The road stretched out ahead, the boxy black bulk of the removal van sticking out like a lump of coal between fields of waving gold.
Logan pressed the button. ‘Tango Bravo One Two, that’s us cleared the limits. We have visual. Closing on you now.’
‘Roger that. Slowing to a halt. … And we’re blocking the road. Chuckles has stopped.’
Nicholson accelerated, taking them right up behind the van, then slamming on the brakes.
Logan poked the siren button, letting it wail as he unleashed his body-worn video from its elastic band. ‘Let’s do it.’
Out into the downpour. He wedged the peaked cap firmly over his ears – froze for a second and winced as it caught the lump on his head – grabbed a yellow high-vis from the rear seat and hauled it on as the rain trickled down the back of his neck.
Nicholson scrambled out the other side, pulling on her coat as they sploshed through the puddles either side of the removal van. Up to the cab.
The guy behind the wheel, Chuckles, didn’t move. Kept his hands at ten to two. The three men sitting next to him did their best to look relaxed. Nothing to see here. Move along.
The two-person crew of Tango Bravo One Two appeared in their high-vis. Four against four.
Logan reached up and knocked on the driver’s window.
A pause.
Rain thumped out a tattoo on Logan’s peaked cap. Pattered against his fluorescent-yellow shoulders.
Then the window buzzed down.
A smile pulled Chuckles’s cheeks into rosy apples. ‘Something up, Officer?’ Not a local accent, but still Scottish. Dundee maybe? Not sing-song enough for Fife. Big lad, his head almost scraping the top of the cab. Long brown hair. Green overalls.
‘This your vehicle, sir?’
‘Nah, I’m just the driver. Know what it’s like with these removal firms, eh? All we do is drive about and hump the heavy stuff from A to B.’
‘And your name?’
‘And it’s always at the top of the stairs, isn’t it lads? The heavier the bit of furniture, the more flights you’ve got to lug it up.’
His mates nodded. Made agreeing noises that weren’t actually words. All of them in green overalls, all of them big enough to give Constable King Kong McMahon a thump for his money. Larry, Curly, and Moe.
‘Your name, sir.’
‘Yeah, of course. It’s Russell. Russell McNee. Was I speeding or something?’
‘I need you to give me the keys and step out of the vehicle, sir.’
‘Come on, I wasn’t speeding, I know I wasn’t. This is—’
‘Keys. Please.’ Logan stuck his hand out.
No one moved.
Rain.
‘All units, be on the lookout for Terrence and Jon McAuley. Both have apprehension warrants for an aggravated assault on Saturday night.’
More rain.
This was it. Either they came quietly, or—
Moe – the one on the far side – broke. He yanked off his seatbelt and threw the passenger door open. It slammed into Nicholson, sending her crashing back into a barbed-wire knot of brambles. And he was off, jumping the fence and charging into the field of wheat.
It took less than two seconds for Nicholson to swear herself back upright and hammer after him, bowler hat tumbling off as she ran.
Closer … Closer … Closer … Then thump, she slammed into him and they went down in a tangle of arms and legs that disappeared beneath the surface of the wheat.
McNee looked down at Logan. Sighed. Then pulled the keys from the ignition and handed them over. ‘He always was an idiot.’
One of the officers from Tango Bravo One Two scrambled over the fence and waded into the field. He’d barely gone six feet before Nicholson emerged from the wheat, hauling her new captive up with her – both hands cuffed behind his back.
Don’t mess with Calamity Janet.
Logan jerked his head towards the removal van’s big black box. ‘You want to show me what’s inside?’
‘Not really.’ But McNee climbed down from the cab anyway, stomped around to the back roller doors, unlocked the heavy padlock. Then hauled on the lever. The door clattered up, revealing the back end of a brown Ford Ranger. Thick scrapes buckled and scarred the paintwork, the bumper all dented and barely hanging on. A set of metal ramps were secured against the van wall. Four ratchet straps fixed the battered four-by-four to tie-down points on the floor.
Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, well, well.’ No wonder they could never find the cars that did the actual ram-raiding.
McNee licked his lips. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Look: I drive the van. I do what I’m told. It’s the other guys who’re in charge.’
