‘You don’t even want to go!’
‘No, but I have to. And you know what she’ll be like if you don’t show.’
More swearing. ‘OK, OK, we’ll go to the stupid party. Jesus. Happy now?’
‘Not especially.’ He tried being reasonable, ‘Look, we don’t even have to stay for all of it, we can—’
‘Fine. Whatever. I’ve got to go.’ And the line went dead.
Logan went to the pub.
26
The next morning DI Steel looked even more dreadful than usual; sitting very still in one of the Chief Constable’s visitors’ chairs, pretending to pay attention as the man told her, Logan and PC Rickards what a great job they’d all done. ‘It’s not often we get sixty-two crimes wiped off the books in one day,’ he said, leaning back against the windowsill, high, grey cloud scudding past behind him. ‘Even the papers have laid off us for once.’ And he was right: the front page of that morning’s Press and Journal was all about a local property developer turning up at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary with both legs broken.
It might have been Logan’s imagination, but Rickards seemed to be fidgeting more than usual, shifting about in his seat, trying not to wince. As if he’d got piles. ‘Now,’ said the CC, gifting them all a broad smile, ‘if we can just get to the bottom of this Fettes case it’ll be back to business as usual!’
Steel nodded carefully, and mumbled something about DI Insch doing a fine job in that department. ‘Excellent.’ The Chief Constable settled back behind his desk. ‘So, I take it we’re building a nice airtight case?’
‘Aye, well,’ Steel’s voice sounded like a cross between Darth Vader and a belt sander, ‘obviously I’ve got a bit more supervising to do, but Insch has my complete confidence.’ Making sure she could claim the credit if he succeeded and blame him if he didn’t.
‘I see. Well, given the recent “difficulties” I want you to be hands-on with this one, Inspector. I don’t want it turning into another disaster like Rob Macintyre.’ He picked up a silver letter opener, holding it by the point, as if he was about to throw it at someone. ‘Oh, and DS McRae,’
Logan got the feeling something nasty was coming. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘It’s not often I have to consider suspending and commending the same officer in one week. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.’
‘Er . . . thank you, sir.’ But Logan wasn’t entirely sure if he’d just been praised or threatened.
Logan and Rickards didn’t even get as far as the stairs before disaster struck in the shape of DC Rennie. ‘Been looking all over for you! Detective Inspector Insch requests the honour of your company, at your earliest possible convenience.’
‘What did he really say?’
‘Get your arse up to the incident room pronto, and bring Bondage. . .’ he stopped himself, gave a small ‘ahem’ and tried again, ‘and bring PC Rickards with you.’
Logan shook his head. ‘No way: we’re not even supposed to be here.’ If it hadn’t been for DI Steel phoning up at half eight to tell him to come get a pat on the head from the Chief Constable, he’d still be in his bed, sleeping off last night’s celebratory curry and late-night drinks. ‘I’m back. . .’ he worked it out on his fingers, three days off: ‘Saturday.’
Rennie put on a pained smile. ‘He did say ASAP, sir.’
Logan sighed. ‘Of course he did.’
DI Insch was deep in conversation with the admin officer when Logan and his band of merry policemen marched in. They hung around by the incident board, waiting for the inspector to finish. It didn’t take Rennie long before he started telling them all about how great it was being in The Mikado and how Sophie, Anna and Liz were all over him. ‘Tell you,’ he said, ‘I play my cards right I’m in for a threesome. Four if I’m lucky!’
Rickards snorted. ‘You’ve never had a threesome before?’
‘Well. . .’ Rennie shifted from foot to foot on the dirty, grey-green carpet tiles. ‘No.’
‘So,’ said Logan, changing the subject before anyone asked him, ‘how’s it going: rehearsals . . . and things.’
‘Better. Still not great, well, except for Debs. The rest of us are lumbering about the place like bloody Tellytubbies.’
Logan laughed. ‘Yeah, Jackie said you were a bit “challenged”.’ Rennie looked puzzled, so he explained, ‘The rehearsal on Sunday? When you lost your bet? Twenty quid?’
