Logan turned the car back towards FHQ – he’d managed to spend a whole four and a quarter hours away from the office, but like it or not, he’d have to go back in to do something about Chib and his greasy-looking mate.
Sergeant Mitchell was having a sly fag on the back podium as Logan slid the pool car into one of the vacant parking spots. ‘What the hell you doing back here?’ he shouted, not bothering to take the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Thought I told you to make yourself scarce?’
‘I take it Napier’s been looking for me.’
‘Surprisingly enough, no.’ He oozed smoke out through his nose, where it became entangled in the hairs of his moustache, leaving it smouldering. ‘The lovely Count Nosferatu has been away with the Chief Constable all day, on what is being politely referred to as “a jolly”.’ Logan nodded gloomily. It just meant the bollocking was postponed until tomorrow. ‘But one of them Wildlife Crime Officers came past about your dog in a suitcase.’
‘Yeah?’ He’d forgotten all about handing the investigation over, what with the fires and all the dead prostitutes. ‘Any luck?’
‘How the hell should I know?’
‘Wonderful, thanks, Eric.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Sergeant Mitchell took a deep drag and tried for a smoke-ring, failing miserably. ‘By the way: Social Work’ve been round, that wee whore of yours is really only thirteen.’ He raised his cigarette in salute. ‘Fuckin’ proud moment for Aberdonians everywhere. . .’ and suddenly Eric looked all of his forty-one years. ‘Oh and DI Steel wants to see you as well. And before you ask: no idea. You’ll have to ask her yourself.’
DI Steel’s incident room was slowly fumbling its way back into chaos, as time and the inspector’s natural flair for entropy took hold. The back shift were manning the phones and pushing paper about; not that there was a lot going on at the moment. Dr Bushel’s profile for the prostitute killer – or ‘The Shore Lane Stalker’ as the papers were calling him – wasn’t being released to the media, but it was stuck up on the wall next to the post mortem photographs. There was no sign of Steel.
Three fresh yellow Post-it notes lurked in the middle of Logan’s desk along with yet another plastic bag of videotapes from Operation Cinderella. Logan stuffed them, unwatched, in the cupboard with all the others. The first Post-it was from Steel, telling him that the labs had finally got their finger out and come back with an analysis of the items retrieved from Jamie McKinnon’s bumhole: crack cocaine. No surprise there, but he was to call her. Note number two was from the Wildlife Crime Officer: he’d been through all the reports of missing black Labradors but none of them were likely candidates for the torso in the woods. And note number three was from an inspector whose name Logan didn’t recognize saying that he was to phone as soon as he got in. As long as it was before five. Which it wasn’t. So Logan went off to look for DI Steel instead. She was in the canteen, polishing off a ham and cheese sandwich.
‘You wanted to see me?’ said Logan, dropping himself into a seat on the other side of the table, eyeing Steel suspiciously.
‘Mmmmphhh. . .’ She chewed, forced a big wedge of sandwich into the side of her mouth and mumbled something about leaving him a note.
‘I got a possible address for our Edinburgh pushers.’
A predatory smile slunk its way onto the inspector’s face. ‘’Bout bloody time too,’ she said, washing down the last of her sandwich with a skoof of Irn-Bru. ‘Right, let’s get a search and apprehension warrant. I want to take the bastards tonight, before they have a chance to do someone else.’
‘What about Insch?’
Steel frowned. ‘What about him?’
‘Well, we think that maybe these guys might have something to do with Karl Pearson. You know, the man we found tortured to death with his throat cut?’
‘And?’
‘Don’t you think we should tell him about—’
‘Bugger that: this is our collar. Insch can have his turn when we’ve finished doing them for the drugs.’ She settled back in her seat and started digging between her rear molars with a fingernail. ‘This is our chance to shine, Lazarus. We tell Insch and he’ll take the whole thing over. If there’s any credit going on this one, I want it. Insch doesn’t need it.’ And that was it, end of discussion. She wouldn’t even let him tell the Drugs Squad.
