Steel’s whipping girl, DS McKenzie, lumbered in on her mobile. ‘Yeah … No, I don’t think so, but we’ll follow it up … OK. Thanks.’ She hung up and dug a mug out of the cupboard. Then nodded at Logan, setting the frizzy ponytail-bun thing wobbling. ‘Sergeant.’ All the warmth of yesterday’s vomit and just as bitter.
Logan nodded back. ‘Did you get some cake?’
The creases between her eyebrows deepened. ‘There was cake?’
‘Yeah, I didn’t get any either.’
‘How come no one said there was cake?’ She thumped her mug down next to Logan’s.
He dug the huge carton of semi-skimmed out of the fridge. ‘You want a bit of unsolicited advice?’
‘No.’
‘Tough. Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel can be a massive pain in the arse. I know, because for ten years it was my arse she was a pain in. Do this, do that, go here, go there—’
‘Fetch this, carry that.’ A small smile cracked itself on McKenzie’s face. ‘Do all my paperwork for me.’
‘Exactly. But she’s also—’
‘And all the swearing, and the blasphemy, and the innuendo, and the sexual comments, and the sarcasm, and the scratching!’ DS McKenzie threw her arms wide, hands curled into claws.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Forever digging at her bits and her boobs. And look at her! Like someone ran over Columbo with a lawnmower, how’s that supposed to command respect?’
‘You finished?’
A shrug. McKenzie dropped her arms by her sides. ‘You know what she’s like.’
‘Yes, and I also know she’s incredibly loyal. If you screw up, she’ll rip you a new one in private, but she’ll slap down anyone who has a go in public. She’s got your back and she trusts you to do a decent job, not like some bosses.’
Silence.
Then McKenzie stuck her chin out. Stared down her nose at him. ‘Yeah, maybe she trusts you. The sainted Logan McRae.’ Her voice took on a gravelly edge, not the best impression of Steel, but not bad either: ‘“Logan wouldn’t do that”, “When Logan was my DS everything was much better”, “Logan’s wonderful, Logan’s perfect, everything you can’t do, he’d be great at.”’
The kettle rattled to a halt.
‘Really?’
‘You’re the stick she beats me with every day.’
‘Then don’t rise to it. If she finds a crack she’ll dig and poke till the whole thing breaks, or it gets fixed. Fix it.’
Nicholson appeared in the canteen doorway. ‘There you are, Sarge. Been calling you.’
‘Airwave’s back in the office. What can I do for you, Janet.’
She pulled her mouth into a sad-frog frown. ‘Got another anonymous tip: our mate Frankie Ferris is at it again.’
So much for a nice cup of tea.
Nicholson took a right onto Rundle Avenue. Again. ‘You know, I’m beginning to think someone’s having a laugh.’
Logan slumped in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. ‘You ever wonder why we bother, Janet?’
‘We get, what, six calls a day about Frankie dealing from his house? So round we dutifully trot. And round and round we go. But do we ever catch anyone?’
The white harled houses gave way to the timber semi-shed ones.
‘I mean, this: right here, it’s the perfect metaphor for the job, isn’t it? We go round and round in circles, but what do we really achieve?’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘You know what I think? I think someone’s figured out that this is a really easy way to get us out of the way for an hour.’
‘End of the day, people still keep doing horrible things to each other, and we’re trying to keep everything together with string and old chewing gum.’
‘Yeah, I heard Inspector McGregor had a go at you this morning.’ Nicholson shifted her grip on the wheel. ‘What did you get: the full shouty savaging, or the guilt trip?’
‘Guilt trip.’
‘Urgh, I hate it when she does that. “I’m not angry with you, Janet, just disappointed.”’ Nicholson grimaced. ‘She’s even better at it than my mother, and that’s saying something. Last time, I had to go eat a whole tub of ice cream afterwards, and I still felt like an utter failure.’ Nicholson pulled the Big Car to the kerb, opposite Frankie’s place. Frowned through the windscreen. ‘What if he doesn’t deal from his own house any more? What if this is all make-work to keep us away from where the real action’s going down?’
Logan frowned at her. ‘Have you been watching old repeats of The Sweeney again?’
‘When did we last arrest someone coming out of Frankie Ferris’s Den of Dodgy Drugs?’
