Cold Granite Part 18

Simon McLeod's face closed up. 'We don't have a lot of people who don't settle. It's against management policy.'

'Take another look, Mr McLeod. Sure you don't recognize him? Ended up floating face down in the harbour with his kneecaps missing.'

Simon's eyes opened wide and he slapped a hand over his mouth. 'Oh, him! G.o.d, now you mention it, I do remember something about hacking his kneecaps off and throwing him in the harbour! Christ, why'd you no' say so sooner? Aye: I kilt him and I'm no' f.u.c.kin' bright enough to lie about it if the police come in here askin' stupid f.u.c.kin' questions.'

Logan bit his tongue and counted to five. 'Do you recognize him?'

'Get to f.u.c.k and take your b.i.t.c.h with you. The smell's upsettin' Winchester.' He pointed at the snarling Alsatian. 'And even if I did recognize him, I'd sooner eat s.h.i.te out a wh.o.r.e's a.r.s.e than tell you.'

'Where's your brother Colin?'

'None of your f.u.c.kin' business: that's where he is. Now you goin' to f.u.c.k off, or what?'

Logan had to admit that there wasn't a lot more they could do here. He was all the way to the door before a thought struck him and he turned. 'Hacked off,' he said, frowning. 'How did you know the man's kneecaps had been hacked off? I never said anything about that. I just said they were missing!'

McLeod just laughed. 'Aye, well done, Miss Marple. When someone ends up in the harbour with no knees like that it's a message. It's no' a very good message if everyone doesnae get it. Every f.u.c.ker in the city knows you don't do what he did. Now f.u.c.k off.'

They stood outside on the top step of the Turf 'n Track, watching clouds scud across the sky. There was just enough fading sunshine to cut through the seasonal chill and Logan watched a pair of plastic bags playing chase around the concrete in front of the boarded-up shops.

WPC Watson leaned on the steel rail that ran along the front of the fortified buildings. 'What now?'

Logan shrugged. 'We were never going to get anything out of the McLeods. We might have pulled in a couple of their punters, but can you see Dougie breaking down and spilling his guts?'

'Not his own guts, no.'

'So now we stick the photo under the noses of the other shopkeepers here. You never know. If we don't mention the McLeods they might actually tell us something.'

The Liverpudlian owner of the Chinese takeaway didn't recognize Geordie's face and neither did either of his Aberdonian staff. The video store had shut down years ago though the windows were still full of posters for forgotten blockbusters and 'straight to video' releases just visible through the aerosol scrawl. Last on the row was a combined newsagents, greengrocer and off-licence. The owner took one look at WPC Watson's uniform and got a sudden attack of laryngitis. But he did sell Logan a packet of extra strong mints.

Back outside again, the clouds had darkened the sky, the dying daylight giving up as the first fat drops of rain began to fall. They struck the concrete with a lifeless thud, one at a time, making large dark-grey circles that spread out, joining up as the heavens decided to really let rip. Dragging his suit jacket up over his head Logan ran for their rusty Vauxhall. Watson got there first and cranked on the blowers. They sat and steamed gently as the blowers did their best to clear the windows, sharing a packet of mints, watching hazy figures running for the shop doors to get in out of the rain for a mid-afternoon chicken chowmein, or the latest issue of Leather and Chains Monthly.

Simon McLeod was up to something. But then the McLeods were always up to something. The trouble was proving it. They were from the old school: the kind in which lessons were taught with a claw hammer. No one ever saw anything. No one ever squealed.

'So where now?'

Logan shrugged. 'Next bookies on the list I suppose.'

WPC Watson stuck the car into reverse and backed out of the parking s.p.a.ce. The headlights clicked on, turning the stair-rod rain into silver daggers. They'd almost reached the main road when a rust-and-green estate car appeared out of nowhere. Watson slammed on the brakes, shouted 'f.u.c.k!' and stalled the engine.

As the estate parked roughly in front of the Turf 'n Track, she wound down the window and hurled a mouthful of abuse out into the rain. Most of which involved the driver of the offending car's r.e.c.t.u.m and WPC Watson's boot. She stopped in mid-sentence. 'Oh, G.o.d. Sorry, sir!'

Logan raised an eyebrow.

She blushed. 'I kinda forgot you were there. I mean he didn't indicate or anything. Sorry.'

Logan took a deep breath and thought about what DI Insch had told him about the privileges of rank. He couldn't just sit there and say nothing. She was in uniform for G.o.d's sake! What if it got back to the papers? 'Do you think a policewoman, in full uniform, leaning out of a car window, swearing her head off, does a lot for the Force?'

'I didn't think, sir.'

'Jackie, when you do something like that you make us all look like a bunch of a.r.s.eholes. You p.i.s.s off everyone who sees it, or hears about it second-hand. And you put your job on the line.'

