‘Then go digging, Logan. Go digging. Because if we’re going to stand up there and say he’s clean, he damn well better be.’
Ah, the delights of Interview Room Three, with its stained ceiling tiles, scraped walls, and a chipped Formica table covered in badly spelled biro graffiti. It was enough to make you nostalgic for the good old days.
The blinds were open, letting sunlight flood the room, glinting off the recording equipment and the camera mounted in the corner above the door.
For a change, Logan sat on the suspect side of the table – the one where the chairs were bolted to the floor, the one facing the camera, the one where the window was behind him. Meaning that Detective Constable Collins, had to sit opposite, squinting against the sunlight, sweat prickling out across his forehead, the stains under his arms darkening as he wriggled and fidgeted. Wee Bernie Collins: a shaved chimp in a brown shirt, his tie hanging loose like a Labrador’s tongue.
Logan gave him a reassuring smile. ‘It’s OK, Bernie; nothing to worry about. I’m trying to get a feel for DI King’s management style, that’s all; talking to people who’ve worked with him. You were on a team of his eight months ago, right? That attempted murder in Kemnay?’
‘Erm …’ Bernie’s eyes drifted up to the camera in the corner.He licked his lips. Blinked a couple of times. ‘Sorry, what was the question again?’
Ladies and gentlemen: Aberdeen’s finest.
‘How do you think DI King gets on with his English colleagues?’
Wrinkles appeared across that sweaty head. ‘What, other forces down south?’ Sometimes, with Wee Bernie, it was difficult to tell if he was being obtuse, or genuinely thick.
‘No, his colleagues here. Ones who’re English. Does he treat them differently?’
‘Oh.’ The wrinkles deepened. ‘He doesn’t like Soapy Halstead much. But then Soapy’s a bit of a wanker, so no one does. He likes Milky, though, and she’s all “Eee-bah-goom”, flat caps, and whippets.’ A shrug of simian shoulders. ‘Other than that? Nah, King was a good boss.’
Heather squinted against the sunlight and scooted her chair over a bit, till Logan’s shadow fell across her face. Then leaned back in her chair. ‘Ooh, now you’re asking.’ She brushed the grey fringe from her eyes. ‘Not so I’ve noticed. I mean, you wouldn’t, would you? Because he isn’t.’ A pause stretched for a couple of breaths. ‘That I know of, anyway.’
Nothing like covering your own arse.
Logan tilted his head to one side, exposing Heather to the light again. ‘OK: what about these arson attacks, has he said anything about them?’
She shoogled her chair over a bit more. ‘Only that he really hopes it isn’t domestic terrorism, or Spevoo are going to be all over us like a wet cocker spaniel.’
OK, no idea. ‘Spevoo?’
‘Scottish Preventing Extremism Violence Unit. Spevoo. You know what these specialist task forces are like – they’ve seen one too many episodes of NCIS and think they’re all Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs.’ Heather scrunched her face up. ‘When most of them barely qualify as Timothy McGee. And I mean Season One, Timothy McGee, not Season Fourteen.’
He had to ask, didn’t he?
Detective Constable Sharon ‘Milky’ Way chewed on the inside of her cheek for a bit. ‘What, you mean like, “is he a racist?”’
‘Has he ever done, or said, something that’s made you feel uncomfortable?’
‘This is DI King we’re talking ’bout, in’t it?’ She frowned at Logan. ‘Why are you asking?’
Logan shrugged, the sunlight warm against his back. ‘You know what things are like these days. We just want to make sure everyone’s supported at work and no one’s feeling—’
‘“Uncomfortable”. Yes, you said.’ She sat back in her seat. ‘King’s OK, but I’ll tell you who does make us feel uncomfortable: Detective Sergeant Brogan. Him with Kevin Keegan perm and permanent sniff. Always ogles me boobs when he thinks I’m not looking, every – single – time.’
‘Does he now?’ Logan got out his notebook and wrote, ‘TALK TO DS BROGAN ABOUT SEXUAL HARASSMENT IN THE WORKPLACE!’ then underlined it three times. ‘I’ll have to have a word with him about that.’
‘And make sure you tell him twas me tipped you off. Disgusting sniffy little pervert that he is.’
DS Robertson made a big show of thinking about it. Serious frown. Fingertips stroking his bony chin. A whippet in a charity-shop suit, with horrible sideburns, and droopy eyes.
Logan sighed. ‘Come on, Henry: you worked with him on the Martin Shanks investigation, didn’t you?’
Robertson shuddered. ‘Don’t remind me. And before you say anything, the internal inquiry cleared us both, OK?’
‘Does DI King treat his English team members differently or not? It’s a simple enough question.’
‘Oh yes, it’s a simple enough question, it’s the answer that’s complicated. See, there’s no way I want to land someone in it with the Rubber Heelers.’ He raised a stick-insect hand. ‘No offence. And there’s no way I’m lying to the Rubber Heelers either.’ The hand went up again. ‘No offence. But you people make me nervous, you know?’
‘Just be honest and you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ It was an effort keeping the reassuring smile in place, but Logan did his best.
‘Hmmm … Well, he doesn’t like Soapy very much, but neither does anyone else. He’s even more of a tosser than your lot.’ Up went the hand.
‘Yeah, I know: no offence.’
PC Oliver ‘Soapy’ Halstead lounged in his seat, looking at Logan with one eyebrow raised, as if that was the stupidest question he’d ever been asked. Oh the arrogance of youth. Only twenty-four and he was clearly under the impression that he already knew everything about everything, with his neat little beard, architect’s glasses, and Young Conservative haircut. Even his loosened tie looked arrogant. Probably didn’t help that his Home Counties accent made him sound as if he was sneering at everything: ‘Oh no, I haven’t seen anything like that, Inspector. When we’re out arresting the great unwashed, we are a unit. A team. A tightly knit band of brothers, if you will.’
Logan tried not to sigh, he really did. ‘Because I wouldn’t want you to think you couldn’t talk to me, or one of my colleagues, if someone was making you feel uncomfortable.’
‘Oh, dear me, no.’ He had a little preen. ‘I think you’ll find that I’m quite capable of fighting my own battles, thank you very much.’
Logan stared back at him.
Silence.
Halstead shifted in his seat. Picked at the tabletop. Cleared his throat.
More silence.
‘All right, I admit that it can be a bit … challenging from time to time.’ He straightened the cuffs on his pinstriped shirt. ‘I see how members of the public look at me sometimes. There I am, arresting some drug-addled junkie who’s been sick all over himself, and they’re looking down their nose at me, because I’m English and I’ve had a decent education? That hardly seems fair, does it?’
The arrogant expression had slipped, replaced by one that looked a bit … sad. And disappointed. And a little hurt. Maybe ‘Soapy’ wasn’t quite the dick that everyone thought?
‘You do know that you can report hate crimes against you, Oliver? We won’t put up with that stuff.’
He waved