‘What happened to your leg?’
‘Rottweiler. Look, I’ve only got a minute – have you had any dead children in recently? Girls. Between four and eight years old?’
‘I had a neighbour with a Rottweiler, lovely big lump it was. Broke her heart when it got cancer.’ The APT dumped the mop back in the mangle bit of the bucket and hauled the handle down, squeezing out the dirty water. ‘Hop up on the table and I’ll take a look.’
Logan looked at the stainless-steel table, the one with guttering around the edges, and a water supply to rinse away the blood. ‘I’m … Nah, it’s OK. I’m fine.’
‘Oh come on.’ She smiled. ‘Never lost a patient yet.’
‘Ever saved one?’
A sigh. ‘That’s a good point.’ She leant the mop against the wall, then crossed to a laptop sitting on its own on an expanse of shining worktop. ‘Little girls between four and eight …’ Her fingers clicked across the keys. ‘Am I allowed to ask why?’
There’s no need to sound so dramatic, Sergeant. Where do you think the kidnappers got the thing from, Toes R Us?
Was sitting upstairs, waiting for them to put a dozen stitches in a wee boy’s feet, and I thought – where would you get a dead little girl’s toe from?’
‘Lovely.’ She shook her head, Irn-Bru curls swaying. ‘So when you think of dead little girls: I’m the one who springs to mind?’
‘Have you had any? Over the last two or three weeks? They’d have been given morphine and thiopental sodium.’
She leant her head closer to the laptop’s screen. ‘That narrows it down a bit … Here we go: female, five-year-old, brought in suffering from abdominal pains. Died on the operating table.’ A sigh. ‘Poor wee soul.’
The song on the stereo changed to All the Time in the World.
Logan limped over. ‘Could we do a DNA test? See if the toe they sent us was hers?’
‘I remember her now. Such a pretty little girl. When we opened her up she was riddled with cysts and cancer … Five years old.’
‘You’d have tissue samples though, right? We could—’
‘It’s not her.’
‘But if we check—’
‘It’s not her.’ The APT stepped back and pointed at the screen.
A photograph filled the right-hand side next to a list of post mortem notes: a little girl, lying on the cutting table, eyes taped closed, the breathing tube still in her mouth. Her skin was the colour of dusty slate, all the blood and life leached out of it.
The APT closed the laptop with a click. ‘There’s no way they could pass a toe from her off as coming from a little white girl.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ Deep breaths. Stay calm.
‘Then what did you mean, Sergeant?’ Superintendent Napier steepled his fingers, then rested his chin on the point. He smiled, dark eyes wide behind his glasses. His desk was arranged so that his back was to the window, meaning the chair reserved for visitors, supplicants, and sacrificial offerings, faced into the sun. The light made a fiery halo of Napier’s ginger hair, his black dress uniform a solid silhouette against the bright blue sky.
Logan squinted. ‘There just didn’t seem to be an opportunity to call it in. After I banged my head …’ He reached up and rubbed a spot behind his ear, just to sell the lie.
‘Ah yes. Of course. Detective Constable Rennie mentioned … where are we?’ The superintendent picked a sheet of paper from his in-tray and peered at it down his long pointy nose. ‘“He was acting all confused and had difficulty remembering the end of sentences, when I collected him. I believe he may have been concussed.”’ The paper went back in the tray. ‘A more cynical man might think you’d cooked that up between you to deflect the blame, don’t you think, Sergeant?’
‘When was the last time you were attacked by a Rottweiler?’ Or battered to death with your own office chair?
‘And I suppose it was this alleged “concussion” that made you twenty minutes late for our appointment?’ Napier swivelled from side to side, sunlight flaring in Logan’s eyes: shadow, bright, shadow, bright. ‘We’ve not had to deal with you for several months, Sergeant, but I see from Chief Inspector Young’s notes that you were in here only yesterday. Twice in two days. Are you embarking upon some kind of record attempt?’
‘They were trumped up charges by—’
‘Someone allegedly trying to extort drugs from you. Yes, I do actually read the case files of the officers I deal with, Sergeant. And a little birdie tells me that you’re having interpersonal difficulties with Chief Inspector Green from SOCA?’
Did the bastard hire a publicist? ‘We had a frank exchange of views, yes.’
