The truck’s rear end sank as the huge chunk of concrete settled into place, the suspension groaning. Two more techs unhooked the crane, strapped the block into place, and drove it away.
Smurf Number One peeled off her mask, then her SOC suit hood. She ran a hand through her brown and grey hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, then looked up to see Logan watching.
‘You’re that DS aren’t you?’ Her voice steamed out around her head and a smile creased her round face, wrinkling up the eyes. ‘The one who had to eat human flesh?’
Logan tried not to grimace, he really did.
She stuck out a gloved hand. ‘Doctor Jessica Frampton, forensic soil science. This is Tony, my assistant.’
Smurf Number Two nodded, one eye not really pointing the same way as the other. ‘Wassup?’
‘Right, yes.’ Logan shook the proffered hand, then nodded at the truck’s taillights, fading into the distance. ‘So, you’re the concrete specialists?’
‘Soil. They won’t get a lot of trace evidence off the body – any fibres will be all on the outside of the clothing, bound up in the concrete – but the soil…’ She winked, not letting go of his hand. ‘The soil always has a story to tell, don’t you think?’
‘Erm, OK.’ Logan tried to back away, but her grip was solid.
‘Tell me, do we really taste like chicken?’
Awkward silence.
‘I think I’d better…’ He pointed over his shoulder, back towards the house. ‘You know.’
Smurf Number Two, nodded. ‘Later.’
Dr Frampton finally released Logan’s hand. ‘The soil never lies.’
‘OK…’ And he was free.
DI Steel was waiting for him in the CID pool car, dribbling smoke out her nose. She flicked a nub of ash into the footwell as Logan stripped off his SOC suit and chucked it in a bin-bag. He rolled the whole lot up and threw it in the back.
‘Who you speaking to?’
Logan slid in behind the wheel. ‘Some creepy soil science woman and her pet monkey.’
‘Ah, Dr Framptonstein and Igor the Dude.’ Steel shrugged and had a dig at her crotch. ‘She’s no’ as bad as she seems, just a bit enthusiastic, you know?’ Putting on a
They watched the pair shuffle back into the crime scene house, both carrying shovels. Off robbing graves.
Steel pulled her seatbelt on. ‘Did a kidnap case with her, must’ve been seven, eight years ago. Banker’s wife got grabbed on the way home from Markies.’
Logan cranked the key in the ignition, and sent the pool car crawling down the rutted road, making for the site exit, drizzle gleaming in the headlights.
‘Course we knew who did it: Ronny Maguire, a scrawny wee shite with a face like a ruptured scrotum. Swore blind he was in Dundee when she went missing, but we found this muddy pair of boots in his garage. Frampton takes samples, and next day she’s back with three possible locations, all within about a hundred feet of these lay-bys on the A96.’ Steel took a long puff, rolling the cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other. ‘Bang on the money too.’
Logan drove past the last set of foundations, rear tyres squirming in the mud. ‘You found the banker’s wife?’
‘In a drainage ditch: all tied up, covered with a chunk of old carpet, raped and strangled. Ronny’d got the kidnap idea off the telly, thought he could make a bit of easy cash…’ Sigh. ‘Daft bastard never could keep his hands to himself.’ Steel slumped further into her seat. ‘Still, look on the bright side – only lasted three days in Craiginches till some public-spirited junkie kicked him to death.’
The car’s headlights swung past a grubby van with the Strathclyde Police logo on the side, windows glowing an opaque gold. ‘Hang on a minute.’ Logan bumped the car to a halt, undid his seatbelt and clambered out into the soggy gloom.
Steel leaned over in her seat. ‘Hoy, where do you think you’re—’
‘Just be a tick.’
‘Don’t—’
He clunked the door shut, muffling whatever came next, then hurried across and knocked on the van’s steamed-up window. PC Martin cracked the door open.
‘Can I not even get…Oh, it’s you.’ She pointed at the passenger seat, where Wardrobe was sitting, tail thumping against the dashboard. ‘I’d invite you in, but…’ Shrug.
‘Should he not be wearing a seatbelt?’
‘You’re letting all the heat out.’
‘Did you get anything else from the other houses?’
The constable raised an eyebrow, then turned to her dog. ‘Hear that, Wardrobe? Local plod think we’re holding out on them. Did you find another deid body and not tell anyone about it?’
Wardrobe’s mouth fell open in a huge grin, tongue hanging out the side like a soggy pink bathmat.
PC Martin looked back at Logan. ‘Nope, looks like one corpsicle is all you get.’ She pulled a handful of prawn cocktail crisps from the packet in her lap, feeding them one at a time to the big yellow Labrador. ‘He likes cheese and onion, but it makes his breath stink. Doesn’t it, Mr Stinky?’
Bark.
