Matthews raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah …’ Then lowered them again. Curled his top lip ‘Suppose.’
‘It’s nothing but milky tea and porn out there anyway.’
46
Logan scuffed in through the door to Banff station. ‘Pff …’
Joe emerged from the canteen. ‘Sarge, how’s the head?’
‘Like a bowling ball full of angry mice.’
A nod. ‘You want a coffee? I’m doing the rounds.’
‘You’re a star.’
Big Paul and Penny were in the Constables’ Office. The pair of them sitting with their backs to the open door, thumping away at their keyboards. Getting everything tidied away for the two o’clock end of business.
No sign of the nightshift.
Logan slouched through the main office and into the Sergeants’ room. Peeled off his stabproof vest and dumped it behind his desk, then followed it with the equipment belt. A whole stone lighter, just like that. He collapsed into his chair. Stared at the high ceiling for a bit. Then sighed and pulled the keyboard over and logged in.
Joe knocked, then let himself in. Mug in one hand, packet of Ginger Snaps in the other. ‘You get your fax?’
A frown. Logan took the mug of coffee. ‘What fax?’
‘Should be in your pigeonhole – came in about five-ish.’
‘Oh. No.’
‘We’re planning on writing everything up, then work up some targets for next week before home-time. Thought we’d have a bash at antisocial behaviour and car thefts.’
Logan had a dig into his desk drawer and came out with a packet of aspirin. ‘Do me a favour and stick drugs on your list? I’m declaring war.’
‘Will do.’
Joe wandered off and Logan threw back four tablets. Washed them down with a slurp of hot coffee.
Someone had given the angry mice chainsaws, and the little sods were on a mission to cut their way out of his skull.
‘Fax.’ He pulled himself out of his seat and through into the main office. The pigeonholes weren’t really pigeonholes, they were a collection of red plastic in-and-out-trays, stacked four-high in a recess by the door through to the front of the building. Logan’s was stuffed with sponsorship forms, takeaway menus, a couple of leaflets for local businesses, and a newspaper clipping about a dirty wee scumbag climbing up onto someone’s roof to have a crap down their chimney pot. There was even a photo.
But right at the bottom was an internal mail envelope.
He opened it and took out the three sheets of A4 from inside.
DNA RESULT ON TARLAIR REMAINS.
According to the fax’s time-stamp, it arrived at 16:58 – the guy from the labs had managed to get it done by close of play after all.
Logan skimmed over the intro paragraphs and procedural bits, the graphs and diagrams on page two, and went straight to the results at the back.
Puffed out his cheeks.
Leaned against the wall and stared at the sheet. No match with Helen’s DNA.
It wasn’t her daughter.
‘Night, Sarge. Night, Hector.’ Penny gave him a wave. Then followed Joe and Big Paul out into the night. Bang on two in the morning.
The door clunked shut, leaving Logan alone with his ghosts.
A dozen names now featured on the sheet of paper he’d started in Peterhead – trying to recreate Charles Anderson’s paedophile wall chart. Some had question marks next to them, others were underlined. Like Dr William Gilcomston, AKA: Dr Kidfiddler, connected by a thick red line to ‘TARLAIR WEE GIRL’.
Didn’t get them any closer to catching her killer though, did it? Not when Gilcomston could simply deny everything. They needed some evidence. Some information. Something to justify getting a warrant from the Sheriff and ransacking the place.
But that was a job for tomorrow.
Logan logged off. Pushed the keyboard away. Yawned. Then sagged in his seat.
No point hanging about, putting it off any longer. Time to go home.
More mice had joined the throng, and these ones were armed with sledgehammers. Battering away at his brain in time to the thump of his pulse. Need more pills. And something stronger than aspirin.
He scrubbed his hands across his face.
Come on. Home. Bed.
Yeah … But what if Helen was there again – in his bed?
Wear pants. No more embarrassing early-morning protuberances.
Not much of a plan, but it was better than nothing.