‘Did you now?’ Napier swivelled again.
‘We disagreed about what was and wasn’t acceptable behaviour when interviewing sex offenders. Green thinks it’s OK to put the fear of God in them and threaten to tell their colleagues.’
‘I see …’ He sat forward, blocking out the sun. ‘So, would you say that Superintendent Green was less than receptive to Grampian Police’s thorough and rigorous approach to offender management? That he disregarded best working practice? Was contemptuous of it?’ There was that smile again, the one that made him look like a shark, about to tear into a paddling pool full of orphans.
‘Er …’ Logan was getting set up for something. ‘It was … a non-standard situation that … may have caused some confusion on his part.’
Napier raised an eyebrow. ‘I shall, of course, attempt to smooth out any difficulties in understanding. It’s important that we all get on with our colleagues from the Serious Organized Crime Agency, don’t you think?’
‘… Yes?’
The superintendent picked a silver pen from his desktop, rolled it back and forth between his fingers as if it were a shiny joint. Then returned it to its rightful place, lining it up perfectly with the edge of a desk calendar. ‘Well,’ he stuck out a hand for Logan to shake, ‘thank you for coming in, Sergeant. It’s been most … informative.’
That’s it – he was screwed.
It would just take a while to find out why, and exactly how badly.
‘Well, if you’d hold still for two minutes I wouldn’t have to, would I?’ Dr Delaney shifted her grip on Logan’s ankle. She had fingers like pliers, digging into the skin and muscle, the purple nitrile gloves pulling out leg hairs every time she moved.
‘Ow!’
‘Oh don’t be such a baby.’ She wiped a disinfectant-soaked pad across the dark-red teeth-marks again, rubbing away the scabs. Setting them bleeding again. ‘When was your last tetanus shot?’
‘No idea.’
‘You’re a silly sod. Lucky we don’t get a lot of rabies in Scotland – the needles are massive.’
Sharp, stinging pain tore up his leg. He gritted his teeth, tried not to flinch.
‘If you don’t hold still, you’re going to get gangrene and your foot’ll fall off. Is that what you want?’ She rubbed more disinfectant into the wounds.
‘Did you do a check-up on Ricky Brown?’
‘Pass me the pack of gauze.’ She tore the plastic packet open with her teeth. ‘He wasn’t exactly the most cooperative of patients.’
Dr Delaney laid a square of gauze across the huge gouges in Logan’s ankle. ‘Barely a scratch, I don’t know why you’re being such a whinge about it.’
‘He going to be OK?’
‘Nothing a decent meal and a bath wouldn’t sort out. Hospital did an excellent job on his stitches. I’ve got suits with worse needlework in them.’ She wrapped a bandage around the ankle, securing it with a claw-toothed metal thing on the end of a bit of elastic. ‘And I bet he made a lot less fuss than you did.’
‘Thanks Doc.’ Logan hopped down from the desk, then picked up his bloodstained sock and soggy shoe.
‘One more thing.’ She took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m recommending they take him into permanent care. A family full of
drug users is bad enough, but if his mum and … this Shuggie person are involved with Yardies …’
Logan limped back to his desk, popped open the top drawer and stuck his newly-washed coffee mug and teaspoon inside, then locked them away. That was the trouble with working in a police station – all the thieving bastards.
Biohazard Bob swivelled his seat around until he was facing the middle of the room. ‘Beer o’clock?’
‘Can’t.’ Doreen stayed hunched over her desk. ‘Superintendent Green wants details on every kidnapping in the area, going back five years.’
‘Logie the Bogie?’
Logan switched off his computer. ‘Green needs taking out and shot. He’s got me digging out the same info for the last ten. I’ve got Rennie doing it now.’
Doreen hunched her shoulders, grinding out the words, ‘Why – didn’t – you – say – that – three – hours – ago?’
Biohazard poked the power button on his computer. ‘Well, another day spent hunting the elusive Stinky Tarn has left me gasping for a pint.’ He picked up the slew of paperwork covering his desk, ruffled it into something approaching order, and jammed it in his pending-tray. ‘Anyone seen my stapler?’
He hauled open his top desk drawer. ‘The hell’s this?’ Bob pulled out the pair of knickers Logan had stuffed in there last week – the ones he’d found clothespegged to his lamp along with all the socks.
