‘Come on then, Constable,’ Danby’s voice rumbled through the confined space, ‘you have something to say: let’s hear it.’
‘I just…it…erm…’ Cough. ‘With the snow, and it’s probably, you know, unexpected, and the councils don’t grit the roads…’ He wriggled in his seat. ‘Got nothing against the English. Got lots of mates who’re English…’
Danby looked at him. ‘How long you been in the force?’
Guthrie licked his lips. ‘Erm…Seven years?’
‘Take a tip, Constable, if you ever want to make sergeant, practice your lying. Cos right now you’re crap. You know what I’m saying?’
4
Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a lot busier at five to nine on a Thursday morning than it had any right to be. By now the CID dayshift should have been out there, keeping the city safe from the people who lived in it; instead they were hanging around the station, making the place look untidy. Logan picked his way carefully down the corridor, two coffees and a pair of tinfoil parcels balanced on a manila folder like a wobbly tray.
DI Steel’s office was the last one before the noisy main CID room. Logan stopped outside her door and carefully rearranged his hands so he could knock without spilling scalding liquid all over himself.
Only he didn’t get that far.
Someone coughed behind him, and Logan turned to find Detective Inspector Beattie standing there with his arms folded. ‘Weren’t you supposed to come see me first thing this morning, Sergeant?’
Sodding hell. DI Beattie: sixteen stone of useless with a beard.
‘Had to go pick up Richard Knox.’
Beattie looked down at the carpet for a moment. ‘We were supposed to go over those counterfeit goods, remember? Handbags, MP3 players, cameras, perfume…What are we doing about them?’
‘Have you spoken to Trading Standards yet?’
‘No I thought you-’
‘I
Inspector Steel’s office door banged open, and she lurched to a halt on the threshold, mouth hanging open as if she was about to shout something. She took one look at Beattie, then turned to Logan, ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Had to-’
‘Get your arse in here.’ She hauled up her trousers, stood back, waited till Logan was inside, then slammed the door in Beattie’s face.
Steel’s new office didn’t look anything like the old one: the knobbly ceiling tiles were still white, not coated in a sticky beige film of cigarette tar; the walls didn’t have those greasy Blu-tack acne spots; and the carpet was still a recognizable colour. Logan gave it six weeks, tops.
Steel slumped back behind her desk and Logan handed her a mug and a tinfoil parcel. She unwrapped the bacon buttie and got stuck in, chewing and talking at the same time: ‘What we got?’
He pointed at the manila folder, now with an Olympic logo of coffee rings on it. ‘Not a hell of a lot. Far as we can tell, Knox hasn’t been to Aberdeen since he was eleven.’ Logan peeled the tinfoil off his fried egg buttie and bit down. Yolk splurged out into his palm. ‘Sod…’ He transferred the dripping roll to his other hand and licked at the sticky yellow puddle. ‘Got them to pull all sexual assaults on OAPs for the three years before he left: two women in their late seventies. No men.’
Steel nodded. ‘Good. Means we’ll no’ have a bunch of angry relatives sniffing about causing trouble.’ Another bite, then a scoof of tea. ‘Next: Erica Piotrowski?’
Logan went rooting through the folder and pulled out a stack of forms covered in scuffed yellow Post-it notes. ‘Trial date’s been set for three weeks next Tuesday. She’s still sticking to her story, but the PF thinks she’ll cop to aggravated assault if we give her the option.’
‘Sod that. She went after her next-door-neighbour with a carving knife, I’m no’ settling for anything less than attempted murder.’ Steel pursed her lips and swivelled back and forth in her office chair for a minute. ‘Anything else?’
Logan slapped the papers out on her desk, one at a time. ‘Forensics found trace fibres when they did the rape kit on Laura McEwan, and they think they’ve got enough DNA for a match if we can get them a suspect. Fingerprints have come back on the Oldmeldrum Post Office job. Looks like our friend Mr Maclean is up to his old tricks again.’
‘Get him picked up.’ The inspector crammed the last two inches of bread and bacon into her mouth then lobbed its tinfoil wrapper into the bin. Mumbling, ‘She shoots, she scores!’
‘No need — Traffic arrested him for drink driving last night. Out celebrating his “windfall”.’ Logan stuck the final sheet on her desk.
‘Last but not least, another batch of counterfeit twenties turned up. That private bank on Albyn Terrace called yesterday to say someone tried to deposit four and half grand’s worth.’
She pursed her lips and went, ‘Hmmm…’ for a while. ‘And what did DI Beardy want?’
‘Me to do his sodding job for him.’
‘All right, settle down, settle down.’ Detective Chief Inspector Finnie had the kind of face normally found under a wet rock: wide rubbery lips, floppy Hugh Grant hairstyle, beady little eyes. He stood at the front of the new CID office, with his back to the whiteboards, waiting for silence.
Logan wheeled his office chair out from the walled-off section reserved for detective sergeants, and settled down next to Steel while she fiddled with her phone.
The large room smelled of fresh paint, fresh coffee, and second-hand curry. It wasn’t even as if they could open a window: there weren’t any. But it was still a lot better than the cramped hovel they used to work in upstairs. The middle of the office was divided up into six cubicles, each lined with beech-veneer desks — arranged so the constables could sit back to back — separated by low walls of purple fabric.
Nine fifteen and the whole CID dayshift was there — eighteen detective constables, four detective sergeants, three detective inspectors — fidgeting as Finnie took them through the usual day-to-day morning briefing. Waiting for him to get to the reason they’d all been allowed to slob about in the office for the last two and a quarter hours, drinking coffee and moaning about the football.
‘Next up.’ Finnie checked his notes. ‘You’ll have seen in our
‘Aye,’ said someone at the back, ‘like we don’t have enough perverts of our own to deal with.’
‘I’m
No one spoke.
‘Let’s
He turned and pointed to the large figure sitting at the front of the room. ‘This is Detective Superintendent Danby from Northumbria Police, the man who put Knox away in the first place. DSI Danby has kindly agreed to come up here, brief us, and help liaise with Sacro. Superintendent?’
Danby levered himself to his feet, turned, and nodded at everyone. ‘Right, Richard Knox…’ The DSI’s big bass voice filled the CID room just as easily as it had the patrol car. He picked up a long, black remote control and pointed it at the huge plasma TV bolted to the back wall between the little kitchen recess and the lockers.
Everyone swivelled around in their chairs.
Knox’s face appeared on the screen, staring out at them with a black eye and a swollen lip. It was an old
