‘After your performance last year, you’re lucky to still have a job, never mind be involved in a major enquiry. What, did you think the magic career pixies put you on the Oedipus case? Because they didn’t.’ Finnie poked him again. ‘You had experience with serial weirdoes and I thought, I actually thought you might take this opportunity to get your head out your backside and turn your train-wreck life around. Was I wrong? Are you the complete cock-up everyone says you are?’
Logan ground his teeth, took a deep breath, and said, ‘No, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘And?’
‘It won’t happen again?’
‘That’s not what I meant – when are they going to get the results back from the rape kit…’ He stopped and frowned at the evidence bag in Logan’s hand. ‘Is that a glass?’ Finnie grabbed the bag and held it up to the light. ‘Why have you got a glass?’
‘We don’t have an ID for the victim, and I didn’t have a fingerprint kit with me, so I thought—’
‘You see? That’s exactly the kind of nonsense I’m talking about. We have officers posted here twenty-four-seven, do you think they might – just – have a fingerprint kit? Hmm? Do you think?’ He stared at Logan for a beat. ‘Well, go get it then.’ He held out the evidence bag. ‘And take your Junior Detective Set with you.’
By the time the fingerprint results came back from the lab, it was nearly half past two and Logan was back at his desk in CID, crunching on an indigestion tablet. That’s what he got for microwaving vegetable curry for lunch. And now he had to go tell Finnie they still had no idea who the woman was. He’d love that.
Frog-faced git.
No wonder Logan had indigestion.
It took a while to track Finnie down, but he finally found the DCI in one of the small incident rooms – just big enough for two cluttered desks, three seats, and a strange eggy smell. He was sitting on the edge of a desk, deep in conversation with a gangly admin officer.
Logan settled back to wait.
Finnie didn’t even look round. ‘Did you want something, Sergeant, or are you just worried that wall’s going to fall down with out you leaning on it?’
‘We couldn’t find her prints in the database.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing.’
‘Have you told the Media Office to make up “have you seen this woman” posters?’
‘Well … no.’
And at that, Finnie did turn round. ‘Why not? Use your initiative, for goodness sake.’
‘You told me not to do anything without clearing it through you first.’
‘What are you, twelve? You sound like my niece.’ The DCI held his hand out. ‘Photograph.’
Logan handed over the eight-by-ten glossy showing their Jane Doe lying in her hospital bed, complete with ventilation tube and drips. It wasn’t exactly the best head-and-shoulders shot in the world.
Finnie threw it back. ‘This is useless. Get it up to Photographic. Tell them to edit out all the tubes and lines, give her skin a bit of colour, lose the panda eyes… Make her look like a person someone might actually recognize.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Sometime today would be nice, Sergeant. You know, if you’re not too busy?’
The technician in the ‘BARNEY THE DINOSAUR FOR PRESIDENT’ T-shirt made some disparaging comments about the quality of the photograph, then said she’d see what she could do. No promises though.
Logan left her to it and headed back down to the CID office for a cup of tea and a bit of a skive. Not that he got any peace there – his in-box was overflowing with new directives, memos, reminders about getting paperwork completed on time, and right at the top – marked with a little red exclamation mark – yet another summons from Professional Standards. Apparently there were some discrepancies between his version of events and PC Guthrie’s – would he care to discuss them at half ten tomorrow morning?
No he wouldn’t. But he didn’t exactly have any choice, did he?
There was a little fridge in the corner of the CID office. Logan helped himself to the carton marked ‘DUNCAN’S MILK ~ HANDS OFF YOU THIEVING BASTARDS!’ and made himself a cup of tea, taking it back to his desk, where he sat staring out of the window: watching a pair of seagulls rip the windscreen wiper blades off a Porsche parked on the street below. Wishing he’d been able to dig up a couple of biscuits.
‘…the labs yet?’
‘Hmm?’ Logan swivelled his seat round till he was facing the newcomer – Detective Sergeant Pirie, back from the Sheriff Court, swaggered across the room.
‘I said, “do you have that photo back from the labs yet”?’
‘What’s with the smug face?’
‘Richard Banks got eight years. Bastard tried to plea-bargain it down, but the PF stuck him with the whole thing.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Photo?’
‘They’re still working on it.’
‘Rape kit?’
‘Same answer.’
‘Ah…’ Pirie ran a hand through his ginger, Brillo-Pad hair. ‘The boss isn’t going to like that.’
‘Really? That’ll make a change.’
‘Yes, well … email me everything you’ve got on our Jane Doe then you can go back to running about after that wrinkly disaster area Steel.’
Logan stared at him. ‘Do you really want a “whose DI is the biggest arsehole” competition?’
‘Fair point.’ Pirie settled onto the edge of Logan’s desk. ‘Finnie tells me you tried to take our victim’s prints with a water glass…’ His eyes roved across the piles of paperwork and then locked onto the plastic evidence bag with the glass in it. ‘And here it is! I thought he was just taking the piss.’ He picked up the bag and grinned. ‘What are you, Nancy Drew?’
‘Ha bloody ha.’ Logan snatched it back and stuffed it into his bottom drawer, burying it under a pile of Police Review magazines, then slammed the drawer shut.
‘I don’t get it: why’s he got it in for me? All he ever does is … moan.’
‘That’s easy,’ Pirie stood, turned, and sauntered out the door, ‘he doesn’t like you.’
The phone on Logan’s desk started ringing, cutting off his opinion on what DS Pirie could do with his foreskin and a cheese grater.
‘McRae?’
‘You still working for Frog-Face Finnie?’ DI Steel, sounding out of breath.
‘Not any more, Pirie’s taken over the—’
‘Then get your arse downstairs. We’ve got a riot on our hands!’
The Turf ’n Track wasn’t the sort of place you’d put on a tourist map. Unless it was accompanied by a big sticker saying, ‘AVOID LIKE THE PLAGUE!’ It sat in a small row of four grubby shops in the heart of Sandilands, surrounded by suicidally depressed council flats. A pockmarked car park sulked in front of the little retail compound, complete with burnt-out litter bin, the vitrified plastic oozing out across the greying tarmac. There was a grocers on one side, the dusty corpse of a video store on the other – its windows boarded up with plywood – and a kebab shop on the end. Everything was covered in layer upon layer of graffiti,