She peeled the bag of peas away from his head and peered at the skin. ‘God, that’s some bump!’
‘Walked into a door.’
Samantha frowned. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Tea.’ He pointed at the mug on the table, sitting next to Wee Hamish Mowat’s present.
She pressed the bag back against his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Like Muppet Central out there…’ The fridge broke into a droning burr as she stood, peering in at the contents. ‘We got any white wine left, or did you finish it?’
‘I’ve been on orange juice and bloody lemonade all night, give me a break, OK?’
She turned. ‘I just asked if there was any wine left.’
Pause.
‘Sorry. I’ve…Not been the best of days.’
‘Been a lot of those recently.’ She clunked the fridge shut. ‘You want some more tea?’
‘Any chance of a hot water bottle?’
She filled the kettle, set it to boil, then disappeared from the room, coming back a couple of minutes later wearing her pink fluffy bathrobe and matching socks. Samantha thunked a roadkill-shaped Winnie The Pooh on the kitchen worktop, and unVelcroed his head. Unscrewed the plug and poured Pooh down the sink. Then filled him up from the steaming kettle.
‘Here.’
Logan held it against his stomach with his free hand. Groaned.
She stared at him. ‘Have you got your period, or something?’
No answer.
There was a rattle of spoons and mugs. Then she sat down on the other side of the table and handed over a fresh tea. ‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’
Pause. ‘Didn’t know you played chess.’
The set was made of wood – beech and mahogany – all laid out on a matching board. One of the pieces had a little cardboard tag tied around its neck, spidery copperplate marking out the words, ‘DETECTIVE SERGEANT LOGAN MCRAE’.
She picked the piece off the board – a horse’s head, carved in pale wood. ‘So you’re Batman now?’
‘That would be the Dark Knight.’
‘OK, I’ll bite. What the hell is going on with you?’
‘I’m turning into a cliché.’ He tried for a laugh, but it came out sounding forced and painful.
Silence.
‘Logan? Look at me, Logan.’
He pulled his eyes up from the tabletop. She placed the white knight back on the board. ‘You know…It’s OK to feel a bit down every now and then, but…well, maybe you should think about getting some help?’
Logan went back to staring at the coffee rings. ‘I’ve been seeing someone for about three months.’
There was an awkward pause. ‘I…’ A sniff. Then her voice went hard, brittle, ‘I see. Is she pretty?’
‘What? No, it’s Goulding. You know: the criminal psychologist? Once a week, getting my head shrunk.’
‘Oh…right. Yeah, of course.’ She was blushing. ‘What does he say?’
‘I need to lay off the booze. Cut down on the cigarettes. Not be such a miserable bastard. Stop antagonizing my colleagues and superiors. Give up sitting in the dark, brooding.’
‘Not going that well then.’ Samantha picked up her tea and walked around behind him. Wrapped her free arm around his chest, her breasts pressing into the back of his head.
Logan took a deep breath. ‘You know it’s not like the world’s a better place when I’m drunk. It’s still shite. It’s just…a little easier to cope with.’
‘Am I part of the problem?’ Voice barely above a whisper.
This time the laugh was slightly more genuine. Logan dumped the bag of peas on the table and gripped her arm. ‘You’re the only decent thing I’ve got going for me.’
‘Your hand’s bloody freezing.’ She bent and kissed him on the top of his head, where the chess set had bounced off his skull. ‘You silly bugger.’
20
Logan stood out on the rear podium car park, round the back of Force Headquarters, in the lee of a police van, smoking a sneaky cigarette and trying to stay out of the battering sleet. It swirled and whorled in unexpected directions, slapping against windscreens and exposed skin like tiny frozen hands.
But he stood there anyway, wearing a borrowed police cap, pulling carcinogens down into his scarred lungs on a freezing Sunday morning.
Ah, you couldn’t beat the first fag of the day.
A handful of other smokers were huddled together by the back doors – everyone who’d hurried out after the morning briefing to catch that desperately needed top-up of nicotine – all standing with their backs to the wind, trying to survive the long bleak winter.
Sod this.
