Dark Blood

‘You are kidding, aren’t you? We’ve got one officer in a coma, three seriously injured, and the bastards got away with over half a million in uncut heroin. Everyone we’ve got’s on this.’

Which was understandable. ‘Well…good luck.’

Logan stuck Steel’s phone back in the cradle and swore for a bit. Brilliant. No replacement DI meant he’d be lumbered with one of the numerous tosspots around here. Like Beardy Beattie, or that idiot McPherson. Run a murder enquiry? He wouldn’t trust them to run for a bus.

He tipped the inspector’s seat back and scowled at the ceiling…

Unless he didn’t tell anyone? Kid on that this DI Harvey had turned up as planned and was now running things. Long as no one actually had to meet with him, it’d be OK, wouldn’t it? It was only for two weeks. DI Harvey, where ‘DI’ stood for Definitely Invisible.

‘And then,’ he told the ceiling tiles, ‘hilarity would ensue.’

Bugger it. He was going to have to tell DCI Finnie.

Logan dragged himself out of the chair, along the corridor, knocked on Finnie’s door, then waited.

‘Enter!’

The Chief Inspector’s office was about twice the size of Steel’s, with a bank of filing cabinets, a huge whiteboard, a couch, two comfy chairs, a big beech desk, a large computer screen, and a frog-faced git.

‘Ah, McRae, to what do I owe the dubious pleasure? Perhaps you’re lost? The Professional Standards office is upstairs. You’re spending so much time up there, I’m thinking of transferring you to their department, then you can give yourself a bollocking every morning and save everyone else a load of time. How does that sound?’

Wanker.

‘Very funny, sir. I’ve just chased up Fraserburgh CID. DI Harvey was stabbed last night and they can’t spare anyone else. To stand in for Steel?’

‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant, I am quite aware what DI Harvey was coming down here to do.’ Finnie sucked at his teeth for a minute, staring at Logan. As if he was thinking about eating him. ‘Tell me, Logan, has DI Steel had a word with you?’

Logan kept his face dead still. ‘About what, sir?’

‘Your attitude, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Finnie leaned forward. ‘And?’

‘We had a full and frank exchange of views.’

‘You know, last year I wouldn’t have hesitated to hand all her cases over to you and make you up to acting inspector. But now…?’

Logan could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. ‘It…I…’ He shut his mouth again, before it got him into any more trouble.

‘I’ve seen people resurrect their careers from worse than this, Logan. Not much worse, but it is possible.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Finnie nodded. Those wide rubbery lips pressed tight together. Watching him.

‘Er, is there something—’

‘You can assist DSI Danby this morning, while I decide what to do about DI Steel’s caseload.’

‘But they’re doing Steve Polmont’s post mortem at—’

‘Mr Polmont will survive without you, Sergeant. Now run along.’

Logan tried not to groan. He really did. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And Sergeant, please remember that Danby outranks both of us. Try not to do anything too stupid.’

Logan parked the pool car outside Knox’s granny’s house, then pointed at the scabby old Transit van parked down the road with a half-hearted collection of orange plastic cones surrounding a couple of rusty road signs. The Aberdeen City Council crest sat on the side – two leopards holding a shield with three wee sandcastles on it – the sticker cracked and peeling, showing the burgundy paint underneath. ‘That’s the surveillance team.’

Wind battered down the road, whipping the trees and bushes, buffeting the pool car, slamming great icy gobbets of sleet against the windscreen. Quarter to ten on a Sunday morning and the streetlights were still on, their dim orange glow wobbling back and forth in the gusts.

Danby frowned. ‘Better wait till the weather lets up a bit, then we can…’ He trailed off, staring at Logan. ‘What?’

‘This is Aberdeen. Trust me, it’s only going to get worse.’

The DSI sighed, unclipped his seatbelt, counted to three, then opened the door and stepped out into the howling sleet. Logan took a deep breath and followed him, plipping the pool car’s locks as he hurried down the pavement after the limping Danby.

They banged on the council van’s grubby back door, then hauled it open and clambered in without waiting for an answer.

‘Shut the bloody door!’ A red-nosed plainclothes PC was huddled in a mountain of coats and scarves – gloves on his hands, woolly hat on his head.