bit more supervision, and Greeny in Peterhead needs a boot up the backside, but other than that everyone’s getting on well.’
‘What about you?’
‘I want to get Constable Scott on the diploma course. It’s about time he got promoted to sergeant.’
She smiled at him. ‘No: what about your performance?’
Ah. He sat forward, hands clasped in his lap. ‘I’m doing OK.’
Inspector McGregor pulled a sheet of paper from her in-tray, stuck her glasses on again, and peered at it. ‘“As Duty Sergeant, Logan McRae continues to integrate well with the various sections of B Division. He manages two teams of constables, in addition to his own team of four, and provides appropriate support to the resident sergeants at both Fraserburgh and Peterhead stations. Sergeant McRae assists with managing service delivery to the Local Policing Area and regularly engages with service partners to deal with local challenges. He has excellent interpersonal skills and responds well to direction.”’
Logan didn’t move. ‘Direction?’
A shrug. ‘Well, I had to put something.’ She gave the paper a shoogle and went back to reading. ‘Since he arrived in Banff, clear-up rates have improved in B Division with particular success being seen in tackling the problems associated with drug usage, such as housebreaking, antisocial behaviour, and dealing.’ She put the form down again. ‘Anything else I should add?’
‘Maggie wants a pay rise. Five percent.’
‘Five percent?’ Inspector McGregor curled her top lip. ‘Has she been helping herself to that cannabis we seized last week?’
‘Can you imagine what would happen if she left? Who else is going to fill in all Maggie’s forms, update STORM, manage the productions and the office. Order pens when Hector nicks them all. And she’s the only one who can work the station CCTV.’
The Inspector took off her glasses and huffed a breath onto the lenses. Polished them on the hem of her black T-shirt. ‘Logan, the rest of the support staff will be lucky if they get one percent, never mind five.’
He held up his hands. ‘I promised I’d ask. She—’
The Inspector’s Airwave bleeped. ‘Bravo India, safe to talk?’
She sighed. Sagged a little. Then pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Aye, the SEB have turned up at last from Aberdeen. They’re all talking overtime to deal with the ram-raid at Broch Braw Buys. Say it’s going to take at least six hours. You OK to approve?’
Inspector McGregor stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Fine. But tell them they’ve got four hours, not six. They’re not dragging this out, twiddling their thumbs on my budget.’
‘Will do.’
She dumped the handset into a drawer and thumped it shut. ‘A bit of career advice, Logan: never, ever, volunteer to be Duty Inspector.’ There was a brief pause as she clattered something out on her computer keyboard. Then sat back again. ‘Right: what about your development actions for the next four months?’
‘War on drugs. I want Frankie Ferris in the cells before summer’s out.’
Something painful crawled across the Inspector’s face. ‘Frankie Ferris. Again.’
Shrug. ‘He’s got two strikes for Class A drug-trafficking. One more and he wins a giant stuffed panda and a mandatory seven-stretch. What’s not to like?’
‘You’re obsessed.’ She shook her head and scribbled it down in her notepad. ‘Any chance you can have something a bit more cuddly too? An increase in community engagement? How about …’ Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth then she read out what she was writing: ‘“I aim to build stronger ties with the residents of Banff, Macduff, and Portsoy. I feel that leveraging community-liaison opportunities will add value to Police Scotland’s offerings through the exploitation of soft intelligence.”’
Logan stared at her. ‘Leveraging added value?’
‘You’re never going to get past sergeant if you don’t learn management speak. Soon as you hit inspector it’s like waking up in a foreign country where everyone’s got catch-phrase Tourette’s. Last divisional meeting I was at, someone came out with, “How do we incentivize our stakeholders to embrace three-sixty-degree thinking a hundred and ten percent of the time.” Honest to God, not even the hint of a smile.’
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. Someone had set a rat loose behind his eyes. Clawing and biting.
Nicholson patted him on the arm. ‘Never mind, Sarge, only seven hours to go.’
Kirstin Rattray’s flat sat on the top floor of a lumpen block of grey on Saint Catherine Street. It was to one end of a row of soulless buildings that loomed over the smaller, traditional, Scottish houses on the other side of the road. Threatening to beat them up and steal their lunch money.
It wasn’t so much furnished as … manky. Peeling wallpaper in the kitchen. Cracked tiles in a bathroom that looked as if it hadn’t seen a bottle of bleach in years. A smell of damp and sweat and dirty washing in the bedroom. The view from the lounge was terrific, down the hill, over the surrounding rooftops and out to sea. The view inside the lounge was a different matter.
Kirstin slumped down on a tatty brown corduroy couch. A fake oil painting – the kind you could order from a photo at Tesco or Argos – was mounted in a gaudy gilt frame above the fireplace. A mousy-haired little girl of two or three grinned from the canvas with a gap-toothed mouth. Button nose. Shiny eyes. A teddy bear and a couple of dinosaurs were arranged along the mantelpiece beneath her picture. Like a shrine.
It was the only clean bit of the flat.
Nicholson pulled a laptop out from behind the bookcase. ‘Anything else?’
A bony shrug.
The pile on the coffee table had grown to a decent size. Phones, MP3 players, a bit of jewellery, two hundred quid in cash, and assorted perfumes and makeup.
Logan picked up a new-ish smartphone, the case squeaking in his blue-gloved fingers as he turned it over. ‘Lot of this doesn’t look shoplifty, Kirstin. It looks breakey-and-entery. When did you turn to burglary?’
She kept her eyes on the dark brown stain on the cushion next to her. ‘Told you: didn’t nick anything. Found it.’
‘I’ll bet we can match most of this stuff to crime reports.’
‘It’s not mine!’
Nicholson put the laptop down then pulled the stained seat cushion from the sofa. A biscuit tin nestled amongst the rusting springs and torn support fabric. The picture on the lid had Jammie Dodgers and those weird pink ring things. ‘Well, well, well …’
On the couch, Kirstin glanced at the biscuit tin and away again. Squirmed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me …’
Nicholson picked up the tin and opened it. Stared for a moment. ‘Sarge?’ She held it out. A handful of tinfoil wrappers sat inside, along with a tiny Ziploc bag of white powder; a thumbnail-sized nub of brown, wrapped in clingfilm; and a pack of Rizla rolling papers.
Kirstin folded forwards till her chest rested against her knees, arms wrapped around her head. ‘It’s not mine …’
Logan dumped the phone back on the pile of ‘found’ electronics, then had a wee poke about in the biscuit tin. Definitely enough for possession. Maybe even possession with intent. ‘So, Kirstin. Looks like you’re a bit screwed.’
‘It’s not mine.’ Voice muffled by her knees.
‘Right. You found it.’ He handed the tin back to Nicholson.
She put the top on again. ‘What do you think Kirstin’s looking at, Sarge?