end up sitting in his seat. You don’t have to like the way it came about, but you might make DI because of this.’ She lit another cigarette from the smouldering remains of the last one, before flipping the dogend into her coffee. It gave a short hiss as she winked at him. ‘Think about it.’
Logan did. All the way down to his mini incident room. The WPC was back on the phone, taking names and statements. With Roadkill’s arrest all over the papers and the television news, everyone and their maiden aunt was coming forward with information. Murdered kiddie, officer? No problem: I saw her getting into a Corporation dustcart. Bold as brass with this bloke from the papers. . .
The health authorities had started responding to his request for information on little girls with TB in the last four years as well. The list of possibles was small, but it would get bigger as the day wore on.
Logan scanned the names, most of which had already been scored out by his WPC. They weren’t interested in any child that wouldn’t be between three and a half and five by now. They’d know who she was by the end of the day.
He was expecting the call, but it still made his innards clench: report to the superintendent’s office. Time to get his arse chewed out for something he didn’t do. Other than lie to Colin Miller. And DI Insch.
‘I’m just going out for a walk,’ he told the WPC on the phones. ‘I may be some time.’
The super’s office was like a furnace. Logan stood to attention in front of the wide oak desk with both hands clasped behind his back. DI Insch was sitting in a mock-leather, mock-comfortable visitor’s chair. He didn’t look at Logan as he entered and took up his position. But Inspector Napier, from Professional Standards, stared at him as if he was a science experiment gone wrong.
Behind the desk sat a serious-looking man with a bullet head and not a lot of hair. He was wearing his dress uniform. All buttoned up. Not a good sign.
‘Sergeant McRae.’ The voice was larger than the man, filling the room with portent. ‘You know why you’re here.’ It wasn’t a question; there was a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal on the desk. Neatly lined up with the blotter and the keyboard.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you have anything to say?’
They were going to fire him. Six days back on the job and they were going to throw him out on his scarred backside. He should have kept his head down and stayed off on the sick. Goodbye pension. ‘Yes, sir. I want it known that DI Insch has always had my complete support. I didn’t give this story to Colin Miller and I didn’t tell anyone that I disagreed with DI Insch’s decision to release Road. . . Mr Philips. Because it was the right decision, at the time.’
The superintendent settled back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his round face. ‘You have been speaking to Miller though, haven’t you, Sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir. He called me at half-six this morning wanting details of Mr Philips’s arrest.’
DI Insch scrunched in his seat. ‘How the hell did he know we’d arrested Roadkill? It wasn’t public bloody knowledge! I’ll tell you this—’
The superintendent held up his hand and Insch fell silent. ‘When I challenged him he said it was his job to know,’ said Logan, falling into policeman-giving-evidence mode. ‘This isn’t the first time he’s had knowledge he shouldn’t have. He knew when we found David Reid’s body. He knew the killer had mutilated and violated the corpse. He knew the girl’s body we found was decomposed. He has someone on the inside.’
On the other side of the desk an eyebrow was raised, but not a word was spoken. The DI-Insch-patented-interview-technique. Only Logan wasn’t in any mood to play.
‘And it’s not me! There’s no way I would tell a reporter I disagreed with my superior’s decision to release a suspect! Miller wants a friend in here and he thinks he can get that if he “helps” me. This is all about selling papers!’
The superintendent let the silence stretch.
‘If you want my resignation, sir—’
‘This isn’t a disciplinary hearing, Sergeant. If it was you’d have a federation representative with you.’ He paused and glanced at Insch and Napier before turning back to Logan. ‘You can wait in the reception area outside while we discuss this matter further. We’ll call you back when we have reached our decision.’
Someone had poured freezing-cold concrete into Logan’s innards. ‘Yes, sir.’ He marched out of the room, shoulders back, head up, and closed the door behind him. They were going to fire him. That or transfer him out of Aberdeen. Find some crappy backwater in Teuchter-land and make him serve out his days pounding the beat, or worse: school-liaison work.
Finally he was summoned back into the room by the hook-nosed, ginger-haired inspector from Professional Standards. Logan stood to attention in front of the super’s desk and waited for the axe to fall.
‘Sergeant,’ said the superintendent, picking up the newspaper off his desk, folding it in half and dropping it neatly into the bin. ‘You will be pleased to hear that we believe you.’
Logan couldn’t help noticing the sour expression on Inspector Napier’s face. Not everyone appeared to agree with the verdict.
The superintendent settled back in his seat and examined Logan. ‘DI Insch tells me you’re a good officer. And so does DI Steel. Not someone who would go to the media with this kind of thing. I have respect for my senior officers. If they tell me you’re not a. . .’ He paused and offered a practised smile. ‘If they tell me you wouldn’t go to the papers without authorization, I’m prepared to believe them. However. . .’
Logan straightened his back and waited for a transfer out to the sticks.
‘However, we can’t let something like this go unanswered. I can tell the world we’re standing behind DI Insch one hundred percent. Which we are. But that’s not going to make this all go away. These stories: the pantomime, releasing Philips less than a day before a dead girl is discovered at his home. . .’ He raised a hand before DI Insch could do more than open his mouth. ‘I am not, personally, of the opinion that the inspector has done anything wrong. But these stories are highly damaging to the Force’s reputation. Every second edition in the country has got some rehashed version of Miller’s story. The Sun, Daily Mail, Mirror, Independent, Guardian, Scotsman: hell, even The Times! Telling the world that Grampian Police are incompetent idiots.’ He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and straightened out his uniform. ‘Lothian and Borders have been on the phone to the Chief Constable again. They say they have resources experienced in this kind of investigation. That they would welcome the opportunity to “assist” us.’ He scowled. ‘We have to be seen to be doing something. The public are baying for blood; but I am not prepared to give them DI Insch.’ He took a deep breath. ‘There is one other approach we can take. And that’s to engage this Colin Miller. He seems to have developed a rapport with you, Sergeant. I want you to speak to him. Get him back on board.’
Logan risked a look at DI Insch. His face was like thunder. Napier looked as if his head was about to explode.
‘Sir?’
‘If this trouble with the press continues, if the bad publicity keeps coming, we will have no alternative: DI Insch will be suspended on full pay, pending an examination of his conduct. We will be forced to hand the
