Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

So they were no further forward on the ‘why now?’ front.

King returned from his sticky tarmac pacing. ‘Sergeant Winston can give us a patrol car now, but if we want an Operational Support Unit we’re going to have to wait till nine at the earliest.’

Nine?

‘Suppose we could hang around till then.’ Not exactly ideal, though. Logan unlocked the car and climbed in. Cranked up the air conditioning.

King got in the back. ‘What if he’s been and gone, by then? What if he hears we were at the prison?’

‘He’ll do a runner. Unless we go down there and stake her house out? Assuming he’s even there.’

Steel groaned her way into the passenger seat, shirt held open over the blowers as they pumped cold air into the car. ‘You lumpies are kidding, right? We’re no’ sodding about outside some manky wee house in Pit-bloody-medden till nine !’

‘At the earliest.’ King fastened his seatbelt, voice dripping with condescension. ‘This is what police work is like, Detective Sergeant Steel. Waiting. Watching. That’s how we catch people.’

She curled her lip at him. ‘Don’t patronise me, Kingy. I was running murder investigations while you were still in short trousers, sucking your mummy’s—’

‘All right,’ Logan held up a hand, ‘that’s enough. We’re staking out Mhari Powell’s house till backup arrives, and that’s an end to it.’

‘Nooo...’ She slumped in her seat. ‘Nine o’clock...’ A groan. ‘For the record: I hate the pair of you.’

In the rear-view mirror, King scowled. ‘Join the queue.’

Logan pulled up, two doors down, behind a half-empty skip, and killed the engine. Mhari Powell’s house was a bland cut-and-paste bungalow, hidden away in a curling cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Pitmedden. Brown-grey harling on the walls; grey, lichen-acned tiles on the roofs; satellite dishes like drooping mushrooms; backing onto woods and flanked by fields of brittle yellow barley.

King peered through from the back seat. ‘Which house?’

‘Number sixteen.’ Steel pointed. ‘The one with the dog rose and all the heathers.’

‘Hmm...’ He sniffed. ‘What kind of car was it again?’

‘God’s sake, try and pay attention, Kingy. White Nissan Micra.’ She swung her finger around to point at a rattletrap speckled with dents, parked on the lock-block drive. Orange-brown patches blistered through the paintwork all around the wheel arches. A ‘DON’T BLAME ME, I VOTED SNP!’ sticker on the boot. ‘That one. Now, does anyone have any more stupid questions?’

Logan checked his watch. ‘Ten past seven.’

‘Urgh...’ She slumped. ‘Two hours...’

‘At the earliest .’ King gave her a cold smile in the rear-view mirror. ‘Settle in, Sergeant, we’re here for the long haul.’

And at that, Steel curled forward and thunked her head off the dashboard. ‘Knew I should’ve gone into organised crime instead of the police.’

Logan thumped her arm. ‘Don’t whinge, we’re all doing it, aren’t we?’

‘Urgh!’

‘Oh let her sulk.’ King sat back again. ‘I wonder what happened to the rest of the bullion Gaelic Gary and his mates nicked. Two point six million... Course, you’d probably have to deduct the thirty-two grand of heroin they were going to buy machineguns with.’

‘If I’d gone into organised crime, I could be breaking someone’s kneecaps right now. Or snorting coke off a stripper’s pert buttocks.’

Logan stared at Steel. ‘Hello? Professional Standards, remember?’

‘Oh, like you’ve never dreamed about it.’

‘Certainly not.’ Well, that was at least half true.

King kept muttering away to himself. ‘Call it another eight grand in sundry expenses...’

‘OK, forget the cocaine.’ Steel waggled her eyebrows. ‘Have you ever dreamed about licking cheese spread off Ginger McHotpants’s pert buttocks?’

‘No! And stop calling her that.’

‘Primula’s good. But no’ the stuff with ham or prawns in it. The wee bits get places you’re no’ supposed to have wee bits.’

‘Can you please stop talking now?’

King chuntered on in the ensuing silence. ‘Even then, that leaves two point one million pounds. Wonder what that’d be in today’s money?’ He got his phone out and fiddled with it.

‘OK, so you’re no’ into squeezy cheese. How about Nutella? You could—’

‘No!’

‘Gah!’ Steel folded her arms. ‘Two hours stuck in a car with Police Scotland’s answer to root-canal surgery.’

More silence.

‘Wow... It’d be worth over eight million today.’ King leaned through from the back again and tapped Logan on the shoulder. ‘And they never found it? Not any of it?’

‘Not a penny.’

‘Well, if I’m no’ allowed to talk about squeezy cheese, buttocks, or Nutella, why don’t we discuss how much of a waste of my sodding time it is sitting in this car with you pair of bumnuggets?’

King glowered at her. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel, if you’re not prepared to behave like an adult , why don’t we all just sit here in awkward silence?’

‘Suits me.’

Oh joy.

Pff...

So far, the only exciting thing that’d happened was a little old lady taking her Great Dane for a walk. Other than that, sod all for the last — Logan checked his watch — thirty-five minutes? Was that all? It felt like hours. And hours. And hours.

Steel was slumped in the reclined passenger seat, eyes closed, mouth open, making the occasional snuffling grunt.

King loosened his tie and sighed.

Thirty-five minutes.

Logan turned and stuck a hand between the front seats at King. ‘Lend us your jacket, Frank: I’m going to check on our backup.’

There was a pause, then King shrugged, picked up his jacket and passed it forward.

Steel didn’t even open her eyes as Logan climbed out into the evening warmth: ‘Get me some fizzy juice while you’re out. And crisps. And some sort of dirty magazine!’

No chance.

Logan clunked the door shut.

A lone buzzard screamed out its cry overhead, circling in the rich blue of the sky.

He pulled King’s jacket on, hiding the Police-Scotland-issue black T-shirt with its epaulettes and inspector’s pips. Not the greatest of disguises — a bit baggy and long in the sleeves, to be honest — but it would do.

Not walking too fast, or too slow, as if he was just an ordinary member of the public, out for a stroll in an ill-fitting borrowed suit jacket.

He took a left at the end of the street, onto another road lined with bungalow clones in shades of brown and grey. Not rundown yet, but heading that way.

A Yorkshire terrier scampered past, going in the other direction, chased by a young boy with his hair in pigtails, an X-Men T-shirt, and a cape that looked as if it’d been improvised from a bath towel.

Odds on, Tufty dressed like that most weekends.

A right at the junction with the main road and there was the patrol car Ellon had lent them. A pair of uniforms were relaxing in the front seats, stabproofs off and piled up in the back with their equipment belts, windows rolled down, one scoofing from a tin of Irn-Bru, the other eating a chocolate bar.

Nice for some.

Logan knocked on the car’s roof, then peered in through the passenger window. ‘You lot Sergeant Winston’s?’

The guy in the driving seat lowered his Fruit & Nut. ‘Oh aye. Inspector McRae? I seen youse in the papers.’ A toothy smile. ‘Fit like the day?’

‘Not meaning to be funny or anything, but if our boy’s not home already, do you think he’s going to toddle past you pair without noticing? In your big shiny patrol car? With the big lights on the roof? And the word “Police” down the side in big shiny letters?’