Close to the Bone (10 page)

A sniff. ‘No. That’s the point.’ He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘I can’t do this any more. All the pain and the suffering and the relatives and the press and the courts and the bloody press. . .’

A smile. ‘You said “press” twice.’

‘Did you know they doorstepped me for that Rubislaw Den murder? Right outside my house. I was taking Natasha to playgroup. . .’ He dumped a box file in on top of some pilfered Post-it notes. ‘I’ve tried so
hard
to keep what I do separate, and they do something like that? ’ He wiped his hand across his cheeks, then dried it on the leg of his trousers. ‘And the
smell
. I wash and I wash and I wash and it never comes off. . .’

Logan nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

A knock came from the office door. Dr Ramsey was blinking at them from the corridor. ‘Turns out some shoplifter’s fallen down the stairs in the custody block.’ He pointed over his shoulder, back towards the bulk of FHQ. ‘If Tweedledee and Tweedledum ever stop shouting at each other, let me know.’

‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Anthropologists. . .’ Ramsey rolled his eyes, then sloped off, shoes scuffing on the floor.

Dr Forsyth hurled another manila folder into the box, following it up with one more for every word: ‘Just – can’t – take it – any more.’ He picked the box up, cradling it in his arms as if it were a severed head. ‘And all the time they’re telling us to cut costs, as if what we do is. . .’ He trembled, flecks of spittle frothing in the corners of his mouth. ‘Like we’re sitting about drinking coffee from golden mugs and eating bloody
chocolates
.’ A shrug. ‘Sorry. It’s just. . .’

He lowered his head and shuffled from the room. As he opened the door, the raised voices came through again:

‘
Oh, don’t give me that, Graham, you’ve always been jealous of my success!
’

‘
I’m not arguing with you about this, Dempsey. I was here first.
’

Dr Forsyth looked back over his shoulder. ‘Please. . .’ A frown. ‘Tell Isobel I stuck it for as long as I could.’

‘
It’s my bloody job! Now pack up and bugger off!
’

‘
My life coach says I have to—
’

‘
Life coach? What kind of bloody idiot—
’

The door clunked shut again.

Rennie backed into the room, carrying the kettle in one hand and a packet of Jaffa Cakes in the other. He waggled the orange-and-blue box at Logan. ‘Creepy Dalrymple didn’t lock her locker. What’s the point of hiding things in your locker if you don’t lock it? ’ He stuck the kettle onto its base and flicked the switch. ‘Clue’s in the name.’

Logan scrolled through the messages on his phone, deleting all the rubbish – most of which came from Steel. ‘Mmm. . .’

‘Exactly.’ Rennie clunked a couple of mugs down on the desk. ‘It’s gone all quiet out there. Think they’ve kissed and made up? Bet they’re at it on one of the cutting tables, getting their forensic anthropology freak on. Jumping each other’s bones.’

No wonder Steel never had any time to do her own paperwork, she was too busy sending pointless text messages. Delete. Delete. Delete.

Logan looked up from the little screen. ‘The ACC still on a rampage? ’

‘Nah, gone home. It’s Her Nibs you’ve got to worry about.’ The kettle rattled away to itself, grumbling steam out into the room. ‘Guv . . . this jewellery heist. . .’

Here we go. Logan put his phone away. ‘You were asleep. We got a confession.’

‘Yeah, but I put in all the work and it’s not—’

‘Never is.’

‘But it
isn’t
fair. And look at this. . .’ He pulled out his notebook, flipped it open, and held it up. Someone had written ‘F
IND
T
HOSE
B
LOODY
T
RAMPS
, Y
OU
L
AZY
W
EE
B
AWBAG!!!
’ above a list of three names and a crude drawing of male genitalia. The handwriting was obviously Steel’s. Rennie clacked the thing shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘She drew a cock in my notebook. What am I supposed to do if I’ve got to produce it in court? Think the judge’ll be impressed? ’

The kettle clicked, then fell silent.

‘She keeps lumping these crappy make-work jobs on me. How am I going to make my mark, if she keeps—’

‘
Make your mark
? ’

A blush spread across his cheeks. ‘Well, it’s. . . You know what I mean.’

‘No wonder she drew a dick in your notebook; lucky she didn’t do it on your forehead. Anyway, you should be happy.’

He picked up the kettle and filled the mugs. ‘Ha bloody ha.’

‘She did the same thing to me. In her twisted little mind, it’s her way of singling you out. Testing you.’ Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re her
favourite
.’