‘Aye, right. And where’s the cash machine you boosted from the Strichen Co-op last night? That in the back too?’
He ran a hand across his face, pulling it out of shape. ‘Knew it was going to be a bad day when I woke up this morning.’
50
A uniformed officer hurried across the car park behind Fraserburgh station, an Asda carrier bag dangling from one hand, the other pinning his peaked cap to his head. Rain bounced off the shoulders of his high-vis jacket, dripping off the hem like a personal waterfall. He gave the Big Car a quick nod as he passed, then disappeared through the back door into the place.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, Nicholson raised an eyebrow, mouth contorted into a half-smile, half-frown. Little red lines scratched around the side of her cheeks, each bearing tiny dots of dried blood like jewels on a necklace. ‘The Cashline Ram-Raiders, and the scumbag who shot Constable Mary Ann Nasrallah. Not bad for an old man.’
A grin cracked across Logan’s face. ‘Shut up and drive.’ He poked the Duty Inspector’s number into his Airwave handset. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’
‘Go ahead, Sergeant.’
So he was still ‘Sergeant’, was he? Time to change that.
‘We’ve caught the Cashline Ram-Raiders.’
Nothing.
Nicholson pulled away from Fraserburgh station, joining the steady stream of lunchtime traffic.
‘You still there, Guv?’
‘You caught them?’
‘And done the preliminary interviews. Three of the gang are no-commenting, but the guy who drives the removal van has dobbed the lot of them in. Get the feeling they’ll reciprocate soon as they find out he’s shafted them.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Three hours ago, about a mile south of New Aberdour. Got backup from Mintlaw Traffic.’
The houses thinned, then disappeared in the rear-view mirror.
‘And it’s definitely them?’
‘They do the raid with a stolen car, race off to where they’ve got a big removal van waiting, down some quiet wee country road, and they load the four-by-four into the back using a pair of metal ramps. Strap the car down, close the door, and drive the van back the way they came. Any police pursuit wheechs right past them like a bunch of numpties with all lights blazing.’
Blue patches peeked through between the heavy clouds. A rainbow marked the death of the fallen rain.
‘Logan, that’s excellent. Really, excellent.’
And he was ‘Logan’ again. ‘Couldn’t have done it without Constables Nicholson, Scott, and Quirrel. Proper team effort.’
Sitting behind the wheel, Nicholson beamed.
‘Then we’re on for drinks tonight. I may even spring for chips.’
‘Thanks, Guv.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Heading back to Banff now. Late lunch, then off patrolling again.’
A shaft of sunlight made it through the lid of grey, making the fields glow.
Nicholson glanced at him. ‘Did they get a replacement for Sergeant Muir then?’
‘No idea.’
‘Well, how are you going to make chips and drinks if you’re pulling a green shift?’
Go
od point. He pressed the button again. ‘Guv, you still there? Anyone standing in for Davey Muir tonight?’
‘Damn.’ There was a pause. ‘No, not yet. Let me have a rake around. Must be someone who needs the overtime.’
‘Thanks, Guv.’ Beer and chips … The smile died on his face. What about Helen? Assuming, of course, she was still there when he got back. It wasn’t her daughter, why would she hang around a wee town on the north coast of Aberdeenshire? No, she’d be off to the next abduction scene. Chasing the hope. Goodbye, Banff. Goodbye, Logan.
Couldn’t really blame her.
But it had been nice to have someone there for a change. Even if it was only for a—
Nicholson poked him in the arm. ‘Sarge, you OK?’ She pointed at the Airwave in his hand.
‘Hello? Logan? You still there?’
‘Sorry, Guv, thought I saw something.’
‘Logan, when you’ve eaten, I need you back in the station. You’ve got an appointment.’
‘I do? OK.’ That was news. ‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Chief Superintendent Napier.’
Again?
Typical: couldn’t even enjoy half an hour of success without the ginger whinger swooping down and spoiling everything.
‘He say what it’s about?’
‘Operation Troposphere.’
Great. Just great.
Nicholson pulled up outside the Sergeant’s Hoose. Cleared her throat, and kept her eyes dead ahead. ‘Sarge, is it true you’re … Well, that you and the dead wee kid’s mum are … You know?’