It took the best part of an hour to organize the warrants, identify a team and get them together so the inspector could take them through the compulsory pre-operation briefing. Nine firearms-trained officers and a handful of uniform for backup. There was a good mixture of men and women, all of them straight-faced and deadly serious, listening intently as Steel filled them in on Chib Sutherland’s colourful background. Much to Logan’s surprise, DC Simon Rennie had turned out to be firearms qualified – personally he wouldn’t have trusted him with a water pistol, but according to the computer he’d passed with flying colours. He sat right at the front of the room, his usual not-so-plain-clothes replaced by the black SAS-style kit worn by the rest of the firearms team. As soon as the inspector had finished Rennie stuck his hand up. ‘You sure they’re going to be armed, ma’am?’
Steel shook her head. ‘Haven’t got a bloody clue, but I’m no’ taking any chances. No one is to go into that house without a gun and a bullet-proof vest. Understand? I want everyone in the address accounted for, face-down in the lounge, with hands cuffed behind their backs before anyone unarmed goes in. OK? We clear on that?’ Sigh. ‘What is it, Rennie?’
‘Do we know how many of them there’s meant to be?’
‘We’re expecting at least two of them, maybe more. Possibly armed. That’s why I want the place turned upside down. I do not want some bugger jumping out the linen closet with a machete while we’re all having a cup of tea and scratching our arses!’ She stood, hands thrust into pockets. ‘What we need to. . . What?’ Rennie had his hand up again.
‘Do we know if they’ve got a dog?’
‘No we don’t know if they’ve got a bloody dog! If I knew they had a bloody dog, do you no’ think I would’ve told you?’ Rennie went red and apologized. ‘Right,’ said the inspector, dragging a bashed packet of cigarettes from her trouser pocket. ‘I want you all geared up and ready to roll in fifteen minutes.’
Twenty minutes later, Steel’s new firearms team was installed in the back of an unmarked van and heading off to Mannofield. ‘Operation High Noon’, as the inspector had tactfully named it, was underway. A pair of patrol cars took a more circuitous route to the target address, keeping a low profile so as not to attract too much attention. Logan and Steel followed in the inspector’s mid-life-crisis-mobile, detouring past Athol House in Guild Street so Logan could jump out and pick up the warrants while Steel loitered on the double yellows outside. The Procurator Fiscal’s office was on the fifth floor, but her deputy was waiting for him in reception, a buff folder in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. Her frizzy hair was pulled back from her head in a ponytail that still managed to come down to her shoulder blades, her dark green suit wrinkled after a long day in the office. There were faint purple circles under her eyes. She gave him the folder, but kept the coffee. ‘Thanks,’ said Logan, riffling through the paperwork, making sure all the bits were signed where they were supposed to be.
‘Er . . . Sergeant McRae,’ she said, ‘I understand there’s a possibility your visitors from Edinburgh might be responsible for torturing Karl Pearson. That true?’
‘Hmm? Oh. It’s possible, but we’ve not got anything linking them yet, it’s all just supposition really. Thanks for getting these together so quickly, Ms Tulloch, I really appreciate it.’
She smiled. ‘Not a problem. And it’s “Miss Tulloch”, not “Ms”. You can call me Rachael.’
Logan smiled back. ‘In that case, I’m Logan.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Rachael.’ Outside someone leaned on a car horn, the loud braying breeeeeeeeep, clearly audible through the building’s doors. ‘That’ll be the i
nspector. Gotta dash. Thanks again.’ And he was back outside, just in time to be consumed in a cloud of blue diesel smoke from a passing bus.
Steel was hanging out the car window, cigarette jammed between her lips, puffing away for all she was worth. ‘Come on! We haven’t got all bloody day.’ The inspector cut across town, avoiding the traffic on Union Street, sticking to residential back streets, the pale granite buildings rouged with orange and gold as the sun began its slow, downward slip into twilight.
‘Did you know,’ said Logan as the inspector finally pulled the car to a halt, across the road and three houses down from where Chib and his mate were supposed to be staying, ‘that we murder more people, per million head of population, in Aberdeen than the whole of England and Wales combined?’
Steel cranked on the handbrake, and looked at him as if he’d written the words KNOB END across his forehead with indelible marker. ‘Don’t be daft: they kill more people in bloody Manchester in a month than we do all sodding year! Who the hell told you that rubbish?’
