they pat him on the head and get someone to drive him home. Only he keeps going on about how the aliens took him to their underground lab and did experiments on him. Anal probes and all that.’
Danby sniffed, one hand wrapped around the grab handle above the passenger door, staring out of the window. ‘So finally his sister calls the doctor and he examines the old man, doesn’t he? You know what?’
Knox cleared his throat. ‘You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Spoiling things for us.’
‘Just making conversation.’
‘Well don’t. It’s not funny.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The DSI went back to staring at the drab, grey scenery. On a good day, Aberdeen sparkled … but this wasn’t a good day. The granite buildings sulked beneath the heavy clouds, their grey walls stained dark by the never-ending drizzle. Headlights shimmered back from the wet road, taillights glowering red through a haze of spray.
DI Steel flicked on the radio, breaking the silence. Annie Lennox – Aberdeen’s favourite local-girl-made-good – singing about walking on broken glass. The song ended, there was some banal chat from a DJ who obviously thought he was a lot funnier than he actually was, another record, and then the news.
‘London grinds to a halt as snowstorms grip England. The A96 is closed between Inverurie and Huntly following a five-car pile-up. McLennan Homes announce jobs boost for the beleaguered North East building industry. And a legal challenge is launched today against a proposed expansion to Donald Trump’s golf resort. Hi, I’m Karen MacDonald. Today the Balmedie Dunes Preservation Society confirmed it would be issuing a legal challenge…’
PC Guthrie snorted. ‘How come every time there’s half a millimetre of snow, England goes tits up? What a bunch of wanky…’ He drifted to a halt, DSI Danby had swivelled round in the passenger seat to stare into the back of the patrol car.
‘Er…’ The constable’s cheeks went pink. ‘I mean … it’s…’ He looked at Logan. ‘We…’
Logan shook his head. ‘No chance: you’re on your own, Sunshine.’
Idiot.
‘Come on then, Constable,’ Danby’s voice rumbled through the confined space, ‘you have something to say: let’s hear it.’
‘I just … it … erm…’ Cough. ‘With the snow, and it’s probably, you know, unexpected, and the councils don’t grit the roads…’ He wriggled in his seat. ‘Got nothing against the English. Got lots of mates who’re English…’
Danby looked at him. ‘How long you been in the force?’
Guthrie licked his lips. ‘Erm… Seven years?’
‘Take a tip, Constable, if you ever want to make sergeant, practise your lying. Cos right now you’re crap. You know what I’m saying?’
Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a lot busier at five to nine on a Thursday morning than it had any right to be. By now the CID dayshift should have been out there, keeping the city safe from the people who lived in it; instead they were hanging around the station, making the place look untidy. Logan picked his way carefully down the corridor, two coffees and a pair of tinfoil parcels balanced on a manila folder like a wobbly tray.
DI Steel’s office was the last one before the noisy main CID room. Logan stopped outside her door and carefully rearranged his hands so he could knock without spilling scalding liquid all over himself.
Only he didn’t get that far.
Someone coughed behind him, and Logan turned to find Detective Inspector Beattie standing there with his arms folded. ‘Weren’t you supposed to come see me first thing this morning, Sergeant?’
Sodding hell. DI Beattie: sixteen stone of useless with a beard.
‘Had to go pick up Richard Knox.’
Beattie looked down at the carpet for a moment. ‘We were supposed to go over those counterfeit goods, remember? Handbags, MP3 players, cameras, perfume… What are we doing about them?’
‘Have you spoken to Trading Standards yet?’
‘No I thought you—’
‘I told you to go speak to them. Jesus, George, you’re supposed to be a DI now, remember? I can’t do everything for—’
Inspector Steel’s office door banged open, and she lurched to a halt on the threshold, mouth hanging open as if she was about to shout something. She took one look at Beattie, then turned to Logan, ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Had to—’
‘Get your arse in here.’ She hauled up her trousers, stood back, waited till Logan was inside, then slammed the door in Beattie’s face.
Steel’s new office didn’t look anything like the old one: the knobbly ceiling tiles were still white, not coated in a sticky beige film of cigarette tar; the walls didn’t have those greasy Blu-tack acne spots; and the carpet was still a recognizable colour. Logan gave it six weeks, tops.
Steel slumped back behind her desk and Logan handed her a mug and a tinfoil parcel. She unwrapped the bacon buttie and got stuck in, chewing and talking at the same time: ‘What we got?’
He pointed at the manila folder, now with an Olympic logo of coffee rings on it. ‘Not a hell of a lot. Far as we can tell, Knox hasn’t been to Aberdeen since he was eleven.’ Logan peeled the tinfoil off his fried egg buttie and bit down. Yolk splurged out into his palm. ‘Sod…’ He transferred the dripping roll to his other hand and licked at the sticky yellow puddle. ‘Got them to pull all sexual assaults on OAPs for the three years before he left: two women in their late seventies. No men.’
Steel nodded. ‘Good. Means we’ll no’ have a bunch of angry relatives sniffing about causing trouble.’ Another bite, then a scoof of tea. ‘Next: Erica Piotrowski?’
Logan went rooting through the folder and pulled out a stack of forms covered in scuffed yellow Post-it notes. ‘Trial date’s been set for three weeks next Tuesday. She’s still sticking to her story, but the PF thinks she’ll cop to aggravated assault if we give her the option.’
‘Sod that. She went after her next-door-neighbour with a carving knife, I’m no’ settling for anything less than attempted murder.’ Steel pursed her lips and swivelled back and forth in her office chair for a minute. ‘Anything else?’
Logan slapped the papers out on her desk, one at a time. ‘Forensics found trace fibres when they did the rape kit on Laura McEwan, and they think they’ve got enough DNA for a match if we can get them a suspect. Fingerprints have come back on the Oldmeldrum Post Office job. Looks like our friend Mr Maclean is up to his old tricks again.’
‘Get him picked up.’ The inspector crammed the last two inches of bread and bacon into her mouth then lobbed its tinfoil wrapper into the bin. Mumbling, ‘She shoots, she scores!’
‘No