Her blush went from strawberry to beetroot. 'I ... sorry.'

He let her stew in silence for a slow count of ten, silently cursing inside. He'd hoped for a chance to impress her with his witty repartee, or his deductive ac.u.men. Make her see what a great guy he was. The sort of guy you slept with twice. Giving her a dressing down hadn't been part of the plan. An 'undressing' down maybe...

Eight. Nine. Ten.

'Come on,' he said, trying out a friendly smile on her. 'I won't say anything about it if you don't.'

Not looking him in the eye, she said, 'Thank you, sir,' and started the car.

18.

The atmosphere in the car never got much beyond polite as they made their way through the remaining bookies on Logan's list. WPC Watson called him 'sir' and answered his questions, but she never volunteered anything unless it was directly pertinent to the case.

It was a c.r.a.ppy afternoon.

They slogged their way from the car to one betting shop after another.

'Have you seen this man?'

'No.'

Sometimes the 'no' came with a free 'f.u.c.k off' and other times the 'f.u.c.k off' was silent. But it was always there. Except for the owner and staff at J Stewart and Son: Bookmakers est. 1974 in Mastrick. Who were surprisingly nice to them. Disturbingly, suspiciously nice.

'Jesus, that was freaky,' said Logan as they clambered back into the car. 'Look, they're still smiling at us.' He pointed through the windscreen at a large woman with ratty grey hair tied into a bun on the top of her head. She waved back.

'Seemed nice enough to me,' said Watson, negotiating the car out of the car park. It was the most she'd said for about an hour.

'You never met Ma Stewart before?' asked Logan as they headed back towards the station. When WPC Watson didn't reply he took that as a no. 'I arrested her once,' he said as they drifted onto the Lang Stracht, the wide road carved up into bus lanes and weird pseudo-box-junctions liberally sprinkled with bollards and pedestrian crossings. 'p.o.r.nography. She was peddling it to school kids out the back of an old Ford Anglia. Nothing too heavy no animals or anything like that. Just good old-fashioned German hard-core. Videos and magazines.' He snorted. 'Half the b.l.o.o.d.y children in Mastrick knew more about s.e.x than their biology teacher. We got called in when this eight-year-old asked if you could get pregnant from fisting.'

A small smile flickered round the corners of WPC Watson's mouth.

The offices of the Press and Journal went by on the left and Logan winced. With all the excitement and panic of being put in charge of the bin-bag case he'd forgotten all about Colin Miller's visit this morning. He still hadn't talked to DI Insch about the reporter's request for an exclusive. And Miller said he had more information on 'Geordie' too. Logan pulled his phone out to call DI Insch, but didn't get any further than punching in the first two numbers.

A crackly voice boomed out of the radio. Someone had beaten up Roadkill.

They hadn't meant it to go this far. That was what the ringleaders said when questioned by the Police and the Press. They just wanted to make sure their children were safe. It wasn't right, was it? A grown man like that hanging around the school gates. And it wasn't the first time he'd done it either. Most afternoons he was there, just when the kids were getting let out. And he wasn't right in the head. Everyone knew he wasn't right in the head. He smelled funny. It wasn't right.

So what if he got roughed up a little bit? It wasn't as if they'd meant it to go that far. But kids were missing! You know: kids. Kids like the ones that went to Garthdee Primary School. Kids like theirs. If the police had come sooner it wouldn't have got out of hand. If they'd come when they were called, none of this would have happened.

So when you really thought about it, it was all the police's fault.

The man sitting on the other side of the interview table had seen better days. Yesterday for example. That was the last time Logan had set eyes on Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill. He'd been pretty tatty-looking then, but at least his nose hadn't looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Bruises were already running rampant across his face and one eye was swollen shut, the skin an angry purple. His beard was clean and spiky on one side where the hospital had washed away the dried blood. His lip was swollen up like a sausage and he winced every time he smiled. Which wasn't often.

The accusations levelled against him by the 'concerned parents' who'd beaten him up were too serious to ignore. So as soon as he was released from Accident and Emergency, he had found himself in police custody. And he fitted the Lothian and Borders profile: white male, mid-twenties, mental health problems, menial job, no girlfriend, lives alone. The only error was the claim that he wouldn't do well academically. Roadkill had a degree in medieval history. But, as Insch said, see how much b.l.o.o.d.y good that had done him.

It had been a long, difficult and convoluted interview. Every time it looked as if they were about to get some sort of consistent statement out of Roadkill off he'd go on another rambling tangent. All the time gently rocking back and forward in his seat. As Roadkill was mentally ill they'd had to drag in an 'appropriate adult' to make sure everything was above board, so a social worker from Craiginches Prison had to sit next to Roadkill as he rocked and rambled and smelled.

