Oh Trisha, you know its not good to you. Makes you do bad things.
Trisha blinked. It seemed to take a lot of effort. Dont let them take Ricky! Dont She pointed a bony finger at the PC standing in the corner. He tried to rape me!
Sigh. How much did you take, Trisha?
He did! He tried to rape me!
Thats a woman, Trisha.
Frown. Oh A string of drool spiralled its way to her sunken chest. Someone tried to rape me
Logan folded his arms. Shes been like this for about an hour. Was fine before that.
Yes, well, it takes a while for drugs to be absorbed by the system, especially if you practice as much as Trisha. Lucy Woods sat back on her heels. Might be an idea to get her up to A amp;E for the night, just in case.
Which was a pain in the arse, but much better than her dying from an overdose in custody. Ill get someone to run her up.
Good. The social worker stood. Were going to take care of wee Ricky for you, OK Trisha?
Blink. Blink. She smacked her lips. No Frown. Mum. Mumll take him. Blink.
Your mum? Thought she was still in Craiginches?
Someone raped me And this time, when her eyes closed they didnt open again.
Craiginches? Logan watched the social worker shake her head, check Trishas pulse, then haul herself to her feet.
Wheres the wee lad?
Other bedroom. She going to be OK?
I took over her case when she was thirteen. Shes averaged about two ODs a year since. Better have the hospital pump her stomach too: never know what shes swallowed.
Wee Ricky was huddled in the corner of the room, eyes darting back and forth as Logan followed the social worker inside. Clothes lay strewn across the scabby beige carpet, a line of syringes and flame-blackened spoons on the bedside cabinet.
One of the Forced Entry team was leaning back against an ancient-looking sideboard, black crash helmet sitting beside her while she flipped through a copy of Hello! She slapped it down on a pile of celebrity gossip mags.
Even drug dealers and addicts had aspirations. Sarge. She nodded at the boy. Watch: he bites.
The child bared his teeth, a small growling noise coming from his throat, filthy fingers clutching a plastic Buzz Lightyear like a claw-hammer.
Ricky? Lucy Woods lowered herself down in front of him, waistcoat groaning. You remember me, Ricky?
The kid stared at her for a moment, then nodded. Good. Were going to take you to stay with your granny tonight, OK? While your mums not feeling well.
Ricky? Lucy Woods lowered herself down in front of him, waistcoat groaning. You remember me, Ricky?
The kid stared at her for a moment, then nodded. Good. Were going to take you to stay with your granny tonight, OK? While your mums not feeling well.
Logan hauled the pool car around onto Abbotswell Crescent and into a labyrinth of blank grey granite houses, silent in the dawns pale glow.
Wee Ricky sat in the back with PC Guthrie, the constable looking every bit as wary and worried as the three-year-old.
Lucy Woods tapped on the passenger-side window. How much do you think that lots worth then?
Bunches of flowers wrapped in cellophane made a slick that nearly covered the pavement outside a nondescript semi-detached. Teddy bears were tied to the knee-high fence, along with angels, unicorns, and other assorted cuddly toys. Candles in glass jars flickered among the tributes, their light fading before the rising sun. A banner with, JENNY, WELL NEVER STOP BELIEVING! was tied to stakes in the front garden. A smattering of the posters theyd given away with the Scottish Sun at the weekend: ALISON AND JENNY? NEVER GIVE UP! stuck to walls, stapled to sticks.
A handful of people sat at one end of the display, wrapped up in sleeping bags and heavy parka coats, two of them were still awake, smoking cigarettes and sharing a Thermos. They stopped to stare at the pool car as it drifted by.
One raised a hand, gave a short wave of solidarity, then went back to their vigil.
The social worker nodded back. Course they never had anything like the X-Factor, or Britains Got Talent, or Big Brother, when I was young. Couldve made it if they had. Been properly famous. She turned her head as the public display of grief faded from the rearview mirror. That could be me
Bloody hell.
Logan glanced at her, then back at the road. Some people should watch what they wish for.
You sure this is a good idea? Logan looked around the living room, trying to find somewhere even vaguely clean to sit.
The sound of a dog scrabbling at the kitchen door, claws raking the other side of the wood. Deep growls and the occasional outraged bark.
Im not supposed to take a kid into care unless theres no other option. Lucy Woods picked a CD from the littered coffee table, the shiny surface glittering in the overhead light. If we can place them with a member of the family we will. Means the kid doesnt get dragged through the system.
Yeah, but Logan lifted his foot, but the carpet didnt want to let go.
Trishas mum might not be perfect, but at least shes blood. The social worker wrinkled her nose and dropped the CD back into the mess. Fleetwood Mac.
