a packet of dry-roasted. Brooding over Jackie and her foul temper. And then another pint. And another. And a burger – smothered in chilli so hot it made his eyes water – and then another pint, getting maudlin. PC Maitland – Logan couldn’t even remember his first name. Until the screwed-up raid he’d never worked with the guy, only knew him as the bloke with the moustache who shaved his head for Children In Need one year. Poor bastard. Two pints later and it was time to lurch blearily home, via a chip shop for jumbo-haddock supper; most of which he abandoned, uneaten, in the lounge, before staggering off to bed alone.
Saturday morning started with a hangover. The bathroom cabinet was devoid of massive blue-and-yellow painkillers – the ones Logan had been given after Angus Robertson had performed un-elective surgery on his innards with a six-inch hunting knife – so he had to make do with a handful of aspirin and a mug of strong instant coffee, taking it into the lounge to see what kind of cartoons were on. There was a shape on the couch and his heart sank. Jackie, all wrapped up in the spare duvet, blinking blearily as he froze in the doorway. He hadn’t even heard her come in last night. She took one look at him, mumbled, ‘Don’t want any coffee…’ and pulled the duvet over her head, shutting him, and the rest of the world, out.
Logan went back to the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Saturday, their only full day off together, and Jackie still wasn’t speaking to him. Obviously she’d rather sleep on the couch than share his bed. What a great bloody weekend this was turning out to be. He checked the clock on the microwave. Half past nine. Outside the kitchen window the rain was just coming on again, not the sunshine-and-rainbows rain of yesterday, but the heavy-grey-skies-and-freezing-wind kind of rain. It leached the warmth out of everything, making the city grey and miserable all over again. Matching Logan’s mood. He dressed and headed out, meandering up Union Street, taking perverse pleasure in getting cold and wet. ‘Playing the martyr’ as his mum used to say. And she should know, she was a bloody dab hand at it.
He moped about the shops for a bit: bought a CD by some band he’d heard on the radio last week, two newish crime novels and a couple of DVDs. Trying to take his mind off everything that was wrong and failing miserably. Jackie hated him, Steel was a pain in the arse, PC Maitland was dying… He gave up on the shopping and wandered across Union Terrace, down School Hill and onto Broad Street. Drifting inexorably back towards the flat through the rain. At the corner of Marischal College, where the pale grey spines of its elaborate Victorian-Gothic frontage raised their claws to the clay-coloured skies, he stopped. Straight ahead and it was back to the flat. Turn left and it was a stone’s throw to Force Headquarters. It wasn’t a tough choice, even if he was supposed to be off. He could always kill some time poking his nose into someone else’s investigation. DI Insch was usually good for a… Logan screwed up his face and swore; the dead squatter – he still hadn’t told Insch about Graham Kennedy. Bloody idiot. Miller had given him the name days ago! Sodding DI Steel and her malfunctioning tape recorder act.
The desk sergeant barely spoke to Logan as he squelched in through the front doors and dripped his way across the patterned linoleum of reception.
DI Insch’s incident room was carefully orchestrated chaos – phones being manned, information being collated and entered into HOLMES, so the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System could automatically churn out reams and reams of pointless actions at the press of a button. Now and then it came out with something that made all the difference to an investigation, but most of the time: crap. Maps of Aberdeen were stuck up on the walls, coloured pins marking the locations of significant events. The inspector was sitting on a desk at the front of the room, resting one large buttock on the groaning wood while he read through a pile of reports and chewed on a Curly Wurly.
‘Afternoon, sir,’ said Logan, squelching in, hands in his pockets, damp underwear beginning to make its presence felt.
Insch looked up from his paperwork, the chocolate-toffee-lattice sticking out of his large, pink face like a DNA-shaped cigar. ‘Sergeant.’ He nodded and went back to his reports. Two minutes later he handed them to a harassed-looking, cadaverous WPC and told her she was doing a great job, no matter what anyone else said. The admin officer didn’t bother to thank him. As she stormed off back to the collating, Insch turned and beckoned Logan over. ‘Bit overdressed for bath time aren’t you?’
Logan didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I was wondering how you were getting on with your fatal arson attack.’
Insch frowned, the strip lighting gleaming off his bald, pink head. Suspicious. ‘Why?’
‘Got a possible ID for one of your victims: Graham Kennedy. Supposed to have been a minor dealer.’ That made a smile blossom on the inspector’s face.
‘Well, well, well. There’s a name I’ve not heard in a while. You—’ Insch picked a PC at random and sent him off to phone round the dental practices in Aberdeen. Insch wanted to know who treated Graham Kennedy: dental records, X-rays the whole lot. It was the only way they were going to identify his charred corpse in the morgue. For once luck was actually on their side; the fourth dental practice the PC tried had done a whole heap of fillings on one Graham Kennedy less than eight months ago.
They couriered the X-rays straight over to the morgue and ten minutes later Doc Fraser confirmed the identification: Graham Kennedy was now officially dead. The enquiry finally had somewhere to start.
Insch grabbed PC Steve and told him to go get everything Records had on Graham Kennedy and meet them in the car park, then bellowed for a DS Beattie to get his backside in gear: they were going to break the news to Graham Kennedy’s next of kin. And have a bit of a rummage through his things.
‘Er, sir,’ said Logan, following in the inspector’s wake, ‘I kinda hoped I could come with you on the shout?’
Insch raised an eyebrow and mashed the lift button with a fat finger. ‘Oh aye? And what about DI Steel? You’re supposed to be working for her. “More immediate supervision”, remember?’
Logan opened and closed his mouth. ‘Come on, sir! I didn’t ask to be transferred! And anyway, it’s my day off. I’ve—’
‘You’ve got a day off and you want to go on a shout?’ Insch looked at him suspiciously. ‘You gone mental or something?’
‘Please, sir. I need to get out of Steel’s team. It’s driving me mad! Nothing gets done by the book: even if we do get a result, it’s going to be so tainted any defence lawyer worth half a fart will tear it to shreds! If I don’t get some sort of success under my belt, I’m going to be stuck there till they fire me, or I go completely off my head.’
Insch shook his head, a small smile on his face. ‘I hate to see a grown man beg.’ A puffing, bearded detective sergeant appeared at the end of the corridor, dragging on a huge, multicoloured weatherproof jacket. DI Insch waited until he’d run the length of the corridor and come to a screeching halt in front of them, before telling him he wasn’t needed after all. He’d be taking DS McRae along instead. Swearing quietly, the bearded bloke slouched back the way he’d come.
The inspector grinned. ‘Just like to see the fat wee bugger run for his money,’ he said happily. Logan knew better than to say anything about pots and kettles.
As they marched downstairs to the car park, Insch quizzed him on DI Steel’s cases, wanting to know everything about the battered prostitute and the Labrador in the suitcase. And by the time they were through all that, a red-faced PC Steve Jacobs was waiting for them by the back door, clutching a small stack of A4 printouts: Graham Kennedy’s rap sheet. Insch pointed his key fob at a muck-encrusted Range Rover and plipped open the locks. ‘Right,’ he said, striding out into the rain, ‘PC Jacobs, you can do the honours. DS McRae, in the back, and don’t stand on the dog food.’
The
