Everyone dutifully turned the page.
‘Property is number thirty-six Fairholme Place. Page three has a photo of the house and a map. Any comments, questions, or concerns?’
Silence. Then Carole put her hand up. ‘What kind of door we looking at?’
Logan went back into his folder and came out with the Method of Entry form. ‘Brown UPVC with glazed panels.’ He passed it over.
She skimmed the form, a crease between her eyebrows. Then nodded. ‘You want to snap the lock, Rob, or pop the whole thing in with the Big Red Door Key?’
‘Hmm …’ A frown creased Sergeant Mitchell’s slab of a face. ‘Any chance they’ve barricaded the door?’
Logan shook his head. ‘Doubt it. It’s Spinney’s mum’s house.’
‘Oh.’ Those huge shoulders dipped a bit. ‘Shame. Been ages since we’ve used the chainsaw. OK, we go with popping.’
Carole’s hand was up again. ‘What about dogs? Kids? Firearms?’
‘None that we know of.’
‘Sweet.’
Logan produced the last bit of paperwork. ‘Now, I need everyone to read the warrant and sign it on the back. Then we’ll go do this dunt.’
‘Right, stop here.’ Logan hauled a baggy red hoodie on over his stabproof vest. The bulky padding made it look as if he’d put on two stone. Like the cuddly chunky-monkey Steel claimed to miss so much. A green baseball cap completed the look.
The OSU van pulled in to the side of the road. The thing was all big and white, with ‘POLICE’ down the side in reflective lettering. Riot grille raised. Not exactly subtle.
Sitting opposite, Deano buttoned up an oversized checked shirt. Then pulled a pair of grey joggy bottoms on over his black trousers.
Nicholson sniffed. ‘You both look ridiculous.’
‘Thanks.’ Logan hauled the van’s side door open and hopped out onto the pavement. His fold-down seat snapped back up like a shot going off. ‘OK, I need everyone to set their Airwaves channel to Shire Event Two. No chatter on open comms. Soon as we know someone’s home, we’ll give you the shout.’
Deano climbed out after him, then thumped the door shut and waved as the van pulled away. He followed Logan up the narrow alley joining Harvey Place and Victoria Place. ‘Sarge?’
‘You should have gone before we left the station.’
The sun pounded the tarmac and the houses all around. The smell of freshly cut grass sharp and green on the warm air.
‘No, Sarge. We need to talk about Tufty.’
Out onto Victoria. Quick check left and right, then across the road. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘The STORM actions. He’s done the actual work, he’s just a bit … lackadaisical when it comes to updating the system.’
‘“Lackadaisical”? Hark at you with your big words.’
They headed right, keeping on up the hill. The wee traditional houses on the other side of the road petered out, exposing a straight run of grass down to the cliffs and the sea beyond. This side of the road, a shoulder-high wall kept a swathe of raised lawns in place. Big Eighties-style bungalows sitting well above street level.
‘Maybe, you could cut him a little slack? I know you’re pissed off about the Graham Stirling case, but that’s not Tufty’s fault.’
True. But still …
The 35A bus grumbled past, heading for the hedonistic delights of Elgin.
Logan tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. ‘A boss once told me, there are two kinds of people in this world – carrot people, and stick people.’ To the left, a set of steps were cut into the wall between two of the properties. He took them. ‘You and Janet are carrot people. Tufty couldn’t be more of a stick if he tried.’
‘Probably …’ Up the stairs, along the path, up another set of stairs. Deano was beginning to look a bit puffed. Not surprising. It was baking hot, and the silly sod was wearing two pairs of trousers. ‘But try slipping Tufty the carrot every now and then, eh? If all he ever gets is stick, he’ll end up one big lump of gristle and bruises.’
‘Thought you were his tutor, not his mum.’
‘You want him thinking, “Sod this, I could go work offshore instead”?’
Fair point.
Another set of steps.
‘OK – next time he does something right, I’ll give it a go.’ The stairs came to an end and they emerged onto Provost Gordon Terrace. ‘Talking of carrots, Janet wants to know why she’s not got a nickname. Thinks it’s because she’s a girl.’
