Who is this?
Im a police officer. I dont want to worry you, Sandra, but your mums neighbours are concerned about her.
He put one foot on the low brick wall and pulled himself up. A single light was on in the house, shining faintly through a small pane of rippled glass. Probably the bathroom. The garden wreathed in gloom.
Oh God Is it her heart?
Could be nothing at all. We just want to make sure shes OK. He gave the fence another shoogle. Better do it quick before the whole thing came crashing down. Up and over. Thumping down with both feet in a vegetable patch.
I I knew I shouldnt have left her alone But it was a work thing and-
Lets not jump to any conclusions. Crunching out through the woody stalks of leeks on parade, the air filled with the sharp scent of fresh onion. Back door. Do you know if your mother keeps a spare key anywhere on the property? Under a plant pot? Something like that? He unclipped his torch from the stabproof and clicked it on. Swept the LED beam around the garden.
No, definitely not. Shes very security conscious A sob rattled from the phones speaker. Please let her be all right
One of those ridiculous half-terrier garden ornaments sat by the back door as if the dog was digging its way through the paving slab down to the house foundations. He nudged it over with his toe. A single key was taped to the underside.
One of those ridiculous half-terrier garden ornaments sat by the back door as if the dog was digging its way through the paving slab down to the house foundations. He nudged it over with his toe. A single key was taped to the underside.
Yeah, because that was the last place a burglar would look.
He pinned the phone between ear and shoulder, picked the key up and slipped it into the back-door lock. Its OK, Im letting myself in now.
The kitchen was in darkness. Mrs Bairden? Hello?
Silence.
Oh my God, shes dead, isnt she?
Mrs Bairden? Its the police, are you OK? He clicked on the light. Yellow and blue tiles on the walls, grey faux-marble worktop, white units.
Through into the hall. Click. Photos on the walls, leading up the stairs: an overweight little girl playing with a big hairy dog, the same girl in school uniform with missing front teeth, then getting older, married, looking more tired and more worn down as she aged.
Why did I have to come to Edinburgh ?
Mrs Bairden? Hello?
Up to the landing.
Light seeped out under the bathroom door, the drone of an extractor fan, muffled by the door.
Logan knocked. Mrs Bairden? Are you in there?
He tried the handle. Locked.
Im so stupid
Another knock. Mrs Bairden? He stuck his ear against the door. Was that a voice? Barely audible under the extractor fans incessant buzz. Mrs Bairden, Im coming in.
Logan pulled a handful of change from his trouser pocket. Took a two-pence piece and slotted the edge of it into the little twiddly thing beneath the handle. Twisted it left till the lock went clack.
The door swung open, revealing a small bathroom clarted in pink floral tiles. A salmon-coloured suite. And a very pale old lady naked in the bathtub, surrounded by filthy water. Thin grey hair. Sunken cheeks. One shoulder hunched. The left side of her mouth drooping.
Logan stuck the mobile phone on mute. Popped it on the pink cistern, next to the Spanish flamenco-dancer toilet-roll cosy. And knelt beside the bath. Put two fingers against Mrs Bairdens neck.
Then grabbed his Airwave and called for an ambulance.
join us after the break when Josie and Marshal have to decide whos-
Logan poked the remote and the voice-over idiot on the TV was replaced by canned laughter on some mediocre sitcom.
The Fraserburgh station canteen was empty, except for him and the furniture. The blinds on the round window pulled tight, jaundiced light seeping through from the street outside.
His cheapo lentil soup wasnt too bad with a good slug of chilli sauce pilfered from the back of the cupboard. The bottle had ERINS ~ HANDS OFF YOU THIEVING SODS! printed across it in angry black Sharpie letters. As if that was going to do any good.
Leave food lying about in a police station and you deserved everything you got.
A bleep from his Airwave. Anyone in the vicinity of Cruden Bay, weve got reports of an IC-One male threatening to commit suicide
He ripped a chunk off the slice of toast and dipped it in the soup. Butter made round shiny slicks on the surface.
A dog-eared copy of the Aberdeen Examiner lay open on the table in front of him. Big two-page spread about the first day of Graham Stirlings trial. FAMILYS AGONY OVER SICK CLAIMS and a big photo of Stephen Bisset, taken before Stirling got his hands on him. A smiling, unremarkable man, in a blue jumper and white shirt. Side parting and a cheesy grin. Holding a baby in his arms. His teenaged kids stood at his shoulders, with matching eyes, smiles, and long black hair: HAPPY FAMILIES: LEFT TO RIGHT
DAVID (17), STEPHEN (41), BABY DAVINA (3 MONTHS), AND CATHERINE (14).
Logan flipped the page to an opinion piece about a woman whod scalded her husband with chip fat. Had another dunk of toast in his soup. Scanned an article about the drive-by execution of three gang members down in Liverpool. Another about a member of the Scottish Parliament caught thrashing out a private members bill in the womens toilets after hours.
