Pirie, neighbour-from-hell, had been.
Ailsa took a deep shuddering breath. Oh God: she was finally I gone.
The children blurred and she blinked back tears, biting her bottom lip. She wasn't going to cry, she wasn't going to – a sob escaped. A low, keening noise, full of pain. Gavin…
She stood at the kitchen sink and cried, mourning her marriage and her husband, while the children played.
Children they would never have together.
Clutching the edge of the sink she lurched forward and was sick, splattering the spotless, stainless steel with Fruit 'n Fibre, retching up mouthful after mouthful until there was nothing left.
She was upstairs in the bathroom, washing her face, when the doorbell went. Probably the press again. Reporters had been ringing her phone day and night, banging on her door, wanting to get their grubby little hands on the story of a grieving widow. As if there wasn't already enough pain and misery without rubbing a little more salt in the wound. 'Mrs Cruickshank, is it true your husband was having an affair?'
'Mrs Cruickshank, have they found your husband's head yet?' 'Mrs Cruickshank, how does it feel to know your next-door neighbour dismembered the man you loved?'
The doorbell again, this time accompanied by a voice. 'Mrs Cruickshank, it's DS McRae. Can you open up