True.
‘Not as if we can ignore the tip-off though, is it? Soon as we do, something horrible will happen: Sod’s Law. Give it one more pass, then back to the station.’ He dug out his mobile and called Steel. ‘Anything back from the labs yet?’
‘What? No, I won’t come into the office. I told you, my wife’s more important to me than any job.’
Brilliant. Logan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘Susan’s there, listening, isn’t she?’
‘Get DS McKenzie to do it. I’m spending time with my family for a change.’
‘Yes or no: have the labs done the DNA match with Helen Edwards yet?’
‘Damn it, sir, I’m no’ a miracle worker. These things take time.’
‘For God’s sake, you were supposed to chase them up! Do I have to do everything?’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll see you when I get back to the station.’
Unbelievable. Logan hung up, unhooked his Airwave and got Control to put him through to the Dundee Lab as Nicholson took them on another tour of the back streets.
‘Come on, answer the sodding— Hello? I need to speak to whoever’s processing the Tarlair MIT samples. Can you …’ He held the handset out. ‘I’m on hold.’
Nicholson tapped her two index fingers on the steering wheel, like searching antenna. ‘Or maybe it’s someone who likes screwing with the police? Calls us up, gets his giggles watching us driving about like idiots …’ A frown. ‘What if it’s Frankie doing the tipping-off?’
‘About his own dealing? Nah.’
A one-eyed smile spread across her face. ‘Yeah, think about it: he calls us with these bogus tip-offs when he knows there’s no one there buying his product. Waste our time often enough, and we stop taking tip-offs seriously.’
A thick Glaswegian accent curled out of the Airwave’s speaker. ‘Yellow?’
Logan pressed the talk button. ‘Sergeant McRae: B Division. Where are you with the DNA comparison on the wee girl and Helen Edwards?’
‘Ah …’ A sooking noise – getting ready to break the bad news. ‘Between you and me: going to have to be Tuesday or Wednesday. Can’t get to it any sooner than that.’
‘You’ve had it for nearly a week!’
‘Aye, well, there’s a load on in the labs right now. Everyone’s upgrading their kit but us, so we’re getting nine divisions’ worth of stuff. And Renfrewshire-and-Inverclyde are going mental with all these feet washing up in—’
‘No.’ Logan jabbed a finger against the dashboard. ‘Trust me on this, there is nothing you’ve got on that’s more important than identifying our victim. Other people might tell you there is, but they’re not going to turn up on your doorstep at four in the morning and knee your testicles out through your ears. Are we clear?’
‘But the severed feet—’
‘Would you rather have severed testicles?’
A cough. A pause. ‘Look, this isn’t my choice, OK? I have to do what I’m—’
‘And can you imagine how many people will be lining up to lend a knee when it gets out you’ve been dragging your heels? When that gets splashed across the front pages?’ Logan shook his head. ‘Dear, oh dear. Here’s us trying to catch a little girl’s killer, and you’re messing about with feet? Think your bosses are going to
stand behind you on that one? Or are they going to tie sausages round your neck and throw you to the sharks?’
Nothing.
‘Take your time.’
The voice dropped to a whisper. ‘OK. OK. I’ll bump it up the list. But … I’m only doing my job, here.’
‘Then do it faster. I want that result on my desk by close of play.’ Logan ended the call and twisted his Airwave back on its holder. Looked up to find Nicholson grinning at him. ‘What?’
‘Oh, Sergeant McRae: you’re so masterful!’
39
Nicholson drifted the Big Car through the little side streets, keeping the speed under twenty. ‘What do you fancy doing for Sunday lunch?’
‘Nice big carvery. Rare roast beef; fluffy Yorkshire puddings; crispy roast potatoes done in goose fat; carrots and peas and gravy. All you can eat.’
‘Sounds cool. What are you actually having?’
‘Lentil soup.’
A billboard for home insurance slid by at the end of the road. A happy nuclear family, grinning away at a Plasticine dog. Someone had spray-painted a big purple willy right across the lot of them.
Nicholson pointed at it. ‘You know, I’m beginning to get the feeling our graffiting wee Marxist friend isn’t all that interested in the political process. I think he just likes painting willies on things.’