‘Nah,’ Rennie shook his head. ‘Rehearsals are Monday, Wednesday and Friday. You sure she . . . oh, Sunday, oh, yeah. Right, Sunday.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Course. You know me: no brains. Sunday. Yeah.’
‘Rennie, get your backside over here!’ – DI Insch, glowering over the top of a report. The constable trotted across the room, there was some muttered discussion, and then he was off out the door on a new errand. Insch thrust the report back to the admin officer and creaked his massive frame off the desk. ‘Sergeant McRae, I’ve been calling you all morning.’
Logan nodded. ‘We were with the CC, sir, and you know what he’s like if a mobile goes off while—’
‘In my office, Sergeant, and bring your constable with you.’
The inspector waited till they were all in his room, then told Rickards to close the door. He settled into the large black leather chair behind the desk and stared at them in silence. ‘Where,’ he said, ‘is my status report from yesterday? It should have been on my desk first thing this morning.’ Prodding the wood with a huge sausage-like finger.
‘We had a large number of burglary reports—’
‘I don’t care. I sent you to do a job, I expect you to bloody well do it!’ His face was starting to take on that horribly familiar florid tinge.
Rickards broke the golden rule and answered back: ‘That’s not fair! We solved sixty-two burglaries yesterday, got a commendation from the Chief—’
‘Did I ask for your opinion, Constable?’ The words coming out low and dangerous.
Rickards straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full five foot five. ‘With all due respect—’ Logan kicked him in the shin before he could get himself into any more trouble. The constable snapped his mouth shut as Insch worked himself up into a full fit of righteous fury.
‘Don’t you ever dare “with all due bloody respect” me, Rickards. You’ve got something to say: say it!’ He stood, towering over the constable.
‘No, sir, sorry sir. Nothing.’
‘SAY IT!’
Logan closed his eyes and hoped to God that Rickards was bright enough to keep his big mouth shut. He wasn’t. ‘Sir, we cleared up a lot of crimes yesterday. We used our initiative – the CC said we were a credit to the force!’
‘Did he now?’ Insch had finally progressed from scarlet pink to dark purple, and Logan’s eyes were inexorably drawn to that throbbing vein in the fat man’s forehead, as if a worm was burrowing away under the skin. ‘Understand this, Constable: when I say frog, you jump. You do not backchat, you don’t “with all due respect” and you don’t whinge. You say “how high” AND YOU BLOODY JUMP!’
He swung a huge finger at Logan. ‘You should know better!’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was no point arguing, it would just prolong the bollocking; much easier and quicker to roll with the punches.
The fat man checked the pulse at the side of his neck, and rumbled his way back into his seat. ‘What happened yesterday?’
Logan gave Insch the short version: Garvie buying stolen porn from a man they later charged with sixty-two burglaries. ‘And according to Zander Clark, Fettes was acting as a male prostitute; selling middle-aged ladies the chance to sleep with a bona fide porn star. He got email offers through the Crocodildo website, they were forwarded to this hotmail address.’ Logan handed over the compliments slip the director had given him.
Insch took it with a grunt, pulled out the Jason Fettes case file, and flipped through the paperwork till he found the IB report on the victim’s computer. ‘Bloody typical! It’s
not even on the list of email addresses they gave us.’ He slammed the folder shut. ‘Get onto them: I want everything sent to, or from, that address in the last six months. Garvie must have been in touch with him. Then find out what’s happening with those bloody servers! And if you see Watson, tell her I want a word.’ He sat back in his seat and flicked on his computer. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Move it!’
At least Rickards had enough sense to wait until they were well out of earshot before he started complaining. ‘Why the hell did we have to just stand there and take it? We’re not children! You didn’t even—’
‘Because I know what he’s like, OK? There’s no point arguing with Insch right now, it only antagonizes him and he’s in a foul enough mood as it is.’
‘But he’s not supposed to—’
Logan held up a hand, cutting him off. ‘You’ve not worked with a lot of DIs, have you? They all say they’ve got an open-door policy and you can come to them with anything and everyone’s opinion is valid, but when push comes to shove, it’s all bollocks. This is their show. If an investigation goes tits up, they’re the ones get reamed for it, not us.’
‘That still doesn’t give him the right to treat us like shit!’