‘No. Now go get yourself some lunch and I’ll see you back in the station at quarter to.’
A small sigh. ‘Sarge.’
He climbed out into the sun. Leaned back into the car. ‘And get some Savlon on those scratches.’ Then thunked the door closed and watched the Big Car drive away.
Logan pulled out his phone and selected Steel ~ Mob from his contacts. Above his head, clouds chased each other across the dark-grey sky, wind whipping the weeds growing in the Sergeant’s Hoose gutters. Have to do something about that.
A plastic bag went tumbling by.
Then, ‘Aye, this is Steel. No’ answering the phone right now, but you can blah, blah, blah …’ Beeeeep.
‘It’s Logan. Listen, Napier’s turned up at Banff station wanting to give me another bollocking about Operation Troposphere. Call me back, OK?’
He put his phone away, then let himself in through the front door. ‘Helen? You there?’
Silence.
Of course she wasn’t. She was on her way back to Edinburgh, looking for the next lead on her missing daughter.
His shoulders dipped a little.
Then thump, thump, thump, as Cthulhu pooked her way down the stairs. She wound herself around his ankles, purring and meeping.
‘Still got each other, haven’t we?’ He bent and scooped her up, turning her upside down and rubbing her tummy as she stretched out her arms and legs, rumbling like ball bearings in a tumble drier. ‘Who’s Daddy’s best kitten?’ He carried her down the hall towards the kitchen. ‘You are. Yes you are. You’re my pretty little girl.’
He pushed the door open and stopped.
Helen sat at the little table, with a mug of what probably used to be tea and a bottle of supermarket brandy. When she looked up her eyes were red, her nose too. She sniffed, wiped the back of a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry.’
‘What happened?’
‘She’s not dead.’
Logan turned Cthulhu the right way up and lowered her onto the table. ‘I thought that was a good thing this morning?’
The cat stood where she was for a moment, then butted her head against Helen’s shoulder and thumped down to the floor. Wandered off with her tail in the air and her bumhole on display.
‘It is. It isn’t.’ She poured a slug of brandy into her mug, then took a sip. ‘Like being beaten up, every time.’
He sank into the chair opposite. ‘I’m sorry it’s not her. And I’m glad she’s not dead.’
‘I didn’t even make anything for lunch.’
‘Don’t worry about it. There’s still some leftover mince and tatties, I could microwave that? Or we could tart it up with baked beans and make Mexican mince? Be like the Seventies all over again.’
She stared at the bitten fingernails resting against the brandy bottle. ‘Logan …’
‘I know.’ He stood. Fought his way out of his protective gear. ‘You have to go.’ He took the bowl of mince out of the fridge and topped it up with a tin of own-brand beans. Chucked in some chilli powder and stirred the lot into a gloopy mush. Kept his eyes on the lumpy surface, not looking at her. ‘But you don’t have to go right now, do you? You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’ It went in the microwave, at full power. ‘Why not stay till your next lead comes up? It’s … nice having you here.’
Lunch buzzed around in its slow pirouette.
Behind him: the sound of a chair scraping backwards. Then her arms wrapped around his chest, squeezing. He put a hand on hers.
She kissed the back of his neck. ‘Your poor head’s all bruised.’
‘Helen, I—’
‘Shh … No talking.’
By the time the microwave went ping, they were already upstairs.
Nicholson frowned at him. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing happened.’ Logan chucked his teabag in the bin. ‘I smile like this all the time.’
‘No you don’t. Your cheeks are all rosy too.’
‘Had a good lunch.’ Milk. Stir. Let the spoon clang and clatter in the stainless-steel sink. ‘You seen Tufty? I popped past the Spotty Bag Shop and made him a badge.’
‘Out patrolling with Deano.’
Logan dug into his pocket and produced the paper bag the badge came in. Held it out.
Nicholson peered inside. ‘Oh. Erm …’ Wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. ‘Not to be funny, Sarge, but that’s not how you spell “genius”.’
‘I know. How long do you think it’ll take him to notice?’
‘Fiver says Wednesday.’
