not your lucky day, Denise, for whomever wields the Nutter Spoon of Doom must—’
‘I’m on the no-go list. Apparently I’m in collusion with McLennan Homes and the Planning Department to launder drug money for the Taliban.’ She held out the spoon with its glowering stuck-on face. ‘Sorry, Guv.’
Logan backed away from it. ‘Maybe someone in uniform could—’
‘They’re all banned from talking to her. She’s got complaints in against everyone else.’
‘Everyone?’
‘Yes, but …’ Baird waggled the spoon at him. ‘Maybe she’ll like you?’
Logan took the Nutter Spoon of Doom. It was only a little bit of wood with a photo Sellotaped to the end, but it felt as if it was carved from lead.
Oh joy.
Logan stopped outside the visiting-room door. Took a deep breath. Didn’t open it.
The reception area was quiet. A bored PC slumped behind the bulletproof glass that topped the curved desk, poking away at a smartphone. Posters clarted the walls, warning against drug farms in cul-de-sacs and walking home alone at night. An information point cycled through views of Aberdeen. And a strange smell of mouldy cheese permeated the room.
No point putting it off any longer.
He shifted his grip on the thick manila folder tucked under his arm, opened the door, and stepped inside. It wasn’t much bigger than a cupboard, with a couple of filing cabinets on one wall and a small opaque window that didn’t really overlook the rear-podium car park.
Mrs Black was sitting on the other side of the small table that took up most of the available space. She narrowed her eyes, tugged at the hem of her skirt, and sniffed – turning that long nose up towards the ceiling. Her short grey hair shimmered as if it had been conditioned within an inch of its existence. Then the glasses came out of the bag clutched to her chest. Slipped on with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal wedding. Voice clipped and dark. ‘I have been waiting here for nearly an hour.’
Logan suppressed a sigh. Did his best to keep his voice polite and neutral. ‘Mrs Black.’ Stepped inside and closed the visiting-room door. ‘I’m sorry if my trying to catch criminals and keep the streets safe has inconvenienced you in any way.’
Her lips pursed. Pause. Two. Three. Four. ‘He’s doing it again.’
Of course he is.
Logan thumped the manila folder down on the little table. It was about as thick as a house brick, bulging with paperwork; a red elastic band wrapped around it to keep everything in. Then he settled into the room’s remaining seat and took out his notebook. ‘Right, we’d better take it from the beginning. You said, “He’s doing it again.” Who is?’
Mrs Black folded her arms across her chest and scowled. ‘You know very well, “Who”.’ A small shudder. ‘Justin Robson.’ The name came out as if it tasted of sick. ‘He’s … He’s covering my cherry tree with … dog mess.’
‘Dog mess.’
‘That’s right: dog mess. I want him arrested.’
Logan tapped his pen against the folder. ‘And you’ve seen him doing it?’
‘Of course not. He’s too careful for that. Does it in the middle of the night when Mr Black and I are sleeping.’ Another shudder. ‘Up till all hours listening to that horrible rap music of his, with all the swearing and violence. I’ve complained to the council, but do they do anything? Of course they don’t.’
‘You do know that we can’t arrest someone without proof, don’t you?’
Both hands slapped down on the desk. ‘You know he did it. I know he did it. Ever since I did my public duty and reported him he’s been completely intolerable.’
‘Ah yes.’ Logan removed the elastic band and opened the folder. Took out the top chunk of paperwork. ‘Here we are. On the thirteenth of April, two years ago, you claimed to have seen Mr Robson smoking cannabis in the garden outside his house.’
The nose went up again. ‘And did anyone arrest him for it? Of course they didn’t.’
‘This isn’t a totalitarian state, we can’t just—’
‘Are you going to arrest him or not?’
‘We need evidence before—’
She jabbed the desk with a finger. ‘I had thought you might be different. That you’d be an honest policeman for a change, unlike the rest of these corrupt—’
‘Now hold on, that’s—’
‘—clearly in the pocket of drug dealers and pornographers!’
Logan shuffled his chair back from the table an inch. ‘Pornographers?’
‘Justin Robson posted an obscene publication through my door; a magazine full of women performing the most revolting acts.’ Her mouth puckered like a chicken’s bum. A sniff. ‘Mr Black had to burn it in the back garden. Well, it’s not as if we could’ve put it in the recycling, what would the binmen think?’
‘Mrs Black, I can assure you that neither I, nor any of my team are being paid off by drug dealers or pornographers. We can’t arrest Mr Robson for smoking marijuana two years ago, because there’s no evidence.’
She hissed a breath out through that long raised nose. ‘I saw him with my own eyes!’
‘I see.’ Logan wrote that down in his notebook. ‘And how did you determine that what he was smoking was actually marijuana? Did you perform a chemical analysis on the roach? Did you see him roll it?’
‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘I’m not being facetious, I’m trying to understand why you think he was smoking—’
‘You’re not going to do anything about him putting dog mess on my cherry tree, are you? You’re going to sit there and do nothing, because you’re as corrupt as all the rest.’
Slow, calm breaths.
Logan opened the folder and pulled out the thick wad of paperwork. ‘Mrs Black, in the last two years, you’ve made five hundred and seventeen complaints against Mr Robson; the local council; the Scottish Government; the Prince of Wales; Jimmy Shand; Ewan McGregor; the whole Westminster cabinet; our local MP, MSP, and MEP; and nearly every police officer in Aberdeen Division.’
‘I have a moral obligation, and a right, to report corruption wherever I find it!’
‘OK.’ He reached beneath the desk and pulled a fresh complaint form from the bottom of the pile. Placed it in front of her. ‘If you’d like to report me for taking money from drug dealers and pornographers, you should speak to someone from
