He turned and there was Superintendent Doig, smiling at him, folder under one arm. Logan nodded. ‘Guv.’
‘You look terrible, by the way. And where’s your uniform? Anyone would think you’re auditioning for a Westlife tribute band in that outfit.’
‘I’m not even on duty!’ Logan frowned down at his jeans, shirt, and jacket. ‘And what’s wrong with my clothes? This is a perfectly good shirt, thank you very much.’
‘Listen, while I’ve got you.’ Doig held up his folder. ‘I had a meeting with the Police Investigations and Review Commissioner about you shooting that Lee Docherty scumbag.’
Really?
‘I didn’t have any choice, he was going to—’
‘Shoot you. I know.’ A smile. ‘And he would’ve killed Sally MacAuley too, if you hadn’t intervened. Her statement tallies with your version of events one hundred percent.’ He thumped a hand down on Logan’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘So I’m pleased to tell you that you’re officially off the hook. There’s even talk of a Queen’s Medal!’
‘A medal?’ Wow. An actual Queen’s Medal.
‘Possibly. Maybe.’ Doig glanced left and right, then dropped his voice and leaned in close. ‘You know how these things go. Best not to put too much—’
The Pet Shop Boys’ ‘Go West’ belted out of the Superintendent’s pocket and he hauled out his iPhone. Smiled at the screen, then grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry, got to take this. Good to see you up and about. Don’t forget your uniform next time, though!’ Then he turned and marched away, back straight, chest out, phone clamped to his ear. ‘Andy?... Of course I do, been looking forward to it all day... Ha!.. Put the Tanqueray in the freezer and we’ll celebrate when I get home.’ Doig disappeared through the double doors at the end, launching into a laugh that sort of simmered, then bubbled, then was cut off as the doors closed.
All right for some.
Logan limped over to his temporary office and stopped outside. Took a deep breath. Then let himself in.
Blinked.
Maybe he’d taken more of those painkillers than he’d thought, because not only were Rennie, Steel, and Tufty all in there, they were actually working. There were fresh notes written up on the whiteboard — some of which had been spelled correctly — and a sense of... well, purpose to the place. As if they’d gelled into a team in his absence.
Tufty was hunched over a laptop, frowning at the screen; Steel two-fingered-typing at a computer of her own — a pair of small square glasses perched on the end of her nose for squinting through.
And Rennie was on the phone: ‘Are you sure?... No, run it again... Because you’ve screwed something up, that’s why.’
Logan knocked on the door frame. ‘Don’t tell me DI Vine’s actually managed to mould you lot into an effective unit?’
They all swivelled their office chairs around.
Steel wheeched her glasses off. ‘Laz!’
Tufty beamed. ‘Sarge!’
Rennie mugged a grin and pointed at the phone he had to his ear, mouthing the word ‘Phone’, presumably in case Logan had forgotten what one looked like.
‘Thought you were no’ getting out till Monday!’ She stood. ‘I was going to pick you up.’
‘Only so much grey cauliflower-cheese one man can eat.’ He indicated the room with a sweep of his crutch. ‘Figured I’d pop by and say hello on the way home. See how you all were.’
‘Well, du-uh.’ Rennie rolled his eyes. ‘Because it’s obvious, isn’t it? Someone’s mixed the samples up.’
Tufty bounced in his chair like a wee boy. ‘Perfect timing, Sarge: I has had a genius of supermassive proportions!’ He spun around and hunched over the laptop again, clacking away at the keys. ‘Come see, come see!’
Logan limped over, Steel scuffing along behind.
She poked him. ‘You had us all worried there. Well, this pair of big girls’ blouses were worried. I’m made of sterner stuff.’
Tufty fiddled with the mouse. ‘See I’ve been having hella difficulty getting into DI Bell’s laptop and then my brain went “ping!”’
‘No need to worry: I’m fine. Only got stabbed once this time, barely counts. Might even be getting a medal.’
‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’
‘So,’ Tufty pointed at the screen — the default Windows login page, ‘I’d been trying all these combinations of Aberdeen Football Club dates and stats and stuff like that, but nothing ever worked. Then I “pinged”: he’s been living in Spain, so what if he speaks Spanish?’
Steel poked Logan again. ‘Look... can you... next time someone offers to stab you with a knife, just say no, eh? Susan’s barely eaten since she found out you died again. It’s no’ the same when she loses weight — I like a good handful when I go a-groping.’
‘And then I tried “the Dons” in Spanish: “los dones”, which is technically “the gifts”, but when I typed it in...’ His fingers clacked across the keyboard and the login page was replaced by a picture of Pittodrie Stadium, from the Richard Donald Stand, with a superimposed AFC logo. Subtle.
‘What happened with Danielle Smith?’
Steel shrugged. ‘Had to let her go. No evidence.’
‘No evidence?’ Logan banged his crutch on the carpet tiles. ‘She nearly caved my skull in! Tied me up! I had to escape from the boot of her sodding car!’
‘Aye, but you try proving that.’
‘She stole my phone! The one with the photos on it.’ Logan sagged. ‘I got the fat sod’s number plate...’
Tufty turned around in his seat again. ‘Do you lot want to know what I found or not?’
‘How could there not be any evidence?’
Rennie gave a loud performance groan. ‘All right, all right: I’ll hold.’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece and pulled a face at Logan. ‘You had Steel in tears, you rotten—’
She kicked him.
‘Ow!’
Tufty folded his arms. ‘I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t.’
‘Well, what about DNA? Her boot must’ve been full of it.’
‘DNA’s sod-all use when you douse everything in bleach.’
Logan slapped a hand over his eyes. ‘Oh for God’s sake...’
A sniff from Tufty. ‘I might as well not even be here.’
He sighed. Sagged. ‘All right, Tufty, what have you found?’
The wee sod bounced up and down in his chair again. ‘This!’ He clicked his mouse and a QuickTime window filled the screen. Not professional footage — the lighting was too bad for that, the picture a bit grainy, the colours slightly wonky from a poorly set white balance.
‘It was lurking in the system recycling bin.’
The video showed the inside of a shed, devoid of the usual tins of paint and lawnmowers and shovels and gardening odds and sods. The only things in here were a waist-height shelf along one wall with various cordless DIY tools on it, and a young man tied to a dining room chair. Fully dressed with a gag in his mouth.
Logan moved closer. ‘Isn’t that Fred Marshall?’
A figure appeared at the edge of the frame, too out of focus to be recognisable, but there was no mistaking her voice. Even though the words were a bit slurred and mushy. ‘What’s your name? Say your name.’
Marshall mumbled something behind his gag.
Sally MacAuley stepped into shot and slapped him hard enough to make the whole chair rock. And when he straightened up again, streaks of scarlet dribbled from his nose.
She ripped out the gag. Wobbling slightly. Drunk. ‘State your name for the record.’
He glared at her, blood turning his teeth pink. ‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch! I’m gonna carve you up like a—’