He slouched out of the station, leaving it to Hector and the darkness. Crossed the car park.
The moon was a heavy crescent, glowing down through a gap between the clouds, reflecting back from the churned steel surface of the bay. Waves roared and hissed against the beach.
A smatter of rain needled out of the darkness, hurrying him inside.
He eased the door closed again. Locked it.
The living-room door was closed too. No light seeping out from the cracks around it, or the big gap left by the absent carpet below.
Logan crept up the stairs, keeping to the outside of the steps to minimize the creaking.
She’d made a great job of painting the hall – a hell of a lot better than he’d made of the kitchen. Place looked ready for getting some flooring down. Maybe he could nick the police van for a couple of hours and pick a load up from the B&Q in Elgin?
Yeah, Napier would love that if he found out.
Have to wait till Wednesday instead, when this block of double-shifts finished. See how much laminate they could fit in his manky old Clio.
Up to the landing.
Rain rattled the skylight.
Teeth. Quick wash. Two Nurofen. Then through into the bedroom.
Pale orange oozed in through the window from the streetlight outside. It caught the mound in the middle of the bed. Glinted off the corkscrew curls. She shifted in her sleep, murmured, smacked her lips together a couple of times, then settled down again.
OK.
You can do this.
Wake her up and tell her what the DNA results said. Tell her it’s not her daughter.
Helen’s face was soft and smooth, the creases around her eyes and between her eyebrows almost gone. At least now, wherever she was in her dreams, she’d found a moment of peace with herself.
Why ruin it? Why wake her up and get her worrying all over again?
It still wouldn’t be her daughter in the morning.
Let her dream.
Logan stripped off and slipped in beside her.
But he kept his pants on.
47
‘… after the news. But right now it’s over to Tim. Tim?’
‘Thanks, Bill. Police in Banff, Aberdeenshire, announced last night that they’d arrested a Birmingham man for the murder of undercover police officer, Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. The man, Martyn Baker—’
Logan thumped the snooze button. Looked across the pillow.
Helen turned onto her side. ‘Fv mr mnnt …’
He slipped out of bed and headed for the shower.
Froze at the top of the stairs.
Noises, coming from the living room. Was that the TV?
Back into the bedroom. A quick struggle into a pair of jeans and some slippers. He unclipped the extendable baton from the equipment belt in the corner.
Then gave Helen’s shoulder a shoogle.
Her eyes creaked open, then her mouth.
‘Shh …’ He put a hand over it. Her lips were warm and moist against his palm. Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I need you to stay up here. No sound. OK?’
Blink. Blink. Blink. Then a nod.
‘OK.’
Out onto the landing again. Then down the stairs, keeping to the outsides of the treads.
It was definitely the TV. ‘… and that’s a lovely shot, straight down the fairway and onto the green …’
‘She’s having a great game.’
‘She is
indeed.’
A floorboard groaned behind the living-room door. Then another one. Whoever it was, they were moving around.
Logan shifted his grip on the baton.
Three.
Two.
One.
He barged through the door, clacked the baton out to its full length. ‘ON THE FLOOR NOW!’
Cthulhu scrambled off the coffee table and bolted for the gap behind the couch.
Steel didn’t even flinch. Just sat there, shovelling a spoonful of cornflakes into her mouth. Muffling the words, ‘Aye, very impressive. Remind me to swoon.’
‘Ooh, and Michelle’s not going to be happy with that. Straight into the bunker.’
He lowered his baton. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Watching the golf.’ She pointed with her spoon. ‘Your cornflakes taste awful, by the way.’
On screen, a very curvy red-haired woman in a tiny bikini stepped down into a bunker.
‘Is this porn?’
The woman lined up her shot and spanked the ball up onto the green. Everything wobbled.
‘Like eating waxed cardboard. Whatever happened to Crunchy Nut?’
‘Ooh, that’s a super recovery.’
‘Can’t afford it. Why are you watching porn on my couch?’
