She shrugged. Try it.
Fair enough.
He poured the water over the coffee granules. Stared out of the window as the police van pulled away. I need a success, OK? Biohazard says Professional Standards are coming after me.
Wondered when wed get to that. Poor Logan, oh pity poor Logan, look at him all sad and unloved, hes only little, etc. Steel went in for another scratch. Mind you, Biohazards no wrong. The rubber heelers are going to be all over you for yesterday. Right now youre about one screw-up away from getting booted off the force.
Wednesday Backshift -
Wednesday Backshift -
15
Logan pulled his epaulettes from his fleece pockets, huffed a breath over the chrome-plated sergeants bars, and polished them on the leg of his trousers. Clipped them into place on the shoulders of his police T-shirt. Stared at his computer screen.
The STORM system was full of actions from yesterdays unsupervised backshift. A lot of which still needed updating. Tufty was the worst offender: from the look of things, he hadnt actually done a single bit of work yesterday. Well today he was going to be busy, even if it was only trying to extract a size-nine boot from his backside.
The desk phone burst into its annoying electronic trill.
So much for the peace and quiet.
Logan had a sip of tea, then answered the phone. Banff station.
A womans voice, hesitant and slightly hushed. Faint hint of an Ayrshire accent The sound of a grumbling diesel engine in the background. I need to speak to someone about the the little girls body they found.
He pulled out his notebook. Do you have some information? Pen poised.
Can I Can I see her?
Great. Another nutter.
Police Scotland dont do general viewings for people who want to look at murder victims. Its considered insensitive. Thank you for calling.
Wait! I She cleared her throat. I think she might be my daughter.
OK. He peered at the phones display and jotted down the mobile number she was calling from. Can I get your name please?
Its Helen. Helen Edwards. My daughters name is Natasha. Natasha Clara Edwards. She Shed be six now. I havent seen her for three years.
Can you hang on a second? He pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, logged into the Missing Person system and hammered NATASHA EDWARDS into the search box. Got back a raft of results for the surname Edwards, Edward, and Edwardson. Natasha Clara Edwards was halfway down the screen.
A click, and the summary appeared.
Abducted on the eve of her third birthday, three years ago, from the family home in Falkirk. Blah, blah, blah Investigating officers were sure it was her father who snatched her he disappeared at the same time, two weeks before financial irregularities surfaced at the firm of accountants he worked for. The assumption was that shed been wheeched off to Spain where her dad had family. Enquiries with the Spanish authorities fizzled out and the case was shelved.
He opened a web browser and had a bash on Google. Lots of red-top tabloid outrage about wee kids getting snatched by their estranged dads and what were the police going to do about it?
The photo beneath the headlines was pretty standard across the newspapers and editions: a little girl sitting in a paddling pool. Ash-blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, eyebrows so pale they almost werent there. Big grin. Spade in one hand. Ducks on her swimming costume.
Add three years and she could easily be the girl found in Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.
OK, sorry about that. He underlined the name in his notebook. Mrs Edwards, can you remember any distinguishing features your daughter has? Birthmarks? Scars? Did she break any bones when she was small? Moles? Anything like that? Dental records might help assuming shed had a lot of work done when she was tiny and those teeth hadnt fallen out yet. But it wasnt likely.
Do you need DNA, or something? Ive got a lock of her hair.
There was a knock on the door. Logan? Inspector McGregor stepped into the room. Are we all set for the raid on Klingon and Gerbils place?
He pointed at the phone in his other hand. Mouthed the words, Murdered girl.
That got him a raised eyebrow.
Before we go down the DNA route, we need to see if theres anything obvious to rule Natasha in or out. He scribbled the words TARLAIR BODY MIGHT BE HER MUM ON PHONE on a Post-it and held it out.
The Inspector took it, raised an eyebrow. Then perched on the edge of the desk.
Oh, I see
No point wasting your time coming all the way up here if it definitely isnt her.
Too late. I got the train to Aberdeen this afternoon. Im on the bus to Banff now.
Right Well When are you going to arrive?
Quarter past five?
Which gave them about two hours.
OK, Ill get someone to meet you at the bus stop and well see what we can do.
Thanks. She hung up.
Logan put the phone back on the hook. Frowned at it.
The Inspector craned her neck to peer at the search results on his monitor. Credible?
No idea. Maybe. He pointed at the wee girl grinning out from the front page of the Daily Mail on his computer screen. Looks a bit like her. After three years ? A shrug.
Well, make sure you let the MIT know. Inspector McGregor folded her arms. Anything I need to worry about today?
