Doig looked up from his troops. ‘And how is Simon getting on?’
‘Rennie?’ Logan pulled his chin in. ‘Why?’
‘I know he’s only on temporary loan from CID, but if he’s fitting in, perhaps we should make it permanent?’
‘Yeah… Anyway: about DS Chalmers—’
‘I do love Christmas, don’t you?’ Doig went back to smiling at his packets of fruit.
‘Allan, can we focus on my problems for a minute?’
‘People think it’s a bit odd, a grown man obsessed by Christmas, but when you’re adopted you know how important human kindness is. Everyone needs a bit of hope.’
Logan sat up. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t recommend disciplinary action?’
‘Oh God, no. If DS Chalmers really is sitting on intel that could save Ellie Morton she needs a short sharp shock, not mollycoddling.’ Next up: a packet of ground almonds. ‘What’s happening with DI Bell?’
‘Early days, Guv. Early days.’
‘Hmm…’ Doig blinked what had to be the longest eyelashes known to man. ‘I know it’s petty of me, Logan, but it’d be nice if Professional Standards discovered something useful before DCI Hardie and his troops.’
‘Whatever Chalmers knows, it probably won’t save Ellie Morton. A three-year-old girl, missing for four days with no ransom note? Chances are she’s already dead.’
‘Well, you might as well get it over with, then.’
Logan groaned, pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Selected ‘DS LORNA CHALMERS’ and listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And—
‘This is Lorna Chalmers’ voicemail. Leave a message.’
He hung up. ‘No answer. Shock horror. She’s been avoiding me for days.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk. Chief Superintendent Napier used to say that getting hold of you was like trying to catch oiled eels in a barrel of slippery socks.’ A bag of demerara sugar took up position at the rear of the column.
Logan pulled over Doig’s desk phone, knocking over a couple of soldiers – much to their commander’s distress – and dialled Chalmers’ number. Listened to it ring again. ‘Come on… Pick up the damn—’
‘Who’s this?’
‘DS Chalmers, it’s Inspector McRae.’
The response was muttered, but still clearly audible. ‘Oh for God’s sake…’ There was a pause, filled with what sounded like engine noises. ‘What do you want? I’m busy.’
‘They want to suspend you, Lorna, but I’ve talked them into giving you one last chance.’
Doig raised an eyebrow at that.
OK, so it was maybe a bit of artistic licence. Still worth a go, though. ‘Go into the office right now and tell DI Fraser what you know, or suspect, or whatever it is you’re chasing about Ellie Morton.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Work with me; I’m trying to help you here!’
The contempt virtually dripped from the earpiece. ‘Remind me to send you a thank you card and a medal.’ Another pause. ‘Now, if you’re finished being beneficent and condescending, I’ve got work to do.’
God’s sake, she was impossible.
‘Lorna, don’t be…’ Logan stared at the phone. ‘She’s hung up.’
Superintendent Doig shrugged. ‘Some people just don’t want to be helped.’
Lorna turned off the main road, into the little industrial estate, ignoring the five miles an hour speed limit as she roared past the line of warehouses. Slamming on her brakes so the Fiat slithered to a halt outside one of the Portakabins at the far end of the car park.
A big sign decorated the front wall: ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD. ~ FAST, EFFICIENT, & DISCREET’ with a ram’s head above it for a logo.
She climbed out into the rain and nothing hurt any more, adrenaline singing through her veins. She slammed the car door, pulled the hockey stick from the back seat and strode over there. Rolling her shoulders. Loosening up. Getting ready.
She swung the stick, smashing its head into the glass panel that made up the top half of the Portakabin’s door, shattering it, sending the ‘COME ON IN, WE’RE OPEN!’ sign flying.
Yes. This was more like it.
Lorna backed away, cricking her neck from side to side, feet planted shoulder-width apart, stick at the ready. Took a deep breath ‘COME ON THEN! LET’S SEE HOW BRAVE YOU ARE NOW!’
The door opened.
Logan tucked the packet of Penguin biscuits under his arm, picked up the two mugs of tea, and wandered out into the PSD office. They’d taken over half of the floor, stuck a couple of offices down one side, a reception area, put in a cupboard-sized kitchen, and left the rest open plan. Divided up by the ubiquitous Police Scotland cubicles.
A poster adorned one wall – a kitten climbing out of an old boot, beneath the slogan, ‘GO GET ’EM, TIGER!’
Someone definitely go-getting-’em was Shona. Logan nodded at her as he passed, keeping his mouth shut. Because if you said anything to her she’d drag you into her ongoing battle with the office printer. She was belting it with a packet of Post-it notes, teeth gritted, her brown fringe flopping with every blow – exposing the toast-rack wrinkles that crossed her forehead.
She gave it another thwack. ‘Print both sides, you useless pile of junk!’
Brandon was on the phone, one foot up on his return unit, rocking his chair from side to side. ‘…only, and here’s the problem, I don’t think that was a wise thing to say to a member of the public, do you, Constable?’ He looked over at Logan’s mugs and raised two massive hairy eyebrows. Hopeful.
Logan kept on going.
The eyebrows fell again. ‘Because, Constable, when you tell someone to “bleep” off “bleeping” filming you on their “bleep-bleeping” mobile phone and stuff it up their “bleeping bleephole”, they tend to make formal complaints!’
Rennie’s cubicle lurked in the corner, mostly hidden by a wall of file boxes, archive crates, stacks of paperwork, and a faint miasma of beef-and-tomato. Its occupant sat hunched over, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he traced a finger through a document and typed with his other hand.
Logan stuck one of the mugs on Rennie’s desk. ‘Milk, two sugars.’
A beaming smile. ‘Ooh, ta.’ Slurp. ‘And does one spy biscuits?’