This bit of the street was a line of semidetached houses down one side, and the strange front/back gardens of the houses with the raised lawns they’d walked past on Victoria Place. Parking areas and garages and caravans and wheelie bins.
A nice area. Blighted by the presence of two drug-dealing tossers in the next street.
Down to the end of the road, then through a little alley and onto Fairholme Place.
Deano tipped his head at one of the semidetacheds. ‘That it?’
‘Yup.’ To be honest, they all looked alike: two storeys of grey harling with grey pantile roofs. Two windows upstairs. Two down – one belonging to a built-out porch. The only distinguishing feature being that Klingon’s mum had painted her garage door a revolting day-glo purple.
Logan and Deano wandered down the street, hands in pockets. Not a care in the world. Two mates out for an afternoon stroll. Nothing to see here. All nice and innocent.
Deano sniffed. ‘Janet say what kind of nickname she wanted?’
‘I think it’s meant to be up to us.’
‘Clock the car parked outside Klingon’s house. That not Gerbil’s?’
A shabby Honda Civic hatchback with alloy wheels and a red go-faster stripe running across the white paintwork. The passenger door had obviously come from another car – it was a rusty orange colour. A buckled bumper on the rear driver’s side.
‘Yup. We’ve got movement inside too. Top floor, left.’
‘What about … “Killer”? Or, we could go sarcastic with “Cuddles”?’
‘Given the way she makes a cup of tea, we should call her Crippen.’ Logan slipped the Airwave out of his hoodie pocket. Knelt as if he was about to tie his shoelace. Pressed the button. ‘Operation Schofield is go. Silent approach.’
Sergeant Mitchell’s voice crackled out of the handset. ‘And there’s me with “Ride of the Valkyries” all ready to pound out the PA speakers.’ Deep breath. ‘Spartans, tonight we dine in Banff!’
Logan put his Airwave away and looked up at the house. The only way into the back garden was through, or over, the six-foot-high gate. And going by the big yellow padlock on it, through wasn’t really an option. ‘You want front or back?’
‘Rock, paper, scissors?’
Logan held out his fist next to Deano’s. ‘Three, two, one.’
‘Aw … pants.’ Deano pulled up his joggy bottoms and marched across the drive, past the garage and jumped for the top of the fence. Struggled and wriggled over it as the OSU’s van roared around the corner.
It screeched to a halt right in front of Klingon’s mum’s house, the doors sprang open, and Sergeant Mitchell’s team piled out. All done up in their riot gear – crash helmets, elbow and hand pads. Shin guards. Faces obscured behind visors and scarves.
They swarmed over the low garden wall. One of them had the hoolie bar – like a three-foot long metal ice-axe with two prongs on the other end. Another clutched the small red battering ram by its carrying handles. That had to be Mitchell: he was nearly six inches taller than everyone else.
Mitchell swung the Big Red Door Key back and up, then hammered it forwards, right into the middle of the UPVC door – right above the letterbox, between the glass panels. It went right through, collapsing the whole middle of the door, leaving nothing but the outer frame behind.
Then Mitchell flattened himself to the wall and the other three bundled inside.
‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’
Nicholson stepped down from the van. ‘Beautiful sight, isn’t it, Sarge?’
‘Few better.’ Logan pulled the hoodie over his head and chucked it into the van. ‘Listen, about the … The round of teas and coffees we did on Monday night …’
‘Ah.’ She bared her teeth for a second. ‘Yes.’
‘I think it’d probably be best if you and I never talked about it to anyone. Ever. Just in case.’
‘Is it true Dawson’s ended up in hospital?’
‘We’ll keep it as our little secret. OK?’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, what did you and the rest of the Wombles get up to last night? Anything I should know about?’
‘The usual. Spun a few druggies, dealt with a drink driver, two housebreakings, two counts of piddling in doorways. Thrilling stuff.’
‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’
Logan pressed the button, talking into his shoulder. ‘Spank away, Maggie.’
‘We’ve had a call. Someone spotted Ian Dickinson getting off the bus, with a woman, in Cullen. You’ve got a lookout request for—’
‘Ian Dickinson? Five years old, brown hair, blue eyes? The same Ian Dickinson we found last Thursday? Has he gone missing again, or have they forgotten to take down the posters?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he with a big woman with curly hair and a walking stick?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s his mum. Maggie, do me a favour – get onto someone and make sure they cancel the lookout properly this time. And tell them to take down those damn posters.’
