get me wrong, the Sergeant’s Hoose will be nice when it’s finished, but I’m tired of living out of boxes.’
A call crackled out of the car’s radio. ‘Control to Bravo India, hello?’
‘Aye, aye.’ Logan turned the volume up. ‘Must be something big if they’re bothering the boss.’
‘Come on, Sarge, I don’t want to be one of those cops who spends their whole career in one place. Got a glass ceiling to shatter.’
A woman’s voice came through the speakers, deep and smooth: ‘Bravo India to Control, safe to talk.’
‘Aye, ma’am, we’ve got another Cashline machine gone walkabout. Owner says they got aboot twenty-seven grand of stock as well. Broch Braw Buys, on Gallowhill Road, Fraserburgh.’
Not another one.
‘Twenty-seven thousand pounds? Who’s he trying to kid?’
‘So he says, like.’
‘Sarge?’
Past the bowling green, and the houses got a lot more councily. Semidetached with streaked harling walls and rusting satellite dishes.
‘Probably swinging for a hefty insurance claim. Get the scene secured and I’ll be there soon as I can …’
Logan turned the radio down again. Have to pop past Broch Braw Buys later and see what was going on. But with any luck it’d be someone else’s problem by then.
‘Sarge, are you—’
‘How about this: I’m off to court tomorrow for the trial. You want to be in charge while I’m gone? I mean, you couldn’t be Duty Sergeant, but you could run the team.’
Nicholson chewed on the inside of her cheek.
‘It’ll look good on your CV. You can start doing some of the briefings too. It all helps.’
‘Deal.’ She leaned forward, squinting against the sunshine at the cars droning towards them. ‘That boy on his mobile phone?’
Logan shielded his eyes. ‘The ugly one in the blue Fiesta?’
The Fiesta rumbled past, followed by three other vehicles. Then a tiny gap … Then a Passat.
Nicholson’s finger jabbed one of the buttons mounted in the middle of the dashboard and the unit’s blues flickered into life. Another button and a short siren woop blared out.
The Passat’s driver slammed the brakes on, slithering to a halt about six feet away. An auld mannie goggled out at them, hands curled into fists around the steering wheel, tartan bunnet all squint on his head.
She gave him a nod, then pulled a U-turn. Put her foot down. The acceleration pushed Logan into his seat. Added its weight to the stabproof vest’s crushing fist.
Cars parted before them, clearing the way through to the blue Fiesta with the ugly driver. The thing was shiny and polished, like new. Nicholson wheeched up right behind it and tapped the horn. The siren changed tone. Insistent. Demanding.
Mr Ugly glanced back at them, his face a curdled mess through the rear window. A pause … then he pulled in to the kerb.
Nicholson parked behind him. She fiddled with the Airwave clipped to the front of her vest. ‘Control, I need a PNC check on a blue Fiesta.’
Logan reached into the back of the patrol car for his hat and climbed out into the sunshine. Shook one leg like a dog getting its belly scratched. Bloody police-issue trousers were made of burning ants and sandpaper. He did a slow walk around the Fiesta to the driver’s window. Rapped his knuckles on the glass.
It buzzed down and Mr Ugly glared up at him. ‘What?’ The word came out like a gob of phlegm from a crooked mouth full of crooked teeth. Definitely a Birmingham accent. Thick eyebrows, broad face, dimpled chin, a spattering of angry red spots along the line of his jaw.
OK. Going to be one of those.
Logan unhooked the elastic band holding his body-worn video shut and slipped the front down, setting it recording. ‘You do know it’s an offence to use your mobile phone while driving, don’t you, sir?’
A scowl. ‘I wasn’t using no mobile.’
‘We saw you, sir.’
He faced the front again. Worked his jaw, making the fault line of spots ripple. A couple of volcanoes in the chain ready to blow. ‘Prove it.’
‘Name?’
Silence. More tectonic activity. Then, ‘Martyn Baker, with a “Y”. Sixteenth December, Nineteen Ninety-Three. Thirty-eight Dresden Road, Sparkbrook. Birmingham.’
Name, date of birth, and address. The crook’s version of name, rank, and serial number. Just like that. No stranger to giving his details to the police, then. Logan printed it all down in his notebook. ‘Stay in the vehicle, sir.’ Then around to the boot of the car and onto Control for a background check.
Nicholson pulled on her peaked cap and sauntered over, thumbs tucked into the armholes of her stabproof, like Rumpole of the Bailey. She jerked her chin up. ‘Sarge? Car’s registered to a Martyn Baker—’
‘Nineteen Ninety-Three, thirty-eight Dresden Road, Birmingham?’
‘That’s him. AKA Paul Butcher, AKA Dave Brooks. Got a sheet two miles long: housebreaking, aggravated assault, possession of a Class A, possession with intent, beat the crap out of his girlfriend and his mum … Bit of a charmer, by all accounts.’
‘Certainly failed the attitude test.’ Logan looked back at the car. Baker’s narrowed eyes were right there in the rear-view mirror. Staring at them. ‘Any outstanding warrants?’
‘Not so much as an overdue library book.’ She shifted from foot to foot. ‘You want to do him for the phone?’
‘Denies it.’
A snort. ‘Really? Law-abiding citizen like him?’
The Airwave clipped to Logan’s chest bleeped four times: a point-to-point call. A quick glance and there was PC Scott’s shoulder number on the screen. His voice boomed out of the speaker. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, it’s Dean, you safe to talk?’
He hunched one shoulder forward, tilting his head so his mouth was up against the microphone. Pressed the button. ‘Go ahead, Deano.’
‘Got ourselves an assault in Whitehills. The Drookit Haddie on Harbour Place. Bunch of scrotes gave an old boy a battering. Me and Tufty are waiting for the ambulance.’
‘Suspects?’
‘Nah: everyone in the pub’s come down with amnesia. And Maggie’s been on – there’s a coo loose on the B9031 round about Gamrie.’
‘OK. We’ll see to it. Make sure you get the CCTV from the pub.’
Nicholson’s
