Logan stuck his hat on his head, climbed out, and hurried across to the double doors, swerving to avoid the puddles. Along a breeze-block corridor and into the stairwell. Taking the steps two at a time.
A couple of uniformed PCs wandered downwards, chatting and smiling.
They flattened themselves against the wall as Logan approached, all talk silenced, both smiles turned into a sort of pained rictus.
The spotty one forced a little wave. ‘Inspector.’
Logan had made it as far as the third-floor landing when his phone dinged at him. Text message.
He pulled it out and frowned at the screen.
The caller ID came up as ‘HORRIBLE STEEL!’ and his shoulders sagged a bit. ‘What do you want, you wrinkly monster?’
He opened the message:
Come on, you know you want to.
Nope. Logan thumbed out a reply as he marched past the lifts:
Told you – I’m busy. Ask someone else.
He pushed through the doors and into a bland corridor that came with a faint whiff of paint fumes and Pot Noodle.
A tiny clump of support officers were sharing a joke, laughing it up.
Then one of them spotted Logan, prompting nudges and a sudden frightened silence.
Logan nodded at them as he passed, then knocked on the door with a white plastic plaque on it: ‘DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR STEPHEN HARDIE’.
A tired voice muffled out from inside. ‘Come.’
Logan opened the door.
Hardie’s office was all kitted out for efficiency, organisation, and achievement: six whiteboards covered in notes about various ongoing cases, the same number of filing cabinets, a computer that looked as if it wasn’t designed to run on coal or hamster power. A portrait of the Queen hung on the wall along with a collection of framed citations and a few photos of the man himself shaking hands with various local bigwigs. Everything you needed for investigatory success.
Sadly, it didn’t seem to be working.
Hardie was perched on the edge of his desk, feet not quite reaching the ground. A short middle-aged man with little round glasses. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead. A frown on his face as he flipped through a sheaf of paperwork.
He wasn’t the only occupant, though. A skeletal man with thinning hair was stooped by one of the whiteboards, printing things onto it in smudgy green marker pen.
And number three was chewing on a biro as she scanned the contents of her clipboard. Her jowls wobbling as she shook her head. ‘Pfff… Already got requests coming in from Radio Scotland and Channel 4 News. How the hell did they get hold of it so quickly?’
Hardie looked up from his papers and grimaced at Logan. ‘Ah, Inspector McRae. I would say “to what do we owe the pleasure?” but it seldom is.’
Number Three sniffed. ‘Only positive is they don’t know who our victim was.’
Number Two held up his pen. ‘Yet, George. They don’t know yet.’
George sighed. ‘True.’
Logan leaned against the door frame. ‘I take it Superintendent Doig’s been in touch?’
‘Urgh.’ Hardie thumped his paperwork down. ‘You know this is going to be a complete turd tornado. Soon as they find out we’ve got a murdered cop who faked his own death, it won’t just be a couple of TV crews out there. It’ll be all of them.’
‘Did you ever hear rumours about DI Bell? Backhanders, evidence going missing, corruption?’
‘Ding-Dong? Don’t be daft.’ Hardie folded his arms. ‘Now: we need to coordinate our investigations. PSD and MIT.’
‘Honest police officers don’t run off to Spain and lie low while everyone back home thinks they’re dead.’
‘You can have a couple of officers to assist with your inquiries.’ Hardie pointed at his jowly sidekick. ‘George will sort that out.’
She smiled at Logan. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t lump you with the neeps.’
‘Should think not. And I could do with a copy of the investigation into DI Bell’s so-called suicide, too.’
‘I think Charlie’s got that one.’
Sidekick number two nodded. ‘I’ll drop it off.’
Logan wandered over to the whiteboards and stood there, head on one side, running his eyes down all the open cases.
Hardie was trying on his authoritative voice: ‘My MIT will be focusing on catching whoever stabbed Ding-Dong. You can look into … his disappearance.’
Logan stayed where he was. ‘You’re running the search for Ellie Morton?’
‘I expect you to share any and all findings with my team. You report to me first.’
Aye, right. ‘And Superintendent Doig agreed to that? Doesn’t sound like him. I’d probably better check, you know: in case there’s been a misunderstanding.’
A harrumphing noise from Hardie. Busted.
Logan gave him a smile. ‘Ellie’s been missing for, what: four days?’