The interview room stank to high heaven. Eau de Rotting Animal and BO Pour Homme. Roadkill really, really needed a bath. DI Insch had grabbed the first opportunity to get the h.e.l.l out of there, leaving Logan and the social worker to suffer while he went off to check on Roadkill's incoherent statement.

Logan shifted in his seat and wondered for the umpteenth time where the inspector had got to. 'Do you want another cup of tea, Bernard?' he asked.

Bernard didn't say anything, just went on folding a bit of paper in half and in half again. And, when it was folded so tight it was a little solid lump that couldn't be folded any more, he unfolded it carefully and started all over again.

'Tea? Bernard? You want some more tea?'

Fold. Fold. Fold.

Logan slumped in his seat and let his head fall back until he was staring at the ceiling. Off-grey ceiling tiles, the pockmarked kind. The ones that looked like the surface of the moon. G.o.d this was dull. And it was going on six! He was supposed to be meeting WPC Jackie Watson for a quiet drink.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

Logan and the social worker complained about Aberdeen Football Club's latest performance for a bit before lapsing into gloom and silence again.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

Six twenty-three and the inspector stuck his head round the interview room door and asked Logan to join him in the corridor.

'You get anything out of him?' asked Insch when they were both outside.

'Only a really nasty smell.'

Insch popped a fruit pastille into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. 'Well, his statement checks out. The council van drops him off after work in the same place just before four every day. They've been doing it for years. He gets the four twenty-two bus to Peterculter, regular as clockwork. Wasn't hard to find a bus driver who remembered him, the smell's hard to forget.'

'And the bus stop is-'

'Right outside Garthdee Primary School. Apparently he used to go to school there, before he went mental. Probably feels safer with a familiar routine.'

'And did any of our "concerned parents" bother to ask him why he was there every afternoon?'

Insch snorted, and helped himself to another pastille. 'Did they b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. They saw a ragged-a.r.s.ed bloke who smells funny, hanging about outside the school and decided to beat the c.r.a.p out of him. He's not our killer.'

So it was back into the smelly interview room.

'Are you sure there isn't something you want to tell us, Mr Philips?' asked Insch, settling back down into his chair.

There wasn't.

'Right,' said the inspector. 'Well, you'll be happy to know we've managed to corroborate your version of events. I know you're the one who was attacked, but we had to make sure the accusations against you were groundless, OK?'

Fold. Fold. Fold.

'OK. I've asked the council to make sure that you get dropped off somewhere else after work from now on. Further along the road. Nowhere near the school. The people who attacked you aren't very bright. They might decide to have another go.'

Silence.

'We've got their names.' It hadn't been hard, the silly sods had identified themselves with pride! They'd taken a paedophile off the streets! They'd saved their kids from a fate worse than death! That they'd just committed criminal a.s.sault didn't seem to cross their minds. 'I'd like you to make a statement so we can press charges.'

Logan recognized his cue and pulled out a notepad, ready to take down Roadkill's complaint.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

The paper was getting loose along the seams where it'd been folded again and again. A perfect square flapped away from one corner and Roadkill scowled at it.

'Mr Philips? Can you tell me what happened?'

Carefully the battered man pulled the square of paper free and placed it in front of him. It was perfectly lined up with the edges of the desk.

And then he started folding again.

Insch sighed.

'OK. How about the sergeant here writes down what happened and you can sign it? Would that make things easier?'

'I need my medicine.'

'Sorry?'

'Medicine. It's time for my medicine.'

Insch looked at Logan. He shrugged. 'They probably gave him some painkillers at the hospital.'

Roadkill stopped folding his paper and placed both hands on the desk. 'Not painkillers. Medicine. I need to take my medicine. Or they won't let me go to work tomorrow. They wrote me a letter. I have to take my medicine or I can't go to work.'

'It'll only take a few minutes, Mr Philips. Perhaps-'

'No statement. No minutes. Medicine.'

'But-'

'If you're not going to arrest me, or charge me, I'm free to go. You can't force me to make a complaint.'

It was the most lucid thing Logan had ever heard him say.

Roadkill shivered, hugging himself with his arms. 'Please. I just want to go home and take my medicine.'

Logan looked at the tattered, bruised figure and put down his pen. Roadkill was right: they couldn't force him to make a complaint against the people who blackened his eye, split his lip, loosened three of his teeth, cracked one of his ribs and kicked him repeatedly in the goolies. They were his goolies after all. If he didn't want the people kicking them to be punished, it was his call. But Grampian Police weren't about to just turn him loose on the street either. The stupid people would still be out there. And by now the Press would be too. 'LOCAL MOB CAPTURES KIDDIE FIEND!' No, 'mob' sounded too negative. These violent, stupid people were heroes, after all. 'PARENTS CAPTURE COUNCIL PAEDOPHILE!' Yes, that was much more like it.

'Are you sure about this, Mr Philips?' asked Insch.