He took one last sook on his cigarette, dropped it into a little mound of slush and watched it hiss out and die. Then hurried back inside.
Biohazard Bob caught him on the way back up to the CID room. ‘Any sign of that new DI from Fraserburgh yet?’
‘Nope and he’s got a PM to attend at half nine too. Going to give him another twenty minutes, then try the station.’ What was the point of Logan turning up at seven if there was still no sign of the bugger an hour later?
‘Well, you know what these Blue Toon folk are like. If it’s not fish or screwing their sister, they’ve no idea what day it is.’ Bob leant in close, and gave Logan a whiff of peppermint chewing gum. ‘You sure you don’t want my startling insight into your jewellery heist sledgehammer guy?’
Logan backed off a step. ‘Is this another lead up to you farting and running away?’
Bob grinned. ‘Good was it? Been holding that one in for ages, fermenting it just for you.’
Another step backwards. Checking there was a clear line of emergency exit. ‘Well?’
‘A sledgehammer’s not exactly your weapon of choice for a jewellery job, is it? No, for that you want a shotgun: shock and awe. And…’ He held up a finger – Logan had no intention of pulling it. ‘If you haven’t got a shotgun, you go for the biggest kitchen knife you can hide up your jumper. What you don’t do is go out to your shed and saw a sledgehammer in half.’
‘And that’s your startling insight? Our boy’s got a shed?’
‘No, you corrugated numpty. Using a sledgehammer like that’s pretty…unique. He’s obviously never done over a jewellers before, but maybe he’s worked his way up from other things?’ Bob shrugged. ‘Just an idea.’
‘Oh…’ It was obvious when you thought about it. ‘Thanks, Bob.’
‘You’re very welcome, young Master McRae.’ Pause. Grin. ‘And with that, I must leave you.’
The smell hit three seconds later.
Logan sat behind DI Steel’s desk, with his feet up on the handover notes, phone clamped to his ear, twisting his finger through the spirals in the chord. ‘Yeah, Detective Inspector Harvey…No, “Harvey”. Hotel – Alpha – Romeo – Victor…Yeah, Harvey, that’s him.’
There was a pause as the duty constable in the Fraserburgh control room transferred Logan’s call through to their small CID department, where Logan had to go through the whole phonetic spelling thing again. Then someone called DI Chapman came on the line. ‘You want to know where he is?’
‘He’s supposed to be here in Aberdeen this morning. He’s filling in for Detective Inspector Steel.’
‘Intensive care, that’s where he is. Last night’s drug operation…suffered unforeseen complications.’
Which meant it was a complete balls-up. ‘He going to be OK?’
‘He was stabbed three times: what do you think?’
Logan almost smiled. ‘Been there, it’s not as much fun as everyone imagines.’
‘I see…’ And the next time Chapman spoke it didn’t sound as if he was trying to drag a pineapple out of his own rectum. ‘They’ve put him into one of those medically induced comas. We won’t know any more till it’s safe to bring him round.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. So…are you sending us anyone else?’
‘You are kidding, aren’t you? We’ve got
one officer in a coma, three seriously injured, and the bastards got away with over half a million in uncut heroin. Everyone we’ve got’s on this.’
Which was understandable. ‘Well…good luck.’
Logan stuck Steel’s phone back in the cradle and swore for a bit. Brilliant. No replacement DI meant he’d be lumbered with one of the numerous tosspots around here. Like Beardy Beattie, or that idiot McPherson. Run a murder enquiry? He wouldn’t trust them to run for a bus.
He tipped the inspector’s seat back and scowled at the ceiling…
Unless he didn’t tell anyone? Kid on that this DI Harvey had turned up as planned and was now running things. Long as no one actually had to meet with him, it’d be OK, wouldn’t it? It was only for two weeks. DI Harvey, where ‘DI’ stood for Definitely Invisible.
‘And then,’ he told the ceiling tiles, ‘hilarity would ensue.’
Bugger it. He was going to have to tell DCI Finnie.
Logan dragged himself out of the chair, along the corridor, knocked on Finnie’s door, then waited.
‘Enter!’
