‘Not till you tell me why you—’
‘Laz, it always pays to keep an eye on what DI Disaster’s up to: you never know when he’s going to get himself bashed over the head, break a limb, fall down the stairs, be hit by a car, punched in the nose…’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘Am I missing anything?’
‘He got rabies once.’
‘Exactly. And while he’s off on the sick, who do you think gets lumbered with his caseload? Muggins. Like I don’t have enough on my plate.’ Steel puffed out her cheeks and slumped even further. ‘I’m knackered the whole time; Jasmine won’t stop screaming; Susan’s nerves are in tatters so she’s getting on mine; nobody’s sleeping…’ Sigh. ‘Don’t get me wrong: Jasmine’s a wee darling, but Jesus. Now I know why some animals eat their young.’
Logan yawned again. ‘At least you didn’t get dragged out of your bed after an hour, by a grumpy—’
‘Oh boo bloody hoo. For your own good, remember?’ The inspector polished off the last of her buttie, swilling it down with another mouthful of coffee. ‘Dying for a shag too. Bloody Susan’s still no’ up for it – they had to stitch her bits back together, and you know it—’
Logan held up a hand. ‘I’m eating.’
‘—like a doner kebab. If I don’t get my end away soon I’m going to… Morning, Guv.’
Logan scrunched around in his seat. DCI Finnie was standing in the doorway, his face crumpled down at the edges. As if it needed a good iron.
‘Inspector,’ the head of CID held up a manila folder, ‘why are there still no suspects in the Douglas Ewan case?’
Steel sniffed. ‘You told me the McGregors took precedence. Remember?’
‘I see…’ Finnie’s rubbery mouth became a thin-lipped line. ‘Well, I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that you could drop everything and sit in here having a wee tea party instead. But perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, you wouldn’t mind solving something?’
She put her mug down. ‘It’s no’ that I haven’t got any suspects for the Ewan case: I’ve got too bloody many. Dougy Ewan is a nasty raping wee bastard: half that bloody estate’s got reason to kick the shite out of him. Interviewed fifty-two people so far, and they all think whoever did it deserves a knighthood. So coming in here “motivating” me’s no’ as helpful as you think.’
Finnie stiffened. ‘I don’t appreciate your—’
‘Fuck’s sake, Andy, I know you’ve got SOCA dancing on your bollocks with clogs on, but it’s no’ my fault, OK? We’re doing our best here.’
Silence.
‘And you…’ The DCI turned on Logan. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, did I imagine it, or did you swear to me that you could do a much better job on that drug bust than DI McPherson? Yet what do I find when I get in this morning? A matching set of signed confessions? A stack of seized drugs in the evidence stores?’
Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Actually, sir—’
‘No: I find half the evidence has been fl ushed down some junkie’s toilet, and you let the ringleader get away!’
‘It was … erm … we were—’
‘Operational difficulties, Guv.’ Steel tapped a fingernail against her mug. ‘McRae was just debriefing me on the incident. Nothing he could’ve done without a firearms team: dirty big dog like that. It’s remarkable he got the result he did, really. McPherson would’ve come back with half the team dead.’
Finnie’s scowl slipped a bit. ‘I see.’ He looked at Logan in silence for a moment, raised an eyebrow, then back to Steel. ‘We need to have a briefing for Superintendent Green.’
‘Oh aye, and how is our friendly neighbourhood clog dancer?’
‘Make sure the core team is in the boardroom at half eleven. And for God’s sake send the no-hopers off somewhere. It might be nice if the Serious Organized Crime Agency didn’t get the impression Grampian Police was entirely populated with morons, don’t you think?’ He turned back to Logan. ‘And you can go chase up Lothian and Borders. I want that pathologist on the first flight to Aberdeen, not when they think it’s convenient. Understand?’
‘Actually, sir—’
‘No: I don’t want excuses, I want a bloody pathologist, and I want him here now!’
‘But I—’
‘Now!’
Someone out in the corridor cleared their throat.
Logan peered over Finnie’s shoulder to see a bald man in a threadbare cardigan. The newcomer blinked watery grey eyes, then grinned: making the tufts of hair growing out of his bulbous nose bristle. ‘Morning all. Sergeant McRae tells me you’ve got a wee girl’s remains that need examining?’
