LITMIR.BIZ

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      Outside, a car grumbled past.

      The rain hissed down on the world outside, the sound clear through the open window as the vertical blinds swayed in the breeze.

      A phone rang somewhere in the depths of the station.

      Calamity was the first one to crack, spluttering out a snigger that exploded into a full-on laugh.

      Logan wasn’t far behind, rocking back in his chair, hooting. Letting it ring out.

      Lumpy just stared at them.

      Eventually the laughter rattled to a halt.

      Logan sighed. Wiped his eyes. ‘Priceless.’

      ‘Three grand, Lumpy?’ Calamity shook her head, still grinning. ‘You’ll be lucky if we don’t bang you up for wasting police time. Remember the last red-hot tip of yours?’

      He shifted on his bench. Lowered his voice and his gaze. ‘Wasn’t my fault.’

      ‘Any idea how many crimes we could’ve been solving, instead of traipsing round the countryside trying to find your non-existent dealer from Newcastle?’

      ‘Wasn’t my fault.’

      ‘And now you’re giving us this rubbish about Ma Campbell and the Welshes?’

      Logan tapped the pad again. ‘Who do you owe three grand to?’

      No answer.

      ‘Come on, Lumpy. You didn’t come up with that figure out of the blue, you owe someone, don’t you? Let me guess…’ Logan bit down on his bottom lip for a moment. ‘It wouldn’t be Ricky Welsh, by any chance, would it? That’d be a coincidence. You owe him a big chunk of cash, and here you are dobbing him in.’

      Calamity sucked a breath through her teeth. ‘Lumpy, Lumpy, Lumpy. Clyping on someone you owe money to, just so we’ll bang them up and you won’t have to pay them back. Should be ashamed of yourself.’

      ‘No!’ Lumpy’s bottom lip wobbled for a bit. Then he shrugged his way down to the tabletop, so his cheek was resting against the chipped white surface. ‘Civic duty…’

      ‘OK. Well, we’re done here.’ Logan stood. ‘Good luck sorting things out with the Welshes. I’m sure Laura will be very understanding when she finds out you tried to weasel out of paying by informing on the pair of them. She’ll probably bake you a cake. She can send it to you, care of HMP Grampian, where you’ll be spending the next four to six months.’

      ‘Noooo…’ The thin arms came up over his head.

      ‘Officer Nicholson will show you back to your cell.’

      She snapped her fingers. ‘Come on, Lumpy, on your feet. Maybe we can ask the Custody Sergeant to hose you down before beddy-byes?’

      ‘All right! All right, I’ll tell you.’

      ‘What do you think?’ Logan sat back in the visitor’s chair.

      The room’s dark-blue carpet was getting a bit scuffed near the door. Large corkboards covered the two walls either side of the desk, one with a street map of Fraserburgh covered in little red, green, and yellow pins; the other with a map of B Division, surrounded with memos and official leaflets. And a poster of a kitten peeking out of an old boot.

      ‘And you’re sure it’s Ma Campbell?’ Inspector McGregor swivelled from side to side in her seat, chewing on one leg of her glasses. ‘Hmm…’ Her heart-shaped face creased itself into a frown, pulling wrinkles around her eyes. A thick streak of grey hair reached back above each ear, disappearing into a no-nonsense bun that matched the two no-nonsense silver pips on each epaulette fixed to her black Police Scotland T-shirt. She stopped swivelling and pointed her glasses at the only other person in the room. ‘What do you think, Hugo?’

      ‘What do I think?’ Inspector Fettes shrugged. Standing beneath the overhead strip light, his hair was a spectacular mop of fiery curls. As if Little Orphan Annie had a sex change and joined the rozzers. He folded his arms, hiding a pair of huge hands covered in freckles, like the ones that spattered across his nose and cheeks. ‘Honestly?’ He screwed one side of his face up. ‘I think Logan needs to go on a diet. Crashing through a garage roof? That’s too many pies, that is.’

      Logan reached down and rubbed at his swollen ankle. ‘I am not fat.’

      A smile twitched at the corner of McGregor’s mouth. ‘I meant, what about Patrick Hay?’

      Fettes checked the clock mounted on the desk. ‘You’re still Duty Inspector. Not my problem for five more minutes.’

      ‘Thanks a heap.’

      ‘Hey, what happens on dayshift stays on dayshift. When it’s Backshift’s turn to worry about it, I’ll worry about it.’

      ‘Hmm…’ She went back to swivelling. Picked up a sheet of paper from her desk on the way past. ‘Ma Campbell, real name Jessica Kirkpatrick Campbell. Runs all the drugs, prostitution, and protection rackets from Paisley to East Kilbride.’ McGregor dumped the paper back on her desk. ‘I could do without this woman taking an interest in Banff and Macduff. Assuming Lumpy Patrick isn’t talking out of his crenulated bumhole again.’

      Logan just shrugged.

      ‘It’ll take a lot of money and manpower to dunt in the Welshes’ door, and the budget’s tight enough as it is. If we don’t get a result…’

      Inspector Fettes settled on the edge of the desk. ‘Well, if you want my opinion: anything that gets Ricky Welsh and his homicidal wife off the streets has got to be a good thing. It’s worth a punt.’

      ‘Agreed.’ She checked her watch. ‘Two minutes. Logan, anything else I need to know?’

      ‘Canteen vending machine’s out of chocolate.’

      Fettes’s eyes widened. ‘OK, that I’m going to get right on.’

      ‘Wise choice.’ Inspector McGregor pulled the keyboard of her computer over and poked at it. ‘And when you’re done, be a darling and get some spare bodies and the Operational Support Unit organized so we can pay Ricky Welsh a visit, OK? Logan, do you have a date in mind?’

      ‘No way we’ll get it all sorted for tomorrow, not with the MIT barging about all over the place hoovering up resources, and we’re off Friday–Saturday, so … Sunday nightshift? We go in about half ten, eleven, something like that? Give ourselves plenty of time to ransack the place.’

      McGregor nodded. ‘Agreed.’ Another glance at her watch. ‘And we’re done for the day. Bravo India is off to do the shopping, long live Bravo India.’ She stood and shuffled out from behind the desk. Picked up a framed photo of two boys, a girl, and a Jack Russell terrier, and slid it into a rucksack as Inspector Fettes settled into the vacated seat.

      ‘Mmm, still warm.’ He raised his eyebrows at Logan. ‘Right, Sergeant McRae, off you sod. I’ve got important police business to attend to.’ He grabbed the phone and pressed a button. ‘Sophie? Get me the number for those vending machine people…’

      Rain pattered against the back door, making streaks on the glass, blurring the view of the car park behind the station. The doorway sat at the bottom of the back stairs, next to the tradesman’s entrance to the cellblock. A pile of Method of Entry equipmant was heaped in the space under the stairs – mini battering rams, hoolie bars, arm, shin, elbow, and kneepads, those horribly uncomfortable helmets with the neck guard that always smelled like someone had peed in them. All sitting behind a sign proclaiming, ‘DO NOT PUT ANYTHING IN THIS AREA!!!’

      Inspector McGregor pulled on her gloves. ‘I don’t like it, Logan. I don’t like it one little bit.’

      A shrug. ‘I know. But what are we supposed to do, ignore it?’

      She turned and frowned. ‘Ignore what?’

      ‘Lumpy

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