‘Rachael, and it’s not that daft if you think about it, it’s averaged over the—’
‘Who the hell is “Rachael”?’ She cracked open the driver-side window and fumbled in her pockets for the ubiquitous pack of crumpled cigarettes.
‘The new deputy fiscal, she—’
‘Thought you were knobbing WPC Watson, inbetween prostitutes that is.’ She snorted and lit up, letting the smoke ooze out into the evening air. ‘Better watch that, or she’ll have your bollocks for earrings. Watson can be a right vindictive cow when she puts her mind to it.’
‘What? No!’ Logan stared at the inspector in horror. ‘Nothing’s going on! Who said anything was going on?’
Steel held up her hands, head wreathed in smoke. ‘I’m just saying: watch your step, OK? I mean, I like you and all that – for a man you’re less of a fuckwit than most of your species – but still. . .’ She stared out the window. ‘Look, there are some things in this life you can’t take for granted. Trust me on this – it’s way too easy to put the job first, forget what’s really important.’ Steel sighed. ‘Just don’t screw it up, OK?’ For once Logan got the feeling she wasn’t being sarcastic, which was ironic as she was the one dragging him into work the whole time, pissing Jackie off.
They sat in silence for a minute. Then the radio crackled into life – DC Rennie saying the van was in position. Logan watched as it pulled up outside the house, blocking the large, silver Mercedes in the driveway. ‘About bloody time,’ the inspector muttered, then grabbed the handset and shouted into it, ‘What the hell took you so long?’
‘Well . . . er . . . We had to make a toilet break. . .’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ She slumped in her seat, took the fag out of the corner of her mouth and boinged her head off the steering wheel.
‘Inspector?’
‘Rennie, I swear to God, I’d come over there and ram my boot up your backside if your shoulders weren’t in the bloody way. Now get going!’ The sound of muffled conversation crackled out of the speakers and Logan saw the rear doors of the van pop open. Two black-clad officers in full bullet-proof get-up, with chunky black helmets, Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistols, and the lower half of their faces obscured with black scarves, scurried up the garden path. They skidded to a halt, either side of the front door, and made clenched fist gestures back at the van. Another pair of armed officers leapt from the vehicle and sprinted across to join them, guns at the ready. All very Hollywood. They were followed by a big-boned WPC with a battering ram and a pronounced limp. There was no sign of movement from the house.
‘Echo three sixer, we are in position.’
Steel frowned and picked up the radio handset. ‘What the hell is “Echo three sixer” when it’s at home?’
‘Er . . . it’s PCs Littlejohn, MacInnes, Clarkson, and WPC Caldwell. We’re round the back.’
‘Well, why didn’t you bloody well say so? Right, listen up you lot: I want this done nice and cleanly. No shots fired if we don’t have to – Rennie, I mean you – if no one gets hurt, first round’s on me, OK?’ She took her thumb off the transmit button and grinned at Logan. ‘I love this bit.’ Click. ‘GO GO GO!’
The battering ram smashed the front door off its hinges and the large WPC jumped to the side as her colleagues charged past, guns at the ready.
Steel watched them disappear into the house and smiled. That was it. There was nothing to do now but wait for the team to go through every room in the house and give the all clear. She dug the cigarette packet back out again and shoogled it in Logan’s direction. He politely declined the offer. ‘No? You sure? Ah well, takes all sorts,’ she said, lighting up. ‘While we’ve got a minute, I wanted to speak to you about a little visit I had today from an old mate.’ A couple of folded sheets of A4 appeared from the inspector’s inside pocket. She handed them over. ‘You’ve had papers served on you.’
Logan’s heart sank. Professional Standards strikes again. Even though he’d been expecting this all afternoon, it still came as a kick in the testicles. ‘I see. . .’
‘Sandy the Snake!’ Steel shook her head. ‘What, you forgot to pack your brain this morning? Like you’re no’ in enough fuckin’ trouble?’
‘I . . . he grabbed me. I just wanted. . .’ He didn’t really know what he wanted. ‘I was pissed off, and he was being an arrogant bastard and I was trying to deal with a misper. . . I was this close to popping him one.’
