Dark Blood

with shiny tat, then legged it.’ She paused. ‘Got the security camera footage upstairs if you want to see it?’

‘What the hell.’ Logan thumped the folder on top of his heaped in-tray. ‘Fingerprints?’

‘Gloves.’ Butler smiled. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes, then I’m out of here.’

‘But Sa-arge—’

‘Got an appointment with a cadaver dog. Take it or leave it.’

‘Done.’

They’d got as far as the corridor outside the CID room when Beattie appeared. Face pink and shiny, nose red, all bundled up in a duvet-style puffy jacket. There were droplets glittering in his moustache and as he saw PC Butler and Logan he wiped them away with the back of his hand. ‘DS McRae, I need to see you in my office.’

Logan didn’t move. ‘Got an armed robbery to look into.’

Beattie frowned. Looked at PC Butler. Sniffed. Rubbed at his beard. ‘Constable, will you excuse us for a moment?’

She made herself scarce.

‘You were supposed to help me with the knock-off merchandise enquiry.’

Logan slumped back against the wall. ‘Did you phone Trading Standards yet?’ Knowing full well that there was no way the beardy tosser—

‘I did it yesterday.’

‘Oh…Right.’ Pause. ‘And?’

‘It’s getting worse. We’ve had fifteen complaints about dodgy DVD players this week, then there’s the hair straighteners, and the vodka, and the perfume, and the iPods. Whole city’s awash with counterfeit goods.’ Beattie sniffed, then hauled out a lumpy grey hankie and blew his nose into it. Paused to check the contents. ‘Talking of which: Big Gary tells me you’ve got a lead on those dodgy twenties?’

Logan shrugged. ‘We arrested someone, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Still in custody?’

‘Far as I know.’ Because he hadn’t bothered to check. Sod DI Steel, there was no way he was running about just to keep some jumped-up solicitor happy. Whoever Douglas Walker’s lawyer was, he could bloody well wait.

Beattie chewed on the edge of his moustache for a bit. ‘Right, about these fake handbags and things…’

There was more, but Logan wasn’t really listening. DI Steel had just limped through the double doors at the end of the corridor, legs bowed, face all pinched up on one side, showing gritted, yellowy teeth as she hobbled towards them.

‘…do you understand?’ Beattie paused, obviously waiting for a response.

‘Erm.’ Logan frowned. ‘In what way?’

Beattie rolled his eyes. It made him look even more of a tit than usual. ‘Will you sort it out or not?’

Steel was getting closer. Limping and wincing all the way.

‘Erm, yeah, sure.’

‘Monday. Don’t forget.’

She hissed to a halt and scowled at Beattie blocking the corridor. ‘Move it or lose it, beardy boy.’

Beattie stiffened. ‘There’s no need to—’

‘Blah, blah, blah. Out the way before I introduce Mrs Boot to Mr Testicles.’ She winced, paused, hauled at the crotch of her grey trouser suit. ‘Second thoughts: McRae, kick his knackers into orbit. Then get your scarred backside down to Interview room three, Douglas Walker’s brief’s waiting for you.’

‘Actually,’ Beattie stuck his hairy chin out, ‘Sergeant McRae already has a job to do. Don’t you Sergeant?’

Steel limped closer. ‘Aye, he has: working for me.’

Beattie glowered. ‘I’m not some wee DS for you to push around any more, I’m a detective inspector. And I say McRae’s working for me!’

Logan groaned. It didn’t matter how this went, he’d be the one who’d end up getting the blame. He turned and looked back towards the CID room.

Steel and Beattie were shouting at each other, nose to nose in the middle of the corridor, so Logan crept back through the door, leaving them to it. With a bit of luck he could sneak out the other side of the CID room, down the bare concrete stairwell and away before they even noticed he was gone.

Logan swore, told PC Butler to pause the tape, and dragged out his phone. ‘McRae.’

DI Steel’s gravelly voice crackled in his ear, ‘Where the sodding hell did you disappear off to? I’ve got an angry solicitor wanting someone to shout at, and he’s no’ bloody doing it at me!’

The review suite was a tiny room on the ground floor of Force Headquarters: two creaky plastic chairs, a storage cabinet for the police van CCTV hard drives, and the rancid-fatty smell of stale chips coming from somewhere underneath the little Formica desk.

Butler fumbled with the remote, and the image on the screen froze: Henderson’s the Jewellers in glorious black-and-white.