.

Ma’am.’ He turned the taps on above the little sink and washed his hands. ‘I’d give it five minutes if I were you.’

      McGregor narrowed her eyes. ‘Infested.’ Then she turned and marched down the corridor. ‘Logan: heel.’

      Logan followed her through the main office with its collection of new people – all bashing away at the phones and laptops – out and round into the stairwell – where a lumpy man in a lumpier suit was blethering away into his mobile – and up the winding wooden steps to the first floor. Where they had to squeeze past two officers womanhandling a desk along the landing.

      McGregor led the way through a blue door that had ‘BANFF & BUCHAN INSPECTOR’ printed out on a laminated sheet of paper on it, mounted beneath a removable brass nameplate: ‘WENDY MCGREGOR ~ INSPECTOR’.

      As soon as Logan was inside, she slammed it shut.

      Just like the Fraserburgh Inspectors’ Office, there were a pair of corkboards mounted on opposite walls. One with a map of B Division, the other a street map of Banff and Macduff. But where Fraserburgh was all beech units and sleek modern lines, this one had the same high ceilings as the rest of the station, fancy cornices, and a moulded ceiling rose. Two windows sat in the corner of the room, the left-hand one giving a rain-streaked view of the street, the one straight ahead overlooking the car park and the bay.

      She stamped across the blue carpet and hurled herself into the seat behind her desk. ‘They’re like … bloody … vermin! They’ve eaten all the Maltesers from the vending machine, we can’t keep milk in the fridge,’ she leaned forwards and jabbed a finger against her mouse mat, ‘and I had a whole malt loaf here yesterday. Now there’s nothing left but the wrapper. There’s not even crumbs; they licked it clean!’

      Logan stood to attention. Kept his mouth shut.

      Probably safest. Just in case she felt like lashing out at someone. Best not to give her an excuse.

      ‘I want them gone, Logan.’ She swivelled left and right in her chair. ‘I want them gone.’

      Waves surged along the darkened beach.

      She hissed out a breath, then spread her hands along the desk. ‘DI Steel has put in a formal request to the Area Commander. She wants you seconded to her Major Investigation Team for the duration.’

      The crafty, conniving, manipulative, old bag. So that’s why Steel was so keen to share the credit for identifying Peter Shepherd and Martin Milne. She wanted Logan running around after her again, solving her cases, doing her job for her. Just like the bad old days.

      That or she wanted to keep him close, so she could torture him.

      ‘Yeah… Erm… About that, Guv, I mean, I’ve got a division to run.’ He held up a hand. ‘I’m not saying Peterhead, Fraserburgh, and Mintlaw can’t look after themselves, but we both know they need a grown-up in charge to make sure they’re not all off eating Plasticine and sticking marbles up their noses.’

      ‘Steel says you’ve proven yourself a valuable resource in progressing the case.’

      ‘And then there’s the dunt.’ He shifted his feet on the standard-issue blue carpet tiles. ‘We need to get set for bashing in Ricky Welsh’s door and—’

      ‘She says your experience and local knowledge is an invaluable asset.’

      ‘It’s simply not possible. I need to be here so we can—’

      ‘I want them gone, Logan.’

      ‘But—’

      McGregor leaned forward. ‘I – want – them – gone!’ Jabbing the desk with every word. ‘As I see it, letting the DCI borrow you means her bunch of noisy, messy, smelly, sticky vermin get out of my station that much sooner.’

      ‘But the division…?’

      McGregor sat back in her seat. ‘Sergeant Stubbs will fill in for you as Duty Sergeant. She’s been moaning about getting more responsibility: let’s see how she likes having to supervise every station from Portsoy to Cruden Bay. That should shut her up for a bit.’

      ‘Great. So my job’s a punishment now?’

      ‘Hopefully. And someone needs to run your team here.’

      Sod standing to attention. Logan slumped into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘What about Laura and Ricky Welsh?’

      ‘I was thinking Nicholson could act up while you’re away. She’s done her sergeant’s exam, it’ll be a good development opportunity for her.’

      He let his head fall back. There was a dirty big spider, wandering across the ceiling rose. ‘But it was my dunt.’

      ‘A major drugs raid is probably a bit much for Nicholson’s first full day in the role. You’d better hand everything over to Sergeant Ashton when she gets on at three. She can green-shift it.’

      ‘Gagh…’ Logan’s arms dangled at his sides, fingertips brushing the carpet. ‘Please?’

      ‘Oh don’t be such a baby. Get out there, find Martin Milne, and get him banged up. The sooner you do, the sooner my station gets fumigated.’

      Calamity’s eyes widened as she settled into Logan’s seat. She ran her hands along the desk. ‘Really?’

      ‘Don’t get too comfy, it’s only till I can wriggle out of the MIT.’ Logan leaned back against the firearms store door. ‘Sergeant Stubbs is your new Duty Sergeant, she’ll keep you right. And Sergeant Ashton will run the dunt on Sunday night. Other than that: it’s all yours.’

      A nod. ‘Stubby and Beaky, got you.’ Then she curled her lip and sniffed. ‘Has something died in here?’

      Logan narrowed his eyes. ‘Not yet, but it can be arranged.’

      She was right, though: the place did have a whiff of mouldy sausages about it. To be honest, the Sergeants’ Office wasn’t the nicest room in the station. It needed a coat of paint for a start: the magnolia was peeling off around the skirting boards and cornices, and the high ceiling had a suspicious coffee-coloured stain spreading out from one corner. Hopefully not from the male toilets on the floor above.

      Two desks were jammed in, back to back, each with its own manky old computer, in-tray, and phone. A line of body-worn video units blinked away in the holder, lined up like dominos. The station’s only CCTV monitor lurked on its mount in the corner, with views of the empty cellblocks and public areas in ten little windows.

      Not exactly homey.

      ‘If anything happens you can give me a ring. But as of now, you’re acting up.’

      She stroked the desk again and lowered her voice to a hissing whisper, ‘My precioussssssssssss…’

      ‘And make sure you keep an eye on Tufty. He’s not had a complaint against him in four months, let’s keep it that way. And if he starts banging on about time and entropy, you have my permission to kick his—’ Logan’s phone rang and he pulled it out. ‘Hold on.’ Then pressed the button. ‘McRae.’

      ‘Yeah, hi, Mr McRae. It’s John?’

      Took a moment, but then it clicked. John Urquhart. Wee Hamish’s designated driver. ‘Give me a minute.’ He held his hand over the microphone and grimaced at Calamity. ‘Got to take this.’ Then slipped out of the door, through the bedlam of the main office, past the stairwell, down the corridor, and into the old cellblock.

      Pale blue walls, grey-blue floor, an ancient wooden desk/unit thing, and two cells.

      No sign of Steel’s sticky minions.

      Better safe than sorry, though. Logan pulled open the door to cell number two and slipped inside. It was a small magnolia box of a room, with a glass-brick window and grey-painted concrete floor. The blue plastic mattress had been propped up against