Dark Blood

the…paper.’

Mark made a big show of going back to his burglary forms.

‘And while we’re on the subject of “the paper”.’ Finnie flipped through the pages, until he came to a full page spread: ‘COUNTERFEIT CASH THREATENS LOCAL ECONOMY’.

Logan looked up at the DCI. ‘Well, it’s not—’

‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, how clever are Grampian Police going to look when it gets out that the only suspect we had was released on bail yesterday, and we still don’t have a clue where this stuff is coming from? Hmm? Think the local media are going to run a two-page spread on how great we are? Or will they tell everyone we’re a bunch of incompetent amateurs?’

‘But it’s—’

‘Oh, and I see from the crime board,’ he pointed at the whiteboard with all the DSs’ names on it, and their list of open cases, ‘that the counterfeit cash job is one of yours.’

‘I’ve been—’

‘Where are we with the investigation?’

Logan glanced round at Mark, but he had his head down over his keyboard. No help there.

‘It’s been deprioritized.’

‘Deprioritized?’ Pause. ‘I see. And what about all the other cases you’re currently not solving, have they been “deprioritized” too? Have you “deprioritized” the armed robbery at Henderson’s Jewellers? Because I think it might be kind of fun if you actually managed to solve that one, don’t you?’

And then he made Logan go through each of the cases on the board under his name.

Jewellery heist: no progress.

Counterfeit money: no progress.

Stolen cars: no progress.

Cemetery flasher: no progress.

OAP burglaries: no progress…

The list went on, and on, but the result was always the same: no progress.

‘I see.’ Finnie pursed his wide, rubbery lips. ‘And if you were me, Sergeant, what would you do?’

Logan’s chin came up. ‘I’d maybe wonder why one of my team was being given so many cases to work on. I’d ask how he was supposed to get anything done with a workload that big. Sir.’

Finnie nodded. ‘Hmm…And yet you’ve still found time to help Northumbria Police with one of their unsolved crimes from twenty years ago?’

Bloody hell. Only Finnie could make solving the murder of an entire family sound like a bad thing.

‘Perhaps, Sergeant, you’d find it a little easier to deal with your own caseload if you weren’t so busy helping others with theirs. Do you think?’ The DCI poked the newspaper again. ‘You’re supposed to be a detective sergeant. Get out there and detect something!’ And then Finnie was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Logan collapsed into his seat. ‘Christ…’

Mark sniffed. ‘Don’t mind Finnie. His arse is knitting buttons because Knox is missing. Give it a couple of weeks and it’ll all blow over.’ The DS shook his head. ‘Why didn’t you tell him about all the dodgy goods you seized last night?’

‘Didn’t get the chance.’ Every time he’d tried, Finnie had moved on to the next stalled case.

‘Word to the wise – never take a case off the board till Finnie’s there to see you do it.’

Logan made a few calls – chasing up the investigations Finnie had moaned about – then sodded off to the canteen for a cup of coffee and a sticky bun.

Biohazard Bob had taken a table by the window, gazing out at the grey lump of the mortuary on the other side of the rear podium car park.

Logan settled in beside him. ‘Please tell me that’s not beans on toast…’

Bob shrugged and shovelled in another mouthful. ‘Why should I be the only bastard suffering?’

There was a pause. ‘OK, I’ll bite.’

‘You’re looking at the lucky recipient of another junkie drug dealer with the shite kicked out of him. They found the poor sod about one this morning – nearly died of hypothermia. Which brings us to my next moment of joy.’ He scooped up more beans and chewed as if they were poisonous. ‘You remember Big Willie, the tramp used to hang about on George Street, occasionally getting his knob out for the tourists? Turned up behind the recycling bins at Sainsbury’s, stiff as a board. Got his post mortem in twenty minutes.’

‘Yeah?’ Logan took a sip of coffee. ‘Well, I just got my arse handed to me by Finnie for solving a twenty-year-old murder in Newcastle.’

Bob picked up his milky tea and held it out. ‘I hereby call to order, the inaugural meeting of the World’s a Bag of Shite Club.’

They clinked mugs and drank.

Bob cleared his throat. ‘I think…Deborah’s having an affair.’