Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

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       38

      ‘Come on, come on, come on …’ Logan willed the lift doors to open, wishing he’d taken the stairs instead. Ping: out, right, and through the double doors, barrelling down the corridor towards Detective Chief Superintendent Bain’s office. Glad to be the bearer of good news for a change.

      The door was shut, but the sound of raised voices filtered through.

      DI Steel: ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

      DCS Bain: ‘Oh come on, what was I supposed to do? His wife’s left him and taken the kids, he needs something to focus on.’

      Logan changed his mind about knocking and loitered with intent to eavesdrop instead.

      ‘He’s grieving. He’s no’ thinking straight. He’s bloody dangerous!’

      ‘He begged, OK? He begged me to let him come back to work and—’

      ‘He shouldn’t be here! And I’m no’ just saying that to be a bitch – he needs time. You push him and he’ll bloody break.’

      ‘It’s light duties only. Admin, organizing the backlog. I’ve told him to stay away from the Flesher investigation and Wiseman. It’s—’

      ‘How could you be so stupid? You really think—’

      ‘INSPECTOR! That’s enough. You’re—’

      Logan knocked on the door before the DCS could say something Steel would regret. There was a terse silence, and then: ‘Enter.’

      When Logan opened the door, the two of them were standing nose-to-nose, scowling at each other.

      The DCS barely glanced at him. ‘This better be important, Sergeant.’

      ‘We’ve got a result off the CCTV footage.’

      ‘What, you mean the abattoir?’

      Steel looked at her superior officer as if he were an idiot. ‘No, Storybook Glen. Of course he means the abattoir!’ She turned and marched from the room, pausing only to grab Logan by the sleeve. ‘About time too.’

      Five minutes later they were all in the main incident room, clustered round a scabby old television someone had wheeled in on a trolley. DCS Bain told Rennie to hit pause then tapped the screen: it was night, and a man in a thick padded jacket and dark woollen hat was caught halfway between the protein processing area and the shed where they kept the salted hides. He had a heavy-looking holdall slung over his shoulder.

      DI Steel peered at the timestamp flickering away in the corner. ‘When was this?’

      Rennie checked something on a clipboard. ‘Friday night. Twenty-eight minutes past eleven: when the security guards usually have their fly cup – official tea break’s not till midnight, but they slip one in when no one’s looking. It’s about thirty-six hours after the pathologist reckons Tom Stephen was killed.’ He pressed play again, and the figure hurried past the skin sheds; one frame every two seconds, like cheap Canadian animation, then disappeared through the fence and into the leylandii hedge.

      ‘Bloody hell …’ Steel slapped Rennie on the shoulder. ‘How come no one noticed this sooner?’

      ‘Ow!’

      Bain told him to stop whining and get onto Photographic: ‘I want that man’s face blown up and enhanced. Tell them nothing else takes precedence, understand?’

      The constable snapped off a salute and stabbed the video’s eject button.

      ‘Next, I want everyone to go back through the list of abattoir workers: find me a face that fits.’ He smiled. ‘We’ve finally got him.’

      Logan stood outside on the rear podium, trying to get through to Chief Constable Faulds on his mobile. It rang through to an anonymous electronic answering service. He declined to leave a message and tried the number Faulds had given him for Lloyd House – Birmingham’s version of Force Headquarters instead.

      ‘West Midlands Police, how can I help you?’

      He asked to be put through, ending up in Hold Music Hell with a panpipe rendition of ‘In the Air Tonight’, before finally getting through to a human being who told him Faulds was taking a couple of personal days, but he’d be back on Wednesday. Would Logan like to leave a message?

      ‘Yeah, tell him we’ve got a suspect: Marek Kowalczyk, works at the abattoir where we found the body parts.’

      Alec appeared through the back door, grinning from ear to ear, a bulky stab-proof vest on under his parka. ‘This’ll make a kick-ass finale to the programme!’

      Logan thanked the sergeant on the other end of the phone and hung up. ‘You do know this is probably going to be hours of sitting in a car waiting for nothing to happen, don’t you?’

      ‘Ah, where’s your sense of adventure? This is going to be great!’

      Which just went to show how much he knew.