A voice at the door behind them: What the fucks wrong with Fleetwood Mac?
Lucy Woods snapped on a smile. Hi Helen. He go off to sleep OK?
What she do this time? Helen Brown lurched into the room, swigging from a tin of Tennents Super, one leg stiff at the knee. Her face was every bit as thin as her daughters, the same dark hollows under her bloodshot eyes, the same yellowy teeth spaced wide in pale gums. Pupils the size of pinpricks.
She was wearing a pale-grey long-sleeved T-shirt, tugging the cuffs down every time she looked in Logans direction. Probably hiding the trackmarks.
He shifted away from the sticky patch. Shes just helping us with an investigation.
Trishas mum howched, picked up a scummy mug and spat into it. Hooring, or drugs?
I cant-
You fucks is all the same. Another swig of extra-strong lager. Hassling folk doing no harm to no one. A dribble of liquid ran down her chin, dripped and made a clay-coloured stain on the long-sleeved T-shirt. Fuck is it to you if shes making a few quid down the docks? Not like shes robbing auld wifies pensions, is it?
The social worker cleared her throat. So, Helen, how are you coping? Doing OK?
You fuckers should be out there! She jabbed a finger at the closed curtains. Looking for that wee girl and her mum. Not arresting my Trisha for giving someone a blowjob!
There was a drugs raid and-
What, she wouldnt give you a freebie, so you banged her up? You make me sick! Fucking countrys going to shit and its bastards like you dragging it there! She tipped the tin of lager to her mouth, glugging it down.
-in accident and emergency for observation.
Helen Brown scrunched the can up and threw it across the room. It bounced off Logans chest. What, you going to arrest me too? Thats about your fucking speed, isnt it? Arrest the victims, when theres illegal Paki bastards living two doors up, shitting in the street and stealing my fucking washing!
Logan brushed the droplets of pale yellow liquid from his jacket. Well see ourselves out.
Chapter 7
Mmph? Logan peered out from beneath the duvet. The alarm clock radio stared back at him. He fumbled with the buttons on the top, but it didnt stop the noise.
Sat up.
Phone.
It was his mobile, in his jacket pocket, hanging on the back of the chair in the corner, warbling the Danse macabre at him.
Gods sake He hauled it out and squinted at the glowing screen: DI STEEL
Logan stabbed his thumb onto the button. What the hell do you want?
There was a pause. You know what costs sod-all in this life, Laz? A smile; a thank you; and my boot up your arse, you rude little-
What do you want?
Well seeing as the little hand is on the nine, and the big hand is on the twelve, what I want is you at bloody work!
He slumped back on the bed, spreadeagled like a pasty star-fish, the scars on his chest and stomach puckered and angry. I only just got home from bloody work. A yawn drowned out whatever the inspector said next. Logan shuddered.
-round like a sodding mentalist. When-
Had to pull an all-nighter. Finnie lumbered me with McPhersons drug busts; was stuck interviewing a smackhead called Shaky Jake till nearly eight this morning. So Im going back to bed.
Youve no seen the papers this morning, have you. Not a question.
I dont care. He dragged the duvet back into place, covering himself. Its my day off.
Your mate Hudsons a no show.
Who the hell is Oh. Dr Hudson the pathologist. Hows that my fault?
Finnies going mental hes had three PCs in tears already, and its no even lunchtime.
So get a pathologist up from Edinburgh. Logan nestled down into his pillow, soft and cool. Yawned again.
Already tried it going to be six hours before he gets here. Meanwhile some tosser from SOCAs turned up to review the situation,, and you know what that means
He draped an arm across his eyes. Its my day off!
Nows no the time to be missing in action, Laz. No if you dont fancy working fraud cases for the rest of your natural. Im serious: spreadsheets and accountants from here till retirement.
But Ive got a thing on this-
Pick up something tasty on the way in, eh? And some decent coffee for a change.
The line went dead.
The sun glared down from a pale blue sky, a few thin wisps of white making sod all difference to the harsh light. Logan trudged up Marischal Street, hands in his pockets.
Bunch of bastards. An hour: was that too much to ask for? An hour in his own bloody bed. Never mind actually getting to take some bloody time off.
High above, fat seagulls screamed and swore, spattering a rusty hatchback with stinking polka dots.
Logan came to a halt at the top of the hill, where the road joined onto the tail end of Union Street, and stared across the road. Lodge Walk the little alley that ran between the Town House and the Sheriff Court was choked with journalists, photographers, and TV crews. DI Bell was caught in the middle of them, a little hairy island in a sea of bastards, all shouting questions and waving cameras. Poor sod had probably been caught trying to sneak out of Force Headquarters secret side door.
Well, he was on his own, because there was no way Logan was wading in to help.