‘I see …’ said Logan, trying to keep a straight face. ‘And do you have an address for Jason?’
‘Not on me …’ Frown. ‘Cults I think … No, wait, he’s just moved. Blackburn. His mum and dad bought one of those new houses.’
Logan tried not to swear.
‘So are you telling me,’ said Steel, twisting round in the passenger seat so she could glare at Logan in the back, ‘that you daft buggers were at the guy’s address yesterday morning and didn’t say anything?’
Up front, Rickards went bright red, but kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut. So it was down to Logan. ‘It’s not our fault! The woman wasn’t even sure she recognized him! And anyway, what was all that about back there? You didn’t have to antagonize him.’
‘Aye, well,’ Steel shrugged, ‘I was all fired up to see some steamy, explicit sex, instead of which they’re all buggering about with bloody forklift trucks.’ She turned back to face the front. ‘Besides, he shouldn’t have been such a big fat bastard: reminded me of Grumpy Insch.’
The blue sky was a thing of the past by the time they arrived at the housing development. A pall of grey-purple cloud hung overhead, a cold wind whipping through the half-built houses, their roof joists sticking out like ribs picked clean of meat. ‘Bloody hell, it’s freezing!’ said Steel, clambering out of the car and onto the dusty road. ‘Rickards: go find out if the neighbour’s seen Jason Big Dick since Monday – We’ll look like a right bunch of tits if it’s not him.’
As the constable scurried off next door, Steel lit a cigarette, stuck her hands deep in her pockets and trudged up the path to the silent house.
The place was just as deserted and locked up as last time, but the inspector insisted on peering in every window, leaving boot-prints in the empty flowerbeds and finger marks on the glass. They’d got as far as the garage before Rickards returned with the news that no, the neighbour hadn’t seen Jason again and would they all like to come in for a cup of tea?
‘Too bloody right I would!’ said Steel, sooking the last puff from her cigarette before grinding the butt out on the pale brick walls. ‘Freezing me nipples off here.’
Logan tried not to picture it. ‘I’ll go see the site office, they might …’ He trailed off as a large red Citroën pulled into the drive, the back full of suitcases and boxes.
The driver killed the engine, took one look at Rickards standing there in his police uniform, and climbed out. ‘Bloody hell!’ He was in his early fifties with lots of pink scalp showing between the grey hairs. ‘It’s those little vandals from the village again, isn’t it? I’ve told the builder they need to get some bloody security sorted out, but will they listen to me? No! We go away for two bloody weeks … What have the little bastards done now?’
Logan and Rickards looked at DI Steel. This was one of those times where rank was a burden rather than a privilege. Senior officer on site got to break the bad news, those were the rules. But the inspector wasn’t playing by them. ‘Go on then, Sergeant,’ she whispered, ‘you’re up. Be gentle though, eh?’
Wonderful. ‘We’re not here about vandalism, sir.’ Logan pulled the IB’s touched-up morgue photo out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘Do you recognize this man?’
That got a long-suffering sigh and a weary, ‘What’s he done?’
‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.’
They left PC Rickards in the lounge with Jason’s mother. She was just sitting on the couch, silent and still, as if she wasn’t really there. Mr Fettes was doing slightly better: bustling around the kitchen, apologizing for the smell as a small terrier did ecstatic circles about his legs, barking and wagging its tail. He picked the dog’s dish off the mat by the washing machine and rinsed it under the tap, telling them what a good boy Wee Jock was for only going in the kitchen, when he could have crapped all over the house if he’d wanted. Left here alone for two and a bit days. Really it was remarkable, when you thought about it. What with Jason not being here to feed him, or let him out. What with Jason being … The tin opener clattered to the floor. Mr Fettes curled in on himself and cried.
DI Steel wrapped an arm around the sobbing man’s shoulders and steered him to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. ‘Here, why don’t you let me feed the wee lad, eh? You sit there, and afterwards I’ll get us a nice cup of tea.’ She threw a glance in Logan’s direction, silently mouthing the words ‘go have a poke about’.
Jason’s room was easy enough to find: a double bedroom on the second floor with a computer desk in the corner and an Ikea bookshelf full of science fiction and fantasy novels. No posters on the walls, but a lot of framed photographs – Jason with friends, Jason at the beach, Jason in America with a pretty dark-haired girl … There wasn’t a single photo in here that didn’t feature his face. Posing for posterity. Logan slipped on a pair of latex gloves and eased the wardrobe door open. The clothes looked as if they might have been expensive once, now becoming slightly tatty with wear.
There was nothing much in the pockets: a few receipts from Burger King, a handful of nearly illegible notes scribbled on the back of napkins, some lint and three ribbed condoms. He tried the bedside cabinets: socks, underpants, handkerchiefs, more socks, a small silver key, a collection of cheap-looking pornographic magazines, and a handful of Crocodildo DVDs. Logan stuck them on top of the computer desk and peered under the bed. A small set of free weights, a plastic storage thing full of T-shirts, and a long metal chest. Padlocked. The key from the bedside cabinet fit perfectly.
Logan took one look inside. Whistled softly. Then locked it up again.
The computer desk was a mess of CDs and bits of paper. There were a couple of letters from Equity, the actors’ union, regretfully informing Jason that his application for membership was being declined as he’d not been employed for his ‘adult films’ on a suitable contract. A handful of pages ripped from the Stage with auditions circled in red ink. And right at the bottom of the pile: a parking ticket. Logan gave it a cursory glance, about to stick it back where he’d found it when he saw the number plate. It was far too old to be the red Citroën parked in the driveway, and he knew it wasn’t in the garage. He called Control, asking for a lookout report to be put on the vehicle. There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, complete with the clickity clack of a keyboard being pounded, and then, ‘OK, so that’s a lookout request for a blue Volvo estate, registration number—’
‘What?’
‘The number plate, it belongs to a blue Volvo estate.’
Logan sighed. Of course it did.
He found DI Steel standing outside the back door, having a fag and staring out at the lowering clouds, her breath indistinguishable from the cigarette smoke in the cold morning air. She looked tired and old. ‘Sorry, Laz,’ she said, as he stepped out into the cold, ‘I just couldn’t face telling someone else their kid’s dead. Some DI, eh?’ She sighed, then took another deep drag on her cigarette. ‘One hundred and sixty-seven. That’s how many times I’ve broken the news. I was working it out just now. A hundred and sixty-seven people.’ Another sigh. ‘What a bloody job. We must be mad …’
‘I found something in Jason’s room. The car he was dropped off in – looks like it was his.’
‘Shite.’
‘Yup. There’s a computer as well. I’ve told Mr Fettes we’re going to need to take it and a couple of other things down to the lab for analysis.’
‘The poor sod had no idea his wee boy was making porn films. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘You want Rickards to stay here with them?’
‘What?’