Partners In Crime: Logan and Steel Short Stories
Stuart MacBride
Table of Contents
Title Page
DI Steel’s Bad Heir Day
Stramash
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About the Author
By Stuart MacBride
Copyright
About the Publisher
DI Steel’s Bad Heir Day
December 23rd
‘Sod...’ DI Steel stood on one leg in the doorway, nose wrinkled up on one side. ‘Thought I smelt something.’ She ground her left foot into the blue-grey carpet, then dragged it along the floor behind her as she lurched into the briefing room: a hunchless wrinkly Igor in a stain-speckled grey trouser suit. Today, her hair looked like she’d borrowed it from an angry hedgehog.
DC Allan Guthrie chucked another spoon of coffee in a mug and drowned it with almost boiled water. Topped it up with milk, and chucked in a couple of sugars. No point asking if she wanted one. ‘Guv?’
She stopped, mid-scrape. Standing completely still. Not looking at him.
Half past four and the CID room was quiet, everyone off dealing with Christmas shoplifters and snow-related car crashes, leaving the little maze of chest-high cubicles and beech-Formica desks almost deserted. The whole place smelled of feet and cinnamon.
Allan dumped the teaspoon on the draining board. DI Steel just stood there, like one of those idiots who appeared every summer outside the St. Nicholas Centre, spray-painting themselves silver and pretending to be statues. ‘Guv, is everything OK?’
Someone’s phone rang.
Allan cleared his throat.
She still hadn’t moved.
‘Guv?’
Not so much as a twitch.
‘Guv, you all right?’
‘If I stay really still you can’t see me.’
Mad as a fish.
‘OK...’ He held out the mug. ‘Two and a coo.’
She sighed, shoulders drooping, arms dangling at her sides. ‘See, this is what I get for no’ bunking off home after the Christmas shopping – accosted by chunky wee police constables.’
‘I’m not chunky. It’s a medical condition.’
‘It’s pies.’ She took the coffee, sniffed it, then scowled up at him. ‘I just stood in something that smells better than this.’
He pulled the envelope from his pocket – a thick, ivory, self-sealing job with the DI’s name in spidery script on the front. ‘Courier dropped it off about ten.’
‘Don’t care.’ She snatched a roll of sticky-tape from the nearest desk, turned on her heel, jammed her shoe down again, and lurched back towards the door. ‘Two hours of fighting grumpy auld wifies for the last pair of kinky knickers in Markies has left me all tired and emotional. Soon as I’ve finished pinching everyone’s Sellotape, I’m offski. Taking the wee one to the panto tonight and there’s no way in hell I’m going sober.’
Allan waggled the envelope at her. ‘Looks kinda important.’
She stuck her fingers in her ears, singing as she scraped her shoe across the carpet tiles. ‘Jingle Bells, Finnie Smells, Rennie’s hair is gay...’
Detective Constable Rennie stuck his head up above his purple-walled cubicle, blond mop jelled into spikes, eyebrows pinched together in a frown. ‘Hey, I heard that!’
Steel disappeared down the corridor, still doing her Quasimodo impersonation. Then came the slam of an office door. Then silence.
Woman was an absolute nightmare.
Allan slipped the envelope back in his pocket. Just have to try again tomorrow when she was in a better mood. That was the thing about detective inspectors, you had to manage them like little children, or they stormed off in a huff and spent the rest of the day thinking up ways to make your life miserable.
A thump echoed out from the other side of the CID door, then an angry voice: ‘Aw, for... Who made sharny skidmarks all over the carpet?’
December 24th – Christmas Eve
DI Steel’s office looked like Santa’s grotto… Assuming Santa worked in a manky wee room with greying ceiling tiles, a carpet covered in little round burn marks, and a desk festooned with teetering stacks of forms and folders. The three filing cabinets lined up along one wall were topped with stacks of presents, all wrapped in brightly coloured paper by someone who obviously favoured enthusiasm and sticky tape over skill.
The inspector was behind her desk, fighting with a roll of dancing-penguin paper and a big cardboard box.
Allan knocked on the doorframe. ‘Guv?’
