approached, all talk silenced, both smiles turned into a sort of pained rictus.
The spotty one forced a little wave. ‘Inspector.’
Logan had made it as far as the third-floor landing when his phone dinged at him. Text message.
He pulled it out and frowned at the screen.
The caller ID came up as ‘HORRIBLE STEEL!’ and his shoulders sagged a bit. ‘What do you want, you wrinkly monster?’
He opened the message:
Come on, you know you want to.
Nope. Logan thumbed out a reply as he marched past the lifts:
Told you – I’m busy. Ask someone else.
He pushed through the doors and into a bland corridor that came with a faint whiff of paint fumes and Pot Noodle.
A tiny clump of support officers were sharing a joke, laughing it up.
Then one of them spotted Logan, prompting nudges and a sudden frightened silence.
Logan nodded at them as he passed, then knocked on the door with a white plastic plaque on it: ‘DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR STEPHEN HARDIE’.
A tired voice muffled out from inside. ‘Come.’
Logan opened the door.
Hardie’s office was all kitted out for efficiency, organisation, and achievement: six whiteboards covered in notes about various ongoing cases, the same number of filing cabinets, a computer that looked as if it wasn’t designed to run on coal or hamster power. A portrait of the Queen hung on the wall along with a collection of framed citations and a few photos of the man himself shaking hands with various local bigwigs. Everything you needed for investigatory success.
Sadly, it didn’t seem to be working.
Hardie was perched on the edge of his desk, feet not quite reaching the ground. A short middle-aged man with little round glasses. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead. A frown on his face as he flipped through a sheaf of paperwork.
He wasn’t the only occupant, though. A skeletal man with thinning hair was stooped by one of the whiteboards, printing things onto it in smudgy green marker pen.
And number three was chewing on a biro as she scanned the contents of her clipboard. Her jowls wobbling as she shook her head. ‘Pfff… Already got requests coming in from Radio Scotland and Channel 4 News. How the hell did they get hold of it so quickly?’
Hardie looked up from his papers and grimaced at Logan. ‘Ah, Inspector McRae. I would say “to what do we owe the pleasure?” but it seldom is.’
Number Three sniffed. ‘Only positive is they don’t know who our victim was.’
Number Two held up his pen. ‘Yet, George. They don’t know yet.’
George sighed. ‘True.’
Logan leaned against the door frame. ‘I take it Superintendent Doig’s been in touch?’
‘Urgh.’ Hardie thumped his paperwork down. ‘You know this is going to be a complete turd tornado. Soon as they find out we’ve got a murdered cop who faked his own death, it won’t just be a couple of TV crews out there. It’ll be all of them.’
‘Did you ever hear rumours about DI Bell? Backhanders, evidence going missing, corruption?’
‘Ding-Dong? Don’t be daft.’ Hardie folded his arms. ‘Now: we need to coordinate our investigations. PSD and MIT.’
‘Honest police officers don’t run off to Spain and lie low while everyone back home thinks they’re dead.’
‘You can have a couple of officers to assist with your inquiries.’ Hardie pointed at his jowly sidekick. ‘George will sort that out.’
She smiled at Logan. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t lump you with the neeps.’
‘Should think not. And I could do with a copy of the investigation into DI Bell’s so-called suicide, too.’
‘I think Charlie’s got that one.’
Sidekick number two nodded. ‘I’ll drop it off.’
Logan wandered over to the whiteboards and stood there, head on one side, running his eyes down all the open cases.
Hardie was trying on his authoritative voice: ‘My MIT will be focusing on catching whoever stabbed Ding-Dong. You can look into … his disappearance.’
Logan stayed where he was. ‘You’re running the search for Ellie Morton?’
‘I expect you to share any and all findings with my team. You report to me first.’
Aye, right. ‘And Superintendent Doig agreed to that? Doesn’t sound like him. I’d probably better check, you know: in case there’s been a misunderstanding.’
A harrumphing noise from Hardie. Busted.
Logan gave him a smile. ‘Ellie’s been missing for, what: four days?’
DS Scott tapped his pen on the whiteboard. ‘DI Fraser’s working that one. My money’s on the stepdad. Got form for indecent exposure when he was young. Once a pervert…’
A nod. ‘I’ll give Fraser a shout.’
Hardie harrumphed again. ‘If I can drag you back to the topic for a brief moment, Inspector: DI Bell’s files. Where are they?’
‘DS Rennie’s going through them.’ Logan turned and pulled on a smile. ‘You wanted us to look into the historic side of things, remember? Bell’s disappearance?’
A puzzled look. ‘But I only just told you that.’
Logan’s smile grew. ‘See: we’re already acting like a well-oiled machine.’
The canteen was virtually deserted. Well, except for Baked Tattie Ted, in his green-and-brown tabard, worrying away at the deep-fat frier while Logan plucked a tin of Irn-Bru from the chiller cabinet.
Logan pinned his phone between ear and shoulder while he went digging in his pocket for some change. ‘Anything?’
The sound of rustling paper and creaking cardboard came from the earpiece, followed by a distracted-sounding Rennie. ‘Nada, zilch, zip, bugger-and-indeed-all. Not that screams “lots of money went missing!” anyway.’
Two fifties, a ten and a couple of pennies. They jingled in Logan’s palm as he walked to the counter. ‘Of course it might not be about an old case. Maybe his personal life was what made him up sticks and disappear?’
A groan.
