Part 22 (1/2)

A quick rummage in the back turned up a couple of old copies of the Daily Mail, and for a moment Logan toyed with the idea that McGillivray might be a journalist, but then why would he run? Logan settled back in the seat, shoogling down, keeping himself as hidden as possible.

A car slid past outside the engine noise dying, not fading, soon afterwards. That would be Jackie, returning to her surveillance parking spot. Logan pulled out his mobile and called her.

'Jackie?'

'Where the h.e.l.l have you been? I-'

'Listen, I found the guy's car, it's about twenty yards behind you. He'll be back for it. I need you to keep out of sight, OK? If he sees you he'll do another runner.'

'I'm not going anywhere! Insch would kill me. And that wee f.u.c.k Macintyre might get out again!'

'You don't have to-'

'You know what happened last time I wasn't here, don't you? Your b.l.o.o.d.y mother's birthday party, and some poor cow-'

'For G.o.d's sake! I'm not asking you to abandon your b.l.o.o.d.y post, OK? Just keep your head down!' Snapping at her. There was an ominous silence from the other end of the phone.

'I know you don't think this is important, but-'

'When? When did I ever say it wasn't important?'

'You said-'

'I didn't say anything! How could I? You never b.l.o.o.d.y told me what you were up to. Instead of acting like a spoilt brat at the party you could have told me! I would have made an excuse for you. h.e.l.l, I'd've come round after with a doggy bag of cake and f.u.c.king ice cream! You-'

She hung up on him.

Swearing quietly to himself, Logan reached over into the front of the car and helped himself to one of the sandwiches and a tin of Red Bull. Then he settled back to eat and brood.

It was nearly forty-five minutes before a ceasefire was declared Jackie phoning to tell him there was a 'suspicious-looking w.a.n.ker' hanging about at the far end of the road. Logan s.h.i.+fted round till he was peering out the rear window, between the UP THE DONS!!! stickers. A short, stocky figure stood beneath a streetlight, watching the road, breathing plumes of pale fog into the cold morning air.

Logan reached under his jacket and pulled out the now cold-water bottle, letting it fall into the footwell.

Whoever it was surveyed the street one last time, then started towards the manky Clio. Logan scooted further down, keeping out of sight, listening to the crunch, crunch, crunch of footsteps on crisp snow. A shadow fell across the car's interior, then a jingle of keys, a clunk, and the driver's door was hauled open. The man s.h.i.+vered in behind the steering wheel, filling the car with stale BO, turned the engine over and cranked the heater up to full.

He rubbed his hands together, stared up at the Macintyre place for a moment, then put the car into gear. Logan waited until the man was going for the hand break, before leaning forward and saying, 'Going somewhere?'

The whole car reverberated with a terrified scream. The car lurched, the engine stalled, the driver fumbled frantically for the door handle, but Logan reached out and pressed the central locking b.u.t.ton, before clambering into the pa.s.senger seat.

The man stared at him, terrified, sweat p.r.i.c.king out on his sloping forehead. 'I've no' got any money!' He was young no more than mid-twenties, twitchy, surprisingly pale, even allowing for the jaundiced streetlighting.

Logan held out his warrant card. 'Police. Are you Russell McGillivray?'

'I... I've no' done nothin'! You scared the c.r.a.p out of me! I'm makin' a complaint! I-'

'Name. I'm not going to ask you again.'

The young man coughed. 'Don. Don Macbeth ... er... but people call me Hamish, you know, because of the telly, I-'

'You do know it's an offence to give a false name and address to the police, don't you?'

'I'm no' lyin'!'

Logan stared at him, letting the silence grow.

'Seriously! I'm no' lyin'!'

'This your car Mr Macbeth?'

'No... Yes... I mean it belongs to a mate.'

'I see...' Logan nodded. 'Well, Don ”Hamish” Macbeth I'm detaining you on suspicion of trying to pervert the cause of justice by giving false details-'

'Oh come on! I'm no' lying! I'm no'!' He made a bid for freedom, stabbing the central locking off with his thumb, then wrenching open the driver's-side door. He scrabbled out into the road, only to find himself face to face with PC Jackie 'Ball Breaker' Watson.

'Don't even think about it!'

He wasn't bright enough to take a telling.

'So then,' said Logan, walking back into interview room one, carrying the results from the fingerprint department, 'there seems to be some mistake, ”Mr Macbeth”. We sent your prints off to the main database and they came back belonging to a Russell McGillivray. Isn't that strange?'

Don Macbeth, AKA Russell McGillivray, fidgeted in his seat, one hand going to the crotch of his trousers, making sure everything was still there after his abortive attempt to get past Jackie. 'It's ... aye...' His skin shone with sweat, his body twitching and twisting on its own, while he gnawed away on his fingers. Twitch, chew, twitch, fidget, twitch... 'Any chance of a f.a.g? I'm gaspin'.' Voice trembling, breath smelling stale and rancid, adding to the general stink of unwashed armpits.

'So, Russell, you want to tell me why you were sat outside Rob Macintyre's house at one in the morning?'

'Aye ... well ... it's...' he coughed, bit the inside of his cheek for a bit, then said, 'Go on, give us a f.a.g... I'm f.u.c.kin' dying here!'

'Maybe. But only if you tell me everything. What were you doing there?'

More fidgeting. 'I... I'm a big fan, like. Wanted tae get his autograph.'

Logan stared at him. 'Yeah, and I'm Harry Potter.' He pulled out McGillivray's file, flicking through it until he got to, 'Three counts for possession with intent, two for breaking and entering, one for possession of stolen property, one for driving under the influence...' He looked up from the sheet and smiled. 'Well, look at that, we're going to have to do you for driving while disqualified as well. That's on top of giving a false name and resisting arrest. And I see you're on bail.' Logan gave a low whistle. 'Wow, sucks to be you.'

'Aw f.u.c.k...' McGillivray folded up, sweaty head on the tabletop, arms piled over the top.

'So, come on then, Russell, before we cart you off to prison for violating your parole, what were you doing lurking about outside Rob Macintyre's house?'

McGillivray peered out between his arms. 'I'm no' well, man, no' well...'

Logan pulled a rumpled packet of Benson & Hedges from his pocket filched from DI Steel's office and placed it on the table, drawing McGillivray's eyes like a magnet, making him lick his lips in antic.i.p.ation as Logan placed a cheap plastic lighter beside the cigarettes. 'Now then, how about I start you off?' The sweaty, s.h.i.+vering man sat up and nodded, never taking his eyes off Steel's stolen f.a.gs. 'While I was running your prints through the computer, guess what else I found? They match a set of partials we took from a Mr Moir-Farquharson's car. He was a.s.saulted yesterday evening at around nine fifteen, just before you got a free glimpse of some woman's b.o.o.bs, remember?'

'I... no, I was at home with-'

'I've got you on CCTV, Russell. So let's try again, shall we? We caught you lurking outside Robert Macintyre's house, and yesterday you were hanging round where his lawyer was beaten up. Want to explain why?'

Twitch, judder. 'I... I was... Come on, just one ciggie...'