On hold. Going to try again Wednesday, if they let me.
A knock on the door. A muffled voice: Sarge?
Come in, Tufty. Got to go, Bill. Try and behave till I get there, OK?
No promises.
Logan hung up as Constable Quirrel sidled into the room. Well?
He glanced back over his shoulder like a really bad sneak thief. Dropped his voice to a whisper. Tenses in the cellblock.
Old one or the new one?
Ah A grimace. Forgot to ask.
and dont get me started on that prick Dawson! Nicholson paced the scuffed grey floor, her hands jabbing out at random angles as she went. She marched straight through one of the two open, thick, blue metal doors and into the darkened cell beyond. Turned and stamped back into the room again. Do you know what he said to me? Do you?
The new cellblock was a low-ceilinged room that smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and flaky pastry. The cells empty and immaculate, barely used since they were installed a decade ago, but still kitted out with their thin plastic mattresses and stainless-steel toilets. Waiting for the day when they had enough staff to open it up again. As if that was ever going to happen.
Logan leaned against the door through to the garage, Deano the one through to the older part of the building while Tufty handed out the pastries. No, but Im sure youre going to tell us.
He said-
On second thoughts, dont. Logan pointed at the office chair behind the custody desk. Sit. Deep breaths. And calm down.
But, Sarge, he-
Down. Arse in chair. Now.
Whatever she said under her breath, it probably wasnt polite, but she thumped down in the chair and folded her arms.
Thank you. Logan helped himself to a bite of maple pecan twist. Talking with his mouth full. For better, or worse, were lumbered with these guys. Some of them will be tossers, some of them wont. But I dont want any of you lowering yourselves to that level, am I understood?
Pink bloomed across Nicholsons cheeks. She stared at her boots.
Deano sighed. Shes only letting off steam.
I dont care. And that goes for all of you. We are a professional modern police force. I will not have you letting B Division down by acting like sulky children.
The response was a barely audible, Yes, Sarge, from Nicholson. Sorry, Sarge.
Logan nodded. Had a sip of tea. Hot and milky. Now that were all calm and grown-up again, what did he say?
Sexist scumbag thought I was going to make the tea for them! Nicholson ripped a bite out of her apple turnover, getting flakes of pastry all down the front of her black T-shirt.
Tufty handed her a mug. What did you do?
Smiled sweetly and said, Yes, Guv. Her shoulders dipped. What was I supposed to do? Kick off in the canteen?
Logan nodded back towards the older part of the building, where the main office was. You want me to have a word?
She grimaced. Think thats going to help me get into CID? Constable Janet Nicholson, chippy feminist?
Maybe not. But that didnt mean they were going to get away with it. Logan took another bite of pastry. Im off to Fraserburgh after. Might do Peterhead too, depends if anything comes up. He pointed at Deano. You and Tufty keep hitting the harbours. Janet, take the other car and drift by Alex Williamss place every half-hour. Cant stop the two of them getting back together, but we can let Alex know were watching.
A nod. Sarge.
When youre not there, do a general sweep of the area. Everyone needs to remember that were the ones keeping the peace here, not some MIT bunch of bum-weasels.
The patrol car slid into New Pitsligo, the grey buildings and grey streets washed with amber streetlight. Going the long way round to Fraserburgh. Taking a detour through the wee towns side streets. Peering into front and back gardens. Doing exactly the same thing hed told Nicholson to do. Being seen. Flying the flag for community policing. Letting people know he was out there.
Singing along to whatever tune popped into his head as the car radio crackled and bleeped with snippets from the investigation going on at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool. Fingertip search of a cliff, by torchlight. Someone was off their rocker.
And still no sign of anything turning up.
Back onto the A950. Then a left onto the Strichen road. Blackened fields. Clumps of trees looming from the shadows. Stars like tiny LEDs sprinkled across treacle. The moon a ball of darkness with a faint sliver of white on one edge. A flock of sheep, their eyes shining like vampires in the headlights.
His Airwave bleeped, cutting off a spirited rendition of the Birds Eye Steakhouse Grills advert: Hope its chips, its chips He took one hand off the wheel and clicked the button. Go ahead, safe to talk.
Sarge, its Janet. Been past Alex Williamss theyre both sitting in the lounge, watching the TV. Youd think butter wouldnt melt. I mean, after what Williams did
I know. Keep an eye out. Im winning that bet no one dies.
See if someone tried to do that to me? Id have their kneecaps off.
No one gets crippled either.
No one gets crippled either.
A pause.
Sarge?
What?
Why havent I got a nickname? I mean Stewarts Tufty, Deans Deano. Even youve got one. Im just Janet. Or Nicholson. Is it because Im a woman?
Youre kidding, right? Frown. Well what do you want to be called?
