Jackie shrugged and held it up, the cast covered in biro signatures. 'Itches like a bastard.' She reached over and took his hand, her pale fingertips protruding from the end of the plaster like a hermit crab's legs. 'You can have some of my chips if you like.' That produced a small smile from Logan and he helped himself to one, but his heart wasn't in it. Jackie made a start on the haddock. 'Don't know why I bothered talking the bloody FMO into letting me come back on light duties: all they'll let me do is file stuff.' Dr McCafferty, the Force Medical Officer, was a dirty old man with a permanent sniff and a thing for women in uniform. There was no way he could refuse Jackie when she turned on the charm. 'Tell you: no bugger here has the faintest clue about alphabetization. The amount of things I've found under "T" when it should be . . .' But Logan wasn't listening. He was watching DI Insch and Inspector Napier enter the canteen. Neither of them looked particularly happy. Insch hooked a finger in the air and made 'come hither' motions. Jackie gave Logan's hand one last squeeze. 'Screw them,' she said. 'It's just a job.' Just a job. They went to the nearest empty office, where Insch closed the door, sat on the edge of a desk, and pulled out a packet of Liquorice Allsorts. He helped himself and offered the packet to Logan, excluding Napier. The inspector from Professional Standards pretended not to notice. 'Sergeant McRae,' he said, 'I have spoken to the Chief Constable about your situation and you will be pleased to know that I have been able to convince him not to suspend, demote or dismiss you.' It sounded bloody unlikely, but Logan knew better than to say anything. 'However,' Napier picked some imaginary fluff from the sleeve of his immaculate uniform, 'the Chief Constable feels that you have had too much freedom of late, and perhaps require more "immediate supervision".' Insch bristled at that, his eyes like angry black
coals in his large pink face. Napier ignored him. 'As such you will be assigned to DI Steel's team. She has a much less demanding caseload than Inspector Insch and will have more time to devote to your "professional development".' Logan tried not to wince. A transfer to the Screw-Up Squad, that was all he needed. Napier smiled at him coldly. 'I hope you will look upon this as an opportunity to redeem yourself, Sergeant.' Logan mumbled something about giving it his best shot and Napier oozed out of the room, reeking with triumph. Insch dug a fat finger into the packet of Allsorts and stuffed a black-and-white cube into his mouth, chewing as he put on a reasonable impersonation of Napier's nasal tones: '"I have been able to convince him not to suspend, demote or dismiss you" my arse.' The cube was followed by a coconut wheel. 'Wee bugger will have been in there with the knife. The CC doesn't want to fire you 'cos you're a bona ride police hero. Says so in the papers, so it must be true. And anyway, Napier can do sod all till they've finished the internal investigation. If he thought there was any chance of doing you for culpable negligence or gross misconduct you would've been suspended already. You'll be fine. Don't worry about it.' 'But DI Steel?' Insch shrugged philosophically and munched on a pink aniseed disk. 'Aye, there is that. So you're on the Screw-Up Squad: so what? Get your finger out, don't do anything stupid and you'll be OK.' He paused and thought about it. 'Long as PC Maitland doesn't die, that is.' �
DI Insch ran a tight ship. A stickler for punctuality, preparation and professionalism, his briefings were clear and concise. DI Steel's, on the other hand, seemed to be pretty much a shambles. There was no clear agenda and everyone talked at once, while Steel sat by an open window puffing away on an
endless chain of cigarettes, scratching her armpit. She wasn't much over forty, but looked a damn sight older. Wrinkles ran rampant over her pointy face, her neck hanging from her sharp chin like a wet sock. Something terrible had happened to her hair, but everyone was too afraid to mention it. Her team was relatively small - no more than half a dozen CID and a couple of uniforms - so they didn't sit in ordered rows like DI Insch insisted on, just clustered around a handful of chipped tables. They weren't even talking about work; half the room was on 'did you see EastEnders last night?' and the other half on what a bloody shambles the last Aberdeen-St Mirren football match was. Logan sat on his own in silence, staring out the window at a crystal-blue sky, wondering where it had all gone wrong. The door to the briefing room opened and someone in a brand-new suit backed in, carrying a tray of coffee and chocolate biscuits. It went onto the middle table, starting a feeding frenzy, and as the figure straightened up Logan finally recognized him. PC Simon Rennie, now a detective constable. He spotted Logan, smiled, grabbed two coffees and a handful of chocolate biscuits before joining Logan at the window. Grinning as he handed over one of the chipped mugs. He looked awfully pleased with himself. DI Steel took a sip of coffee, shuddered and lit up another cigarette. 'Right,' she said, her head wreathed in smoke, 'now that DC Rennie has delivered the creosote, we can get started.' Conversation drifted to a halt. 'As you boys and girls can see, we have a couple of new recruits.' She pointed at Logan and DC Rennie, then made them stand so a half-hearted round of applause could be wrung from the rest of her team. 'These two have been selected from the hundreds of keen applicants, desperate to join our ranks.' That got a small scattering of laughter. 'Before we go any further I'd like to give our newest members the standard intro speech.'
