Authors: Stuart MacBride
The Eastern Airways Jetstream 41 was tiny compared to the British Midlands 737 at the next stand. Logan stood in the shelter of a plastic-roofed walkway outside the terminal building, watching as the little blue-and-white plane edged in from the runway, twin propellers roaring in the drizzly rain, navigation lights winking in the gloom.
The sky it had dropped from was the colour of wet clay, a solid blanket of dark grey that stretched from horizon to horizon, thin slivers of pre-dawn light barely visible around the edges.
‘Bang on time.’ DI Steel dragged her hands out of her armpits for long enough to produce a packet of cigarettes, stick one in her mouth, and light up. ‘Mind you, bet we’ll still be farting about—’
‘Hey! You!’ A little man in a high-visibility vest was scurrying down the walkway towards them. ‘You can’t smoke here. The whole airport’s a no smoking zone!’
Steel took the fag out of her mouth and told him to bugger off. ‘Police.’
‘I don’t care if you’re the sodding Pope: no smoking!’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ She took one last defiant drag and dropped the cigarette on the concrete walkway, grinding it out with a scuffed shoe. ‘There, you happy?’
‘Don’t let it happen again.’ He stuck his nose in the air, turned on his heel and stalked off.
Steel stuck two fingers up at his departing back, muttering, ‘Little Hitler dick.’
The Jetstream’s engines gave one last roar and the plane rocked to a halt, windscreen wipers slowly squeaking back and forth across the cockpit windows as the propeller blades whined down. Then men in grubby blue boilersuits and ear protectors hauled luggage out of the hold and stacked it onto a buggy.
There was a clunk and the forward door popped open, hinged on the bottom edge, the steps built into the back. One of the cabin crew stuck her head out into the cold morning and a gust of wind whipped her long brown hair into a headbanger’s halo. Her expression soured, she ducked back inside. Welcome to Aberdeen.
Logan leaned back against the walkway’s cold plastic wall and stifled a yawn.
Steel wrinkled her nose at him. ‘How much you have to drink last night?’
Shrug. ‘Couple glasses of wine.’
‘Aye and the rest. You smell like a tramp’s Y-fronts.’
‘I was on holiday.’ Two blissful days of sleeping in and not having to worry about Aberdeen’s assorted criminal tosspots.
‘On the batter more like.’ She dug in her pocket and came out with a packet of extra strong mints. ‘Eat.’
Logan did what he was told, crunching away as the ground crew finished with the baggage.
A uniformed PC appeared at Logan’s elbow, carrying three big wax-paper cups, the bitter smell of roasted coffee beans mingling with the fading tang of exhaust and hot metal. PC Guthrie puffed out his cheeks and stared at the rain, pale ginger eyebrows almost invisible beneath the peak of his cap. ‘Maybe he’ll take one look at the weather and bugger off back to Newcastle?’ Guthrie grinned. It made him look like a happy potato.
Steel scowled. ‘You took your sodding time.’
‘Nature called.’ The constable handed over the coffees, then dug about in the pocket of his black fleece. ‘Got you a muffin as well…’
‘Then I take it all back: even the stuff about your granny shagging donkeys.’
The three of them drank their coffee and ate their muffins.
A stream of people clumped down the plane’s steps, then huddled along the designated path to the terminal, clutching their laptops to their chests, ties and suit jackets flapping in the wind.
Steel checked her watch. ‘Three days’ time, that’ll be me. Only I’ll be in the Canary Islands, no’ freezing my nipples off in sunny Aberdeen.’
The last of the passengers picked a small red suitcase from the cart, and trundled it through the puddles and away.
Steel stomped her feet, hands wrapped around her steaming paper cup. ‘You
sure
he was on the plane?’
‘Positive.’
‘Then where the hell is he? It’s no’ like…’ She stopped. A large pink head had appeared in the Jetstream’s doorway: what little hair remained had been cropped to about the same length as the designer stubble beard covering both chins. The face broke into a wide smile of perfect white teeth.
‘Detective Inspector Steel I presume!’ There was no mistaking the Newcastle accent, it boomed out across the drizzly morning, easily competing with the distant roar of the delayed BD0671 clambering its way into the dismal sky.
Steel pulled out the photograph Northumbria Police had emailed up, squinted at it, frowned, then leaned over and whispered at Logan, ‘If that’s Knox, he’s really let himself go.’ She held up a hand and waved.
