Why not? Be nice to have something that actually looked like real meat for a change. And by then Graham Stirling would be heading off to Barlinnie for the rest of his unnatural. Plus: theyd have raided Klingon and Gerbils place. Big haul of drugs, mentions in dispatches, medals, and a parade. Time to celebrate.
It was too early to call Deano back. So Logan wolfed down the cornflakes, slipped his phone in his pocket, and a slice of bargain-basement white into the toaster. Stuck his head out into the hall. Hurry up: Ive got to go in a minute.
No reply.
OK, Ill leave a spare key on the table for you. You can let yourself out.
Silence.
Listen, he walked to the bottom of the stairs, thought Id pop past and see Susan while Im in town. See how shes getting on. She at home today?
Nothing.
Maybe she hadnt been so lucky with the poisoned tea after all?
Hello? The steps creaked beneath his feet, all the way up. Youve not fallen in, have you? When he knocked on the bathroom door, it swung open.
Thankfully Steel wasnt sitting on the toilet with her trousers around her ankles. The room was empty freshly tiled with a new bathroom suite. Cheap, but serviceable. Even if it had taken weeks to put in.
Hello?
A jagged rasp, like a wood-saw hacking away at a sheet of corrugated metal, came from the bedroom. Then a pause. Then another one.
He put a hand on the door and swung it open. There she was: lying flat on her back, on his bed, with both feet still on the floor. One arm flung out to the left, the other hand draped over her right boob. Mouth wide open. Snoring.
Wonderful.
He swung her legs up onto the duvet, pulled off her boots, then pulled a blanket over her.
A Proooop? came from the hallway. Cthulhu sauntered in and hopped up on the bed beside Steel. Treddled the blanket for a minute, then turned round twice and settled onto the pillow beside her head.
Disloyal little sod.
Logan closed the door and left them to it.
Logan shifted his fleece to the other hand and let himself into the station. The unnatural-pine scent of disinfectant and air freshener clawed its way into his nose, itched at the back of his throat. As if someone was trying to cover up a terrible smell.
Keep a straight face.
He poked his head into the Constables Office: no one there. A couple of cardboard boxes sat in the middle of the room piled high with brown-paper evidence bags but other than that, it was the same slightly scruffy collection of posters, notices and in-trays laden with paperwork.
No one in the canteen. No one in the main office either.
Two abandoned papers hung folded over the edge of the partition by Maggies desk an Aberdeen Examiner and an Evening Express. One had gone with an aerial photo of Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool, with a silhouette inset of what was meant to be a little girl: BODY FOUND IN NEGLECTED NORTHEAST BEAUTY SPOT. The other featured a head-and-shoulders of Neil Wood: DID MISSING PAEDOPHILE KILL TRAGIC SCHOOLGIRL? A tiny article in the sidebar was titled, STIRLING TRIAL CONTINUES. Would have thought it deserved more page space than that, considering what Graham Stirling had done to Stephen Bisset.
Logan did a three-sixty. Hello? Anyone home?
Maybe the MIT had caught whoever killed the little girl and sodded off back where theyd come from? Thatd be nice
He got out his keys and opened the little blue locker with his name on it. Unhooked his Airwave handset from its charger. Switched it on and slipped it into his fleece pocket. Then pushed through into the Sergeants Office.
Stopped.
DS Dawson was sitting in his seat again. Only not looking quite so cocky this time.
His face was a pale shade of grey, the bags under his eyes a smudgy, bruised colour. His quiff had lost its arrogant strut and dangled limply across his shiny forehead. He looked up as Logan closed the door. Grimaced. Stuck one hand to his stomach as a coffee-percolator-gurgle rumbled somewhere inside it. What you doing in? Thought you were backshift.
Logan did his best not to smile. You look a bit rough.
Urgh Think we hit a dodgy kebab shop last night. Half the stations been welded to the bogs since back of four.
That is a pity. He unlocked the little grey filing cabinet and pulled out the drawer with his notebook in it. Popped it into a pocket. Supposed to be getting a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson. You seen her?
I ended up stuck in the cells for two hours only bog that was free. Dawson puffed out his cheeks and rubbed at his growling stomach. Never touching another doner as long as I live.
That is a pity. He unlocked the little grey filing cabinet and pulled out the drawer with his notebook in it. Popped it into a pocket. Supposed to be getting a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson. You seen her?
I ended up stuck in the cells for two hours only bog that was free. Dawson puffed out his cheeks and rubbed at his growling stomach. Never touching another doner as long as I live.
Sounds dreadful. Dont grin. Dont grin. So, Swanson?
No idea. All I know is everyone ran off to break up some fight outside the- Urgh Another roll of gurgling thunder. Oh God He grabbed the desk. Paused. Took a deep breath. Let it out in a long slow hiss. No, Im OK
Logan pulled on the most sympathetic face he could. Well, as Ive got a couple of minutes, how about I make you a nice cup of tea?
