‘And the smell. I wash and I wash and I wash and it never comes off. . .’
Logan nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
A knock came from the office door. Dr Ramsey was blinking at them from the corridor. ‘Turns out some shoplifter’s fallen down the stairs in the custody block.’ He pointed over his shoulder, back towards the bulk of FHQ. ‘If Tweedledee and Tweedledum ever stop shouting at each other, let me know.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’
‘Anthropologists. . .’ Ramsey rolled his eyes, then sloped off, shoes scuffing on the floor.
Dr Forsyth hurled another manila folder into the box, following it up with one more for every word: ‘Just – can’t – take it – any more.’ He picked the box up, cradling it in his arms as if it were a severed head. ‘And all the time they’re telling us to cut costs, as if what we do is. . .’ He trembled, flecks of spittle frothing in the corners of his mouth. ‘Like we’re sitting about drinking coffee from golden mugs and eating bloody chocolates.’ A shrug. ‘Sorry. It’s just. . .’
He lowered his head and shuffled from the room. As he opened the door, the raised voices came through again:
‘Oh, don’t give me that, Graham, you’ve always been jealous of my success!’
‘I’m not arguing with you about this, Dempsey. I was here first.’
Dr Forsyth looked back over his shoulder. ‘Please. . .’ A frown. ‘Tell Isobel I stuck it for as long as I could.’
‘It’s my bloody job! Now pack up and bugger off!’
‘My life coach says I have to—’
‘Life coach? What kind of bloody idiot—’
The door clunked shut again.
Rennie backed into the room, carrying the kettle in one hand and a packet of Jaffa Cakes in the other. He waggled the orange-and-blue box at Logan. ‘Creepy Dalrymple didn’t lock her locker. What’s the point of hiding things in your locker if you don’t lock it? ’ He stuck the kettle onto its base and flicked the switch. ‘Clue’s in the name.’
Logan scrolled through the messages on his phone, deleting all the rubbish – most of which came from Steel. ‘Mmm. . .’
‘Exactly.’ Rennie clunked a couple of mugs down on the desk. ‘It’s gone all quiet out there. Think they’ve kissed and made up? Bet they’re at it on one of the cutting tables, getting their forensic anthropology freak on. Jumping each other’s bones.’
No wonder Steel never had any time to do her own paperwork, she was too busy sending pointless text messages. Delete. Delete. Delete.
Logan looked up from the little screen. ‘The ACC still on a rampage? ’
‘Nah, gone home. It’s Her Nibs you’ve got to worry about.’ The kettle rattled away to itself, grumbling steam out into the room. ‘Guv . . . this jewellery heist. . .’
Here we go. Logan put his phone away. ‘You were asleep. We got a confession.’
‘Yeah, but I put in all the work and it’s not—’
‘Never is.’
‘But it isn’t fair. And look at this. . .’ He pulled out his notebook, flipped it open, and held it up. Someone had written ‘FIND THOSE BLOODY TRAMPS, YOU LAZY WEE BAWBAG!!!’ above a list of three names and a crude drawing of male genitalia. The handwriting was obviously Steel’s. Rennie clacked the thing shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘She drew a cock in my notebook. What am I supposed to do if I’ve got to produce it in court? Think the judge’ll be impressed? ’
The kettle clicked, then fell silent.
‘She keeps lumping these crappy make-work jobs on me. How am I going to make my mark, if she keeps—’
‘Make your mark? ’
A blush spread across his cheeks. ‘Well, it’s. . . You know what I mean.’
‘No wonder she drew a dick in your notebook; lucky she didn’t do it on your forehead. Anyway, you should be happy.’
He picked up the kettle and filled the mugs. ‘Ha bloody ha.’
‘She did the same thing to me. In her twisted little mind, it’s her way of singling you out. Testing you.’ Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re her favourite.’
Rennie sagged. ‘Oh God. . .’
‘Oh yes. Say goodbye to getting home at a reasonable hour, and hello to bizarre calls in the middle of the night.’
More sagging. ‘And how come I’m the one stuck hunting down tramps? It’s not like Hairy Mary, Scotty Scabs, and Fusty Forman did anything serious: two blokes and an auld wifie shoplifting cheese, bacon, and vodka doesn’t really count as organized crime, does it? ’
‘And you can forget about seeing Emma. But get ready for lots and lots of questions about your sex life, even though you’re never home in time to actually have one.’
‘Probably drunk themselves to death weeks ago. They’ll be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, covered in smoked streaky and Cheddar, getting all mouldy and fusty. . .’ A shudder. ‘Bad enough when they do it in winter, but in this weather? ’ Rennie’s bottom lip poked out. ‘Can’t we get the GED to look for them? ’
Logan smiled. ‘Trust me: soon as our beloved colleagues in the General Enquiries Division find out that Steel’s lumped you with finding these guys, they’ll disappear faster than you can say, “Someone else’s problem.”’ Logan fished his teabag out and dumped it in the wastepaper basket. ‘Besides, there’s only three of them. Don’t be such a wimp.’
Rennie ripped open the Jaffa Cakes, then tipped out a half-dozen brown flying-saucers onto the desk. ‘It’s not three any more, it’s two. Got Hairy Mary in the mortuary – found her under the Wellington Bridge with a bottle of turps in one hand and her knickers round her ankles.’
‘Sexual assault? ’
A shake of the head. ‘Call of nature, from the state of her.’ He bit a Jaffa Cake in half, talking with his mouth full. ‘Poor cow. Imagine going out like that? Everyone seeing you? ’ He chewed, then swallowed. ‘You want to take a look at her? ’
Dirty bugger. Logan pulled in his chin. ‘Do you really think that’s appropriate, because I—’
‘No! Not look at her with her knickers down. . . I mean take a look and make sure I’m not screwing anything up? ’
‘Oh.’ That was OK then. ‘Don’t be such a big Jessie.’
‘Come on, Guv. . .’ He popped the final Jaffa Cake in his mouth and fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Please? ’
Sigh. ‘This is the last time, understand? ’
A grin.
