member’s bill’ in the women’s toilets after hours.
His Airwave bleeped, then DCI Steel’s gravelly tones ground out of the speaker. ‘Laz? Where the hell are you?’
Great – couldn’t even eat his cheapo soup in peace.
He thumbed the button. ‘Busy. What do you want?’
‘How come I can’t find anything in this warren you call a police station? Where are the marker pens?’
A spoonful of lumpy lentil. ‘Hector nicks them all.’
‘Who the hell is Hector? I’ll kick his bum for him.’
‘Too late for that: he died years ago.’
‘Hilarious. Where’s the damn pens?’
‘And now he haunts the corridors of Banff station, terrifying probationers and anyone foolish enough to venture upstairs after dark … Wooo-oooo-ooohhhh-ooo!’
Silence.
He crunched on a mouthful of toast.
‘You finished?’
‘What? Not my fault. He’s the station ghost, and every time a pen goes missing, it’s Hector’s fault. Try the old VIPER room on the top floor, next to the shower room. There’s usually a box up there.’
‘When you getting back? I need to go round all the registered stots, fiddlers, nonces, and paedos in the area.’
‘So? You’ve got every spare body in the northeast: go visiting. Knock yourself out.’
‘Need me some local knowledge.’
‘Your team—’
‘Are a bunch of numpties. Wouldn’t trust them to interview their bums for love bites. So …?’
More soup. ‘Depends if I get free later. I’ll let you know.’ Ha, no chance. ‘Got to go.’
Another dollop of stolen hot sauce. Definitely improved the taste.
The door opened behind him. ‘Sarge.’
He looked back over his shoulder and gave a one-spoon salute. ‘Syd. How’s the menagerie?’
A shrug. ‘Enzo’s OK, but Lusso bit Dino. Right on the bum.’ Constable Fraser’s black, police-issue fleece was frayed around the collar and sleeves, the thick leather dog lead draped across his shoulders and clipped together behind his back. Like BDSM braces. Black-and-white checked ‘POLICE’ baseball hat on his head, the brim worn and hairy on one side. The less than subtle waft of Eau de Labrador. ‘Don’t know what he’d been doing, but he probably deserved it.’
Logan stared at him. ‘Your dog bit Deano? He bit Constable Scott? When did this happen?’
‘What?’ Syd curled his top lip, pulled his chin back into his neck. Then the frown slipped from his face. ‘Ah, OK, no, not Deano, Dino. D.I.N.O. My Alsatian. He likes to wind the other two up.’
Thank God for that. Logan hissed out the breath he’d been holding. The paperwork would’ve been horrendous.
Syd clumped over to the kitchen that took up one corner of the large room. Stuck a Tupperware box in the microwave and set it humming.
‘I need a car over to Market Street, Macduff. Reports of an elderly woman in distress wandering the street.’
Nicholson’s voice barked out of the Airwave handset. ‘Roger that, Control – on my way.’
Logan went back to his soup. ‘You not out searching Tarlair?’
‘Nope. You cancelled that drugs op, so me and Enzo ended up checking suspicious packages down the post office. Got three lots of coke, two of resin, and a teeny-tiny bit of heroin. Probably has a street value of eight pounds fifty, but every little helps.’
Ding.
Syd went rummaging in the cutlery drawer and carried the Tupperware back to the table. Pulled out the chair two down from Logan and settled in. Creaked the top off the container. The smell of rich Indian spices wafted out, covering the one of wet dog. ‘Know if they’ve ID’d the girl yet?’
‘MIT’s handling it. Think they’d tell me?’
‘Probably not.’ A fork dug into the curry, pulled out a mound of chickpeas and onion. ‘What’s happening with your warrant? Me and the hairy loons were looking forward to that.’ He took off his baseball cap, exposing a swathe of shiny scalp, fringed with close-cropped grey. ‘Got nothing special on tomorrow, if you’re up for it?’
‘Can’t – got the Stirling trial. Maybe Wednesday? Assuming they’ll give me the bodies with this Tarlair thing going on.’ A spoonful of lentils helps the bitterness go down. ‘Surprised they’ve not got you out there sniffing round the swimming pool too.’
‘No one ever calls in the dogs as a first resort.’ Another forkful of chickpeas. ‘More fool them.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Another handset bleep. ‘Control to Bravo India One, safe to talk?’
Syd pointed at the TV. ‘You watching this pish?’
‘Just on for the company, to be honest.’
The Duty Inspector’s voice yawned out of the speaker: ‘Go ahead.’
‘Cool.’ He grabbed the remote and went spinning through the channels. ‘You hear about Barney Massie? Up running that fatal RTA in Kirkwall, when he gets a challenge on his team’s expenses.’
‘Co-op in Aberchirder’s had its front window panned in and the Cashline machine taken.’
A groan came from the Airwave. ‘Not another one …’ A sigh. A pause. Then the Duty Inspector was back. ‘OK. I’ll be right over.’
‘Some wee numptie in Tulliallan calls him up to give him a roasting: “What’s all these claims for flights? Did no one even think of taking the train?”’
Logan stared at him. ‘To Orkney?’
‘Exactly.’ More chickpeas. ‘The job is well and truly buggered.’ Another jab at the remote produced a repeat of Chewin’ the Fat – a pair of sailors chuntering out filth while their boat heaved through a storm. ‘Still, only eight paydays to go.’
‘Thanks. Rub it in. I’m stuck here till I’m sixty-five.’
On the TV, the seamen were replaced by Ford Kiernan buying a pie and a Paris bun.
‘Got a big farewell bash planned: thirty years of keeping Grampian Police on the straight and narrow.’
Logan
