Logan turned around, scowling at the useless sweaty lumps masquerading as police officers.
Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel scowled back at him from the driver’s seat, with her mad grey hair, chain-smoker’s wrinkles, and strawberry Cornetto.
In the next row of seats sulked Detective Constable Veronica Lund – pageboy cut, cheeks starting to jowl a bit, little pink eyes, white chocolate Magnum – and DC David Barrett – a blond, rabbity-looking kind of guy, whose head brushed the van’s ceiling. Sort of a pooka made flesh. Nobbly Bobbly.
The second row featured a pile of everyone’s bowling-ball crash helmets and DC Owen Harmsworth – far too chubby to ever pass a bleep test – with a receding hairline, saggy face, and permanently disappointed look: Solero.
And at the back lurked the team’s resident shortarse: DC Stewart ‘Tufty’ Quirrel – his thin pointy face beaming out beneath a buzz-cut – Lolly Gobble Choc Bomb.
Steel clicked the radio back on. ‘Don’t be a dick.’ And ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ ripped out of the van’s speakers for the whole three seconds it took Logan to switch it off again.
‘No radio when we’re on an op. Youknowthat.’ Pointing atthe lot of them. ‘Supposed to be paying attention.’ Prompting assorted whinging and moaning from the back of the van.
‘I don’t care! And where did you get the lollies? You can’t just send someone trotting off at the first sniff of an ice-cream van!’ At least Barrett and Lund had the decency to blush at that one. Logan gestured out towards the sweltering afternoon. ‘They could give us the “go” at any minute. You want to miss it, cos you’re listening tothisrubbish and scoffing ice cream? Everyone else is rushing to the dunt, and you’re sat here like steamed farts while one of you’s waiting in line for...’ gritting his teeth, ‘for a soddingchoc ice?’
Harmsworth shuffled his bum in its seat. ‘Yeah, but—’
‘No radio! No more lollies! And that’sfinal.’
Which was the cue for a lot of pouty posturing and folded arms.
Fine:letthem stew in sweaty sulky silence. See if Logan cared.
Steel lowered her voice and leaned across from the driver’s side. ‘Thanks for motivating the team,Inspector. Really appreciate it.’
Logan stared back. ‘One of our victims died fifteen minutes ago. It’s murder now.’
She closed her eyes and sagged. ‘Son of a...’ A sigh. ‘Great.’
‘That enough motivation for you?’
Logan checked the dashboard clock. Four thirty-two, and still waiting for the shout.
At least the general funk of communal sulking had eased a bit. But that radio was stayingoff.
Pfff...
He huffed out a breath and slipped free of his fighting suit’s jacket. It was like a sodding kiln in here. And the open van doors made no difference at all.
Didn’t help he was on the sunny side of the vehicle.
Steel, on the other hand, had a wee battery-powered fan on the go, wafting her shiny face as she perused that morning’sAberdeen Examiner, holding it up as a kind of barrier between their seats. Because unlike the rest of her team, Roberta Steel sulked professionally.
The front page blared ‘SICKO RACISTS TORCH MIGRANT HOTEL’ above a photo of last night’s blaze on Broomhill Road, with the subheading ‘SLEEPINGREFUGEESAWAKETOFINDROOMSABLAZEINMIDDLEOFNIGHT’. Because apparently people were sodding horrible now.
Steel looked up from page three – thankfully free of half-naked glamour models, or she’d be letching all over them – ‘PROTEIN THIEF TAKES A POWDER’ starring a sports shop’s shattered front window and a man in a tight polo shirt miming disappointment at the empty shelves. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
A lone cat wandered across the library car park, tail in the air as a butterfly flittered by. The cat cocked its head for a moment, as if contemplating giving chase, before deciding it couldn’t be arsed in this heat.
Steel turned the page: ‘OPEN BORDERS “BRINGING NHS TO ITS KNEES” SAYS TORY PEER’ next to a pinch-faced photograph of a baldy twat. A sniff. ‘Wouldn’t think it was thunder and lightning all last week.’
So, at least she was talking to him again.
Logan watched the cat wander off and flump down in the shade of a bush. ‘That’s climate change for you.’
‘Rained so much, could’ve sworn I’d got mildew in my “intimate feminine areas”.’ She grinned as he gagged a little. ‘And how am I supposed to get rid of my tan lines if I can’t lounge about the garden in the nip? Airing out my fusty bits?’