Constable Swanson shifted her grip on the steering wheel, hunched forward in her seat as they roared around the bend, heading south on the A947. Big hands; broad face; scruffy brown hair streaked with blonde like a humbug, tied up in a bun. Glasses. Im really, really sorry. Only these two auld mannies were really laying into each other. Fists and false-teeth flying everywhere. She grimaced. Sorry.
Told you: its OK. As long as Im at the High Court for nine, were fine. Logan took out his phone as they thundered over the Castleton Bridge. No new messages.
A constant burble of calls murmured from his Airwave handset B Division going about its daily business.
Suspected overdose on Crooked Lane, Peterhead.
Anyone in the vicinity of Asdas in Fraserburgh? Shoplifters been apprehended by store security.
All units, lookout request for one Tony Wishart, IC-one male, eighteen years old, dark hair. Outstanding apprehension warrant for burglary.
Getting complaints of a domestic disturbance in Whitehills, any unit free to attend? Priority one.
Logan turned the volume down and wriggled in his seat. Settling further into the fabric.
Nice not to be wearing a stabproof vest and equipment belt for a change.
Outside the window, vivid green fields and trees swooshed past. The hissing soundtrack of tyre noise joining the Airwaves chatter and the throaty growl of the patrol cars engine. The rattle of the blue plastic crate on the back seat. Their car swept around another bend, and the rustle of the crates evidence bags joined the music.
Swanson grimaced at him. Just have to hope we dont catch the rush hour heading into Dyce. Dont know if going via Inveruries worse or-
Well be fine. Labs wont do anything with your stuff till this afternoon anyway. He reclined his seat a couple of notches, tipped his peaked cap forwards so it covered his eyes and nose. And if its getting tight, well blues-and-twos it. Dont think the Powers That Be will complain if it helps put Graham Stirling away. He stretched out. Stifled a yawn. Sighed.
Sarge?
What?
You dont snore, do you?
About to find out.
The round of applause started as soon as Logan walked into the CID office. Beige walls, grubby ceiling tiles, grubbier carpet tiles, whiteboards covered in notes and lines. It was smaller than the old one, but then so was the team whittled down by all the other specialist units that had sprung up with the change from Grampian Police to Police Scotland. But the half-dozen officers who were there gave him a standing ovation, a mug of milky tea, and a bacon buttie.
Biohazard slapped him on the back and popped the cap on a bottle of tomato sauce. Squirted it into the buttie. Got to keep your strength up for today.
Ta. When are you giving evidence?
Tomorrow morning. He stuck the tomato sauce back on his desk. Course, by then itll all be over.
The others drifted back to their desks and their phones while Biohazard led him over to a file-box by the printer, with NOTEBOOKS in heavy black marker letters. Took the liberty.
Logan had a bite of buttie. It was lukewarm, but it tasted of smoky victory as he rummaged through the box for the notebooks hed had when theyd been after Graham Stirling. Popped them onto the printer. What about Rennie?
Tomorrow afternoon. Assuming he can find his way back down here from your Teuchter backwater.
Watch it, you. Logan had another mouthful, washing it down with a slurp of tea. Any idea how its going so far?
You know how it is. Yesterday was all opening arguments and weaselling. Nothing for the jury to get its teeth into. Speaking of which Biohazard picked up a green folder and handed it over. Theyre going for mock-ups.
He stuffed the last third of the buttie in his mouth and flicked through the folders contents. Instead of the actual crime-scene photographs, someone had mocked up a body in the computer and modelled Stephen Bissets wounds onto it. Nice and sanitized and safe for the fifteen boys and girls whod be sending Graham Stirling to jail in a couple of days.
Logan slipped the pictures back where theyd come from. Checked his watch. Better get going. You know what the Fiscals like before a big one. He downed the last of his tea in one. Drinks after?
You better believe it. A grin split across Biohazard Bobs face, all teeth and chubby cheeks. Steels even put fifty quid in the kitty.
About time. Logan stuck his old notebooks in his fleece pockets. Right, better get going.
A wink. Its a shoo-in. Then he screwed up one side of his face and leaned to the left. A high-pitched squeak. Then a grin. For luck, like.
The smell was like being battered about the head with a mouldy badger. Logan backed off, eyes stinging. Waving a hand in front of his face. God What have you been eating?
The grin got bigger. Oh yeah, Stirlings going down.
13
The sound of murmured voices oozed out from the Witness Room. Logan tucked his peaked cap under one arm and pulled out his mobile. Headed through the doors to the stairwell, selecting Deanos number from the contacts as he climbed up to the next landing. Leaned against the windowsill as the phone rang. Outside, Marischal Streets granite terrace reached away down the hill, took a break for the bridge over the dual carriageway, then finished up at the harbour. Three storeys of grey stone, flecks of mica glittering in the sunshine. Rooftop dormers mirroring back the glare. A supply vessel loomed at the bottom of the road, its yellow-and-black hull streaked with lines of rust.