The large man hobbled down the steps then stopped at the bottom, turned and stared back into the cabin. ‘Well, come on then: this was your idea, remember?’
A thin face peered out: Richard Knox. Pointy nose, pointy chin, and a crooked-teeth overbite that made him look a bit like a partially shaved rat. His hairline was receding, probably trying to get away from his face. ‘Cold.’
The big man closed his eyes for a moment, mouth working silently on something. And then he said, ‘We’ve been over this, Richard, you know what I’m saying?’
‘Just an observation.’ Knox’s voice was nearly an octave higher, but still broad Geordie. He took a grip of the handrail and picked his way down the steps to the wet tarmac. ‘Not like this all the time, is it?’
DI Steel grinned at him. ‘No, most of the time it’s a lot worse. Why don’t you try somewhere warmer? Like hell? That’s meant to be nice this time of year.’
Knox stared back, expressionless. ‘Funny. You’re a funny lady.’
‘And you’re a raping wee shitebag.’
‘Served me time. Paid me debt to society, like. God has forgiven us.’
‘My sharny arse! People like you—’
‘All right.’ The big man limped between them. ‘I think that’s enough team bonding for one morning.’ He stuck out his hand for Steel to shake. ‘Detective Superintendent Danby.’
She looked at the hand for a moment, then grabbed it, her fingers disappearing into the DSI’s grip. ‘Detective Inspector Steel.’
‘Excellent.’ Danby nodded, getting an extra chin for his trouble. ‘Now, any chance we can go inside before we all freeze to death?’
Knox didn’t say much on the way into town, just sat in the back of the patrol car, sandwiched between Logan and PC Guthrie, clutching an Asda carrier bag to his chest while Steel drove.
DSI Danby was a lot more chatty. ‘So there we were, half
the bobbies in Newcastle, and we still can’t find our missing grandad anywhere. We’ve checked the shops, the post office, every shed and garage for three miles round his house. So it gets dark and we have to give up for the night. Newspaper appeals, radio, even got us a two minute spot on the local telly news. Nothing.’
Knox shifted in his seat, rubbing against Logan in the confined space. Up close he smelled of lavender and peppermint. Like an old lady’s handbag. ‘Do we really need to hear this, again?’
‘Three days later, the old boy turns up at the local library, still in his jammies, gabbling on about how he’s been abducted by aliens. Course, everyone knows he’s got Alzheimer’s, you know what I’m saying? So they pat him on the head and get someone to drive him home. Only he keeps going on about how the aliens took him to their underground lab and did experiments on him. Anal probes and all that.’
Danby sniffed, one hand wrapped around the grab handle above the passenger door, staring out of the window. ‘So finally his sister calls the doctor and he examines the old man, doesn’t he? You know what?’
Knox cleared his throat. ‘You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Spoiling things for us.’
‘Just making conversation.’
‘Well don’t. It’s not funny.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The DSI went back to staring at the drab, grey scenery. On a good day, Aberdeen sparkled…but this wasn’t a good day. The granite buildings sulked beneath the heavy clouds, their grey walls stained dark by the never-ending drizzle. Headlights shimmered back from the wet road, taillights glowering red through a haze of spray.
DI Steel flicked on the radio, breaking the silence. Annie Lennox – Aberdeen’s favourite local-girl-made-good – singing about walking on broken glass. The song ended, there was some banal chat from a DJ who obviously thought he was a
lot funnier than he actually was, another record, and then the news.
‘London grinds to a halt as snowstorms grip England. The A96 is closed between Inverurie and Huntly following a five-car pile-up. McLennan Homes announce jobs boost for the beleaguered North East building industry. And a legal challenge is launched today against a proposed expansion to Donald Trump’s golf resort. Hi, I’m Karen MacDonald. Today the Balmedie Dunes Preservation Society confirmed it would be issuing a legal challenge…’
PC Guthrie snorted. ‘How come every time there’s half a millimetre of snow, England goes tits up? What a bunch of wanky…’ He drifted to a halt, DSI Danby had swivelled round in the passenger seat to stare into the back of the patrol car.
‘Er…’ The constable’s cheeks went pink. ‘I mean…it’s…’ He looked at Logan. ‘We…’
Logan shook his head. ‘No chance: you’re on your own, Sunshine.’
Idiot.
‘Come on then, Constable,’ Danby’s voice rumbled through the confined space, ‘you have something to say: let’s hear it.’
