Hearing the screams, running through the jumpers and trousers into the shopping centre, just in time to see Sean Morrison help himself to the old man's wallet and scarper. Calling for backup, running over to the victim, trying to staunch the bleeding. Telling the store detectives to keep pressure on the knife wound till the ambulance got there, then chasing after the little bastards. And not catching them.
He listened to Mrs Cochrane make an impassioned plea for anyone who knew where her husband's killers were to come forward and tell the police, tears sparking in the harsh media spotlight, running down her pale, lined cheeks. And then the Chief Constable thanked her for her bravery and threw the briefing open to questions.
Mostly it was the usual: 'Do you have any suspects?' 'Are you anticipating any arrests?' Then the woman from Sky News asked the Chief Constable about the trial of Iain Watt: was he going to be charged with the other rapes supposedly committed by Rob Macintyre?
The Chief Constable glowered at her - the 'Granite City Rapist', as the papers had started calling Watt, was a something of a sore point. And with that, the press briefing was brought to an abrupt close.
13
The sun was hot enough to turn the car into a microwave oven, but when Logan clambered out into the late February morning it was so cold his nipples instantly pointed due north. His back was killing him: the bruises where Sean Morrison had kicked and battered him spreading like green and purple ink on wet blotting paper. King's Gate stretched downhill from the King's Cross roundabout on Anderson Drive to where they used to film The Beechgrove Garden , and the view from the top of the hill was stunning - a slice of Aberdeen: grey granite shining in the sunshine, dark slate roofs, church spires, the North Sea glittering like a vast, deep-blue sapphire, a neon-orange supply vessel slowly making its way south towards the harbour. Just a shame it was bloody freezing.
'Jesus Effing Christ!' DI Steel stamped her feet, swore, dug out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke whipped away by the icy wind. 'My fridge is warmer than this!'
Logan ignored her, looking down the street at the Morrison residence - a large granite two-storey job with a huge BMW 4x4 sitting outside. Not exactly the type of place you'd expect a nasty, thieving, murderous little bastard like Sean Morrison to come from. Parked cars lined either side of the road - many of them containing bored-looking journalists, cameras and notebooks at the almost ready. No one seemed to have noticed that the inspector and Logan had arrived yet. 'You want me to get started?' he asked, one hand rubbing the small of his aching back. The painkillers they'd given him last night were about a fifth of the strength he was used to - might as well have been Smarties for all the good they were doing. At least they would have tasted better.
Steel shivered, hands jammed deep into her armpits, puffing away on her cigarette like mad. 'Give us a minute ... I only get one fag this morning and I'm going to bloody well enjoy it if it kills me.'
Logan sighed and made a show of checking his watch. 'Nearly half eight - we're going to have to get a shift on if we're going to make the PM.'
'Nicotine patches my arse ...' The inspector squinted into the bright sunshine 'Anyway, think I'm going to give this one a miss. Not like we don't know what killed the old guy, is it?'
'Suppose not.' He watched the bright orange supply boat disappear behind the tombstone slab of St Nicholas House. 'What do you want to do about Jason Fettes?'
'What about him? The whole bloody thing's dead in the water. No one's got any idea who did it, and no one cares either. Except the bloody parents and those fuckers at the P&J.' Colin Miller leading another 'campaign for justice' as an excuse to give Grampian Police an extra kicking. The inspector scowled, cigarette smouldering away between her lips. 'We've got no evidence, no witnesses and no
He listened to Mrs Cochrane make an impassioned plea for anyone who knew where her husband's killers were to come forward and tell the police, tears sparking in the harsh media spotlight, running down her pale, lined cheeks. And then the Chief Constable thanked her for her bravery and threw the briefing open to questions.
Mostly it was the usual: 'Do you have any suspects?' 'Are you anticipating any arrests?' Then the woman from Sky News asked the Chief Constable about the trial of Iain Watt: was he going to be charged with the other rapes supposedly committed by Rob Macintyre?
The Chief Constable glowered at her - the 'Granite City Rapist', as the papers had started calling Watt, was a something of a sore point. And with that, the press briefing was brought to an abrupt close.
13
The sun was hot enough to turn the car into a microwave oven, but when Logan clambered out into the late February morning it was so cold his nipples instantly pointed due north. His back was killing him: the bruises where Sean Morrison had kicked and battered him spreading like green and purple ink on wet blotting paper. King's Gate stretched downhill from the King's Cross roundabout on Anderson Drive to where they used to film The Beechgrove Garden , and the view from the top of the hill was stunning - a slice of Aberdeen: grey granite shining in the sunshine, dark slate roofs, church spires, the North Sea glittering like a vast, deep-blue sapphire, a neon-orange supply vessel slowly making its way south towards the harbour. Just a shame it was bloody freezing.
'Jesus Effing Christ!' DI Steel stamped her feet, swore, dug out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke whipped away by the icy wind. 'My fridge is warmer than this!'
Logan ignored her, looking down the street at the Morrison residence - a large granite two-storey job with a huge BMW 4x4 sitting outside. Not exactly the type of place you'd expect a nasty, thieving, murderous little bastard like Sean Morrison to come from. Parked cars lined either side of the road - many of them containing bored-looking journalists, cameras and notebooks at the almost ready. No one seemed to have noticed that the inspector and Logan had arrived yet. 'You want me to get started?' he asked, one hand rubbing the small of his aching back. The painkillers they'd given him last night were about a fifth of the strength he was used to - might as well have been Smarties for all the good they were doing. At least they would have tasted better.
Steel shivered, hands jammed deep into her armpits, puffing away on her cigarette like mad. 'Give us a minute ... I only get one fag this morning and I'm going to bloody well enjoy it if it kills me.'
Logan sighed and made a show of checking his watch. 'Nearly half eight - we're going to have to get a shift on if we're going to make the PM.'
'Nicotine patches my arse ...' The inspector squinted into the bright sunshine 'Anyway, think I'm going to give this one a miss. Not like we don't know what killed the old guy, is it?'
'Suppose not.' He watched the bright orange supply boat disappear behind the tombstone slab of St Nicholas House. 'What do you want to do about Jason Fettes?'
'What about him? The whole bloody thing's dead in the water. No one's got any idea who did it, and no one cares either. Except the bloody parents and those fuckers at the P&J.' Colin Miller leading another 'campaign for justice' as an excuse to give Grampian Police an extra kicking. The inspector scowled, cigarette smouldering away between her lips. 'We've got no evidence, no witnesses and no
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