it off him.’
‘The tyre? ’ She gave a wee spluttering laugh. ‘Before the Ice Queen gets here? ’
‘Doctor Forsyth—’
‘Pukey Pete won’t even look at the poor sod.’ She sagged a bit. ‘Shame. It was nice having a pathologist you could actually talk to. . .’
Now the tyre wasn’t burning any more, other smells elbowed their way through Logan’s facemask: excrement, urine. He took a step back.
The tech nodded. ‘Stinks, doesn’t he? Mind you, if it was me – if someone did that to me? I’d shit myself too. Must’ve been terrified.’
A voice cut through the still evening air: one of those singsong Highlands-and-Islands accents. ‘Inspector McRae? Hello? ’
Logan turned.
A woman stood behind the outer cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape, her grey linen suit creased like an elephant’s scrotum. ‘Inspector? ’ She was waving at him, as if he was headed off somewhere nice on a train, not standing on a little metal walkway beside a man who’d burned to death.
Logan picked his way along the clanking tea trays until he was in the blue-and-white area again. Peeled back his hood, took off his safety goggles, then crumpled up his facemask and stuck it in a pocket.
The woman squinted at him, pulled a pair of glasses from a big leather handbag and slipped them on, tucking a nest of brown curls behind her ears. ‘Inspector McRae? ’
‘I’m sorry, miss, we’re not giving interviews to the press right now, so—’
‘I was First Attending Officer.’ She stuck her hand out for shaking. ‘Detective Sergeant Lorna Chalmers.’ A smile. ‘Just transferred down from Northern? I’m investigating that off-licence ram-raid in Inverurie yesterday, looking for the Range Rover they nicked to do the job? ’
Nope, no idea. But it explained the accent. Logan snapped off his purple nitrile gloves. ‘You get the cordon set up? ’
‘And the duty doctor, the SEB – or whatever it is they’re called this week – and the pathologist too: original and replacement.’
Cocky.
Logan struggled out of the top half of his oversuit, then leaned back against the remains of a VW Polo. The bonnet wasn’t just warm beneath his bum, it was hot.
DS Chalmers pulled out a police-issue notebook and flipped it open. ‘Call came in at eight twenty, anonymous – well, mobile phone, but it’s a pay-as-you-go disposable. Unidentified male said there was a “bloke on fire with a tyre round his neck and that” out by Thainstone Mart.’
Frown. ‘Why didn’t the local station take it? ’
She grinned, showing off sharp little teeth. ‘You snooze, you lose.’
Cocky and ambitious with it. Well, if that’s the way she wanted to play it: he swept an arm out at the collection of burned-out vehicles. ‘I need you to get every car here identified. I want names, addresses, and criminal records of the owners on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.’
She gave him a stiff-lipped smile and a nod. I am determined, nothing will stop me. ‘I’m on it, Guv.’
‘Good.’ Logan pushed himself off the VW Polo. ‘And you can start with this one. Or didn’t you notice it was still warm? ’
The smile slipped. ‘It is? Ah, it’s—’
‘Was it burning when you got here? ’
‘I don’t—’
‘Details, Sergeant, they’re important.’
‘Only I was. . . I thought the dead man. . . I was getting everything sorted and. . .’ A blush pricked across her cheeks. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Get the SEB to give it a once-over before they go. Probably won’t find anything, but it’s worth a try.’ He struggled out of the oversuit’s lower half, then swore as a tinny rendition of the ‘Imperial March’ from Star Wars blared out of his phone. Didn’t even need to check the caller ID to know who it was.
Logan hit the button. ‘What now? ’
A pause, then Detective Chief Inspector Steel’s smoky voice rumbled in his ear. ‘Have you still got me ringing up as Darth Sodding Vader, ’cos that’s no’ funny!’
Logan pressed mute. ‘Sergeant, I thought I asked you to get those vehicle IDs.’
She kept her eyes on her shoes. ‘Yes, sir.’
He smiled. Well, it wouldn’t kill him to throw her a bone. ‘You made a good FAO: keep it up.’ He pressed the mute button again. ‘Now bugger off.’
Spluttering burst from the phone. ‘Don’t you dare tell me to bugger off! I’m head of sodding CID, no’ some—’
‘Not you – DS Chalmers.’ He shooed her away, then shifted his mobile to the other side, pinning it in place with his shoulder while he unzipped the rest of his oversuit. ‘What do you want? ’
‘Oh. . .’ A cough. ‘Right. Where’s that bloody paperwork? ’
‘Your in-tray. Did you even bother checking? Or did you just—’
‘No’ the overtime report, you divot, the budget analysis.’
‘Oh, I thought you meant where was my paperwork. You know, the paperwork I’m actually supposed to do, as opposed to your paperwork.’
‘Bad enough I’ve got all this shite to sort out without you throwing a strop every time you’re asked to do a simple wee task—’
‘Look, I’m at a murder scene, so can we skip through all the bollocks to the actual reason you called? Was it just to give me a hard time? Because if it was, you can—’
‘And what about those bloody missing teenage lovebirds? When are you planning on finding them, eh? Or are you too busy swanning about with—’
‘Which part of “I’m at a murder scene” do you not get? ’
‘—poor parents worried to death!’
‘For God’s sake, they’re both eighteen – they’re not teenagers they’re adults.’ He shuffled his way out of the blue plastic booties. ‘They’ll be shacked up together in an Edinburgh squat by now. Bet you any money they’re at it like rabbits on a manky futon.’
‘That’s no excuse for dragging your heels – bloody woman’s mother’s been on the phone again. Do I look like I’ve no’ got anything better to do than run around after your scarred backside all day? ’ A loud sniff rattled down the phone. ‘Pull your sodding socks up: you’ve done bugger all on that jewellery heist last night, there’s a stack of outstanding hate crimes. . . And while we’re on the subject: your
