Стюарт Макбрайд - The Blood Road

‘Guv?’

‘Yeah, I need you to get me everything you can about Fred Marshall: dental records, hospital X-rays, everything.’

‘And do you want that before or after the other four million things you’ve asked me to do?’

‘Thanks, Simon.’ He hung up, and had almost got the phone back in his pocket when it dinged at him.

HORRIBLE STEEL:

Stop being such a dick. They’re your kids too — wouldn’t kill you to babysit the little monsters now and then!

He thumbed out a reply.

I’m not being a dick, I’m busy. I have plans. And I babysat them two nights ago, you ungrateful lump.

Logan closed the case file.

Ding:

OK: you can bring Ginger McHotpants with you as long as you don’t leave dirty heterosexual stains on the couch again.

Reply:

That was hummus and you know it. And I’m busy. Find someone else.

And with any luck, that would be that.

Logan called up the inter-department contact list on his steam-powered computer. ‘Right: exhumation.’

‘OK. Thanks. Bye.’ Logan hung up and pocketed his phone. Swaggered over to the whiteboard and put a big red tick next to the words ‘EXHUMATION REQUEST’.

The other whiteboard was covered in maps; post-mortem photos; photos of a burned-out caravan in a clearing somewhere; and photos of a large, hairy, middle-aged man. DI Duncan Bell. Heavy, rounded shoulders, a thick pelt of hair on his head, more hair escaping from the neck of his shirt. Skin like boiled tripe.

Logan dumped the pen back in the tray beneath the whiteboard and grabbed his fleece. Pushed through into the corridor.

A couple of support staff were gossiping outside the stationery cupboard. Both of them shrank back as he passed, their voices dropped to hushed whispers.

He nodded and kept going.

So what if they were all terrified of him. Wasn’t his fault, was it? Just because he worked for Professional Standards now, that didn’t make him a monster. Not often anyway.

The stairwell echoed with the sound of laughter, coming from one of the landings above.

Logan headed downward, digging out his car keys with one hand and... Stopped.

DI Fraser came marching up the stairs — late twenties, not that tall, in a black denim shirt-dress. Black leather jacket. Long red hair with a pair of sunglasses perched on the top. Massive handbag. She was trailing a pair of plainclothes officers. One, a small wrinkly woman in a wrinkly suit. Hair like someone had run over Albert Einstein with a ride-on lawn mower. The other, a thin short-arse in the full Police Scotland ninja-black uniform, with a ginger buzz-cut and a pointy nose. Detective Sergeant Steel and Police Constable Quirrel. North East Division’s answer to Blackadder and Baldrick.

All three froze as soon as they saw Logan, making a strange mini-me tableau there on the stairs.

He gave them a smile. ‘Ah, Kim, I was on my way to see you.’

DI Fraser narrowed her eyes. ‘Were you now?’

He nodded at her miniature friends. ‘Roberta, Tufty.’

Tufty beamed back. ‘Hi, Sarge. I mean, Inspector . Sorry, force of habit.’

Steel made a cross with her fingers, as if she was trying to ward off vampires, and hissed at him like an angry cat.

‘OK...’ He turned back to Fraser instead. ‘You’re running the Ellie Morton case. Can we have a word?’

‘I’m a bit busy trying to track down a missing three-year-old.’

Logan stayed where he was. Saying nothing.

She rolled her eyes and slumped. ‘Urgh... Go on then.’

‘Somewhere a bit more private?’

Fraser snapped her fingers. ‘Tufty: one tea, so milky it’s borderline offensive; two coffees, one with sugar, one black. Roberta: go chase up the media office about that appeal.’

Tufty scurried away, but Steel lingered.

‘ Now , Roberta.’

Another hiss, and Steel stomped off back down the stairs.

‘And stop hissing at people!’ Fraser grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘She’s upset because I won’t babysit tonight.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What’s happening with Ellie Morton?’

‘Why?’

‘You put in a complaint about DS Chalmers.’

‘Ah.’ Pink flushed Fraser’s cheeks. She cleared her throat. ‘Maybe we should talk about this in private.’

Photos covered Fraser’s office walls. Most were family gatherings, but pride of place went to a big portrait of a black Labrador by the name of Maggie, going by the plaque mounted on the frame.

Fraser dumped her huge handbag on the desk and settled into the chair behind it. ‘Ellie Morton went missing Monday morning. The mother leaves her alone in the back garden and nips to the shops for a pack of fags and four tins of own-brand lager. It’s a Co-op at the end of the street: so a five-minute trip, tops. She stops to talk to a friend on the way back, which means Ellie — and I can’t stress this strongly enough — a three-year-old girl was left unsupervised for approximately twenty, twenty-five minutes.’

Logan leaned against the short row of filing cabinets. ‘Forensics?’

‘Nothing useful. No fingerprints, no footprints, no sign of fibres or a struggle. Garden backs onto a path that sees a fair bit of traffic.’ Fraser dug her iPhone out of The Gargantuan Handbag Of Doom and fiddled with it. ‘You know what it’s like with child abduction cases: if you don’t get a major break in the first twenty-four hours...’ Was she Tweeting? ‘No one saw Ellie run away, no one saw someone take her. We’ve got a few reports of a red car, or maybe a blue one, estate and-slash-or hatchback in the vicinity, but that’s it.’

‘And DS Chalmers?’

A hard sigh. ‘I thought she’d turned herself around, I really did. Yes, she’s always been ambitious, driven, but... I don’t know.’ Fraser put her phone down. ‘I ask her to go interview someone, she doesn’t do it. I tell her to do door-to-doors, she never shows up. I order her to help search the neighbourhood sheds and garages, she goes AWOL.’

No surprises there, then.

‘Where is she now?’

‘Tillydrone: breaking the stepfather’s alibi. Or at least she’s supposed to be. God knows, half the time.’

Logan softened his voice. ‘What happens when you talk to her about it?’

‘Might as well paint a penguin on your willy and call it Antarctica. She’s sorry; she’ll change; she’s going through a rough time right now.’ Fraser reached into her desk drawer and produced a blue folder. Thumped it on the desk. ‘I documented every infraction, every meeting, and every outcome.’

‘You should’ve come to me earlier.’

‘I know, I know. But... sometimes they just need a slap on the wrist. Getting your lot involved isn’t...’ She went back to fiddling with her phone again. ‘They’re still my people.’

‘Professional Standards aren’t here to screw people, Kim. We’re here to help.’ Logan picked up the folder and stuck it under his arm. ‘Do you still want her in your team?’

Fraser kept her eyes on her phone’s screen. ‘I... We’re looking for a wee girl, Inspector McRae. We can’t afford to lose this time.’ She finally looked up. ‘And loyalty has to go both ways.’

Why did everything require nine million forms to be completed in triplicate? Couldn’t go for a pee in the police without a Three-Sixty-Nine B, two corroborating witnesses, and a—

Logan’s phone dinged.

HORRIBLE STEEL:

Look, how about a compromise? You babysit J&N tonight and I’ll look after Cthulhu if you want to take Ginger McHotpants on a dirty weekend later.

Reply:

No. And stop calling her ”Ginger McHotpants”!