reply.
‘Typical.’ Logan checked his watch: 12:10. Oops… Should’ve been back at Bucksburn for that meeting with Chalmers ten minutes ago. Assuming she’d bothered to turn up this time. He pulled out his phone and called Rennie. ‘Have I got any visitors?’
A strange, wet, slurping noise came down the line, followed by a muffled, ‘Have you noticed that no one visiting ever brings us biscuits?’
‘Are you eating something?’
Another slurp. ‘… No?’
‘Visitors, Simon. Specifically, DS Lorna Chalmers: we’ve got a twelve o’clock scheduled.’
‘But it’s ten past.’
‘I know. That’s why I’m—’
‘Ah, I get it. You’re making her stew in her own guilty gravy for a bit. Ratchet up the tension.’
‘No. I got caught up with these—’
‘Hold on.’ One more slurp, then a scrunching sound – the background noises changing as Rennie wandered off somewhere. ‘Nope: no sign of her in reception. Well, not unless she’s hiding under the coffee table.’
‘Damn it.’ Of course she wasn’t there. When did she ever turn up? ‘What about Fred Marshall?’
‘His doctor and dentist won’t give me anything without warrants, so I asked the Warrant Fairy for some and do you know what she said?’
Logan groaned.
‘That’s right, she said, “Naughty DS Rennie! You know you can’t have a warrant to seize people’s medical records without probable cause. Bad DS Rennie! Back in your box!”’
‘Then get me a last known address. And stop eating whatever it is you’re eating: it sounds obscene.’
‘Nothing obscene about Pot Noodles.’ Rennie gave his noodles an extra-loud slurp. ‘You know, when you asked me to come be a plainclothes gruntmonkey for you at Professional Standards I thought that was a playful euphemism for “valued colleague and important member of the team”.’
‘Diddums. Now be a good gruntmonkey and text me that address.’
Laughter and voices filled the station canteen as a collection of about two dozen uniforms, plainclothes, and support staff gorged on lunch. They filled all the tables but one. The one Logan sat at, all on his own, Billy Nae Mates in the middle of his own private bubble.
Good job he had a dirty-big plate of macaroni cheese and chips to console him.
He helped himself to a forkful of soft cheesy goodness as the phone in his other hand rang and rang and rang and—
‘This is Lorna Chalmers’ voicemail. Leave a message.’ Curt and to the point.
‘DS Chalmers, it’s Inspector McRae. Again. We had an appointment this afternoon. Please call me back.’ He hung up. ‘Not that you will, because you haven’t the last three bloody times.’
Logan balanced another gobbet of macaroni, on the end of a crisp golden chip. Crunching as he scowled at his phone. ‘Fine, there’s more than one way to skin a snake.’ He picked another name from his contacts and set it ringing.
‘Ahoy-hoy?’ What sounded like rain hissed in the background.
‘Tufty? It’s Logan. I need a favour.’
There was a small pause, then, ‘Aunty Jane, how you doing?’
More macaroni, chewing around the words, ‘Have you fallen on your head again?’
‘No, no. I’m at work, though, so I can’t talk for long.’
‘Steel’s there, isn’t she?’
‘That’s right, the party’s tonight, isn’t it? Don’t know if I can make it though, depends on the case.’
‘Fine.’ Logan shook another dash of vinegar into the puddle of cheese sauce. ‘DS Lorna Chalmers didn’t show for her appointment. You’re on the same team: where is she?’
‘Ah… Don’t really know. I could find out though, if you like?’
Then Steel’s voice blared out in the middle distance. ‘Come on, Tufty, you gimp-flavoured spudhammer, make with the chicken curry pies! I’m starving here.’
‘Text me.’
‘Will do. OK, got to go. It’s—’
‘Aren’t you going to tell your aunty you love her, before you hang up, Tufty? How very rude.’
A groan crawled out of the earpiece. ‘OK, Aunty Jane. Love you. Bye.’
‘Should think so too.’
He ended the call and dug back into his macaroni again. Cheesy vinegary crunchy potatoey goodness.
Over by the canteen counter, the lone figure of DI Kim Fraser peeled away from the till and wandered into the middle of the room. Clearly looking for a seat. But everything was taken, except for Logan’s table. Even then she kept looking.
Logan slid one of the chairs out with his foot. ‘It’s OK, I don’t bite.’
She stood there, staring at him for a beat, then settled into the proffered seat. The heady smell of spices wafted up from her plate – heaped with Friday’s curry special: chicken madras, rice, vegetable pakora, and naan bread, according to the board on the wall.
Logan gave her a wee shrug. ‘After all, no one wants to sit with either of us.’
‘People want to sit with me. Why wouldn’t people want to sit with me?’
‘People look at me, all they see is Professional Standards. People look at you and they see fast-tracked graduate-scheme “tosspot”.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not what I see, it’s what they see. We’ve got guys who’ve been on the job for twenty years and they still haven’t made it as far as sergeant. You’re, what, twenty-six?’
A blush darkened her cheeks. ‘Twenty-nine.’
‘And already a detective inspector. Some people feel threatened by that.’
‘Hmmph…’ Fraser crunched down one of the veggie pakora. ‘I take it you saw Ellie’s mum’s press conference.’
‘How can you eat that when there’s perfectly good macaroni cheese and chips on offer?’
‘How
