was little more than a pale yellow smear, its faint light making no difference to the thick pall of grey cloud that loomed over the city.
Some halfwit had broken the car’s stereo, so all he had to listen to was the clack and yammer of the police radio – mostly people hustling to and fro, trying to keep out of DI Insch’s way as ‘Operation Cleaver’ was thrown together. The fat git had been a pain in the backside ever since he’d started on that stupid diet. Eighteen months of tiptoeing about, trying not to set the man off on one of his legendary rants.
‘This is Alpha Nine One, we are in position, over.’
It sounded as if they were ready to go.
‘Alpha Three Two, in position.’
‘Aye,’ is is Alpha Mike Seven, we’re a’ set tae go too. Just gie the word.’
Logan should have been with them, kicking down doors and taking names, not babysitting some tosser from Birmingham.
By the time he was leaving the city limits a light drizzle had started to fall, speckling the windscreen with a thin, wet fog, making the tail-lights of the taxi in front glow like volcanic embers as DI Insch gave his motivational speech.
‘Listen up: I want this done by the numbers, understand? Anyone steps out of line, I’ll tear their balls off and shove them up their arse – do I make myself clear?’
No one was daft enough to answer that one.
‘Right. All units, in five, four, three, two … GO! GO! GO!’
And then there was shouting. The sound of a door being battered off its hinges. Bangs. Thumps …
Logan turned the radio off, sat in the long line of traffic waiting to turn towards Aberdeen Airport, and sulked.
The airport was busy this morning: the queue for security backed up the length of the building – nearly out the front door – business commuters and holidaymakers nervously checking their watches; clutching their boarding passes; worrying about missing their planes while the tannoy droned on about not leaving baggage unattended.
The BD672 was supposed to have landed eight minutes ago, but there was still no sign of anyone getting off the thing. Logan stood on the concourse, next to the twee tartan gift shop, holding up a sheet of paper with ‘CC FAULDS’ scribbled on it in big biro capitals.
Finally, the doors at the far end opened and the passengers on the 07:05 flight from London Heathrow staggered out.
Logan didn’t think Faulds would be too hard to spot, he was a Chief Constable after all. He’d be in full dress uniform – hoping it would let him cut through security and get extra packets of peanuts on the plane – with some obsequious Chief Superintendent in tow to carry his bags and tell him how clever and witty he was.
So it came as something of a surprise when a gangly man in jeans, finger-tip-length black leather jacket, Hawaiian shirt, shark’s tooth necklace, and a little salt-and-pepper goatee beard stopped, tapped the sign in Logan’s hands and said, ‘I’m Faulds. You must be …?’
‘Er … DS McRae, sir.’
Was that an earring? It was: Chief Constable Faulds had a diamond earring twinkling away in his left ear.
Faulds stuck out his hand. ‘I take it DI Insch sent you?’ The accent wasn’t marked, just a hint of Brummie under the received pronunciation.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So let me guess: you’re not to tell me anything, and basically keep me out of the way. Yeah?’
‘No, sir. I’m just to give you a lift into town.’
‘Uh-huh. And that needed a detective sergeant?’ Faulds watched Logan wriggle for a moment then laughed. ‘Don’t worry: I used to do the same thing when top brass descended on me from other divisions. Last thing you want is some desk-jockey coming in and telling you how to run your investigation.’
‘Ah … OK … The car’s—’
‘Do you have a first name, Sergeant, or would that spoil your air of mystery?’
‘Logan, sir.’ He moved to pick up the Chief Constable’s bag, but Faulds waved him away.
‘I’m not a senior citizen yet, Logan.’
They crawled back into Aberdeen through the rush-hour, with Faulds on the phone, drawing Logan into a strange three-way conversation about the body parts they’d found the previous night.
‘What? Of course it’s raining: it’s Aberdeen … No, no I don’t think so, hold on …’ The Chief Constable stuck his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Do you have an ID for any of the victims?’
‘Not yet, we—’
‘Not gone through the missing persons database, or the DNA records?’
‘We only just found the remains, sir. They’re still frozen solid. The pathologist—’
And Faulds was back on the phone again. ‘No, they’ve not done the DNA yet … I know … You heard?… Yes. That’s what I thought.’ Back to Logan again. ‘You don’t need to defrost the whole thing – the sample you need for a DNA test should be small enough to come up to temperature in seconds. I’d better have a word with this pathologist of yours when we get in.’
‘Actually, sir, that might not be—’
But Faulds was back on the phone again. ‘Uh-huh … I think you’re right … Did he?’ Laughter. ‘Silly sod …’
He’d hung up by the time Logan was fighting through the long queue that trailed back from the Haudagain roundabout. Two lanes packed solid with cars and a bus lane full of orange cones. Faulds looked around at the collection of shiny new vehicles full of bored-looking people investigating the insides of their noses, while the drizzle drifted down. ‘Is this going to take long, Logan?’
‘Probably, sir. Apparently this is the worst roundabout in the country. Been questions raised about it in the Scottish Parliament.’
Faulds smiled. ‘About a roundabout? You whacky Jocks: and they said devolution wouldn’t work.’
‘They estimate it costs the local economy about thirty million a year. Sir.’
‘Thirty million, eh? That’s a lot of deep-fried haggis pies.’
Logan bit his tongue. Calling the chief constable a condescending wanker probably wasn’t the best career move.
They sat in uncomfortable silence, just the squeak of the windscreen wipers interrupting the stop-go of the motor as Logan inched the car forward. At least the bloody roundabout was in sight now.
And then Faulds burst out laughing. ‘You are so easy to wind up!’ He settled back in his seat. ‘Come on then, I know you’re dying to ask.’
‘Sir?’
Faulds just smiled at him.
‘Well … I was …’ Logan snuck a glance at his passenger: the clothes, the earring. ‘You’re not exactly what I expected, sir.’
‘You heard the words “Chief Constable” and you thought: doddery old fart with no sense of humour, who dresses up like a tailor’s dummy because he’s got an embarrassingly small penis and truncheon envy.’
‘Actually, I was wondering why someone as senior as you would come all the way up here to sit in on a local murder enquiry.’
‘Were you now?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Logan accelerated into the maelstrom of traffic, swung round the roundabout – trying not to get squashed by the articulated lorry heading straight for them – and finally they were on North Anderson Drive. Halleluiah! He put his foot down, overtaking a doddering old biddie in a clapped-out Mercedes. ‘I mean, why not send a DI, or a