The Chief Inspector’s office was about twice the size of Steel’s, with a bank of filing cabinets, a huge whiteboard, a couch, two comfy chairs, a big beech desk, a large computer screen, and a frog-faced git.
‘Ah, McRae, to what do I owe the dubious pleasure? Perhaps you’re lost? The Professional Standards office is upstairs. You’re spending so much time up there, I’m thinking of transferring you to their department, then you can give yourself a bollocking every morning and save everyone else a load of time. How does that sound?’
Wanker.
‘Very funny, sir. I’ve just chased up Fraserburgh CID. DI Harvey was stabbed last night and they can’t spare anyone else. To stand in for Steel?’
‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant, I am quite aware what DI Harvey was coming down here to do.’ Finnie sucked at his teeth for a minute, staring at Logan. As if he was thinking about eating him. ‘Tell me, Logan, has DI Steel had a word with you?’
Logan kept his face dead still. ‘About what, sir?’
‘Your attitude, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Finnie leaned forward. ‘And?’
‘We had a full and frank exchange of views.’
‘You know, last year I wouldn’t have hesitated to hand all her cases over to you and make you up to acting inspector. But now…?’
Logan could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. ‘It…I…’ He shut his mouth again, before it got him into any more trouble.
‘I’ve seen people resurrect their careers from worse than this, Logan. Not much worse, but it is possible.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Finnie nodded. Those wide rubbery lips pressed tight together. Watching him.
‘Er, is there something—’
‘You can assist DSI Danby this morning, while I decide what to do about DI Steel’s caseload.’
‘But they’re doing Steve Polmont’s post mortem at—’
‘Mr Polmont will survive without you, Sergeant. Now run along.’
Logan tried not to groan. He really did. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘And Sergeant, please remember that Danby outranks both of us. Try not to do anything too stupid.’
Logan parked the pool car outside Knox’s granny’s house, then pointed at the scabby old Transit van parked down the road with a half-hearted collection of orange plastic cones surrounding a couple of rusty road signs. The Aberdeen City Council crest sat on the side – two leopards holding a shield with three wee sandcastles on it – the sticker cracked and peeling, showing the burgundy paint underneath. ‘That’s the surveillance team.’
Wind battered down the road, whipping the trees and bushes, buffeting the pool car, slamming great icy gobbets of sleet against the windscreen. Quarter to ten on a Sunday morning and the streetlights were still on, their dim orange glow wobbling back and forth in the gusts.
Danby frowned. ‘Better wait till the weather lets up a bit, then we can…’ He trailed off, staring at Logan. ‘What?’
‘This is Aberdeen. Trust me, it’s only going to get worse.’
The DSI sighed, unclipped his seatbelt, counted to three, then opened the door and stepped out into the howling sleet. Logan took a deep breath and followed him, plipping the pool car’s locks as he hurried down the pavement after the limping Danby.
They banged on the council van’s grubby back door, then hauled it open and clambered in without waiting for an answer.
‘Shut the bloody door!’ A red-nosed plainclothes PC was huddled in a mountain of coats and scarves – gloves on his hands, woolly hat on his head.
His partner was fighting with the lid of a tartan thermos.
It wasn’t much warmer in here than it was outside.
Logan wiped the melting sleet from his face. ‘Anything happening?’
‘Sod all.’
The one in all the coats and scarves stuck up his hand. ‘I got frostbite.’
‘Your leg fell asleep, it’s not the same thing.’ PC Thermos gave the top one last twist and the smell of instant coffee drifted out into the van’s interior.
At one point the ancient council van must have been lined with metal shelving, now only the uprights remained, still bolted to the bare walls. The floor was a rust-streaked landscape of bumps, dents, old Burger King wrappers and Coke cans. A portable TV and video recorder sat on top of a stainless steel box, a thick black cable connected to a set of big batteries in the corner, another stretching up the van’s wall and across to a video camera mounted in the air ventilation unit on the roof. Everything held in place with masses of silver duct tape.
Seating was courtesy of a set of green plastic chairs that looked as if they’d been stolen from someone’s patio.
PC Thermos waggled his tartan container. ‘Coffee?’
