swelling down a bit.'
Derek's voice was a high-pitched croak, 'It's cold…'
'Aye, well, that's what you get for being stupid. When someone yells, 'Police', you either give up like a good boy, or you run like buggery.' She took a bite out of her Cornetto. 'Mmmph mmmf mnn mmnnfmmmmph fmmmnnnt?'
'Think that bloody copper broke my jaw…'
'Then you wouldn't be able to talk, you moron. I said, 'who were you fighting with?''
'I'm in pain!'
'You'll be in a lot more if you don't start talking.' She tossed the lolly back to Logan. 'My sergeant here likes to slam people's hands in car doors. It's his hobby. You want me to take a wee walk and see if you've still got all your fingers when I get back?'
'It was… a…' Spotty licked his top lip. 'They were Rangers supporters; said the Dons were shite. Couldn't let them get away with that…'
'Bollocks.' Steel cracked the door open. 'Start with his wanking hand, Laz, I'm going for a walk.'
Derek peered at Logan. 'You can't-'
'Can I break his thumbs as well?'
The inspector nodded. 'Fine by me.'
'It was just a fight! That's all. Football. You know what it's-'
'Do his toes too.' Steel levered herself out into the sunshine, licked a runaway dribble of chocolate ice-cream off the back of her hand, and slammed the car door.
Derek flinched.
'NO, WAIT! I didn't… I…' He closed his eyes and shuddered as Steel climbed back into the car.
'Make it fast, Derek, my Cornetto's melting.'
'They was trying to tell us we had to… sell stuff for them. You know… instead of… who we usually sell it for.'
'Uh-huh, and who would that be?'
'Don't remember.' Derek scowled out of the car window at the man in the back of Alpha One Four: Mr Meat Paste for a Nose. 'Fucking Polish bastards. Come over here, taking our jobs, screwing our women…'
Logan poked him in the shoulder. 'Ever sent anonymous letters, Derek? You know, lots of different fonts and exclamation marks?'
'Eh?'
'Where were you last night?'
'Went round Harry Jordan's and got wasted. Ask him. We had a party with his… we had a party.'
Steel tutted. 'Hope you wore protection, Derek: you'll get all sorts of nasty diseases partying with Harry Jordan's girls.' She slapped the Strawberry Mivvi back against his cheek. 'So, you going to come clean about who you're selling for? Like I couldn't already guess.' She pointed at the green-and-yellow Turf 'n Track sign. 'Come on, Derek, play it smart for once.'
But Derek had no intention of changing the habit of a lifetime. Mr Meat Paste for a Nose sat on the other side of the interview room table, repeating for the umpteenth time, 'Nie mowie po angielsku.'
It was all he'd say, over and over again: I don't speak English.
Lying sod.
Steel yawned, checked her watch, and told Logan to switch off the tapes. 'Hell with this.' She stood, then leant on the table, doing her best to loom over the prisoner. 'Listen up, Sunshine, I know fine well you speak English: I've got witnesses who heard you do it. But if you want to play silly buggers we'll get you an interpreter, and then we'll bang you up for obstruction. And public disorder. And anything else I can think of. We've got a whole pile of unsolved burglaries on the books, fancy getting fitted up for some of them?'
'Nie mowie po angielsku.'
'Blah, blah, blah.' She headed for the door. 'Chuck him back in his cell, Laz. We'll have another crack with a translator in the morning. You and me are going to knock off early and go find somewhere with a beer garden.'
It was the best idea Logan had heard all day. Half past seven Wednesday morning and interview room three was like a sauna — the battered radiator in the corner pinged and clanked away to itself, even though the sun was blazing down outside. Logan and Steel sat at the chipped table, both of them sporting the rosy glow of a mild sunburn from three hours sitting at a picnic table outside Triple Kirks drinking lager and white wine.
The interpreter was slumped on the other side of the table, sweat darkening the armpits of her blouse as she repeated yet another phrase Logan was getting sick of.
'He says he doesn't know anything.'
Steel slammed her fist down on the chipped Formica tabletop. 'Stop sodding about — I want to know who he's working for!'
The interpreter sighed and tried again, 'Zapytaca: dla kogo pracujesz?'
The thickset man with the flattened nose shrugged and replied in bunged-up Polish. His face was one big bruise today, crisscrossed with sticking plasters. It wasn't a good look.
'He's not working for anyone. He's in Aberdeen visiting his cousin.'
'Then why did we catch him brawling outside a known hangout for lowlife scumbags? Why have I got a drug dealer downstairs in the cells telling me Lumpy here tried to recruit him? Who — is — he — working — for?'
'Which question do you want to ask first?'
'Oh for God's sake. We know the bastard can speak English-'
A knock at the door.
DCI Finnie marched into the room without waiting for an invitation. 'Inspector, a word please.'
The interpreter waited until Steel was out of the room before asking Logan if she was always this bad. 'Doesn't she like Polish people?'
'Not when they lie to her, no.'
'You've got to understand it from their point of view,' the interpreter nodded at the prisoner. 'Polish police were a nightmare under the Communists. They were enforcers for the regime, they'd make people disappear. And they weren't much better after independence: corrupt and lazy. So no one trusts the police anymore, and you can't really blame them, can you?'
'I can when they…' Logan trailed off into silence, listening to the raised voices coming through the door.
The interpreter looked puzzled. 'What?'
'Shhhhhhh!' He held his hand up for silence. It was Steel and DCI Finnie, having a stand-up row in the corridor outside.
Steel: 'No way! I am not-'
Finnie: 'That wasn't a request, Inspector, it was an order.'
Steel: 'I'm in the middle of-'
Finnie: 'You're interfering with an ongoing investigation.'
Steel: 'I'm doing my bloody job!'
Finnie: 'Not any more you're not. And if you've got a problem with that you can take it up with the DCS.'
An angry silence.
Steel: 'Fine. Laughing Boy in there's all yours.' She yanked the door open and glowered at Logan. 'Pack it up. We've been pulled off the case.' Three Days Later
5
Logan shifted in the driver's seat, ruffled his copy of the Aberdeen Examiner, and said, 'Four across: 'Forbid forever, like.' 'B', something, something, 'I', something, something.'
Steel looked up from an in-depth analysis of her own cleavage. 'You know what,' she said, flicking a tiny avalanche of cigarette ash out of the passenger window, 'I think I've finally found one of these damn things that fits.' She tugged at her bra strap, making the contents jiggle.
Logan went back to his paper — there was no way he was getting drawn into another conversation about the
