the room, carrying a plastic crate full of files. ‘Golf club murder?’
Logan pointed at Doreen’s collection. ‘Anywhere over there.’
‘Ta.’ He dumped the crate on the carpet, then stood, rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘Thought you were supposed to be at some meeting Beattie’s been banging on about?’
Logan frowned, then checked his watch. 16:35.
Shite. Completely lost track of time.
He jumped to his feet, stabbed the button to switch off his monitor, then grabbed the big square tin from the shelf by the ‘UNSOLVED’ whiteboard. ‘Stealing the biscuits!’ And charged out of the door.
32
Broad Street was like a wind tunnel. The snow not so much falling as hammering sideways. St Nicholas House loomed on the other side of the street, a fourteen-storey slab of concrete and glass, the upper floors hidden by the howling weather.
Cars and buses crept past, headlights on full, windscreen wipers thunking back and forth. Logan hurried across the road, ground his cigarette out in the little receptacle by the automatic door and shivered inside. Stomped his feet on the coconut matting, shook the snow off his coat and the tin of biscuits. Wiped the meltwater from his stinging face.
Five minutes later he was steaming quietly next to the radiator in reception, flicking through a copy of that morning’s
Logan held out the damp tin. ‘Brought biscuits.’
Dildo sniffed. ‘Not digestives are they?’ He popped off the lid, ‘Ooh, Jammie Dodgers…’
He handed Logan a visitor’s pass. ‘Your guv’nor’s a randy old sod, by the way – been trying to chat up Susanna since she got here.’
‘Please, tell me you’re kidding.’ Trust Beattie to find a way to make things even more awkward.
‘I wish.’
Dildo turned on his heel and marched towards the stairs.
Logan didn’t move. ‘Any chance we can take the lifts for a change?’
‘It’s only four floors, you lazy bugger. Anyway, the lifts are playing Russian Roulette again. Anne’s ended up in the basement twice today, doors wouldn’t even open the second time.’
Four flights later, Logan was puffing and wheezing, lurching after Dildo as he pushed through a set of double doors into the dark heart of Trading Standards. Which was about sixteen desks arranged back-to-back in the near left corner, sectioned off from Bereavement Services by a wall of shoulder-height partitions in a grubby shade of burgundy.
The dirty salmon carpet was a crime scene map of dark spills, the ceiling tiles scarred where someone had moved a partition wall. St Nicholas House: proof that ugly wasn’t just skin deep.
‘Thought this was only supposed to be temporary?’
‘Council, isn’t it?’ Dildo grabbed a notebook off the nearest desk – covered, like the rest, in product boxes, plastic bags, and paperwork. ‘You know Anne, Sicknote, Clive, and Hughie?’
Logan gave them a wave.
Everyone waved back, except for the one on the phone – short-sleeved shirt, tie, baldy head – who held up a thumb. ‘No, sir…Yes, I understand, but you’ve got to use lubricant…’
‘We’re in the Grief Counselling room – all I could get at short notice.’
‘Yes…Yes, I’m sure it
Logan followed Dildo through Bereavement Services to a little meeting room in the far corner of the building, with a projector bolted to the ceiling, and a pull-down screen taking up a large chunk of one wall.
Beattie was sitting at the table, fiddling with a laptop, a winter panorama of Aberdeen stretched out behind him. Rooftops, the back entrance to Markies, bits of Union Street, the defunct Christmas lights swaying in the wind, waiting for someone to take them down.
A familiar gravelly laugh made Logan freeze in the doorway. DI Steel. She was over by the window, talking to a tall blonde woman in jeans and a thick woollen jumper.
Logan opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Dildo gave him a shove, then closed the door behind them. ‘DS McRae, this is Susanna Frayn from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.’
She stuck out a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ One of those jolly-hockey-sticks English public school accents.
Steel grinned. ‘Susanna was just telling me about her photography classes, weren’t you, Susanna? So, do you do nudes?’
Over at the table, Beattie hit something and a PowerPoint slide appeared on the wall. ‘Got it working!’
There was an audible groan from Steel, then everyone took their seats around the table: Steel next to the woman from HMRC, Logan next to Steel, Dildo next to Logan, leaving Beattie stranded on his own on the other side.
‘OK, first item…’ A blue-and-white PowerPoint slide appeared on the screen, the names of everyone present fading up, or sliding on with a different effect, as if they couldn’t tell who was there just by looking around the room.
