Deep breath.
And in we go...
Her office seemed weirdly out-of-place for a police station: no filing cabinets or whiteboards; no coffee-stained carpet tiles; no ceiling tiles that looked like a map of Europe, painted in dysentery. What shedidhave were some nice bookshelves, a nice desk, a nice big office chair, a couple of nice armchairs, a nice coffee table, a nice view over the Marischal College quad – even if it was all grey and empty – and a nice sideboard thing with a pod-coffee machine gleaming away on top of it.
The head cop for Aberdeenshire and Moray sat behind her desk, flipping through a file. She looked up as Logan stepped inside and closed the door behind him. ‘Ah, good. Have you seen theAberdeen Examiner’s latest nonsense?’ Grabbing that morning’s edition from her in-tray and waving it at him.
‘Just been there, actually – got a possible line of inquiry for you.’ He took the proffered paper and pointed at her armchairs. ‘Can I...?’ Then avalanched into one of them, sagged, puffed out his cheeks, and unfolded Colin’s hatchet-job handywork.
NEWSPAPER OWNER ABDUCTED BY SICK WEIRDO
POLICE FUMBLE INVESTIGATION AS WORLD PRESS LOOKS ON
Natasha Agapova (48) made her career in print journalism. From humble beginnings, reporting on animal shows and am-dram productions for her local newspaper in Melbourne, she graduated to the Australian national press, working on multiple titles, before making the leap to the UK with her (then) husband, media mogul, Adrian Shearsmith. Here she took the helm of theScottish Daily Post, turning it from a failing weekly with falling circulation to a daily tabloid and one of Scotland’s most popular newspapers.
Logan sniffed. ‘You can always rely on Colin Miller for a run-on sentence and a buried lead. And “most popular newspapers”? I wouldn’t use theScottishDaily Postto line my cat’s litter tray.’ Skimming the text. ‘Blah, blah, blah...’
...and even though multiple officers searched the house, it was down to this reporter to find the message left by the monster who abducted theAberdeen Examiner’s new owner, in a violent attack at her modest home, near Peterculter.
Bloody hell.
‘“Modest”? It’smassive. She’s got four bedrooms, a home gym, a sauna,anda steam room. Plus, he was there before we were! How are we supposed to search a propertybeforewe know a crime’s been committed?’
Then another chunk of melodramatic crap about bloodstains and ‘the lonely smile of an abandoned teddy bear’ before the boot was landed right into A Division’s testicles:
Which means that yet again we need to ask if Aberdeen police are competent enough to investigate a crime of this magnitude, when they’re so clearly out of their depth that no progress has been made in discovering who took plucky Natasha from us, or why.
He slapped the paper shut and thumped it down on Pine’s desk. ‘Blah, blah, wankity wank, wank...’ Then sat up, heat blooming in across his ears. ‘Sorry, Boss.’
‘Hmmmph...’ She stood, busying herself with the coffee machine. Setting it whirring. ‘I think “wank” is putting it mildly, to be honest. Only upside is no one else got the story in time to make the morning editions.Tomorrowit’ll be everywhere.’ She fiddled with little cups, keeping it casual, but the hope was clear in her voice. ‘You said you have a possible lead?’
‘Second-last person to see Natasha Agapova – Nick Wilson, director at something called NorrelTech. Sat next to her at the charity-auction, Monday night. You’ve already spoken to the taxi driver?’
She let loose a long, kind-of-pissed-off sigh, then placed a tiny cup on the desk, in front of Logan. ‘Espresso. You look like you could use it.’
‘Thanks, Boss.’ Taking the teeny cup of evil. ‘Wedidspeak to the taxi driver, didn’t we?’
‘Of course we did. He didn’tseeanything, didn’tsuspectanything, didn’tdoanything. And he’s still managed to sell his story to “one of Scotland’s favourite newspapers”.’ A grimace. ‘Meanwhile that ridiculous “Penny Thistle” woman got interviewed in her bikini for Channel 5 and just about every news outlet south of the equator.Toplessfor the Venezuelans.’ Pine yanked the spent pod from the machine and hurled it into the bin. ‘This whole thing’s a disaster: the First Minister’s office calledsix timestoday, Tulliallan are nipping my head on an hourly basis, and the world press are quite happy to paint this division as a bunch of useless, half-witted, flat-footed, couldn’t-find-their-fat-arseholes-with-a-compass-and-a-team-of-sherpasclowns, becauseapparentlywe should’ve found Natasha Agapova by now! We aredead, Logan, if we can’t catch whoever did it and rescue her, ASA-frigging-P!’ The Chief Super rammed another pod in the machine, slammed it shut, and set it whirring. ‘And quite frankly, we could do without theAberdeen Examinergiving us a kicking too!’
Logan took a sip of espresso, dark and bitter and fruity all at the same time. The effects clearly weren’t instant, though, because a massive yawn rattled free. He shivered in his seat then slumped a little further. ‘Sorry.’ Blink. Blink. ‘Maybe we could give them something? A little exclusive to get the buggers onside.’
She frowned down at him. ‘When did you last sleep?’
‘Think I got ten minutes in the pool car, this afternoon?’
‘Right: home. And that’s an order. I want you sharp and focussed for tonight’s op. We arenotletting Charles MacGarioch get away again, just because you can’t keep your eyes open.’ She reached across the desk and confiscated Logan’s coffee.
‘But I was—’
‘Go!’ Pointing at the door. ‘Get some sleep. And I expect you to be properly dressed when you get back.’
‘Eh?’ He looked down at his perfectly serviceable uniform. ‘But I’m wearing the—’
‘Standardsmatter, Logan.’ The Chief Super glanced at her watch. ‘Briefing’s at seven, so you’d better get moving. Longer you sod about here, the less time you’ve got.’
He abandoned his car in the driveway, plipping the locks over his shoulder as he scuffed to the front door and let himself in. Hung his peaked cap on the newel post and kicked off his boots, padding upstairs in his socks – pulling off his Police Scotland T-shirt on the way.
Bathroom: teeth, quick wee.
