Part 30 (2/2)

'Where the h.e.l.l you been, man? I been callin' you for ages!' Colin Miller sounding agitated, which was pretty much par for the course these days.

'Afternoon.' Logan tried for one last mouthful of coffee, only to find it stone cold. He spat it back out into the mug. 'Urgh, Jesus...'

'She's done it!'

He peered at the marbled liquid then tipped it into the nearest pot plant. 'Done what? Who's done it?'

'It's a wee boy! Seven pounds! He's f.u.c.kin' brilliant! Wee fingers an' toes an' everythin'!'

'Oh...' There were things you were supposed to say to new fathers: 'Congratulations. How's Isobel?'

'Knackered. Says if I come near her again she's going to chop ma d.i.c.k off!' He laughed. 'Can you believe it: six days early?'

'Well, I suppose it's-'

'You gotta come see him!'

'Thing is, Colin...' Logan looked at his desk. It wasn't exactly overflowing with urgent actions, just DI Steel's paperwork all the things she was supposed to do, but never did. And the sooner he reported back to Insch, the sooner the grumpy sod would shout at him for being dragged away in the first place. As if Logan had any say in the matter. 'No, sounds good. See you soon.'

He abandoned his CID pool car as close to the maternity ward as he could and hurried in out of the rain. A nurse gave him directions and after a brief shopping spree in the Women's Royal Voluntary Service shop, he was marching down the corridor, clutching a cat-shaped helium balloon, a box of chocolates and a Hallmark card with IT'S A BOY! on it. As if the parents didn't already know.

The reporter was waiting for him at the maternity ward door. 'Laz, my man! Come see the bairn!'

The next twenty minutes pa.s.sed in something of a blur. The baby, no matter what his proud father said, looked like a shaved monkey, but Logan kept quiet about it and pretended not to notice. Isobel looked dreadful: pale, tired and sweaty, with dark purple bags under her eyes. She clearly wasn't up to a prolonged visit, so Logan made his excuses, promising to meet up with Colin when the fathers were kicked out at nine, to wet the baby's head with some thirty-five-year-old single malt whisky the reporter had bought specially.

Outside, the rain had stopped, late-afternoon sunlight cutting through the low clouds, painting everything gold and ochre, casting long blue shadows as it sank towards the horizon. Logan climbed into the pool car and switched his handset back on, trying to remember how to check for any messages and failing abysmally. So he called Control and asked Sergeant Mitch.e.l.l.

'For G.o.d's sake! I'm not your-'

'b.l.o.o.d.y secretary, yeah, I know. Look, I'm using the d.a.m.n thing, what more do you want?'

'Will wonders never cease? Insch is looking for you.'

'Any idea what-'

'No. So don't ask.'

Logan hung up. It was just on the cusp of five: if he could stay out of the inspector's clutches for another ten minutes he could sign out and slope off home, putting off the inevitable shouting at till tomorrow. But that would mean going back to the flat and dealing with Jackie... He dialled Insch's mobile.

'Where are you?'

Logan thought about lying, but it probably wasn't worth the aggravation. 'Up at the hospital.'

'What?' There was a moment's pause, then the inspector said, 'How did you get... ? No, never mind. Is that slimy b.a.s.t.a.r.d there yet?'

'Er...' He looked up and down the car park, trying to figure out what Insch meant. 'Which one?'

'Hissing b.l.o.o.d.y Sid who do you think? Soon as the TV cameras turn up he's all over the place like a foul smell.'

'Ah, right, not seen him yet.' Which was true.

'I've got a rehearsal at half-six, so I'm relying on you: don't let the wee s.h.i.+te say anything stupid, OK? Last thing we need is more grief.'

Logan didn't have a clue what the inspector was on about, but it would probably be bad. It usually was.

48.

They were gathered outside the main entrance, holding up placards with things like WE LOVE YOU ROB!, GET WELL SOON! and AFC CHAMPIONS! scrawled on them. Floral tributes were piled up to either side of the hospital doors, with the occasional teddy bear dressed up in Aberdeen Football Club colours thrown in for good measure. Half the crowd had their replica s.h.i.+rts on under their thick jackets, and all of them were tearfully singing football songs.

