held up a hand. ‘I’m eating.’
‘—like a doner kebab. If I don’t get my end away soon I’m going to … Morning, Guv.’
Logan scrunched around in his seat. DCI Finnie was standing in the doorway, his face crumpled down at the edges. As if it needed a good iron.
‘Inspector,’ the head of CID held up a manila folder, ‘why are there still no suspects in the Douglas Ewan case?’
Steel sniffed. ‘You told me the McGregors took precedence. Remember?’
‘I see…’ Finnie’s rubbery mouth became a thin-lipped line. ‘Well, I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that you could drop everything and sit in here having a wee tea party instead. But perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, you wouldn’t mind solving something?’
She put her mug down. ‘It’s no’ that I haven’t got any suspects for the Ewan case: I’ve got too bloody many. Dougy Ewan is a nasty raping wee bastard: half that bloody estate’s got reason to kick the shite out of him. Interviewed fifty-two people so far, and they all think whoever did it deserves a knighthood. So coming in here “motivating” me’s no’ as helpful as you think.’
Finnie stiffened. ‘I don’t appreciate your—’
‘Fuck’s sake, Andy, I know you’ve got SOCA dancing on your bollocks with clogs on, but it’s no’ my fault, OK? We’re doing our best here.’
Silence.
‘And you…’ The DCI turned on Logan. ‘Tell me, Sergeant, did I imagine it, or did you swear to me that you could do a much better job on that drug bust than DI McPherson? Yet what do I find when I get in this morning? A matching set of signed confessions? A stack of seized drugs in the evidence stores?’
Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Actually, sir—’
‘No: I find half the evidence has been flushed down some junkie’s toilet, and you let the ringleader get away!’
‘It was … erm … we were—’
‘Operational difficulties, Guv.’ Steel tapped a fingernail against her mug. ‘McRae was just debriefing me on the incident. Nothing he could’ve done without a firearms team: dirty big dog like that. It’s remarkable he got the result he did, really. McPherson would’ve come back with half the team dead.’
Finnie’s scowl slipped a bit. ‘I see.’ He looked at Logan in silence for a moment, raised an eyebrow, then back to Steel. ‘We need to have a briefing for Superintendent Green.’
‘Oh aye, and how is our friendly neighbourhood clog dancer?’
‘Make sure the core team is in the boardroom at half eleven. And for God’s sake send the no-hopers off somewhere. It might be nice if the Serious Organized Crime Agency didn’t get the impression Grampian Police was entirely populated with morons, don’t you think?’ He turned back to Logan. ‘And you can go chase up Lothian and Borders. I want that pathologist on the first flight to Aberdeen, not when they think it’s convenient. Understand?’
‘Actually, sir—’
‘No: I don’t want excuses, I want a bloody pathologist, and I want him here now!’
‘But I—’
‘Now!’
Someone out in the corridor cleared their throat.
Logan peered over Finnie’s shoulder to see a bald man in a threadbare cardigan. The newcomer blinked watery grey eyes, then grinned: making the tufts of hair growing out of his bulbous nose bristle. ‘Morning all. Sergeant McRae tells me you’ve got a wee girl’s remains that need examining?’
8
Doc Fraser pulled a tartan hanky from his cardigan pocket, polished a pair of half-moon spectacles and slipped them on. The mortuary was cool and dark, the overhead lights blinking and buzzing as they warmed up. Something classical oozed out from the speakers of a new stereo unit, a black iPhone plugged into it. Violins and cellos casting dark and sombre sounds to echo back from the pristine white tiles.
The Anatomical Pathology Technician handed Logan a set of white Tyvec coveralls, then waved her creepy-spider fingers in the direction of a box of purple nitrile gloves. ‘Please avail yourself of our … facilities.’
Doc Fraser slipped his feet out of his shoes, dropped his trousers, took off his cardigan and shirt, then clambered into his own SOC suit, getting the APT to help him with the zip. Hiding his baggy grey Y-fronts and string vest. ‘Thanks, Sheila.’
A small bow. ‘Shall I fetch … the remains?’
‘Might as well, it’s not…’ He glanced down at the grey socks poking out from the legs of his SOC suit. There was a hole in one. ‘You haven’t still got my PM slippers, have you?’
She nodded, let her fingers creep through the air for a moment, picked up his discarded clothes, then turned and stalked from the room.
Doc Fraser waited until the door clunked shut. ‘Is it just me, or has Ms Dalrymple gone a bit strange since I retired?’
Steel hauled up the hood of her oversuit. ‘She’s got a bet on with Biohazard.’
The pathologist shook his head, then looked around the low room. ‘Can we get started, or are we expecting an audience?’
Logan snapped on a pair of gloves. ‘Just Finnie.’
‘Well, he’ll have to get a shift on: I’ve got a three o’clock tee-time at Meldrum House and if I’m late there’ll be trouble.’ He picked a facemask from a box in the corner, stretched the elastic over his head, and let the mask dangle just under his chin. ‘Can someone get the lights, please? And do something about the music, it’s like a bloody funeral parlour in here.’
The spotlights above the cutting table blazed into life, glaring back from the stainless steel cutting table. The whole place reeked of disinfectant, bleach, and formaldehyde. The bowl of potpourri sitting next to the stereo didn’t even make a dent in it. Logan flicked through the iPod, replacing Barber’s Adagio for Strings with Del Amitri’s Move Away Jimmy Blue.
‘That’s better.’ The pathologist pulled at a roll of green plastic mounted on the wall, tearing off a length like a bin-bag and unfurling it into an apron. Putting it on as the door banged open. ‘Ah, about time.’
Finnie bustled into the room and snatched up an SOC suit for himself, and another for the younger man who followed him in. ‘Everyone, this is Superintendent Green from SOCA. He’ll be observing.’
Superintendent Green – wavy blond hair, chiselled jaw, serious blue eyes, broad shoulders, narrow waist. Like something off the television. He gave a tight-lipped smile, a little tilt of the head. ‘I’ll try not to get in the way.’ He even sounded as if he belonged on a cop show – a rich baritone voice with a faint London accent.
Steel leaned over and whispered in Logan’s ear, ‘Sodding hell: I would, wouldn’t you?’
‘No. And you’re married.’
