Then Young slumped back in his seat. Looked away. ‘Is he up to it? King, is he... unbiased?’
‘Look at it from his point of view — if he cocks this up, even accidentally, his career’s over. He’ll be pilloried in the media, probably never work again. He needs a result.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ A sigh. ‘Did you hear about our beloved Chief Superintendent, Big Tony Campbell? He’s retiring next month, and guess who he’s passing the baton to?’
‘I didn’t know he was retiring.’ Logan pointed. ‘Are you...?’
‘No. Apparently no one who’s actually worked here is worthy. They’re lumbering us with some high-flier from G Division.’
Of course they were. Because clearly, if you weren’t from Clydeside, you weren’t a real police officer. God forbid one of the parochial neeps got put in charge.
‘Oh. Lucky us.’
Young grimaced. ‘Her handover period officially starts next week. Might be nice if we had all this tied up before she gets here, don’t you think?’
‘We’re doing the best we can.’
Young stood again, and put a paternal hand on Logan’s shoulder. Gave it a squeeze. ‘I know. I know. Just... do it quicker.’
Logan scuffed along the corridor, heading for DCI Hardie’s office. Why didn’t they have air conditioning in here? OK, so it was Aberdeen and in the winter you needed sixteen jumpers, gloves, and a woolly hat, but still. Global warming meant—
His phone dinged and buzzed in his pocket — incoming text message.
According to the screen it was from ‘CLAP HANDS, HERE COMES TUFTY!’
The little sod had done something to his phone, it was the only explanation.
Sarge, Can I be in Mr Clark’s new steampunk film? Can I? Can I? Hoshiko says I can be one of the baddy’s techno henchmen! Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I?
Idiot.
He thumbed out a reply:
No.
Before he got his phone halfway to his pocket it ding-buzzed in his hand again.
IT IS I, TUFTY!:
Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease? They’ll even let me have lines! She says I’m a dead ringer for Baroness Grimdark’s Henchman #3, AKA: Arachnox. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?
Oh for God’s sake...
Why’s my phone coming out with all these weird caller IDs? WHAT DID YOU DO?!?
SEND.
Hardie’s office loomed up ahead.
The door was open, so everyone could see him: worrying away at his cheek with one hand, the phone pressed to his ear with the other. Face scrunched up. Teeny beads of sweat shining on his forehead, but maybe not from the heat.
His sidekicks were there: DS Robertson erasing things from one of Hardie’s whiteboards, in all her dark-haired and jowly glory; while DS Dawson strutted about on his mobile, doing his best to look efficient, as if that would fool anyone. Big-nosed, hair-gel-wearing idiot that he was.
‘Yeah... Yeah, I know that, but don’t tell me, tell Superintendent Young... Yeah, I thought that might.’
The only one out of place was King. He heaved himself up from the visitor’s chair, face all creased.
No one seemed to notice him leaving, not even Hardie — he just kept worrying away at his face, curling forward over his phone: ‘I don’t know, Stacy, as long as it takes, OK?... Yes, I appreciate that, but look at it this way: you don’t have a choice.’
King stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Slumped against it and closed his eyes. ‘God...’
Logan went for cheery and upbeat. ‘On the bright side, at least we’re not the sole scapegoats any more.’ That had to count for something.
‘Oh, if I know Hardie, he’ll find a way to Teflon anything bad so it lands smack-bang on me.’
Logan’s phone ding-buzzed, yet again. Then again. And again. And again. And again.
Bloody Tufty wouldn’t take no for a telling, would he?
King opened his eyes and pointed. ‘You not going to get that?’
‘It’s just Tufty, wingeing on because I said he couldn’t play a henchman in a film.’ He turned and led the way down the corridor. ‘And there’s another bright side: now we know we were right about Matt Lansdale’s disappearance. If Haiden had abducted him not only would Lansdale’s severed hands have turned up, there’d be a video too.’
King took a deep breath and sighed it out, shoulders rounded as he scuffed along beside him. ‘I suppose. At least that’s something.’
Who said soon-to-be-murder investigations didn’t have their lighter moments?
Beever popped a pellet of chewing gum, munching as she wheeled her postal trolley along yet another magnolia and glass corridor. Earbuds in, Green Day’s American Idiot rocking out, cos everyone loves a bit of retro every now and then. Plus it was way political.
Gotta admit it was kinda cool — turning Marischal College into the council’s main offices. The building was old as balls, all ornate and spiky granite, and way better than the ugly tower block thing they used to be based in. OK, so when she told her mates she was going to work here they all rolled their eyes so hard it looked like Sonja’s were going to fall out of her ears, but you know what? While they were off doing their work placements in nail salons and hairdressers, Beever was in the seat of power. Where the city’s cogs and wheels turned to make stuff happen.
And OK, so she was only delivering the mail, for now, but that’s what internships were like, yeah? You worked your way up. And Beever was going all the way to the top, baby.
She had a plan.
The school’s careers adviser said you had to dress for the job you want, not the job you got. So Beever turned up every morning, ten minutes early, in a smart-as-shit shirt and tie, neat black trousers, and tasteful trainers, cos who wouldn’t want to promote that?
Oh yeah.
‘Jesus of Suburbia’ accompanied her around the Council Tax Department. ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’ was the soundtrack to dropping off a box from Amazon and a stack of brown envelopes for Trading Standards. ‘Give Me Novacaine’ for the Finance Department. ‘Letterbomb’ in the lift with Fat Doris — which wasn’t her real name, it was really just Doris, but she was big enough for around eight people, stuffing a yum-yum into her gob and moaning on her mobile about how she couldn’t get a date. ‘Homecoming’ for the trek to Customer Service. And by the time ‘Whatsername’ dwannnnnged to an end she was in the new councillors’ bit. A bunch of temporary offices, squeezed into Marischal College while they sorted out the Town House’s leaky sewage problem. Cos you can’t run a city from somewhere that stinks like a greasy paedo’s Y-fronts. Which meant, for now, this was where all the big decisions were made.
How cool was that?
Beever slipped her earbuds into her pocket and dumped her gum in the nearest pot plant. Slapped on the professional smile she’d been working on. Yeah, the braces were a bit of a drawback, but you couldn’t be a politician without straight teeth, could you? Who wanted to vote for someone with a busted-piano-keyboard smile? No one, that’s who.
She made her way from office to office, making polite chit and polite chat. Look at me! Look how young and keen I am! Why yes, I am planning on studying politics when I go to university. But completely not overplaying it.
Envelopes. Parcels. Jiffy bags. You name it: she delivered it. No mistakes made here, thank you very much. Not on Beever’s watch.