Sarge, are you-
How about this: Im off to court tomorrow for the trial. You want to be in charge while Im gone? I mean, you couldnt be Duty Sergeant, but you could run the team.
Nicholson chewed on the inside of her cheek.
Itll look good on your CV. You can start doing some of the briefings too. It all helps.
Deal. She leaned forward, squinting against the sunshine at the cars droning towards them. That boy on his mobile phone?
Logan shielded his eyes. The ugly one in the blue Fiesta?
The Fiesta rumbled past, followed by three other vehicles. Then a tiny gap Then a Passat.
Nicholsons finger jabbed one of the buttons mounted in the middle of the dashboard and the units blues flickered into life. Another button and a short siren woop blared out.
The Passats driver slammed the brakes on, slithering to a halt about six feet away. An auld mannie goggled out at them, hands curled into fists around the steering wheel, tartan bunnet all squint on his head.
She gave him a nod, then pulled a U-turn. Put her foot down. The acceleration pushed Logan into his seat. Added its weight to the stabproof vests crushing fist.
Cars parted before them, clearing the way through to the blue Fiesta with the ugly driver. The thing was shiny and polished, like new. Nicholson wheeched up right behind it and tapped the horn. The siren changed tone. Insistent. Demanding.
Mr Ugly glanced back at them, his face a curdled mess through the rear window. A pause then he pulled in to the kerb.
Nicholson parked behind him. She fiddled with the Airwave clipped to the front of her vest. Control, I need a PNC check on a blue Fiesta.
Logan reached into the back of the patrol car for his hat and climbed out into the sunshine. Shook one leg like a dog getting its belly scratched. Bloody police-issue trousers were made of burning ants and sandpaper. He did a slow walk around the Fiesta to the drivers window. Rapped his knuckles on the glass.
It buzzed down and Mr Ugly glared up at him. What? The word came out like a gob of phlegm from a crooked mouth full of crooked teeth. Definitely a Birmingham accent. Thick eyebrows, broad face, dimpled chin, a spattering of angry red spots along the line of his jaw.
OK. Going to be one of those.
Logan unhooked the elastic band holding his body-worn video shut and slipped the front down, setting it recording. You do know its an offence to use your mobile phone while driving, dont you, sir?
A scowl. I wasnt using no mobile.
We saw you, sir.
He faced the front again. Worked his jaw, making the fault line of spots ripple. A couple of volcanoes in the chain ready to blow. Prove it.
Name?
Silence. More tectonic activity. Then, Martyn Baker, with a Y. Sixteenth December, Nineteen Ninety-Three. Thirty-eight Dresden Road, Sparkbrook. Birmingham.
Name, date of birth, and address. The crooks version of name, rank, and serial number. Just like that. No stranger to giving his details to the police, then. Logan printed it all down in his notebook. Stay in the vehicle, sir. Then around to the boot of the car and onto Control for a background check.
Nicholson pulled on her peaked cap and sauntered over, thumbs tucked into the armholes of her stabproof, like Rumpole of the Bailey. She jerked her chin up. Sarge? Cars registered to a Martyn Baker-
Nineteen Ninety-Three, thirty-eight Dresden Road, Birmingham?
Thats him. AKA Paul Butcher, AKA Dave Brooks. Got a sheet two miles long: housebreaking, aggravated assault, possession of a Class A, possession with intent, beat the crap out of his girlfriend and his mum Bit of a charmer, by all accounts.
Certainly failed the attitude test. Logan looked back at the car. Bakers narrowed eyes were right there in the rear-view mirror. Staring at them. Any outstanding warrants?
Not so much as an overdue library book. She shifted from foot to foot. You want to do him for the phone?
Denies it.
A snort. Really? Law-abiding citizen like him?
The Airwave clipped to Logans chest bleeped four times: a point-to-point call. A quick glance and there was PC Scotts shoulder number on the screen. His voice boomed out of the speaker. Shire Uniform Seven, its Dean, you safe to talk?
He hunched one shoulder forward, tilting his head so his mouth was up against the microphone. Pressed the button. Go ahead, Deano.
Got ourselves an assault in Whitehills. The Drookit Haddie on Harbour Place. Bunch of scrotes gave an old boy a battering. Me and Tufty are waiting for the ambulance.
Suspects?
Nah: everyone in the pubs come down with amnesia. And Maggies been on theres a coo loose on the B9031 round about Gamrie.
OK. Well see to it. Make sure you get the CCTV from the pub.
Nicholsons face soured. A cow wandering about on the road. Not exactly Silence of the Lambs, is it?
Careful what you wish for. Logan let go of the handset and turned back to Mr Uglys Fiesta. Not all its cracked up to be.
So what are we going to do with Plukey Pete?
