'Too late, I did it yesterday.' 'You...?' The huge sergeant grimaced. 'What the hell did you do that for? Thought you were supposed to be his friend!' 'That's why I'm trying to save the daft bastard from himself.' Logan skimmed through the article. 'Where's Steel?' 'Where do you think?' He started for the door. 'Get someone to pick Wiseman up and stick him in an interview room.' 'No. Hoy - paper!' Big Gary stuck out his hand. 'What do you mean, 'no'?' 'One: I'm not your bloody secretary, and two: he's in court first thing - they're thinking about letting the murdering bastard go, remember?' 'Bloody hell ... When?' 'Eight.' Logan dragged out his phone and started dialling.
Aberdeen Sheriff Court was an imposing granite building at the bottom end of Union Street, sandwiched between the Council chambers and the Tollbooth Museum. They'd convened Wiseman's hearing in one of the small courts - a converted jury room tucked away down a side corridor - and it was a closed session, so Logan was forced to wait outside, nodding at the lawyers he knew, the police officers he worked with, and the shoplifters he'd arrested. It was nearly twenty to ten when the doors finally opened and someone from the Procurator Fiscal's office stormed out, muttering darkly. Which wasn't exactly a good sign. Next it was a couple of clerks, the Sheriff, and finally Ken Wiseman, flanked by two prison officers. His lawyer had shovelled him into a grey suit, the formal attire not really going with the collection of bruises and swellings. The butcher's face looked like a mouldy pumpkin, bisected by that white line of old scar tissue. Logan stepped up. 'Kenneth Wiseman--' A balding woman stepped in front of him. 'It's OK, Ken, you don't have to talk to him.' Wiseman pulled his swollen face into something that might have been a smile. 'They fired that fat fuck yet?' The butcher's lawyer placed her hand against her client's chest. 'Please, let me deal with this.' She looked back at Logan. 'Mr Wiseman has nothing to say to you.' 'No? Well I've got something to say to him--' 'Threatening my client will--' 'They had fuck all on me in 1990, and they've got fuck all on me now.' Wiseman stepped forwards, but the prison officers took hold of his arms. 'That bastard Brooks fitted me up and I--' 'Kenneth, I must insist--' 'For what it's worth,' said Logan,'I believe you. Brooks screwed up the original investigation. You're not the Flesher, you never were.'
