of a smile.’
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. Someone had set a rat loose behind his eyes. Clawing and biting.
Nicholson patted him on the arm. ‘Never mind, Sarge, only seven hours to go.’
Kirstin Rattray’s flat sat on the top floor of a lumpen block of grey on Saint Catherine Street. It was to one end of a row of soulless buildings that loomed over the smaller, traditional, Scottish houses on the other side of the road. Threatening to beat them up and steal their lunch money.
It wasn’t so much furnished as … manky. Peeling wallpaper in the kitchen. Cracked tiles in a bathroom that looked as if it hadn’t seen a bottle of bleach in years. A smell of damp and sweat and dirty washing in the bedroom. The view from the lounge was terrific, down the hill, over the surrounding rooftops and out to sea. The view inside the lounge was a different matter.
Kirstin slumped down on a tatty brown corduroy couch. A fake oil painting – the kind you could order from a photo at Tesco or Argos – was mounted in a gaudy gilt frame above the fireplace. A mousy-haired little girl of two or three grinned from the canvas with a gap-toothed mouth. Button nose. Shiny eyes. A teddy bear and a couple of dinosaurs were arranged along the mantelpiece beneath her picture. Like a shrine.
It was the only clean bit of the flat.
Nicholson pulled a laptop out from behind the bookcase. ‘Anything else?’
A bony shrug.
The pile on the coffee table had grown to a decent size. Phones, MP3 players, a bit of jewellery, two hundred quid in cash, and assorted perfumes and makeup.
Logan picked up a new-ish smartphone, the case squeaking in his blue-gloved fingers as he turned it over. ‘Lot of this doesn’t look shoplifty, Kirstin. It looks breakey-and-entery. When did you turn to burglary?’
She kept her eyes on the dark brown stain on the cushion next to her. ‘Told you: didn’t nick anything. Found it.’
‘I’ll bet we can match most of this stuff to crime reports.’
‘It’s not mine!’
Nicholson put the laptop down then pulled the stained seat cushion from the sofa. A biscuit tin nestled amongst the rusting springs and torn support fabric. The picture on the lid had Jammie Dodgers and those weird pink ring things. ‘Well, well, well …’
On the couch, Kirstin glanced at the biscuit tin and away again. Squirmed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me …’
Nicholson picked up the tin and opened it. Stared for a moment. ‘Sarge?’ She held it out. A handful of tinfoil wrappers sat inside, along with a tiny Ziploc bag of white powder; a thumbnail-sized nub of brown, wrapped in clingfilm; and a pack of Rizla rolling papers.
Kirstin folded forwards till her chest rested against her knees, arms wrapped around her head. ‘It’s not mine …’
Logan dumped the phone back on the pile of ‘found’ electronics, then had a wee poke about in the biscuit tin. Definitely enough for possession. Maybe even possession with intent. ‘So, Kirstin. Looks like you’re a bit screwed.’
‘It’s not mine.’ Voice muffled by her knees.
‘Right. You found it.’ He handed the tin back to Nicholson.
She put the top on again. ‘What do you think Kirstin’s looking at, Sarge? Four years? Maybe five?’
Logan bared his teeth and sooked a breath in. Grimaced. ‘Depends who the Sheriff is. Harding’s got a bee in his bunnet about drugs right now; might go as high as seven, if he thinks she’s dealing.’
‘I see …’ Nicholson frowned off into the middle distance. Stroked her chin. Then snapped her fingers. ‘I know! What if Kirstin here tried to cut a deal? You know, if she decided to scratch our backs?’
He folded his arms. ‘Well, I suppose that would depend. I’m pretty itchy.’
Kirstin groaned. Sat up. Slumped backwards. Covered her face with her hands. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, OK?’
Silence.
‘Didn’t hear what, Kirstin?’
‘Klingon and Gerbil got a shipment in from down south today.’
Nicholson slipped the biscuit tin into a large evidence bag. ‘Coke? Heroin? Hash? Crack? Smack? Jellies? Strepsils? What?’
A shrug.
Logan frowned. Outside, the sound of a car droned past. ‘This delivery: was it an ugly bloke in a shiny blue Fiesta? Birmingham accent?’ Then ran a finger along his own jaw. ‘Big line of plukes here? Calls himself Martyn-with-a-“Y”, or Paul, or Dave?’
‘Don’t know. Never met him. But Gerbil’s all excited cause he thinks he’s in with the big boys now. Shooting his mouth off round here last night.’ She dropped her hands away from her face. Stared up at the fake painting of the wee girl. ‘You can’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill me.’
‘Kevin “the Gerbil” McEwan? Got more chance of being gored by a sheep.’ Logan jerked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘On your feet.’
‘You’ve got to promise! So my Amy doesn’t grow up an orphan.’
Nicholson had her notebook out. ‘Where are they keeping the stuff?’
Kirstin stared up at Logan. ‘I only get to see my Amy on the weekends, with supervised visits from the social. I’m trying to change, I really am.’ One hand scratching away at the crook of her arm. Picking the scabs off the needle marks. ‘Please …’
‘Not till you tell us where it is.’
‘Klingon’s place. His mum’s away to Australia for a month.’
‘Right.’ Logan unhooked his Airwave and made for the door. Pointed back towards the pile of stuff on the coffee table. ‘Nicholson – you get that lot bagged and tagged. I’ll be outside.’ He punched in Inspector McGregor’s shoulder number on the way down the stairs. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’
‘Logan, are you heading up to Fraserburgh any time soon? Because this missing cashline machine is a total mess. How come we’ve not got anyone Crime-Scene-Manager-trained on shift?’
‘I want to raid an address in Banff.’
‘What: now?’
‘Soon as.’ He pushed through the main door and out into the sunny evening. ‘I’ve got intel that Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney have taken possession of a big shipment from down south. Storing it at Spinney’s house. If we move quick, we might catch them before it’s broken up and disappeared.’
‘Klingon and Gerbil moving up in the world, are they?’
‘Trying to.’
Silence.
A seagull