‘And this is for one under par …’
A blonde in an even tinier blue bikini lined up a putt. The camera went in for a close-up, until two round, tanned buttocks filled the screen – wiggling left to right.
‘It’s not porn, it’s Bikini Golf.’ More waxy cornflakes disappeared. ‘Got to love Channel Five.’
God’s sake. ‘I’m going for a shower.’
‘Don’t forget to wash behind your ears.’
He clumped back up to the top of the stairs.
Helen stood on the landing, peering down below. Her T-shirt had a hippo on it, and her shorts showed off a pair of legs that glowed a bit with blonde stubble. She barely moved her mouth. ‘Is it burglars?’
‘No, it’s a pervert.’
Logan marched down the stairs, all done up in his black Police Scotland ninja finery. He stopped, outside the living-room door. Paused with one hand on the knob.
Helen’s voice came through the wood. ‘I don’t get it. Why are they wearing bikinis?’
Then it was Steel’s turn. ‘You got something against sexy women in bikinis?’
Yeah. Maybe going in there wasn’t the best of ideas.
He clipped the epaulettes onto the straps on his T-shirt’s shoulders.
‘But isn’t it a bit, well, sexist?’
‘Nah, the Bikini Golf Masters is open to everyone – male, female, and transgender – doesn’t matter, as long as they’re in a bikini.’
‘Men in bikinis?’
‘Aye. Can you imagine Colin Montgomery, squatting down to check the lie of the green, in a polkadot bikini? One of his wee hairy gentlemen dangling out the side?’
A snort of laughter.
Oh joy, they were bonding.
He got himself a cup of tea and a slice of toast. Consumed both standing at the work surface. Then couldn’t put it off any longer. He pushed through into the living room.
The pair of them were on the couch with Cthulhu curled up on Helen’s lap, purring.
‘… number four on the leader board. And it’s Svenga to tee-off first.’ Svenga was a statuesque brunette with an unfeasibly large pair of breasts barely contained by two scraps of floral-patterned fabric and some string.
He cleared his throat. ‘Helen, can I have a quick word?’
Helen looked up at him. ‘Is it about lunch?’
‘In private.’
Steel pursed her lips. Narrowed her eyes. ‘You know what? I think Helen’s quite happy where she is. Aren’t you, Helen?’
Logan squatted down in front of her. Put a hand on her knee. ‘We got the DNA results back. The little girl at Tarlair Swimming Pool – she’s not Natasha.’
‘Ooh, and that’s a cracking drive, right down the fairway.’
Cthulhu stretched out a paw.
‘It’s difficult to see how the others are going to recover from this.’
One shoulder came up and Helen stared down at the cat in her lap. ‘Oh …’
‘Are you OK?’
The creases deepened between her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know. Every time: I tell myself that it’d be better to know. That if I knew she was dead I could mourn and move on. But …’ The other shoulder joined it. ‘She might still be alive.’
Steel patted her on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure she is.’ Then stood. ‘Right, I better escort Sergeant McRae to the station. He’s going to help me with my enquiries.’
She waited for him to stick a tin of lentil soup and two slices of cheap white into a carrier bag, then ushered him outside.
Wind whipped spray off the churning waves, hurling it over the sea wall like cold salty nails. The sun hidden behind heavy, grey, threatening clouds.
Steel closed the door behind them. Then slapped him on the arm. Hard.
‘Ow!’
‘She was a potential witness, and you’re shagging her!’ Another slap.
‘Stop hitting me!’ He backed away. ‘Nothing happened.’
‘Really? You’re sharing a bed and nothing happened?’
‘We’re not sharing—’
‘You sodding well are. I’m a detective chief inspector, no’ an idiot!’
‘Nothing happened. OK?’ Logan marched towards the station, Steel close behind him. ‘And nothing’s going to happen. The dead wee girl isn’t her daughter. She’s hardly going to hang around, is she?’