Should be fine, Guv. Weve got Syd Fraser coming over with his dogs and a four-person team from the Operational Support Unit. Plan is to go in soon as everyones here.
I see. Well, make sure you keep an eye on Constable Quirrel you know how excitable he gets. She dumped an ID sheet on Logans desk. Pointed at the lined face glowering out of the photograph. Skin tanned to an oaky brown, a mop of curly blond hair. Divisional Intelligence Unit says Stevie Morans back in the country. Chances are hell put in an appearance on our patch sooner or later, visiting his mum. Be nice if we could make his stay a bit more permanent this time. Say, six to eight years.
Logan added the sheet to his in-tray. Ill tell the teams to keep an eye out.
Good. Theres cakes and-slash-or pastries for whoever arrests him. She slipped her glasses off, huffed a breath onto the lenses, and polished them. Kept her voice nonchalant. Now, do you want to tell me about what happened yesterday?
Not really.
Deep breath. Hissing Sid made it look as if I was on a mission to stitch-up Graham Stirling. Im too arrogant to follow procedure, but too incompetent to make my lies stick. So unless Stephen Bisset wakes up and dobs Stirling in, theres nothing we can do.
A bit more chewing. Then, There are going to be repercussions, you know that, dont you? The vultures will be circling, looking for a scapegoat, and youre the most goat-like thing weve got right now.
He slumped in his seat. Rubbed a hand over his face. What was I supposed to do, let Stephen Bisset die?
Inspector McGregor stood. Ill have a word with a few people. See if theres any wiggle room. She marched for the door, then stopped on the threshold. Meantime, it might be a good idea to get yourself a result at Klingon and Gerbils. Bigger the better.
Logan waited till the door clunked shut behind her before rolling his eyes. Yeah, thanks for that. Then he punched the internal number for the MITs incident room on the top floor.
It rang for a while, then a while longer, then finally: DS McKenzie.
It rang for a while, then a while longer, then finally: DS McKenzie.
Took your time.
Were short-staffed today. What do you want?
I got a call from someone who thinks they might be your victims mother. Logan passed on Helen Edwardss details. She gets into Banff at quarter past five. Bus stop on Low Street.
Ill let the Boss know.
Clunk she hung up on him.
Youre very sodding welcome. He popped the handset back in its cradle, grabbing his briefing notes, and headed out into the main office.
The usual newspapers were draped over the side of Maggies cubicle: an Evening Express and an Aberdeen Examiner, joined by a Scottish Sun. CASE AGAINST GRAHAM STIRLING SET TO COLLAPSE, POLICE BUNGLED INVESTIGATION, and LEFT-FEET FOUND IN CLYDESIDE SHOCK.
Logan grabbed the Evening Express and the AberdeenExaminer and dumped them in the nearest bin. In for a penny The Sun joined them.
Maggie meerkatted her head over the parapet. You want me to make you a nice cup of tea?
I appreciate the thought, but Im OK. Really.
Her eyebrows peaked in the middle. Are you sure? You didnt collect your messages when you came in. And well She held up a small stack of Post-its. Maybe I should dig out some biscuits?
Oh God. Is it that bad?
She handed the notes over and he thumbed through them. Two from the Area Commander. Three from Steel. One from Detective Chief Superintendent Finnie. All pretty much the same thing: how had he managed to screw up the Graham Stirling trial? And, right at the bottom, one from Professional Standards. A mobile number was printed across the top in Maggies perfect handwriting, followed by CALL CHIEF SUPT. NAPIER. HE SAYS YOU KNOW WHY.
Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.
Well, couldnt say Biohazard hadnt warned him.
Septic-tank hot tub time.
Logan scrunched the notes up and stuffed them in his pocket. If Napier calls again, Im out running an operation. You dont know when Ill get back. The phone rang on the desk facing Maggies, but there was no one there to answer it. Where is everyone? Shouldnt the MIT be doing something?
Didnt you hear? Maggie lowered her voice to a whisper. DS Dawson had to be hospitalized.
Ah
Apparently his insides are all outside now. And-
Right, well, Id better get on with it. Logan backed towards the door. Got a house to raid. And escape.
Through in the Constables Office, Deano poked at his keyboard with two fingers. Nicholson hunched over a stack of evidence bags, cross-referencing their labels with the official log. Tufty was slumped in his seat arms dangling, head back. Swivelling left, then right again.
Logan thumped the door shut.
Tufty almost collapsed off his chair. Careful, Sarge, frightened the life out of me.
Tell me, Constable Quirrel, are you up to date with all your actions on STORM? Because last time I checked which was, ooh Logan popped his arm out, flashing his watch, five minutes ago there were ten you havent touched for a week.