That got a groan. 'You are all here for one reason and one reason only,' she said, scratching. 'Like me, you are a fuck-up, and no one else will have you.' DC Rennie looked affronted: this wasn't what he'd been told! He'd only been a DC for three days, how could he have screwed up? Steel listened to him with sympathy, before apologizing. 'Sorry, Constable: my mistake. Everyone else is here because they've fucked up; you're here because everyone expects you to fuck up.' More laughter. The inspector let it die down before carrying on. 'But just because those bastards think we're worthless, doesn't mean we have to prove them right! We will do a damn good job: we will catch crooks and we will get the bastards convicted. Understood?' She glared around the room. 'We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up.' There was a pause. 'Come on, say it with me: "We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up".' The response was lacklustre. 'Come on. Once more with feeling: "We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!"' This time everyone joined in. Logan snuck a look at the other people in the tiny, untidy room. Who were they kidding? Not only were they at home to Mr Fuck-Up, they'd made up the spare bed and told him to stay for as long as he liked. But DI Steel's speech seemed to have a galvanizing effect on her team. Backs straight and heads held high, they all went through their current assignments and any progress they'd made. Which generally wasn't much. Up at the hospital, an unknown man was showing his willy to anyone daft enough to look; there was a spree of shoplifting going on at the local Ann Summers - naughty lingerie and 'adult' toys; someone was sneaking in and helping themselves to the till at a number of fast-food joints; and two men had beaten the crap out of a bouncer outside Amadeus, the big nightclub down at the beach. When the updates were finished DI Steel told everyone to bugger off
outside and play in the sunshine, but she asked Logan to stay behind. 'Mr Police Hero she said when they were alone. 'Never thought you'd end up in here. Not like the rest of us no-hopers.' 'PC Maitland,' Logan told her. 'The straw that broke the camel's back.' Other than WPC Jackie Watson, his luck had been nonexistent since Christmas. Since then everything that could go wrong, had. Steel nodded. Her luck hadn't been much better. She leant forward and whispered conspiratorially into his ear, engulfing his head in a cloud of second-hand cigarette smoke. 'If anyone can work their way out of this crummy team back to the real world, it's you. You're a damn fine officer.' She stepped back and smiled at him, the wrinkles bunching around her eyes. 'Mind you, I say that to all the new recruits. But in your case I mean it.' Somehow that didn't make him feel any better.
