Sigh. ‘This is the last time, understand?’
A grin. ‘Thanks, Guv!’
Rennie was right – the corridor was quiet, not so much as an angry murmur coming from the cutting room. Logan pushed through the double doors … and stopped.
Dr Dempsey was sitting flat on his wide tweed bum in the middle of the room, both hands clasped over his nose, while Dr April Graham skipped back and forward in front of him, knees bent, feet barely moving. Fists up in classic Muhammad Ali pose.
She threw a couple of sharp right jabs into the air, making little puffing noises. ‘Told him to stop pushing me.’
Logan shifted the hot mug of coffee from one hand to the other, wedging the manila folder under his arm as he struggled with the doorknob. Down the corridor, the main CID office was noisy: the dayshift coasting towards quitting time, the backshift grumbling about all the jobs they’d been lumbered with on a Sunday evening.
Click, and the handle finally turned. He pushed through into his own private sanctuary— Crap.
Detective Chief Inspector Steel was sitting in his chair, feet up on his desk, electronic cigarette clamped between her teeth puffing artificial smoke into the room. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
He dumped the mug on the desk, then swatted at her feet with the folder. ‘Out.’
She didn’t move. ‘Did I no’ tell you about those bloody teenagers?’
‘For God’s sake, they’re shacked up somewhere, banging each other’s hormone-addled brains out. It’s not—’
‘I don’t give a badger’s hairy arsehole if they’re on Jeremy Kyle with “My Girlfriend Won’t Swallow”: I told you to get your finger out and visit the bloody parents and at least look as if you’re doing something.’
‘They—’
‘No.’ She slammed a hand down on the desk. ‘This isn’t a debate, it’s an order. Finger – out – now. You made the ACC look a right prawn.’
‘You know what? Sod it.’ He pulled out his warrant card, in its little leather holder, and tossed it into her lap. ‘I’m with Doc Forsyth: screw this for a game of soldiers. I never asked you to make me up to DI, did I? No, I was quite happy where I was, but you had to have someone to run around after your backside, doing all your bloody paperwork.’
‘There we go.’ She checked her watch. ‘Lasted a whole two weeks as acting DI before threatening to flounce off in a strop. That’s a record for you. Was starting to worry you’d grown up a bit.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a big girl’s blouse.’
‘I’ve had enough.’
‘Moan, moan, whinge, bitch, moan. Now I know where Rennie gets it from.’ She flipped open the little leather case and peered at the warrant card within, holding it out at arm’s length. ‘Jesus, there’s a face only a proctologist could love.’
He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door. ‘Enjoy your paperwork.’
‘Park your arse.’ She pointed at the visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Soon as Disaster McPherson’s finished screwing things up in Holyrood, you can go back to being a lowly defective sergeant. God, you’re such a drama queen.’
‘I am not a drama—’
‘You don’t see me whingeing on about running CID till Finnie returns from his wee jolly to Malaga, do you? Even though the sodding ACC’s down here every five minutes bitching about the budget and the rotas and the overtime bill? No: because I’m a team player, one of the lads, knuckling under and getting the job done like a pro.’ She had a dig at the underside of her left breast, scratching and tugging at the bra-line. ‘Course, the extra cash helps.’
Logan stared at her. ‘You got a pay rise?’
Scowl. ‘Don’t change the subject. You, Logan Bum-Face McRae, need to get your act sorted. Being a DI’s no’ about running all over the place, arresting people and getting punched in the nose: it’s about taking a strategic overview, staying in FHQ at the centre of your wee web of influence and organizing things, making the best use of the available manpower. And solving bloody cases!’
‘Like you ever—’
‘Now get your backside in gear and go see those poor missing kids’ parents!’
Silence settled into the room, then a hiss and click as Steel’s electric cigarette gave another puff of steam.
‘What happened to, “being a DI’s no’ about running all over the place”?’
‘Parents need to see a senior officer, no’ some junior idiot in uniform wiping their nose on their sleeves. And if you’d done something about it in the first sodding place, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’ She chucked his warrant card back at him. ‘Now sod off before I decide to motivate you some more.’
In the main CID office a lone detective constable was bent over the fax machine, cursing and swearing as she pounded away at the keypad. Other than her, the place was deserted: most of the dayshift would be down at their lockers already, getting changed to go home – or hiding so they wouldn’t have to answer the phones and get dragged into anything at five to five on a Sunday evening – while the backshift were off actually doing things, leaving the little corrals of chest-high partitions and scuffed beech desks to sulk unloved beneath stacks of forms and reports, empty sandwich wrappers and dirty mugs.
Logan tried the small walled-off annex at the side of the room – the one with a brass plaque mounted on the door: ‘THE WEE HOOSE’. Someone had stuck a Post-it note to the thing, with ‘CONDEMNED FOR PUBLIC HEALTH REASONS!’ scrawled across it.
Inside, DS Bob Marshall was frowning at a pile of receipts and an expenses form. His desk looked as if a stationery cupboard had thrown up on it. A big orange-and-black biohazard sign was mounted on the wall in front of him. As if anyone actually needed any warning…
The other three desks were almost tidy, no sign of their owners, just the shelves laden with box files and manuals, the whiteboards covered with case lists for each DS complete with notes and dates.
Bob scribbled something down on his form. ‘If you’re here to moan about them not catching Reuben yet: don’t. It’s sod all to do with me.’
Logan slumped into his old familiar chair, the one with the wobbly castor and the creaky hydraulic thing, and the coffee stain on the seat that always made it look as if he’d had an unfortunate accident. Loved that chair. He ran a hand along the rough plastic armrest. ‘You’re a jammy sod, Bob.’
‘Mmm…’ He didn’t look up. ‘Think I can claim for that bottle of whisky I bought for the Levinston stakeout?’
‘Being