She peeled an inch-long strip of Sellotape from the corner of her desk, and forced down a flap of wrinkly penguins. ‘I’m no’ in.’
‘Got a memo from the boss.’ He pulled it out of the folder and held it up.
Another strip of tape. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there looking like a baked tattie: read it.’
Allan did.
She scowled at him. ‘Out loud, you idiot.’
‘Oh, right. “To all members of staff – the cleaners have lodged a complaint about the state of the carpets in the CID wing. If I catch whoever it was that wiped dog—”’
‘Blah, blah, blah. Anything else? Only I’m up to my ears in urgent police work here.’ She tore off another length of tape.
‘Yeah, you’ve got a missing person.’ Allan dumped the mis-per form on the inspector’s desk, next to a bright-yellow Tonka tipper truck. ‘Mrs Griffith says her husband—’
‘Give it to Biohazard or Laz.’ She gave the box another lashing of sticky tape. ‘Better yet, palm it off on those shiftless layabouts in GED. No’ like they’ve got anything better to do, is it?’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Pass us the scissors.’
Allan did. ‘DS McRae and Marshall aren’t in today – firearms refresher – and General Enquiry Division’s already passed: they say it’s a CID case.’
‘Typical.’ Steel’s tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she snipped a raggedy line through the wrapping paper, disembowelling half a dozen penguins in the process. ‘How come I’m the only one round here who ever does any work?’
Allan just stared at her.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Cheeky sod.’ The parcel went on the floor, then Steel dug into a green-and-white plastic bag and produced a set of something lacy and skimpy. More paper. More sticky tape.
He pulled out the thick ivory envelope with its spidery script. ‘There’s this too.’
Steel held out her hand. ‘Give.’ She grabbed it off him, ripped it open, and squinted at the contents, moving the letter back and forward, as if that was going to help.
‘You want to borrow my glasses?’
‘I don’t need glasses. How come no one can write properly anymore? It’s like a spider got blootered on tequila, then threw up green ink everywhere.’
‘So what do you want to do about this missing person?’
‘You know what kind of person uses green ink? Nutters, that’s who. Nutters, freaks and weirdos.’ She chucked the letter across the desk at him. ‘Read.’
‘Erm…’ The whole thing was packed with almost impenetrable legalese, but it was just about understandable. ‘It’s from a law firm on Carden Place. Says you’ve been left a chunk of cash in someone’s will.’
The inspector sat upright, a smile rearranging the wrinkles on her face. ‘How much?’
‘Doesn’t say. They want you to go into the office and discuss it.’
‘Well, whoever’s snuffed it, they better be rich.’ She picked up her phone. ‘Give us the number.’
Allan read it out and she dialled, swivelling back and fo
rth in her seat, singing ‘I’m in the Money’ while it rang. Then stopped, licked her lips. ‘Aye, hello, this is Detective Inspector Roberta Steel, you sent me a… Uh-huh… Uh-huh… Yeah, terrible tragedy. How much?’ Silence. Her eyes widened. ‘Really?’ The smile turned into a grin. ‘Oh, yes, aye, couldn’t agree more… Uh-huh… Yeah, one thing though: who is it? Who died?’ And the grin turned into a scowl. ‘I see. Excuse me a moment.’ Then she slammed the phone down and embarked on a marathon swearing session. Threw her Sellotape across the room. Banged her fist on the desk. Swore and swore and swore.
Allan fiddled with the folder and waited for her to finish. ‘Good news?’
‘Don’t you start.’ She snatched the letter back, crumpled it up into a ball, and hurled it into the bin. Then spat on it.
‘So … missing person?’
‘All right, all right – missing person. Honestly, you’re worse than Susan. Nag, nag, nag. Go get a car, we’ll pay Mrs ... Gifford? Guildford?’
‘Griffith.’
‘Right. Get a car and we’ll pay Mrs Griffith a visit.’ Steel thumped back in her chair, face all pinched, jaw moving like she was chewing on something bitter. ‘Maybe stop off for a few messages on the way.’
Allan sat in the driver’s seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gritting his teeth every time someone blared their horn at him. They’d made it as far as the Trinity Centre before Steel had slammed her hand on the dashboard and told him to pull in for a minute. That was half an hour ago.