DS Scott tapped his pen on the whiteboard. ‘DI Fraser’s working that one. My money’s on the stepdad. Got form for indecent exposure when he was young. Once a pervert…’
A nod. ‘I’ll give Fraser a shout.’
Hardie harrumphed again. ‘If I can drag you back to the topic for a brief moment, Inspector: DI Bell’s files. Where are they?’
‘DS Rennie’s going through them.’ Logan turned and pulled on a smile. ‘You wanted us to look into the historic side of things, remember? Bell’s disappearance?’
A puzzled look. ‘But I only just told you that.’
Logan’s smile grew. ‘See: we’re already acting like a well-oiled machine.’
2
The canteen was virtually deserted. Well, except for Baked Tattie Ted, in his green-and-brown tabard, worrying away at the deep-fat frier while Logan plucked a tin of Irn-Bru from the chiller cabinet.
Logan pinned his phone between ear and shoulder while he went digging in his pocket for some change. ‘Anything?’
The sound of rustling paper and creaking cardboard came from the earpiece, followed by a distracted-sounding Rennie. ‘Nada, zilch, zip, bugger-and-indeed-all. Not that screams “lots of money went missing!” anyway.’
Two fifties, a ten and a couple of pennies. They jingled in Logan’s palm as he walked to the counter. ‘Of course it might not be about an old case. Maybe his personal life was what made him up sticks and disappear?’
A groan. ‘Please don’t tell me I’m wading through all this stuff for nothing!’
The canteen door thumped open and in strutted a woman made up like something off the cosmetics counter at Debenhams. Jane McGrath: in a smart trouser suit, perfect hair, folder under one arm, phone to her ear, and a smile on her face. ‘That’s right, yes. … Completely.’
She waved at him and helped herself to a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and a can of Coke. Tucked a packet of salt-and-vinegar under her arm. ‘That’s right. … Uh-huh. … Yes. I know, it’s terrible. Truly terrible.’ She pinned the phone to her chest and her smile blossomed into an evil grin – mouthing the words at Logan: ‘Isn’t it great?’ Then back to the phone. ‘It’s a miracle their injuries weren’t even more serious. I don’t need to tell you how many police officers are hurt in the line of duty every year. … Yes. … Yes, that’s right.’
Rennie whinged in his ear. ‘Guv? You still there? I said, tell me I’m not—’
‘Don’t be daft, Simon: it’s not for nothing if you find something. And see if you can text me a list of DI Bell’s sidekicks.’
‘Hold on…’ The sound of rustling papers. ‘OK. Let me see… Here we go. Most recent one was Detective Sergeant Rose Savage. God that’s a great police name, isn’t it? Sounds like something off a crime thriller. Detective Sergeant Rose Savage!’
Jane dumped her sandwich, Coke, and crisps on the countertop. ‘I’ll talk to the hospital, but I’m pretty sure we can get you in for a ten-minute interview: “brave bobbies suffer broken bones chasing cowardly criminal!” … Yes, I thought so. … OK. … OK. Thanks. Bye.’ She hung up and sagged, head back, beaming at the ceiling tiles. ‘Ha!’
‘Find out where this Sergeant Savage works now and text me.’
‘Guv.’
Logan put his phone away as Jane launched into a little happy dance.
‘Guess who just got all that crap about us being rubbish off the front page. Go on, I’ll bet you can’t.’
Logan frowned. ‘Hospital?’
‘Two uniforms were chasing down a burglar last night, he wheeches through some back gardens then up and over a shed. They clamber after him and CRASH! Pair of them go straight through the shed roof.’
‘Ooh… Painful.’
‘One broken arm, one broken leg. Which was lucky.’
She had a point. ‘Especially given the amount of pointy things people keep in sheds. Shears, axes, forks, rakes, bill hooks—’
‘What?’ She pulled her chin in, top lip curled. ‘No, I mean: lucky they got hurt in the line of duty. Newspapers love a good injured copper story.’ That kicked off another bout of happy dancing.
Logan paid for his Irn-Bru. ‘Working in Media Liaison’s really changed you, hasn’t it?’
‘And with any luck they’ll have a couple of good bruises as well. That always plays well splashed across the front page.’ She turned and danced away.
Logan shook his head. ‘Why do we have to keep hiring weirdos? What’s wrong with normal—’
His phone dinged at him and he dug it out again.
A text message from ‘IDIOT RENNIE’:
Sargent ROSE SAVAGE!!! (crim fiter 2 the stars) wrks out the Mastrick staton. On duty nw. U wan me 2 get hr 2 com in??