Steel nodded sagely. ‘I see. Well, I can understand that. You remember when he got his nose broken last year? I’ve still got that on video – Insch made me a copy.’ She smiled. ‘He’s got it as a screen-saver on his computer at home. Bang, right on the nose. . .’ The inspector drifted off into happy reminiscence, before sighing her way back to the present. ‘Anyway, the really great thing about that was he couldn’t touch any of us for it. We got to watch and enjoy, and no one got hurt – other than Hissing Sid. No one got fired, or demoted.’ Logan nodded gloomily and Steel reached out to pat him on the arm. ‘You’ve done a very stupid thing, Sergeant. But I’ll see what I can do.’
25
Not one shot was fired. According to DC Rennie, Chib Sutherland and his hairy friend had been sitting calmly at the dining-room table, finishing off their microwaved ready meals. They didn’t shout, or fight back, or do anything, just calmly assumed the position – legs spread, hands flat on the tabletop. Rennie and his colleagues had searched the rest of the house, but there were no signs of any weapons, drugs, stolen goods, or anything else that would justify smashing their front door in with a battering ram.
‘So,’ said the inspector, stepping through into the lounge, where Chib and his mate were lying face-down on the carpet, a pair of armed officers standing over them with Glock 9mm pistols trained on the backs of their heads. ‘They give you any trouble?’
Chib raised his head from the blue tufted Wilton, his face perfectly calm and impassive. ‘My friend and I have done nothing wrong. We are cooperating with the police.’
‘Aye? I thought you two was supposed to be hard men? What happened to you’ll-never-take-me-alive-copper?’
‘My friend and I have no reason to cause trouble. We have done nothing wrong.’ There was no sign of menace in his voice, not like when he’d told Logan to fuck off in the pub.
‘Whatever. Rennie, get these two back to the station. Separate cars. I want them processed and in different interview rooms by the time I get there. OK?’ Rennie snapped off a salute and dragged Chib to his feet. The man was a good three inches taller than Rennie, but he allowed himself to be led from the room without any hint of a struggle. Just before he reached the door his eyes met Logan’s and there was a momentary flash of recognition, swiftly replaced by a calm poker face.
The big WPC who’d hefted the battering ram followed suit with Chib’s mate. In addition to the large moustache, the man now had a beautiful black eye. The WPC led him out to one of the waiting patrol cars,
leaving Logan and Steel alone in the lounge. The inspector treated her armpit to a thoughtful scratch. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go have a poke about. See if we can’t find something Rennie and his idiots missed.’ The bedrooms looked as if they’d been caught in a tornado, all the drawers yanked out, beds stripped, wardrobes emptied. It was the same in the bathroom, and up in the attic the team had taken up the fibreglass insulation, leaving the plasterboard visible between the rough timber joists. They’d even taken the top off the cold-water tank. Logan and Steel finished their tour of the premises in the garage, where a large chest freezer was stuck against the far wall. ‘Aha!’ The inspector strode across to it and wrenched the lid open. It was nearly empty, just a couple of packets of fish fingers and some bags of frozen peas. None of the usual mass of unidentifiable random meat that filled every other chest freezer Logan had ever seen. With a triumphant gleam in her eye, Steel pulled out a packet boasting: PURE COD FILLET WRAPPED IN CRISPY BREADCRUMBS!, opened the flap at the end and tipped out a half-dozen pasty-orange blocks of processed fish onto the palm of her hand. ‘Shite,’ she said, peering into the now empty packet. She stuffed the fish fingers back in the box and tried the same trick with the remaining cartons. All contained exactly what they claimed to. Swearing, DI Steel wiped her hands clean on the trousers of her off-grey suit, leaving two smears of defrosting orange breadcrumbs.
‘Not fond of fish fingers then?’ asked Logan innocently.
‘Don’t take the piss. I once found a whole freezer full of cannabis resin, all done up as packets of Weight Watchers chicken vindaloo.’ She scowled, poked about in the frozen peas, then slammed the lid shut. ‘Get onto the Drugs Squad. Tell them to take the damn place apart if they have to, but I want some sodding evidence!’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 63