The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
was. ‘I need an ambulance, and an SEB goon-squad, and a Crime Scene Manager, and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree.’
Big Tony Campbell slung his jacket over the back of his chair and slumped down. Aberdeen City’s Divisional Commander, the Big Boss, Arse-Kicker In Chief: a large man, with broad shoulders and hands to match. His bald head gleamed in the last rays of a dying sun, seeping across the rooftops of the city and into the office. The only hairs loyal enough to cling on above the neckline were his eyebrows – heavy, black, and bushy.
He pointed to the seat on the other side of the polished wooden desk. ‘Sit.’ Then swivelled around and hunched down, giving Logan a perfect view of his shirt coming untucked from the waistband of his trousers. Exposing a swathe of thick dark fur.
Logan settled into the nominated seat and stifled a yawn, covering it with his hand as Big Tony Campbell re-emerged with a bottle of Highland Park in one hand and two crystal tumblers in the other. They went on the desk.
A healthy portion of whisky glugged into both glasses, then the Divisional Commander handed one over. ‘They tell me Stephen Bisset’s going to live.’
Logan licked his teeth – rough and unbrushed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Might’ve been better if you’d arrived too late.’ His fingers hovered over the folder that sat in front of the computer. He didn’t touch the manila surface, as if it might be infectious. ‘Castrated, teeth ripped out, chest slashed open and “implants” forced inside, repeatedly raped … Never mind all the broken bones.’ The corners of his mouth curdled. ‘A non-elective sex change courtesy of Jack the Ripper. Still …’
He raised his glass and Logan did the same. Clinking the two together, before taking a sip.
Warmth slid all the way down into Logan’s belly, leaving smoky footprints behind.
The Divisional Commander spun his seat around till it faced the window. Gazed out over his domain as darkness claimed it. Took another drink. ‘Your boss tells me you’re not really cut out to be an Acting Detective Inspector.’
‘Does she now?’ Backstabbing cow …
Well, unless this was promotion time? Time to stop acting up and make the step for real. With the pay rise that went with it. OK, so he wouldn’t get overtime any more, but swings and roundabouts. Logan sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Actually, sir, I think she’s—’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ the Divisional Commander held up a hand, ‘it’s not that you can’t do the job – the Bisset investigation more than proves that – but she seems to think you don’t like doing it. The man management, the spreadsheets, the meetings, the budget balancing.’ Another sip. ‘Is she right?’
Don’t fidget.
‘Well, sir, it’s … Detective Chief Inspector Steel, sometimes—’
‘You see, Logan,’ he turned back, a smile stretching his face, ‘it’s important to me that my officers achieve their full potential. And it’s my privilege and duty to help them do that.’ A little salute with the tumbler. ‘Especially when I can give them the tools they need to shine.’
Oh no.
Don’t say it.
Not the two words no police officer ever wanted to hear.
The whisky curdled in Logan’s stomach. His smile was lemon-rind and ashes, but he pulled it on anyway. ‘Sir?’
Please don’t …
‘I think I’ve got a development opportunity that would be perfect for you.’
Too late.
‘… and while we’re on the subject: guess who gets out today?’ Logan let the pause grow as the two officers stared at him. ‘Alex Williams.’
A groan.
The Constables’ Office wasn’t a big room. Magnolia, with a big pinboard covered in mugshots on one wall next to a whiteboard; posters, reports, notices, calendars, and more whiteboards on the others. Scuffed blue carpet tiles covered in layers of tea and coffee stains. A workbench on two sides doubling as desks; four office chairs – plastic scratched, foam-rubber poking out of frayed-edged fabric; the same number of steam-powered computers; Logan and two other officers, all kitted up and ready for the off. A throat-tickling smell of stale feet, pickled onion crisps, and shoe polish.
Logan rubbed a hand across the stubble covering his head. ‘So I’m putting a grade one flag on the house. Anything happens, I want someone there in under five minutes.’
Deano fiddled with the CS gas canister clipped to the front of his fluorescent yellow high-vis waistcoat, twisting the gunmetal canister round and round in its leather case with big spanner fingers. Winding the spiral bungee cord attached to the base in knots. His broad shoulders stretched the black police-issue T-shirt tight. Even slouched in the swivel chair he was clearly the tallest person in the room. ‘Tenner says they make it till Wednesday.’
Constable Nicholson pulled the sides of her mouth down and dug her hands into the gap between her stabproof vest and her black uniform top. Hunched her shoulders, setting the no-nonsense black bob wobbling. Scowled. ‘Hospital or mortuary?’
Deano stuck his head on one side. The overhead light glinted against the thinning patch of hair at the top of his forehead. Grey hair swept back at the sides. ‘I’m going to say … hospital.’
She pulled out a hand – it had a small tartan wallet in it. ‘I’ll take: mortuary by Saturday.’ Then blinked at Logan. ‘Sarge?’
‘Are you and Constable Scott seriously taking bets on when someone’s going to assault or murder their partner?’
Shrug.
‘OK.’ He dug a hand into his pocket. ‘I’ll have a fiver on: nobody dies.’
Deano accepted the cash and hid it away. ‘Fool to yourself, Sarge. But far be it from me to dampen your faith in—’
‘Sorry.’ The door banged open and Constable Quirrel backed into the room, carrying a tray loaded with four mugs and a plate of rowies. Thin-faced, with a number-two haircut of pale ginger and a set of watery blue eyes. A least a head shorter than everyone else in the room. ‘What? What did I miss?’
‘Alex Williams got released.’
‘Is it six months already?’ Quirrel handed out the mugs – starting with Logan – then worked his way around the room with the plate. He took the last rowie and slotted his narrow bum into the only vacant chair. ‘Bags I don’t have to—’
‘Tufty,’ Logan pointed at him, ‘I hereby deputize you to go tell Alex’s partner, “It’s that time again.”’
‘But, Sa-arge …’ His eyebrows bunched for a moment, scrunching up his eyes. Then a smile. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if someone from Domestic Abuse did it? You know, laid out all the options? They’re the experts, and we wouldn’t want to—’
‘Do what you’re told.’ Logan took a bite of rowie, chomping through the waxy crust and into the butter, lard, and salty goodness inside. ‘And try not to be a dick while you’re there. Last thing you need is more complaints.’ A nod. ‘Next.’
Deano clicked the mouse and the image on the computer screen changed to a photo of a small-ish fishing boat – rust-streaked along one side of the blue hull, the