Chapter 8
Doc Fraser pulled a tartan hanky from his cardigan pocket, polished a pair of half-moon spectacles and slipped them on. The mortuary was cool and dark, the overhead lights blinking and buzzing as they warmed up. Something classical oozed out from the speakers of a new stereo unit, a black iPhone plugged into it. Violins and cellos casting dark and sombre sounds to echo back from the pristine white tiles.
The Anatomical Pathology Technician handed Logan a set of white Tyvec coveralls, then waved her creepy-spider fingers in the direction of a box of purple nitrile gloves. ‘Please avail yourself of our … facilities.’
Doc Fraser slipped his feet out of his shoes, dropped his trousers, took off his cardigan and shirt, then clambered into his own SOC suit, getting the APT to help him with the zip. Hiding his baggy grey Y-fronts and string vest. ‘Thanks, Sheila.’
A small bow. ‘Shall I fetch … the remains?’
‘Might as well, it’s not…’ He glanced down at the grey socks poking out from the legs of his SOC suit. There was a hole in one. ‘You haven’t still got my PM slippers, have you?’
She nodded, let her fingers creep through the air for a moment, picked up his discarded clothes, then turned and stalked from the room.
Doc Fraser waited until the door clunked shut. ‘Is it just me, or has Ms Dalrymple gone a bit strange since I retired?’
Steel hauled up the hood of her oversuit. ‘She’s got a bet on with Biohazard.’
The pathologist shook his head, then looked around the low room. ‘Can we get started, or are we expecting an audience?’
Logan snapped on a pair of gloves. ‘Just Finnie.’
‘Well, he’ll have to get a shift on: I’ve got a three o’clock tee-time at Meldrum House and if I’m late there’ll be trouble.’ He picked a facemask from a box in the corner, stretched the elastic over his head, and let the mask dangle just under his chin. ‘Can someone get the lights, please? And do something about the music, it’s like a bloody funeral parlour in here.’
The spotlights above the cutting table blazed into life, glaring back from the stainless steel cutting table. The whole place reeked of disinfectant, bleach, and formaldehyde. The bowl of potpourri sitting next to the stereo didn’t even make a dent in it. Logan flicked through the iPod, replacing Barber’s Adagio for Strings with Deacon Blue’s Move Away Jimmy Blue.
‘That’s better.’ The pathologist pulled at a roll of green plastic mounted on the wall, tearing off a length like a bin-bag and unfurling it into an apron. Putting it on as the door banged open. ‘Ah, about time.’
Finnie bustled into the room and snatched up an SOC suit for himself, and another for the younger man who followed him in. ‘Everyone, this is Superintendent Green from SOCA. He’ll be observing.’
Superintendent Green – wavy blond hair, chiselled jaw, serious blue eyes, broad shoulders, narrow waist. Like something off the television. He gave a tight-lipped smile, a little tilt of the head. ‘I’ll try not to get in the way.’ He even sounded as if he belonged on a cop show – a rich baritone voice with a faint London accent.
Steel leaned over and whispered in Logan’s ear, ‘Sodding hell: I would, wouldn’t you?’
‘No. And you’re married.’
‘Laz, I’m gay, no’ dead…’
The head of CID zipped up his hood, then did the introductions – Steel holding onto Super
intendent Green’s hand for way longer than was either necessary or professional. When she finally let go, Finnie pointed across the cutting table. ‘And last, but not least, this is Dr Duncan Fraser. Our forensic pathologist.’
Doc Fraser gave the superintendent a wave. ‘Retired.’ Sniff. ‘Who’s corroborating?’
Finnie pulled on a facemask.
Steel rocked back and forth on her heels.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘You’re it, Doc. Isobel’s off at some conference and the new guy, Hudson’s—’
‘Indisposed.’ Sarah, the APT, glided back into the cutting room, carrying a stainless steel tray with a pair of white plastic clogs on it. The kind with little holes in the top to let your feet breathe. She froze, then turned to stare at the stereo. ‘Tsk…’
Steel nodded. ‘Dose of the killer squits, apparently. Turning himself inside out as we speak.’
