Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories. Stuart MacBride

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СКАЧАТЬ carpet tiles. ‘Jingle Bells, Finnie Smells, Rennie’s hair is gay...’

      Detective Constable Rennie stuck his head up above his purple-walled cubicle, blond mop jelled into spikes, eyebrows pinched together in a frown. ‘Hey, I heard that!’

      Steel disappeared down the corridor, still doing her Quasimodo impersonation. Then came the slam of an office door. Then silence.

      Woman was an absolute nightmare.

      Allan slipped the envelope back in his pocket. Just have to try again tomorrow when she was in a better mood. That was the thing about detective inspectors, you had to manage them like little children, or they stormed off in a huff and spent the rest of the day thinking up ways to make your life miserable.

      A thump echoed out from the other side of the CID door, then an angry voice: ‘Aw, for... Who made sharny skidmarks all over the carpet?’

       December 24th – Christmas Eve

      DI Steel’s office looked like Santa’s grotto… Assuming Santa worked in a manky wee room with greying ceiling tiles, a carpet covered in little round burn marks, and a desk festooned with teetering stacks of forms and folders. The three filing cabinets lined up along one wall were topped with stacks of presents, all wrapped in brightly coloured paper by someone who obviously favoured enthusiasm and sticky tape over skill.

      The inspector was behind her desk, fighting with a roll of dancing-penguin paper and a big cardboard box.

      Allan knocked on the doorframe. ‘Guv?’

      She peeled an inch-long strip of Sellotape from the corner of her desk, and forced down a flap of wrinkly penguins. ‘I’m no’ in.’

      ‘Got a memo from the boss.’ He pulled it out of the folder and held it up.

      Another strip of tape. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there looking like a baked tattie: read it.’

      Allan did.

      She scowled at him. ‘Out loud, you idiot.’

      ‘Oh, right. “To all members of staff – the cleaners have lodged a complaint about the state of the carpets in the CID wing. If I catch whoever it was that wiped dog—”’

      ‘Blah, blah, blah. Anything else? Only I’m up to my ears in urgent police work here.’ She tore off another length of tape.

      ‘Yeah, you’ve got a missing person.’ Allan dumped the mis-per form on the inspector’s desk, next to a bright-yellow Tonka tipper truck. ‘Mrs Griffith says her husband—’

      ‘Give it to Biohazard or Laz.’ She gave the box another lashing of sticky tape. ‘Better yet, palm it off on those shiftless layabouts in GED. No’ like they’ve got anything better to do, is it?’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Pass us the scissors.’

      Allan did. ‘DS McRae and Marshall aren’t in today – firearms refresher – and General Enquiry Division’s already passed: they say it’s a CID case.’

      ‘Typical.’ Steel’s tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she snipped a raggedy line through the wrapping paper, disembowelling half a dozen penguins in the process. ‘How come I’m the only one round here who ever does any work?’

      Allan just stared at her.

      She narrowed her eyes. ‘Cheeky sod.’ The parcel went on the floor, then Steel dug into a green-and-white plastic bag and produced a set of something lacy and skimpy. More paper. More sticky tape.

      He pulled out the thick ivory envelope with its spidery script. ‘There’s this too.’

      Steel held out her hand. ‘Give.’ She grabbed it off him, ripped it open, and squinted at the contents, moving the letter back and forward, as if that was going to help.

      ‘You want to borrow my glasses?’

      ‘I don’t need glasses. How come no one can write properly anymore? It’s like a spider got blootered on tequila, then threw up green ink everywhere.’

      ‘So what do you want to do about this missing person?’

      ‘You know what kind of person uses green ink? Nutters, that’s who. Nutters, freaks and weirdos.’ She chucked the letter across the desk at him. ‘Read.’

      ‘Erm…’ The whole thing was packed with almost impenetrable legalese, but it was just about understandable. ‘It’s from a law firm on Carden Place. Says you’ve been left a chunk of cash in someone’s will.’

      The inspector sat upright, a smile rearranging the wrinkles on her face. ‘How much?’

      ‘Doesn’t say. They want you to go into the office and discuss it.’

      ‘Well, whoever’s snuffed it, they better be rich.’ She picked up her phone. ‘Give us the number.’

      Allan read it out and she dialled, swivelling back and forth in her seat, singing ‘I’m in the Money’ while it rang. Then stopped, licked her lips. ‘Aye, hello, this is Detective Inspector Roberta Steel, you sent me a… Uh-huh… Uh-huh… Yeah, terrible tragedy. How much?’ Silence. Her eyes widened. ‘Really?’ The smile turned into a grin. ‘Oh, yes, aye, couldn’t agree more… Uh-huh… Yeah, one thing though: who is it? Who died?’ And the grin turned into a scowl. ‘I see. Excuse me a moment.’ Then she slammed the phone down and embarked on a marathon swearing session. Threw her Sellotape across the room. Banged her fist on the desk. Swore and swore and swore.

      Allan fiddled with the folder and waited for her to finish. ‘Good news?’

      ‘Don’t you start.’ She snatched the letter back, crumpled it up into a ball, and hurled it into the bin. Then spat on it.

      ‘So … missing person?’

      ‘All right, all right – missing person. Honestly, you’re worse than Susan. Nag, nag, nag. Go get a car, we’ll pay Mrs ... Gifford? Guildford?’

      ‘Griffith.’

      ‘Right. Get a car and we’ll pay Mrs Griffith a visit.’ Steel thumped back in her chair, face all pinched, jaw moving like she was chewing on something bitter. ‘Maybe stop off for a few messages on the way.’

      Allan sat in the driver’s seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gritting his teeth every time someone blared their horn at him. They’d made it as far as the Trinity Centre before Steel had slammed her hand on the dashboard and told him to pull in for a minute. That was half an hour ago.

      The car’s hazard lights blinked and clicked, digging orange knives into his forehead.

      A loud BREEEEEEEEEP! sounded behind him, then again. And again. Then a bus grumbled past, sending up a spray of grey-brown slush to spatter against the pool car’s windows. A couple of the passengers gave him the two-finger-salute on the way past.

      Like traffic on Union Street wasn’t bad enough at the best of times. A thick rind of dirty white was piled up at the edge of the kerb, the road covered in a mix of compacted snow, ice and filthy water. Pedestrians slithered by on the pavement, bundled up in thick СКАЧАТЬ