‘Have you got any idea what Napier’s going to do when he finds out? How could you be so bloody stupid? I told you to keep it in your trousers, but you’ll no’ take a telling, will—’
‘STOP IT!’ He turned, threw his hands out. ‘Enough! I’m not you and Susan’s personal sperm bank. I can see who I like and it’s none of your business.’
‘Don’t you—’
‘No! We’re not talking about this any more.’ Logan thumped into the station and slammed the door in her face.
Who the hell did she think she was? Telling him what he could and couldn’t do.
And he wasn’t even doing anything.
Chance would be a fine thing.
‘Sarge? You OK?’ Nicholson froze in the corridor, outside the canteen, two mugs in her hands. ‘Only, looks like you’re about to murder someone.’
‘And I’m making a list.’
‘Right. Well …’ She backed away. ‘I’d better …’ And she was gone.
He stormed through to the main office.
Bloody Steel. Good mind to go back out there and jam his—
‘Sergeant McRae?’ Maggie looked up from her keyboard. ‘Inspector McGregor said she wants to see you soon as you’re in.’
His shoulders slumped. ‘Did she—’
‘She’s waiting for you now.’
Of course she was.
— Monday Earlyshift —
The Other Shoe.
48
The Inspector swivelled her chair from side to side. Behind her, the North Sea raged beneath a sky of clay. A spattering of raindrops killed themselves against the window. ‘I’m not sure if I should congratulate you, or give you the bollocking of your life.’
Logan didn’t try sinking into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘Guv?’
‘They did an overnight on Martyn Baker’s phone. Even if he changes his mind about the confession, there’s enough text messages on there to tie him to the shooting. Telling him to go to the scene and put the fear of the righteous man into the other gang. Others telling him to sod off to the back-end of nowhere and lie low afterwards. A couple panicking when they found out she was an undercover cop.’
‘Good. Does that mean they can tie whoever sent the messages to this as well?’
The chair swivel
led left and right. Left and right.
‘The Chief Constable’s been on the phone, congratulating B Division for catching Mary Ann Nasrallah’s killer. Here’s us, a wee police station on the northernmost edge of the northeast of Scotland, and we’re solving the biggest crime on the national news. Police Scotland saves the day.’
OK … As far as bollockings went, this one was surprisingly painless.
‘There’s going to be a letter of commendation going into your file, maybe even an award. How does that sound?’
He smiled. ‘That’s sounds—’
She slammed a hand down on the desk, rattling the keyboard. ‘Now, what the hell were you thinking?’
Not so painless after all. ‘Well, it—’
‘I gave you a direct order to stay away from Operation Troposphere, and you went ahead and arrested Martyn Baker. And don’t tell me he wasn’t connected with it, you thought he was and you arrested him anyway!’
Logan shut his mouth and kept it that way.
‘For God’s sake, Sergeant, did I not make myself perfectly clear?’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘Someone goes into a nightclub and tells people he’s selling them Ecstasy when it’s really Smarties, we still do him for selling Ecstasy. The intention is what counts. And you thought he was the Candleman!’
She glowered at him for a bit. ‘Well?’
‘Sorry.’
‘If you can’t be arsed obeying orders, how are the rest of the team supposed to? You’re the Duty Sergeant, and you’re acting like a bloody probationer. No, you know what? That’s not being fair on probationers. Tufty has more professionalism in his hairy wee backside than you just showed!’
Rain hammered against the glass behind her.
The Inspector drummed her fingers against the desk. ‘Are you finding the role too demanding, Sergeant McRae? Would you be more comfortable if I had you transferred somewhere else?’
‘No, Guv. It wasn’t meant to …’ Deep breath. ‘I apologize.’
‘Damn right you do.’ More staring. Then she sat back. Folded her arms. Swivelled her chair around to face the window. ‘There’s going to be celebratory drinks after work tonight. The Chief Constable’s personally put cash in for the kitty. It would be a good idea for you to stay out of my sight till then.’
Logan let himself out.
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