whippets.’ A shrug of simian shoulders. ‘Other than that? Nah, King was a good boss.’
Heather squinted against the sunlight and scooted her chair over a bit, till Logan’s shadow fell across her face. Then leaned back in her chair. ‘Ooh, now you’re asking.’ She brushed the grey fringe from her eyes. ‘Not so I’ve noticed. I mean, you wouldn’t, would you? Because he isn’t.’ A pause stretched for a couple of breaths. ‘That I know of, anyway.’
Nothing like covering your own arse.
Logan tilted his head to one side, exposing Heather to the light again. ‘OK: what about these arson attacks, has he said anything about them?’
She shoogled her chair over a bit more. ‘Only that he really hopes it isn’t domestic terrorism, or Spevoo are going to be all over us like a wet cocker spaniel.’
OK, no idea. ‘Spevoo?’
‘Scottish Preventing Extremism Violence Unit. Spevoo. You know what these specialist task forces are like – they’ve seen one too many episodes of NCIS and think they’re all Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs.’ Heather scrunched her face up. ‘When most of them barely qualify as Timothy McGee. And I mean Season One, Timothy McGee, not Season Fourteen.’
He had to ask, didn’t he?
Detective Constable Sharon ‘Milky’ Way chewed on the inside of her cheek for a bit. ‘What, you mean like, “is he a racist?”’
‘Has he ever done, or said, something that’s made you feel uncomfortable?’
‘This is DI King we’re talking ’bout, in’t it?’ She frowned at Logan. ‘Why are you asking?’
Logan shrugged, the sunlight warm against his back. ‘You know what things are like these days. We just want to make sure everyone’s supported at work and no one’s feeling—’
‘“Uncomfortable”. Yes, you said.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘King’s OK, but I’ll tell you who does make us feel uncomfortable: Detective Sergeant Brogan. Him with Kevin Keegan perm and permanent sniff. Always ogles me boobs when he thinks I’m not looking, every – single – time.’
‘Does he now?’ Logan got out his notebook and wrote, ‘TALK TO DS BROGAN ABOUT SEXUAL HARASSMENT IN THE WORKPLACE!’ then underlined it three times. ‘I’ll have to have a word with him about that.’
‘And make sure you tell him twas me tipped you off. Disgusting sniffy little pervert that he is.’
DS Robertson made a big show of thinking about it. Serious frown. Fingertips stroking his bony chin. A whippet in a charity-shop suit, with horrible sideburns, and droopy eyes.
Logan sighed. ‘Come on, Henry: you worked with him on the Martin Shanks investigation, didn’t you?’
Robertson shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me. And before you say anything, the internal inquiry cleared us both, OK?’
‘Does DI King treat his English team members differently or not? It’s a simple enough question.’
‘Oh yes, it’s a simple enough question, it’s the answer that’s complicated. See, there’s no way I want to land someone in it with the Rubber Heelers.’ He raised a stick-insect hand. ‘No offence. And there’s no way I’m lying to the Rubber Heelers either.’ The hand went up again. ‘No offence. But you people make me nervous, you know?’
‘Just be honest and you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ It was an effort keeping the reassuring smile in place, but Logan did his best.
‘Hmmm … Well, he doesn’t like Soapy very much, but neither does anyone else. He’s even more of a tosser than your lot.’ Up went the hand.
‘Yeah, I know: no offence.’
PC Oliver ‘Soapy’ Halstead lounged in his seat, looking at Logan with one eyebrow raised, as if that was the stupidest question he’d ever been asked. Oh the arrogance of youth. Only twenty-four and he was clearly under the impression that he already knew everything about everything, with his neat little beard, architect’s glasses, and Young Conservative haircut. Even his loosened tie looked arrogant. Probably didn’t help that his Home Counties accent made him sound as if he was sneering at everything: ‘Oh no, I haven’t seen anything like that, Inspector. When we’re out arresting the great unwashed, we are a unit. A team. A tightly knit band of brothers, if you will.’
Logan tried not to sigh, he really did. ‘Because I wouldn’t want you to think you couldn’t talk to me, or one of my colleagues, if someone was making you feel uncomfortable.’
‘Oh, dear me, no.’ He had a little preen. ‘I think you’ll find that I’m quite capable of fighting my own battles, thank you very much.’
Logan stared back at him.
Silence.
Halstead shifted in his seat. Picked at the tabletop. Cleared his throat.
More silence.
‘All right, I admit that it can be a bit … challenging from time to time.’ He straightened the cuffs on his pinstriped shirt. ‘I see how members of the public look at me sometimes. There I am, arresting some drug-addled junkie who’s been sick all over himself, and they’re looking down their nose at me, because I’m English and I’ve had a decent education? That hardly seems fair, does it?’
The arrogant expression had slipped, replaced by one that looked a bit … sad. And disappointed. And a little hurt. Maybe ‘Soapy’ wasn’t quite the dick that everyone thought?
‘You do know that you can report hate crimes against you, Oliver? We won’t put up with that stuff.’
He waved it away. ‘Racism is a by-product of ignorance, Inspector. Are we to punish people for being stupid, now? If we did that, three quarters of the country would be behind bars.’
‘And has DI King ever treated you differently to your non-English colleagues?’
A long sigh. Then: ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’ Halstead stared down at the tabletop. ‘I’m aware that he doesn’t like me very much, but at least he doesn’t give me all the terrible menial jobs.’ A small bitter laugh broke free. ‘I only ever wanted to be a police officer. Father wanted me to read Classics at Cambridge, like he did. Rather broke his heart when I told him I was running off to Scotland to “join the Rozzers” instead.’
Logan reached across the table, put a hand on Halstead’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘Listen to me, Oliver: if anyone gives you crap for being English, you let me know. I’ll make their next prostate exam feel like a teddy bear’s tea party.’
Why could Police Scotland never get any decent computers in? Why did they all have to be steam-powered monstrosities the colour of skin grafts? Well maybe not all of them, but the one in the tiny office he’d commandeered certainly was.
Tiny grubby office.
God knew who’d had it last, but they’d left the bin overflowing with sandwich wrappers, crisp packets, and scrunched-up copies of the Daily Mail.
