'And stop bloody shouting. Head hurts bad enough as it is.'
'I'm just saying-'
Steel clamped her hands over her ears and screamed, 'SHUT UP! YOU'RE BREAKING MY HANGOVER!'
Outside, on the pavement, a small group of locals was staring at the car.
The inspector groaned, face creased up in pain. 'Why'd you make me do that?'
'Sorry. I'm just… I'm tired of letting the bad guys get away, OK?'
Steel squinted at him. 'I'll forgive you if you get us some paracetamol and a packet of fags.' There was a pause. 'And maybe a bacon buttie?' The sweeping granite tenements of Victoria Road sparkled in the sunshine, but that didn't make much of a dent in Logan's mood. Why did it always have to come down to running sodding errands for sodding DIs? Bloody Steel. Just because she got hammered last night, why did he have to play nursemaid?
He got the paracetamol and a small pack of Lambert and Butler from a little corner shop that hadn't been trashed by hoodies, and the bacon buttie from the Torry Fish Bar, just down the road. It'd probably bounce as soon as it hit Steel's stomach, but Logan didn't care, as long as she wasn't sick in the car. And if she was, she could clean it up herself.
Logan got himself a portion of chips: thick fingers of crisp, golden potato slathered in salt and vinegar, in a little polystyrene tray. He ate them as he wandered back to the car, taking the long way round. Hoping that if he took long enough, Steel's bacon buttie would be cold.
He strolled down Walker Road, took a left just before the primary school, up a small lane, and out onto Grampian Road.
Maybe he could persuade Steel to put his name forward for that promotion? Ingratiate himself…
Damn.
Letting her bacon buttie go cold probably wasn't such a good idea after all. He felt it through the carrier bag they'd given him at the chip shop. It wasn't exactly hot, but it would still be edible.
He stuffed the last couple of chips into his mouth, and hurried down Grampian Road back towards the car.
And then stopped dead, staring up at the fortress-like hulk of Sacred Heart.
Torry's only Catholic church had a strangely Spanish look to it, even if it was built out of granite and the terracotta pantiles had a thick layer of green and grey moss. Sacred Heart sat on top of a small hill, looming over the surrounding streets like a drunken uncle. Threatening them all with eternal damnation.
A flimsy outer skin of scaffolding and tarpaulins covered the east side of the building, and the whole place was sealed off by an eight-foot-tall cordon of temporary fencing.
What was it Goulding had said? 'All that, 'They're stealing God' stuff means he's very religious…' And Oedipus was probably a local boy with an intimate knowledge of Torry.
Logan crossed the road.
A laminated sheet of A4 was fixed to the fence, with 'CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. OPENING FOR THE LORD'S WORK IN OCTOBER!' printed on it, and 'IN CASE OF EMERGENCY CONTACT REV. J BURNETT.' Then what looked like the same message in Polish. And right at the bottom was an Aberdeen telephone number.
Logan dialled, let it ring for nearly a minute, then left a message after the beep.
There was a man in paint-stained overalls sitting on one of the scaffolding boards, twenty foot off the ground, legs hanging over the edge, drinking a can of coke and smoking a cigarette.
'Excuse me?'
The man looked down from his vantage point. 'Hello? I can help you?' Definitely Polish.
'How long has the church been shut?'
'Three month? Maybe more? I don't know. Is number on sign to call.'
'I tried: no one's answering.'
The man grinned. 'You want make confession? I have break time.'
'No thanks. I-'
'You go St Peter's, in Castlegate. Father Burnett there. Good man.' And then, cigarette finished, he went back to hauling filthy pantiles off the roof. 'Urgh…' DI Steel made a face, chewing around the words. 'This is cold.'
'Really?' Logan threaded the pool car around the roundabout and onto Market Street. 'It was hot when I bought it.'
'Well it's cold now.' The inspector chased her mouthful down with a swig of Irn-Bru. Then ripped another bite out of the bacon buttie. Munching away as she stared out of the passenger window. 'I failed the adoption interview. They said I'm too old…'
Logan pulled up at the traffic lights, beside a huge advertising billboard — 'MCLENNAN HOMES. YOUR PLACE IS OUR PASSION — 400 NEW HOMES FOR NE FAMILIES!' — and waited for a convoy of eighteen-wheelers to rumble out from the harbour exit.
'Rubbish. I know a couple in their sixties and they're still fostering kids.'
'Fostering's no' the same. Susan wants a baby of her own. She's…' Steel sighed. 'Ah, you know what she's like.' The inspector snuck a glance at Logan, then went back to staring at the billboard. 'Only chance we've got is if Susan gets pregnant.'
'Artificial insemination? But I thought-'
'Yeah… something like that.' She coughed. Fidgeted. Sniffed. 'You… er… You don't fancy donating some sperm, do you?'
Logan almost stalled the car. 'What?'
'Come on, we're like family, aren't we?' A blush crept up from the neck of her blouse, turning her cheeks from unhealthy grey to embarrassed pink. 'We could… you know…' Her eyes never moved from the huge advert and Malcolm McLennan's crooked, smiling face. 'Turkey baster.'
Logan opened his mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out. He tried again, 'Well… I-'
The blare of a horn sounded behind them, accompanied by someone shouting, 'Light's green, Moron!' Back at Force Headquarters, Logan ran for it, blaming a last-minute meeting with Professional Standards. It was a lie, but at least she might leave him alone if she thought he was in for a bollocking.
He had to find somewhere to lay low until he could sod off home. So Logan made his way down to the Operation Oedipus incident room.
Steel hated Finnie, this was the last place she'd look for him.
Finnie almost bowled him over on the way through the door. The DCI was hauling his suit jacket on over a crumpled pink shirt. 'Where have you been?' He wrinkled his nose. 'And what is that smell?'
'You told me to take DI Steel over to Torry for-'
'Never mind. Just got a call from the hospital: they've released Simon McLeod. Won't he be pleased when we pay him a little visit.'
Logan was about to complain — the dayshift was officially over in two minutes — but there was that DI's position coming up. And it wouldn't hurt to have Finnie on his side. 'What about DS Pirie?'
Finnie gave an evil grin. 'Let's just say that Pirie and the McLeods don't get along anymore. So chop-chop: pool car.' Simon McLeod had done well for himself. His 'five-bedroom executive villa' was part of a small development on the very outskirts of Cults, backing onto woodland. Small garden out front, huge one out back. A shiny BMW four-by-four sat on the drive, next to a Porsche Boxster.
Logan reverse parked onto the driveway, blocking them both in.
'Right,' said Finnie, rubbing his hands, 'the McLeods aren't exactly known for cooperating with the police. So I want you to work the bidie-in while I give Simon a going over. We split them up and maybe he'll give us something, especially now his wee brother's looking at attempted murder.'
The doorbell was answered on the second go by Simon's common-law wife: Hilary Brander. The expectant look on her face died as soon as she saw Finnie.
She folded her arms across her chest and blocked the entrance. 'What do you want?'
'I hear the doctors let Simon out today; I need a quick word.'
'After what you did to our Colin?'
Logan stepped up. 'It's important, Ms Brander. We need to catch whoever blinded him.'
She looked at Logan. 'What happened to your face?'
He gave her a lopsided smile. 'Colin's elbow.'
Hilary's lips twitched up at the edges and she took a step back into the house. 'Five minutes, no more. His