‘True, but I’m not going back in there to argue the toss. Are you?’
Talking to the IB’s pet nerd involved a ten-minute rant from Mr Skate Or Die on how no one understood how difficult it was to do forensic computing properly and was it his fault the Dundee labs were up to their ears? When Logan passed on Insch’s demands, it just set him off again.
By the time Logan finally got around to signing out, all he wanted to do was go back to the flat, crawl into a hot bath and forget about DI Grumpy Bastard Insch. Big Gary was on the desk again, cup of tea in one huge paw, the other wrapped around a raisin whirl. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ the large man asked, mouth full of pastry. ‘I’ve had Insch on my arse all morning looking for you, turn your bloody phone on!’
Logan stuck two fingers up and scribbled his signature into the book. ‘Day off, remember? And for your information, I was upstairs getting a commendation from the Chief Constable.’
‘Ah,’ Big Gary wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, ‘it’s a proud moment for us all. Still, switch on your phone: I’m not your secretary.’ He handed over a wad of barely legible messages, all saying things like: PHONE INSCH! and WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU? Logan scrunched them up and dropped them in the nearest bin, before pulling out his phone and switching it back on again. The thing was full of increasingly irate messages from Insch, and Logan went through them, deleting as he went. Last but not least was a grumpy-sounding one from Jackie, reminding him to pick up a present and a card for tonight, before setting off on a truncated rant about Rob Macintyre being on the radio this morning, telling everyone how much he’d suffered at the hands of Aberdeen Police’s hate campaign. ‘And the little shite’s got himself a book deal! What sort of idiot—’ then the message abruptly ended. Logan deleted it too. This thing with Macintyre was turning into an obsession; every day something else set her off and Logan would be treated to another lecture about how the footballer needed stringing up by the balls. He was getting sick of it.
Sticking the phone back in his pocket, he headed off into town, looking for the sort of present a woman in her mid-fifties wouldn’t complain about too much.
He was in the middle of buying some kind of elephant wind-chime thing when his phone started up: the Ice Queen, AKA Dr Isobel MacAlister. ‘He didn’t come home! Last night! He didn’t come home!’
Logan handed over his credit card and the young woman behind the counter started wrapping. ‘Isobel, I don’t—’
‘Colin! He didn’t come home!’ She was on the verge of tears, which wasn’t like her at all.
‘Maybe he’s out on assignment? Visiting—’
‘He would have told me!’ There was a pause, and then her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘You know what happened last time. . .’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing, he—’
‘You have to find him!’
Trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice, Logan accepted the plastic bag with his gift-wrapped elephants inside it and promised to do what he could.
27
Two hours later Logan marched into the Globe Inn on North Silver Street, pulled a stool up to the bar and ordered a pint of Stella and a cheese and onion toastie. ‘You know,’ he said, as the barmaid went off to phone his order through to the kitchen, ‘she’s doing her nut in down the morgue. It’s upsetting the corpses.’
Colin Miller, golden boy reporter on the P&J, tireless campaigner against Grampian Police in general and Detective Sergeant Logan McRae in particular, turned a bleary, bloodshot eye in his direction and told him to fuck off. He wasn’t a tall man even by PC Rickards’ standards, but he more than made up for it in width. What had been a lot of muscle was beginning to soften and settle into middle-aged spread on the father-to-be. His usual suit was missing – replaced by jeans, heavy tartan shirt, scuffed leather jacket, and the heady stench of alcohol. He clasped the pint of beer on the bar in front of him with black-gloved hands. There wasn’t so much as a flash of gold or silver about the man. Not like him at all. And he hadn’t shaved.
‘Come on, Colin, she’s worried about you. You don’t come home all night; she thinks something horrible’s happened.’
‘Aye? Like fuckin’ last time, you mean?’ The words were slurred and broad Glaswegian. He held up his hands, wiggling the fingers so Logan could see the joints that wouldn’t move any more. The rigid parts showing where prosthetic plastic replaced flesh and bone.
‘Colin, she’s worried about you.’
‘None of yer bloody business. Interferin’ wee fuck.’
