will turn this whole bloody city upside down if we need to, but we will find him.’
You could almost smell the determination in the room, just under the cloying funk of hungover constables.
Insch read out the search team rosters and settled back on the desk as they exited the room. As Logan hung back for his instructions he saw the inspector call Steve the Naked Drunkard over, holding him back until everyone else was gone. Then he began to talk in a voice so low Logan couldn’t hear a word of it, but he could guess what was being said. The young constable’s face started out flushed and swiftly turned a frightened shade of grey.
‘Right,’ said Insch at last, nodding his large, bald head at the trembling constable. ‘You go wait outside.’
Steve the Stripper trudged out, head down, looking as if he’d been slapped.
When the door closed, Insch beckoned Logan over. ‘I’ve got a Noddy job for you this morning,’ he said, pulling a family-sized bag of chocolate-covered raisins out of his suit pocket. He fumbled about trying to open it before giving up and using his teeth. ‘Bloody glue these things shut …’ Insch spat out a corner of plastic and poked a finger into the hole he’d made. ‘We’ve been asked to provide police support for the council’s environmental health team.’
Logan tried not to groan. ‘You’re kidding me?’
‘Nope. They need to serve notice and the bloke doing it is a nervous wee shite. He’s convinced he’s going to get murdered if we’re not there to hold his hand. The Chief Constable wants us to be accessible. That means we have to be seen to be giving the council all the support it needs.’ He pointed the hole in the top of the chocolate raisins in Logan’s direction.
‘But, sir,’ said Logan, politely refusing – the things looked too much like huge rat droppings for his hungover stomach, ‘couldn’t uniform do this?’
Insch nodded and Logan could have sworn he saw an evil glint in the older man’s eye. ‘Yes indeed. In fact a uniform is going to do this. You’re going along to supervise.’ He shook a mound of droppings into the palm of his hand and tossed them back. ‘That’s one of the privileges of rank: you supervise those further down the tree.’
There was a meaningful pause that completely passed Logan by.
‘Well,’ said Insch, shooing him towards the door. ‘Off you go.’
Still wondering what that had been about, Logan left the briefing room. DI Insch sat on the desk, grinning like a maniac. It wouldn’t take long before the penny dropped.
A worried-looking Constable Steve was waiting in the corridor. His face had regained a little bit of its colour and was now an unhealthy reddish-green rather than pale grey; but he still looked dreadful. His eyes were pink with bloodshot veins, his breath reeked of extra strong mints, but it wasn’t enough to disguise the alcohol oozing out of his pores.
‘Sir,’ he said, giving a sickly, nervous smile. ‘I don’t think I should drive, sir.’ He hung his head. ‘Sorry, sir.’
Logan raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth. Then shut it again. This must be the uniform he was supposed to supervise.
They were riding the lift down to the ground floor when Constable Steve disintegrated. ‘How the hell did he know?’ he asked, slumping in the corner with his head in his hands. ‘Everything. He knew bloody everything!’
Logan could feel dread stomping down his spine. ‘Everything?’ Did the inspector know he’d got pissed and slept with WPC Watson?
Constable Steve moaned.
‘He knew we’d been thrown out of the pub, he knew all about the getting naked …’ he looked up at Logan with pitiful pink eyes: like a vivisectioned rabbit. ‘He says I’m lucky he didn’t just fire me! Oh God …’
For a moment it looked as if he was going to burst into tears. Then the lift went: ‘ping’ and the doors slid open onto the car park where a couple of uniformed officers were wrestling a hairy bloke in jeans and a T-shirt out of the back of a patrol car. The man’s T-shirt bore a lovely upside-down Christmas tree of blood. His nose was flattened and smeared.
‘Buncha fuckin’ bastards!’ He lunged towards Logan, but the PC holding him wasn’t about to let go. ‘Fuckin’ bastards wis askin’ fer it!’ Some of his teeth were missing too.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the PC, holding him back.
Logan told him it was OK and led PC Steve away through the car park. They could have gone out through reception, but he didn’t want anyone else seeing the pink-eyed constable in his current state. And anyway, the council buildings weren’t that far away: a walk in the open air would do Steve the world of good.
Outside, the drizzle was refreshing after the oppressive heat of police headquarters. They both stood on the ramp that wound from the rear of the building down to the street with their faces to the rain and stayed that way until a car horn made them jump.
The patrol car flashed its lights. Logan and the hungover PC waved an apology and walked around the side of Force HQ. Outside the Sheriff Court the protesters were already gathering, clutching their banners and placards, desperate for a glimpse of Gerald Cleaver. And an opportunity to string him up from the nearest lamppost.
The Nervous Wee Shite was waiting for them at the main council buildings, shifting from foot to foot, peering at his watch the whole time as if it was going to run off if left unsupervised for more than thirty seconds at a time. He gave PC Steve a worried look and then extended a hand for Logan to shake. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, even though he’d been standing there long before they arrived.
They exchanged introductions, but Logan had forgotten the man’s name within thirty seconds of hearing it.
‘Shall we get going?’ The forgettable man stopped, fussed with a large leather folder, checked his watch again, and led them off towards a Ford Fiesta that looked in need of the last rites.
Logan sat in the passenger seat next to Mr Nervous, making PC Steve sit in the back, behind the driver. One: he didn’t want the council’s environmental health ‘Danger Man’ getting a good look at the bloody state the constable was in; and two: if PC Steve decided to throw up again, it wouldn’t be all over the back of Logan’s head.
All the way across town their driver kept up a running commentary on what a terrible thing it was to work for the council, but how he couldn’t escape to another job because he’d lose all his benefits. Logan tuned him out, just popping back up to the surface with the odd ‘Sounds terrible,’ and ‘I know how you feel,’ to keep the man happy. Instead he sat looking out of the window at the grey streets drifting slowly past.
Rush hour was getting to the point at which everyone who should have left for work half an hour ago suddenly realized they were going to be late. Here and there some daft soul sat behind the wheel, cigarette clenched between their teeth, with the window wound down. Letting the smoke out and the drizzle in. Logan watched them with envy.
He was beginning to get the feeling DI Insch had been telling him something with that whole ‘Privilege of Rank’ speech. Something unpleasant. He ran a slow hand over his forehead, feeling the swollen lump of his brain through the skin.
It was no surprise that Insch had read Steve the riot act. The drunken PC could have
