a tooth removed without anaesthetic. Superintendent Napier – the man in charge of screwing over his fellow officers the minute anything went wrong – droned on and on and on and on, letting Logan know exactly how half-baked and unprofessional Team Three had been during last night’s raid. And somehow that was all Logan’s fault … just because he was a Detective Sergeant and Guthrie was a mere Police Constable with a staple in his newly broken nose.
After two hours of having to explain every mistake he’d made for the last seven months, Logan was free to go. He stomped down the stairs, muttering and swearing his way out through the back doors and into the morning. Going to pick up a car so he could enjoy the privilege of ferrying DCI Finnie about.
The rear podium car park behind FHQ was a little sun-trap full of banished smokers sucking enough nicotine into their lungs to keep them going for another half hour. Logan worked his way through the crowd, making for the fleet of CID pool cars.
Bloody Finnie.
Bloody Finnie and Bloody Superintendent Napier.
And Bloody Grampian Bloody Police.
Maybe Napier was right? Maybe it was time to ‘consider alternative career options’. Anything had to be better than this.
‘Hoy, Laz, where do you think you’re going?’
Damn.
He turned to find Detective Inspector Steel slouched against the Chief Constable’s brand-new Audi, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, big wax-paper cup of coffee resting on the car’s bonnet. Her hair looked as if it had been styled by a drunken gorilla – which was an improvement on yesterday. She tilted her face to the sun, letting her wrinkles bask in the glow of a glorious summer’s morning. ‘Hear you had a spot of bother last night…?’
‘Don’t start, OK? I got enough of that from Napier this morning.’
‘And how is everyone’s favourite champion of Professional Standards?’
‘He’s a ginger-haired cock.’ Logan stared at the shiny blue Audi. ‘Chief Constable’s going to kill you if he finds out you’re using his pride and joy as a coffee table.’
‘Don’t change the subject. What did Napier say?’
‘The usual: I’m crap. My performance is crap. And everything I touch turns to crap.’
DI Steel took a long draw on her cigarette and produced her own private smokescreen. ‘Have to admit he’s got a point with the “turning to crap” thing. No offence, like.’
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot. That’s really nice.’
‘Ah, don’t be so sensitive. You’re having a bad patch, it happens. No’ the end of the world, is it?’
‘Seven months isn’t a “bad patch”, it’s a—’
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it’s your lucky day: you get to accompany me on a tour of local primary schools. Some dirty old git’s been trying to lure kiddies into his car with the promise of puppies and assorted sweeties.’
‘Can’t today,’ said Logan, backing away, ‘got to go visit the hospital and speak to our latest Oedipus victim, and that woman we—’
‘Shot?’
‘It was an accident, OK?’
‘Aye, aye, Mr Tetchy-Trousers. Maybe I’ll tag along? Show you how a real police officer questions witnesses.’
‘Fine, you can ride in the back with Finnie.’
Steel clamped her mouth shut, sending a small cascade of ash spiralling down the front of her blouse. ‘I’d rather have cystitis.’
‘You’re going to have to work with him eventually.’
‘My sharny arse.’ She took the last inch of her cigarette and ground it out against the Chief Constable’s wing mirror. ‘You have fun with DCI Frog-Face, I’ll give someone else the benefit of my brilliance. Where’s Rennie?’
‘Not back till Friday.’
‘Oh for God’s … Fine. I’ll take Beattie, you happy now?’ She turned and stomped her way back through the rear doors, swearing all the way.
Aberdeen Royal Infirmary wasn’t a pretty building. A collection of slab-like granite lumps – connected with corridors, walkways and chock-a-block car parks – it had all the charm of a kick in the bollocks.
DCI Finnie hadn’t said a word all the way over, he’d just sat in the back, fiddling with his BlackBerry. Probably sending bitchy emails to the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, sir,’ said Logan, taking them on their second lap of the car park, looking for somewhere to abandon the shiny new Vauxhall, ‘why didn’t you take DS Pirie?’
‘Believe me, you weren’t my first choice. Pirie’s got a court appearance this morning; soon as he’s free you hand this over to him, understand? That way we might actually get a result.’ Finnie watched as yet another row of badly parked vehicles went by. ‘Well, much as I’m enjoying your magical mystery tour, I haven’t got time. Drop me off at the main entrance, you can catch up later. Think you can handle that without screwing it up?’
Logan kept his mouth shut and did as he was told.
Fifteen minutes later he slouched along the corridor to the intensive care ward, following an overweight nurse with tree-trunk ankles.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said, ‘it’s not their fault, but still: if you’re going to move to a country, the least you can do is learn the bloody language.’ She took a right, following the coloured lines set into the linoleum. ‘Soon as they get a drink in them they forget how to speak English. Mind you, my husband’s the same, but he’s from Ellon, so what do you expect? … Here we are.’
She pointed to a private room at the end of the corridor. A uniformed PC sat by the door, reading a lurid gossip magazine with ‘CELEBRITY CELLULITE!’ plastered all over the cover.
‘Right,’ said the nurse, ‘if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a two-hour presentation on the importance of washing my hands to go to. God save us from bloody politicians…’
Logan watched her squeak and grumble away, then wandered over to the constable and peered over his shoulder at a photograph of a bikini-clad woman with lumpy thighs. ‘Who the hell is that?’
The constable shrugged. ‘No idea. Nice tits though.’
‘Finnie inside?’
‘Aye, looks like someone shat in his shoe.’
Logan harrumphed. ‘Need I remind you, Constable, that you’re talking about our superior officer?’
‘Doesn’t stop him being a sarcastic dickhead.’
Which was true.
Logan pushed the door open and stepped into a brightly lit hospital room.
