No. And youre married.
Laz, Im gay, no dead
The head of CID zipped up his hood, then did the introductions Steel holding onto Superintendent Greens hand for way longer than was either necessary or professional. When she finally let go, Finnie pointed across the cutting table. And last, but not least, this is Dr Duncan Fraser. Our forensic pathologist.
Doc Fraser gave the superintendent a wave. Retired. Sniff. Whos corroborating?
Finnie pulled on a facemask.
Steel rocked back and forth on her heels.
Logan cleared his throat. Youre it, Doc. Isobels off at some conference and the new guy, Hudsons-
Indisposed. Sarah, the APT, glided back into the cutting room, carrying a stainless steel tray with a pair of white plastic clogs on it. The kind with little holes in the top to let your feet breathe. She froze, then turned to stare at the stereo. Tsk
Steel nodded. Dose of the killer squits, apparently. Turning himself inside out as we speak.
The APT rolled her eyes, then placed the clogs on the floor at Doc Frasers feet. Most unfortunate. She stalked over to the iPod, and five seconds later Barbers Adagio was back.
Doc Fraser rolled his shoulders, an indistinct rustling inside his white paper suit. Ah well, Im not happy about it, but McRae said it was urgent, so I suppose needs must. He drummed his fingers on the cutting table. Sheila, can you fetch the little girls remains please? And can we please listen to something a bit cheerier? Bad enough as it is.
The APT nodded at the tray, spotlights sparking off the shiny surface. A small evidence bag sat on one side.
The pathologist looked at her. What?
She plucked the bag from the tray and lowered it reverently onto the slab. The remains.
Silence. Just the mournful dirge of violins coming from the stereo.
Seriously? He opened the bag and tipped Jenny McGregors toe out onto his palm. Is this it?
Which probably made him the only person in the country who didnt know.
Doc Fraser held the digit up to the light, turning it back and forth, round and round. Unbelievable
It had been cleaned up since Logan last saw it, all the congealed blood removed for testing, the whole thing gone over with sticky tape to lift any fibres so they could be analysed. Nothing left but flesh, nail, and bone.
Steel tried to put her hands into pockets that werent there. Do you no read the papers?
Inspector, one of the best things about retiring apart from the golf, the gardening, and the Viagra is not having to wallow in societys filth every morning. He raised his safety goggles, until they were sitting on top of his head, and peered at the pale yellow chunk of little girl.
Finnie stepped closer to the table. What can you tell us? There was a long pause. Then the pathologist placed the digit back on the slab.
You see, this is why I retired. Doc Fraser crumpled for a moment. Sighed. Then peeled back the hood of his SOC suit. Sheila, I want the usual tests.
Yes, Doctor.
Finnie leant over the cutting table. What?
Doc Fraser shuffled over to the pedal bin in the corner, peeled off his gloves and dropped them in. Were finished here.
That had to go on record as the shortest post mortem ever.
Doctor? Finnie straightened up. Where are you-
Shes dead. He removed his mask and apron, and sent them after the gloves. A wee girl
Steel groaned. Superintendent Green straightened his shoulders, chin up. Finnie swore.
Logan stared at the severed toe. Pale, bloodless, almost translucent. Are you sure she isnt just-
Look at the cut end. Doc Fraser unzipped his SOC suit. No bruising, no discolouration, no lividity. Cut a toe off a living person and you make a hell of a mess: the tissue gets inflamed, blood flows to the damaged area, capillaries burst, subcutaneous bleeding makes a dark stain around the wound. He struggled out of the suit, stood there in his vest and pants, one sock crumpled around an ankle. That toe was cut from a dead body. Your wee girls dead.
Logan followed DI Steel back up the mortuary steps and out onto the sun-bathed tarmac of the Rear Podium car park. It was bounded on one side by the seven-storey bulk of FHQ; the squat admin and mortuary blocks on two others; and across a narrow lane the dark granite wall of tenement buildings that made up the back of King Street. Normally it was wrapped in chilly shadows, but today it was positively Mediterranean.
Logan didnt bother stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. Shuddered. Blinked. Dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
Steel paused beside a CID pool car with DIRTY PIGGY BASTARDS!!! spray-painted in dripping letters along the side, and produced a little plastic stick coloured to look like a cigarette. She stuck it in her mouth and tried for a puff. Then pulled the thing out and squinted at it. Had another go, sooking her cheeks hollow.
Sodding bugger-monkeys She thrust the fake cigarette at Logan. You man fix.
Logan watched DCI Finnie storm through the back doors into FHQ, Superintendent Green flowing along behind him. Like a cat in a reasonably-priced suit.
When the press find out Jennys dead, were screwed. Theyll-
Fix it, fix it, fix it!
