Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories (3 page)

He squeezed in half a dozen assorted coffees at the other end and carried the lot down to the CID wing. Really it was just of a handful of rooms lurking at the end of a smelly corridor they still hadn’t managed to scrub the brown streaks out of, but that didn’t sound quite as impressive.

DI Steel was lurking in her office, scowling at the phone and drumming her nails on the desktop. ‘Took your time.’

Allan dumped a buttie and a big wax-paper cup beside her in-tray. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘Don’t start.’ She unwrapped the floury roll and sank her teeth into it. ‘Mmmph, mnnnnphmmm?’

‘Today’s the twenty-seventh.’

‘Stunning powers of observation there, Constable Guthrie. You’ll go far.’

‘What I mean is, it’s the funeral today. Of your mate, MacDuff.’

‘Desperate Doug MacDuff’s no sodding mate of mine.’ Another mouthful, washed down with a scoof of coffee. ‘Get a car.’

‘
How
much?’ Allan turned to stare at her.

‘Watch the road!’

He snapped back just in time to see the back end of a bus. Slammed on the brakes. The pedal juddered under his foot, the ABS twitching as the car slid into the kerb. So much for the weather getting better after Christmas. The roads were like glass, and everyone drove like an idiot. ‘Stupid bus driver…’ Allan wrangled the car back out onto the road. ‘Fifty-four thousand quid, and all you have to do is deliver the guy’s eulogy?’

‘It’s no’ as simple as that. I’d have to be nice about him. And if his greasy lawyer thought I’d no’ been enthusiastic enough, I’d get sod all. Enthusiastic, about Desperate Doug MacDuff?’ She stared out of the window, mouth a narrow, pinched line. ‘Man worked as an enforcer for the McLeods, Wee Hamish Mowat,
and
Malk the Knife. Killed at least six people we know of, probably a hell of a lot more. Then there’s the beatings, abductions. Rape…’

‘So lie. Fifty-four grand! Say he was a great guy, a credit to his family, loved by women, admired by men. Take the money and run; who cares if he was a complete scumbag?’

‘
I
care.’

‘No answer.’ Allan stuffed his hands back in his pockets.

‘Try it again.’

The Griffiths’ street was like Dr Zhivagoland – everything covered in rounded mounds of white. Cars, hedges, trees, the lot. Icicles made glass fangs from the guttering, twinkling in the morning light. Sky so blue it was almost painful to look at.

He leant on the doorbell again and a deep
brrrrrrrrrrrrrring
sounded somewhere inside. ‘Maybe she’s gone out?’

Steel shook her head. ‘Look at the drive.’

Someone had dug it clear, all the way to the slippery road; a snow-blanketed Range Rover was parked in front of the garage, one of those big ugly Porsche Cayennes blocking it in. The paintwork frost-free and glistening. ‘She’s got visitors.’

‘Once more with feeling.’

Allan ground his thumb into the brass bell, keeping the noise going. ‘You know, there’s still plenty time to head out to the Crem.’

‘I’m no’ telling you again.’

‘Just saying: fifty-four grand goes a long way when you’ve got a wee kid to bring up. Good nursery, maybe a private school, couple of nice holidays. Otherwise, what, the Taxman gets it?’

‘Where the hairy hell is…’ Steel screwed her eyes up, peering through the glass panel beside the door. ‘Here we go.’

A muffled voice. ‘Who is it?’

The inspector stepped forward and slammed her palm into the wood. ‘Police. Open up.’

‘Oh… But, I—’

‘
Now
.’

A clunk and rattle, then the door creaked open a crack and a big pink face stared out at them. ‘Have you found Charles? Is he all right?’ Her cheeks were all flushed, a pale fringe of hair sticking to her glistening forehead.

Steel smiled. ‘Can we come in?’

‘Ah… Well, I’m… It’s not really convenient, right—’

The inspector placed a hand against the door and pushed, forcing her back into the hall. ‘Won’t take long.’

Allan followed Steel inside, clunking the door closed behind him, shutting out the cold.

Mrs Griffith stood in the hallway, one hand clutching the front of her silk kimono, keeping everything hidden. Thank God. ‘Look, can’t this wait till—’

‘Where is he?’

The pink on her cheeks darkened. ‘I… Don’t know. That’s why I called you. He’s missing and I’m very upset.’

‘Oh aye. But no’ upset enough to put you off a wee bit of the old mid-morning delight, eh?’ Steel wandered over to the foot of the stairs, leaning on the polished wooden banister.