‘Think you’re right. Suppose that means we’ll have to pay Comrade Geoffrey a visit. There’s—’
‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’
‘Here we go.’ He pressed the button. ‘Hammer away.’
‘We’ve got reports of cows on the road: A947, between Keilhill and the farm shop.’
Nicholson slowed them to a stop, then curled forward and boinged her head off the steering wheel. ‘Not again.’
‘Roger that, show us responding.’ He reached out and poked her in the arm. ‘Come on, Calamity Janet, time to go play cowboys. Yehaw, ornery critters, circle the wagons, etcetera.’
‘Yeah, right here’s fine.’ The Big Car drifted to a halt outside the Sergeant’s Hoose, and Logan popped the door. ‘You going home, or you using the shower in the station?’
Nicholson scowled across from the driver’s side. ‘It’s sodding everywhere.’ Drying mud made pale beige streaks across her cheeks, clumped in her hair, stained the sleeves of her black Police T-shirt and the pale arms sticking out of it. More on her trousers and stabproof vest.
‘If you’re worried about Hector spying on you in the shower, go home. I think we can spot you an extra half-hour for lunch today, after your sterling efforts thwarting the Great Bovine Rebellion.’
‘Oh, you’re funny now, are you?’
Logan climbed out into the dreich afternoon. ‘I’ll be here all week. Try the fish.’ He clunked the door shut and waved as Nicholson bared her teeth for a bit, then pulled away from the kerb. Heading back to the station and a hot shower.
He crossed the road, dug out his keys and let himself into the house. No point carting soup about the whole time when home was a two-minute walk away.
The living-room door was open, showing off four nice cream walls and shiny white skirting boards. Next up – carpet.
Logan unVelcroed his stabproof and hung it over the bannister. ‘Helen?’ No reply. ‘Hello?’
Through to the kitchen. Not there.
Oh.
Cthulhu yawned from the windowsill – perched between the herbs – stretched, turned around to show Logan her bum, then settled down to sleep again.
So much for the big welcome.
He checked the fridge. Both steaks were still in residence. As was the leftover macaroni cheese. Lunch.
Logan pulled it out, popped a couple of holes in the clingfilm, and stuck it in the microwave. Put the kettle on.
A clunk from the front of the house. ‘Logan?’
He stuck his head out into the hall. ‘How does macaroni-cheese on toast sound?’
Helen dumped her bulging contingent of carrier bags on the bare floorboards and wiped a sheen of water from her face, hair hanging in frizzy brown-tinged coils. ‘Urgh … So much for summer.’ A shudder. Then she pointed at the bags. ‘Want to give me a hand?’
They unpacked them in the kitchen as the microwave droned. Salad. Pickles. Salmon fillets. Sausages. Potatoes. Onions. Chocolate. Wine.
Warmth bloomed in Logan’s cheeks. ‘You don’t have to, you know.’
She put a squeezy bottle of salad cream away in the cupboard. ‘Don’t have to what?’
‘This: buy loads of things. Cook for me.’
Her eyebrows drifted up an inch, the edges of her mouth going in the opposite direction.
Logan held out his hands. ‘No – it’s great, seriously, I’ve not eaten this well in months, but I don’t want you to think you have to. It’s not …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t want to be taking advantage.’
She put a jar of mustard down on the counter. Looked at it. ‘You want me to go.’
‘No! No, I don’t, I’m only …’ He shrugged at the pile of food. ‘You’re doing all this for me, and I’m doing nothing in return.’
‘Yes you are.’ Helen stepped in so close that the scent of apricots coiled around him from her damp hair. Joined by the warmth of her body. ‘You’re finding my daughter.’
She placed her hand on the small of his back.
Ding. The microwave came to a halt.
Logan swallowed. Took hold of her shoulders.
Helen looked up, lips parted.
OK.
Deep breath. And—
‘LAZ?’ The word barged in from the front of the house, wearing smoky hobnail boots. ‘YOU IN THERE?’
‘Gah …’ He flinched. Stared at the kitchen door. Not now.
Helen shrank back a step. Bit her top lip. Blushed.
Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Maybe if we’re really quiet, she’ll give up and go away?’
The kitchen door battered open, and a whirlwind in pink top and blue jeans charged into the room, ash-blonde hair streaming out behind her. ‘Daddy!’ She grabbed Logan’s waist for a quick hug then ran over to the windowsill. ‘Cthulhu!’