Talking of weirdos…
Logan typed out a reply:
No, I’ll go to her. She’s less likely to do a runner if it’s a surprise. And stop texting like a schoolgirl from the 1990s: you’ve got a smartphone, you idiot!
North Anderson Drive slid by the car’s windows, high-rise buildings looming up ahead on the right, their façades darkened by rain. A couple of saggy-looking people slouched through the downpour, dragging a miserable spaniel on the end of an extendable leash.
‘…heightened police presence in Edinburgh this weekend as protestors are expected to descend on the World Trade Organization Ministerial Conference…’
He took the next left, past rows of tiny orangey-brown houses and terraces of pebble-dashed beige.
‘…avoid the area as travel chaos is extremely likely until Tuesday. Local news now, and the Aberdeen Examiner has its sights set on a Guinness World Record next week as it hosts the world’s largest ever stovies-eating contest…’
Three teenaged girls hung about on a small patch of grass, sheltering beneath the trees to share what was quite possibly a joint. Passing it back and forth, holding the smoke in their lungs and pulling faces.
Logan slowed the Audi and wound down the passenger window. Waving at them. ‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello, what’s all this then?’
‘Scarper!’
They bolted in three different directions, their hand-rolled ‘cigarette’ spiralling away into the wet grass.
Logan grinned and wound his window back up again.
And people said community policing was a waste of time.
‘…and I’m sorry to say that it looks like this rain’s going to stay with us for the next few days as low pressure pushes in from the Atlantic…’
He turned down the next side street, past more tiny terraces, and right on to Arnage Drive in time to see one of the scarpering teenagers barrel out from the side of another grey-beige row. She scuttered to a halt in the middle of the road and stood there with her mouth hanging open, before turning and sprinting back the way she’d come. Arms and legs pumping like an Olympian.
Ah, teenagers, the gift that kept on giving.
He pulled into the car park behind the little shopping centre, designed more for delivery vans and lorries than members of the public. The front side might have been OK, but the back was a miserable slab of brick and barred windows on the bottom and air-conditioning units and greying UPVC on top. All the charm of a used corn plaster.
A handful of hatchbacks littered the spaces between the bins, but Logan parked next to the lone patrol car. Hopped out into the rain.
It pattered on the brim of his peaked cap as he hurried across to the station’s rear door, unlocked it, and let himself in.
The corridor walls were covered in scuff marks, a pile of Method Of Entry kit heaped up beneath the whiteboard for people to sign out the patrol cars, a notice not to let someone called Grimy Gordon into the station, because last time he puked in Sergeant Norton’s boots.
‘Hello?’
No reply, just a phone ringing somewhere in the building’s bowels.
The reception area was empty, a ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging on the front door. No one in the locker room. No one in the back office.
Might as well make himself comfortable, then.
The station break room was bland and institutional, with an air of depression that wasn’t exactly lifted by the display of ‘GET WELL SOON!’ cards pinned to the noticeboard, almost covering the slew of official memos and motivational posters. A window would have helped lift the gloom a bit, instead the only illumination came from one of those economy lightbulbs that looked like a radioactive pretzel. A dented mini-fridge, food-spattered microwave, and battered kettle populated the tiny kitchen area.
Logan dumped his teabag in the bin and stirred in a glug of semi-skimmed from a carton with a ‘STOP STEALING MY MILK YOU THIEVING BASTARDS!!!’ Post-it note on it.
He sat back down at the rickety table and poked out a text message on his phone:
As it’s Friday, how about Chinese for tea? Bottle of wine. Bit of sexy business…?
SEND.
It dinged straight back.
TS TARA:
Make it pizza & you’ve got a deal.
Excellent. Now all he needed was—
A strangled scream echoed down the corridor and in through the open break-room door.
Logan put his tea down and poked his head out.
‘Stop bloody struggling!’ The sergeant was missing her hat, teeth bared and stained pink – presumably from the split bottom lip. Hair pulled up in a bun. Arms wrapped around the throat of a whippet-thin man in filthy trainers and a tracksuit that was more dirt than fabric. Both hands cuffed behind his back. Struggling in the narrow corridor.
A PC staggered about at the far end, by the front door, one hand clamped over his nose as blood bubbled between his fingers and fell onto his high-viz jacket. ‘Unnnngghh…’
All three of them: drenched, soggy, and dripping.