Mrs Griffith stuck her nose in the air, stretching out the folds in her neck. ‘I think you should go.’

‘Come out, come out wherever you are! Game’s a bogey, the man’s in the lobby!’

‘I must protest, you shouldn’t—’

Steel cupped her hands into a makeshift megaphone. ‘Come on McFee, I know you’re in here, I recognised your car! Lets be havin’ you!’

Silence. Then a voice echoed down from upstairs. ‘Erm… I’m a little tied up at the moment. Well, handcuffed, technically…’

The inspector grinned. ‘Bingo.’ She bounded up the stairs two at a time, Mrs Griffith lumbering after her, making little groaning noises.

‘It’s not what you think, really!’

Allan followed them up to a plush bedroom that could have come straight from the pages of a swanky magazine. Oatmeal carpet, red velvet curtains, polished oak units, and a big four-poster bed with a naked man manacled to it. Wee Free McFee, wearing nothing but a smile and a couple of crocodile clips in a very sensitive location. OK, so the magazine would have to be
Better Homes and Perverts
, but it was the thought that counted.

McFee tried a shrug. ‘I’d get up, but … you know.’

Allan winced. ‘Does that not
hurt
?’

Steel plonked herself down on the edge of the bed. ‘No’ interrupting anything, am I?’

‘What do you think?’

Mrs Griffith grabbed the duvet and hauled it up, covering McFee’s wee hairy body. ‘I really don’t see how this is any of your business.’

‘What’s the deal, she paying off her husband’s debt in naughty favours? That it?’

‘Actually—’

Mrs Griffith put a hand on his chest. ‘Matthew and I are deeply in love. We have been for nearly a year. When Charles gets back, I’m going to ask him for a divorce.’

‘Divorce?’ The inspector bounced up and down a couple of times, making the springs creak. ‘Tell you what I think: I think the pair of you decided you couldn’t be bothered with a long, drawn out legal battle, so you killed him, dumped the body somewhere, and reported him missing. Cooked up the receipt for four grand so we’d think he’d done a bunk to get out of paying his debt.’ She smiled. ‘How am I doing so far?’

McFee looked at her for a minute, then burst out laughing. ‘We’re gonna get married. You any idea how hard it’d be for Mags to get a divorce if Charles is missing? Couldn’t even have him declared dead for what, seven, eight years? No way we’re waiting that long. Nice quickie divorce, and we can all get on with our lives.’ He winked. ‘Might even send you an invitation.’

‘Pull over.’ Steel scowled out of the windscreen, arms folded across her chest, jaw jutting.

‘You sure? It’s half two, you don’t want to be—’

‘I swear to God, Constable, if you don’t pull over right now I’m going to take my boot and I’m going to jam it right up your—’

‘OK, OK, pulling over.’ Talk about a bear with a sore bum.

The car crunched and bumped over a moonscape of compacted snow, coming to a halt outside a wee corner shop on Queens Road. A little billboard thing was screwed to the wall: ‘A
BERDEEN
E
XAMINER
– E
ND
I
N
S
IGHT
F
OR
W
INTER
C
HAOS
!’ Aye, right.

Steel unclipped her seatbelt and clambered out onto the crusty pavement, slipped, grabbed the door, wobbled for a bit, then straightened up. ‘No’ a word.’

‘I didn’t say anything!’

She slammed the door and picked her way into the shop.

How could someone be that miserable about inheriting fifty-four grand?

Steel was back five minutes later with a white carrier-bag clutched to her chest. Buckled herself in, then pulled out a half bottle of Famous Grouse. The top came off with a single twist, then she stared at the bottle for a moment, before knocking back a mouthful. Closed her eyes and shuddered. Took another sip. ‘What you looking at?’

‘Just thought it was kind of … you know … on duty and…’ He swallowed. She was glowering at him.

‘Drive.’

She was about a third of the way down the bottle by the time they reached the rutted driveway to the crematorium. The memorial gardens were covered in a thick layer of white, stealing the sharp edges from everything. According to the car’s temperature display, it was minus four out there.

Allan crept along the road, making for the bulky building at the end. The place was a collection of grey and brown rectangles, bolted together into a single unappealing, ugly, lump. As if just being a crematorium wasn’t depressing enough.

There was only one other vehicle in the car park, a frost-rimed 4x4. Allan parked a couple of spaces along and checked the clock: two fifty-eight. ‘Doesn’t look like he was all that popular.’

