‘But—’
Brilliant. Nothing like being supported by your senior officer. Logan pointed a finger at Middleton. ‘This isn’t over.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Logan changed gear and put his foot down, overtaking a minibus on the dual carriageway. ‘That was really nice. Empowering.’ The traffic was getting heavier the closer they got to the Kingswells roundabout. Rush-hour congealing the arteries leading in and out of Aberdeen like a deep-fried Mars Bar.
Steel cracked open the pool car window and blew a stream of smoke out into the cold afternoon, mobile phone clamped to her ear. ‘What did you want to do? Arrest him? Impound all his stock? Spend the rest of the night filling in sodding paperwork?’
‘He’s dodgy.’
‘Shock horror, a dodgy second-hand car dealer. Who would’ve thunk it? That
‘He’s—’
‘Come on Steve, pick up the bloody phone!’ She squinted her face up, cigarette gripped between her front teeth. ‘Finnie’s getting a DI down from Fraserburgh to cover my cases while I’m away. Try and no’ whinge too much when you’re working for him, eh? Make it look like I run a tight ship.’
‘Brilliant. Bring someone else in.’ Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter.
‘Steve, it’s your mum. Where the hell are you? Call me back.’ She snapped her phone shut. ‘Voicemail.’
‘
‘Wah, wah, wah. You’re such a bloody moan. Just be thankful I didn’t let them hand everything over to Beattie.’
Small mercies.
Steel stuck the phone back in her jacket. ‘Can’t decide if I’m more pissed off or worried about Steve.’
‘Steve who?’
‘Polmont, my chiz.’
Which explained the, ‘it’s your mum’ bit – keeping it all secretive, in case anyone else heard the message.
Logan frowned. ‘How come you even know his name? Personal info’s meant to stay on the other side of the “sterile corridor”, or whatever rubbish they’re calling it now. Who else knows who he is?’
‘No one.’ She flicked ash out of the window. ‘Just me, Frog-Face Finnie, and now you.’
‘Thought all informant stuff was meant to be handled by the Spook Squad? Why—’
‘Look it just is, OK? And shut up.’ She took an angry sook on her cigarette. ‘This is top, top Secret Squirrel. Understand?’
Logan sighed. ‘I think I can—’
‘I’m no’ joking. This gets out, I swear to God I’ll wear your wee heterosexual arsehole as a foot warmer. He’s a sparky at Malk the Knife’s building site.’
‘He’s the one we were waiting for on Monday? Told you: no one’s going to be daft enough to squeal. What is he, suicidal?’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of…Poor wee bugger could be lying dead in a ditch for all I know.’
‘So go round his house, pay him a visit.’
She sniffed. ‘Don’t have an address.’
‘Then get a GMS trace on his mobile. If it doesn’t move overnight, that’s his house.’ Logan stuck his foot on the clutch, popped the pool car out of gear, and drifted to a halt at the back of a long line of traffic. ‘What about the counterfeit cash? Want to get a warrant organized for the guy who bought the car?’
‘Tonight?’ Steel stared at him. ‘Are you
‘But—’
‘Don’t make me “La-la-la-la-la” you again.’
7
‘…
The picture jumped to a balding anchorman with an unfeasible moustache.
Logan turned the sound down, then cracked the ring pull on another tin of Stella. Cold beer after a hot curry. Singing wafted through from the bathroom, Samantha doing her best to murder a Marilyn Manson cover of a Soft Cell version of a Gloria Jones song.
But it was still better than listening to yet another report about Richard Creepy-Pants Knox setting up home in Aberdeen. The anchorman disappeared from the screen, replaced by a lumpy woman mouthing angry somethings at the camera. Probably complaining about Grampian Police mollycoddling perverts when there were drunken yobs