His Airwave bleeped, then DCI Steels gravelly tones ground out of the speaker. Laz? Where the hell are you?
Great couldnt even eat his cheapo soup in peace.
He thumbed the button. Busy. What do you want?
How come I cant find anything in this warren you call a police station? Where are the marker pens?
A spoonful of lumpy lentil. Hector nicks them all.
Who the hell is Hector? Ill kick his bum for him.
Too late for that: he died years ago.
Hilarious. Wheres the damn pens?
And now he haunts the corridors of Banff station, terrifying probationers and anyone foolish enough to venture upstairs after dark Wooo-oooo-ooohhhh-ooo!
Silence.
He crunched on a mouthful of toast.
You finished?
What? Not my fault. Hes the station ghost, and every time a pen goes missing, its Hectors fault. Try the old VIPER room on the top floor, next to the shower room. Theres usually a box up there.
When you getting back? I need to go round all the registered stots, fiddlers, nonces, and paedos in the area.
So? Youve got every spare body in the northeast: go visiting. Knock yourself out.
Need me some local knowledge.
Your team-
Are a bunch of numpties. Wouldnt trust them to interview their bums for love bites. So ?
More soup. Depends if I get free later. Ill let you know. Ha, no chance. Got to go.
Another dollop of stolen hot sauce. Definitely improved the taste.
The door opened behind him. Sarge.
He looked back over his shoulder and gave a one-spoon salute. Syd. Hows the menagerie?
A shrug. Enzos OK, but Lusso bit Dino. Right on the bum. Constable Frasers black, police-issue fleece was frayed around the collar and sleeves, the thick leather dog lead draped across his shoulders and clipped together behind his back. Like BDSM braces. Black-and-white checked POLICE baseball hat on his head, the brim worn and hairy on one side. The less than subtle waft of Eau de Labrador. Dont know what hed been doing, but he probably deserved it.
Logan stared at him. Your dog bit Deano? He bit Constable Scott? When did this happen?
What? Syd curled his top lip, pulled his chin back into his neck. Then the frown slipped from his face. Ah, OK, no, not Deano, Dino. D.I.N.O. My Alsatian. He likes to wind the other two up.
Thank God for that. Logan hissed out the breath hed been holding. The paperwork wouldve been horrendous.
Syd clumped over to the kitchen that took up one corner of the large room. Stuck a Tupperware box in the microwave and set it humming.
I need a car over to Market Street, Macduff. Reports of an elderly woman in distress wandering the street.
Nicholsons voice barked out of the Airwave handset. Roger that, Control on my way.
Nicholsons voice barked out of the Airwave handset. Roger that, Control on my way.
Logan went back to his soup. You not out searching Tarlair?
Nope. You cancelled that drugs op, so me and Enzo ended up checking suspicious packages down the post office. Got three lots of coke, two of resin, and a teeny-tiny bit of heroin. Probably has a street value of eight pounds fifty, but every little helps.
Ding.
Syd went rummaging in the cutlery drawer and carried the Tupperware back to the table. Pulled out the chair two down from Logan and settled in. Creaked the top off the container. The smell of rich Indian spices wafted out, covering the one of wet dog. Know if theyve IDd the girl yet?
MITs handling it. Think theyd tell me?
Probably not. A fork dug into the curry, pulled out a mound of chickpeas and onion. Whats happening with your warrant? Me and the hairy loons were looking forward to that. He took off his baseball cap, exposing a swathe of shiny scalp, fringed with close-cropped grey. Got nothing special on tomorrow, if youre up for it?
Cant got the Stirling trial. Maybe Wednesday? Assuming theyll give me the bodies with this Tarlair thing going on. A spoonful of lentils helps the bitterness go down. Surprised theyve not got you out there sniffing round the swimming pool too.
No one ever calls in the dogs as a first resort. Another forkful of chickpeas. More fool them.
Ill see what I can do.
Another handset bleep. Control to Bravo India One, safe to talk?
Syd pointed at the TV. You watching this pish?
Just on for the company, to be honest.
The Duty Inspectors voice yawned out of the speaker: Go ahead.
Cool. He grabbed the remote and went spinning through the channels. You hear about Barney Massie? Up running that fatal RTA in Kirkwall, when he gets a challenge on his teams expenses.
Co-op in Aberchirders had its front window panned in and the Cashline machine taken.
A groan came from the Airwave. Not another one A sigh. A pause. Then the Duty Inspector was back. OK. Ill be right over.
Some wee numptie in Tulliallan calls him up to give him a roasting: Whats all these claims for flights? Did no one even think of taking the train?
Logan stared at him. To Orkney?
Exactly. More chickpeas. The job is well and truly buggered. Another jab at the remote produced a repeat of Chewin the Fat a pair of sailors chuntering out filth while their boat heaved through a storm. Still, only eight paydays to go.