too good, does it?’
‘I didn’t touch those kids!’
Logan sat back and tried DI Insch’s silent treatment again.
‘I didn’t! I fuckin’ came to you lot when I found that kid, didn’t I? Why the hell would I do that if I killed him? I wouldn’t kill a kid: I love kids!’
WPC Watson raised an eyebrow and Nicholson scowled.
‘Not like that! I’ve got nephews and nieces, OK? I wouldn’t fuckin’ do something like that.’
‘Then let’s go back to the start.’ Logan shoogled his chair in closer to the table. ‘What were you doing wandering about on the banks of the Don in the middle of the night in the pouring rain?’
‘I told you I was pissed. . .’
‘Why don’t I believe you, Duncan? Why do I get the feeling that when the report comes back from Forensics there’s going to be evidence linking you to the dead boy?’
‘I didn’t do anything!’ Nicholson slammed his hand down on the tabletop, making the little pile of shredded paper scatter and fall like snow.
‘We’ve got you, Mr Nicholson. You’re only kidding yourself if you think you’re going to talk your way out of it. I think a little time in the cells is going to do you the world of good. We’ll talk again when you’re ready to start telling the truth. Interview terminated at thirteen twenty-six.’
He got WPC Watson to escort Nicholson down to the cellblock, hanging on in the interview room until she returned.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think he did it. He’s not the right type. Not smart enough to lie convincingly.’
‘True.’ Logan nodded. ‘But he’s lying all the same. No way he was down there having a bit of a late night stagger. You get plastered, you don’t go stomping about down the riverbank in the pissing rain for a laugh. He was down there for a reason, we just don’t know what it is yet.’
Aberdeen harbour slid by the car window, grey and miserable. A handful of offshore supply vessels were tied up along the docks, their cheery yellow-and-orange paintwork dulled by the pouring rain. Lights glinted in the semi-darkness of the afternoon as containers were winched off lorries and onto the waiting boats.
Logan and WPC Watson were heading back to Richard Erskine’s house in Torry. Someone had actually remembered seeing the missing boy. A Mrs Brady had seen a small blond boy wearing a red anorak and blue jeans crossing the waste ground behind her house. It was the only break they’d had.
The half past two news was about to come on and Logan turned the car radio on, catching the end of an old Beatles track. Not surprisingly Richard Erskine’s disappearance was given top billing. DI Insch’s voice boomed out of the speakers asking members of the public to come forward with information about the child’s whereabouts. He had a natural flair for the dramatic, as everyone who’d seen him in the annual Christmas panto knew, but he managed to keep it in check as the newsreader asked the obvious question:
‘Do you think Richard has been taken by the same paedophile who killed David Reid?’
‘At this moment we’re just looking to find Richard safe and sound. If anyone has any information please call our hotline on oh eight hundred, five, five, five, nine, nine, nine.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. In other news: the trial of Gerald Cleaver, the fifty-six-year-old former male nurse from Manchester, continues today under tight security following death threats made to the accused’s solicitor, Sandy Moir-Farquharson. Mr Moir-Farquharson spoke to Northsound News. . .’
‘Here’s hoping it’s not just an idle threat.’ Logan reached out and snapped the radio off before the lawyer’s voice could come through the speakers. Sandy Moir-Farquharson deserved to get death threats. He was the weaselly little shite who’d argued leniency for Angus Robertson. Who’d tried to claim that the Mastrick Monster wasn’t entirely to blame. That he’d only killed those women because they’d
‘I didn’t touch those kids!’
Logan sat back and tried DI Insch’s silent treatment again.
‘I didn’t! I fuckin’ came to you lot when I found that kid, didn’t I? Why the hell would I do that if I killed him? I wouldn’t kill a kid: I love kids!’
WPC Watson raised an eyebrow and Nicholson scowled.
‘Not like that! I’ve got nephews and nieces, OK? I wouldn’t fuckin’ do something like that.’
‘Then let’s go back to the start.’ Logan shoogled his chair in closer to the table. ‘What were you doing wandering about on the banks of the Don in the middle of the night in the pouring rain?’
‘I told you I was pissed. . .’
‘Why don’t I believe you, Duncan? Why do I get the feeling that when the report comes back from Forensics there’s going to be evidence linking you to the dead boy?’
‘I didn’t do anything!’ Nicholson slammed his hand down on the tabletop, making the little pile of shredded paper scatter and fall like snow.
‘We’ve got you, Mr Nicholson. You’re only kidding yourself if you think you’re going to talk your way out of it. I think a little time in the cells is going to do you the world of good. We’ll talk again when you’re ready to start telling the truth. Interview terminated at thirteen twenty-six.’
He got WPC Watson to escort Nicholson down to the cellblock, hanging on in the interview room until she returned.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think he did it. He’s not the right type. Not smart enough to lie convincingly.’
‘True.’ Logan nodded. ‘But he’s lying all the same. No way he was down there having a bit of a late night stagger. You get plastered, you don’t go stomping about down the riverbank in the pissing rain for a laugh. He was down there for a reason, we just don’t know what it is yet.’
Aberdeen harbour slid by the car window, grey and miserable. A handful of offshore supply vessels were tied up along the docks, their cheery yellow-and-orange paintwork dulled by the pouring rain. Lights glinted in the semi-darkness of the afternoon as containers were winched off lorries and onto the waiting boats.
Logan and WPC Watson were heading back to Richard Erskine’s house in Torry. Someone had actually remembered seeing the missing boy. A Mrs Brady had seen a small blond boy wearing a red anorak and blue jeans crossing the waste ground behind her house. It was the only break they’d had.
The half past two news was about to come on and Logan turned the car radio on, catching the end of an old Beatles track. Not surprisingly Richard Erskine’s disappearance was given top billing. DI Insch’s voice boomed out of the speakers asking members of the public to come forward with information about the child’s whereabouts. He had a natural flair for the dramatic, as everyone who’d seen him in the annual Christmas panto knew, but he managed to keep it in check as the newsreader asked the obvious question:
‘Do you think Richard has been taken by the same paedophile who killed David Reid?’
‘At this moment we’re just looking to find Richard safe and sound. If anyone has any information please call our hotline on oh eight hundred, five, five, five, nine, nine, nine.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. In other news: the trial of Gerald Cleaver, the fifty-six-year-old former male nurse from Manchester, continues today under tight security following death threats made to the accused’s solicitor, Sandy Moir-Farquharson. Mr Moir-Farquharson spoke to Northsound News. . .’
‘Here’s hoping it’s not just an idle threat.’ Logan reached out and snapped the radio off before the lawyer’s voice could come through the speakers. Sandy Moir-Farquharson deserved to get death threats. He was the weaselly little shite who’d argued leniency for Angus Robertson. Who’d tried to claim that the Mastrick Monster wasn’t entirely to blame. That he’d only killed those women because they’d
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