‘That’s an order, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Archibald Simpson’s used to be a bank before it became a pub. A huge granite edifice on the east end of Union Street, complete with Corinthian pillars, portico, ornate ceiling, shiny brass fittings, chandeliers, and cheap beer. Being just round the corner from FHQ it was the standard police drinking hole after a hard day’s sodding about in the rain.
Steel made Logan get the first round in, taking her usual seat in the aisle just off the main banking floor, in the corner, under the television. One large white wine, two portions of chips, and a pint of Stella. What he really wanted was to go home and get some sleep, but if he did that the inspector would sulk and he’d end up lumbered with all the crappy jobs on the investigation. So he stayed and talked shop, listening to her moan on about her other cases, like the dead tramp they’d found in Duthie Park — natural causes, but no one knew who the hell he was — and the series of housebreakings in Tillydrone, Bridge of Don, and Rosemount. And the man flashing his undercarriage on Guild Street. By the time the chips arrived she was moaning about her girlfriend Susan and how she was always on at her to get a cat, but Steel knew it was just the warm-up act for a baby and she wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.
They got more drinks and the day-shift started squelching in, the pub slowly filling up with off-duty police men and women. Logan knew most of them by name — well, except for some of the younger ones — but he’d only ever seen one of them naked: PC Jackie Watson, marching towards them, bearing beer, a scowl, and tomato sauce flavour crisps.
She plonked herself down next to Logan and offered the crisps round. ‘Jesus, what a shitty day.’
‘And hello to you too.’ Logan grinned at her: the effects of two pints on a nearly empty stomach. ‘We saw Hissing Sid outside the courthouse.’
Jackie scowled. ‘Little bastard. How come every bloody case he’s involved in has to have a press conference on the steps outside FHQ? You know
Logan shrugged. ‘He’s a media whore.’
‘Aye,’ said Steel, polishing off her drink, ‘he’s a whore, but we’re the ones getting screwed the whole time. Anyone for another?’ She took their orders and stomped off to the bar, leaving Logan and Jackie alone.
‘Can you believe he had the cheek to say I assaulted his rapist bastard client while he was cuffed and on the ground?’ Jackie scowled. ‘And get this — they’re saying he was only out jogging. He approached me to “ask directions”.’ She even made little sarcastic quote-bunnies with her fingers. ‘With a knife. Can you believe that?’
Logan knew better than to say anything, just sat there and nodded. Letting her rant. ‘And the bloody media! According to them he’s already been found innocent! Bastards. And the bloody search team couldn’t find their arses with both hands and a map. All through Macintyre’s house and not one bloody trophy. No knickers, no jewellery, nothing. Not a bloody thing!’ There was more, but Logan gradually tuned it out. Jackie just needed to let off a bit of steam: get it out of her system.
Jackie was still going strong when DI Steel wobbled back to the table with a handful of glasses. The inspector clinked them down on the tabletop, with an apologetic, ‘I forgot what everyone wanted, so I got whiskies.’
And slowly, but surely, they all got very, very drunk.
5
Wednesday morning’s half-seven briefing was a lot more painful than Tuesday’s, but at least this time Logan got to slouch in a seat at the back of the class, while DI Steel grumbled her hungover way through the day’s assignments, finishing off with a subdued chorus of, ‘We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!’ The whole team joined in, trying to make Logan’s head split in two.
Three cups of coffee later and he was beginning to feel slightly less terminal, even if he was bored out of his pounding skull. The incident room was busy, everyone still all excited and determined to get a quick result, the walls lined with maps and pin-boards and post mortem photographs. The local papers had been full of speculation about Rob Macintyre, but Steel’s unknown body had still managed to make the front page of the P amp;J. They’d printed the touched-up morgue photo, the killer’s e-fit, and a story that somehow managed to make it all sound like Grampian Police’s fault.
Which wasn’t surprising, considering who wrote it: Colin Miller, the
Sighing, Logan folded the paper and dumped it in the bin. So far the response had been lack-lustre, only about a dozen people had phoned in claiming to know who the dead man was. No one had recognized the killer yet. But all that would change as soon as the press conference went out on the lunchtime news; then they’d be swamped. Televised appeals always brought the nutters out in droves. Still, you never knew …
‘Hoy, Laz.’
Logan looked up to see a thin man in a sergeant’s uniform and huge Wyatt Earp moustache. Sergeant Eric Mitchell, peering over the top of his glasses and grinning like an idiot. ‘Your “lady friend” about?’
Logan frowned, suspicious. ‘Which one?’
‘Watson, you daft sod. Is she about?’
‘Back shift, won’t be in till two.’
‘Aye, well you might want to tell her to call in sick …’ he tossed a rolled-up copy of the
But before Logan could ask what was going on, DI Steel plonked a pile of files on the table in front of him. ‘This bloody thing’s killing me,’ she said, fiddling with her bra strap. ‘Get a couple of uniforms to go through these, OK? See if we can’t find someone on the dodgy bastards list who matches that e-fit. Then you can go chase up that dental records lot.’ She gave up on the strap and started hauling at the underwire. ‘And while you’re at it-’
‘Actually,’ said Logan, cutting her off, ‘I thought I might go out and follow up a couple of those possible IDs for our victim. You know: show willing for the troops.’ Which had the added advantage of getting him away from the inspector before she could think up any more crappy jobs for him to do.
Steel thought about it, head on one side, focusing on a spot between Logan’s ears, as if she was trying to read his brain. ‘OK,’ she said at last, ‘but you can take …’ she did a slow turn, pointing at a constable in the corner, scribbling something up on the incident board, ‘yeah, take Rickards with you. Do the poor wee sod good to see the outside world. Might stop the short-arsed bastard whining for a change. He’s-’
‘Inspector?’ It was the admin officer, waving some more paperwork at them.
‘Oh God,’ Steel groaned and then whispered to Logan, ‘cover for me, will you? I’m dying for a fag.’ She turned and told the admin officer she had an urgent meeting with the ACC to get to, but DS McRae would deal with whatever it was. Then made herself scarce.
With a sigh, Logan accepted the sheets of paper.
He signed for a CID pool car — one of the many scabrous Vauxhalls in the FHQ fleet — and made Constable Rickards drive, so he could slump in the passenger seat and doze. At least he was starting to feel a little better now. After the whisky they’d gone onto vodka, then some weird little bloke had tried to chat Jackie up, and they’d all had a good laugh at him, and then it was more beer, tequila, and then … it was kind of blurry until they were standing outside the kebab shop on Belmont Street. And when they finally got home, Jackie had fallen asleep in the toilet.
Logan ran a hand over his face, stifling a yawn — he was getting too old for this …
Yesterday’s rain had gone, leaving the city sparkling clean. Everything glowed in the light of an unseasonably warm February sun, glinting back from chips of mica trapped in the pale grey granite. Rickards drove them down Union Street, heading for a small semi-detached in Kincorth — a blob of houses on the south-side of the city — and an old woman who claimed to know the dead man from the papers.
‘So,’ said Logan, as the PC swung the car across the King George IV bridge, the water sparkling like sharpened diamonds on either side, ‘you were in on that big brothel raid in Kingswells last week?’
Rickards mumbled something about a team effort. ‘Kinky dungeon, wasn’t it?’ said Logan, watching a pair of seagulls fighting over an abandoned crisp packet. ‘Whips and chains and nipple-clamps and all that?’
