sat forward, eyebrows raised. ‘Maybe he’s not flashing the mothers at all, you think of that? Maybe he’s flashing the kids!’ The DI smiled, obviously pleased with his deductive reasoning. Like a podgy Sherlock Holmes, who’d been dropped on his head as a child.
‘Don’t be daft George. He’s picking victims he knows aren’t going to chase after him. You going to abandon your baby in a graveyard to go running after some pervert who’s just shown you his dick?’
‘Oh.’ Beattie picked at a coffee stain on his new desk. ‘What about the counterfeit goods?’
‘Did you speak to Trading Standards, like I told you?’
‘I … erm … was hoping we could go over there together. You know, show a united front?’
‘Just call them, OK? We shouldn’t even be dealing with it: hookie goods is a job for the Shop Cops.’
‘Yes, but the sheer volume of—’
‘Still their job.’
‘Finnie wants us to do that Interagency Cooperation thing: us, Trading Standards and Customs.’ Beattie shuffled through some of the mess on his desk. ‘It shouldn’t take long, just a couple of hours and—’
‘You’ll have to take it up with Steel. I’ve got stuff to do for her all day.’
Beattie’s bottom lip protruded, his eyebrows pinching up in the middle. The ‘lost puppy’ look. ‘But Finnie wants to see progress.’
‘Then go get Biohazard Bob or Mark to help. Or Doreen. Eh? How about giving her some sodding work for a change instead of lumping it all on me?’
‘Fine.’ The inspector went back to his files, face turning pink. ‘I’ll call Trading Standards myself.’
Logan left him to it.
‘Bloody thing…’ DI Steel jabbed at the latch of her office window with a fork, digging the tines into the mechanism.
Logan closed the door and slumped in the visitor’s seat. ‘Tell me again why they promoted Beardy Beattie?’
‘It’s no’ safe making the windows so you can’t open the bastards more than an inch. What if there’s a fire?’
‘Useless tosser couldn’t investigate a septic tank for jobbies.’
She jabbed the fork into the catch again. ‘Give us a hand, eh?’
‘Thought you were supposed to be cutting down on the fags?’
‘This is an infringement of my human rights… Open you bastard!’
They struggled with the mechanism for a minute, before Steel managed to stab herself in the thumb with her fork. ‘Fffffffffffffffffff…’ She screwed her face up, then hurled the stainless steel thing in the bin. ‘FUCK!’ Steel slumped into her office chair and stuck her bleeding thumb in her mouth.
‘Why can’t you go outside for a cigarette, like a normal person?’
Steel just scowled at him.
‘Whatever.’ Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Billy Adams. AKA: Detective Inspector Billy Adams, Northumbria Police. Did a lot of anti-gang stuff, and some undercover work on a big Newcastle mobster called Maitland. Killed himself about six weeks after Knox got sent down. And I mean seriously killed himself.’
She pulled her thumb out of her mouth. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
‘According to the sergeant I spoke to, DI Adams swallowed enough antidepressants to cheer up a whole bouncy castle full of goths, a bottle of gin, and the barrel of a shotgun.’
‘No sodding about for our Billy, then.’
‘Blew a big hole in the roof of the family Mondeo, in the grounds of some disused factory. Been there four days in the sun before they found the body. The magpies had been at him.’
Steel went back to sucking her thumb, mumbling around the digit, ‘So why’s Danby being all touchy about it?’
‘No idea.’ Logan shifted forward in his seat. ‘I went for a dig in Knox’s file too, in case there was a connection there. He’s got big chunks marked “restricted”. No details.’
‘That’ll be those other rapes Danby was waffling about. Would’ve been before the Soham murders, back when we all thought we had to be so sodding sensitive about unsubstantiated accusations going on some dirty bastard’s permanent record. Bloody Data Protection Act bollocks.’
Logan shrugged. She was probably right.
Silence.
Then she stood. ‘Get your coat, we’re off to see a man about some dodgy twenties.’
‘Nah, business is shite, truth be told.’ The man in the oil-smudged blue boilersuit spoke over his shoulder while a scabby kettle grumbled to a boil. ‘Bloody recession barely made a dent in Aberdeen, but suddenly no one wants to buy a car. You know? Hypocritical bastards.’
The office faced out onto what looked like an old cattle yard, the grey concrete floor host to a multicoloured array of second-hand cars crammed in bumper-to-bumper with ‘DEAL OF THE WEEK!!!’ signs taped to the windscreens. A couple of calendars hung on the white breezeblock walls, all featuring spanners and bits of mechanical equipment. DI Steel finished flipping through one and pulled a face, before perching herself on the edge of the battered desk. ‘Whatever happened to nudie women?’
‘Milk, two sugars, right?’ He ladled coffee granules into three mugs, lined up along the windowsill.
‘Aye.’
Logan shook his head. ‘Just milk for me.’
‘OK…’ He poured in the hot water, steam turning the window opaque, blocking out the forecourt. The garage was hidden away down a country road, somewhere between Westhill and the Loch of Skene, surrounded by trees and fields full of grumbling cattle.
‘Mr Middleton.’ Logan watched him sniff a carton of semi-skimmed milk. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t recognize the man who gave you the cash?’
Middleton sploshed milk into their coffees. ‘Dunno. Never saw him before.’
Steel accepted her mug, wrapping her hands around it and breathing in the hot steam. ‘If I was a suspicious wee sod – which I am – I’d be tempted to say your mystery man with a handful of dodgy twenties never existed. It was just you, trying to launder the stuff.’
Kevin Middleton stiffened. ‘You think I’d be daft enough to pay counterfeit cash into my own bank account? How thick would I have to be?’
Steel shrugged. ‘Maybe you thought they’d be good enough to pass the bank’s tests?’
Middleton laughed, then settled into the swivel chair behind his desk. ‘You’re kidding, right? If I wanted to clean some money, I’d go down the bookies. Or the casino. Or to one of them dog