Steel took another slug of Grouse. ‘I was nineteen, only been on the beat for a couple of weeks… Was doing door-to-doors for this abduction case – woman, mother of two, snatched outside the bookies she worked at.’ Steel screwed the top back on the bottle, one eye half-shut, like it wouldn’t stay in focus. ‘And then I chapped on Desperate Doug MacDuff’s door...’

Silence.

‘Guv? You want me to come in with you?’

‘Going to go in there and tell the truth. Let everyone know what he was
really
like. Give that manky old git a piece of my mind. Who needs his filthy money?’ She climbed out into the snow, breath streaming around her head. Slipped the half bottle of whisky into her pocket. ‘You wait here. Might need to make a quick getaway.’

December 31st – Hogmanay

‘Guv?’ Allan peered around the edge of the door into DI Steel’s office.

She was slouched in her seat, feet up on the desk, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. The smoke curled out through the open window, letting in the constant drip-drip-drip of melting snow. A cup of coffee was growing a wrinkly skin, sitting next to a cardboard box with ‘F
RAGILE
– T
HIS
W
AY
U
P
’ stencilled on the side.

‘Guv?’

Steel blinked, then swung around. ‘What?’

‘Just got a call from Mrs Griffith’s next-door neighbour. Think we’ve found the missing husband.’

Steel turned and stared back towards the road. ‘You sure you locked the car?’

‘
Yes
, I locked the car.’ Snow crunched and squelched under Allan’s boots as he picked his way along the edge of the next-door neighbour’s garden. It was horrible out here, cold and wet and soggy as the thaw ate its way through the drifts.

The neighbour was standing by a six-foot wooden fence, clutching an umbrella, melt-water from the roof drumming on the black and white fabric. She bounced a little on her feet as they got nearer, green eyes shining, big smile on her face, Irn-Bru hair curling out from the fringes of a woolly hat. ‘He’s over there.’ She pointed through a gap in the fence. ‘Saw him when I was trying to defrost the garden hose, and I was certain it was a body, and then I thought I can’t leave it, what if it disappears like in
North by Northwest
and nobody believes me? Or was that
Ten Little Indians
? I don’t suppose it matters really, but it was something like that, so I ran inside and grabbed my mobile and came back out and it was still there, which is great.’ All delivered machine gun style in one big breath.

Allan peered between two of the boards that made up the fence. There was a pair of legs sticking out of a drift of glistening snow: black boots; red trousers trimmed with white fur. An electrical cable was wrapped around one leg, studded with large multicoloured light bulbs. ‘Ouch. You think he’s…?’

Steel hit him. ‘Course he’s dead. Been lying upside down in a snowdrift for a week. It’s no’ like he’s hibernating in there, is it?’

The end of a ladder was just visible on the other side of the mound. ‘On the bright side, at least he’s not missing any more.’

Steel sat in the passenger seat, clutching that fragile cardboard box to her chest. Allan turned up the heater, then peered through the windscreen up at the house. Mrs Griffith was standing in the bay window of the lounge, staring as the duty undertakers wrestled her husband’s remains into the back of their unmarked grey van. It wasn’t easy – he’d frozen in a pretty awkward shape, like a Santa-Claus-themed swastika… Wee Free McFee had his arms wrapped nearly all the way around her shoulders, holding her tight as she sobbed.

Allan sniffed. ‘Still think they did it?’

‘The lovebirds? Nah. Silly sod was clambering about on the roof practicing his Father Christmas in the snow. Deserved all he got.’

The funeral directors finally forced the last bit of Charles Griffith into the van, then slammed the doors shut and slithered off into the defrosting afternoon.

Allan put the pool car in gear. ‘Back to the ranch?’

‘Nope. You can drop me off at home, I’m copping a sicky.’ Steel opened the top of the cardboard box and hauled out a brass urn that looked like a cross between a cocktail shaker and a thermos flask. A plaque was stuck to the dark wooden base: ‘D
OUGLAS
K
ENNEDY
M
AC
D
UFF
– I
N
L
OVING
M
EMORY
’. She opened the top and peered inside. ‘Hello again, Doug, you rancid wee scumbag. Your mate the solicitor says I’ve got to give you a dignified farewell. Something befitting your standing in the community.’

‘Fifty-four grand… Knew you’d see sense.’ Allan eased the car out onto the road. ‘So where you going to scatter him: Pittodrie? North Sea? Maybe out Tyrebagger or something?’