Logan parked around the back, abandoning the battered car next to the police vans. Get everything up to the third floor.
Rennie rummaged the evidence bags out from the back seat. I mean public displays of grief for someone youve never met are just creepy, they Is this dog shite? He held one of the bags up, peering at the grey-brown lumps inside. It is! Its dog-
Just get it up to the bloody lab. Logan turned and made for the back doors.
So how longs it going to take?
Urgh The man in the white Tyvek suit shuddered, then lifted the toe from the bloodstained note and slipped it into an evidence bag. His voice came out muffled from behind the facemask. A wee girl, for Gods sake.
The lab at FHQ was a fraction of the size of the main facility on Nelson Street and it looked more like a messy kitchen than a state-of-the-art forensic facility. It even had a fridge-freezer, gurgling away to itself by the door, covered in novelty shaped magnets. A little digital radio played Northsound One just loud enough to be heard over the whine of the vacuum table as someone dusted a length of metal pipe for prints.
Logan hauled at the crotch of his oversuit. Some funny bugger mustve changed the label, because there was no way in hell this was a Large. So, how long?
Give us a break, weve only had the stuff fifteen minutes.
Finnie wants everything tested ASAP.
Theres a shock. The technician bent over the crumpled note again, taking a swab of sticky dark-red blood and slipping it into a little plastic vial. If I put a rush on the DNA youll get it back in an hour-
Theres a media briefing at six!
-hour and a half tops. Best I can do.
Cant you-
This isnt the telly, I cant just magic up a DNA profile in time for the adverts. Can probably do you a blood-type, though. He took another swab, then wandered over to the work surface beside the fridge. As for the rest of it He sighed, adjusted his safety goggles, then looked across the room. Sam? How long for fingerprints?
Nothing.
Logan peered at the shape huddled over the vacuum table. The baggy white SOC suit made her completely anonymous, even to him. Samantha?
The tech tried again. Sam?
Still nothing. SAM: HOW LONG FOR FINGERPRINTS?
She looked up from her length of iron pipe. One end was wrapped in a clear plastic evidence bag, the metal inside dark and stained. She hauled at the elastic on her suits hood exposing a shock of bright scarlet hair and pulled a tiny black headphone out of her ear. What?
Fingerprints.
Oh. She looked at Logan and smiled Probably. It was difficult to tell under the full SOC get-up. That you in there?
Logan smiled back behind his own mask. Last time I checked.
Got your envelope in the superglue box. Not holding my breath though, been in there ten minutes already and nothings come up.
O rhesus negative. The tech held up a card. Does that help?
Same as Jenny McGregor.
Post mortem?
No idea. The man picked up the evidence bag with the toe in it using two fingers as if it was a dirty nappy handed it to Logan, then wiped his gloves down the front of his oversuit. The Ice Queens off at a conference in Baltimore, and the silly sod they got in to cover for hers off with the squits. So
Logan tried not to groan. Whens her highness back?
Logan tried not to groan. Whens her highness back?
Tuesday week.
Brilliant.
He signed for the toe, then headed down to the mortuary: quiet and cold in a subterranean annex off the Rear Podium car park. The duty Anatomical Pathology Technician was sitting in a small beige office by the cutting room, feet up on the desk, reading a celebrity gossip magazine.
Logan knocked on the door frame. Got some remains for you.
Ah, indeed.
WAG LOVE CHEAT EXCLUSIVE! went into a desk drawer, and the APT unfolded herself from the chair. Tall, thin, and insect-like, with trendy glasses and wide flat face, fingers constantly moving. Is the hearse in the loading bay?
Logan held up the bag containing the tiny chunk of flesh and bone.
Oh She raised a broad, dark eyebrow. I see. Well, weve had a busy day; I dare say this will represent a change of pace when Mr Hudson returns from his illness. She prowled through to the cold storage room, selected a metal door, opened it, and slid a large metal drawer out of the wall.
A waxy yellow face stared up at them. Swollen golf-ball nose; scraggy grey beard; the skin around the forehead and cheeks slightly baggy, as if it hadnt been put back properly.
The APT frowned. Now thats not right. You should be in number four. Sigh. Never mind. She opened up the next one along. Here we go.
I need the PM done soon as possible. We have-
Sadly, with Dr McAllister away, and Mr Hudson indisposed, it may be a few days before we can do anything. She reached towards him, fingers searching like the antennae on a centipede. May I have the remains?
Logan got her to sign for the toe, then watched her solemnly place the little pale digit in the drawer. It looked vaguely ridiculous: a tiny nub of flesh in an evidence bag, lying in the middle of that expanse of stainless steel. Then she slid the drawer back into the wall and clunked the heavy door shut.