‘I just…it…erm…’ Cough. ‘With the snow, and it’s probably, you know, unexpected, and the councils don’t grit the roads…’ He wriggled in his seat. ‘Got nothing against the English. Got lots of mates who’re English…’
Danby looked at him. ‘How long you been in the force?’
Guthrie licked his lips. ‘Erm…Seven years?’
‘Take a tip, Constable, if you ever want to make sergeant, practice your lying. Cos right now you’re crap. You know what I’m saying?’
Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a lot busier at five to nine on a Thursday morning than it had any right to be. By now the CID dayshift should have been out there, keeping the city safe from the people who lived in it; instead they were hanging around the station, making the place look untidy. Logan picked his way carefully down the corridor, two coffees and a pair of tinfoil parcels balanced on a manila folder like a wobbly tray.
DI Steel’s office was the last one before the noisy main CID room. Logan stopped outside her door and carefully rearranged his hands so he could knock without spilling scalding liquid all over himself.
Only he didn’t get that far.
Someone coughed behind him, and Logan turned to find Detective Inspector Beattie standing there with his arms folded. ‘Weren’t you supposed to come see me first thing this morning, Sergeant?’
Sodding hell. DI Beattie: sixteen stone of useless with a beard.
‘Had to go pick up Richard Knox.’
Beattie looked down at the carpet for a moment. ‘We were supposed to go over those counterfeit goods, remember?
Handbags, MP3 players, cameras, perfume…What are we doing about them?’
‘Have you spoken to Trading Standards yet?’
‘No I thought you—’
‘I
told
you to go speak to them. Jesus, George, you’re supposed to be a DI now, remember? I can’t do everything for—’
Inspector Steel’s office door banged open, and she lurched to a halt on the threshold, mouth hanging open as if she was about to shout something. She took one look at Beattie, then turned to Logan, ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Had to—’
‘Get your arse in here.’ She hauled up her trousers, stood back, waited till Logan was inside, then slammed the door in Beattie’s face.
Steel’s new office didn’t look anything like the old one: the knobbly ceiling tiles were still white, not coated in a sticky beige film of cigarette tar; the walls didn’t have those greasy Blu-tack acne spots; and the carpet was still a recognizable colour. Logan gave it six weeks, tops.
Steel slumped back behind her desk and Logan handed her a mug and a tinfoil parcel. She unwrapped the bacon buttie and got stuck in, chewing and talking at the same time: ‘What we got?’
He pointed at the manila folder, now with an Olympic logo of coffee rings on it. ‘Not a hell of a lot. Far as we can tell, Knox hasn’t been to Aberdeen since he was eleven.’ Logan peeled the tinfoil off his fried egg buttie and bit down. Yolk splurged out into his palm. ‘Sod…’ He transferred the dripping roll to his other hand and licked at the sticky yellow puddle. ‘Got them to pull all sexual assaults on OAPs for the three years before he left: two women in their late seventies. No men.’
Steel nodded. ‘Good. Means we’ll no’ have a bunch of angry relatives sniffing about causing trouble.’ Another bite, then a scoof of tea. ‘Next: Erica Piotrowski?’
Logan went rooting through the folder and pulled out a stack of forms covered in scuffed yellow Post-it notes. ‘Trial date’s been set for three weeks next Tuesday. She’s still sticking to her story, but the PF thinks she’ll cop to aggravated assault if we give her the option.’
‘Sod that. She went after her next-door-neighbour with a carving knife, I’m no’ settling for anything less than attempted murder.’ Steel pursed her lips and swivelled back and forth in her office chair for a minute. ‘Anything else?’
Logan slapped the papers out on her desk, one at a time. ‘Forensics found trace fibres when they did the rape kit on Laura McEwan, and they think they’ve got enough DNA for a match if we can get them a suspect. Fingerprints have come back on the Oldmeldrum Post Office job. Looks like our friend Mr Maclean is up to his old tricks again.’
‘Get him picked up.’ The inspector crammed the last two inches of bread and bacon into her mouth then lobbed its tinfoil wrapper into the bin. Mumbling, ‘She shoots, she scores!’
‘No need – Traffic arrested him for drink driving last night. Out celebrating his “windfall”.’ Logan stuck the final sheet on her desk.
‘Last but not least, another batch of counterfeit twenties turned up. That private bank on Albyn Terrace called yesterday to say someone tried to deposit four and half grand’s worth.’
