‘Don’t look at me, my track record’s not much better.’ Logan counted them off on his fingers. ‘One emotionally distant pathologist with intimacy issues; one PC with violent tendencies; a self-harming, Identification Bureau tech, tattoo addict in a coma; and a Trading Standards officer.’
Bill folded his massive arms. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
Good question.
Logan shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. Early days.’ He pulled a photo from his police fleece and placed it on the bar. Lorna Chalmers. ‘Her car’s parked outside.’
‘The scabby Fiat?’ Bill picked up the photo and squinted at it. ‘This your Trading Standards woman?’
‘No: colleague. I’m worried about her.’
‘Hmph... Well, suppose someone should be. State of her.’ He dumped the photo back down again and jerked his head to the side. ‘Ladies.’
‘Thanks.’ Logan had to detour around the slow dancers in front of the jukebox; they didn’t even look up.
Bill’s voice boomed out after him. ‘And take it from me, the crazy ones might be great in bed, but they’ll screw you over every time! Every — single — time.’
He had a point.
Logan pushed through the grey door marked ‘POUR FEMME’ and into something off of a film set. Dark grey slate tiles, a plush red chaise longue against one wall, individual mirrors in heavy gilt frames above the marble sinks.
A lone figure was hunched over one of the sinks — DS Chalmers. She held her mass of auburn curls back with one hand as she spat something frothy and pink into the marble bowl. Her other hand clutched at her ribs. Holding them in as she washed her face. Grunting and groaning.
Logan settled onto the chaise longue. ‘Having fun?’
She flinched, whipping around with a strangled scream, fists up. Ready.
He held his hands in the air. ‘Whoa. Calm.’
Chalmers lowered her fists, voice all muffled and lispy. ‘Inspector McRae. Oh joy.’ Either she’d fallen under a bus, or someone had given her a serious going-over. Scrapes darkened her cheeks, chin, and forehead. The first flush of bruises beginning to spread around them. Face damp where she’d washed the blood off. Or most of it anyway.
Logan pointed. ‘Want to tell me who did that?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘You were out breaking Russell Morton’s alibi, so it was either him or his mates.’
‘I said it’s nothing. Leave it.’
The awkward silence grew. Then Chalmers turned her back on him and splashed another handful of water on her battered face. Winced. Prodded at her gums.
A tooth clattered into the marble sink.
‘You’ve been married, what, three years? If it wasn’t Russell Morton...?’
She froze. ‘Leave Brian out of this.’
‘There are people out there you can talk to. Domestic abuse isn’t—’
‘Christ, you don’t listen, do you? It wasn’t Brian. It wasn’t anyone.’
‘Ah...’ Logan nodded. ‘The first rule of Fight Club.’
More silence.
Chalmers dabbed at the scrape beneath her right eye. ‘And you shouldn’t be here.’
‘Huge Gay Bill’s? Bill and I go way back. One of his ex-boyfriends broke into his mum’s house while she was in hospital and cleaned her out. Bill got his hands on him. Was going to rip the guy’s arms and legs off, till I talked him down. He’s always had terrible taste in men.’
She limped over to the driers and patted at her face, ignoring him as they roared at her.
Logan stretched out on the chaise longue, making himself comfortable. ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’
She tucked in her torn shirt. ‘Are they firing me?’
‘I’m not your enemy, Lorna.’
‘Could’ve fooled me.’
‘I’m here to help. We can—’
‘Then keep them off my back, OK?’ She limped back to the mirror and took out a small make-up kit. ‘Tell them everything’s fine. I’ve apologised and promise to be a good little girl from now on.’
Logan sighed. ‘It doesn’t work like that. You’ve been disappearing when you’re meant to be on the job. Ducking assignments. Not doing what DI Fraser tells you.’
‘DI Fraser’s an idiot.’
‘No she isn’t. And you know what? Even if she was, right now she’s your superior idiot and if she tells you to go interview someone you actually have to go interview them.’
A wodge of foundation got slathered on, covering up the scrapes and bruises. Wincing as she did her best to blend it in. You could still tell, though.
Eventually she stood back and stared at the result. Grimaced. ‘It’ll do.’ Her make-up clattered into the bag again. ‘Russell Morton’s alibi’s sound. He was where he said he was, when he said he was. I spoke to the guy who delivered one fourteen-inch four seasons with extra anchovies, one mushroom feast, a spicy American, two garlic breads, and three six-packs of Peroni.’
‘A lot of food.’
‘Morton paid him from a big roll of cash. Ten-quid tip, too.’
‘Flashy.’
‘Especially for someone on the dole.’ She examined herself in the mirror again. ‘So you can tell DI Kim Fraser I’ve been doing my job. Did it yesterday before she even asked. Just because I’m not grubbing around her feet, begging for titbits like those idiot sidekicks of hers, doesn’t mean I’m slacking.’
‘No one’s asking you to grub about, Lorna, but this is the police. You have to follow procedure. The chain of command’s there for a reason!’
She stared at him from the mirror, face blank. ‘Are we done, Inspector?’
‘Have you forgotten what happened with the Agnes Garfield case? You could’ve died. You very nearly got me and PC Sim killed! All because you couldn’t stand the thought of sharing the glory.’ Logan stood. ‘Police Scotland doesn’t need lone wolves, Lorna. That’s not how this works!’
Nothing back. Not even a flicker.
Then, ‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have a wee now. Or do you want to follow me in there as well?’ She turned and barged into one of the cubicles. Slammed the door. Clacked the latch.
Logan knocked on the cubicle door. ‘They’re going to suspend you. Is that what you want?’
The sound of piddling hissed out from inside. Accompanied by what might have been muffled sobs...
Great. That went well.
Bill shook his head. ‘...so Shoogly Dave says, “Wasnae me, it was like that when I found it.” And he’s staggering about the stock room surrounded by two thousand...’ Bill pointed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Your friend’s back.’
Logan turned and there was Chalmers, coming out of the ladies. Grimacing as she saw them.
He went back to his cappuccino, watching her in the mirror behind the bar as she marched over.
She stopped right behind him. Put on what was probably meant to be a reasonable voice. ‘You can’t let them take this away from me. Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for this job? Not just the hours: I barely see Brian. I’ve put everything on hold for this. Everything.’
‘We all make sacrifices, it’s part of—’
‘Oh that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? You didn’t even have to have your own kids, did you? You farmed them out to someone else!’
‘That’s not—’
‘If you really want to help, keep Fraser off my back for a couple of days.’ A frown. ‘Better make it three.’