He gave them a smile. ‘Ah, Kim, I was on my way to see you.’
DI Fraser narrowed her eyes. ‘Were you now?’
He nodded at her miniature friends. ‘Roberta, Tufty.’
Tufty beamed back. ‘Hi, Sarge. I mean, Inspector. Sorry, force of habit.’
Steel made a cross with her fingers, as if she was trying to ward off vampires, and hissed at him like an angry cat.
‘OK…’ He turned back to Fraser instead. ‘You’re running the Ellie Morton case. Can we have a word?’
‘I’m a bit busy trying to track down a missing three-year-old.’
Logan stayed where he was. Saying nothing.
She rolled her eyes and slumped. ‘Urgh… Go on then.’
‘Somewhere a bit more private?’
Fraser snapped her fingers. ‘Tufty: one tea, so milky it’s borderline offensive; two coffees, one with sugar, one black. Roberta: go chase up the media office about that appeal.’
Tufty scurried away, but Steel lingered.
‘Now, Roberta.’
Another hiss, and Steel stomped off back down the stairs.
‘And stop hissing at people!’ Fraser grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘She’s upset because I won’t babysit tonight.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What’s happening with Ellie Morton?’
‘Why?’
‘You put in a complaint about DS Chalmers.’
‘Ah.’ Pink flushed Fraser’s cheeks. She cleared her throat. ‘Maybe we should talk about this in private.’
Photos covered Fraser’s office walls. Most were family gatherings, but pride of place went to a big portrait of a black Labrador by the name of Maggie, going by the plaque mounted on the frame.
Fraser dumped her huge handbag on the desk and settled into the chair behind it. ‘Ellie Morton went missing Monday morning. The mother leaves her alone in the back garden and nips to the shops for a pack of fags and four tins of own-brand lager. It’s a Co-op at the end of the street: so a five-minute trip, tops. She stops to talk to a friend on the way back, which means Ellie – and I can’t stress this strongly enough – a three-year-old girl was left unsupervised for approximately twenty, twenty-five minutes.’
Logan leaned against the short row of filing cabinets. ‘Forensics?’
‘Nothing useful. No fingerprints, no footprints, no sign of fibres or a struggle. Garden backs onto a path that sees a fair bit of traffic.’ Fraser dug her iPhone out of The Gargantuan Handbag Of Doom and fiddled with it. ‘You know what it’s like with child abduction cases: if you don’t get a major break in the first twenty-four hours…’ Was she Tweeting? ‘No one saw Ellie run away, no one saw someone take her. We’ve got a few reports of a red car, or maybe a blue one, estate and-slash-or hatchback in the vicinity, but that’s it.’
‘And DS Chalmers?’
A hard sigh. ‘I thought she’d turned herself around, I really did. Yes, she’s always been ambitious, driven, but… I don’t know.’ Fraser put her phone down. ‘I ask her to go interview someone, she doesn’t do it. I tell her to do door-to-doors, she never shows up. I order her to help search the neighbourhood sheds and garages, she goes AWOL.’
No surprises there, then.
‘Where is she now?’
‘Tillydrone: breaking the stepfather’s alibi. Or at least she’s supposed to be. God knows, half the time.’
Logan softened his voice. ‘What happens when you talk to her about it?’
‘Might as well paint a penguin on your willy and call it Antarctica. She’s sorry; she’ll change; she’s going through a rough time right now.’ Fraser reached into her desk drawer and produced a blue folder. Thumped it on the desk. ‘I documented every infraction, every meeting, and every outcome.’
‘You should’ve come to me earlier.’
‘I know, I know. But … sometimes they just need a slap on the wrist. Getting your lot involved isn’t…’ She went back to fiddling with her phone again. ‘They’re still my people.’
‘Professional Standards aren’t here to screw people, Kim. We’re here to help.’ Logan picked up the folder and stuck it under his arm. ‘Do you still want her in your team?’
Fraser kept her eyes on her phone’s screen. ‘I… We’re looking for a wee girl, Inspector McRae. We can’t afford to lose this time.’ She finally looked up. ‘And loyalty has to go both ways.’
Why did everything require nine million forms to be completed in triplicate? Couldn’t go for a pee in the police without a Three-Sixty-Nine B, two corroborating witnesses, and a—
Logan’s phone dinged.