Danby settled himself down on one of the plastic chairs, stretched his right leg out and rubbed at a spot on his calf, grimacing. ‘Long as it’s hot.’
Logan peered at the little TV – getting a bleary view of Knox’s front garden. ‘So what’s the plan for today then?’
PC Frostbite shrugged. ‘Maybe a barbecue later on, if the weather picks up a bit. Game of tennis on the lawn. Perchance some skinny-dipping in the Don.’ He took a slurp from his coffee. ‘We haven’t quite decided yet, have we Sandy?’
Thermos filled a plastic cup for DSI Danby. ‘Apparently Knox wants to go see his sainted granny’s final resting place. Sacro’s going to drive him, we’ll give them a thirty-second head start, then follow.’
Danby nodded. ‘What about the rest of the surveillance team?’
Thermos looked at Frostbite, then Logan, then back to Danby. Eyebrows squinched together, top lip curled. ‘Erm…we’re it.’
There was a pause. ‘Are you seriously telling me that the best Grampian Police can manage for a level one surveillance is two constables in a crappy old van?’
‘Well, it’s not like we have to keep it low-key, is it? He knows we’re watching him. We don’t need to do the whole line-of-sight-target-handover routine.’
Danby closed his eyes and massaged his big, pink forehead. ‘When’s he going out?’
PC Frostbite checked his watch. ‘About half an hour? Want a biscuit while you wait?’
Fucking Aberdeen. Not even snowing properly yet, and it’s already colder than a witch’s titties. Tony shifts in his seat, wriggles even deeper into his jacket and wishes he’d brought some decent gloves with him. Not just the latex ones that don’t leave any fingerprints. ‘Think I saw a polar bear over there, hiding behind a wheelie bin.’
Julie just smiles at him. She’s got Frank Sinatra on the Range Rover’s stereo. Old-fashioned shite warbled by some Mafia stooge. Whatever happened to proper music, eh? Bit of Coldplay, or Travis, or James Blunt: something with a decent tune.
But it keeps her happy, so they put up with it.
Neil turns round in the driver’s seat. ‘Yeah, but look on the bright si
de.’ He points through the windscreen at where Danby and some local plod from CID are clambering out of a maroon piece-of-shit Transit van. ‘Now we know where the surveillance is on Knox’s place. One council van and two cameras covering the front. Long as we go in round the back, no bugger’ll see a thing.’
Tony has to admit that he has a point.
Danby hobbles across the road and through the gate to a shagged-out two-storey with rain-streaked walls and a garden Tarzan would have felt at home in. Yeah, if he’d had a fucking parka on. Wear a loincloth in that and it wouldn’t just be the brass monkeys missing something, know what I mean?
‘So,’ Tony rubs his hands together, ‘we going in tonight?’
Julie shakes her head, boop-de-booping along with that Sinatra crap.
Neil groans. ‘Tell me we don’t have to spend another night in this freezing shithole?’
‘Sorry, Darling.’ Julie stops singing, but she’s still keeping time with a finger on the dashboard. ‘The boss says we wait till Monday. He’s got to get everything in place for when we show up with Danby. Don’t want it turning into another Birmingham, do we, Babe?’
Tony shivers, and for once it’s got nothing to do with the crappy weather. ‘Fuck that.’
‘Exactly.’ She smiles. ‘Now why don’t we go drop off our little present, then we’ll see if we can’t find a Starbucks, OK?’
Neil puts the big Range Rover into gear, and pulls away from the kerb.
Sitting in the back, Tony watches Knox’s house disappear into the sleet. Two more days and they’ll be back in Newcastle, and DSI Danby will wish he was never bloody born.
The lounge was actually warm for a change. All that praying Knox had done was finally paying off: God had brought the three-bar electric fire back from the dead.
Unfortunately it just made the stink of mildew even stronger.
Knox had the armchair by the fire, clutching his plastic bag to his chest – fiddling with one of the handles, making irritating scratchy crinkly noises.
Danby took up most of the couch, Mandy from Sacro had the other armchair, and Logan stood back against the wall, watching them all. No one said a word.
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