The Missing and the Dead. Stuart MacBride

till dawn. Says it’s too dark to—’

      More finger snaps. ‘I can read, DS McKenzie: give.’

      Becky handed over the Post-its. Her jaw tightened, the muscles flexing. ‘Yes, Boss.’

      Steel flicked through the yellow squares, holding them at arm’s length and squinting. ‘Pfff … Is there no bugger in the whole force who can make a decision on their own?’ She stuffed them into a pocket. ‘If anyone needs me, I’ll be upstairs. In the ladies. Making smells.’ She paused on the threshold to the hall. ‘And see if you can rustle up a cup of tea, eh? And something to eat.’ Then slouched off into the hall and away up the stairs.

      Beat. Two. Three. Four. And the smile died on Becky’s face. Eyes narrowed on the closing door. Voice a serrated-blade whisper. ‘What did your last slave die of, you old bag?’

      She turned and stomped off towards the canteen.

      Looked as if Steel was right: one prod away from an aneurism.

      Nothing like running a happy team.

      Logan crossed to the Sergeants’ Office and opened the door. Then froze.

      A thin bloke in a blue suit was sitting in his seat. Feet up on his desk. Scratching himself on the back of the head with a biro, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘… yeah, that’s what I thought …’ A frown. Then he glanced in Logan’s direction: long nose, trendy hair quiffed up at the front, designer stubble. ‘Get lost, I’m on the phone. … No, not you, Guv. Some fanny in uniform. … Yeah …’ Then laughter.

      Logan nodded. Stepped into the room, and slammed the door behind him, hard enough to make the dick in the suit flinch.

      ‘And you are?’

      The guy licked his lips. Took his feet off the desk. Squared his shoulders. ‘On the phone.’

      Probably too young to be a boss, but with these fast-track programmes you never knew. ‘And tell me, Inspector, how long do you plan on using my office?’

      ‘Sorry, Guv, give me a minute.’ He held the phone against his chest, covering the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant. Detective Sergeant Dawson. MIT.’

      ‘Ah, I see.’

      Dawson – the sexist scumbag who thought it was Nicholson’s job to act as charlady.

      Logan unclipped his belt and thunked it down on top of the little grey filing cabinet all the notebooks had to go in at the end of the shift. ‘Well, if I’d known that, I would never have bothered you.’ He dug his fingertips into the join on the side of his stabproof vest, hauled the Velcro flaps apart, then did the same with the shoulder strip above it. Slipped the whole thing off. ‘Big important man like you, clearly has more important things to worry about than the running of B Division.’

      A smile cracked across Dawson the Dick’s face. ‘You and me got a problem?’

      ‘No, no, no. Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He hung his vest on the hook behind the door. ‘How about I get one of my team to make you a nice cup of tea?’

      Dawson’s mouth hung open for a moment, accompanied by a frown, and then the smile was back. Broad and magnanimous on that trendy little face. ‘That’s … very cool of you, Sergeant. Thanks. Milk, two sugars.’

      ‘Not a problem at all.’ Logan held up both hands, palms out. ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’

      Back through into the main office.

      Becky stormed past, mug in one hand, packet of crisps in the other. Swearing under her breath as she pushed through into the hall, making for the upper floors.

      Through into the Constables’ Office.

      Nicholson was poking away at her computer keyboard, filling in her actions for the day.

      He leaned back against the work-surface desk. ‘You’ll never guess who I just met.’

      She looked up. ‘Santa?’

      ‘Your favourite sexist scumbag, DS Dawson.’

      ‘Urgh …’ She went back to her keyboard, thumping away harder than before. ‘Hope he gets syphilis. From an angry Rottweiler.’

      ‘Wouldn’t put it past—’

      The Constables’ Office door banged open and there was the PC who’d been banging evidence-label numbers into a spreadsheet: broad-faced with little black flecks along the underside of his double chin, as if he’d shaved in a hurry. ‘Yeah, hi. Sorry.’ A sniff. ‘Listen, DS Dawson says if you guys are making tea anyway: we need three with milk and one sugar; four with milk; two white coffees; and one black, two sugars. Don’t suppose you’ve got any Earl Grey, do you? The boss is partial.’

      Nicholson was on her feet. ‘Now you listen to me, you f—’

      ‘It’ll be our pleasure.’ Logan stood. Patted Nicholson on the shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Constable?’

      A pause.

      The guy with the scabby chin shrugged. ‘Only doing what I’m told.’

      She hissed out a breath. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

      Nicholson thumped the mugs into a line on the counter beside the sink. All ten of them. Stuck the kettle on to boil, then plonked teabags and spoons of instant coffee in the requisite ones.

      Logan leaned back against the vending machine, crumpling the notice saying that prices were going up again. ‘Don’t forget the milk.’

      A scowl. ‘Still don’t see why we have to run around after—’

      ‘Because we are good little parochial police officer teuchters who know their place.’ Sticking out his left arm, Logan grabbed the canteen door and shoved. It swung shut with a clunk.

      The room was a washed-out shade of industrial magnolia. Recycling bins, a vending machine, and a TV-on-a-shelf took up one side; a blue worktop-table sat in the middle; kitchen units, cooker and sink against the opposite wall. A concrete garden gnome stood on the windowsill – someone had painted his eyes in with Tipp-Ex and black marker, given him a thick pair of sinister eyebrows, and added a cut-out paper knife to one hand. Presumably so he could guard the piggy bank.

      Logan picked up the pottery pig and gave it a shoogle. It barely rattled.

      Nicholson pointed. ‘See? They’re not even putting in for teas and coffees! Freeloading—’

      ‘All right.’ Logan dug into his fleece pockets. ‘How we doing with the kettle?’

      She checked. ‘Nearly.’ Then pouted. ‘I mean, come on, Sarge, this isn’t fair.’

      ‘We’re helping our fellow officers to a tasty hot beverage. Nothing wrong with that.’

      Nicholson dumped the big carton of semi-skimmed down next to the cooker. ‘Why are you taking this so bloody calmly?’

      ‘Because I am a grown-up.’ He held up the drugs he’d purchased from the Fraserburgh Tesco. ‘Four boxes of violent, unpredictable relief.’ He tossed one to Nicholson. ‘What’s the recommended dose?’

      Frowning, she scanned the instructions. ‘One tablet before bedtime. Why are—’

      ‘What do you think: three or four per mug?’

      She shifted from foot to foot. ‘Won’t they … you know, taste it?’

      ‘Not the way you make tea. Grind them up first, then let’s see if we can’t scare up some biscuits for our honoured guests.’

       12

      Sunlight streamed in through the thin curtains. The smell of damp, still