eleven fifteen, so I’m actually forty-five minutes early.’
Bevan raised her eyebrows. ‘Did I? Oh …’ Another smile, then she set her grey bob wobbling with a shake of her head. ‘Right, well, let’s say no more about it, then.’ She sat back, watching him. ‘I know we’ve not worked together before, Logan, but I’m sure we’ll get along famously. Superintendent Doig spoke very highly of you in his handover notes.’
‘That was nice of him.’
‘Lovely man.’ She pursed her lips and did a bit more Logan watching. ‘As you can see, this is a very busy time for us. I’ve had to draft in support from N Division, so I’m afraid your desk is currently unavailable. Sorry.’
It wasn’t easy not to sigh at that.
Her smile reappeared. ‘But not to worry! I have something nice and straightforward to ease you back into the swing of things.’ Bevan reached for her Pending tray and pulled out a file. ‘I believe Sergeant Rennie used to be your assistant before you were … injured?’
‘Only if I didn’t move fast enough to—’
‘A fine officer. Credit to the team. I can’t spare Rennie from his ongoing cases at the moment, so you’ll be flying solo on this one.’ She slid the file across the table towards him. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine. After all, you didn’t win a Queen’s Medal for being the station cat, did you?’
Nope, he got it for being an idiot.
Logan accepted the folder with a nod. ‘Thank you, … Boss?’
‘Julie. Please.’
Oh, great: she was one of those.
‘Right.’
‘One more thing.’ Bevan dipped into her Pending tray again, only this time it produced a biro and a birthday card with a teddy bear on it. ‘It’s Shona’s birthday tomorrow, so if you can write something nice in there and don’t forget to bring a plate.’
Logan opened the card. The inside was liberally scrawled with various ball-point wishes and indecipherable signatures. ‘A plate?’
‘I’m making my famous lemon drizzle cake; Karl’s doing his Thai fishcakes, which are super yummy; Rennie’s bringing doughnuts; I think Marlon’s doing devilled eggs. What’s your speciality?’
‘Erm …’ Phoning for takeaway probably didn’t count. ‘I burn a lot of sausages on the barbecue?’
‘Excellent. Then you can bring a plate of those.’
‘OK …’ The pen had ‘BOFFA MISKELL’ printed on it, which sounded like some obscene sexual practice. He clicked out the end, wrote ‘ONE DAY, YOU’LL BEAT THAT PRINTER INTO SUBMISSION!’ and signed it.
‘Thanks.’ Bevan took the card and pen back and consigned them to ‘Pending’ again. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got review boards to organise.’ She pulled her keyboard over and poked at it, frowning at the screen.
‘Right.’ Logan stood. Picked up the file. ‘I’ll go and …’ He pointed over his shoulder, but she didn’t look up. ‘OK.’
You are dismissed.
Bloody stairs. Again.
Logan limped down them, phone pressed to his ear, trying not to be too overwhelmed with the view out the stairwell windows. It would take a hardy soul not to be moved by the arse-end of Bucksburn station and the car park hiding behind it. A faint heat haze lifting off the vehicles as they slowly roasted in the sun.
Ringing, and ringing, and finally someone picked up: ‘Operation Overcharge?’
Overcharge? Whoever was running the random word generator for naming investigations needed a kick up the bumhole.
‘Hi, I need to speak to DI King.’
There was a pause, then, ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’ The voice was sort of familiar: a Yorkshire burr, starting to warp under the strain of talking to Aberdonians all day.
‘Logan McRae.’
‘Oh.’ Another pause. Then a touch of panic joined the accent blender. ‘Erm … Inspector, didn’t know y’ were back. Feeling better?’
‘Detective Constable Way?’ Logan kept lumbering downwards.
‘We was all worried about you, you know, after the stabbing.’
‘Where is he, Milky?’ Logan pushed through the doors at the bottom of the stairs, into a bland corridor lined with offices and yet more sodding motivational posters.
‘Where’s who?’
‘DI King!’
‘Oh, right. Yes. Erm … You know, it’s a funny thing, but he’s just this minute run out door on an urgent job.’
What a shock. ‘And when will he be back?’
Logan stepped outside. The car park smothered in the heat of a far too sunny day – its surface sticky beneath his boots, the air thick with the scent of hot tarmac and frying dust. He screwed his eyes half shut as the sun drove red-hot nails into them. God, it was more like Death Valley out here than Bucksburn. ‘Milky?
‘Erm …’
Typical: soon as Professional Standards started asking questions, everyone developed amnesia.
‘OK, where’s DI King going, then?’
‘Erm …’
‘And bear in mind I can just call Control and check. Then come pay you a visit.’
‘Oh that DI King! Yes, course, I’ve yon address right here. You got a pen?’
Gorse and broom lined the road, their yellow flowers boiling like flames above the reaching branches. Beyond the conflagration lay swathes of green, carved into an irregular patchwork by drystane dykes. The hills on either side thick with Scots pine, beech, and fir.
All of it slipping past the windows of Logan’s Audi.
A cheery voice brayed out of the radio, trampling all over the tail-end of a song. ‘How does that set you up for a sunny Tuesday? Great. We’ve got Saucy Suzy coming up at twelve, but before that here’s a quick traffic update for you: the B999 Pitmedden to Tarves road is closed following a fire at the Kipperie Burn Garden Centre. So look out for diversions.’
A burst of drums and the howl of guitars started up in the background.
‘Now, here’s Savage Season with their new one, “The Wrecker”. Take it away, boys!’
The road twisted around to the right, revealing a cluster of manky outbuildings in the process of being converted, and a manky farmhouse in the process of being managed as a crime scene.
