A wave of silence went through the room and Logan looked up to see DI Insch walking up to the counter for his usual: scotch broth, macaroni cheese and chips, jam sponge and custard.
‘Please God,’ said Logan under his breath, ‘let him sit somewhere else. . .’
But Insch took one look round the canteen, fixed his eyes on Logan and made a beeline for his table.
‘Afternoon, sir.’ Logan pushed the half-eaten lasagne away.
To his immense relief DI Insch just grunted a hello and started in on his soup. And when that was all gone he launched himself at the macaroni, drowning the chips in salt and vinegar, smothering the cheesy pasta with black pepper. Munch, munch, munch.
Logan felt daft, just sitting there, watching the inspector eat. So he poked at his lasagne with a fork. Breaking down the layers into a big homogeneous mush. ‘Got the bloodwork back on the little dead girl,’ he said at last. ‘She was pumped full of painkillers. Temazepam mostly.’
Insch’s eyebrow shot up.
‘It wasn’t enough to kill her. Not an overdose or anything, but it looked like she’d been on them for a while. The lab thinks it would have kept her spaced out. Docile.’
The last of the pasta disappeared into Insch and a chip used to mop up the remaining, vinegar-laced, cheese sauce. He chewed thoughtfully. ‘Interesting,’ he said at last. ‘Anything else?’
‘She had TB at some point.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Insch stacked his empty plate on top of the soup bowl and pulled his dessert to centre stage. ‘Not that many places in the UK you can still catch TB. Get onto the health boards. It’s a notifiable disease. If our girl had it she’ll be on their lists.’ He scooped up a spoonful of custard and sponge, a smile on his lips. ‘About bloody time we got some good luck.’
Logan didn’t say anything.
Matthew Oswald had worked for the council for six months, straight out of school with fewer qualifications than his mother had been hoping for. His father didn’t care that much. He’d never got a qualification in his life and it hadn’t done him any harm, had it? So Matthew picked up his lunchbox and went to work for Aberdeen City Council’s sanitation department.
The life of a scaffy wasn’t as bad as a lot of people thought. You got out in the fresh air, the guys were a laugh, the pay wasn’t that bad, and if you screwed up nobody died. And, since the invention of the wheelie-bin, there wasn’t much heavy lifting. Not like in the old days, as Jamey, the driver of their wagon, liked to say.
So, all in all, life was OK. A bit of money in the bank, mates at work and a new girlfriend who wasn’t shy about letting him get his hand up her jumper.
And then came the offer of overtime. He should have said no, but more cash meant a season ticket to the football. Matthew lived for Aberdeen Football Club. Which was why he was now dressed in a blue plastic boiler suit, black Wellington boots, thick black rubber gloves, safety goggles and a breathing mask. The only skin showing was where his forehead didn’t quite fit under the boiler suit’s elasticated hood. He looked like something out of the X-Files and was sweating like a bastard.
The sleet pounding down out of the dark grey sky didn’t make any difference to the sweat running down his back and into his boxers. But there was no way in hell he was taking the damn rubber rompersuit off!
Grunting, he lifted the shovel up to shoulder height and stuffed another load of rotting carcasses into the huge waste container. Everything stank of death. Even through the breathing mask he could smell it. Rotting meat. Vomit. He’d lost his breakfast and lunch yesterday. Not today though. Today he’d kept his Weetabix where they were supposed to be.
All bloody day yesterday and all bloody day today. And from the look of it all bloody day tomorrow. Shovelling up dead animals.
The filthy bastard who owned the place was standing in the doorway to one of the steadings, the one they’d cleared out yesterday. He didn’t seem to notice the sleet either, just stood there in a ratty jumper looking miserable as his sicko collection was carted away.
Matthew had seen his dad’s paper this morning. Some parents in Garthdee had beaten the shite out of the bloke for hanging round their kids’ school. The man’s face was a patchwork of purple-and-green bruises. Served him fucking right, thought Matthew as he trudged back through the sleet for another shovelful of rotting corpses.
They were almost halfway through the pile in this building. One-and-a-half down, one-and-a-half to go. Then it would be a long shower, a season ticket and drinking till he puked. He was going to get so wasted when this was over!
Thinking such happy thoughts, Matthew rammed his shovel into the mound of festering meat and fur. The pile slithered and slipped as he worked. Cats and dogs and seagulls and crows and fuck knows what else. Gritting his teeth, he hefted the mound of dead things on the end of his shovel. And then he saw it.
Matthew opened his mouth to say something – to call over the nervous bloke from the council who was supposed to be running things here, tell him what he’d found. But what came out was a high-pitched scream.
He dropped his shovelful of dead things and raced outside, slipping, slithering, falling to his knees; ripping off his breathing mask, throwing up his Weetabix into the snow.
Logan was parked on the other side of the road from the Turf ’n Track, watching the betting shop through the sleet and a pair of binoculars. The weather was horrendous. The delicate fall of snow he’d seen this morning had let up for a while and then this had started. Thick globs of sleet hammering down out of the filthy sky, cold and wet and treacherous. It was already getting dark.
He’d phoned every health authority in the country, asking them for details of any little girls they’d treated for TB in the last four years. Like DI Insch he was optimistic; this should be a straightforward bit of policing. She’d had TB and now she was better. Which meant that she must have been treated at one of the health authorities. She’d be on their books. And Logan would have a name.
The latest jingly jangly tune finished on the radio and the DJ announced the mid-afternoon news. Logan stuffed an extra strong mint into his mouth and turned it up slightly.
‘Closing arguments continue today in the case of Gerald Cleaver, the fifty-six-year-old from Manchester accused of sexual abuse while working as a male nurse at Aberdeen Children’s Hospital. With almost three weeks of testimony behind them, most of which has been extremely graphic and disturbing, the jury is expected to retire late tomorrow evening. Police security has been stepped up following a number of threats to Cleaver’s life. Cleaver’s lawyer, Mr Moir-Farquharson, who has himself been the target of death threats during the trial, was assaulted two nights ago when someone threw a bucket of pig’s blood over him.’
Logan gave a small cheer and a one-man Mexican wave in the driver’s seat of the rusty pool car.
‘I will not be intimidated by the work of a tiny, misdirected, minority.’ The new voice was Sandy the Snake’s. ‘We have to make sure that justice is done here—’
Logan drowned out the rest with booing and loud raspberries.
There was movement across the road and he sat up straight, peering through his binoculars. The front door to the shop opened and Desperate Doug stuck his head out, took one look at the weather and stuck his head back in again. Thirty seconds later Winchester, the large Alsatian who’d been desperate to take a chunk out of Logan yesterday, was unceremoniously booted out into the sleet. The dog tried to get back in, was belted with Dougie’s walking stick,