Half an hour later Logan and DI Steel were sat in the back of a newish Vauxhall with DC Rennie driving and a family liaison officer in the passenger seat. Somehow Steel had managed to convince the Chief Constable to give her the Rosie Williams case - probably only because DI Insch was up to his ears and no one else was free, but Logan wa
sn't about to say so. According to Steel this was her chance to shine again. She and Logan were going to solve the case and get the hell out of the Screw-Up Squad. Let someone else look after the no-hopers for a change. Rennie slid the car around the bloated bulk of Mount Hooly roundabout, making for Powis. No one said much. Logan was brooding about being transferred to the Screw Up Squad, Rennie was sulking because the inspector had said he was expected to fuck up, and DI Steel was expending all her effort on not smoking. The family liaison officer had tried to strike up conversation a couple of times, but eventually
gave up and descended into a foul mood of her own. Which was a shame, because it was a lovely day outside. Not a cloud in the sky, the granite buildings sparkling in the sunshine, happy smiley people wandering about hand in hand. Enjoying the weather while it lasted. It would be freezing cold and bucketing with rain soon enough. Rennie swung the car around onto Bedford Road and then left again into Powis. Past a small set of shops: wire mesh over the windows, graffiti over the walls, leading to a long, sweeping, circular road lined with three-storey tenement blocks. They found Rosie's address in a row of boarded-up properties with a yellow Aberdeen City Council van parked outside, the sound of power tools echoing out of the open stairwell next door. Rennie parked out front. 'Right,' said Steel, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her pocket, fingering them, and stuffing them back again, unsmoked. 'What do we have on the next of kin?' 'Two kids, no husband. According to Vice she's currently involved with one Jamie McKinnon,' said the family liaison officer. 'Conflicting reports on whether he's her boyfriend or pimp. Maybe a little of both.' 'Oh aye? Wee Jamie McKinnon? Would've thought "toy boy" was closer to the mark; she's got to be twice his age!' Steel gave a big, snorting sniff, and chewed thoughtfully for a while. 'Come on then,' she said at last. 'Job's not going to do itself.' They left DC Rennie watching the car, trying not to look like a plainclothes police officer and failing miserably. Rosie's flat was on the middle floor. There was a window set into the stairwell, but it was covered over with a flattened cardboard box parcel-taped into place, shrouding the hallway in gloom. The door was featureless grey with a rusty brass spyhole set into it, a faint glimmer of light shining through from the flat into the murky hall. Taking a deep breath, DI Steel knocked.
No response. She tried again, harder this time, and Logan could have sworn he heard something being dragged against the other side of the door. The inspector knocked again. And the light in the spy hole went out. 'Come on, Jamie, we know you're in there. Let us in, eh?' There was a small pause, and then a high-pitched voice said, 'Fuck off. We're no' wantin' any police bastards today, thanks.' DI Steel squinted at the spy hole. 'Jamie? Come on, stop buggering about. We need to talk to you about Rosie. It's important.' Another pause. 'What about her?' 'Come on, Jamie, open the door.' 'No. Fuck off.' The inspector ran a tired hand across her forehead. 'She's dead, Jamie. I'm sorry. Rosie's dead. We need you to come down and identify her.' This time the silence stretched out far longer than before. And then the sound of something being dragged away from the door, a chain being undone, a deadbolt being drawn back, and the door being unlocked. It opened to reveal an ugly child wearing an out-of-date Aberdeen Football Club top, tatty jeans and huge sneakers, laced up gangsta-stylie. The haircut was pudding bowl on top and shaved up the sides. Behind him was a tatty dining-room chair. He couldn't have been much more than seven. 'What do you mean, "she's dead"?' Suspicion was written all over his blunt features. Steel looked down at the kid. 'Is your daddy home?' The child sneered. 'Jamie's no' my dad, he's just some fuckin' waster Mum's shaggin'. She kicked his arse oot weeks ago. Fuck knows who my "daddy" is, 'cos Mum hasn't got a fuckin' clue . . .' He stopped and examined the visitors on his doorstep. 'She really dead?'
Steel nodded. 'I'm sorry, Son, you shouldn't have found out like this The kid took a deep breath, bit his bottom lip, and then said, 'Aye, well. Shit happens.' He went to slam the door in their faces, but Steel had her foot wedged firmly against the hinges. In one of the other rooms they could hear a baby start to cry. The family liaison officer dropped down to the kid's eye level and said, 'Hello, my name's Alison. Who's looking after you while your mummy's away?' The kid looked at her, then at Steel, and then back again. 'How fuckin' stupit are you? "Mummy's" no' away. "Mummy's" dead.' But the defiant edge to his voice was starting to crumble. 'Understand you stupit cow? She's dead!' In the back room the baby bawled louder and the kid turned and roared a tirade of abuse in its direction, telling it what was going to happen, if it didn't shut up right now! By the time he'd "inished there were tears in his eyes. They let the family liaison officer to call Social Services and have the children taken into care.