The car’s hazard lights blinked and clicked, digging orange knives into his forehead.
A loud BREEEEEEEEEP! sounded behind him, then again. And again. Then a bus grumbled past, sending up a spray of grey-brown slush to spatter against the pool car’s windows. A couple of the passengers gave him the two-finger-salute on the way past.
Like traffic on Union Street wasn’t bad enough at the best of times. A thick rind of dirty white was piled up at the edge of the kerb, the road covered in a mix of compacted snow, ice and filthy water. Pedestrians slithered by on the pavement, bundled up in thick coats, scarves and woolly hats, fresh snow coating their shoulders like frozen dandruff. Every now and then someone would stop and stare into the car, as if it was his fault he was stuck here, holding up the rotten traffic.
Soon as Steel got back he was going to give her a piece of his mind. Put her in her place. Let her know this wasn’t acceptable. He hadn’t joined the force just so she could go on shopping expeditions.
Clunk. The passenger door swung open and an avalanche of plastic bags clattered into his lap.
Steel clambered in, pulled the door shut, and shuddered. ‘Oooh, bleeding heck: brass monkeys out there.’ She frowned. ‘How come you’ve no’ got the heating on?’
Allan glowered at her. ‘With all due respect, Inspector, you—’
‘Don’t be a prawn, or you’ll no’ get your present.’
‘Present?’ That was more like it. He turned the key in the ignition and cranked up the heater. ‘Is it good?’
‘Course it’s good. Has your aunty Roberta ever let you down?’ She dug into one of the plastic bags and came out with something bright red with white furry bits. ‘Here.’
He turned it over in his hands, the smile dying on his lips. ‘Oh...’ It was one of those cheap Santa hats they flogged in the Christmas market on Belmont Street.
‘Well, put it on then.’
‘It’s ... not ... with the uniform and everything...’
Steel poked his black stab-proof vest with a red-painted fingernail. ‘Put – it – on.’
Brilliant. Allan hauled the hat on over his head, the bobble on the end dangling against his cheek. Like he was being tea-bagged by a Muppet.
She peered at him for a bit. ‘It’s missing something.’ Then she leaned over and grabbed him by the lapel, hauling him towards her.
Oh God, she wasn’t going to kiss him, was she? But there wasn’t so much as a sprig of mistletoe in the car. It wasn’t fair! You couldn’t just go about kissing people – you had to give them fair warning about stuff like that. It was sexual harassment!
Run. Get out of the car and run. RUN!
She grabbed the bobble on the end of his Santa hat and something inside went ‘click’. Little coloured lights winked on and off inside the fur. Like it wasn’t undignified enough in the first place.
Then again, given the alternative...
Steel nodded. ‘Much better.’
A deafening HONNNNNNNNNNK! belted through the air behind them and a massive eighteen-wheeler loomed in the rear-view mirror, lights flashing.
She peered over her shoulder. ‘Well, don’t just sit there: you’re holding up traffic.’
Mrs Griffith scrubbed a soggy hanky under her plump red nose, getting rid of the twin lines of silver. She sat on the couch in an over-warm living room, her pale-pink twinset and pearls looking all rumpled and out of kilter. As if she’d got dressed in the dark then fallen down the stairs a couple of times. Her chocolate-brown hair was starting to go grey at the roots, watery eyes blinking behind Dame Edna glasses. A big woman who wobbled when she sniffed.
A Christmas tree sat in the corner of the room, decorated with scarlet bows, gold dangly things, and white lights – very tasteful. A mound of presents sat on the floor, beneath a thin layer of fallen pine needles, much more professionally wrapped than the Frankenstein’s monsters in DI Steel’s office. The mantelpiece was covered in cards, and so were the sideboard and the display cabinet by the large bay windows. Popular couple.
Allan underlined the words ‘MISSING SINCE LAST NIGHT’ in his notebook. ‘And your husband’s never gone off like this before?’
She blinked and shook her head. Not looking at him.
Couldn’t really blame her. When you call the police to help find your missing husband, you probably don’t expect a uniformed PC to turn up wearing a flashing Santa bobble hat.
‘And he didn’t mention anything that was bothering him?’
