waited until every microphone and camera was pointed in his direction. ‘Colin Miller, Aberdeen Examiner.’ His broad Glaswegian accent didn’t really go with the fancy clothes. The wee man pulled out a sheet of paper in a clear plastic sleeve. ‘This turned up on my desk half an hour ago. And I quote: “The police isn’t taking this seriously. We gave them simple, clear, instructions, but they still was late. So we got no other choice: we had to cut off the wee girl’s toe. She got nine more. No more fucking about.”’
The room erupted.
‘Is it true? Did you find Jenny’s toe?’, ‘Why aren’t Grampian Police taking it seriously?’, ‘How can you justify putting a little girl’s life at risk?’, ‘Will you hand this case over to SOCA now?’, ‘When can we see the toe?’, ‘…public inquiry…’, ‘…people have a right to know…’, ‘…think she’s still alive?’
Camera flashes went off like a firework display, Finnie, Bain, and the Media Liaison Officer not getting a word in.
And standing there, basking in the media glow: Colin Miller.
Wee shite.
‘Enough!’ Up at the front of the room, Chief Superintendent Bain banged his hand on the desk, making the jug of water and three empty glasses chink and rattle. ‘Quiet down or I’ll have you all thrown out, are we clear?’
Gradually the hubbub subsided, bums returned to seats. Until the only one left standing was Colin Miller, still holding the note. ‘Well?’
Bain cleared his throat. ‘I think…’
The Media Liaison Officer leaned over and whispered something in Bain’s ear and the Chief Superintendent scowled, whispered something back, then nodded.
‘I can confirm that we recovered a toe this afternoon that appears to have come from a small girl, but until DNA results—’
And the room erupted again.
4
Shouts; telephones ringing; constables and support staff bustling about the main CID room with bits of paper; the bitter-sweet smells of stewed coffee and stale sweat overlaid with something cloying, artificial and floral. A little walled-off section lurked on one side, home to Grampian Police’s six detective sergeants. The sheet of A4 Blu-Tacked to the door was starting to look tatty, ‘THE WEE HOOSE’ barely readable through all the rude Post-it notes and biroed-on willies. Logan pushed through and closed the door behind him, shutting out the worst of the noise.
‘Jesus…’
He nodded at the room’s only occupant, a slouching figure with an expanding bald spot, taxi-door ears, and a single eyebrow that crossed his forehead like a strip of hairy carpet. Biohazard Bob Marshall: living proof that even natural selection had off days.
Bob spun around in his seat. ‘I had a whole packet of fags in here yesterday and they’ve gone missing.’
‘Don’t look at me: gave up four weeks ago.’ Logan checked his watch. ‘How come you managed to skip the briefing?’
‘Our beloved leader, Acting DI MacDonald, thinks someone needs to keep this bloody department’s head above the sewage-line while you bunch of poofs are off being media hoors.’
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘Bloody right I am.’ He turned back to his desk. ‘See when it’s my turn to be DI? You bastards are going to know the wrath of Bob.’
Logan settled behind his desk and powered up his computer. ‘You got that new pathologist, Hudson’s number?’
‘Ask Ms Dalrymple.’
Logan shuddered. ‘No chance.’
‘Hmm.’ Bob narrowed his eyes. ‘She still playing the creepy morgue attendant?’
‘Three weeks straight. Started doing this weird thing with her fingers too, like she’s got spiders for hands.’
Bob nodded. ‘Like it. Dedication.’ He scooted his chair forward. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time—’
The door clunked open, letting in the sounds of barely-controlled chaos. Samantha stood in the doorway, the SOC oversuit gone, revealing a Green Day T-shirt, black jeans, and a mop of scarlet hair, fringe plastered to her forehead. Face all pink and shiny. The metal bar she’d been dusting for prints was slung over one shoulder, wrapped in a swathe of evidence bags and silver duct tape. ‘Anyone in for a DNA result?’
Bob grinned. ‘If you’re looking for a sample, I’ve got some body fluids in a handy pump dispenser?’
‘Logan, tell Biohazard I wouldn’t touch his knob with a cheese grater.’
‘Aw, come on – you’re not still sulking are you?’
She turned and dumped a small sheaf of papers on Logan’s desk. ‘The blood’s Jenny’s. Ninety-nine point nine eight certainty.’
Logan flipped through to the conclusions page. ‘Sod…’
‘Sorry.’ Samantha draped a warm arm around his shoulders. ‘You going to be late tonight? Big day tomorrow, remember?’
‘Aye, well,’ Bob rubbed a finger across his single hairy eyebrow, ‘look on the bright side: imagine if it’d been someone else’s? Then you’d have two kiddies missing.’
‘Yeah, probably…’ Logan put the report down on his desk. Jenny’s DNA. Sod and bugger. ‘Did you tell Finnie?’
Samantha backed off, hands up. ‘Oh no you don’t.’
‘Please?’
‘Your name’s on the chain of evidence, tell him yourself.’ She gave the length of pipe a little shake. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to get down the store before that idiot Downie comes on. Wouldn’t trust the rotten sod to file his toenails, never mind physical evidence…’ Samantha blushed. Cleared her throat. ‘Sorry.’
Bob pursed his lips and tutted. ‘See that’s the trouble with support staff these days: always putting their foot in it. Making jokes about toenails when there’s a wee girl’s severed—’
‘Screw you, Bob.’
He grinned. ‘See: you’re talking to me again!’
She planted a kiss on Logan’s forehead then marched out, giving Bob the finger.
Bob pointed at his crotch. ‘So … you want a rain-check on that DNA sample?’
Samantha slammed the door.
The main CID room was broken up into a cattle-pen of chest-high partition walls, all covered in memos, phone lists, and cartoons cut out of the Aberdeen Examiner. Someone had vandalized the ‘TERRORISM: IT’S EVERYONE’S PROBLEM!’ poster on the wall – by the little recess where the tea and coffee making facilities lurked – the word ‘TERRORISM’ scored out and ‘BOB’S ARSE’ written in its place.
Logan