Oh no you dont only tosspots pick their own nickname.
We could call you Constable Pain-in-the-Hoop?
Funny. Voice flat. Good job Im wearing my stabproof vest, razor-sharp wit like that. Ha. Ha. Etc.
Listen, do me a favour: have a bit of a drive round on Rundle Avenue. I want Frankie Ferris to know were watching him. Keep him on edge.
God: a cow on the road, a bit of standing about behind a cordon, and the chance to kerb-crawl past a druggie scumbags house for the rest of the shift? All in one day? Youre right, why would anyone want to abandon that for a life in CID?
Strichen was as small as it was quiet. But Logan gave it the same treatment up and down the side streets. Look at me, Im a police officer. Your taxes at work. The only thing even vaguely noteworthy was the naked man duct-taped to the STOP sign outside the town hall on the corner of Bridge Street and the High Street.
Well he was probably naked. It was difficult to tell under all the treacle and feathers. And they hadnt exactly skimped on the duct tape either.
Logan buzzed down the pool cars passenger window. Leaned across the seats. You OK?
Mr Tar-And-Feathers blinked back at him, then released a lazy grin. Im Im getting mar married! The words all slurred and wobbly.
Congratulations. He buzzed the window back up again and headed off northwest towards Fraserburgh.
Control to Shire Uniform Seven.
Logan looked left and right. No one else in the aisle. All alone with the rows and rows of soup tins. He pressed the button on his handset. Safe to talk.
Youre in Fraserburgh tonight? Anywhere near Arran Court?
No idea. Im in that Tesco on South Harbour Road. The tattie and leek was cheap. But not as cheap as the lentil.
Neighbours are worried about a Mrs Bairden at number twenty-six. Not been seen since yesterday morning. History of heart problems. Not answering the door or the phone.
Lentil it is. Three tins went in the basket, joining the multipack of generic salt-and-vinegar and a bog-standard loaf of white.
Give me five minutes.
Will do.
Quick march, round the corner and a few aisles down, where the medicines and toothpaste lurked. Condoms, pile cream, antacids, eyedrops Ah. There they were. Laxatives.
Itd break the weekly budget, but what the hell. Sometimes you had to live a little.
He picked two different brands at random and flipped them over to read the instructions.
A tap on his shoulder.
Logan turned to see a young woman in the standard blue-short-sleeved-shirt-and-black-trouser uniform. An ASK ME ABOUT CAR INSURANCE badge pinned above the one with her name on it: AMANDA. She smiled up at him. Are you looking for something specific?
Do you have anything really strong and quick-acting?
She picked a green-and-yellow packet from the shelf. My nan uses these gentle, predictable relief.
Nah. Im looking for something a bit more aggressive. Wire-brush and Dettol time. Got anything that fits the bill?
9
Arran Court. A single row of terraced houses: white harling walls, slate roofs; the occasional block of dark wood connecting upper and lower windows. The street was hidden away in Fraserburghs winding knot of cul-de-sacs. Surrounded by the back gardens of other buildings. A small patch of green sat opposite, lit by the yellow glow of a concrete lamp post. A handful of cars parked in front.
Logan counted the doors off, and stuck the patrol car in front of number twenty-six.
Three middle-aged women formed a clot by the garden gate. Two of them sitting on the low wall between it and number twenty-five. The third pacing back and forth, leaving cigarette trails in the street-lit air. All of them in pyjamas and dressing gowns.
Peaked cap on, out into the night. Logan clunked the car door shut and marched over. Does anyone have keys?
The woman with the cigarette stopped pacing and stared at him. Face souring. You think wed be standing here like lumps if we did?
How about relatives? Or maybe a carer?
One of the wall-sitters shook her head. Her daughter, Sandra, lives three streets over, but shes in Edinburgh for a thing.
He stepped through the gate. And youre sure shes not gone out somewhere? Night out in Aberdeen? Visiting friends in Peterhead?
Number three sniffed. Shes got a heart condition. What if shes dead?
Logan tried the door handle. Locked.
No lights on inside.
OK, lets try round the back. He pointed at Mrs Cigarette. Do you have the daughters mobile number?
She dug a mobile from her dressing-gown pocket, poked at the screen, then held the thing out. Ringing.
He took it. Stuck it against his ear as he marched to the end of the street and slipped around the side of the last house. A little lane ran between the back of Arran Court and the rear of the next street over. Logan counted his way along the patchwork of wooden fences to number twenty-six as the mobile phone rang. And rang. And rang.
And finally, Hello? A womans voice, thin and nervous.
Is this Sandra Bairden?
There wasnt a gate into the back garden. Instead, a seven-foot-tall woven wood screen stretched the length of the garden. It wobbled when he grabbed hold of it.