WPC Watson shouted something, but Logan wasn’t listening. There was a crashing sound and the hand holding him let go. Logan collapsed onto the carpet, curling into a ball around his burning stomach. An angry shout, followed by WPC Watson yelling that she was going to break Mr Reid’s arm if he didn’t calm down.
Mr Reid cried out in pain.
The floral battleship screamed, ‘Charlie! Stop it for God’s sake!’
WPC Watson said something highly unprofessional and after that everyone was silent.
The patrol car flashed across Anderson Drive, siren blaring. Logan sat in the passenger seat, his face grey and clammy, hands wrapped around his stomach, teeth gritted at every bump and pothole.
Mr Charles Reid was strapped in the back, seatbelt done up over his handcuffed wrists. He looked scared.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry! Oh God, I’m so sorry!’
WPC Watson screeched the car to a halt in front of Accident and Emergency. In one of the spots marked ‘AMBULANCES ONLY’. She helped Logan out of the car as if he was made of glass, pausing only to tell Mr Reid, ‘Keep your damn arse in that car till I come back or I’ll have your guts for garters!’ Just to be safe she plipped on the alarm, locking him in the car.
They made it all the way to the reception area before Logan passed out.
Grampian Police Headquarters. The building was grey concrete and glass, a seven-storey tower block, topped by emergency broadcast systems and radio antennas, tucked out of the way at the end of Queen Street, right next door to the Sheriff Court, opposite the grey, granite wedding cake of Marischal College and just around the corner from the Arts Centre, a mock-Roman temple thrown up by the Victorians. Force HQ was a testament to the developer’s love of ugly buildings. But it was a stone’s throw from the Town House, council chambers and about a dozen pubs.
Pubs, churches and rain. Three things Aberdeen had in abundance.
The sky above was dark and low, the sodium glow of the streetlights giving the early morning a jaundiced feel, as if the streets were unwell. Last night’s torrential downpour hadn’t let up at all, the heavy raindrops bouncing back off the slick pavements. The drains were already overflowing.
Buses grumbled their way along the road, sending up fountains of spray for anyone daft enough to be out on a day like this.
Cursing, Logan gripped his overcoat closed with one hand and wished a fiery death on all bus-driving bastards. He’d had a bloody awful night: a punch in the guts followed by three hours being prodded and poked by doctors at Accident and Emergency. They’d finally turfed him out into the cold, driving rain at quarter past five this morning with a bottle of painkillers and an elasticated bandage.
He’d managed a whole hour’s sleep.
Logan squelched into the Queen Street lobby, and stood dripping at the curved reception desk. His flat was less than two minutes’ walk away, but he was still soaking.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said a pointy-faced desk sergeant Logan didn’t recognize, from behind the glass partition. ‘Can I help?’ He put on his polite smile and Logan sighed.
‘Morning, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘I was supposed to be working with DI McPherson—’
The polite smile vanished as soon as the desk sergeant realized Logan wasn’t a member of the public.
‘You’ll have a hard job: knife in the head.’ He made stabbing motions and Logan tried not to flinch. ‘Are you. . .’ He consulted a pad on the desk, flipping the pages back and forward until he found what he was looking for. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae?’
Logan admitted that he was, flashing his warrant card to prove it.
‘Aye,’ said the desk sergeant, his face not moving a muscle. ‘Very pretty. You’re to report to DI Insch. He’s giving a briefing. . .’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘Five minutes ago.’ The smile flashed again. ‘He doesn’t like it when people are late.’
Logan was twelve minutes late for the seven-thirty briefing. The room was filled with serious-looking police men and women, and all of them snapped around to look at him as he crept around the door, closing it gently behind him. At the front of the room DI Insch – a large, bald man in a brand new suit – stopped in mid-sentence and scowled as Logan limped his way across to an empty seat in the front row.
‘As I was saying,’ the inspector glowered at Logan, ‘the preliminary pathologist’s report puts the time of death around three months ago. Three months is a long time for forensic evidence to hang around a crime scene, especially in the pissing rain. But that doesn’t mean we’re not going to look for it. Fingertip search: half-mile radius from where the body was found.’
A groan went up from the inspector’s audience. It was a lot of ground to cover and there was no chance of them finding anything. Not after three months. And it was still chucking it down outside. This was going to be a long, wet, shitty job.
‘I know it’s a pain in the arse,’ said DI Insch, digging in his pocket for a jelly baby. He examined it, blew the fluff off, and popped it in his mouth. ‘But I don’t care. This is a three-year-old boy we’re talking about. We will catch the bastard that did it. No fuck-ups. Understand?’
He paused, challenging the room to say anything to the contrary.
‘Good. And while we’re on the subject of fucking up: someone tipped off the Press and Journal last night that we’d found David Reid’s body.’ He held up a copy of that morning’s paper. The headline screamed: ‘MURDERED TODDLER FOUND!’. The front page was split between a photograph of David Reid’s smiling face and one of the SOC tent, lit up from within by the police photographer’s flash. The tent’s occupants were silhouetted against the plastic walls.
‘They called the mother for a quote—’ his voice rose and his expression darkened ‘—before we could tell the poor cow her son was dead!’
Insch slammed the paper down on top of the desk. Angry murmurs came from the crowd.
‘You can all expect a visit from Professional Standards over the next couple of days. But believe me,’ said DI Insch, slowly and deliberately, ‘their witch-hunt is going to look like a teddy bears’ picnic compared to mine. When I find out who did this I will screw them to the ceiling by their testicles!’
He took a moment to scowl at everyone.
‘Right, today’s assignments.’ The inspector perched a buttock on the edge of the desk and read out the names: who was going door-to-door, who was searching the riverbank, who was staying behind to answer the phones. The only name he didn’t read out was that of Detective Sergeant Logan McRae.
‘And before you go,’ said Insch, raising his arms as if he was about to bless his congregation, ‘I would like to remind you that tickets for this year’s pantomime are now on sale at the front desk. Make sure you buy one!’
The troops shuffled out, those on telephone-answering duty lording it over the poor sods who’d spend the rest of the day trudging through the rain. Logan hovered at the back of the queue, hoping to recognize someone. A year off on the sick and there wasn’t a single face he could put a name to.
The inspector spotted him loitering and called him over.
‘What happened last night?’ he asked as the last PC departed, leaving them alone in the briefing room.
Logan pulled out his notebook and began to read: ‘The body was discovered at ten-fifteen p.m., by one Duncan Nicholson—’
‘Not what I meant.’ DI Insch settled on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. With his large build, bald head and new suit, he looked like a well-dressed