out the sheet inside. Stuck the whole lot on her lap. ‘I can’t look.’
‘Put on your glasses then.’
She stared at him. ‘I don’t need glasses. It’s important, OK?’ She poked the sheet of paper. ‘This is a big deal.’
‘And a dead wee girl isn’t?’
Another long drag on the fake cigarette. ‘Got a point.’
‘Look …’ He cleared his throat. Took off his peaked cap and held it in his lap. ‘I know it means a lot to Susan. But maybe she needs to …’
Steel just stared, mouth hanging open.
‘What?’
‘What the hell did you do to your head?’ She reached out and scrubbed her hand across the back of it. ‘It’s like a velour egg.’
‘Get off.’ He scooted away to the edge of the bench.
‘Who cut your hair? You tell me and we’ll go round right now and beat the crap out of them. You look like an angry scrotum!’
‘I cut it.’ He slapped her hand away as she went in for seconds. ‘Got a set of clippers off the internet.’
‘One born every minute.’ She took another puff on her e-cigarette. Glanced down at the paperwork in her lap. ‘Pathologist’s examining the wee girl now. Quick once-over then off to Aberdeen. Post mortem tomorrow.’
‘You got any idea how much a haircut costs these days? Don’t get anything like the same overtime I did in CID. And with the pension contribution going up …’
‘Right now it looks like a blow to the head. Something solid and cylindrical. Best guess: he bashed her head in with a metal pipe. Find out more tomorrow when they cut her open.’
Logan screwed his hands together, knotting the fingers tight. ‘When I saw her lying there, all twisted in her school uniform … For a heartbeat, I thought it was Jasmine.’
Steel draped an arm along the back of the bench. Gave Logan a little squeeze. ‘Don’t be such a big girl’s blouse. She’s home with her mum.’
‘Who’s SIO?’
‘Officially, our beloved Detective Superintendent Young is the all-powerful Senior Investigating Officer. But it’ll be Finnie’s face on the TV. Dead wee girl. Paedo on the run. Got to bring out the big guns for something like that.’ A sniff. Then she poked herself in the chest a couple of times with her thumb. ‘No prizes for guessing who’ll be doing all the work though.’
‘I’d put my money on whatever poor sod you’ve got running around after you.’
‘Damn straight.’ She blew out a breath. Pulled her shoulders back. ‘Right.’ Picked up the sheet of paper from her lap. Paused. Then thrust it at Logan. ‘I can’t. You read it.’
He smoothed out the crumpled sheet. ‘“Dear Mrs Wallace-Steel, I write to inform you of the combined test results from your first-trimester nuchal translucency scan and bloodwork, taken on the”—’
‘Get to the point!’
‘Fine.’ Logan skimmed the page with his finger. ‘Blah, blah, blah … HCG is normal, but the PAPP-dash-A is elevated. Given Susan’s age, they’re going for a one in five hundred chance of the foetus having Down’s syndrome.’
‘Oh thank God.’ Steel let her head fall back and covered her face with her hands. Then sat up again, frowning. ‘One in five hundred. That’s good, isn’t it?’
No idea.
He manufactured a smile. ‘Course it is.’
‘Ha!’ She slapped him on the back. ‘You’re going to be a daddy again!’ The smile froze and Steel checked over her shoulder, as if someone might be lurking in the long grass. Her voice dropped to a raspy whisper. ‘But if your mum asks, it wasn’t you, OK? Someone else did the squirt-in-a-cup thing. Don’t want her going all stalkery over this one like she did with Jasmine. I’ve had verrucas easier to shake off than that woman.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Logan stood. ‘Look, any monkey in uniform could guard the cordon. And you’ve got heaps of bodies here.’
‘Want me to release you from your servitude?’
‘The whole team. Got a division to look after.’
The tip of Steel’s artificial cigarette glowed. ‘One in five hundred.’ She grinned. ‘Ah, go on then. I’m feeling generous.’
He marched back up the road. Tapped Nicholson on the shoulder. Lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Looks like tenses are on again.’
Logan swivelled his chair left and right, phone in one hand, mouse in the other. Scrolling through his team’s actions on STORM. Waiting for the Sergeant at Fraserburgh station to pick up.
The sound of telephones and stomping feet came from overhead. Like elephants in cheap machine-washable suits. A pair of them thundered past the open door to the Sergeants’ Office, trumpeting about getting a HOLMES suite set up and which of the bunnets was going to have to make the tea.
Logan stretched the phone cord to its full length and reached out with his leg. Caught the edge of the door with his foot and shoved. It banged shut.
A not-quite big enough room: two cupboards locked away behind white panelled doors; a pair of desks, back to back so the occupants could face each other over creaky black computers; some metal cabinets and overflowing in-trays. A line of body-worn video units winking their green lights at him as the mouse moved onto the next set of action.
Click.
Deano was all up to date. As was Nicholson. But Tufty …
God’s sake. It was like having a five-year-old. Three assaults, two burglaries, and a purse-snatching, all needing following up.
He clicked on the first assault, wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, and battered a remark into the system, fingers sparking across the keyboard.
Follow this up ASAP – this action has been open too long. I want it updated!
Finally, someone picked up in Fraserburgh and a rough male voice echoed out of the phone: ‘Billy Broch’s House of Horrors, how may I direct your call?’
‘Sergeant Smith, is that any way to answer the station telephone?’
‘Knew it was you by the number. What’s this I hear about you and your numpties turning up a body?’
‘Dead child.’
‘Aw, no … Sorry. No one said.’
‘What are you and your hired thugs up to the night?’
‘They inflict you with an MIT yet?’
More footsteps, stomping overhead.