Bob turned them back and forth, flashing the brown streaks that covered the gusset. ‘Aye, aye, someone’s been a bittie manky.’
Doreen straightened her back, pink rushing up her cheeks. Well, don’t look at me!’
The door banged open and DI Steel grumbled into the Wee Hoose. ‘Sergeant Marshall, why aren’t …’ She frowned. ‘What are you doing?’
He twirled the skidmarked panties around his finger. ‘Just discussing personal hygiene with DS Taylor, here. Superintendent Green’s never going to want to jump in her pants if she’s left filthy bumscrapes—’
Doreen hit him. ‘Detective Sergeant Robert Marshall, I’m warning you!’
‘Behave, the pair of you.’ Steel chucked a manila folder at Bob. ‘General Enquiry Division just turned up a body on Gairn Terrace.’
‘Yeah?’ He pulled out the paperwork, flipped through it. ‘I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow, Guv, it’ll …’ A sigh. ‘Shite.’ He held up a photograph – a man’s face: nose bloated like a pockmarked golf ball, scraggly beard full of bits, unkempt hair, dirty red Aberdeen Football Club bobble hat. ‘Stinky Tam.’
‘Aye, so get your filthy panty-whirling arse out there and bring the poor bastard in.’
Bob went pink. ‘Yes, Guv.’ He hurried out the door, taking the folder with him.
‘And as for you,’ she turned and poked Logan with a finger, ‘what the hell were you thinking?’
Doreen stood. ‘Well, I guess I should really be off—’
‘No’ so fast.’ Steel slammed her hand into the doorframe, blocking the way. ‘You tell your new boyfriend Green, I don’t need somebody running around checking my work like I’m a bloody probationer. And if I catch him spreading shite around about anyone on my team again, I’m going to jam my fist so far up his arse I’ll be working him like a fucking Muppet. Understand?’
Doreen nodded. Steel lowered her hand and the DS crept out.
Steel closed the door, slowly and quietly. Now it was just her and Logan.
‘If you’re planning on shouting at me, don’t bother.’ Logan picked his jacket off the back of his seat and pulled it on. ‘I got enough of that from Napier and Finnie. I thought I could get the car back before anyone found out.’
She poked him again. ‘If you’d bloody well called it in we could’ve tracked the car and grabbed Shuggie Webster before the Yardies got him! Probably hacked into a million pieces by now!’
‘It’s not like I handed him the keys to the bloody car and said, “Nah, you go ahead and borrow it, mate; I’ll just lie here in the pissing rain!” His dog nearly ripped my face off.’
‘See, you’ve got to keep your eye on wee shites like Shuggie. Got to keep them under control. Can’t bury your head in the clouds and expect them to behave themselves. That’s just common sense.’ She picked up her mug again, took a slurp. ‘You try a GSM trace?’
‘Of course I did. He’s only turning his mobile on for a couple of minutes at a time, then moving.’
‘No’ as daft as he looks.’ She sucked at her teeth for a bit, staring off into the middle distance. ‘Get a car organized.’
‘But the shift finished—’
‘We’re going to sort out your cock-up before it gets any worse.’
28
Logan hauled on the handbrake. ‘How many more?’
‘Till we find him. And don’t be so sodding ungrateful.’
Logan groaned. ‘Shift finished two and a half hours ago, and I’ve not had a day off in weeks. What happened to the Working Time Directive?’
‘Pfff, Working Time Directive’s for poofs.’ Steel crumpled up the map and stuffed it into the already overflowing glove compartment. ‘Don’t see me complaining, do you?’ She climbed out into the evening light. Fiddled with her fake cigarette. ‘Anyway, you think Jenny and Alison McGregor don’t want a day off?’
‘Thought you said Susan was up for sex again – how come you’re not off—’
Steel scowled. ‘Don’t be so fucking personal.’ She turned and stomped towards the building.
It was a tenement in Hayton, a long row of four-storey apartment blocks: bland, grey-frontage with a stripe of red or blue paintwork marking out the stairwells. As if that was going to make the place look any better. A handful of tower blocks loomed over the buildings, rusty-oatmeal monoliths with balconies and satellite-dish acne. Someone was having a party in the nearest block, the music thumping out from an upper floor. A red balloon drifting away into the misty drizzle.
