matters further.’ All the sincerity of a divorce lawyer.
Logan said, ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
This was it: they were going to fire him.
4
Lunchtime, and Logan was still waiting for the axe to fall. He sat at a table in the corner of the canteen, pushing a congealing lump of lasagne around his plate. There was a clatter of dishes and Logan looked up to see WPC Jackie ‘Ball Breaker’ Watson smiling at him. Bowl of Scotch broth followed by haddock and chips. The plaster cast on her left arm made unloading the tray kind of tricky, but she managed without asking for help. Her curly brown hair was trapped in its regulation bun, just the faintest scraps of make-up on her face, every inch the professional police officer. Not at all like the woman he’d gone to bed with last night, who dissolved into fits of giggles when he blew raspberries on her stomach.
She looked down at the mush on his plate. ‘No chips?’
Logan shook his head. ‘No.’ He sighed. ‘Diet, remember?’
Jackie raised an eyebrow. ‘So chips are out, but lasagne’s OK is it?’ She dug a spoon into her soup and started to eat. ‘How was the Crypt Keeper?’
‘Oh you know, same as usual: I’m a disgrace to the uniform, bringing the force into disrepute…’ He tried for a smile, but couldn’t quite make it. ‘Beginning to think Maitland might just be one cock-up too many. Anyway,’ change the subject: ‘how about you? How’s the arm?’
Jackie shrugged and held it up, the cast covered in biro signatures. ‘Itches like a bastard.’ She reached over and took his hand, her pale fingertips protruding from the end of the plaster like a hermit crab’s legs. ‘You can have some of my chips if you like.’ That produced a small smile from Logan and he helped himself to one, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Jackie made a start on the haddock. ‘Don’t know why I bothered talking the bloody FMO into letting me come back on light duties: all they’ll let me do is file stuff.’ Dr McCafferty, the Force Medical Officer, was a dirty old man with a permanent sniff and a thing for women in uniform. There was no way he could refuse Jackie when she turned on the charm. ‘Tell you: no bugger here has the faintest clue about alphabetization. The amount of things I’ve found under “T” when it should be…’
But Logan wasn’t listening. He was watching DI Insch and Inspector Napier enter the canteen. Neither of them looked particularly happy. Insch hooked a finger in the air and made ‘come hither’ motions. Jackie gave Logan’s hand one last squeeze. ‘Screw them,’ she said. ‘It’s just a job.’
Just a job.
They went to the nearest empty office, where Insch closed the door, sat on the edge of a desk, and pulled out a packet of Liquorice Allsorts. He helped himself and offered the packet to Logan, excluding Napier.
The inspector from Professional Standards pretended not to notice. ‘Sergeant McRae,’ he said, ‘I have spoken to the Chief Constable about your situation and you will be pleased to know that I have been able to convince him not to suspend, demote or dismiss you.’ It sounded bloody unlikely, but Logan knew better than to say anything. ‘However,’ Napier picked some imaginary fluff from the sleeve of his immaculate uniform, ‘the Chief Constable feels that you have had too much freedom of late, and perhaps require more “immediate supervision”.’ Insch bristled at that, his eyes like angry black coals in his large pink face. Napier ignored him. ‘As such you will be assigned to DI Steel’s team. She has a much less demanding caseload than Inspector Insch and will have more time to devote to your “professional development”.’
Logan tried not to wince. A transfer to the Screw-Up Squad, that was all he needed. Napier smiled at him coldly. ‘I hope you will look upon this as an opportunity to redeem yourself, Sergeant.’ Logan mumbled something about giving it his best shot and Napier oozed out of the room, reeking with triumph.
Insch dug a fat finger into the packet of Allsorts and stuffed a black-and-white cube into his mouth, chewing as he put on a reasonable impersonation of Napier’s nasal tones: ‘“I have been able to convince him not to suspend, demote or dismiss you” my arse.’ The cube was followed by a coconut wheel. ‘Wee bugger will have been in there with the knife. The CC doesn’t want to fire you ’cos you’re a bona fide police hero. Says so in the papers, so it must be true. And anyway, Napier can do sod all till they’ve finished the internal investigation. If he thought there was any chance of doing you for culpable negligence or gross misconduct you would’ve been suspended already. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.’
‘But DI Steel?’
Insch shrugged philosophically and munched on a pink aniseed disk. ‘Aye, there is that. So you’re on the Screw-Up Squad: so what? Get your finger out, don’t do anything stupid and you’ll be OK.’ He paused and thought about it. ‘Long as PC Maitland doesn’t die, that is.’
DI Insch ran a tight ship. A stickler for punctuality, preparation and professionalism, his briefings were clear and concise. DI Steel’s, on the other hand, seemed to be pretty much a shambles. There was no clear agenda and everyone talked at once, while Steel sat by an open window puffing away on an endless chain of cigarettes, scratching her armpit. She wasn’t much over forty, but looked a damn sight older. Wrinkles ran rampant over her pointy face, her neck hanging from her sharp chin like a wet sock. Something terrible had happened to her hair, but everyone was too afraid to mention it.
Her team was relatively small – no more than half a dozen CID and a couple of uniforms – so they didn’t sit in ordered rows like DI Insch insisted on, just clustered around a handful of chipped tables. They weren’t even talking about work; half the room was on ‘did you see EastEnders last night?’ and the other half on what a bloody shambles the last Aberdeen–St Mirren football match was. Logan sat on his own in silence, staring out the window at a crystal-blue sky, wondering where it had all gone wrong.
The door to the briefing room opened and someone in a brand-new suit backed in, carrying a tray of coffee and chocolate biscuits. It went onto the middle table, starting a feeding frenzy, and as the figure straightened up Logan finally recognized him. PC Simon Rennie, now a detective constable. He spotted Logan, smiled, grabbed two coffees and a handful of chocolate biscuits before joining Logan at the window. Grinning as he handed over one of the chipped mugs. He looked awfully pleased with himself.
DI Steel took a sip of coffee, shuddered and lit up another cigarette. ‘Right,’ she said, her head wreathed in smoke, ‘now that DC Rennie has delivered the creosote, we can get started.’ Conversation drifted to a halt. ‘As you boys and girls can see, we have a couple of new recruits.’ She pointed at Logan and DC Rennie, then made them stand so a half-hearted round of applause could be wrung from the rest of her team. ‘These two have been selected from the hundreds of keen applicants, desperate to join our ranks.’ That got a small scattering of laughter. ‘Before we go any further I’d like to give our newest members the standard intro speech.’
That got a groan.
‘You are all here for one reason and one reason only,’ she said, scratching. ‘Like me, you are a fuck-up, and no one else will have you.’
DC Rennie looked affronted: this wasn’t what he’d been told! He’d only been a DC for three days, how could he have screwed up?
Steel listened to him with sympathy, before apologizing. ‘Sorry, Constable: my mistake. Everyone else is here because they’ve fucked up; you’re here because everyone expects you to fuck up.’ More laughter. The inspector let it die down before carrying on. ‘But just because those
