Back at the station, Logan suppressed a yawn and pushed through the double doors, back into the open-plan office. Normally the place would be humming – reverberating with the clatter of keyboards as people slunk in to do ‘completely necessary paperwork activities’ in the run-up to home time. But today, Divisional Headquarters had a decidedlyFlying Dutchmanfeel to it – with only a cursed skeleton crew left to man the ship while storms and sea monsters battered at the hull...
And even then, one of the dwindling support staff was hacking and coughing and spluttering all over the printer.
No wonder the bloody thing never worked properly.
Tufty poked and fiddled with his phone, walking to heel like a good little sidekick. ‘We’ve got time to grab a coffee, then sit in on the review for Operation “Camper Vans Stolen To Order” if you like?’
‘I most certainlydon’tlike. Besides: wouldn’t want Acting DI Taylor to think we were checking up on her.’ Pausing at the coffee machine, he poked the buttons till it whirred and grumbled out a frothy wax-paper cup of burnt-toast-flavoured yuck. Yum, yum, yum.
Logan handed the scalding beverage to Tufty. ‘That hate mail from “Anonymous One-Two-Three”, can you trace the IP address?’ Going in for another poke at the machine.
‘Already did, Sarge, while we were waiting on Keira Longmore being processed. It’s a VPN node in London.’
Nope.
‘Worry not, I has an explaining: it does mean Virtual Private Network – hides who you are, where you’re connecting from, and encrypts everything in-between. Mr One-Two-Three am being anghostie.’
‘Of course he sodding is.’ Logan took a sip of hot brown. Which tasted every bit as awful as it smelled. ‘In that case, you’d better get on to Spudgun – see if anything’s cooking at Wallace Tower. Now we’ve raided his girlfriend’s boudoir, MacGarioch might go to ground again.’
‘Sarge.’
‘And if he’sstillunfindable, we’ve got the Orphan Circus Outing to fall back on. Which means we’re going to needat leasta half-dozen tickets. Assuming the Chief Super actually gives us enough bodies to...’
Bugger.
Sergeant Brookminster entered through the far door, stood there for a moment, looking around, then homed-in on Logan. Striding between the cubicles, with an iPad tucked under his arm as if it were a swagger stick. ‘DCI McRae.’ He gave Tufty a nod. ‘Constable.’
The wee loon stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘Greetingsfellow comrade in this Great Fraternity of Sacred Sidekicks!’
Brookminster looked at the hand, eyebrows puckering into a one-up-one-down frown. ‘Yes, well...DCI McRae, the Boss would like a word, if you’ve got a moment?’
Whichsoundedlike an invitation, but clearly wasn’t.
Fair enough.
Logan gave Tufty a nudge. ‘Constable: put your hand away and go chase-up Sergeant Moore. Then see if you can get your hands on those tickets.’
‘Aye-aye, Sarge.’ A quick salute and click of the heels, then off he scampered.
‘Bizarre...’ Brookminster led the way through the desks, towards the Forbidden Corridor, where all the bigwigs’ offices lurked. ‘Is there areasonConstable...Quirrel, is it? – refers to you as “Sarge”? I mean, he doesknowyou’re an acting detective chief inspector, doesn’t he?’
‘I was the boy’s first sergeant when he was doing his probation. Up in B Division. When B Division still existed.’ Ah: the good old days. Sort of. ‘Suppose it’s a weird term-of-endearment, slash, nickname.’
The Forbidden Corridor was much nicer than the main bit of the office, with a view out over the old Divisional Headquarters on Queen Street, in all its seven-storey grey-and-black liquorice-allsort-striped glory. Which, presumably, someone would be demolishing soon to make way for an even uglier office block.
The corridor also had a couple of large pot plants that looked suspiciously non-plastic, and instead of standard-issue losing-the-will-to-live motivational posters, there were a handful of nice paintings on the walls.
‘Yes...’ Brookminster’s free hand made spiders in the air. ‘He certainly seems a little...odd.’
‘Oh, to abandplaying.’
They stopped outside the door marked ‘CHIEFSUPT. ROSLYNPINEOBE’, where Brookminster plucked the nasty coffee from Logan’s hand. ‘Trust me: it’s for the best.’ Then knocked. And marched off again, leaving Logan standing there. Coffeeless and blinking.
Kind of got the feeling that today wasn’t about to get any better.
Pine’s voice barked through the door:‘Come.’
Back straight.