Logan twisted the fake plastic filter, and the e-cigarette went click, then the end glowed an artificial ruby colour. He handed it back. SOCAs going to take over the investigation; well all be up in front of Professional Standards; and every newspaper, TV crew, and tosser on the street, is going to play Bash Grampian Police.
Steel sucked on her fake cigarette. A thin wisp of vapour curled from the end. Aye, thats the real tragedy here, isnt it? No a wee girl being dead or anything.
Logan could feel the blush rushing up his cheeks, ears tingling.
Six years old, and they barely had enough to bury.
He looked away. Yeah, sorry.
Fuck.
So much for the compassionate face of modern policing.
Steel patted him on the arm. Dont sweat it. Ill bet Finnies arse isnt eating his frilly man-panties because Jennys dead either. But do you no think it might be nice if someone kept an eye on what actually matters? Another sook. But youre right we are fucked.
So what do we do now?
Well, I dont know about you, Steel marched off towards the back door, sticking the fake fag back in her pocket, but Im no lying back and thinking of England.
Chapter 9
They pushed through the double doors into the custody area a bare concrete floor, breezeblock walls, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? posters, the smell of old sweat and stale biscuits.
A shrill, jagged, cry echoed down the corridor: I want a fucking doctor!
The reply sounded as if it was being spat between gritted teeth: If you dont quiet down-
IM FUCKING DYING!
Logan turned the corner to the cell block. A Police Custody and Security Officer was peering through the hatch of number five, hands on her hips, white shirt rucked up at the back. One epaulette nearly torn off. Hairdo all skewed to one side. You dont need a doctor, you need a good kick up the-
Morning Kathy. DI Steel paused on the way past to slap the PCSO on the bum.
Hoy! Kathy glowered, both cheeks deep pink, eyes scrunched into narrow slits. Then she saw Logan. You!
He backed off a step. What?
This, she slapped a palm against the cell door, is your fault. Trisha Brown hospital turfed her out half an hour ago and shes-
RAPE! IVE BEEN RAPED! HELP!
Do you see what Ive got to put up with?
IM DYING!
Shut up! Kathy hit the door again. I want her interviewed and out of here now!
Logan held up his hands. Its McPhersons case hes supposed to be interviewing the lot of them this afternoon.
This afternoon? Im not-
IM DYING IN HERE, YOU FUCKS!
Christs sake! The PCSO hauled the hatch open. Will you bloody shut it for five minutes!
Steel glanced at the floor. Youve sprung a leak.
Logan followed her gaze, down to where a clear yellow puddle was seeping out from beneath the cell door and pooling around the PCSOs sensible shoes.
Agh, you filthy cow! She danced back a couple of steps, leaving damp footprints on the concrete.
They left her to it.
The Wee Hoose smelled of egg sandwiches left in the sun for too long, but Sergeant Biohazard Bob Marshall was nowhere to be seen.
I cant Ive got a team briefing in half an hour. Logan shifted his mobile from one ear to the other and settled into his seat, then froze, staring at his desk lamp. Someone had attached three socks and a pair of pale-grey ladys knickers to the metal shade with clothes-pegs.
Ha-bloody-ha.
DI McPhersons voice had that petulant sound kids used when their mums were dragging them past the sweetie aisle in the supermarket: But I dont know what you arrested them for! How can I interview them if-
It was your operation: read the report. Logan hauled the socks off his lamp, dumped them on the floor.
It was your operation: read the report. Logan hauled the socks off his lamp, dumped them on the floor.
But I cant-
And Im not here this afternoon, anyway. Youll have to do it yourself.
He reached for the pants, then stopped. Grabbed a blue nitrile glove from the big box by the door and used it to pull the pants from their peg. A thick brown skidmark ran the length of the gusset. He curled his top lip.
Filthy bastards
What?
No, not you, Guv; someone else. He almost dropped the grubby knickers in the bin, then turned and stuffed them in Bobs top drawer instead. See how he liked it.
McPherson moaned for a bit, but eventually got the point and hung up. Logan slumped back in his seat, blinking up at the ceiling tiles. Be nice to just snooze for a couple of minutes. Not that there was any way in hell hed risk it, not with Finnie storming around the place like an angry bull-frog.
Nothing for it, but to try and get some work done. He poked the power button on his creaky beige computer, listening to it bleep and groan and whir. Then the speakers made that psychic durrrrrrrrum-durrrrrrrrum-durrrrrrrrum buzz that meant his mobile was about to ring.
Sodding hell. What now?
But when the call came through the phone played the metal-chicken rendition of Lydia the Tattooed Lady Samantha had programmed into it for whenever she called.
Hey, you.
Logan? How come youre not home yet? Big day: you better not be getting cold feet on me!
Two guesses.