‘Well, nothours, hours, Sarge. Only since we got back from NorrelTech with the footage?’ The wee loon frowned. ‘Well, after that thing at thehospital. And got we Darryl Merickson squared away. And then I went and got a custard slice for my tenses, but I ate it at my desk being all industrious and multitasky. But since then.’
Logan checked his watch. ‘So, about fifty-minutes-ish. How many PNC searches can one little PC do in fifty minutes?’
‘Four hundred and thirty-seven.’
Beattie stared at him. ‘Four hundred andwhat?’
Wow.
Yeah, Beardy Beattie might be a dick, but maybe he had a point this time.
Tufty bounced in his seat. ‘See, I ran the footage through an ANPR system and wrote a script to fling the output through...’ His mouth clamped shut under Beattie’s withering glare. ‘Erm...Because ofoperationalreasons.’ He turned his computer screen to face them, showing off a spreadsheet. ‘Everyone’s sorted by their line entry from the Police National Computer. But I can re-order it by name, make, registration, or timestamp if you like?’
‘It’s incomprehensible!’ Beattie thumped the cubicle wall. ‘Bringing the whole system to its knees!’
‘Did you at leastfindsomething?’
‘Mostly parking tickets and speeding offences.’ The wee loon clicked about with his mouse and the spreadsheet rearranged itself into a different order. ‘Two with outstanding warrants – one assault, and one not-showing-up-to-court-on-an-indecent-exposure charge. Nine domestic violence. And three sex offenders. Well, two really, cos one was found not guilty.’
‘OK: who were they?’
‘No, no, no.’ Beattie wagged a finger. ‘We’re losing sight of theactualissue here: you can’t bombard the PoliceNationalComputer with rubbish for fun. You have to have “reasonable grounds”! Tulliallan will do their nut; Gartcosh have already been on the phone!’
Logan pointed at the spreadsheet. ‘The other two?’
‘White Ford Transit: six years for raping his eighty-two-year-old neighbour. Green Honda Civic: interfered with young boys at a juniors’ football club. Eight years.’
Just when you thought your faith in humanity couldn’t get any lower. ‘Order it by timestamp. What’s clustered around midnight, when the taxi dropped Natasha Agapova off?’
Beattie stood there quivering, while Tufty poked and clicked. ‘Hello?I’m not yesterday’s skirlie here: I want to make a complaint!’
‘Closest is the taxi what did take her home. Next up is ...’ the wee loon squinted at the screen, ‘a grey Vauxhall Astra, but that’s our “not guilty”.’ Click. Scroll. ‘One Mr Keith Braithwaite; has a croft round about Durris.’
‘Am I talking to myself, here?’
Logan leaned in. ‘Not guilty of what?’
‘I think it’shighlyunprofessional to be sodisrespectfulwhen a fellow senior officer is making a complaint.’ Beattie stuck his hairy chin out, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘Don’t think I won’t report this to Professional Standards, because I will!’ An imperious sniff, and he stomped away. No doubt off clyping to the rubber heelers, like the massive dick he was.
The wee loon opened a new window on his screen, skimming the details with a finger. ‘Allegedly, Mr Braithwaite impersonated a police officer to coerce women to have sex with him. Looks like he mostly preyed on prostitutes and drug users. Only he didn’t, because of “not guilty”. Allegedly.’
Interesting.
Wonder ifhe’dhad his Andy-Warhol-allotted fifteen minutes?
‘Search for “Keith Braithwaite” and “theScottish Daily Post”.’
Fingers flew across the keyboard. ‘Clickity, click, click, pong, aaaaaaannnnd enter.’ The screen filled. ‘Ooooh...We has a results.’ He opened the top link and a newspaper front page appeared, from four years ago: ‘FAKE COP PERVERT IS CHARITY SCUMBAG’ above the photo of an unremarkable guy in his early forties.
Brown hair, two eyes, two ears...
And that was about all you could say about him.
Pretty much the perfect face for undercover work: bland and forgettable.
Not for his victims though, going by the subheading: ‘CHARITYBOSSFORCESVULNERABLEWOMENTOPERFORMDEPRAVEDSEXACTS’.
Logan thumped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder. ‘Print it, then grab a car. We’re going to pay Mr Braithwaite a visit.’