HORRIBLE STEEL:
Look, how about a compromise? You babysit J&N tonight and I’ll look after Cthulhu if you want to take Ginger McHotpants on a dirty weekend later.
Reply:
No. And stop calling her ”Ginger McHotpants”!
He’d barely hit ‘SEND’ when the office door thumped open and Steel slouched in. The phone in her pocket chirruped as she settled on the edge of his desk.
‘That better be you texting me back in the positive, Laz.’
Logan put his phone down, sat forwards in his seat, steepled his fingers, and stared at her. ‘Ah, Detective Sergeant Steel, I wanted a word with you.’
‘If the word’s no’ “I’d be delighted to babysit” I don’t want to hear it.’
‘DS Lorna Chalmers: tell me about her.’
A shrug. ‘Magnificent breasts, so-so arse. But overall? I’d still ride her like a broken donkey.’
Oh God, there was an image.
‘No! What’s she like to work with?’
‘Aye, because I’m going to clype on one of my team to you sneaky Professional Standards scumbags.’
‘Scumbags?’
‘With all due blah, blah, blah, etcetera. Now what about that babysitting?’
He folded his arms. ‘I’m busy.’
‘No you’re no’. You have all the social life of a garden gnome.’
‘Yes I am. But maybe if you scratched my back…?’ Leaving it hanging.
‘Lorna Chalmers is a pain in the hoop,’ Steel stood, ‘but I’m still no’ clyping on her.’
Interesting.
‘But you admit there’s something to clype about?’
‘I’m admitting sod-all.’ She stuck her chin out. ‘And if you didn’t want to babysit your own kids you shouldn’t have got my wife pregnant.’
‘Not this again.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Away with you. Out. Go. Depart. Before I do you for insubordinating a superior officer.’
‘Pfff…’ She flounced out, nose in the air, leaving the office door hanging open. Then her hand appeared in the doorway, did a wee mime turny flourish, then flashed two fingers and flipped him the Vs before disappearing.
‘You’re supposed to be a grown-up!’
No reply.
‘Typical.’ Logan checked his watch: 12:10. Oops… Should’ve been back at Bucksburn for that meeting with Chalmers ten minutes ago. Assuming she’d bothered to turn up this time. He pulled out his phone and called Rennie. ‘Have I got any visitors?’
A strange, wet, slurping noise came down the line, followed by a muffled, ‘Have you noticed that no one visiting ever brings us biscuits?’
‘Are you eating something?’
Another slurp. ‘… No?’
‘Visitors, Simon. Specifically, DS Lorna Chalmers: we’ve got a twelve o’clock scheduled.’
‘But it’s ten past.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m—’
‘Ah, I get it. You’re making her stew in her own guilty gravy for a bit. Ratchet up the tension.’
‘No. I got caught up with these—’
‘Hold on.’ One more slurp, then a scrunching sound – the background noises changing as Rennie wandered off somewhere. ‘Nope: no sign of her in reception. Well, not unless she’s hiding under the coffee table.’
‘Damn it.’ Of course she wasn’t there. When did she ever turn up? ‘What about Fred Ma
rshall?’
‘His doctor and dentist won’t give me anything without warrants, so I asked the Warrant Fairy for some and do you know what she said?’
Logan groaned.
‘That’s right, she said, “Naughty DS Rennie! You know you can’t have a warrant to seize people’s medical records without probable cause. Bad DS Rennie! Back in your box!”’
‘Then get me a last known address. And stop eating whatever it is you’re eating: it sounds obscene.’
‘Nothing obscene about Pot Noodles.’ Rennie gave his noodles an extra-loud slurp. ‘You know, when you asked me to come be a plainclothes gruntmonkey for you at Professional Standards I thought that was a playful euphemism for “valued colleague and important member of the team”.’
‘Diddums. Now be a good gruntmonkey and text me that address.’
4
Laughter and voices filled the station canteen as a collection of about two dozen uniforms, plainclothes, and support staff gorged on lunch. They filled all the tables but one. The one Logan sat at, all on his own, Billy Nae Mates in the middle of his own private bubble.
Good job he had a dirty-big plate of macaroni cheese and chips to console him.