Captain Tracksuit lashed his head to the side, broken brown teeth snapping inches from the sergeant’s face.
She flinched. ‘Calm down, you wee shite!’
He didn’t. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Bellowing it out in an onslaught of foul fishy breath. It went with the bitter-onion stink of BO.
Logan pointed. ‘You need a hand?’
The sergeant grimaced at him. ‘Thanks, sir, but I think we’ve got this. So if you don’t mind—’
Captain Tracksuit McStinky shoulder-slammed her against the wall, hard enough to make the whiteboard jitter and pens clatter to the floor. ‘GETOFFME, GETOFFME, GETOFFME!’
‘You sure you don’t want a hand?’
‘Quite sure.’
McStinky spun away and she snatched a handful of his manky tracksuit. It ripped along the zip, exposing a swathe of bruised xylophone ribs. Then he lunged, jerking his forehead forward like a battering ram.
She barely managed to turn her face away – his head smashed into her cheek instead of her nose. She stumbled.
‘Because it’s no trouble, really.’
McStinky kept on spinning, both hands still cuffed behind his back. ‘I never touched him! It was them! IT WAS THEM!’ Dance-hopping back a couple of paces then surging closer to bury one of those filthy trainers in her ribs. Then did it again.
‘Aaaaargh! OK! OK!’
Logan stepped out of the break room and grabbed the chunk of plastic that joined both sides of McStinky’s handcuffs and yanked it upwards like he was opening a car boot.
McStinky screamed as his arms tried to pop out of their sockets. He pitched forward onto the floor, legs thrashing. Bellowing out foul breaths as Logan kept up the pressure. Leaning into it a bit. Up close, the BO had a distinct blue-cheesiness to it and a hint of mouldy sausages too.
The sergeant scrambled backwards until she was sitting up against the corridor wall. Spat out a glob of scarlet.
McStinky roared. ‘DON’T LET THEM EAT ME!’
The PC with the bloody nose staggered over and threw himself across McStinky’s legs, struggling a set of limb restraints into place. ‘Hold still!’
Logan held out his hand to the other officer. ‘Let me guess: Sergeant Savage? Logan McRae. I need to talk to you about DI Bell.’
Logan leaned against the corridor wall, mug of tea warm against his chest. The station’s rear door was wide open, giving a lovely view of PC Broken Nose and Sergeant Savage ‘assisting’ McStinky into the back of the patrol car parked next to Logan’s Audi.
Rain bounced off the cars’ roofs, sparked up from the wet tarmac, hissed against the world like a billion angry cats.
Ding.
He pulled out his phone and groaned.
HORRIBLE STEEL:
Come on, it’s only one night. One wee teeny weeny night.
A quick reply:
I’m busy.
Sergeant Savage slammed the patrol car’s door shut, then lurched into the station again. Wiped the rain from her face. Scowled. ‘God, I love Fridays.’
Logan nodded at the car. ‘He’s nice.’
McStinky thrashed against his seatbelt, screaming – muffled to near silence by the closed car door – while PC Broken Nose stuck two fingers up to the window.
Savage peeled off her high-viz jacket. ‘You wanted to talk about DI Bell.’
‘Don’t you want to take your friend straight to the cells?’
‘Jittery Dave? Nah, he’s off his face. They won’t let us book him in till they know he won’t OD or choke on his own vomit. And the hospital won’t take him: not while he’s violent. So he can sit there and chill out for a bit. Smithy’ll keep an eye on him.’ She prodded at her split lip and winced. There was blood on her fingertip. ‘Why the sudden interest in Ding-Dong?’
‘You hear what happened this morning?’
‘Been chasing Jittery Dave since I got on shift. I’ve run a sodding marathon already today – never mind Mo Farah, we should put a couple of druggies in for the next Olympics.’
‘OK.’ Logan led the way back into the break room. ‘You were Bell’s sidekick.’
She bristled a bit. ‘I worked with him, yes.’
‘How was he as a boss?’
‘Good. Yeah. Fair. Didn’t hog all the credit. Actually listened.’
Logan stuck the kettle on and dug a clean mug from the cupboard. ‘What about his state of mind?’
‘He blew his brains out in a caravan. What do you think?’
Teabag. ‘I think someone wouldn’t do that without a very good reason. What was his?’
She looked away. Shrugged. ‘The last case we worked on. It was … tough for him.’
‘Tough how?’
