Steel lounged in an office chair, feet up on the desk, a butty in one hand and a wax-paper cup in the other. A little island of laziness in an ocean of police work. As usual.
Logan marched over there and loomed at her. ‘Thought you were searching Mhari Powell’s house?’
She didn’t bother swallowing or covering her mouth as she chewed. ‘Waiting on a dog unit.’ Steel dipped her butty in her coffee, and took another bite. ‘Think you could stop with the abducted Unionists now? Only every time we make any progress on this sodding case, you turn up another one.’
He gave her leg a smack. ‘Feet off the desk. Supposed to be setting an example.’
Dip. Munch. Honestly, she masticated like the back end of a scaffies’ wagon. The only things missing were the mechanism for tipping wheelie bins into the hopper and the smell of split bin bags. ‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’
Hopeless.
Logan had another look around the office. ‘Where’s King?’
Steel dipped her butty again, a broad smile on her face. ‘I’ve never had one of these before. Very nice.’ Then crammed a soggy brown lump of it into her gob. ‘Did you meet her then? The new head honcho. Or is it honchesse? Honchetta?’
‘Nope.’ He dug out his phone and gave King a ring.
‘Superintendent Pine, from G Division, AKA: Darkest Strathclyde, AKA: The Evil Empire. Kinda shaggable if you’ve been on the razz all night, and don’t mind the greying hair and Jimmy Hill chin. No idea what her arse is like, though.’
Grey-streaked hair, proud chin, superintendent’s pips...
‘Was that her?’ Suppose it had to be. ‘Didn’t seem too bad to me.’
Still no response from King.
‘Word is she can unhinge that huge bottom jaw of hers and swallow babies whole.’ Steel tried to do much the same thing with the last chunk of her butty, all drippy with coffee. Cramming it in. Grinning as brown dribbled down her chin.
Urgh...
He was about to hang up when, ‘King?’ crackled out of the phone at him.
Logan turned his back on Steel, before she did anything else revolting. ‘Where are you?’
‘Calling to give me the bad news, are you? How long have I got to clear out my desk?’
Steel nudged Logan with her foot. ‘See, what I like is the way the silky hazelnut coffee complements the crunchy-chocolatey-soft-buttery-bapness of the KitKat butty. That’s Heston-Blumenthal level genius, that is.’
He moved out of range, lowering his voice so Madame Lugs wouldn’t hear. ‘Will you get your arse in order, please? I’m not carrying this sodding case all on my own!’
No reply. Just silence.
‘Where are you?’
Still nothing.
The office door opened and in scuttled Tufty, rubbing his hands together. ‘Did I miss anything?’
‘Frank?’
‘They’re not firing me?’ Finally.
‘We need to speak to Haiden’s dad again. Something’s come up.’
‘Are they really not firing me?’
‘Really. Now can we go do our jobs?’
‘Erm... OK. I’ll... meet you down the Rear Podium?’
‘Good.’ Logan hung up. Hissed out a sigh. ‘Offering support’ wasn’t supposed to be the same thing as babysitting.
Tufty settled down behind his laptop, looking around as if he’d lost something. Patting his paperwork. Frowning. Lifting things up and putting them down again.
‘Aye well...’ Steel sooked her fingers and stood. Stretched her full length like a very manky cat. ‘Suppose I’d better be offski. Time and search-trained canines wait for no woman, no matter how sexy she is.’
Logan leaned against Tufty’s desk. ‘Have you found anything?’
He didn’t look up from his rummaging. ‘They were right here. I’m sure they were.’
‘Mhari Powell, Tufty: concentrate.’
‘Hmm? Oh right.’ He opened a desk drawer, pouted at the contents then closed it again. ‘I’m still going through all the social media accounts she’s been posting from, but I’ve IDed three Facebook friends who interact with her on a regular basis. Or, at least, they interacted with one of the people she was pretending to be. None of them with the same pretend person, though.’ Tufty pulled a printout from his in-tray and handed it over — a list of three names and addresses — then rummaged through his desk some more. ‘Still working on the rest.’
‘Hoy!’ Steel stopped in the doorway, turned, clacked her heels together and gave Logan a sarcastic salute. ‘Don’t forget: no more deid bodies while I’m out!’ And with that she was gone.
Logan pocketed Tufty’s list. ‘Keep at it. I want to know who “Mhari Powell” really is by the time I get back.’
‘Mmmm? Yeah, OK, Sarge...’ He went back to searching his desk. Raised his voice to address the whole room: ‘Has anyone seen my KitKat butty or hazelnut latte?’
Detective Sergeant Steel strikes again.
36
Ten past eight in the morning was not the best time to be driving across town to Dyce. The morning rush hour was like a diseased thing, crawling along on its belly, belching noxious fumes into the hot summer air.
Speaking of which: sitting in the passenger seat, King crunched down one more in a long line of extra-strong mints. A newspaper open in his lap, his window cracked open an inch — letting the scent of diesel exhaust invade the Audi’s interior as they followed a bus along Westburn Drive.
Logan inched the car forward another couple of feet. ‘Where did you disappear off to?’
A grimace. ‘Gwen called. Again. She’s got herself a lawyer and they’re citing my “unreasonable behaviour” as grounds for divorce.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘My unreasonable behaviour? I should be the one suing her: she’s the one having the affair! She’s the one been torturing me with it!’
And speaking of torture: ‘Robert Drysdale.’
King froze for a beat, then looked out the passenger window again. ‘What about him?’
‘That’s what I want to know.’
The Audi crawled forward a whole car length.
‘Why didn’t they fire me?’
‘Frank, I’m serious. Who was he?’ AKA: here’s some rope, please don’t hang yourself.
‘Hmph...’ King’s jaw tightened. ‘I grabbed a copy of this morning’s Scottish Daily Post on the way out the station.’ He picked the paper off his lap and opened it, stared down at the front page. A posed publicity shot of Scott Meyrick smiled back at him under the headline ‘FEARS GROW FOR REALITY TV STAR’.
‘I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, Frank!’
‘Edward Barwell’s “exposé” got bumped to a two-inch sidebar with “continued on page eleven”.’ King crumpled the paper into his lap again. ‘Nothing about Robert Drysdale.’
Silence.
Up ahead, the lights went red, as if anyone was moving fast enough to have to stop.
More silence.
Oh for goodness’ sake. ‘Was Robert Drysdale in the PASL when you were?’
King waved a dismissive hand. ‘There were lots of different cells, that was the point: so there wouldn’t be cross-contamination. We didn’t exactly get together for coffee mornings and bake sales.’ A sigh. ‘I’m tired of being a whipping boy for everyone and their hamster.’