She pursed her lips and went, ‘Hmmm…’ for a while. ‘And what did DI Beardy want?’
‘Me to do his sodding job for him.’
‘All right, settle down, settle down.’ Detective Chief Inspector Finnie had the kind of face normally found under a wet rock: wide rubbery lips, floppy Hugh Grant hairstyle, beady little eyes. He stood at the front of the new CID office, with his back to the whiteboards, waiting for silence.
Logan wheeled his office chair out from the walled-off
section reserved for detective sergeants, and settled down next to Steel while she fiddled with her phone.
The large room smelled of fresh paint, fresh coffee, and second-hand curry. It wasn’t even as if they could open a window: there weren’t any. But it was still a lot better than the cramped hovel they used to work in upstairs. The middle of the office was divided up into six cubicles, each lined with beech-veneer desks – arranged so the constables could sit back to back – separated by low walls of purple fabric.
Nine fifteen and the whole CID dayshift was there – eighteen detective constables, four detective sergeants, three detective inspectors – fidgeting as Finnie took them through the usual day-to-day morning briefing. Waiting for him to get to the reason they’d all been allowed to slob about in the office for the last two and a quarter hours, drinking coffee and moaning about the football.
‘Next up.’ Finnie checked his notes. ‘You’ll have seen in our
illustrious
local press that we’ve got a special visitor staying with us for the foreseeable future.’ He held up a copy of that morning’s
Aberdeen Examiner,
the headline ‘S
EX
-B
EAST
T
O
S
ETTLE
I
N
N
ORTH
E
AST
’ stretching above a blurry photo of a man in a shell suit. Richard Knox.
‘Aye,’ said someone at the back, ‘like we don’t have enough perverts of our own to deal with.’
‘I’m
sorry,’
Finnie turned a blistering smile on the room, ‘did I give the
impression
this briefing was open to audience participation? Did I? Because I don’t remember doing that.’
No one spoke.
‘Let’s
try
and behave like professionals, shall we children? For a
change
?’
He turned and pointed to the large figure sitting at the front of the room. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Danby from Northumbria Police, the man who put Knox away in the first place. DSI Danby has kindly agreed to come up here, brief us, and help liaise with Sacro. Superintendent?’
Danby levered himself to his feet, turned, and nodded at everyone. ‘Right, Richard Knox…’ The DSI’s big bass voice filled the CID room just as easily as it had the patrol car. He picked up a long, black remote control and pointed it at the huge plasma TV bolted to the back wall between the little kitchen recess and the lockers.
Everyone swivelled around in their chairs.
Knox’s face appeared on the screen, staring out at them with a black eye and a swollen lip. It was an old photo, from back when Knox had more hair, but other than that he was still the same weedy-looking rodent.
‘Richard Albert Knox was convicted of the illegal imprisonment and rape of a sixty-eight-year-old man suffering from dementia.’ Danby pressed the button on the remote again, and an old man’s torso filled the screen, covered in bruises, scabs and bite marks. ‘William Brucklay was held for three days and subjected to repeated, violent sexual assaults. Chained up in the basement, beaten, abused, forced to eat dog food. A
sixty-eight
-year-old man…You know what I’m saying?’
Danby paused for a moment. ‘At the trial, Knox claimed the victim was a willing sexual partner who liked a bit of rough. Judge gave him ten years.’
Another click, and Knox’s face was back, grinning in front of a bland concrete slab of a building. ‘He was out in less than seven, released on licence, and he’s been living under twenty-four-hour supervision ever since. We know Knox was responsible for at least six other attacks on older men before we caught him, but we couldn’t prove it.’
Danby pressed something else and the TV screen went blank. ‘Don’t be fooled by the weedy-strip-of-piss-God-is-my-co-pilot exterior – Richard Knox is a violent sexual predator who gets off on other people’s pain.’
There was a moment’s silence, then the same voice as before piped up from the back: ‘So why the hell are we getting lumbered with him?’
‘He’s served his time.’ Danby folded his huge arms. ‘We’ve got no legal right to restrict his movements any more. If it was up to me he’d be stuck in a little dark hole for the rest of his natural, you know what I’m saying? But as of three months ago he can go wherever he likes.’
One of the uniformed PCs stuck up a hand. ‘Yeah, but why Aberdeen?’
‘Because blood’s thicker than water.’