back in one of the creaky chairs, phone to his ear, case file open on the scarred desktop in front of him. Frowning at the pathologist’s report on what was left of whoever it was they’d buried in DI Duncan Bell’s grave. ‘According to this, cause of death was indeterminable, but likely to be due to the extensive shotgun wound to the cranium.’
On the other end of the phone, Rennie gave a little sarcastic laugh. ‘“Likely”? Thought it took half of Ding-Dong’s head off!’
‘Turns out DI Bell had stashed about fifteen litres of petrol about the caravan, set fire to the place, then tried to gargle his dad’s shotgun.’ Logan turned the page. A crime-scene photo popped and crackled with reds and blacks and pinks. Like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre-themed barbecue. ‘Urgh… What was left of the remains isn’t pretty.’ He turned the page, hiding the image. ‘Do me a favour: run a PNC check on a Fred Marshall, IC-One male, thug for hire.’
‘Hold on, have to excavate my keyboard.’ The sound of rustling paperwork. ‘Fred Marshall. Fred Marshall… Why does that sound familiar?’
‘Prime suspect in the Aiden MacAuley case.’
‘Ah, that Fred Marshall. Here we go. Clickity, clickity … Fred Marshall.’ A low whistle came down the earpiece. ‘Well he does seem like every girl’s dream date. Five counts of threats and extortion, four aggravated assaults, three possessions with intent, two thefts from a lockfast place, one arson, and a partridge in a pear tree.’
‘And where’s Prince Charming now?’
The clatter of computer keys went on and on and on and on…
‘Rennie? You still there?’
‘Going digging.’
‘You better not be searching for porn on the office computers. This isn’t the Houses of Parliament.’
‘Moi? Never. Well, maybe that once… Right – I’ve got nothing for Fred Albert Marshall for … call it twenty-six months.’
Sounded unlikely.
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Not so much as a parking ticket. Hang on, I’ll check Twitter and Facebook…’ More clattering. ‘Nothing. Nada. His last status update was going from “in a relationship” to “it’s complicated” and his last post … here we go: a picture of a monkey peeing into its own mouth with the caption “Police Scotland’s finest”. Two years and two months ago.’
Logan nodded. Frowned at the wall for a bit. Two and a bit years. So Fred Marshall was definitely a contender for ‘Most Likely To Have Been Buried In A Police Officer’s Grave’.
‘Guv?’
‘Yeah, I need you to get me everything you can about Fred Marshall: dental records, hospital X-rays, everything.’
‘And do you want that before or after the other four million things you’ve asked me to do?’
‘Thanks, Simon.’ He hung up, and had almost got the phone back in his pocket when it dinged at him.
HORRIBLE STEEL:
Stop being such a dick. They’re your kids too – wouldn’t kill you to babysit the little monsters now and then!
He thumbed out a reply.
I’m not being a dick, I’m busy. I have plans. And I babysat them two nights ago, you ungrateful lump.
Logan closed the case file.
Ding:
OK: you can bring Ginger McHotpants with you as long as you don’t leave dirty heterosexual stains on the couch again.
Reply:
That was hummus and you know it. And I’m busy. Find someone else.
And with any luck, that would be that.
Logan called up the inter-department contact list on his steam-powered computer. ‘Right: exhumation.’
‘OK. Thanks. Bye.’ Logan hung up and pocketed his phone. Swaggered over to the whiteboard and put a big red tick next to the words ‘EXHUMATION REQUEST’.
The other whiteboard was covered in maps; post-mortem photos; photos of a burned-out caravan in a clearing somewhere; and photos of a large, hairy, middle-aged man. DI Duncan Bell. Heavy, rounded shoulders, a thick pelt of hair on his head, more hair escaping from the neck of his shirt. Skin like boiled tripe.
Logan dumped the pen back in the tray beneath the whiteboard and grabbed his fleece. Pushed through into the corridor.
A couple of support staff were gossiping outside the stationery cupboard. Both of them shrank back as he passed, their voices dropped to hushed whispers.
He nodded and kept going.
So what if they were all terrified of him. Wasn’t his fault, was it? Just because he worked for Professional Standards now, that didn’t make him a monster. Not often anyway.
The stairwell echoed with the sound of laughter, coming from one of the landings above.
Logan headed downward, digging out his car keys with one hand and… Stopped.
DI Fraser came marching up the stairs – late twenties, not that tall, in a black denim shirt-dress. Black leather jacket. Long red hair with a pair of sunglasses perched on the top. Massive handbag. She was trailing a pair of plainclothes officers. One, a small wrinkly woman in a wrinkly suit. Hair like someone had run over Albert Einstein with a ride-on lawn mower. The other, a thin short-arse in the full Police Scotland ninja-black uniform, with a ginger buzz-cut and a pointy nose. Detective Sergeant Steel and Police Constable Quirrel. North East Division’s answer to Blackadder and Baldrick.
All three froze as soon as they saw Logan, making a strange mini-me tableau there on the stairs.
He gave them a smile. ‘Ah, Kim, I was on my way to see you.’
DI Fraser narrowed her eyes. ‘Were you now?’
He nodded at her miniature friends. ‘Roberta, Tufty.’
Tufty beamed back. ‘Hi, Sarge. I mean, Inspector. Sorry, force of habit.’
Steel made a cross with her fingers, as if she was trying to ward off vampires, and hissed at him like an angry cat.
‘OK…’ He turned back to Fraser instead. ‘You’re running the Ellie Morton case. Can we have a word?’
‘I’m a bit busy trying to track down a missing three-year-old.’
Logan stayed where he was. Saying nothing.
She rolled her eyes and slumped. ‘Urgh… Go on then.’
‘Somewhere a bit more private?’
Fraser
