Detective Inspector's underwear. Five minutes to eleven on a Friday morning and the sun was dappling its way through the trees, sending little flecks of light dancing across the speed-bumps outside Sunnybank Primary School. 'How long do we have to keep doing this?'
'Till we catch the bastard.' Steel gave up on her boobs and lounged back in her seat. 'Anyway, what you whinging about? Three days sitting on your arse in the sunshine, reading the paper and eating ice-lollies. You rather be running around after DCI Frog-Face?'
She had a point.
'No, we lounge about here till four, sod off home for the weekend and back again on Monday for another glorious week of doing bugger all.' The inspector took a long drag on her cigarette and blew, fogging the windscreen with secondhand smoke. 'Not like we got anything better to do, is it? Bloody Finnie…'
Here we go again.
'I mean, who the hell does he think he is? 'Stop interviewing that prisoner,'' she said, doing a less than flattering impersonation of the Detective Chief Inspector, ''You're interfering with an ongoing investigation.' Ongoing investigation my sharny arse. Bastard just wants all the sodding glory for himself.'
She snorted. 'And can you believe he let Derek McSpotty walk with a caution? We caught the wee bastard red-handed kicking the crap out of someone, resisting arrest, and being a lying junky tosspot. 'You have to see the bigger picture, Inspector.'' She smoked furiously for a moment. 'I'll show Finnie the bigger picture with the toe of my bloody boot.'
'What do you want to do for lunch today? We could grab a sandwich, or-'
'Kebab.' The inspector finished her cigarette and dumped the stub into an open can of Pepsi, swirling it around in the warm, flat liquid. 'That place in Sandilands. And while we're there we can accidentally nip next door to the Turf 'n Track. Have another wee chat with Simon McLeod.'
'But Finnie-'
'Finnie can pucker up and kiss my perky bumhole. Since that wee riot on Tuesday we've had five Polish blokes in A &E with their kneecaps smashed. Someone took a claw hammer to them.' She struck a pose, tapping the side of her forehead. 'Now who do we know with form for battering people with a claw hammer? Think, think, think…'
'OK, OK, I get it: Colin McLeod. But Finnie-'
'What is he, your boyfriend or something?'
'Why do you have to make everything-'
The school bell jangled through the warm, lazy air — eleven o'clock on the dot. Time for morning break.
'We're on.'
Screams and shouts echoed out of the school, then a stampede of five-to-seven-year-olds dressed in the standard grey-and-blue primary uniform burst out into the sunshine, hell bent on cramming as much fun as possible into their fifteen minutes of freedom.
'Anything?' asked Steel.
Logan checked the street. 'Nope. Looks like… wait a minute… Blue Toyota Yaris: there, just pulling up. You see it?'
The inspector shuffled forward in her seat, peering through the windscreen at the little mud-spattered car. The driver got out and wandered over to the playground fence. Beige cardigan, grey hair, feral moustache.
'About sodding time.' Steel clambered her way into the warm morning, and sauntered down the road with her hands in her pockets.
Logan locked up and followed her, nipping across the road at the last minute so he could come round on the guy's blind side.
Not that the man in the beige cardigan would have noticed, he was far too busy smiling at a little girl through the railings. Blonde hair, pigtails, big blue eyes.
'You know,' said the man, hands rummaging in his trouser pockets, 'my doggie's very sick and can't look after her puppies. Isn't that sad?'
The little girl nodded.
'Would you like to see them? Maybe you could take one home? Would you like that?' And all the time the trouser rummaging was getting faster. Sweat beaded on his forehead. 'Would you like to see my… oh God… puppies?'
'Jesus, Rory,' said Steel, slouching back against the man's car, 'could you be any more of a cliche?'
Rory stood up fast, and hurled a handful of little paper wrappers over the playground fence. 'I never did anything! You can't prove I did anything, I-'
Logan placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Rory Simpson, I'm arresting you under section five point one of the Criminal Justice Scotland Act-'
'No — I didn't do anything! I was just- mmmph!'
Steel had clamped a hand over his mouth. 'Wee kiddies, Rory: let's no' corrupt their innocent little ears with your filthy lies. Now, you want to go quietly this time, or kicking and screaming like a girl?'
Rory bit his bottom lip, frowned, then said, 'I think I'll go quietly this time.'
'Good choice, much more dignified.' The inspector nodded at Logan, 'Pick up whatever he threw to the lions.' Then she marched Rory Simpson along the road to the CID pool car. Ten minutes later, Logan climbed in behind the wheel of the shiny new Vauxhall he'd signed for that morning. Rory and the inspector were sitting in the back, like a pair of elderly relatives waiting to go for a nice Sunday drive.
'Here,' Logan passed a clear evidence pouch back between the seats — a small handful of white paper wrappers sat in the bottom, about the size of pound coins, 'that was all I could find. There's probably more, but the little buggers weren't talking.'
DI Steel opened the bag and sniffed the contents. 'Come on then, Rory, what we going to find when we send this lot to the lab: icing sugar? Washing powder? Crack cocaine?'
Rory shrugged. 'You know how it is, Inspector, kids these days…'
'Yeah, yeah: six-year-olds are all Playstations, tattoos, and gang-rape. Spit it out.'
'It's not like it was in our day, is it? Then they'd get in your car for a Sherbet Dib-Dab. Now they all want drugs, booze and cash.' Rory shook his head. 'They look like butter wouldn't melt…' A soft smile flitted across his face.
'Rory, if you're thinking about melting butter on wee kiddies, I'm going to have my sergeant here drive us out to the middle of nowhere and kick the shite out of you.'
'Just an expression… I mean look at that little tease back there,' he said, pointing at the troupe of uniformed monkeys screeching their way back to class, 'she knew exactly what she was doing, didn't she? Wasn't going to give me anything for free. It's depressing really.'
A tinny Banff and Buchan accent jangled out of the radio: 'Alpha Three Sivin, from Control-'
'Oh buggering hell.' DI Steel fumbled for the handset. 'We… with… non… over?' Then she went into an Oscar-winning hissing noise: 'Kshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…'
'Aye, nice try. Incident: Primrosehill Drive. Sounds like a domestic disturbance. I've no' got any patrol cars free and yer closest so-'
Steel grimaced. 'Sorry, Dougie, but we're in Altens, miles away, you'll just have to find someone else.'
'You do know these new cars have GPS in them, don't you? I can see you right here on the screen: Sunnybank Road.'
Pause.
'Bugger.'
'Aye, so: Primrosehill Drive. And get a shift on — neighbour reported screams coming from the hoose opposite.'
Steel gave it one last try, 'But I've got prisoner in tow-'
'Some poor sod's probably getting murdered, and you're buggering about wasting time!'
Steel took her thumb off the transmit button and indulged in the kind of language that would make a social worker blush. 'Fine, we're on our way. You happy now?'
Logan started the car, drowning out the sarcastic response. Primrosehill Drive was a curving line of large, semidetached houses with big gardens and four-by-fours in the driveways, sweltering beneath the hot sun. Logan killed the siren, and asked Steel for the address again.
