about work; half the room was on 'did you see EastEnders last night?' and the other half on what a bloody shambles the last Aberdeen-St Mirren football match was. Logan sat on his own in silence, staring out the window at a crystal-blue sky, wondering where it had all gone wrong.
The door to the briefing room opened and someone in a brand-new suit backed in, carrying a tray of coffee and chocolate biscuits. It went onto the middle table, starting a feeding frenzy, and as the figure straightened up Logan finally recognized him. PC Simon Rennie, now a detective constable. He spotted Logan, smiled, grabbed two coffees and a handful of chocolate biscuits before joining Logan at the window.
Grinning as he handed over one of the chipped mugs. He looked awfully pleased with himself.
DI Steel took a sip of coffee, shuddered and lit up another cigarette. 'Right,' she said, her head wreathed in smoke, 'now that DC Rennie has delivered the creosote, we can get started.' Conversation drifted to a halt. 'As you boys and girls can see, we have a couple of new recruits.' She pointed at Logan and DC Rennie, then made them stand so a half-hearted round of applause could be wrung from the rest of her team. 'These two have been selected from the hundreds of keen applicants, desperate to join our ranks.' That got a small scattering of laughter. 'Before we go any further I'd like to give our newest members the standard intro speech.'
That got a groan.
'You are all here for one reason and one reason only,' she said, scratching. 'Like me, you are a fuck-up, and no one else will have you.'
DC Rennie looked affronted: this wasn't what he'd been told! He'd only been a DC for three days, how could he have screwed up?
Steel listened to him with sympathy, before apologizing.
'Sorry, Constable: my mistake. Everyone else is here because they've fucked up; you're here because everyone expects you to fuck up.' More laughter. The inspector let it die down before carrying on. 'But just because those bastards think we're worthless, doesn't mean we have to prove them right! We will do a damn good job: we will catch crooks and we will get the bastards convicted. Understood?' She glared around the room. 'We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up.' There was a pause. 'Come on, say it with me: 'We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up'.' The response was lacklustre. 'Come on. Once more with feeling: 'We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!'' This time everyone joined in.
Logan snuck a look at the other people in the tiny, untidy room. Who were they kidding? Not only were they at home to Mr Fuck-Up, they'd made up the spare bed and told him to stay for as long as he liked. But DI Steel's speech seemed to have a galvanizing effect on her team. Backs straight and heads held high, they all went through their current assignments and any progress they'd made. Which generally wasn't much. Up at the hospital, an unknown man was showing his willy to anyone daft enough to look; there was a spree of shoplifting going on at the local Ann Summers – naughty lingerie and 'adult' toys; someone was sneaking in and helping themselves to the till at a number of fast-food joints; and two men had beaten the crap out of a bouncer outside Amadeus, the big nightclub down at the beach. When the updates were finished DI Steel told everyone to bugger off outside and play in the sunshine, but she asked Logan to stay behind. 'Mr Police Hero she said when they were alone.
'Never thought you'd end up in here. Not like the rest of us no-hopers.'
'PC Maitland,' Logan told her. 'The straw that broke the camel's back.' Other than WPC Jackie Watson, his luck had been nonexistent since Christmas. Since then everything that could go wrong, had.
Steel nodded. Her luck hadn't been much better. She leant forward and whispered conspiratorially into his ear, engulfing his head in a cloud of second-hand cigarette smoke. 'If anyone can work their way out of this crummy team back to the real world, it's you. You're a damn fine officer.' She stepped back and smiled at him, the wrinkles bunching around her eyes. 'Mind you, I say that to all the new recruits.
But in your case I mean it.'
Somehow that didn't make him feel any better.
Half an hour later Logan and DI Steel were sat in the back of a newish Vauxhall with DC Rennie driving and a family liaison officer in the passenger seat. Somehow Steel had managed to convince the Chief Constable to give her the Rosie Williams case – probably only because DI Insch was up to his ears and no one else was free, but Logan wasn't about to say so. According to Steel this was her chance to shine again. She and Logan were going to solve the case and get the hell out of the Screw-Up Squad. Let someone else look after the no-hopers for a change.
Rennie slid the car around the bloated bulk of Mount Hooly roundabout, making for Powis. No one said much.
Logan was brooding about being transferred to the Screw Up Squad, Rennie was sulking because the inspector had said he was expected to fuck up, and DI Steel was expending all her effort on not smoking. The family liaison officer had tried to strike up conversation a couple of times, but eventually gave up and descended into a foul mood of her own. Which was a shame, because it was a lovely day outside. Not a cloud in the sky, the granite buildings sparkling in the sunshine, happy smiley people wandering about hand in hand.
Enjoying the weather while it lasted. It would be freezing cold and bucketing with rain soon enough.
Rennie swung the car around onto Bedford Road and then left again into Powis. Past a small set of shops: wire mesh over the windows, graffiti over the walls, leading to a long, sweeping, circular road lined with three-storey tenement blocks. They found Rosie's address in a row of boarded-up properties with a yellow Aberdeen City Council van parked outside, the sound of power tools echoing out of the open stairwell next door. Rennie parked out front.
'Right,' said Steel, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her pocket, fingering them, and stuffing them back again, unsmoked. 'What do we have on the next of kin?'
'Two kids, no husband. According to Vice she's currently involved with one Jamie McKinnon,' said the family liaison officer. 'Conflicting reports on whether he's her boyfriend or pimp. Maybe a little of both.'
'Oh aye? Wee Jamie McKinnon? Would've thought 'toy boy' was closer to the mark; she's got to be twice his age!'
Steel gave a big, snorting sniff, and chewed thoughtfully for a while. 'Come on then,' she said at last. 'Job's not going to do itself.'
They left DC Rennie watching the car, trying not to look like a plainclothes police officer and failing miserably. Rosie's flat was on the middle floor. There was a window set into the stairwell, but it was covered over with a flattened cardboard box parcel-taped into place, shrouding the hallway in gloom. The door was featureless grey with a rusty brass spyhole set into it, a faint glimmer of light shining through from the flat into the murky hall. Taking a deep breath, DI Steel knocked.
No response.
She tried again, harder this time, and Logan could have sworn he heard something being dragged against the other side of the door. The inspector knocked again. And the light in the spy hole went out. 'Come on, Jamie, we know you're in there. Let us in, eh?'
There was a small pause, and then a high-pitched voice said, 'Fuck off. We're no' wantin' any police bastards today, thanks.'
DI Steel squinted at the spy hole. 'Jamie? Come on, stop buggering about. We need to talk to you about Rosie. It's important.'
Another pause. 'What about her?'
'Come on, Jamie, open the door.'
'No. Fuck off.'
The inspector ran a tired hand across her forehead. 'She's dead, Jamie. I'm sorry. Rosie's dead. We need you to come down and identify her.'
This time the silence stretched out far longer than before.
And then the sound of something being dragged away from the door, a chain being undone, a deadbolt being drawn back, and the door being unlocked. It opened to reveal an ugly child wearing an out-of-date Aberdeen Football Club top, tatty jeans and huge sneakers, laced up gangsta-stylie. The haircut was pudding bowl on top and shaved up the sides.
Behind him was a tatty dining-room chair. He couldn't have been much more than seven.
'What do you mean, 'she's dead'?' Suspicion was written all over his blunt features.
Steel looked down at the kid. 'Is your daddy home?'
The child sneered. 'Jamie's no' my dad, he's just some fuckin' waster Mum's shaggin'. She kicked his arse oot
