Aberdeen Examiner , the bald patch on top of his head going beetroot in the evening sun. He glanced up as Steel and Logan tramped up the path. ‘Hoy, I’m not telling you again: get back on the other side of the sodding…’ He scrambled to his feet, hiding the newspaper behind him. Then ducked back down to retrieve his peaked cap and ram it on his head. ‘Sorry, Boss. Thought you were another one of them journalists. Rotten sods have been trying to get past us all week.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘You want inside?’
‘No, Gardner, I want to stand about out here like a pillock for a couple of hours. Open the bloody door!’
Constable Gardner’s cheeks flushed bright pink. ‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Divot.’ Steel waited for him to haul open the door, then barged past. ‘And we’re no’ paying you to sit on your arse reading the paper. At least try to look like a bloody police officer!’
‘Sorry, Boss…’
Logan waited till they were both inside, and the door had clunked shut again. ‘Was that not a bit harsh?’
‘Laz, what do you think’s going to happen if he’s still sitting there when that bunch of gits from Channel Four turn on their TV cameras? “Bobbies skive off during hunt for Jenny’s killer.” Finnie’ll love that.’ She hitched her trousers up. ‘Besides, Gardner’s the prick who delivered a death message to the wrong house, couple of weeks ago. Deserves all he gets.’
The hall looked much the same as it had in the video, only a little more depressing. It had that slightly fusty smell that the Identification Bureau always left behind. A mix of fingerprint powder, emptied Hoover bags, and sneaky Pot Noodles.
Logan took a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his jacket pocket, pulled them on and opened the door to the lounge. TV in the corner on a wooden stand, a Freeview box on the top, some sort of DVD recorder/player underneath. A stack of celebrity gossip magazines. A sofa well past its sell-by date, a colourful throw doing its best to disguise the faded brown corduroy. Three drawings were framed above the mantel-piece, bright crayon renditions of a man and a woman holding hands beneath a smiley yellow sun; a vague black-and-green blob with the word ‘ S ooty’ printed beside it in scruffy lower-case; a happy family outside a square house with a blue roof and smoke coming out of the chimney – ‘M UMMY , D ADDY , M E , D OGGY .’
A square-jawed young man in a black glengarry – with a silver stag’s head cap badge on the side and a wee blue bobble on the top – stared out from a silver picture frame, blue eyes not-quite hiding the beginnings of a smile. There was a black ribbon tied around one corner of the frame, a little sprig of dried heather held in place by the bow.
Steel stuck her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth on her heels. ‘Doesn’t look like much, for someone who’s on the telly…’
The kitchen was stocked with tins of soup, diet ready meals, the kind of children’s breakfast cereals that came laden with E numbers and sugar. An open bottle of white wine in the fridge.
‘Shame to let it go to waste.’ Steel dragged the bottle out, found a glass on the draining board, rinsed off the fingerprint powder, and poured herself a hefty measure. ‘Don’t look at me like that – you’re driving remember?’
Then she followed him from room to room, glass in one hand, bottle in the other, watching as Logan worked his way through the bathroom medicine cabinet. Then the master bedroom.
Steel settled on the edge of the bed, bounced a couple of times. ‘No’ bad. Could have a decent shag on this.’
The room was festooned with photographs. Half a dozen wedding pictures sat on the wall by the bed – Alison McGregor dressed in a huge white dress that made her look a bit like a pregnant shuttlecock. Then a couple of her on holiday somewhere sunny with the dead man from the picture downstairs. Then another version of the photo the media
‘No, Gardner, I want to stand about out here like a pillock for a couple of hours. Open the bloody door!’
Constable Gardner’s cheeks flushed bright pink. ‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Divot.’ Steel waited for him to haul open the door, then barged past. ‘And we’re no’ paying you to sit on your arse reading the paper. At least try to look like a bloody police officer!’
‘Sorry, Boss…’
Logan waited till they were both inside, and the door had clunked shut again. ‘Was that not a bit harsh?’
‘Laz, what do you think’s going to happen if he’s still sitting there when that bunch of gits from Channel Four turn on their TV cameras? “Bobbies skive off during hunt for Jenny’s killer.” Finnie’ll love that.’ She hitched her trousers up. ‘Besides, Gardner’s the prick who delivered a death message to the wrong house, couple of weeks ago. Deserves all he gets.’
The hall looked much the same as it had in the video, only a little more depressing. It had that slightly fusty smell that the Identification Bureau always left behind. A mix of fingerprint powder, emptied Hoover bags, and sneaky Pot Noodles.
Logan took a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his jacket pocket, pulled them on and opened the door to the lounge. TV in the corner on a wooden stand, a Freeview box on the top, some sort of DVD recorder/player underneath. A stack of celebrity gossip magazines. A sofa well past its sell-by date, a colourful throw doing its best to disguise the faded brown corduroy. Three drawings were framed above the mantel-piece, bright crayon renditions of a man and a woman holding hands beneath a smiley yellow sun; a vague black-and-green blob with the word ‘ S ooty’ printed beside it in scruffy lower-case; a happy family outside a square house with a blue roof and smoke coming out of the chimney – ‘M UMMY , D ADDY , M E , D OGGY .’
A square-jawed young man in a black glengarry – with a silver stag’s head cap badge on the side and a wee blue bobble on the top – stared out from a silver picture frame, blue eyes not-quite hiding the beginnings of a smile. There was a black ribbon tied around one corner of the frame, a little sprig of dried heather held in place by the bow.
Steel stuck her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth on her heels. ‘Doesn’t look like much, for someone who’s on the telly…’
The kitchen was stocked with tins of soup, diet ready meals, the kind of children’s breakfast cereals that came laden with E numbers and sugar. An open bottle of white wine in the fridge.
‘Shame to let it go to waste.’ Steel dragged the bottle out, found a glass on the draining board, rinsed off the fingerprint powder, and poured herself a hefty measure. ‘Don’t look at me like that – you’re driving remember?’
Then she followed him from room to room, glass in one hand, bottle in the other, watching as Logan worked his way through the bathroom medicine cabinet. Then the master bedroom.
Steel settled on the edge of the bed, bounced a couple of times. ‘No’ bad. Could have a decent shag on this.’
The room was festooned with photographs. Half a dozen wedding pictures sat on the wall by the bed – Alison McGregor dressed in a huge white dress that made her look a bit like a pregnant shuttlecock. Then a couple of her on holiday somewhere sunny with the dead man from the picture downstairs. Then another version of the photo the media
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