at that. If Napier thought Logan was going to leap in and fill the gap with something incriminating he could wait till his ears dropped off.
Classical music seeped through from the other room.
‘And tell me, Sergeant McRae, how are you getting on with the Detective Chief Inspector?’
Like an orphanage on fire.
Logan raised his chin. ‘We’re making progress.’
‘I see, I see.’ Another pause. ‘You two have a good working relationship, don’t you, Sergeant? She confides in you. She trusts you.’
Here we go.
‘Tell me, has she ever mentioned a Mr Jack Wallace to you? Possibly in connection with a case she investigated last year?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Really… Hmm. Interesting. Well, if she does mention him, do think of me and our little chat. Till then, take care.’ Napier ended the call.
What the hell was that about?
Logan put his phone away and stepped out onto the landing. Stood there, listening to the violins and cellos.
Then there was a dinging, buzzing sound. Followed by, ‘You wee beauty!’
Whatever had happened on Shepherd’s porn slideshow, she could keep it to herself. He was out of here. Had better things to do.
He’d got halfway down the stairs when the music died and Steel charged out of the bedroom, phone held high like the Olympic torch.
She pointed at him. ‘Hoy, where do you think you’re going?’
‘Banff. Got a dunt to organize.’
‘Time for that later. Look.’ She shoved her phone at him. On the screen was a photo of a bruised face, ringed with black plastic. The features were swollen, and the skin between the blue and purple stains was the colour of rancid butter, but it was definitely Peter Shepherd. ‘After careful consideration, I have decided to give you, your grumpy man-panties, and your half-baked theory a second chance. Get in the car: we’re off to see this Martin Milne’s wife. If the wee sod’s done a runner, I want to know where.’
‘Told you: I’m busy.’ Logan started back down the stairs, then stopped. Frowned up at her. ‘Who’s Jack Wallace?’
Steel’s eyes narrowed, deepening the wrinkles. ‘On second thoughts, you can sod off back to Banff.’ She took a deep breath. ‘BECKY! ARSE IN GEAR, WE’RE LEAVING.’
Calamity handed the mug to Logan, then nudged the door shut. ‘Sorry, Sarge, MIT’s had all the milk.’
Logan peered into the depths of his dark-brown tea. Still, it was better than nothing. Then he had a sip… Actually, no it wasn’t. A tiny shudder, and he put the mug down on the windowsill. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’
Even with the door closed, the sounds of a busy station seeped into the Constables’ Office. Banging doors. Heavy booted feet. Ringing telephones. Shouting.
Calamity settled into her chair. ‘It’s like a football match out there. Never seen so many people in the station at one time. And the stench!’
Isla bared her teeth. ‘Locker room smells like a tramp’s sock dipped in Lynx deodorant. It’s seeping along the landing like sarin gas.’ She thumped a can of diet Irn-Bru down on the worktop, setting loose a curl of ginger froth. ‘But do you know what really grips my shit? Someone’s done kippers in the canteen microwave. Kippers!’
‘Ooh, watch out,’ Calamity pulled her chin in, ‘the Ginger Mist is rising.’
‘Damn right it is.’ She jabbed a finger at the closed door. ‘What kind of antisocial, thoughtless—’
‘All right, that’s enough whingeing about the Moronic Idiot Team. Tufty?’
No reply. The wee sod was sitting with his back to the room, hunched over doodling something on a notepad.
‘Constable Quirrel!’
He swivelled around and grimaced, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘Right. Thanks, Lizzy, I owe you one.’ He hung up. ‘Social Services, Sarge. Apparently Ethan Milne’s had a fair number of bruises and scrapes. The broken arm’s the worst of it, but he’s been to the doctors and A-and-E so many times he’s got a frequent flier card. Lizzy says the kid’s probably eighty percent TCP by now.’
Logan picked up his mug again. ‘Suspicious?’
‘Don’t know. According to the teachers he’s about the clumsiest thing they’ve ever seen. Forever falling over in the playground and walking into doors and things.’
‘Right. Well, you can get on with the briefing then.’
‘Sarge.’ Tufty clicked the mouse and a pair of ID photos appeared on his computer monitor: Ricky Welsh with his shoulder-length hair, bloody nose, and split lip. He’d grown an elaborate Vandyke with twiddly handlebars on the moustache. What looked like a chunk of the Declaration of Arbroath wrapped around his throat in dark-blue tattooed letters. Laura Welsh was bigger; tougher; thickset; one green eye, one black; and an off-blonde perm. Bruises swelled across her left cheek like a tropical storm. Because, ‘It’s a fair cop, I’ll come quietly’ just wasn’t in Laura or Ricky’s vocabulary. They were more of a, ‘You’ll never take me alive, copper!’ kind of family.
Tufty checked his notes. ‘Inspector Fettes has got us the Operational Support Unit, a dog unit, and four bodies from Elgin to help dunt in the Welshes’ door. Watch yourselves, though: one of the Elgin lot’s a Chief Inspector doing his “in touch with the common folk” thing.’
Isla groaned. ‘Not again.’
Calamity covered her eyes with her hands. ‘Why us?’
‘You know fine well, why.’ Logan risked another sip of tea. Nope: still horrible. ‘Keep going, Tufty.’
‘ETD – that’s Estimated Time of Dunt – will be twenty-three hundred hours. Though with assorted dicking about, probably closer to midnight. I’ve called Fraserburgh and asked them to reserve two of their finest en suite rooms for Mr and Mrs Welsh. Something with a view and a roll-top bath.’
‘Hmm…’ Calamity dug into her fleece and came out with a tartan wallet. ‘Anyone want a fiver on how many people end up in hospital?’
Isla sucked her teeth. ‘Just our lot, or all in?’
‘Ours. I’ll kick off with two.’
A five-pound note was produced. ‘Three. Tufty?’
‘Fiver on …’ he squinted one eye, ‘four. Sarge?’
‘Can we get on with the briefing,