Rennie sagged. ‘Oh God. . .’

‘Oh yes. Say goodbye to getting home at a reasonable hour, and hello to bizarre calls in the middle of the night.’

More sagging. ‘And how come I’m the one stuck hunting down tramps? It’s not like Hairy Mary, Scotty Scabs, and Fusty Forman did anything serious: two blokes and an auld wifie shoplifting cheese, bacon, and vodka doesn’t really count as organized crime, does it? ’

‘And you can forget about seeing Emma. But get ready for lots and lots of questions about your sex life, even though you’re never home in time to actually have one.’

‘Probably drunk themselves to death weeks ago. They’ll be lying dead in a ditch somewhere, covered in smoked streaky and Cheddar, getting all mouldy and fusty. . .’ A shudder. ‘Bad enough when they do it in winter, but in this weather? ’ Rennie’s bottom lip poked out. ‘Can’t we get the GED to look for them? ’

Logan smiled. ‘Trust me: soon as our beloved colleagues in the General Enquiries Division find out that Steel’s lumped you with finding these guys, they’ll disappear faster than you can say, “Someone else’s problem.”’ Logan fished his teabag out and dumped it in the wastepaper basket. ‘Besides, there’s only three of them. Don’t be such a wimp.’

Rennie ripped open the Jaffa Cakes, then tipped out a half-dozen brown flying-saucers onto the desk. ‘It’s not three any more, it’s two. Got Hairy Mary in the mortuary – found her under the Wellington Bridge with a bottle of turps in one hand and her knickers round her ankles.’

‘Sexual assault? ’

A shake of the head. ‘Call of nature, from the state of her.’ He bit a Jaffa Cake in half, talking with his mouth full. ‘Poor cow. Imagine going out like that? Everyone seeing you? ’ He chewed, then swallowed. ‘You want to take a look at her? ’

Dirty bugger. Logan pulled in his chin. ‘Do you
really
think that’s appropriate, because I—’

‘No! Not look at her with her knickers down. . . I mean take a look and make sure I’m not screwing anything up? ’

‘Oh.’ That was OK then. ‘Don’t be such a big Jessie.’

‘Come on, Guv. . .’ He popped the final Jaffa Cake in his mouth and fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Please? ’

Sigh. ‘This is the
last
time, understand? ’

A grin. ‘Thanks, Guv!’

Rennie was right – the corridor was quiet, not so much as an angry murmur coming from the cutting room. Logan pushed through the double doors . . . and stopped.

Dr Dempsey was sitting flat on his wide tweed bum in the middle of the room, both hands clasped over his nose, while Dr April Graham skipped back and forward in front of him, knees bent, feet barely moving. Fists up in classic Muhammad Ali pose.

She threw a couple of sharp right jabs into the air, making little puffing noises. ‘Told him to stop pushing me.’

9

Logan shifted the hot mug of coffee from one hand to the other, wedging the manila folder under his arm as he struggled with the doorknob. Down the corridor, the main CID office was noisy: the dayshift coasting towards quitting time, the backshift grumbling about all the jobs they’d been lumbered with on a Sunday evening.

Click, and the handle
finally
turned. He pushed through into his own private sanctuary— Crap.

Detective Chief Inspector Steel was sitting in his chair, feet up on his desk, electronic cigarette clamped between her teeth puffing artificial smoke into the room. ‘Where the hell have you been? ’

He dumped the mug on the desk, then swatted at her feet with the folder. ‘Out.’

She didn’t move. ‘Did I no’ tell you about those bloody teenagers? ’

‘For God’s sake, they’re shacked up somewhere, banging each other’s hormone-addled brains out. It’s not—’

‘I don’t give a badger’s hairy arsehole if they’re on
Jeremy Kyle
with “My Girlfriend Won’t Swallow”: I told you to get your finger out and visit the bloody parents and at least
look
as if you’re doing something.’

‘They—’

‘No.’ She slammed a hand down on the desk. ‘This isn’t a debate, it’s an order. Finger – out –
now
. You made the ACC look a right prawn.’

‘You know what? Sod it.’ He pulled out his warrant card, in its little leather holder, and tossed it into her lap. ‘I’m with Doc Forsyth: screw this for a game of soldiers. I never asked you to make me up to DI, did I? No, I was quite happy where I was, but you had to have someone to run around after your backside, doing all your bloody paperwork.’

