Chapter 69
Whoever invented paperwork could sod right off.
Logan poked away at his keyboard, working his way through the interminable screeds of crap needed to justify every cock-up, mini-triumph, assorted shenanigan, and utter wanking disaster he’d overseen since starting work this morning.
Trying not to stare at the wall clock every two minutes.
The stacks of file folders he’d inherited still littered his desk, but even more of the things had arrived – clogging up his in-tray too. Because in Police Scotland you could never have enough buggering paperwork.
He finished off the report on Charles MacGarioch’s arrest, hit ‘SEND’ and slumped back in his chair.
Rubbed at his face.
Groaned.
Looked around at the assorted piles and piles and piles of other people’s crap.
Groaned again.
Then heaved the files from his in-tray onto his desk, opening each in turn to have a quick squint at the covering pages inside.
Right at the top was Forensic’s preliminary report on Andrew Shaw’s Peugeot, which didn’t need an entire sheet of A4 – four words would’ve done it: ‘bugger, and indeed, all’. No blood or DNA matching Natasha Agapova, so far.
Suppose there was still hope, but you could pretty much guarantee they’d used the accomplice’s car in the abduction.
The next one down contained Doreen’s summary pages for all the review meetings he’d lumbered her with. But those could wait till tomorrow.
Number Three was a twenty-four-page memo about overtime payments and how to properly account for manpower-spend in relation to operational-budget-overruns and calculate the variance from key-performance-indicator baselines.
That could definitely wait.
Then there were a bunch of DCI Porter’s cases, and a handful of DCI McCulloch’s for good measure. Because the lucky bastards were off with the plague, leaving their crap for the living to wade through.
And right at the bottom: Biohazard’s door-to-door-and-PNC-check extravaganza. Which, surprise-surprise, turned out to be a complete waste of sodding—
‘What are you still doing here?’
Logan looked up, and there was Chief Superintendent Pine, with yet more paperwork tucked under her arm.
‘Boss.’ He waved a hand at the assorted piles.
‘Catching up while we’re waiting on Keira Longmore to finish with the duty solicitor, so Charles MacGarioch can have a go. And then we can finally interview him.’
Pine perched a buttock on his desk and helped herself to one of his files. ‘Are we sure it’s wise to let them share a solicitor, given the risk of collusion?’ Opening the folder to skim the contents.
‘What choice do we have? . . . Which is now the official motto of A Division.’ A yawn crackled free.
‘Right now, our pool of duty solicitors contains exactly one person. And we have to share her with Tayside.’ He slumped in his chair.
‘It wasn’t your fault, you know: the media briefing.
The buggers had their knives out and sharpened long before we got there. ’
She kept on reading. ‘Aren’t I the one who’s meant to give the motivational speeches?’
‘OK, so Natasha Agapova was abducted in the wee small hours of Tuesday morning, but we only found out . . .’ he checked the wall clock again, ‘twenty-two and a half hours ago! And we’ve already identified one suspect and solved over a dozen outstanding rapes.
In what screwed-up alternative universe is that “floundering”? ’
‘The one that sells newspapers.’
Because that was so much more important than the truth these days.
‘You get anywhere with Nick Wilson?’
A puzzled look. ‘Nick . . .?’
‘Second-last person to see Natasha Agapova alive? Captain Sleazy of the Good Ship SexYacht?’
‘Oh.’ Her brows furrowed. ‘Erm . . . DS MacDonald’s speaking to him.
Or has spoken. Or at least, he better have.
’ She cricked her neck. ‘Haven’t checked my messages yet.
’ Then grimaced. ‘Feel like I’ve spent the whole sodding day fielding questions and doing interviews.
Urgh . . .’ pulling her mouth out and down, like an unhappy bulldog.
‘Don’t suppose you fancy swapping places and running A Division for a bit, do you? ’
‘Not even vaguely, Boss.’
A sigh. ‘Yeah. Me too.’ She dumped the file back in his in-tray. ‘OK – leave the duty-solicitor thing with me. I’ll see if I can’t pull a few levers with the local Society of Advocates. Buggers owe me a few favours anyway.’ Then hopped down off Logan’s desk. ‘Go home.’
‘But Charles MacGarioch—’
‘Isn’t going anywhere. That’s why we put him in a nice warm cell.’ She pointed at the door. ‘Home: go.’
Yeah, he wasn’t going to argue with that one.
‘Thanks, Boss.’
‘But for goodness’ sake, properly dressed tomorrow. Detective Chief Inspectors are expected to set an example.’
Again?
He looked down at his outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. ‘We were on an undercover op!’
‘I know that. When you’re back in uniform,’ she tapped her epaulettes, then held up a trio of fingers, ‘three pips, not two.’ Then marched off.
‘And tomorrow we do some spectacular detective work, rescue Natasha Agapova, get lauded in the press, a couple of shiny medals, keys to the city, and a slap-up dinner with champagne and chips.’
Aye, right . . .
Soon as she’d gone, Logan sagged for a couple of breaths, then stood. Powered down his computer. And sodded off home for the night.
All this pain and suffering and death and horror would still be here in the morning . . .