Logan was on a serious low by the time they got back to Force Headquarters. Telling the kid that he and his baby sister were off to the children's home had just put the perfect cap on the day. The kicking, the swearing, spitting, threats . . . At least now they had a suspect. Jamie McKinnon: Rosie Williams's pimp and ex-toy boy. He had prior for assault, possession with intent, breaking and entering, shoplifting, stealing motors. You name it, Jamie had tried it. According to the kid, Rosie had kicked Jamie out for beating her up so badly she couldn't work for a week. DI Steel had Control radio every patrol car in the city. She wanted Jamie brought in, on a voly if possible, in cuffs if not. 'Well,' she said when the call had gone out, 'anything else I should know about?' Logan told her about the new deputy
fiscal and her desire to collect used condoms. Steel laughed so hard Logan thought she was going to bring up a lung. 'Rather you than me, Sunshine!' she said, wiping a tear from her eye. 'What's so funny?' 'You telling the search team to go hunting for nearly-new prophylactics! They'll have a fit!' 'How come I have to tell them? You're the one in charge!' Steel grinned broadly at him, cigarette smoke oozing out between her teeth. 'Delegation, Mr Police Hero. I delegate, you do.' She pointed him at the door. 'Off you go.' Only remembering at the last minute: 'Oh, and while you're at it, you can phone your new condom-loving friend and get an apprehension warrant for Jamie.' Logan stomped off to the lifts. This was so like DI Steel. He did all the work; she smoked fags and took the credit. Grumbling, he called Rachael Tulloch and told her about Jamie McKinnon. She promised to set up a warrant ASAP. Then Logan called Control and got them to patch him through to the team searching the alley. They weren't happy when he said they had to start collecting every condom they could find. Not happy at all. But by then Logan was past caring. It was nearly five o'clock and he'd been on duty for fourteen and a half hours. The day shift was over. It was time to go home.
There was something nasty sitting on Logan's desk when he turned up for work on Wednesday morning. The search team had done as he'd asked, bagging and tagging each and every single used condom they could find in Shore Lane. And there were a hell of a lot of them; little slimy latex tubes oozing their contents out into individual evidence bags, all piled up in his in-tray. Grimacing, Logan scooped them all into a cardboard box, trying not to think about what was making the little bags so cold and clammy. DI Steel didn't turn up for the morning briefing, so the Screw Up Squad just sat around their tables, drinking coffee and talking. Today's topic was 'Harry Potter, seminal moment in world cinema, or a load of old wank? Discuss.' Logan left them to it, taking his box of used condoms down to the morgue where they could be frozen for future analysis. Procurators Fiscal: go figure. He pushed through the large double doors, onto the sparkling clean tiled floor of the cutting room. There was no sign of yesterday's rancid-barbecue reek. Instead everything smelled of formalin and pine disinfectant. Standing with her back to the doors was a familiar figure, prodding
away at something in a bucket on the dissecting table. Logan's heart sank even further. 'Morning,' he said and she turned to look at him. Dr Isobel MacAlister, the Ice Queen, Chief Pathologist, ex girlfriend, fellow victim. Looking a lot better than she had yesterday morning: her neatly bobbed hair held prisoner beneath a green surgical cap, the perfect bow of her lips hidden behind a green surgical m
ask. She blushed. As usual she was dressed like she'd just stepped off a catwalk: cream linen suit, silk blouse and tan leather boots, with an open white lab coat over the top. Golden jewellery trapped beneath the latex gloves. Obviously not getting ready to hack some poor sod up. 'Good morning,' awkward pause. 'How are you?' Logan shrugged. 'Same old. You feeling any better?' For a split second she looked puzzled, and then it clicked. 'Oh, this morning . . .' It was her turn to shrug. 'Just a stomach bug.' 'What, two days on the trot?' he asked. 'No pun intended.' That almost got a smile. 'Did you want something in particular, or are you just down here for a clip round the ear?' 'Nope, official business . . .' Logan turned and snuck a peek into Isobel's bucket: a human brain, floating upside down in formalin, the preservative going slightly milky around the grey, whorled surface. Trying not to shudder, he popped his cardboard box up on the table next to the bucket. 'Got a present for you.' Isobel raised an eyebrow and dug out one of the little plastic evidence bags, holding it up to the light so she could see the slimy contents more clearly. A smile made her eyes sparkle. 'How sweet,' she said, 'used contraceptives. And they say romance is dead . . .' She rummaged about in the box. 'There's got to be a couple of hundred of them in here. You'll go blind.' It was Logan's turn to blush. 'They're not mine. It's the
McRae 2 - Dying Light Page 3