Typical: when he was in with Napier, or getting a bollocking from Finnie, it was blazing sunshine, but the minute he stepped outside FHQ – sodding raining again.
‘You just going to stand there looking gormless?’ She pushed through the brown front door. ‘Chop bloody chop.’
The smell of frying onions filled the stairwell, making Logan’s stomach growl as he followed Steel up the stairs. ‘I interviewed Victoria Murray today.’
‘Oh aye, and what was Vicious Vikki saying to it?’
‘Sounds like Alison McGregor isn’t the paragon of virtue everyone thinks. Turns out she—’
‘Used to vandalize stuff? Drink? Shagged about when she was still at school?’
‘Oh.’ Logan paused on the landing, but Steel kept climbing. ‘You interviewed her too, didn’t you?’
‘Nope.’
Logan hurried after her. ‘You must have. It’s—’
‘Don’t be a prick, Laz: it was in all the papers. How’d you think Vicious Vikki got her nickname: embezzling the housekeeping? She sold their dirty wee childhood stories to the Daily Mail. Big cries of outrage. Then OK! magazine did a spread – “Alison’s secret schoolgirl shame: ‘I was a teenage tearaway’, admits BNBS semi-finalist.” Or some shite like that. Can you no’ at least try and keep up with popular culture?’
Steel stopped on the third floor and puffed on her e-cigarette for a bit. ‘Right, same as last time. Only try no’ to look like your arse is eating your face, eh?’
‘It’s not my fault Susan won’t shag you.’
‘Just knock on the bloody door.’
Logan pulled a little nub of Blu-Tack from his pocket and squidged it over the peephole, stepped to the side, then knocked.
Nothing.
Logan banged the flat of his hand against the wood, making it shudder.
Pause.
‘Maybe they’re not …’
A voice from inside. ‘OK, OK, calm your fucking monkeys.’ There was a shuffly silence. That would be them peering through the peephole and seeing sod all.
‘Who is it?’
Logan put a tremble in his voice. ‘Dave … Dave says you can … you know? Set us up and that?’
Another pause.
‘How much?’
It didn’t matter who they were, they always knew a Dave. ‘Fifty quid?’
The clunk and rattle of deadbolts and chains. Then the door opened, and a short hairy man appeared with baggy jeans hanging down around his thighs, exposing his Calvin Klein’s, a muscle top stretched over a pot belly, fur sprouting out across his shoulders. Gold chains dangling around his neck. White powder dusting his thick moustache. ‘What’s your poison? We’ve got …’ His eyes went wide. ‘Fuck.’
DI Steel jammed her foot in the opening. ‘Evening, Willy, how’s the wife and kids?’
The smell of onions got stronger.
‘Fucking, fuck.’ Willy rubbed a hand under his nose, scrubbing the powder away. ‘It’s not what it looks like, I was just … baking a cake, well, a quiche, and … Erm …’
‘It’s your lucky day, Willy: I don’t give a toss about you violating your parole, or your dealing; just want a word with Shuggie. Know where he is?’
The wee man’s eyes darted left. ‘I … haven’t seen him. For ages.’
Steel smiled. ‘Then I take it back: it’s no’ your lucky day after all.’
Logan pulled out his handcuffs. ‘William Cunningham, I’m arresting you on suspicion—’
‘He’s a mate, I can’t just—’
Steel nodded. ‘I understand, Willy, very noble of you. Sergeant?’
‘Of possession of a controlled substance with intent to supply—’
‘Come on, Inspector, Molly’ll kill us: be reasonable.’
‘Willy, Willy, Willy – when have you ever known me to be reasonable?’
He stared at the ground. ‘Shuggie’s in the kitchen. Look, could you at least barge in or something? Make it look … you know?’
‘Nope.’ Steel patted him on the furry shoulder. ‘Lead on, eh?’
It was a nice flat. Not huge, but well laid out and tidy, painted in comforting shades with photos and prints on the walls. As they walked down the hall, Willy pulled the living room door shut, but not before Logan had seen a little kid dressed in a Spiderman costume and pink sparkly fairy wings, stomping about on stiff, chubby legs.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 19