A second Transit van rumbled down the road. Parked behind the OSU’s sing-along wagon. Constable Syd Fraser waved at them from behind the wheel, then creaked open the van’s door. ‘Place secure yet?’
‘Working on it.’ He turned back to Nicholson. ‘Anything else?’
Nicholson shrugged. ‘Well, Deano and Tufty stopped a fight outside the Seafield Hotel. There was a break-in at the Spotty Bag Shop. Someone set fire to a bin on Castle Street. I investigated reports of a peeping tom on Melrose Crescent – no joy. And I picked up that old woman wandering up and down Market Street again. That’s two nights in a row. Said she couldn’t sleep in her bed because it was full of rats.’
Syd wandered over to a soundtrack of dogs barking in the back of his Transit. ‘What’s full of rats?’
‘Auld wifie thinks her bed is. Every night they crawl out of the walls and under her duvet. Says it’s driving her mad. I get her back inside and she gives me an earful of abuse about how nobody cares and we’re all bastards. Again.’
A sigh. ‘What idiot thought “Care in the Community” was a good thing?’ Syd leaned back against the OSU van. ‘What are we on for here: heroin? Bit of coke? Weed?’
Logan nodded. ‘Probably.’
‘Good. As long as it isn’t Valium. Enzo’s not been trained to find Valium.’
Nicholson smiled. ‘Aye, aye, getting the excuses in early, are we?’
Logan’s Airwave bleeped.
‘Operation Schofield sont arrivé. Deux hommes dans des handcuffs.’
He smiled. Pressed the talk button. ‘Couldn’t remember the French for handcuffs then?’
‘Everyone’s a critic. Rejoice, sinner, for thy crime scene is secured.’
He fixed the Airwave to the clip on his stabproof vest. Picked his peaked cap from the van and settled it on his head. ‘Right, Syd, time for the hairy boys to shine.’
And please, dear God, let them find something.
16
Gerbil and Klingon sat side by side on the grubby couch. The whole place was grubby – carpet, walls, curtains. Even the ceiling had its own collection of stains. Filth streaked the floor around the couch, as if whoever usually sat there couldn’t be arsed getting up to use the bin, just tossed it where they sat.
Sergeant Mitchell stood behind Gerbil and Klingon, a hand on each of their shoulders. The pair of them doing their best not to make eye-contact with anyone else in the room.
A sagging coffee table sat in the middle of the carpet, a set of digital scales and a spoon parked on a red-top tabloid: ‘NONCE ON THE RUN ~ DID MISSING SICKO WOOD CLAIM ANOTHER VICTIM?’
Logan pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘Right, you want to save us the bother and tell us where the stuff is?’
Gerbil stared at his knees. Klingon blinked behind those thick NHS-style glasses. Not a single word.
‘OK.’ Logan removed the elastic band holding his body-worn video closed, and slid the front panel down, setting it recording. ‘Sergeant Logan McRae, five minutes past four p.m., twenty-first of May, thirty-six Fairholme Place. Constable Fraser?’
Syd unclipped the lead from Enzo’s collar, then slipped a fluorescent yellow vest thing over his head. Fastened the strap behind the Labrador’s front legs. The dog was huge – big fluffy golden ruff, big fluffy tail, big block-shaped head. ‘Come on, Enzo, off you go …’
The dog bounced his front legs from one side to the other, then scampered off, tail wagging, nose down.
Syd slung the lead over his head, clipped it behind his back in one fluid movement. ‘The first ninety seconds, he’s not really working. Having a bit of a sniff about. Too excited at being somewhere new.’
The dog reappeared from behind the couch and went straight for his master’s legs. Bounced about a bit again.
‘Come on, Enzo, calm down and get your nose in gear.’
Gerbil shifted in his seat. Squared his shoulders. Then came out with a Glaswegian accent you could cut soap with. ‘I want a lawyer, and aw that. Ma rights, in’t it?’