Out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.
Chapter 3
Rose Ferris, Daily Mail. You still havent answered the question: did you find Jenny McGregors body or not? The gangly reporter shifted forward in her seat, nostrils flaring.
Up on the podium DCI Finnie opened his mouth, but the man sitting next to him got in first.
No, Ms Ferris, we did not. Chief Superintendent Bain straightened the front of his dress uniform, the TV lights glinting off the silver buttons and his shiny bald head. And Id thank the more excitable members of the press to stop spreading these unsubstantiated rumours. People are distressed enough as it is. Is that clear, Ms Ferris?
Standing at the side of the room, Logan scanned the sea of faces gathered in the Beach Ballrooms biggest function suite the only place near Force Headquarters large enough to fit everyone in. TV cameras, press photographers, and journalists from every major news outlet in the country. All here to watch Grampian Police screwing everything up.
They were arranged in neat rows of plastic chairs, facing the little dais where DCI Finnie, his boss Baldy Brian and a chewed-looking Media Liaison Officer perched behind a table draped in black cloth. A display stand with the Scottish Constabulary crest on it made up the backdrop: SEMPER VIGILO, Always Vigilant. Somehow Logan doubted anyone was buying it.
A rumpled man stuck his hand up: a sagging vulture in a supermarket suit. Michael Larson, Edinburgh Evening Post. Unsubstantiated, right? So youre saying this is all just a big hoax? That the production company-
Everything else was drowned out: Here we bloody go, Hoy, Larson, your dicks unsubstantiated!, Tosser
Larsons back stiffened. Oh come on, its obviously fake. Theyre just doing it to boost record sales, arent they? There never was a body, its all-
If there are no other sensible questions, Im Chief Superintendent Bain frowned out into the crowd as a reporter in the middle of the pack stood up. The whole room turned to stare at the short, stocky bloke, dressed in an expensive-looking grey suit, silk shirt and tie, hair immaculately coiffed. As if hed come shrink-wrapped in a box.
He waited until every microphone and camera was pointed in his direction. Colin Miller, Aberdeen Examiner. His broad Glaswegian accent didnt really go with the fancy clothes. The wee man pulled out a sheet of paper in a clear plastic sleeve. This turned up on my desk half an hour ago. And I quote: The police isnt taking this seriously. We gave them simple, clear, instructions, but they still was late. So we got no other choice: we had to cut off the wee girls toe. She got nine more. No more fucking about.
The room erupted. Is it true? Did you find Jennys toe?, Why arent Grampian Police taking it seriously?, How can you justify putting a little girls life at risk?, Will you hand this case over to SOCA now?, When can we see the toe?, public inquiry, people have a right to know, think shes still alive?
Camera flashes went off like a firework display, Finnie, Bain, and the Media Liaison Officer not getting a word in.
And standing there, basking in the media glow: Colin Miller.
Wee shite.
Enough! Up at the front of the room, Chief Superintendent Bain banged his hand on the desk, making the jug of water and three empty glasses chink and rattle. Quiet down or Ill have you all thrown out, are we clear?
Gradually the hubbub subsided, bums returned to seats. Until the only one left standing was Colin Miller, still holding the note. Well?
Bain cleared his throat. I think
The Media Liaison Officer leaned over and whispered something in Bains ear and the Chief Superintendent scowled, whispered something back, then nodded.
I can confirm that we recovered a toe this afternoon that appears to have come from a small girl, but until DNA results-
And the room erupted again.
Chapter 4
Shouts; telephones ringing; constables and support staff bustling about the main CID room with bits of paper; the bitter-sweet smells of stewed coffee and stale sweat overlaid with something cloying, artificial and floral. A little walled-off section lurked on one side, home to Grampian Polices six detective sergeants. The sheet of A4 Blu-Tacked to the door was starting to look tatty, THE WEE HOOSE barely readable through all the rude Post-it notes and biroed-on willies. Logan pushed through and closed the door behind him, shutting out the worst of the noise.
Jesus
He nodded at the rooms only occupant, a slouching figure with an expanding bald spot, taxi-door ears, and a single eyebrow that crossed his forehead like a strip of hairy carpet. Biohazard Bob Marshall: living proof that even natural selection had off days.
Bob spun around in his seat. I had a whole packet of fags in here yesterday and theyve gone missing.
Dont look at me: gave up four weeks ago. Logan checked his watch. How come you managed to skip the briefing?
Our beloved leader, Acting DI MacDonald, thinks someone needs to keep this bloody departments head above the sewage-line while you bunch of poofs are off being media hoors.