Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

it’s a girl.’ She opened her top desk drawer and pulled out a set of screwdrivers and a pair of pliers. ‘Want to help vandalize a window lock?’

      ‘No.’ Logan picked up the discarded packet of counterfeit cash. ‘You notice it’s all in drug-dealer-bundles? Four twenties laid flat, one twenty wrapped around them at ninety degrees, then the whole lot folded—’

      ‘Aye, thanks, Captain Sesame Street, but I do actually know what a sodding DDB looks like. Detective Inspector, remember?’

      ‘Just saying it’s a bit odd, OK? Would have thought counterfeit notes would come in big stacks, hot off the presses. Looks like this lot’s been done up for junkies and pushers.’

      Steel selected a flat-head screwdriver from the set and swivelled her chair around, hunkering over the catch on her office window. ‘What’s Wallace saying about it?’

      ‘Walker, not Wallace. Douglas Walker. He’s saying bugger all, wants to speak to a lawyer first.’

      ‘Jesus, no’ again.’ Dig, dig, poke, poke…

      ‘Says he heard about that case where the European Court decided someone’s human rights had been violated by not letting them have a lawyer during questioning.’

      Steel sighed. ‘Human rights my crinkle-cut arsehole. Tell you, the Americans got the right idea – waterboard the lot of them. Pass me those pliers, eh?’

      Logan did as he was asked. ‘Still say it’d be easier to go outside and smoke like a normal person.’

      ‘You think this Walker kid’s going to crack?’

      ‘Going to let him stew for a couple of hours. Conned him into coming in on a volley, so there’s no time limit. Maybe drop a few hints about doing a deal if he gives us his supplier. Usual vague lies.’ Logan checked his watch. ‘We got that MAPPA meeting in ten minutes. I’m off for a fag. Want one? Or you going to stay here practising your housebreaking?’

      Steel sniffed, then dumped the screwdriver on her desk. ‘Aye, what the hell.’

      Outside, on the rear podium car park, it was teeth-chatteringly cold. The tall, rectangular ‘U’ shaped bulk of FHQ acted as a windbreak, but the granite buildings it backed onto blocked out the low sun, leaving the whole place shrouded in deep-freezer shadows.

      Logan sparked up a cigarette, hands cupped around the glowing tip for warmth, Steel shivering beside him, fingertips rammed into her armpits. Stomping her feet and swearing out a stream of white smoke and breath.

      ‘Fuck me, it’s cold.’

      ‘Any word from your chiz yet?’

      She grimaced. ‘Bugger’s still no’ answering his phone. Got the GSM trace though, looks like he’s staying somewhere south-east of Balmedie.’

      ‘Want to take a run over after the MAPPA meeting?’ Logan took a deep drag on his Benson and Hedges, then spluttered it out in a rumbling cough as the back door opened and the familiar, porky figure of DI Beardy Beattie lumbered out, hauling on an Arctic-explorer-style padded parka. Logan stuck two fingers up in the man’s direction. ‘Wanker.’

      If Beattie heard, he pretended not to, just clambered into one of the CID pool cars and drove away.

      Steel pulled the cigarette from her mouth. ‘You know … people are beginning to notice.’

      ‘Good for them.’ Logan took another puff. ‘Notice what?’

      ‘Your attitude.’ She turned till she was staring out at the little frost-covered stairway down to the mortuary. ‘There’s been complaints.’

      Typical.

      ‘It’s Beattie, isn’t it? That useless tosser thinks I’ve got nothing better to—’

      ‘It’s no’ just Beattie, OK? It’s everyone.’ She flicked away a nub of ash. ‘The DCs are fed up with the sarcasm and the shouting. The DIs are fed up with you complaining all the time and stinking of booze. The DCI’s fed up of everyone moaning to him about it. And I’m fed up defending you the whole sodding time.’

      Silence.

      Logan sucked hard on his cigarette. ‘My sarcasm? My shouting? What about that fucker Finnie? And—’

      ‘Enough, OK? Enough…’ Steel turned and stared at him, eyes crinkled at the edges, mouth turned down. ‘It’s no’ about Finnie, it’s about you. Either you pull your socks up, or people are going to start making it official.’ She poked him in the chest. ‘That sound like fun to you: spending all your time getting hauled up by Professional Standards?’

      Logan glowered at her. ‘And you agree with them? That it?’

      ‘Fucksake, I’m trying to help you!’ She stormed off a couple of paces, then turned and stormed back. ‘You used to be a bloody good cop, you really did. A team player. But right now you’re a fucking haemorrhoid dipped in Tabasco. A broken-glass suppository. A…’ She paused. Frowned. ‘A barbed-wire butt-plug!’

      ‘Oh don’t be—’

      ‘Whatever’s wrong with you, get over it. Or you’re going to end up out on your ear and no one’ll be sorry to see you go.’

      He dropped his half-smoked cigarette and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. ‘Anything else?’

      ‘Get a bloody haircut.’

      Logan backed into the boardroom, carrying a tray covered with wax-paper cups and a plate of pastries. He placed it in the middle of the long, polished table and everyone stopped what they were doing to scramble for the jammy doughnuts. Leaving him with a greasy-looking apple turnover, a white coffee, and a sulk.

      Bunch of bastards. Complaining about his attitude, like he was the worst person in the whole bloody place. Hell, he wasn’t even the worst person in the room.

      Like all Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements meetings the place was packed with people doing their best to come up with ‘defensible decisions’. Decisions they couldn’t get blamed for if anything went wrong. Social Services, the Council, Sacro, and Grampian Police, all covering their arses and hoping to God that Richard Knox would eventually get fed up of Aberdeen and bugger off back down south. Become someone else’s problem.

      Detective Inspector Duncan Ingram – in charge of monitoring every pervert, rapist, and paedophile in the north-east of Scotland – stood at the front of the room, writing up the exit strategy for Richard Knox on the whiteboard in squeaky green marker pen. Pausing every now and then to check his thin, military moustache was still obeying orders.

      It was a complete waste of time. Knox didn’t need an exit strategy, he needed an exit wound. Preferably from a shotgun to the back of the head.

      DSI Danby sat at the other end of the long, polished boardroom table, taking notes. DI Steel slouched in her seat, picking her teeth. And DCI Finnie stood in the corner, holding a murmured conversation with someone on his mobile.

      Ingram rammed the cap back on his marker pen, and supervised his moustache again. ‘Now, as you can see from the risk assessment matrix, we’ve got several environmental factors against us where Richard Knox is concerned. The house is within easy walking distance of one sheltered living facility, a bowling green, and Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. All places we can expect old men to be found on a regular basis…’

      Logan tuned him out.

      How could anyone complain about his attitude?

      This was so bloody typical of—

      Someone kicked him under the table.

      ‘Wh…’

      Steel was making less than subtle gestures towards the whiteboard. Mouthing, ‘Pay a-fucking-tention!’

      ‘…and that’s why,’ DI Ingram had written ‘HMP PETERHEAD’