Part 29 (1/2)

Sitting in the back with Ma, Logan tried not to groan. The pair of them had been at it since they'd picked her up at half-eight. She'd do her usual rambling non sequitur thing, Insch would snap at her, she'd sulk for a bit, and then it would all start up again.

The address she'd given them was deep in darkest Mastrick, part of a long line of grey granite tenements that looked even drearier than normal under the blue-grey clouds. Muttering darkly about old ladies, blunt objects and shallow graves, the inspector called into Control and told them the Drug Squad could take a running jump at themselves: he was going in. 'I don't care,' he said to whoever it was on the other end of the phone. 'I'm investigating a murder: it takes precedence. Finnie can-'

Someone knocked on the window, a jowly, middle-aged man with wide, rubbery lips, floppy hair, leather jacket and a pained expression. Insch hung up on Control and buzzed the window down.

'Not wanting to be funny,' said the man, 'but what the f.u.c.k do you think you're playing at?'

'Derek MacDonald.'

'This is an ongoing surveillance operation you idiot! Get out of here!'

'I'm going nowhere without Derek MacDonald.'

'That's it.' DI Finnie pulled an Airwave handset from his jacket pocket. 'I'm calling the DCS.'

'Fine,' said Insch, with a nasty smile, 'you tell him I'm after a murderer, but you're busy playing cops and junkies. I'm sure he'll be dead impressed.'

'Oh, for G.o.d's sake...' The man glanced back over his shoulder at the house. 'Who did you say you were looking for?'

'Derek MacDonald.'

'No, can't help you. Now if you wouldn't mind f.u.c.king off before someone sees you, I've got a surveillance operation to-'

'I don't give a toss about your operation.'

'You're such an a.r.s.ehole.'

'I'm investigating a murder.'

'Fine. Be like that. f.u.c.k over six weeks' worth of work. Way to be a team player, Insch.'

'All I want is Derek MacDonald.'

'HE DOESN'T LIVE HERE!'

'Tall chap,' said Ma, beaming at him out of the window, 'brown hair, sideburns, mid-twenties, squint nose, little round gla.s.ses like Harry Potter?'

Finnie marched round to the Range Rover's pa.s.senger side and climbed in the front. 'Go down to the end of the street and take a left.'

'Are you deaf? I'm not-'

'I'm trying to help, OK? Now go down to the end of the b.l.o.o.d.y street and take a left!'

Left and left again took them up a small side street running parallel to the one they were just on. 'Pull in here.' Finnie pointed at a s.p.a.ce next to a suspiciously familiar-looking scabby Vauxhall. 'Five minutes.' He climbed out into the cold morning, let himself through a wrought iron gate into the garden of a boarded-up house, and disappeared round the side of the building.

'You see the paper this morning?' said Insch when Finnie was gone, pulling a copy of the Press and Journal from underneath his seat. Front-page headline: LAWYER BLOCKED MACINTYRE'S POLICE PROTECTION! and a big photo of Hissing Sid's bruised and battered face. 'You know,' said the inspector, grinning, 'I'm starting to like that soap-dodging Weegie b.a.s.t.a.r.d of yours.'

Logan skimmed the article while Insch started in on a packet of Refreshers. Colin Miller had done a proper hatchet job on Sandy Moir-Farquharson, contradicting half of what the lawyer had told the other papers, making him look like a self-serving, a.r.s.ehole. No wonder Insch was happy.

'I'm getting that framed.' The inspector took the paper back, laying it out on the dashboard and smoothing it flat. 'Nice photo too, don't you think? Really shows up the bruises.'

'Well I think it's a terrible shame!' said Ma, arms crossed, face set. 'That poor wee lad had his whole life ahead of him and a baby on the way. Whoever beat him up should be ashamed of himself. Whatever happened to National Service? You know, I was just telling Denise the other day-'

Insch told her to shut up.

