LITMIR.BIZ

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till her chest rested against her knees, arms wrapped around her head. ‘It’s not mine …’

      Logan dumped the phone back on the pile of ‘found’ electronics, then had a wee poke about in the biscuit tin. Definitely enough for possession. Maybe even possession with intent. ‘So, Kirstin. Looks like you’re a bit screwed.’

      ‘It’s not mine.’ Voice muffled by her knees.

      ‘Right. You found it.’ He handed the tin back to Nicholson.

      She put the top on again. ‘What do you think Kirstin’s looking at, Sarge? Four years? Maybe five?’

      Logan bared his teeth and sooked a breath in. Grimaced. ‘Depends who the Sheriff is. Harding’s got a bee in his bunnet about drugs right now; might go as high as seven, if he thinks she’s dealing.’

      ‘I see …’ Nicholson frowned off into the middle distance. Stroked her chin. Then snapped her fingers. ‘I know! What if Kirstin here tried to cut a deal? You know, if she decided to scratch our backs?’

      He folded his arms. ‘Well, I suppose that would depend. I’m pretty itchy.’

      Kirstin groaned. Sat up. Slumped backwards. Covered her face with her hands. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, OK?’

      Silence.

      ‘Didn’t hear what, Kirstin?’

      ‘Klingon and Gerbil got a shipment in from down south today.’

      Nicholson slipped the biscuit tin into a large evidence bag. ‘Coke? Heroin? Hash? Crack? Smack? Jellies? Strepsils? What?’

      A shrug.

      Logan frowned. Outside, the sound of a car droned past. ‘This delivery: was it an ugly bloke in a shiny blue Fiesta? Birmingham accent?’ Then ran a finger along his own jaw. ‘Big line of plukes here? Calls himself Martyn-with-a-“Y”, or Paul, or Dave?’

      ‘Don’t know. Never met him. But Gerbil’s all excited cause he thinks he’s in with the big boys now. Shooting his mouth off round here last night.’ She dropped her hands away from her face. Stared up at the fake painting of the wee girl. ‘You can’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill me.’

      ‘Kevin “the Gerbil” McEwan? Got more chance of being gored by a sheep.’ Logan jerked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘On your feet.’

      ‘You’ve got to promise! So my Amy doesn’t grow up an orphan.’

      Nicholson had her notebook out. ‘Where are they keeping the stuff?’

      Kirstin stared up at Logan. ‘I only get to see my Amy on the weekends, with supervised visits from the social. I’m trying to change, I really am.’ One hand scratching away at the crook of her arm. Picking the scabs off the needle marks. ‘Please …’

      ‘Not till you tell us where it is.’

      ‘Klingon’s place. His mum’s away to Australia for a month.’

      ‘Right.’ Logan unhooked his Airwave and made for the door. Pointed back towards the pile of stuff on the coffee table. ‘Nicholson – you get that lot bagged and tagged. I’ll be outside.’ He punched in Inspector McGregor’s shoulder number on the way down the stairs. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

       ‘Logan, are you heading up to Fraserburgh any time soon? Because this missing cashline machine is a total mess. How come we’ve not got anyone Crime-Scene-Manager-trained on shift?’

      ‘I want to raid an address in Banff.’

       ‘What: now?’

      ‘Soon as.’ He pushed through the main door and out into the sunny evening. ‘I’ve got intel that Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney have taken possession of a big shipment from down south. Storing it at Spinney’s house. If we move quick, we might catch them before it’s broken up and disappeared.’

       ‘Klingon and Gerbil moving up in the world, are they?’

      ‘Trying to.’

      Silence.

      A seagull wheeled overhead, wings radiant-white against the flawless blue.

      ‘Guv?’

       ‘We’d need corroboration.’

      ‘Got a file yay thick with people complaining about them dealing from Gerbil’s flat.’

      ‘Hold on …’ Some muffled conversation. Then silence again.

      Logan leaned back against the wall, one foot up on the dirty grey harling.

      A second seagull joined the first, making slow loops, drifting away out to sea.

       ‘You still there? Email me an address and I’ll get the warrant sorted. Too short notice to get the Operational Support Unit involved, but you can have one van, and two extra officers from Inverurie.’

      ‘I need them to be search-trained. And a dog team.’

       ‘You want jam on it, don’t you?’

      ‘Best chance we’ve got of finding Klingon and Gerbil’s stash.’

      Sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do. It’s going to take a couple of hours to get everything sorted, though. Stick in the ground: we go at nine tonight.’

      ‘Thanks, Guv.’

      ‘Just make sure you find something.’

      The desk phone rang and rang and rang. Logan grabbed the Post-it note, stuck a finger in one ear, mobile phone clamped to the other, and marched out of the main office into the corridor. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

      Louise’s voice crackled down the line. ‘I’m not saying it’s definitely going to be a problem, but we need to keep on top of it. Samantha’s health has to be our top priority.’

      Past the canteen and the gents’ toilet. Through into the Constables’ Office.

      More phones ringing – Nicholson scrabbling for a pad and scribbling things down. ‘Uhuh, yes, sir. I will, sir.’ She’d stripped off her protective gear, exposing muddy circles under the arms of her black T-shirt. Like filthy sweat stains.

      He plonked the Post-it in the middle of the desk, in front of her.

      She nodded.

       ‘This chest infection’s been dragging on for a couple of weeks and I’d really like to see if we can shift it.’

      ‘And there’s no risk?’

       ‘There’s always a risk when you change someone’s medication. But a chest infection’s a serious thing for someone who was in a coma for as long as Samantha.’

      Nicholson must have finished her call, because she picked up the Post-it. Squinted at it. Then waved it at Logan. ‘What?’

      ‘OK, so let’s fix her medication then.’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It says, “We’ve got a dog unit coming from Aberdeen.”’

      ‘It does?’ More squinting. ‘You ever think about becoming a doctor?’

       ‘Are you going to be up tomorrow?’

      ‘Can’t, I’m in court all day. Wednesday though: about ten?’

      Nicholson grabbed a dry marker and stomped over to the whiteboard above the radiator. Printed ‘DOG UNIT’ in the column marked ‘ASSETS’.

       ‘Perfect. And we need to take another look at getting you formally appointed as Samantha’s legal guardian.’

      ‘I hate—’

      ‘I

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