Mrs Griffith sniffed again, blinked, then stared up at the ceiling as the sound of a toilet flushing came from the floor above. Nice house. Fancy. Three bathrooms; four bedrooms, one en-suite; dining room; living room; drawing room; kitchen bigger than Allan’s whole flat; conservatory; dirty big garden hidden under a thick blanket of snow. Had to be at least knee deep out there.
‘Well, it’s early days yet. Might just have got stuck in the snow, or something. Did you try his work?’
Mrs Griffith stared down at the crumpled hankie in her thick fingers. ‘I... I phoned the hospital all night, just in case he’d ... you know, with the icy roads... An accident.’ A single drip swelled on the tip of her nose, clear and glistening in the lights from the tree. ‘Then I tried his work first thing this morning...’
It was the most she’d said in one go since they’d got there.
‘I see.’ Allan made a note in his book. ‘And where does your husband work?’
She tortured her hanky for a bit. ‘He doesn’t.’ The drip dropped, splashing down on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘The man I spoke to, Brian, he was Charles’s boss. He said... He said Charles was made redundant three months ago. Said they couldn’t keep everyone on with the economic downturn.’ She gave a little moan in the back of her throat. ‘Why didn’t Charles tell me?’
Clump, clump, clump, on the stairs, then the living room door opened and DI Steel shambled into the room, hauling up her trousers with one hand. ‘Sorry, went to the panto last night. Too many sweeties always go right through me. You know what they say: you don’t buy chocolate buttons, you just rent them.’ She collapsed down on the other end of the sofa, then patted Mrs Griffith on a chunky knee. ‘Went for a rummage through your bedroom while I was upstairs, knew you’d no’ mind.’
Mrs Griffith opened her mouth, as if she was about to disagree, then closed it again. ‘What am I going to tell the children?’
Steel wrinkled her lips and raised one shoulder in a lopsided-shrug. ‘You sure there’s nothing
missing? Clothes, toothbrush, razor, stuff like that.’
‘He wouldn’t just run out on Jeremy and Cameron and me. He dotes on those boys, nothing’s too good for them.’ Her eyes flicked towards the pile of presents under the tree. ‘Something must have happened. Something terrible...’
‘Found this stuffed under the mattress.’ The inspector produced a big clear plastic envelope thing, with ‘Ho-Ho-Ho! HAPPY SANTA SUIT!’ printed in red and white on a bit of card. The hanger was stuffed inside, but there was no sign of the costume. ‘Your Charlie like to dress up for a bit of kinky fun?’
Mrs Griffith sank back in her seat, eyes wide, one chubby hand pressing that soggy hanky to her trembling lips. ‘No! Charles would never do anything like that.’
‘Shame. Partial to a bit of the old “naughty nun” myself.’ Steel patted her on the knee again. ‘Any chance of a cuppa? Digging through other people’s drawers always gives us a terrible drooth.’
A bit of flustering, then Mrs Griffith hauled herself up from the couch and lumbered off to the kitchen, sniffing and wobbling.
Allan waited till the kitchen door clunked shut, before leaning forward. ‘You’ll never guess – the husband was made redundant—’
‘Three months ago, aye, I know.’
‘How did—’
‘Found a P45 in his bedside cabinet, along with two Playboys, one Big-’N-Juicy, and a stack of receipts.’
‘Oh.’ Allan stuck his notepad back in his pocket.
‘Something a wee bittie more interesting too…’ She produced a slip of yellow paper and waggled it at him. ‘It’s—’
The door thumped open again and Mrs Griffith backed in, carrying a tray loaded down with china cups, saucers, and an ornately painted teapot.
Steel smiled. ‘That was quick. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of…’ She peered into the tray as Mrs Griffith lowered it onto the coffee table. ‘Chocolate biscuits. Perfect.’
‘I didn’t know if you’d want. What with…’ Pink rushed up Griffith’s cheeks, clashing with her twinset. ‘Your digestive problems.’
The inspector helped herself, talking with her mouth full. ‘I’ll risk it.’ Chomp, chomp, chomp. ‘Your husband ever mention someone called Matthew McFee?’ Crumbs going everywhere.
Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories Page 1