Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride
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‘OK, let’s try this another way, shall we?’ Steel produced a packet of nicotine gum and popped a white pellet out of its foil blister. Chewing with her mouth open. ‘Who’s Billy Adams?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Sounded important.’
Danby’s face hardened. ‘Drop it, you know what I’m saying?’
‘That an order, sir?’
‘Call it a request.’ He turned to Logan. ‘These Sacroid people, they up to keeping an eye on Knox?’
‘Sacro: Safeguarding Communities – Reducing Offending. It’s a charity, biggest provider of supported accommodation for offenders in Scotland, got teams of volunteers watching people like Knox all over the country. Well, maybe not exactly like Knox, but yeah, they’re up to it.’
Steel rolled her window back up. ‘You know, I’m going to find out eventually, so you might as well spill the beans.’
Silence.
‘See, I’m what you’d call a tenacious wee sod.’
More silence.
‘Seriously, I can be a right pain in the arse when I put my mind to—’
‘That’s enough Inspector. You do your job and I’ll do mine, know what I’m saying?’
And this time the silence lasted all the way back to the station.
‘I love a good mystery.’ DI Steel sat behind her desk, one hand stuffed down the front of her shirt, rearranging the contents of her bra. ‘God gave me a nose for a reason – so I could stick it in other people’s business. Who do you think this “Billy Adams” is?’
Logan shrugged and dumped the plastic bag from Marks & Spencer on the inspector’s desk. ‘They didn’t have any of the big ones left.’ He cleared a space between the burglary reports and trial-preparation documents, then pulled out two little boxes of sushi, a packet of cheese and onion, and a bottle of Diet Coke.
Steel popped open the crisps, stuffed a handful into her mouth, then followed it up with a California roll. ‘Maybe he’s Danby’s boyfriend?’
Logan dug into the bag again: prawn salad and a sparkling mineral water.
Steel scowled at him. ‘Salad? Jesus, all this time and I never knew you were turning into a shirtlifter. Still,’ a smile spread across her face, ‘if that means your tasty IB tart’s up for a bit of extracurricular…?’
‘I’m on a diet, OK?’
‘Bout time. You’ve turned into a right porky wee sod.’ Something in her pocket went ‘bleep’ and Steel pulled out her mobile phone, frowning at the screen. ‘Sodding hell… Thought it was my chiz. Been trying to get hold of him all day.’ She washed a salmon nigiri down with a mouthful of Diet Coke. ‘Finish your gayboy salad, then get digging: I want to know who this “Billy Adams” is, and I want to know how he’s connected to DSI Fat-and-Shouty: anything you can find.’
‘Beattie wants me to—’
‘Don’t care.’ She stuck her fingers in her ears. ‘La-la-la-la-la. Can you see me no’ caring?’
‘You’re not the one he’s whinging at the whole bloody time.’
‘Which part of “La-la-la-la-la” do you no’ understand?’ She popped a fingernail of wasabi into her mouth and made dog’s-bum faces for a minute. ‘Then we’re going to have to go do something about these counterfeit twenties.’
‘I mean, why did they bother promoting him? My arse would make a better DI.’
‘Get onto that bank. Tell them I want security camera footage, see if we can’t find out who made the deposit.’
‘Do you never read the stuff I give you?’ Logan went digging through the pile of paperwork in the inspector’s in-tray, coming out with the printouts he’d slapped down on her desk before the morning briefing. ‘Here.’ He tried to pass them over, but Steel had a cucumber maki in one hand and a bunch of cheese and onion crisps in the other.
‘Eating. You read it.’
‘We’ve already got an ID – the guy tried to deposit the cash into his own account. Kevin Middleton. Only prior he’s got is for drink driving twelve years ago, wrapped his Jag around a lamppost in Cults after some charity auction.’
Steel smiled as she chewed. ‘Perfect. Arrest the silly bugger, then we can all get on with our lives. You thought any more about being Godparent, by the way?’
Logan almost choked on his salad. ‘I… Erm…’ Mouthful of water. ‘I don’t know if… Ahem.’ Pause. ‘Anyway, how come the Perv Patrol aren’t dealing with Knox? How come this is our problem?’
The inspector’s eyes narrowed, making all the wrinkles stand out. ‘Our lord and master DCI Finnie thinks the Offender Management Unit need someone senior to personally oversee Knox’s case. Apparently it’s too high profile. Apparently I have experience with sexual predators. Apparently I’m the best person to support the Diddy Men in this difficult and delicate operation.’
She scrunched up her empty crisp packet and hurled it at the bin. Missed. ‘Which means Frog-Face Finnie knows Knox is an odious wee shite, and if anything goes wrong, I’ll be the one carrying the can.’
‘Maybe it won’t be that bad?’
‘Course it bloody will: Knox’ll need someone watching him till the day he dies. So I’ll no’ get shot of him till I retire. It’s the gift that keeps on sodding giving.’ Steel scowled. ‘But don’t you worry: I shall have my revenge. Meantime, you go see what you can get on this Billy Adams bloke Danby’s being so secretive about.’
‘Aw, Jesus, not again!’ Detective Sergeant Mark MacDonald wrinkled his nose, then slapped a hand over his face, hiding his wee goatee beard. ‘Ack…’ He grabbed a folder from his in-tray and fanned it back and forth, sending paperwork fluttering across Logan’s desk.
‘What are you…’ Logan frowned, and then the smell hit him. ‘Bloody hell, Bob!’
DS Bob Marshall just grinned. If God existed, He hadn’t been paying a lot of attention when He’d put Bob together. Big ears stuck out at right-angles from a square head with a bald patch at the back and a single, thick eyebrow at the front. Arms like hairy string. A monkey in a machine-washable suit.
‘Christ!’ Mark blinked, then hauled the door open. ‘What’ve you been eating?’
Bob patted the sides of his stomach. ‘Can’t beat cauliflower cheese and chips.’
‘Oh no it’s everywhere…’ Logan stood, backing away into the corner of the little walled-off section of the CID office, built to house the detective sergeants. Six desks – four for dayshift, two for night – all but one covered in drifts of paperwork and ring binders, monitor, keyboard, and overflowing in-tray. The walls were just about visible between the procedural flowcharts, a corkboard covered with mugshots and memos, a whiteboard with each DS’s name written above a list of active cases, another one with a schematic of some drug dealer’s house scrawled in blue marker pen. And a yellow-and-black biohazard triangle mounted above Bob’s desk.
Mark wafted the door open and closed, and open and closed… ‘Never mind fucking Iraq, bloody United Nations should invade your arse. That’s a weapon of mass destruction, right there!’
‘I can’t help it if I’m talented.’
Gradually the smell faded, and people got back to work.
Logan