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.’
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 McPherson’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.
McPherson moaned for a bit, but eventually got the point and hung up. Logan slumped back in his seat, blinking up at the ceiling tiles. Be nice to just snooze for a couple of minutes. Not that there was any way in hell he’d risk it, not with Finnie storming around the place like an angry bull-frog.
Nothing for it, but to try and get some work done. He poked the power button on his creaky beige computer, listening to it bleep and groan and whir. Then the speakers made that psychic durrrrrrrrum-durrrrrrrrum-durrrrrrrrum buzz that meant his mobile was about to ring.
Sodding hell. What now?
But when the call came through the phone played the metal-chicken rendition of Lydia the Tattooed Lady Samantha had programmed into it for whenever she called.
‘Hey, you.’
‘Logan? How come you‘re not home yet? Big day: you better not be getting cold feet on me!’
‘Two guesses.’
‘Oh for … You‘re in work, aren’t you? You do know the Church’s booked for half one?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Half one. On the dot.’
‘Had to sort out a PM for Jenny McGregor’s toe, and—’
‘Don’t make me drag you out of there, ’cause I will.’
‘Doc Fraser says she’s dead.’
Silence. ‘Shit … I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ Logan glanced up at the poster on the wall: ‘HAVE YOU ANY INFORMATION?’ The photo was a smiling mother and daughter, standing on Aberdeen beach, caught in a shaft of golden light, the cold grey swell of the North Sea foam-flecked and angry behind them. Now it was only a matter of time before the bodies turned up.
‘Anyway, yes: half one. I’ll be there, OK?’
‘Good. Love you.’ And the line went dead.
He checked his watch – just gone eleven – then his email. Memo; directive; memo; Sheriff Court times for everyone arrested last night at Shuggie Webster’s house; general update on the hunt for Jenny and Alison McGregor’s kidnappers; details of the emergency media briefing at half three; an invitation to PC Henderson’s leaving bash—
A knock on the door.
Logan looked up from his screen to see Acting DI Mark MacDonald, clutching a little parcel – about the size of a hardback book.
Logan