Logan sighed. ‘Look: I’m sorry, OK? For the thousandth time: I’m sorry! I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t on purpose. What the hell else am I supposed to say?’
‘How ’bout you don’t say another fuckin’ thing.’ Miller stood, threw back the last mouthful of beer, and banged his empty glass down on the bar top. ‘I don’t fuckin’ need you, “Mr Big Police Hero”,’ poking Logan in the shoulder. ‘So just sod off an’ leave me alone.’ The reporter turned on his heel and staggered into a marble-topped table, before righting himself and lurching towards the toilets.
Logan pulled out his mobile and called Isobel back, telling her, ‘He’s OK. Just a bit drunk.’ Then hanging up before she could start asking questions or hectoring him. Just to be on the safe side, he switched the thing off again.
The cheese toastie arrived just as Miller came marching back to the bar and ordered another pint of heavy and a double Highland Park. The whisky glittered like amber in the glass as it was set before him.
‘How about I call you a taxi and get you home?’
‘How ’bout you fuck off instead?’
Logan picked up his toastie – the pale bread imprinted with a scallop pattern of golden brown – and broke it on the diagonal, fingernail-crescents of white onion poking out between the slices. ‘Here.’ He slid the other half over to Miller.
The reporter stared down at the triangle of bread. ‘This doesnae make us fuckin’ even.’ But he picked it up and ate it anyway, carefully wrapping the half toastie in Logan’s napkin, so as not to get any grease on his gloves. Fastidious even while pished. ‘How’d you know I’d be here?’
‘You’re not the only one who finds stuff out for a living.’
‘Yeah. Suppose not. . .’ There was a pause, broken by someone putting an old Deacon Blue song on the jukebox. They listened in silence. ‘I’m no’ ready for a bairn.’ Miller said at last, squinting one-eyed at his own ragged reflection in the mirror behind the bar. ‘Can barely look after myself. . .’ he paused, rolling the empty whisky glass back and forth in his gloved hand. ‘And Izzy – Jesus, she’s terrified of no’ workin’ any more. That they’ll get some other bird in tae hack up the deid bodies while s
he’s away bringin’ up junior. She’ll no’ see her beloved morgue ever again. . .’ A thoughtful pause, then a mouthful of dark brown beer. Then a belch.
‘Come on, you’ll make great parents.’
Miller didn’t even look up. ‘What the hell would you know?’
‘True.’ Logan smiled. ‘But it’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?’
The reporter nodded, swaying on his bar stool. ‘Aye. . .’
‘Come on, Colin, time to go home.’
Logan called for a taxi and poured the reporter into it, flashing his warrant card at the driver before he could start moaning about not wanting to clean vomit out of his upholstery. He needn’t have worried: as soon as Miller’s head hit the seat he was out like a light, snoring gently as they drove the five-minute trip to Rubislaw Den. At the other end, Logan paid the man and hauled Colin out into the overcast afternoon.
Dr Isobel MacAlister’s love nest was a lot bigger than Logan’s one-bedroom flat. Three storeys of very expensive granite in Aberdeen’s moneyed district, the road packed with flashy sports cars and huge four-by-fours. He rummaged about in Miller’s pockets until he found the keys, then let them in through the front door.
A wailing chorus of bleeps erupted in the small hallway. Miller fumbled his way to a small side cupboard and punched in the disarm code. Zero – Five – One – Zero. Isobel’s birthday, fifth of October. Logan supposed it was her way of making sure the reporter never forgot.
‘Got it put in . . . put in after the thing. . .’ Colin held up his hands and wiggled them at Logan again. ‘Just in. . .’ a small ‘ulp’ing noise, a worried look, then a couple of deep breaths. ‘Just in case, like.’ He lurched off towards the kitchen, calling, ‘Come on, got some . . . Laga . . . Lagavulinin, linin, in. . .’ over his shoulder.
‘You sure you wouldn’t rather have a nice cup of coffee?’ Logan asked, following him.
‘Whisky, whisky, whisky. . .’ Two tumblers came from the cupboard next to the kettle, ringing like tiny crystal bells as Miller fumbled them onto the kitchen table, then went hunting for the bottle. Logan stuck the kettle on.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 96