‘I bet he’s still wearing it when we start back on nights, Friday.’ Logan took a sip of tea. Glanced up at the ceiling. Two floors up, Napier was waiting. Ah well. ‘Right, I’ve got a meeting. Take the Big Car and drift about on Rundle for a bit, then head over to Macduff and see if you can find something out about that peeping tom. Look for patterns – are there specific days he likes to peep? What about times?’
‘Sarge.’
Logan took his tea through to the Sergeants’ Office. Someone had dumped a big box of stolen garden gnomes on his desk, so he shifted them to the other side. Then stood, staring out of the window.
Steel was out there, marching up and down in the courtyard behind the building, phone pressed to her ear.
‘Sergeant McRae?’
He turned.
Maggie stood in the doorway holding a short stack of Post-it notes. ‘Got some messages.’
‘Let me guess: I’ve won the lottery?’
‘Sorry.’ She peered at Post-it number one. ‘A Lesley Spinney’s been in three times, demanding to know when she can get back in her house. Klingon’s mother?’
‘No idea. She’ll have to ask DCI McInnes – I’m not allowed to interfere.’ A point that Napier was no doubt about to ram home with a tiny size-six boot.
Post-it number two. ‘We’ve had a complaint about an … ahem, “aroused” male dancing naked down Harbour Road in Gardenstown?’
‘Tell Deano and Tufty to take a swing by, see if anyone recognizes this fine upstanding member of the community.’
Post-it number three. ‘Sean MacLauchlan called – he’s running the investigation into the fire last night. Says it was definitely deliberate. Apparently something about the burn patterns means the place was doused with petrol first, then torched.’
No
t exactly a huge surprise, but at least they were doing something.
‘Thanks, Maggie.’
He took his tea through to the main office. Deano appeared in the doorway, head down, shoulders back, face like a Rottweiler eating nettles, storming by on his way to the Constables’ Office. Thirty seconds later, Tufty lumbered by, straining under the weight of a large plastic crate.
Logan pointed. ‘What did you do to Deano?’
‘Wasn’t me, Sarge.’ Tufty shuffled into the room and lowered his crate down onto an empty desk. ‘God, these weigh a ton.’
‘Come on: he looked like he was about to murder someone.’
Tufty reached into the crate and produced a garden gnome. ‘Found them planked in the graveyard, posed like they were having a wee orgy.’ He pulled another one out and made them kiss. ‘Oh yeah, you’re so sexy Mr Fishy Gnome. I love you too Mr Diggy Gnome.’ He puckered his lips and made kissy-kissy noises. Looked up. ‘What?’
‘Never mind, I know what you did.’
The gnomes went back in the crate. ‘I went digging, like you asked, Sarge.’ Tufty produced his notepad. ‘Helen Edwards’s ex-husband, Brian Menendez Edwards: thirty-eight, IC-Two male, born in Kilmarnock. Went to Stirling University studying—’
‘Skip to the relevant bit, while we’re all still young enough to enjoy it.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He flipped forward a couple of pages. ‘Here we go: Brian Edwards did a runner from the accountants he worked at not long before a massive fraud turned up. Firm says he got away with quarter of a million. Went out to lunch, picked up his daughter from school – middle of a PE lesson – and got the next flight to Spain from Edinburgh airport.’
‘He pack bags and things?’
‘Yup. Bought his tickets in advance as well. Looks like he’d been planning it for weeks. Far as local plod could tell, he got met at the airport by a cousin from Vilar.’ Tufty waved his other hand from side to side. ‘Sort of in the west of the country, not that touristy. His mum’s family have a farm in the hills around there.’
‘Extradition?’
‘No joy. Sounds like a pretty half-arsed investigation to be honest. I checked births, marriages, and death records online, but nothing for Brian Edwards. So I tried the family name, Guerra, in case he changed his, you know, to blend in? A Brian Menendez Guerra got married in the Iglesia Catedral de San Martín, Ourense.’ Tufty put on a Spanish accent for the place names. ‘That was three months after Brian Menendez Edwards got off the plane with his kidnapped wee girl. So technically he’d still be married to Helen Edwards at the time.’
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