Logan pulled in his chin. ‘Why are you looking at me like... No.’
‘There’s no one else.’
‘I’m Professional Standards, we don’t do murder investigations. That’s not what we do!’
‘It’s only for one day. One. Two tops. Set things up, get them running.’
‘We investigate dodgy police officers. Nothing else.’
Hardie shrugged. ‘You were investigating Chalmers anyway.’
‘It’s not the same thing!’
‘And I’ve spoken to Superintendent Doig: he’s happy for you to take the reins. Chalmers was a police officer, Logan. We can’t stick her murder in a drawer and forget about it.’
Argh... He was right. Chalmers deserved more than that.
‘Fine. What about my lead on the Kenneth MacAuley case?’
‘I can repeat everything I’ve just said, if you like?’
‘Gah...’ Logan scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘But I get minions! And real ones this time, not like the fake ones I was promised for looking into DI Bell’s not-suicide.’
‘Done.’ Hardie stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘You can have... how about DS Steel and PC Quirrel? They worked with Chalmers on the Ellie Morton case, so they should be some help. I’ll get George to call the pair of them in.’
Terrific. Wonderful. Absolutely great.
Logan grimaced. ‘Oh yeah, Steel’s going to love that.’
The phone rang and rang and rang. Logan shifted it to his other ear and went back to marking Lorna Chalmers’ last known movements on the whiteboard. And still the phone—
A thin, wobbly voice replaced the ringing. ‘Hello?’
‘Dr Frampton? Hi, it’s Logan. Any joy with the soil analysis on those shoes yet?’
‘Shoes...? Urgh... Give me a chance — I was up drinking cocktails till one this morning. Head feels like it’s packed full of fragmented schist with calcareous inclusions.’
‘I’m sorry to be a nag, but it’s a murder investigation now and the victim was a police officer. So...?’
The sound of rushing water burst out for a couple of seconds, followed by a couple of plinks and a hissing fizz.
‘Dr Frampton? You still there?’
‘Can’t a woman enjoy her Alka-Seltzer in peace?’
‘Only we’re—’
‘I know, I know. Pfff... Give me half an hour and I’ll drag myself to the lab.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
A thunk. Then, ‘I really do feel like schist...’
Logan left her to her hangover.
Rennie dunted the office door open and lurched inside, only his legs visible — the rest of him hidden by the stack of file boxes. ‘Little help!’
Logan put Lorna Chalmers’ service history down, hurried over and plucked the top two boxes off the pile, revealing a shiny-pink face with sticky-up blond hair.
‘Argh... These weigh a ton!’ Rennie staggered to the nearest desk and dumped the rest of the boxes, bent double and grabbed his knees. Puffed and panted for a bit. ‘And... and Downie says... says that Crowbar... has seen... his solicitor. Urgh...’ He straightened up and rubbed the small of his back. ‘Think I pulled something.’
Logan lowered the other two boxes onto the desk. ‘They ready?’
Rennie nodded at the pile. ‘Every case Chalmers worked on in the last two and a half years. Records are still trying to dig out the six months before that.’
‘Rennie, focus. Are they ready?’
‘Waiting for you in Interview Two, but Downie says you’re not to get it all messy this time.’
‘And Crowbar doesn’t know what we’re after?’
‘Thinks we want more dirt on Fred Marshall.’ Rennie grinned. ‘Thought we’d leave the victim’s watch as a nice surprise.’
Crowbar slouched on the other side of the interview room table, arms folded, a sneer twisting his handlebar moustache. A tiny old man sat next to him in a shiny grey suit and grubby glasses. One hand trembling as he fiddled with a biro. Rennie had his pen out too, poised over his notepad, ready to strike.
Logan sat forward. ‘Well?’
Crowbar shrugged. ‘Nah. Like I was saying to Winston here, it’s a total witch-hunt, yeah?’
‘Actually,’ the little man raised a shaky finger, ‘it’s Albert. Not Winston.’
‘Whatever.’ Crowbar lounged back in his seat. ‘They fishing, Winston. They got nothing.’
Rennie put down his pen and picked up an evidence bag. ‘We’ve got this?’ He dipped inside and came out with the fancy watch. ‘Recognise it, Craig?’
‘I...’ Blinking at it. The tip of his tongue snaked across his top lip. ‘It’s a watch.’
‘You told Sergeant Downie it was a “knock-off”, remember that?’
‘Never seen it before in my life.’
‘Really?’ Logan pulled out his copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite and laid it on the table. Opened it at the Post-it note acting as a bookmark, revealing the photo of Kenneth MacAuley burning sausages and chicken on the barbecue. ‘Because I have.’
Crowbar jerked his chin up. ‘Yeah, so?’
‘Your statement to DS Savage claims Fred Marshall told you he’d murdered Kenneth MacAuley and abducted Aiden. And yet, here you are wearing Kenneth MacAuley’s watch.’
The only sound was the wind, growling against the window.
Crowbar licked his lip again.
His solicitor tutted. ‘Ah. Now, I’m sure there’s a perfectly good reason for that. Isn’t there, Craig?’
‘Yeah, there’s... gotta be lots of watches, you know, exactly like it. Isn’t there? Heaps of them.’
Logan took the watch from Rennie, turning it over to show the back. ‘Only this one is engraved, “To K from S, with loads of love”.’
‘Winston, you going to say something here, or what?’
Albert didn’t.
‘Fred Marshall didn’t kill Kenneth MacAuley, did he, Craig?’
‘I wanna...’ Crowbar cleared his throat. ‘No comment.’
‘All that talk about how Kenneth’s brains looked when they were pounded out with a rock. All those little details you told us. It wasn’t Fred, it was you. You killed him.’
‘No comment!’
‘It wasn’t Fred who was offered two thousand pounds for Aiden MacAuley, it was you. Wasn’t it?’
He grabbed his solicitor’s arm. ‘Come on, Mr Wolfe, say something!’
A slow smile spread across Albert’s lips. ‘I’ve been practising law in Aberdeen since before you were born, Craig, and I always find “no comment” the best option.’
‘Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going up before the Sheriff on Monday for the two outstanding warrants, breaching your parole conditions, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer, so—’
‘You promised! You said if I told you about Fred, you’d drop the charges.’
‘Yes, but you lied to me, Craig. You sat there and lied to my face. Fred didn’t kill Kenneth MacAuley, you did. And then you fitted him up so you could move in on his wife.’
‘It wasn’t... I...’ Big pleading eyes.
Albert took off his glasses and polished them on a hanky. Taking his time. ‘I think it might be wise to pause at this point so I can confer with my client for a wee bittie. If that’s all right with you?’