down the street, resigned to getting wet. Live in the North-east of Scotland for long enough and you stop noticing the rain. Up at the far end of Union Street a rainbow had formed against the lowering clouds.
‘Typical fucking Aberdeen,’ said the inspector, shoogling about in her seat, trying to get a hand into her trouser pocket. ‘Blazing sunshine and pissing with rain. Both at the same time. Don’t know why I bothered buying a bloody open-topped sports car.’
Logan smiled. ‘Mid-life crisis babe-magnet, remember?’
The inspector nodded sagely, ‘Aye, that was it … Come on you wee buggers…’ She was still fighting with her trousers. ‘Shite. Hold on to the steering wheel for a minute, OK?’ She didn’t pause for an answer, just let go of the wheel, unbuckled her seatbelt and dragged out the crumpled remains of a packet of twenty Marlboro Lights, digging one out of the pack before retaking control of the car. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, not waiting for an answer before setting the tip glowing. The cramped car interior quickly filled with smoke. Spluttering slightly, Logan wound his window down a crack, letting in the steady hiss of rain hitting the road, buildings, cars and people.
Steel swung off Union Street opposite Marks and Spencer, heading down Market Street. As theharbour drifted past Logan peered around, but Shore Lane was hidden from view by a dirty big supply boat. The clanging and bashing of containers being loaded and unloaded echoed through the rain.
‘So what about our hairy friend’s post mortem?’ the inspector asked as they headed along the north bank of the River Dee, taking the scenic route to Craiginches Prison. He told her about the knife and the suitcase and the antidepressant. Steel just snorted. ‘Lot of bloody good that does us.’
‘Well, the drugs are prescription only, so—’
‘So they might be the killer’s ! Or the killer’s wife’s, or his mother’s, or their neighbour’s, or granny’s…’ She wound down the window and flicked the dying remains of her cigarette out into the rainy sunshine. ‘Damn things could be Gulf War surplus for all we know. Hell, they might not even have been prescribed locally!’ said Steel, swinging around the roundabout onto Queen Mother Bridge. ‘What we going to do? Phone up every doctor’s office and pharmacy in the country and ask for a list of patients’ names and addresses?’
‘We could get them to narrow it down a bit; just ask for details of anyone with mental problems who’s been prescribed the drug.’
‘“Mental problems?”’ She laughed. ‘If they didn’t have mental problems they wouldn’t be on anti-bloody-depressants, would they?’ She looked across the car at him. ‘Jesus, Lazarus, how’d you get to be a DS? They giving out sergeant’s stripesfree with boxes of Frosties?’ Logan just scowled at the dashboard. ‘Aye, well,’ she smiled at him. ‘When we get back to the ranch you can go find one of them tree-hugging wildlife crime officers to chase it up. Dead dog’ll be right up their street. We’ll start paying attention again if it comes to anything.’
HM Prison Craiginches was segregated from the outside world by twenty-four-foot-high walls, and a small black metal plaque saying, ‘P RIVATE P ROPERTY K EEP O UT ’, as if the razor wire wasn’t enough of a hint. It was surrounded on three sides by residential streets – the houses festooned with burglar alarms – but on the fourth side there was nothing between the prison’s north wall and the River Dee but the dual carriageway to Altens and a very steep bank. DI Steel parked in a bay marked ‘S TAFF O NLY ’ and sauntered round to the front door, with Logan slouching along at her heels. Twelve minutes later they were sitting in a shabby little room with a chipped Formica table and creaky plastic seats complete with brown, slug-shaped cigarette burns. There was a tape recorder bolted to the wall, but no video, just the
‘Typical fucking Aberdeen,’ said the inspector, shoogling about in her seat, trying to get a hand into her trouser pocket. ‘Blazing sunshine and pissing with rain. Both at the same time. Don’t know why I bothered buying a bloody open-topped sports car.’
Logan smiled. ‘Mid-life crisis babe-magnet, remember?’
The inspector nodded sagely, ‘Aye, that was it … Come on you wee buggers…’ She was still fighting with her trousers. ‘Shite. Hold on to the steering wheel for a minute, OK?’ She didn’t pause for an answer, just let go of the wheel, unbuckled her seatbelt and dragged out the crumpled remains of a packet of twenty Marlboro Lights, digging one out of the pack before retaking control of the car. ‘You don’t mind?’ she asked, not waiting for an answer before setting the tip glowing. The cramped car interior quickly filled with smoke. Spluttering slightly, Logan wound his window down a crack, letting in the steady hiss of rain hitting the road, buildings, cars and people.
Steel swung off Union Street opposite Marks and Spencer, heading down Market Street. As theharbour drifted past Logan peered around, but Shore Lane was hidden from view by a dirty big supply boat. The clanging and bashing of containers being loaded and unloaded echoed through the rain.
‘So what about our hairy friend’s post mortem?’ the inspector asked as they headed along the north bank of the River Dee, taking the scenic route to Craiginches Prison. He told her about the knife and the suitcase and the antidepressant. Steel just snorted. ‘Lot of bloody good that does us.’
‘Well, the drugs are prescription only, so—’
‘So they might be the killer’s ! Or the killer’s wife’s, or his mother’s, or their neighbour’s, or granny’s…’ She wound down the window and flicked the dying remains of her cigarette out into the rainy sunshine. ‘Damn things could be Gulf War surplus for all we know. Hell, they might not even have been prescribed locally!’ said Steel, swinging around the roundabout onto Queen Mother Bridge. ‘What we going to do? Phone up every doctor’s office and pharmacy in the country and ask for a list of patients’ names and addresses?’
‘We could get them to narrow it down a bit; just ask for details of anyone with mental problems who’s been prescribed the drug.’
‘“Mental problems?”’ She laughed. ‘If they didn’t have mental problems they wouldn’t be on anti-bloody-depressants, would they?’ She looked across the car at him. ‘Jesus, Lazarus, how’d you get to be a DS? They giving out sergeant’s stripesfree with boxes of Frosties?’ Logan just scowled at the dashboard. ‘Aye, well,’ she smiled at him. ‘When we get back to the ranch you can go find one of them tree-hugging wildlife crime officers to chase it up. Dead dog’ll be right up their street. We’ll start paying attention again if it comes to anything.’
HM Prison Craiginches was segregated from the outside world by twenty-four-foot-high walls, and a small black metal plaque saying, ‘P RIVATE P ROPERTY K EEP O UT ’, as if the razor wire wasn’t enough of a hint. It was surrounded on three sides by residential streets – the houses festooned with burglar alarms – but on the fourth side there was nothing between the prison’s north wall and the River Dee but the dual carriageway to Altens and a very steep bank. DI Steel parked in a bay marked ‘S TAFF O NLY ’ and sauntered round to the front door, with Logan slouching along at her heels. Twelve minutes later they were sitting in a shabby little room with a chipped Formica table and creaky plastic seats complete with brown, slug-shaped cigarette burns. There was a tape recorder bolted to the wall, but no video, just the
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