his chest and sobbed, fingers digging into the soft cushions of the couch. ‘Oh God. . .’
Logan glanced at Chalmers, then back at Mrs Ferguson. ‘You saw him this morning? ’
‘At the hospital. They said he was going to be all right. Just keeping him in for observation.’ She settled onto the arm of the couch and wrapped an arm around her husband’s heaving shoulders. ‘Was it . . . did he suffer? ’
‘He was in hospital? ’ Oh, shite.
‘They were fooling around and he got petrol all over his hands. How can someone die from burned hands? ’ A thick line appeared between her eyebrows, two more slashing down from the corners of her mouth. ‘It was that MRSA, wasn’t it? ’
‘Ah.’ Logan stood, put his hands in his pockets. Took them out again. Shuffled his feet. ‘There may have been a bit of a . . . mistake.’
6
The pool car’s sirens carved a path through the afternoon traffic. Chalmers jinked the car around an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with bags of gravel. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever been so embarrassed in my life.’
Logan pressed the mobile against his chest. ‘Slow down! I said I wanted to go up to the hospital, not end up in bloody A&E.’ Then back to the phone. ‘What do you mean, he’s not there? ’
A small pause. Then Sergeant Big Gary McCormack’s bunged-up Aberdonian accent grumbled down the line. ‘What do you think I mean? I mean, he’s not there. Sent a car round there three times this morning and there’s still no sign of him.’
‘He’s six foot tall, five foot wide, and looks like someone took a burning cheese grater to his face, how can you not find him? ’
‘Are you asking for another punch in the face? I’ve got a whole city to keep safe here, dayshift’s got better things to do than run around after your ungrateful arse!’ A clunk and the line went dead. The bastard had hung up on him.
Logan rammed the phone back into his pocket. ‘Typical. Ask them to do one simple thing and— Bloody hell!’ He grabbed the handle above the passenger door as Chalmers threw the car into the roundabout, tyres screeching all the way.
She ground her hands around the steering wheel. ‘They’re going to make a complaint, aren’t they? I don’t want that on my record, how am I supposed to make promotion with that hanging over my—’
‘Let them complain. The lab didn’t screw up on the fingerprints, they screwed up on the DNA. It’s not the victim’s: it’s the killer’s. So as soon as we get to the hospital. . .? ’
‘We get the killer.’ Chalmers brought her little pointy teeth out to shine. ‘One week on the job and I’ve solved a gangland execution.’
Logan stared at her. ‘You do know I’m sitting here, don’t you? ’
At least she had the decency to blush. ‘I meant, we’ve solved a gangland execution. Team effort. . . Sorry, Guv.’
‘Just drive.’
Footsteps clattered back from the spearmint-green walls. Paintings and arty photographs lined the corridor. People in dressing gowns shuffled to the side, leaning on the handrails, watching them march past.
Up the stairs.
Chalmers hurried on ahead, one of the uniformed officers seconded to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary clomping along behind her in full ninja black.
The other one hung back with Logan, puffing and panting as they climbed. ‘Could we . . . we no’ have . . . have taken the . . . bloody lift? ’
And let Gungho Gertrude get there first? No thanks.
They burst out onto the next floor.
Chalmers was staring at the ward signs hanging from the ceiling. She did a slow three-sixty, before shrugging her shoulders and poking the uniform in the shoulder. ‘Well? ’
‘Must be the next floor.’
Sod.
Logan went back through the doors to the stairwell, pulling out his phone on the way and scrolling down to Steel’s name. It rang as they charged up the stairs. Bang – out into another bland green corridor that smelled of boiled socks and murdered cauliflower.
Steel finally picked up. ‘Oh, it’s you is it? Where’s my bloody paperwork? I told you I wanted it on my desk by lunchtime, no’ next sodding—’
‘We know who killed the necklacing victim.’
Pause. ‘You do? ’
One of the uniformed officers checked the ward signs, then marched off to the left. Chalmers hurried after him, Logan and Mr Too-Many-Pies bringing up the rear.
‘Guy Ferguson. He was in on the jewellery heist. Victim was probably one of his gang. He’s in ARI right now: we’re on our way.’
‘Buggering hell. . . It’s only been a day and a half, and I’ve already solved the thing. Keep telling everyone I’m a genius.’
‘You’ve already solved? ’ Logan barged through a set of double doors into another stretch of sickly green. ‘You’re as bad as bloody Chalmers.’
‘My intrepid leadership is what did it. I’m no’ saying you didn’t play your own small part—’
‘Do I get any sodding credit at all? ’
Up ahead, Chalmers and the other uniform were shouldering their way into a ward.
‘Laz, you’re big enough and ugly enough to know how this works: credit, like a happy wee party balloon, floats up the way. Blame, like jobbies, falls down.’ Rustling came from the other end of the phone. ‘Now, be a good boy and keep an eye on my party balloon while I hurry over there to collect it.’
Aye, right.
Logan held the phone out at arm’s length, then made a harsh hissing noise. ‘. . .ant hear what . . . signal . . . hello? Hello? ’
‘Don’t you sodding dare, Logan McRae, or I’ll ram my boot so far up—’
‘Isn’t. . . Hello? ’ He hung up.
Darth Vader’s theme tune burst out of the phone’s speaker, the word ‘STEEL’ flashing on the screen. He switched it off and jammed it back in his pocket. Served her right. He nodded to PC Pies. ‘OK, we’ll—’
The ward door banged open and three young men scrambled out, white trainers squeaking on the cracked terrazzo floor. They weren’t wearing identical tracksuits, but it wasn’t far off it, the tops pulled on over hoodies and baseball caps. One slammed into the wall, twisted round a couple of times, then sprinted straight towards Logan.
More squeaking as he scrabbled to a halt, eyes wide, staring at the huge constable. ‘Shite!’ And he was off again – accelerating
