22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories. Stuart MacBride

out the top chunk of paperwork. ‘Here we are. On the thirteenth of April, two years ago, you claimed to have seen Mr Robson smoking cannabis in the garden outside his house.’

      The nose went up again. ‘And did anyone arrest him for it? Of course they didn’t.’

      ‘This isn’t a totalitarian state, we can’t just—’

      ‘Are you going to arrest him or not?’

      ‘We need evidence before—’

      She jabbed the desk with a finger. ‘I had thought you might be different. That you’d be an honest policeman for a change, unlike the rest of these corrupt—’

      ‘Now hold on, that’s—’

      ‘—clearly in the pocket of drug dealers and pornographers!’

      Logan shuffled his chair back from the table an inch. ‘Pornographers?’

      ‘Justin Robson posted an obscene publication through my door; a magazine full of women performing the most revolting acts.’ Her mouth puckered like a chicken’s bum. A sniff. ‘Mr Black had to burn it in the back garden. Well, it’s not as if we could’ve put it in the recycling, what would the binmen think?’

      ‘Mrs Black, I can assure you that neither I, nor any of my team are being paid off by drug dealers or pornographers. We can’t arrest Mr Robson for smoking marijuana two years ago, because there’s no evidence.’

      She hissed a breath out through that long raised nose. ‘I saw him with my own eyes!’

      ‘I see.’ Logan wrote that down in his notebook. ‘And how did you determine that what he was smoking was actually marijuana? Did you perform a chemical analysis on the roach? Did you see him roll it?’

      ‘Don’t be facetious.’

      ‘I’m not being facetious, I’m trying to understand why you think he was smoking—’

      ‘You’re not going to do anything about him putting dog mess on my cherry tree, are you? You’re going to sit there and do nothing, because you’re as corrupt as all the rest.’

      Slow, calm breaths.

      Logan opened the folder and pulled out the thick wad of paperwork. ‘Mrs Black, in the last two years, you’ve made five hundred and seventeen complaints against Mr Robson; the local council; the Scottish Government; the Prince of Wales; Jimmy Shand; Ewan McGregor; the whole Westminster cabinet; our local MP, MSP, and MEP; and nearly every police officer in Aberdeen Division.’

      ‘I have a moral obligation, and a right, to report corruption wherever I find it!’

      ‘OK.’ He reached beneath the desk and pulled a fresh complaint form from the bottom of the pile. Placed it in front of her. ‘If you’d like to report me for taking money from drug dealers and pornographers, you should speak to someone from Professional Standards. I can give you their number.’

      She curled her top lip. ‘What makes you think they’re not all corrupt too?’

      Logan pushed through the double doors, out onto the rear-podium car park. The bulk of Divisional Headquarters formed walls of concrete and glass on three sides, the back of the next street over closing the gap, turning it into a sun trap. Which meant the pool car was like a sodding oven when he unlocked the door.

      Then froze.

      Scowled.

      Leaned back against the bonnet and crossed his arms as a dented brown Vauxhall spluttered its way up the ramp and into the parking space opposite.

      The driver gave Logan a smile and a wave as he climbed out into the sunshine. Broad face with ruddy cheeks, no neck, greying hair that wasn’t as fond of his head as it had been twenty years ago. A proper farmer’s face. ‘Fine day, the day, Guv. Do—’

      ‘Wheezy! Where the bloody hell have you been?’

      DC Andrews’s mouth clicked shut, then his eyebrows peaked in the middle. ‘I’ve been taking witness—’

      ‘I had to interview Marion Sodding Black!’

      ‘It’s not my fault, I wasn’t even here!’ He cleared his throat. Coughed. Covered his mouth and hacked out a couple of barks that ended with a glob of phlegm being spat against the tarmac. Leaving his ruddy farmer’s face red and swollen. ‘Gah …’ Deep, groaning breaths.

      Then Logan closed his eyes. Counted to three. Wheezy was right – it wasn’t his fault he was out working when Mrs Black turned up. ‘OK. I’m sorry. That was unfair.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘Did you find anything out at Garthdee?’

      ‘Oh, aye.’ Wheezy Doug locked his pool car. ‘Fiver says it was Bobby Greig. Security camera’s didn’t get his face, but I’d recognize that manky BMX bike of his anywhere.’

      ‘Good. That’s good.’ Logan went for an innocent smile. ‘So you’re free right now?’

      ‘As I can be. Need to get a search warrant and …’ Wheezy Doug pulled his chin in, giving himself a ripple of neck wrinkles. Narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a minute: why?’

      ‘Oh, just asking.’

      He backed off a pace. ‘No you’re not. You’ve got something horrible needs doing, don’t you?’

      ‘Me? No. Not a bit of it. I want you to go visit Pitmedden Court for me. Take a look at a cherry tree for me.’

      Wheezy Doug’s face unclenched. ‘Oh, that’s OK then. Thought for a moment there you …’ And then it was back again. ‘Pitmedden Court? Gah …’ He covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Noooooo … It’s her, isn’t it?’

      The innocent smile turned into a grin. ‘Mrs Black says her neighbour’s sticking dog poo in her tree. And you’re officially in possession of the Nutter Spoon of Doom.’

      ‘Mrs Black’s a pain in the hoop.’

      ‘Yup, but right now she’s your pain. Now get your hoop in gear and go check out her tree.’

      Logan tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder, then locked the pool car’s door. ‘Nah, same nonsense as usual. Everyone’s corrupt. Everyone’s out to get her. Her neighbour’s hanging bags of dog crap in her cherry tree.’

      On the other end, DS Baird groaned. ‘Dog crap? I must’ve missed that issue of Better Homes and Gardens. Stoney’s back – says are you coming to the pub after work?’

      Quick check of the watch: five to four.

      ‘Depends how long I am here. Yeah. Well, probably.’

      Wind rustled through the thick green crown of a sycamore tree, dropping helicopter seed pods onto the pool car’s bonnet to lie amongst the dappled sunlight. Buchanan Street’s grey terraces faced each other across a short stretch of divoted tarmac. Eight houses on each side in utilitarian granite, unadorned by anything fancier than UPVC windows and doors. Most of the gardens had been converted into off-street parking, bordered by knee-high walls and the occasional browning hedge.

      Number Fourteen’s parking area was empty, but a useless Police Constable and his patrol car idled outside – blocking the drive.

      The house didn’t look any different to its neighbours. As if nothing had happened. As if the guy who lived there hadn’t jumped off the casino roof and splattered himself across Exchequer Row.

      Logan hung up and wandered over to the patrol car. Knocked on the driver’s window.

      Sitting behind the wheel, PC Guthrie gave a little squeak and sat bolt upright, stuffing a magazine into the footwell before Logan could get a good look at it. He turned and hauled on a pained smile, pink blooming on his cheeks as he buzzed down the window. ‘Sorry, Guv. Frightened the life out of me.’

      Logan leaned on the roof