But Logan was already walking up to the drivers window. Tell me, Martyn-with-a-Y, what brings you all the way from thirty-eight Dresden Road, Birmingham, to the streets of sunny Banff?
Another dose of the evil eye. Personal, isnt it. Now you done? Cos youre infringing my right to free movement and that.
I see He drummed his fingers on the roof of the car. You know what, Mr Baker, I was going to let you off with a warning, but I have reason to believe you wouldnt pay any attention to it. As such, Im confiscating your mobile phone as evidence-
Aw, bugger off! The line of spots simmered. Youre not taking my bloody phone.
Under Common Law I have the power to seize any items suspected to be used in the execution of a crime. Or would you like me to do you for resisting instead? Logan popped his wrist forward and checked his watch. Ive got a couple of hours to spare. Step out of the car, Mr Baker.
Baker folded over until his forehead brushed the steering wheel. Fine. Then dug in his pocket and came out with a big Samsung job, the case all battered and scratched. The screen cobwebbed with cracks radiating out from the bottom left corner. He handed it over. Happy?
Delirious, sir. Ill make out a receipt for the phone. But he took his time over it. Drive carefully, Mr Baker. A smile. Well be keeping an eye out to make sure youre OK.
Nicholson stared after the Fiesta as it drove away. Think hes dealing? Making a delivery? Maybe on the run from someone?
Or D, all of the above Logan slipped the phone into a brown paper evidence bag. Labelled it. But who knows, maybe hes off for a romantic assignation with a nice sheep? Dumped the bag in the boot of the patrol car. Speaking of animal husbandry, that cows not going to round itself up.
5
says youre not to forget about your appraisal today.
Logan hit the talk button on his Airwave handset. Depends on how things pan out. Janet and me are busy keeping the good people of Aberdeenshire North safe from scoundrels and scallywags.
Fields rolled past the cars windows, shiny and green, dark walls of gorse aflame with burning yellow flowers. Ahead, in a break between the hills, cliffs disappeared down into the North Sea.
Maggies voice dropped to a hard whisper. Sergeant McRae, you are going to tell her Im needing a wee pay rise, arent you? Only with Bills back being what it is, we-
Cant promise anything, but Ill try. Assuming we get finished here in good time. Logan shifted in his seat. Pointed out through the windscreen as they crowned the brow of yet another hill. There we go.
A big brown bullock waddled down the middle of the road. Broad shouldered and thick bottomed. Tail flicking from side to side. Horns weaving back and forth as it lumbered along.
The Inspector says youre not to put it off again. Appraisals have to be in by Wednesday.
Nicholson leaned on the horn. Breeeeeeeeeep.
The cow didnt even flinch.
She really was quite insistent.
OK, OK. Tell her well be back at the station about Logan checked his watch. Better make it half four. Twenty to five. Ish.
Will do. And Maggie was gone.
Nicholson tried the horn again. Breeeeeeeeeep. Nothing. I went to police college for this? Months at Tulliallan. Two years as a probationer Breeeeeeeeeep. She buzzed down her window. Come on, you hairy bugger, get off the road!
Logan swivelled in his seat. Empty fields, all around. Not a single head of livestock to be seen, other than the one clomping its way down the middle of the road. No idea where he came from. Off to the left, a swathe of green was peppered with big round bales wrapped in black plastic. Well stick him in there. Logan undid his seatbelt. Come on.
Nicholson scowled. This is what happens when they dont let us carry tasers.
Gah Nicholson shoved the gate shut and hauled the pin back, making the spring squeal. Let go and it clacked into place. She spat twice. Then a third time. Wiped a hand through the mud that caked her face from one ear to the other. More covered the front of her high-vis waistcoat. Lumps of it wodged in the armholes of her stabproof. Another gob of muddy spittle. Then a glower in his direction. Where all the cool kids are, my arse.
Logan shrugged. You imagine what would happen if someone came round the corner doing sixty and hit that? Pointing at the big brown beast, who was at least three shades cleaner than Nicholson. Theyd have to scoop you into your body-bag like eleven stone of mince.
She wiped her hands down the front of her vest, smearing the filth. You saying Im fat?
Come back here, you wee sod! Logan vaulted the low garden wall and sprinted across the lawn, knees pumping. One hand clamping the peaked cap to his head, the other clutching his extendable baton in its holder. Stopping it from jiggling about with every other step.
The wee sod in question kept on running. Sneakers flashing their white bellies, his arms and legs going like pistons, hoodie flapping behind him like an obscene pink tongue.
Over into the next garden.
Crashing straight through a bed of nasturtiums and pansies. The owners sat on a bench against the house, sharing a bottle of wine. On their feet and shaking fists as the Wee Sod battered past.
Over into the next garden.
Crashing straight through a bed of nasturtiums and pansies. The owners sat on a bench against the house, sharing a bottle of wine. On their feet and shaking fists as the Wee Sod battered past.