jammed the CS gas canister right between his eyes. Raised his voice over the crashing and banging, the grunting and swearing. ‘You’ve been gassed before, right, Gordon? Want to try it again?’
A blink. Then he froze.
‘Good boy. Now you let these nice people examine you, or I’m going to gas you back to the Thatcher era, OK?’
Gordon Taylor went limp.
The doctor bowed his head for a moment. ‘Oh thank God …’ Then straightened up. ‘Right, we need blood tests and a sedative. Then get these filthy rags off him.’
The nurses bustled about with needles and scissors, faces contorted with disgust every time a new layer of clothes came off revealing a new odour.
Logan kept the CS gas where Taylor could see it. ‘You’re an idiot, you know that, don’t you? Staggering about, blootered, abusing passers-by, falling into the road. Lucky you didn’t kill yourself.’
Taylor didn’t move. Kept his eyes fixed on the gas canister.
One of the nurses gagged, holding out a filthy shirt with her fingertips.
Gordon Taylor’s arms were knots of ropey muscles, stretched taut across too-big bones. No fat on them. But the left one had a Gordon Highlanders tattoo, the ink barely visible beneath the filth. His torso was a mess of bruises – some fresh and red, some middle-aged purple-and-blue, some dying yellow-and-green.
He jerked his chin up. ‘She broke my bottle.’ The slur had gone from his voice, but his breath was enough to make Logan back off a couple of steps.
‘You’re a drunken sodding menace to yourself and others, Gordon. What the hell were you thinking, staggering out into the road? What if a car swerves, trying to avoid your drunken backside, hits someone else and kills them? That what you want?’
‘A whole bottle of Bells that was!’ No wonder his breath was minging – his teeth looked like stubbed-out cigarettes.
‘I’ve arrested the woman who assaulted you. She’ll—’
‘Tell her! Tell her I’ll not press charges if she buys me a new bottle …’ Gordon Taylor’s eyes widened. ‘No, two bottles. Aye, and litre bottles, not tiny wee ones.’
Nothing like getting your priorities straight.
‘That’s not how it works, Gordon. She has to—’ Logan’s phone burst into song in his pocket. ‘Sodding hell.’
The doctor narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re not supposed to have your phone switched on in here.’
‘Police business.’ He pulled it out and hit the button, killing the noise. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’
There was a moment of silence, then a deep voice rumbled out of the speakers. ‘I think you mean, “Good afternoon”, don’t you, Acting Detective Inspector McRae?’
Oh no. Not this. Not now.
Logan closed his eyes. ‘Superintendent Young. Sorry. I’m kind of in the middle of—’
‘I think you and I need to have a chat about a complaint that’s landed on my desk. Why don’t we say, my office? Any time in the next fifteen minutes is good.’
Wonderful.
Superintendent Young was all dressed up in Nosferatu black – black T-shirt with epaulettes, black police-issue trousers, and black shoes. He sat back in his seat and tapped his pen against an A4 pad. Tap. Tap. Tap. ‘Are you denying the allegations?’
The Professional Standards office was tombstone quiet. A wooden clock ticked away to itself on the wall beside Young’s desk. The chair creaked beneath Logan’s bum. A muffled scuffing sound as someone tried to sneak past outside – scared to make a noise in case someone inside heard them and came hunting. And the sinister sods didn’t burst into flame when exposed to sunlight or holy water, so you were never safe.
Trophies made a little gilded plastic parade across the two filing cabinets in the corner, all the figures frozen in the execution of their chosen sport – clay-pigeon shooting, judo, boxing, ten-pin bowling, fly-fishing, curling. A framed print of The Monarch of the Glen above the printer.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Quarter past five. Should be in the pub by now, not sitting here.
Logan dumped the letter of complaint back on Young’s desk. ‘With all due respect to anyone unfortunate enough to suffer from mental illness, Marion Black is a complete and utter sodding nutter.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
Logan shifted in the creaky chair. ‘While I do know a pornographer, he’s never offered me a bribe.’
Young raised an eyebrow. ‘You actually know someone who makes dirty movies?’
‘Helps us out from time to time cleaning up CCTV footage. Moved into mainstream film a couple of years ago. Ever see Witchfire? That was him.’
‘And he used to make porn?’
‘You should ask DCI Steel to show you – she’s got the complete collection.’
A tilt of the head, as if Young was considering doing just that. ‘What about drug dealers?’
‘Guv, Marion Black has accused nearly everyone in a three hundred mile radius of corruption at some point. She’s a menace. You know that.’
‘It doesn’t matter how many complaints an individual makes, Logan, we have to take every one of them seriously.’
Logan poked the letter. It was a printout from a slightly blotchy inkjet, the words on the far left of the pages smudged. Densely packed type with no line breaks. ‘I met her at ten past three today, and spoke to her on the phone a little after four. And in that time she managed to write a three-page letter of complaint and deliver it to you lot. She’s probably got a dozen of them sitting on her computer ready to go at any time. Insert-some-poor-sod’s-name-here and off you go.’
Young swivelled his chair from side to side a couple of times. ‘It’s not going to work, you know.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘This.’ Young spread his hands, taking in the whole room. ‘You think the easiest way to get shot of Mrs Black is to ignore her. You do nothing about her concerns, she makes a complaint about corruption, and you get to pass the Nutter Spoon of Doom on to the next poor sod without having to do any work.’
Warmth prickled at the back of Logan’s neck. He licked his lips. ‘Nutter Spoon of Doom, Guv? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of—’
‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, we know all about it.’ He sat forward. ‘Let me make this abundantly clear, Acting Detective Inspector McRae: you have the spoon, and you’re going to personally
