sticky vermin get out of my station that much sooner.’
‘But the division…?’
McGregor sat back in her seat. ‘Sergeant Stubbs will fill in for you as Duty Sergeant. She’s been moaning about getting more responsibility: let’s see how she likes having to supervise every station from Portsoy to Cruden Bay. That should shut her up for a bit.’
‘Great. So my job’s a punishment now?’
‘Hopefully. And someone needs to run your team here.’
Sod standing to attention. Logan slumped into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘What about Laura and Ricky Welsh?’
‘I was thinking Nicholson could act up while you’re away. She’s done her sergeant’s exam, it’ll be a good development opportunity for her.’
He let his head fall back. There was a dirty big spider, wandering across the ceiling rose. ‘But it was my dunt.’
‘A major drugs raid is probably a bit much for Nicholson’s first full day in the role. You’d better hand everything over to Sergeant Ashton when she gets on at three. She can green-shift it.’
‘Gagh…’ Logan’s arms dangled at his sides, fingertips brushing the carpet. ‘Please?’
‘Oh don’t be such a baby. Get out there, find Martin Milne, and get him banged up. The sooner you do, the sooner my station gets fumigated.’
Calamity’s eyes widened as she settled into Logan’s seat. She ran her hands along the desk. ‘Really?’
‘Don’t get too comfy, it’s only till I can wriggle out of the MIT.’ Logan leaned back against the firearms store door. ‘Sergeant Stubbs is your new Duty Sergeant, she’ll keep you right. And Sergeant Ashton will run the dunt on Sunday night. Other than that: it’s all yours.’
A nod. ‘Stubby and Beaky, got you.’ Then she curled her lip and sniffed. ‘Has something died in here?’
Logan narrowed his eyes. ‘Not yet, but it can be arranged.’
She was right, though: the place did have a whiff of mouldy sausages about it. To be honest, the Sergeants’ Office wasn’t the nicest room in the station. It needed a coat of paint for a start: the magnolia was peeling off around the skirting boards and cornices, and the high ceiling had a suspicious coffee-coloured stain spreading out from one corner. Hopefully not from the male toilets on the floor above.
Two desks were jammed in, back to back, each with its own manky old computer, in-tray, and phone. A line of body-worn video units blinked away in the holder, lined up like dominos. The station’s only CCTV monitor lurked on its mount in the corner, with views of the empty cellblocks and public areas in ten little windows.
Not exactly homey.
‘If anything happens you can give me a ring. But as of now, you’re acting up.’
She stroked the desk again and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper, ‘My precioussssssssssss…’
‘And make sure you keep an eye on Tufty. He’s not had a complaint against him in four months, let’s keep it that way. And if he starts banging on about time and entropy, you have my permission to kick his—’ Logan’s phone rang and he pulled it out. ‘Hold on.’ Then pressed the button. ‘McRae.’
‘Yeah, hi, Mr McRae. It’s John?’
Took a moment, but then it clicked. John Urquhart. Wee Hamish’s designated driver. ‘Give me a minute.’ He held his hand over the microphone and grimaced at Calamity. ‘Got to take this.’ Then slipped out of the door, through the bedlam of the main office, past the stairwell, down the corridor, and into the old cellblock.
Pale blue walls, grey-blue floor, an ancient wooden desk/unit thing, and two cells.
No sign of Steel’s sticky minions.
Better safe than sorry, though. Logan pulled open the door to cell number two and slipped inside. It was a small magnolia box of a room, with a glass-brick window and grey-painted concrete floor. The blue plastic mattress had been propped up against the wall, one end resting on the ankle-high concrete sleeping platform.
He closed the cell door and took his hand off the microphone. ‘Mr Urquhart.’
‘You heard the news, right? Mr Mowat passed away last night.’ His voice sounded thick and forced, as if someone was choking him. ‘Doctor says it was pretty painless.’ A sniff. ‘He would say that, though. We find out it was anything but, and he’s going home without legs.’
‘Yes. I heard. I’m sorry.’ For more than one reason.
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Urquhart cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, funeral’s at half twelve, Friday, Old Ardoe Kirk. No flowers. Be good to see you there.’
Logan let the silence grow.
Urquhart puffed out a breath. ‘And Reuben wants me to pass on a message. He says you’ve got one last chance to get with the team. Which is kinda unique, normally he goes from nought to wrath-of-God like that.’ A clicking noise.
‘I’m a police officer.’
‘There’s a guy called Stevie Fowler going to be in your neck of the woods next week. You collect a package from him and keep it somewhere safe till Reuben tells you who to hand it over to and where.’
Even though there’d been no one banged up in the cells for over a decade, the power was still on. There was a radiator hidden inside the ceiling – behind the render – and it belted out heat, making the tips of his ears glow. ‘What’s in the package?’
‘Don’t tell anyone you’ve got it, and squirrel it really out of the way. OK?’
‘What – is – it?’
‘No idea.’
Logan raised his chin. ‘And if I don’t?’
Urquhart sighed. ‘Then Reuben sends round the three guys in the Transit van, and you get to feed the pigs.’
Not much of a choice, was it?
Become a crooked cop or die.
Samantha’s voice was warm and soft in his other ear. ‘Or you could kill Reuben. You won’t have to do favours for him if he’s dead.’
Logan licked his lips. ‘I can’t.’
‘Mr McRae, you can… Look, it doesn’t have to be like this.’ A deep breath sounded in the speaker. ‘You can still take over from Mr Mowat, like he wanted.’
‘Kill him.’ She wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘Get that rifle from the firearms store and blow his big fat head off.’
‘If you took over, you could get the guys in the van to go pick Reuben up instead. Turn him into pig food.’
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