He helped himself to a forkful of soft cheesy goodness as the phone in his other hand rang and rang and rang and—
‘This is Lorna Chalmers’ voicemail. Leave a message.’ Curt and to the point.
‘DS Chalmers, it’s Inspector McRae. Again. We had an appointment this afternoon. Please call me back.’ He hung up. ‘Not that you will, because you haven’t the last three bloody times.’
Logan balanced another gobbet of macaroni, on the end of a crisp golden chip. Crunching as he scowled at his phone. ‘Fine, there’s more than one way to skin a snake.’ He picked another name from his contacts and set it ringing.
‘Ahoy-hoy?’ What sounded like rain hissed in the background.
‘Tufty? It’s Logan. I need a favour.’
There was a small pause, then, ‘Aunty Jane, how you doing?’
More macaroni, chewing around the words, ‘Have you fallen on your head again?’
‘No, no. I’m at work, though, so I can’t talk for long.’
‘Steel’s there, isn’t she?’
‘That’s right, the party’s tonight, isn’t it? Don’t know if I can make it though, depends on the case.’
‘Fine.’ Logan shook another dash of vinegar into the puddle of cheese sauce. ‘DS Lorna Chalmers didn’t show for her appointment. You’re on the same team: where is she?’
‘Ah… Don’t really know. I could find out though, if you like?’
Then Steel’s voice blared out in the middle distance. ‘Come on, Tufty, you gimp-flavoured spudhammer, make with the chicken curry pies! I’m starving here.’
‘Text me.’
‘Will do. OK, got to go. It’s—’
‘Aren’t you going to tell your aunty you love her, before you hang up, Tufty? How very rude.’
A groan crawled out of the earpiece. ‘OK, Aunty Jane. Love you. Bye.’
‘Should think so too.’
He ended the call and dug back into his macaroni again. Cheesy vinegary crunchy potatoey goodness.
Over by the canteen counter, the lone figure of DI Kim Fraser peeled away from the till and wandered into the middle of the room. Clearly looking for a seat. But everything was taken, except for Logan’s table. Even then she kept looking.
Logan slid one of the chairs out with his foot. ‘It’s OK, I don’t bite.’
She stood there, staring at him for a beat, then settled into the proffered seat. The heady smell of spices wafted up from her plate – heaped with Friday’s curry special: chicken madras, rice, vegetable pakora, and naan bread, according to the board on the wall.
Logan gave her a wee shrug. ‘After all, no one wants to sit with either of us.’
‘People want to sit with me. Why wouldn’t people want to sit with me?’
‘People look at me, all they see is Professional Standards. People look at you and they see fast-tracked graduate-scheme “tosspot”.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not what I see, it’s what they see. We’ve got guys who’ve been on the job for twenty years and they still haven’t made it as far as sergeant. You’re, what, twenty-six?’
A blush darkened her cheeks. ‘Twenty-nine.’
‘And already a detective inspector. Some people feel threatened by that.’
‘Hmmph…’ Fraser crunched down one of the veggie pakora. ‘I take it you saw Ellie’s mum’s press conference.’
‘How can you eat that when there’s perfectly good macaroni cheese and chips on offer?’
‘How is it our fault? Tell me that!’
‘And if you go near my chips I will stab you with a fork.’
‘She’s the one abandoned her three-year-old daughter in the back garden to nip out for booze and fags! If she’d been a halfway decent parent, Ellie wouldn’t have been snatched.’
Logan put down his fork and looked at her. Silent.
Fraser groaned. ‘All right, all right: I know. But still… That doesn’t make it our fault.’
‘Imagine if you were her. Would you want to admit you were responsible? How would you live with yourself?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Fraser chewed on her curry for a bit. ‘And I’m not a “tosspot”, thank you very much. I had to do a law degree to get on the fast-track programme. You try it if you think it’s so easy.’
‘Whoever took Ellie, it has to be someone who knows the area, right?’
‘Back garden’s got a path behind it. Anyone walking past would see Ellie’d been left on her own.’
Logan scooped a chip through the cheese sauce. ‘You run a check on sex offenders living nearby?’
‘And not just Tillydrone. We did Hayton, Hilton, Sandilands, Powis, and Ashgrove too. Interviewed the lot of them. Checked alibis. Nothing.’
