Steel went back to sucking her thumb, mumbling around the digit, ‘So why’s Danby being all touchy about it?’
‘No idea.’ Logan shifted forward in his seat. ‘I went for a dig in Knox’s file too, in case there was a connection there. He’s got big chunks marked “restricted”. No details.’
‘That’ll be those other rapes Danby was waffling about. Would’ve been before the Soham murders, back when we all thought we had to be so sodding sensitive about unsubstantiated accusations going on some dirty bastard’s permanent record. Bloody Data Protection Act bollocks.’
Logan shrugged. She was probably right.
Silence.
Then she stood. ‘Get your coat, we’re off to see a man about some dodgy twenties.’
‘Nah, business is shite, truth be told.’ The man in the oil-smudged blue boilersuit spoke over his shoulder while a scabby kettle grumbled to a boil. ‘Bloody recession barely made a dent in Aberdeen, but suddenly no one wants to buy a car. You know? Hypocritical bastards.’
The office faced out onto what looked like an old cattle yard, the grey concrete floor host to a multicoloured array of second-hand cars crammed in bumper-to-bumper with ‘DEAL OF THE WEEK!!!’ signs taped to the windscreens. A couple of calendars hung on the white breezeblock walls, all featuring spanners and bits of mechanical equipment. DI Steel finished flipping through one and pulled a face, before perching herself on the edge of the battered desk. ‘Whatever happened to nudie women?’
‘Milk, two sugars, right?’ He ladled coffee granules into three mugs, lined up along the windowsill.
‘Aye.’
Logan shook his head. ‘Just milk for me.’
‘OK…’ He poured in the hot water, steam turning the window opaque, blocking out the forecourt. The garage was hidden away down a country road, somewhere between Westhill and the Loch of Skene, surrounded by trees and fields full of grumbling cattle.
‘Mr Middleton.’ Logan watched him sniffing a carton of semi-skimmed milk. ‘Are you
Middleton sploshed milk into their coffees. ‘Dunno. Never saw him before.’
Steel accepted her mug, wrapping her hands around it and breathing in the hot steam. ‘If I was a suspicious wee sod – which I am – I’d be tempted to say your mystery man with a handful of dodgy twenties never existed. It was just you, trying to launder the stuff.’
Kevin Middleton stiffened. ‘You think I’d be daft enough to pay counterfeit cash into my own bank account? How thick would I have to be?’
Steel shrugged. ‘Maybe you thought they’d be good enough to pass the bank’s tests?’
Middleton laughed, then settled into the swivel chair behind his desk. ‘You’re kidding, right? If I wanted to clean some money, I’d go down the bookies. Or the casino. Or to one of them dog nights in Dundee.
‘Right, right.’ Steel looked at him, her head tilted to one side. ‘You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Come on, you don’t think it’s a wee bit odd: some tadger comes in here with over four thousand pounds in crisp new twenties wanting to buy one of your manky motors?’
‘A lot of people doing business in readies now. No bugger trusts them thieving dicks in the banks any more. Safer keeping it under the mattress.’
‘And if it’s cash, you can
Middleton’s face darkened. ‘I’m the victim here, OK? Four and a half grand I’m down! Not to mention one Honda Civic.’
Logan took a sip of instant coffee: bitter, burnt tasting, little beads of fat glimmering on the surface. ‘If you sold the car, you’ve got the buyer’s details, yes? On the registration documents?’
Middleton coughed, swivelled back and forth in his chair, stared at a parts catalogue. ‘Look, maybe this is all going a bit too far. I mean the bloke probably didn’t know the cash was—’
Steel cut him off. ‘Don’t talk shite. Give us the guy’s details, or I’m dragging you down the station and doing you for passing counterfeit money and trying to poison a police officer with crap cheapo coffee.’
Middleton glowered in silence for a bit, then stood and muttered his way to a beige filing cabinet in the corner of the office. He went rummaging through one of the drawers, and came out with a registration document. He held it out and Steel snatched it off him, gave it a cursory glance, then chucked it to Logan. ‘Read.’
Logan opened it up and scanned the new keeper section, carefully printed in blue biro. ‘You know you’re meant to send this off to the DVLA, right?’
‘How come you bastards aren’t out there arresting paedophiles and bloody muggers, eh?’
‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel took another sip and grimaced. ‘We got an address?’
‘Car’s registered to a Douglas Walker in Peterculter.’
‘There you go, wasn’t so difficult now, was it?’ Steel clunked her mug down on the desk and stood, rubbing the seat of her trousers. ‘Come on Sergeant, let’s get out of here before Mr Middleton threatens to make more coffee.’