Ma was still sulking when Finnie returned, clutching a brown A4 envelope. He pulled out a glossy photo. 'This him?'

Ma squinted at it for a second. 'Oh, yes. He's got lovely hair, don't you think? Like our Norman's boyfriend. I'm sure he uses a full-bodied shampoo.'

'Jimmy Duff. Local lad. Small-time dealer.'

'We want him,' said Insch, staring at the photo, then opening negotiations with DI Finnie to get the guy picked up.

Logan was the only one to see the expression on Ma's face when she found out 'Derek MacDonald' wasn't who he'd said he was. It wasn't pretty.

Back at FHQ the computer forensics people had finally got around to forwarding on the contents of Jason Fettes' hotmail account. Logan worked his way through the emails, ignoring the spam and day-to-day dross, concentrating on the messages from people in the BDSM scene instead: offers of money for s.e.x, and personal appointments.

From the look of things Fettes had a number of regulars, none of whom gave their real name. The email addresses weren't much help either, they were all things like '[email protected]' and ''. From the look of things the usual practice was to meet Fettes at the regular Aberdeen munch first, and after that it was, 'My place: six, Thursday. Bring your lube.' No names and no addresses. And no b.l.o.o.d.y use.

He put them all in date order, then took the lot up to DI Insch.

'No, I don't... no... Look, just because you think you're... yes... just pick the b.a.s.t.a.r.d up, OK? Because if you don't, I b.l.o.o.d.y well will!' The inspector slammed the phone down and scowled at it, then dug about in his desk, coming out with a Sherbet Fountain. 'I'd offer you one,' he said, ripping the orange and yellow paper off the top, 'but you know how it is.'

Logan dumped the pile of emails on the inspector's desk, watching in hypnotic fascination as Insch sooked the end of the liquorice straw, dibbed it into the white sherbet, and transferred it back to his mouth. Then repeated the whole process: dib, sook, dib, sook...

'Yes, anyway,' he said at last, snapping out of it, 'Fettes's emails: I've been through them. Nothing on the night he died, but I highlighted any BDSM appointments for the fortnight before he got dumped outside A&E.'

'Names?' asked the inspector, white powder dusting his top lip like cocaine.

'No real ones, it's all, ”Mistress Nicky” and ”Jenny Spank Me”, that kind of thing.'

Insch nodded and went back to the dibbing and sooking. 'Not a lot of b.l.o.o.d.y help then.'

'We can forget about anyone who's a bottom, sub, or m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t,' said Logan, sorting through the file. 'They'd be the ones strapped to the table, not Fettes. So it's got to be a top, a dom, or a switch.'

The inspector looked at him, one eyebrow raised, the liquorice straw sticking out of his mouth like a thermometer. 'You're getting a bit ... familiar with this whole bondage thing, aren't you?'

'Point is these people are probably local. And if they're active in the Aberdeen scene we can find out who they are from their bondage names. h.e.l.l, Rickards might even know them!'

Insch tipped the last of the sherbet into his mouth, tapping the empty paper tube to get every last milligram of powder out. 'Well? Go get him then!'

'Yes, sir.'

According to Control, Rickards was out on a shout with DI McPherson, so Insch would have to wait. In the meantime Logan had paperwork to catch up on. That DVD of Fettes was causing no end of grief Garvie was dead because they'd screwed up and jumped to conclusions, and as if Logan didn't feel guilty enough about that, the Chief Constable was on the rampage. Insch was determined to keep Garvie in the frame: the person in the bondage suit might be female, but there was still the driver with the Irish accent Garvie fitted the description perfectly ... but Logan was beginning to have doubts about the whole thing.

He was heading downstairs to watch the CCTV footage from the hospital again, when shouting and swearing echoed up the stairwell from the custody suite. Crash, bang and wallop. More swearing. Whatever it was, Logan wanted nothing to do with it. He'd got as far as the ground floor when half a dozen constables charged past, heading for the disturbance. Another loud crash and more shouting.