Over in the corner someone launched into ‘Happy Birthday to You’. One by one the other tables took it up and belted it out. The only ones not joining in were Logan and Fraser.
She dug into her curry again. ‘Of course the smart money is on the stepfather, but he interviews clean.’
‘Alibi?’
‘Playing video games, drinking Special Brew, and smoking dope at a friend’s house.’
‘Sounds like an excellent role model.’
‘Tell you, Inspector, I’ve scraped things off the bottom of my shoe with more—’
The song reached a deafening climax, complete with operatic wobbling harmonies and a hearty round of applause with extra cheering.
Fraser shrugged when it was quiet again. ‘Five to one, when Ellie’s body turns up, her stepdad’s DNA is all over her.’
‘If her body turns up.’
‘Yeah. If.’ She jabbed a pakora with her fork and gesticulated with it. ‘Course, if we can break his alibi it’s a different story. Assuming DS Chalmers has bothered her backside to even try. And before you say anything: I know. I should’ve sent someone else. She’s had enough last chances.’
Logan put his fork down. ‘Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’
‘Because… When you were in CID, would you have shopped one of your team to the Rubber Heelers? Of course not. No one…’ She cleared her throat. Ate her pakora. ‘Bad example. But the rest of us wouldn’t. Not unless there was no other option.’
‘There wasn’t. And I did it for the same reason you are. Sometimes people don’t leave us any choice.’
His phone dinged, a new message filling the screen.
TUFTY:
It is I, SUPERTUFTY! Scourge of naughty people! A tiny birdy tells me the GPS on DS Chalmers’s Airwave puts her at/near Huge Gay Bill’s Bar & Grill, Northfield.
Logan polished off the last glistening tubes of macaroni and stood. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the pub.’
The building was set back from the road – an oversized mock Northeast farmhouse, long and low, with white walls, gable ends, a grey slate
roof, and dormer windows. The Scottish vernacular charm was somewhat undermined by the big neon sign towering over the entrance in shades of yellow and green: ‘HUGE GAY BILL’S BAR & GRILL!’ It steamed and fizzed in the drizzle.
Only two vehicles sat in the large car park, a gleaming Land Rover Discovery and a mud-spattered Fiat. Chalmers’ Fiat. Logan parked two spaces down. Clambered out and hurried into the pub.
Inside, the place had a soulless, unloved feel. Like an abandoned Wetherspoons. A soulless mix of polished wood and psychedelic carpet. Lots of small round tables with chairs. Menus everywhere.
Something romantic oozed out of the jukebox.
The only two people in here were slow dancing in front of it – all wrapped up in each other – one a large, white-haired woman, the other a Victoria Wood look-alike. Oblivious to everything else.
Logan went across to the vacant bar and rapped his knuckles on the wood. ‘Shop!’
A grunt preceded a huge, broad-shouldered man who looked like the answer to the question, ‘What do you get if you cross a cage fighter with a gorilla?’ The lump of gristle clinging onto the middle of his face barely qualified as a nose. Somehow, the pristine-white shirt and dark-blue tie made him seem even more dangerous. He nodded at Logan. ‘Inspector.’
‘Bill. How’s Josh?’
Bill bared his teeth – teeny, like Tic Tacs. ‘Joshua is a scum-sucking arsehole.’ He grabbed a bottle of Bell’s whisky and shoved it into an empty optics slot, gripping the thing so tight his knuckles were white. ‘Why do I have to keep giving my heart to arseholes?’ Trembling, face darkening. ‘Tell me that. Go on!’
‘Don’t look at me, my track record’s not much better.’ Logan counted them off on his fingers. ‘One emotionally distant pathologist with intimacy issues; one PC with violent tendencies; a self-harming, Identification Bureau tech, tattoo addict in a coma; and a Trading Standards officer.’
Bill folded his massive arms. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
Good question.
Logan shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. Early days.’ He pulled a photo from his police fleece and placed it on the bar. Lorna Chalmers. ‘Her car’s parked outside.’
‘The scabby Fiat?’ Bill picked up the photo and squinted at it. ‘This your Trading Standards woman?’
The Blood Road Page 4