Stroking and petting and rubbing of ears and purring.
Upstaged by the cat. As usual.
Helen crossed her arms. Pulled back against the working surface. ‘Yes. Right. Sorry.’
‘Gah, what a day.’ Susan lurched into the room and dumped a cool-bag on the table. She’d pulled her blonde hair back into a ponytail, and when she smiled, dimples appeared in her round cheeks. Little wrinkles deepened around her eyes. ‘Logan. How are you? We haven’t seen you in ages. Jasmine was so disappointed you couldn’t make the dance competition.’ Susan marched over and gave him a kiss. Then turned and clapped her hands. ‘Come on, Little Monkey, wash up, time for lunch.’
‘But, Mu-um—’
‘No buts. Upstairs. Wash. Don’t make your dad arrest you.’ Susan peeled off her jacket as Jasmine skipped out of the room. Her belly was a little swollen, but not that much more than usual. ‘Honestly, I love her to bits, but I swear to God: sometimes …’ She turned to Helen and rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m all over the place today. Two hours in a car with the loudest six-year-old on the planet.’ Stuck her hand out. ‘Susan.’
A pause. ‘Helen.’
‘Helen. I love your hair, all mine ever does is hang there like mince. With Jasmine, soon as I hit the third trimester it was like I was channelling Tina Turner, so there’s that to look forward to.’ She unzipped the cool-bag. ‘Do you like roast chicken and watermelon salad? I’ve made about enough for twenty.’
‘It … I should probably …’
Susan turned and took a deep breath. ‘ROBERTA! DON’T FORGET THE DRINKS!’
Steel’s voice boomed through from the hall. ‘I’M ON THE PHONE!’
‘Of course you are.’ Susan pulled a stack of Tupperware from her cool-bag. ‘You’re always on the phone.’
The sound of the toilet flushing came from upstairs. Then Steel lurched into the room, carrying a big plastic box. Fake cigarette sticking out of the corner of her mouth. Phone pinned between her shoulder and her ear. ‘I’m no’ telling you again, Becky – get those lazy sods out there door-to-dooring with Neil Wood’s picture. … I don’t care if it’s raining, snowing, or …’ She stopped. Stared at Helen. Stood there for a bit, bottom lip hanging open. Then, ‘Just sort it. Gotta go.’
Helen wrung her fingers into a knot. ‘Has something happened? Have they got the test results back?’
Steel dumped the plastic box on the kitchen floor. Stuffed her phone in a pocket. ‘Mrs Edwards?’ Then she had a raised-eyebrow ogle at Logan. ‘OK …’ Then back to Helen. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Edwards, it’s going to take a bit of time. Everyone watches these stupid detective TV things and thinks you can get it done in fifteen minutes, but it’s no’ that easy in real life.’
‘Oh.’ She stared at her feet for a moment. ‘Of course. I’m being stupid.’
‘No problem. Didn’t know you were here.’
Susan put a hand against her stomach, fingers splayed over the bump. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were a friend of Logan’s. And here’s me rabbiting on.’ She creased her eyes up. ‘If you’d like to join us for lunch, that’d be—’
‘Why don’t you lay the table, Sooz?’ Steel pointed over Helen’s shoulder. ‘I need to borrow Sergeant McRae for a wee minute.’
Logan grabbed a glance at Helen, then followed Steel down the hall and out into the gloomy afternoon. The slate-grey sea mirrored the granite sky. ‘You could have called!’
‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Steel punched him on the upper arm. ‘I can’t believe you’re shagging our dead kid’s mum! Are you insane?’
‘Ow!’ He rubbed at the spot. ‘Nothing happened, OK? Not that it’s any of your business.’ He pulled the front door shut.
‘Aye, and my bum’s the Queen of Sheba. You were at it, weren’t you?’
‘She wouldn’t have to crash at mine if you’d got your finger out and organized somewhere for her in the first place.’
‘Oh my God, it’s you, isn’t it? The “friend” she’s staying with. I knew it.’
‘She thinks it’s her daughter lying in the mortuary, OK? She just wants someone to talk to.’
Logan McRae 09 - The Missing and the Dead Page 34