'Oh for G.o.d's sake...' Logan stood next to one of the uniformed constables stationed at the hospital, staring out at this public display of grief. 'They been at this long?'

The constable nodded, her face puckered up like a chicken's b.u.m. 'Aye, ever since it was in the papers this morning. One b.u.g.g.e.r drops off a bunch of manky carnations from a petrol station, and suddenly everyone's at it. Like he's Lady f.u.c.king Di or something.' She pointed off into the middle distance where a group of TV journalists were hanging about drinking tea and coffee from polystyrene cups. 'And those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds aren't helping.'

It was nearly half an hour before things kicked off: Rob Macintyre's mum and her grieving daughter-in-law-elect emerging from the hospital blubbering bravely for the fans and cameras. The sun had long since disappeared, but it'd been replaced by the harsh white glare of television lights. Macintyre's mother shuffled forwards and dabbed at her eyes. 'I want to thank you all for coming to wish my wee boy well,' she said, launching into a speech about how her little darling was the best son in the world, who didn't deserve this, and if anyone knew who was responsible ... pretty much the same thing she'd said at the press conference, only this time Sandy Moir-Farquharson was nowhere to be seen.

'Good wee boy, my a.r.s.e,' said the constable, keeping her voice down, in case anyone overheard. 'Little rapist f.u.c.ker got what he b.l.o.o.d.y deserved. Whoever did him wants a medal.'

Then the questions started from the press, most of which were variations on the theme of, 'How does it feel to have your son in a coma?' as if his mum and fiancee were going to say it was great. Then it was onto Macintyre's medical condition and what it meant for the wedding plans. Ashley struck a determined pose, one hand over her tiny pregnant bulge. 'We're still getting married! Robert will get better his baby needs a daddy and I'll always stand by him!'

'Aye,' hissed the constable, 'and his seven-figure book deal. How much you think she's in for, fifty per cent with the mother? They'll be rolling in it.'

'Well,' said Logan, 'the guy is in a coma-'

'Best place for him.'

The questions kept coming. Up till now, Hissing Sid had handled the media side of things, manipulating, spinning, lying, but without him Macintyre's mother was forced to take centre stage, and she was doing a surprisingly good job of it too, only wheeling Ashley out for the emotional bits.

The footballer's fiancee was in the middle of telling everyone how her Robert wouldn't hurt a fly when a man lurched drunkenly up from the road, shouting, 'f.u.c.ker deserves to die!' As soon as he opened his mouth Logan recognized him: Brian something, boyfriend of Macintyre's sixth victim: Christine Forrester. The one before he'd tried it on with Jackie and got himself kneed in the b.a.l.l.s and arrested.

'Here we go...'

The man wasn't just drunk, he was pickled: tears rolling down his face, slurring as he shouted the odds about how Macintyre was a raping sc.u.mbag who deserved to die for what he'd done. How a coma was too good for him. How he'd ruined Christine's life. Killed her. The cameras were on him in a flash, capturing his pain for the next news bulletin.

Logan pushed through the ring of journalists and took hold of the man's arm. 'Come on, Brian, you don't want to do this. Let's you and me-'

But Brian was stronger than he looked, breaking free and hurling a barrage of foul language at Macintyre's family. Logan waved the constable over and told her to take Brian inside. But he had no intention of coming quietly; lunging at Ashley, shouting: 'You gave him a f.u.c.king alibi! You lying b.i.t.c.h! They could've stopped him!' Taking a wild swing and missing. 'It's your fault!'

'Come on, sir.' The constable grabbed his wrist, twisting it up behind his back before he could do any real damage, and frogmarching him away, the TV cameras hurrying after them.

With the spotlight off Macintyre's nearest and dearest, Logan suggested it might be best if they went home now. 'Before anything else happens.'

Macintyre's mum glared after Brian watching him struggle as he was forced through the doors into the hospital. 'I want to press charges! He's got no right talking to us like that when my boy's in a coma!'

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