‘There we go.’ She checked her watch. ‘Lasted a whole
two weeks
as acting DI before threatening to flounce off in a strop. That’s a record for you. Was starting to worry you’d grown up a bit.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a big girl’s blouse.’

‘I’ve had enough.’

‘Moan, moan, whinge, bitch, moan. Now I know where Rennie gets it from.’ She flipped open the little leather case and peered at the warrant card within, holding it out at arm’s length. ‘Jesus, there’s a face only a proctologist could love.’

He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door. ‘Enjoy your paperwork.’

‘Park your arse.’ She pointed at the visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Soon as Disaster McPherson’s finished screwing things up in Holyrood, you can go back to being a lowly defective sergeant. God, you’re such a drama queen.’

‘I am
not
a drama—’

‘You don’t see me whingeing on about running CID till Finnie returns from his wee jolly to Malaga, do you? Even though the sodding ACC’s down here every five minutes bitching about the budget and the rotas and the overtime bill? No: because I’m a team player, one of the lads, knuckling under and getting the job done like a pro.’ She had a dig at the underside of her left breast, scratching and tugging at the bra-line. ‘Course, the extra cash helps.’

Logan stared at her. ‘You got a pay rise? ’

Scowl. ‘Don’t change the subject. You, Logan Bum-Face McRae, need to get your act sorted. Being a DI’s no’ about running all over the place, arresting people and getting punched in the nose: it’s about taking a strategic overview, staying in FHQ at the centre of your wee web of influence and
organizing
things, making the best use of the available manpower. And solving bloody cases!’

‘Like you ever—’

‘Now get your backside in gear and go see those poor missing kids’ parents!’

Silence settled into the room, then a hiss and click as Steel’s electric cigarette gave another puff of steam.

‘What happened to, “being a DI’s no’ about running all over the place”? ’

‘Parents need to see a senior officer, no’ some junior idiot in uniform wiping their nose on their sleeves. And if you’d done something about it in the first sodding place, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’ She chucked his warrant card back at him. ‘Now sod off before I decide to motivate you some more.’

In the main CID office a lone detective constable was bent over the fax machine, cursing and swearing as she pounded away at the keypad. Other than her, the place was deserted: most of the dayshift would be down at their lockers already, getting changed to go home – or hiding so they wouldn’t have to answer the phones and get dragged into anything at five to five on a Sunday evening – while the backshift were off actually doing things, leaving the little corrals of chest-high partitions and scuffed beech desks to sulk unloved beneath stacks of forms and reports, empty sandwich wrappers and dirty mugs.

Logan tried the small walled-off annex at the side of the room – the one with a brass plaque mounted on the door: ‘T
HE
W
EE
H
OOSE
’. Someone had stuck a Post-it note to the thing, with ‘C
ONDEMNED
F
OR
P
UBLIC
H
EALTH
R
EASONS!
’ scrawled across it.

Inside, DS Bob Marshall was frowning at a pile of receipts and an expenses form. His desk looked as if a stationery cupboard had thrown up on it. A big orange-and-black biohazard sign was mounted on the wall in front of him. As if anyone actually needed any warning. . .

The other three desks were almost tidy, no sign of their owners, just the shelves laden with box files and manuals, the whiteboards covered with case lists for each DS complete with notes and dates.

Bob scribbled something down on his form. ‘If you’re here to moan about them not catching Reuben yet: don’t. It’s sod all to do with me.’

Logan slumped into his old familiar chair, the one with the wobbly castor and the creaky hydraulic thing, and the coffee stain on the seat that always made it look as if he’d had an unfortunate accident. Loved that chair. He ran a hand along the rough plastic armrest. ‘You’re a jammy sod, Bob.’

‘Mmm. . .’ He didn’t look up. ‘Think I can claim for that bottle of whisky I bought for the Levinston stakeout? ’

‘Being a detective sergeant. OK, so you’ve got to put up with all the crap from the DCs and Uniform – and run around after the DIs like you’re their nanny – but it’s not bad, is it? ’

‘Maybe I can kid on it’s for an informant? ’

Logan swivelled left and right, then back again. The bearings groaned underneath him. Just like the old days. . . ‘You’re not allowed to have unregistered informants: anything Chiz-related would have to go through the Secret Squirrel Squad. Put it down as a teambuilding expense under Finnie’s “Forward To Tomorrow” cost-code. By the time he gets back from Malaga no one will remember what it was meant to be used for anyway.’