The APT rolled her eyes, then placed the clogs on the floor at Doc Fraser’s feet. ‘Most … unfortunate.’ She stalked over to the iPod, and five seconds later Barber’s Adagio was back.
Doc Fraser rolled his shoulders, an indistinct rustling inside his white paper suit. ‘Ah well, I’m not happy about it, but McRae said it was urgent, so I suppose needs must.’ He drummed his fingers on the cutting table. ‘Sheila, can you fetch the little girl’s remains please? And can we please listen to something a bit cheerier? Bad enough as it is.’
The APT nodded at the tray, spotlights sparking off the shiny surface. A small evidence bag sat on one side.
The pathologist looked at her. ‘What?’
She plucked the bag from the tray and lowered it reverently onto the slab. ‘The remains.’
Silence. Just the mournful dirge of violins coming from the stereo.
‘Seriously?’ He opened the bag and tipped Jenny McGregor’s toe out onto his palm. ‘Is this it?’
Which probably made him the only person in the country who didn’t know.
Doc Fraser held the digit up to the light, turning it back and forth, round and round. ‘Unbelievable…’
It had been cleaned up since Logan last saw it, all the congealed blood removed for testing, the whole thing gone over with sticky tape to lift any fibres so they could be analysed. Nothing left but flesh, nail, and bone.
Steel tried to put her hands into pockets that weren’t there. ‘Do you no’ read the papers?’
‘Inspector, one of the best things about retiring – apart from the golf, the gardening, and the Viagra – is not having to wallow in society’s filth every morning.’ He raised his safety goggles, until they were sitting on top of his head, and peered at the pale yellow chunk of little girl.
Finnie stepped closer to the table. ‘What can you tell us?’ There was a long pause. Then the pathologist placed the digit back on the slab.
‘You see, this is why I retired.’ Doc Fraser crumpled for a moment. Sighed. Then peeled back the hood of his SOC suit. ‘Sheila, I want the usual tests.’
‘Yes, Doctor.’
Finnie leant over the cutting table. ‘What?’
Doc Fraser shuffled over to the pedal bin in the corner, peeled off his gloves and dropped them in. ‘We’re finished here.’
That had to go on record as the shortest post mortem ever.
‘Doctor?’ Finnie straightened up. ‘Where are you—’
‘She’s dead.’ He removed his mask and apron, and sent them after the gloves. ‘A wee girl…’
Steel groaned. Superintendent Green straightened his shoulders, chin up. Finnie swore.
Logan stared at the severed toe. Pale, bloodless, almost translucent. ‘Are you sure she isn’t just—’
‘Look at the cut end.’ Doc Fraser unzipped his SOC suit. ‘No bruising, no discolouration, no lividity. Cut a toe off a living person and you make a hell of a mess: the tissue gets inflamed, blood flows to the damaged area, capillaries burst, subcutaneous bleeding makes a dark stain around the wound.’ He struggled out of the suit, stood there in his vest and pants, one sock crumpled around an ankle. ‘That toe was cut from a dead body. Your wee girl’s dead.’
Logan followed DI Steel back up the mortuary steps and out onto the sun-bathed tarmac of the Rear Podium car park. It was bounded on one side by the seven-storey bulk of FHQ; the squat admin and mortuary blocks on two others; and – across a narrow lane – the dark granite wall of tenement buildings that made up the back of King Street. Normally it was wrapped in chilly shadows, but today it was positively Mediterranean.
Logan didn’t bother stifling a jaw-cracking yawn. Shuddered. Blinked. Dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
Steel paused beside a CID pool car with ‘DIRTY PIGGY BASTARDS!!!’ spray-painted in dripping letters along the side, and produced a little plastic stick coloured to look like a cigarette. She stuck it in her mouth and tried for a puff. Then pulled the thing out and squinted at it. Had another go, sooking her cheeks hollow.
‘Sodding bugger-monkeys…’ She thrust the fake cigarette at Logan. ‘You – man – fix.’
Logan watched DCI Finnie storm through the back doors into FHQ, Superintendent Green flowing along behind him. Like a cat in a reasonably-priced suit.
‘When the press find out Jenny’s dead, we’re screwed. They’ll—’
‘Fix it, fix it, fix it!’
