a long time for forensic evidence to hang around a crime scene, especially in the pissing rain. But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to look for it. Fingertip search: half-mile radius from where the body was found.’
A groan went up from the inspector’s audience. It was a lot of ground to cover and there was no chance of them finding anything. Not after three months. And it was still chucking it down outside. This was going to be a long, wet, shitty job.
‘I know it’s a pain in the arse,’ said DI Insch, digging in his pocket for a jelly baby. He examined it, blew the fluff off, and popped it in his mouth. ‘But I don’t care. This is a three-year-old boy we’re talking about. We will catch the bastard that did it. No fuck-ups. Understand?’
He paused, challenging the room to say anything to the contrary.
‘Good. And while we’re on the subject of fucking up: someone tipped off the Press and Journal last night that we’d found David Reid’s body.’ He held up a copy of that morning’s paper. The headline screamed: ‘MURDERED TODDLER FOUND!’. The front page was split between a photograph of David Reid’s smiling face and one of the SOC tent, lit up from within by the police photographer’s flash. The tent’s occupants were silhouetted against the plastic walls.
‘They called the mother for a quote—’ his voice rose and his expression darkened ‘—before we could tell the poor cow her son was dead!’
Insch slammed the paper down on top of the desk. Angry murmurs came from the crowd.
‘You can all expect a visit from Professional Standards over the next couple of days. But believe me,’ said DI Insch, slowly and deliberately, ‘their witch-hunt is going to look like a teddy bears’ picnic compared to mine. When I find out who did this I will screw them to the ceiling by their testicles!’
He took a moment to scowl at everyone.
‘Right, today’s assignments.’ The inspector perched a buttock on the edge of the desk and read out the names: who was going door-to-door, who was searching the riverbank, who was staying behind to answer the phones. The only name he didn’t read out was that of Detective Sergeant Logan McRae.
‘And before you go,’ said Insch, raising his arms as if he was about to bless his congregation, ‘I would like to remind you that tickets for this year’s pantomime are now on sale at the front desk. Make sure you buy one!’
The troops shuffled out, those on telephone-answering duty lording it over the poor sods who’d spend the rest of the day trudging through the rain. Logan hovered at the back of the queue, hoping to recognize someone. A year off on the sick and there wasn’t a single face he could put a name to.
The inspector spotted him loitering and called him over.
‘What happened last night?’ he asked as the last PC departed, leaving them alone in the briefing room.
Logan pulled out his notebook and began to read: ‘The body was discovered at ten-fifteen p.m., by one Duncan Nicholson—’
‘Not what I meant.’ DI Insch settled on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. With his large build, bald head and new suit, he looked like a well-dressed Buddha. Only not so friendly. ‘WPC Watson dropped you off at Accident and Emergency back of two this morning. Less than twenty-four hours on the job and you’ve already spent a night in hospital. We’ve got David Reid’s grandfather in a holding cell on an assault charge. And then, to cap it all off, you limp into my briefing. Late.’
Logan shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, sir, Mr Reid was agitated. It wasn’t really his fault, if the Journal hadn’t called he—’
DI Insch cut him off. ‘You’re supposed to be working for DI McPherson.’
‘Err. . . Yes.’
Insch nodded sagely and dragged another jelly baby out of his pocket, popping it in his mouth, fluff and all, chewing around the words. ‘Not any more. While McPherson’s getting his head stitched back together, you’re mine.’
Logan tried not to let his disappointment show. McPherson had been his boss for two years, before Angus Robertson had made a pincushion out of Logan’s innards with a six-inch hunting knife. Logan liked McPherson. Everyone he knew worked for McPherson.
All he knew about DI Insch was that he didn’t suffer idiots gladly. And the inspector thought everyone was an idiot.
Insch settled back on his haunches and looked Logan up and down. ‘Are you going to drop down dead on me, Sergeant?’
‘Not if I can help it, sir.’
Insch nodded, his large face closed and distant. An uncomfortable silence grew between them. It was one of DI Insch’s trademarks. Leave a large enough gap in an interrogation and sooner or later the suspect was going to say something, anything, to fill it. It was amazing the things people let fall out of their mouths. Things they never meant to say. Things they really, really didn’t want DI Insch to know.
This time Logan kept his mouth shut.
Eventually the inspector nodded. ‘I’ve read your file. McPherson thinks you’re not an arsehole, so I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. But if you end up in A&E like that again, you’re out. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Right. Your acclimatization period is hereby cancelled. I can’t be arsed with all that pussyfooting-around bollocks. You’re either up to the job, or you’re not. Post mortem’s in fifteen minutes. Be there.’
He levered himself off the desk and patted his pockets, looking for more jelly babies.
‘I’ve got a command meeting from eight fifteen till eleven-thirty, so you’ll have to give me the details when I get back.’
Logan looked at the door and then back again.
‘Something on your mind, Sergeant?’
Logan lied and said no.
‘Good. Given your little trip to A&E last night, I’m making WPC Watson your guardian angel. She’ll be coming back in at ten. Do not let me catch you without her. This is not negotiable.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Great, he was getting a babysitter.
‘Now get going.’
Logan was almost out the door before Insch added: ‘And try not to piss Watson off. They don’t call her “Ball Breaker” for nothing.’
Grampian Police HQ was big enough to boast its own morgue, situated in the basement, just far enough from the staff canteen not to put people off their soup. It was a large, white, spotless room, with chiller cabinets for bodies along one wall, the floor tiles squeaky under Logan’s shoes as he pushed through the double doors. An antiseptic reek filled the cold room, almost masking the odour of death. It was a strange mix of smells. A fragrance Logan had grown to associate with the woman standing on her own by a dissecting table.
Dr Isobel MacAlister was dressed in her cutting gear: pastel-green surgeon’s robes and a red rubber apron over the top, her short hair hidden beneath a surgical cap. She wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up, in case it contaminated the body, and as she