Deano stared. ‘Seriously? You’re from Peterhead, Kevin, what’s with the mock Weegie?’
‘I’m no’ answering anything else till I see a lawyer, but.’
He sighed. Raised his eyebrows at Logan. ‘Tell you, they do eighteen months in Polmont and they come out sounding like Begbie.’
The Labrador did another circuit of the lounge. Only this time there was a lot less bouncing about and lot more snuffling.
‘There we go, he’s got his working head on now.’ Syd waved an arm up and out, as if he was introducing the wall. Enzo turned and followed the direction of the gesture, sniffing his way along the skirting board. Around the sofa. Then settled down in front of Klingon and stared at him.
Sergeant Mitchell took his hand off Gerbil’s shoulder and hauled Klingon to his feet, getting an involuntary squeak from those wet rubbery lips. ‘Think it’s strip-search time, don’t you?’
‘Come on, Enzo, let’s try the kitchen.’ Syd clicked his fingers and did the same magician’s apprentice gesture, this time aiming at the hallway.
Logan followed them, keeping the dog more-or-less in range of the BWV lens.
Through the hall, past the stairs, and into a small kitchen.
If the lounge was grubby, the kitchen was a pigsty. Dishes piled up in the sink. Food smears on the walls above the cooker. Everywhere covered in opened tins and takeaway containers. The bin overflowing with pizza boxes and kebab papers. A curdling reek of spoiled food and cigarette ash. The lazy burrr of bluebottles, dancing a slow-motion waltz through the foetid air. Pausing now and then to bang their heads against the window.
Logan curled his top lip. ‘Can you imagine living like this?’
‘Pff …’ Syd puffed out his cheeks as Enzo did the rounds. ‘You think this is bad? Had to search a place once, and they kept a bucket at the end of the couch. Not for rubbish, it was so they wouldn’t have to leave the room to take a crap or have a pee. Never bothered to empty it either. Dear Jesus, the smell.’
Logan opened the cupboard nearest the door. It was stuffed with boxes of baby milk formula. ‘Looks like they’ve stocked up stuff to cut it with.’
‘Probably be more milk than heroin by the time it hits the streets. Honestly, if Trading Standards had to regulate drug dealers …’ A
smile. ‘There we go.’
Enzo sat down in front of the cooker, giving it the same stare he’d treated Klingon to.
‘Onwards and upwards.’ He ushered the Labrador up the stairs.
Logan stuck his head into the living room. Nicholson and Carole were nowhere to be seen, but, sadly, the same couldn’t be said of Klingon.
He was stripped to his pants in the middle of the room, hands cuffed behind his back, palms up. Muscles stood out on his arms and legs like elastic bands, his chest sunken, ribs on show, a proper full-on six pack. Standing there with his shoulders hunched and his back curved, showing off every bump and hollow of his spine. Blue-and-purple bruises rippled across his stomach and up one side. A wonky tattoo of the starship Enterprise and Captain Picard covered one arm from shoulder to elbow. Or at least, it was probably meant to be Captain Picard. It looked more like a constipated potato.
Wafts of bitter onion stink came off him like hungry tendrils. Burrowing their way into Logan’s sinuses.
Mitchell was pulling a second pair of nitrile gloves on over the ones he was already wearing. Not taking any chances. ‘Now, have you banked anything, Colin? Am I going to have to go spelunking here?’
Definitely not planning on hanging around for that. Logan pointed at the kitchen. ‘When you’re done here, try around the cooker. Got a hit from the dog.’
Then out again before the saggy grey pants came off.
Upstairs.
A greasy smear ran along the wallpaper at shoulder height.
Logan kept his hands away from the banister and picked his way down the middle of the landing, staying away from the manky wall. With most crime scenes, no one touched anything in case they contaminated the evidence. Here it was more about not wanting to catch anything.
The master-bedroom door lay open – Syd stood on the threshold and Enzo’s tail was just visible on the other side of the bed. No sheet on the mattress, no cover on the squashed pillow. Both were covered in yellow-brown stains, saggy, threadbare. Mounds of dirty clothes surrounded the bed. A framed picture of Jesus had pride of place on the wall above the headboard.
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