Logan twisted the fake plastic filter, and the e-cigarette went ‘click’, then the end glowed an artificial ruby colour. He handed it back. ‘SOCA’s going to take over the investigation; we’ll all be up in front of Professional Standards; and every newspaper, TV crew, and tosser on the street, is going to play Bash Grampian Police.’
Steel sucked on her fake cigarette. A thin wisp of vapour curled from the end. ‘Aye, that’s the real tragedy here, isn’t it? No’ a wee girl being dead or anything.’
Logan could feel the blush rushing up his cheeks, ears tingling.
Six years old, and they barely had enough to bury.
He looked away. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
Fuck.
So much for the compassionate face of modern policing.
Steel patted him on the arm. ‘Don’t sweat it. I’ll bet Finnie’s arse isn’t eating his frilly man-panties because Jenny’s dead either. But do you no’ think it might be nice if someone kept an eye on what actually matters?’ Another sook. ‘But you’re right – we are fucked.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Well, I don’t know about you,’ Steel marched off towards the back door, sticking the fake fag back in her pocket, ‘but I’m no’ lying back and thinking of England.’
Chapter 9
They pushed through the double doors into the custody area – a bare concrete floor, breezeblock walls, ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ posters, the smell of old sweat and stale biscuits.
A shrill, jagged, cry echoed down the corridor: ‘I want a fucking doctor!’
The reply sounded as if it was being spat between gritted teeth: ‘If you don’t quiet down—’
‘I’M FUCKING DYING!’
Logan turned the corner to the cell block. A Police Custody and Security Officer was peering through the hatch of number five, hands on her hips, white shirt rucked up at the back. One epaulette nearly torn off. Hairdo all skewed to one side. ‘You don’t need a doctor, you need a good kick up the—’
‘Morning Kathy.’ DI Steel paused on the way past to slap the PCSO on the bum.
‘Hoy!’ Kathy glowered, both cheeks deep pink, eyes scrunched into narrow slits. Then she saw Logan. ‘You!’
He backed off a step. ‘What?’
‘This,’ she slapped a palm against the cell door, ‘is your fault. Trisha Brown – hospital turfed her out half an hour ago and she’s—’
‘RAPE! I’VE BEEN RAPED! HELP!’
‘Do you see what I’ve got to put up with?’
‘I’M DYING!’
‘Shut up!’ Kathy hit the door again. ‘I want her interviewed and out of here now!’
Logan held up his hands. ‘It’s McPhers
on’s case – he’s supposed to be interviewing the lot of them this afternoon.’
‘This afternoon? I’m not—’
‘I’M DYING IN HERE, YOU FUCKS!’
‘Christ’s sake!’ The PCSO hauled the hatch open. ‘Will you bloody shut it for five minutes!’
Steel glanced at the floor. ‘You’ve sprung a leak.’
Logan followed her gaze, down to where a clear yellow puddle was seeping out from beneath the cell door and pooling around the PCSO’s sensible shoes.
‘Agh, you filthy cow!’ She danced back a couple of steps, leaving damp footprints on the concrete.
They left her to it.
The Wee Hoose smelled of egg sandwiches left in the sun for too long, but Sergeant Biohazard Bob Marshall was nowhere to be seen.
‘I can’t – I’ve got a team briefing in half an hour.’ Logan shifted his mobile from one ear to the other and settled into his seat, then froze, staring at his desk lamp. Someone had attached three socks and a pair of pale-grey lady’s knickers to the metal shade with clothes-pegs.
Ha-bloody-ha.
DI McPherson’s voice had that petulant sound kids used when their mums were dragging them past the sweetie aisle in the supermarket: ‘But I don’t know what you arrested them for! How can I interview them if—’
‘It was your operation: read the report.’ Logan hauled the socks off his lamp, dumped them on the floor.
‘But I can’t—’
‘And I’m not here this afternoon, anyway. You’ll have to do it yourself.’
He reached for the pants, then stopped. Grabbed a blue nitrile glove from the big box by the door and used it to pull the pants from their peg. A thick brown skidmark ran the length of the gusset. He curled his top lip.
‘Filthy bastards…’
‘What?’
‘No, not you, Guv; someone else.’ He almost dropped the grubby knickers in the bin, then turned and stuffed them in Bob’s top drawer instead. See how he liked it.
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