‘Ding-Dong… Look: Aiden MacAuley was three when he was abducted. He was out with his dad, in the woods near their house. Fred Marshall attacked them. Killed the father, abducted Aiden.’
‘Fred Marshall?’
‘And we couldn’t lay a finger on him. We know he did it – he boasted about the attack to a friend of his down the pub. Told him all the grisly details about bashing Kenneth MacAuley’s brains out with a rock. Never said what happened to the kid, though. So we dragged Marshall in and grilled him. Again and again and again. But in the end, we didn’t have a single bit of evidence to pin on him.’
The kettle rattled to a boil and Logan drowned the teabag.
Savage prodded at her split lip again. ‘Course, we couldn’t tell Aiden’s mother any of that. We’re banging our heads against the Crown Office, but far as she’s concerned it looks like we’re doing sod-all to find her son and catch the guy who killed her husband.’
‘So what happened with Fred Marshall?’
‘It really weighed on Ding-Dong. We were a good team, you know? And now he can’t get it out of his head: he can’t sleep, he’s stressed all the time…’ Another shrug. ‘Then Ding-Dong’s whole personality changes. He’s jumpy, nervous, irritable. Shouting at you for no reason.’
She stared at the tabletop. Shook her head.
Somewhere in the station, that phone started ringing again.
‘He… He came to my house … about two in the morning. Told me I was to look after his wife. That I had to protect her from the press and the rest of the vermin. And that was the last time I saw him.’ Savage cleared her throat. ‘Until I had to ID his body in the mortuary.’
She shook her head. Blinked. Wiped at her eyes. Huffed out a breath. ‘Anyway… Nothing we can do about it now, is there?’
‘You ID’d the body?’
‘What was left of it. According to the IB, he rigged the caravan to burn before sticking a shotgun in his mouth. The whole thing went up like a firelighter.’ Deep breath. ‘The smell was… Yeah.’
Logan let the silence stretch.
The station phone went quiet for a couple of seconds, then launched into its monotonous cry for attention again.
Savage shook her head. ‘Couldn’t get any usable DNA off the remains – you know what it’s like when you cook everything.’ She shuddered. ‘Had to do it from his possessions: rings, watch, wallet. But we had his car at the scene, the suicide notes, what was left of his dad’s shotgun; even managed to lift some of Ding-Dong’s prints off the caravan…’ Savage’s eyes narrowed. ‘You still haven’t explained: why the sudden interest?’
Logan fished out the teabag and sloshed in a glug of milk. Added two sugars and stirred. ‘Did you ever think he was involved in something? Maybe got in over his head?’
‘Ding-Dong? No. He was a good cop. Most honest guy I’ve ever worked with.’
‘Hmmm…’ He handed her the mug of hot sweet tea. ‘I might have some bad news for you.’
3
Logan stepped into the Major Investigation Team office and closed the door behind him.
Chief Superintendent Big Tony Campbell prowled the line of electronic whiteboards at the front of the room like a horror-film monster: big and bald, bushy black eyebrows scowling over small dark eyes. He barely fit into his police-issue black T-shirt, his bare arms forested with salt-and-pepper fur.
Hardie didn’t look much happier, perched on the edge of someone’s desk in one of the cubicles that lined the other three walls, enclosing the meeting table in the middle. ‘Honestly, if you’ve got any suggestions I’m all ears.’
Big Tony jabbed a hand at the windows. ‘Well he must’ve been staying somewhere!’
‘I’ve got teams out canvassing every hotel and B-and-B in the area. Media Liaison are putting together “Have you seen this man?” posters. There’s another team at Aberdeen Airport going through the CCTV and every passenger manifest for the last two weeks. What else can I do?’
Logan knocked on a cubicle wall. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’
A harrumph from Big Tony, then, ‘Inspector McRae, please tell me you’ve got something.’
‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry at the moment.’
‘Wonderful. So you’ve got sod-all too.’
‘Early days, sir. Early days.’
Big Tony lumbered over to the window, peering down at the gathered TV people and protestors below. ‘Look at them, grubbing about, sneering at us, doing their snide pieces to camera about how NE Division couldn’t find a fart in a sleeping bag.’
Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘I want to get someone exhumed.’
‘Ellie Morton’s mother’s giving a press conference at twelve. No points for guessing what her main theme will be. She’s…’ Big Tony frowned. ‘Wait, what? You want to exhume someone? Who?’
