‘Oh, and Steel wants someone to make a load of teas for the MAPPA meeting.’
Sergeant Mitchell’s moustache bristled. ‘Well don’t look at me!’
‘Just get some PC to do it.’ Logan turned to leave. ‘Oh, and make sure whoever it is spits in DSI Danby’s mug.’
‘Right.’ Dildo wiped the steam from his John Lennon glasses. ‘Let’s see these dodgy goods you found.’
Logan pointed through the glass front wall, at the swirling snow. ‘They’re at the Water Lane store.’
‘Oh for Christ sake…could you not have brought them up?’
‘No room. We can take your car if you like?’
‘Left it at the office.’
‘OK.’ Logan swept the bits of phone back into his pocket. ‘We’ll go in mine.’
‘Piece of shite…’ Dildo hauled at the passenger door release. ‘Have you got the child locks on or something?’ The black plastic bag duct-taped over the missing window bucked and shuddered in the wind, the engine running on for a whole three seconds after Logan pulled the keys out of the ignition before it finally gave up and died.
‘Don’t be such a girl – got you here, didn’t it?’
‘Only just, would’ve been quicker bloody walking.’ It had taken them over twenty minutes to drive the quarter mile from the station, crawling through the snow and snarled up traffic.
‘Yeah, if you want to die of frostbite.’ Logan climbed out into the narrow lane. White flakes swirled around the car, battering against the rusty paintwork as Water Lane funnelled the wind into a teeth-chattering gale. He hurried round and hauled open Dildo’s door from the outside. ‘Well, don’t just sit there!’
They bustled through the keypad-locked door, into the little corridor on the other side. Stomping their feet to get rid of the snow. They signed in with a red-nosed, sniffly constable, and headed through to the evidence store.
If anything, it was even colder than it had been yesterday, their breath trailing behind them as Logan led the way through the minotaur’s maze of metal shelving. ‘Over here.’
Dildo took his glasses off, wiped them dry on a cloth, and put them back on again. ‘Where?’
Logan waved a hand, indicating the eight shelves packed with the stuff they’d taken out of Polmont’s flat.
‘Oh buggering hell! All of it?’
‘Yup.’
Dildo hauled a box out and thumped it down on the scuffed floorboards. ‘Got to be twenty below in here, and this’ll take sodding
‘You get cracking and I’ll go see what I can do.’
By the time Logan returned, trundling a battered oil-filled radiator in front of him, the man from Trading Standards was surrounded by iPhones. He held one up to the light and sniffed. ‘Definitely fake.’
Logan peered at it. ‘Looks OK to me.’ He uncoiled an extension lead and plugged the radiator in. ‘Should help a bit.’
‘Watch.’ Dildo pressed something and the screen came to life, revealing a display that looked nothing like it did on the TV adverts. ‘They make them by the bucket-load in China, ship them over hidden in containers. You know how much this costs to make? Peanuts…Well, prawn crackers anyway.’ He pointed at the radiator. ‘That thing working yet?’
‘Give it a minute.’
Logan picked up one of the iPhone boxes. It had all the documentation and everything. ‘So they’re crap then?’
‘Depends on your definition of crap. You can make phone calls, and you can run a couple of applications, play MP3s, but that’s about it.’
He stuffed it back in the box. ‘Hair straighteners are fake too.
Logan shrugged. The bottle was cold, deep-chilled in the fridge-like warehouse. ‘Vodka?’
‘Try again.’
Logan turned it over.
‘God, it’s like teaching a monkey to yodel…’ Dildo prodded the red-and-silver label.
‘You, being a dick?’
‘Read the sodding label!’
Logan did. According to the bottle it was Grant’s Vodka, seventy centilitres, thirty-seven-and-a-half-percent. Produced and bottled in Great Britain, Glen Catrine Distilers, Catrine, Ayrshire, Scotland. ‘So?’
‘How do you normally spell “Distillers”?’
‘D-I-S-T-I-L-L…Oh.’ Logan stared at the label again.
Dildo grinned. ‘Do you think a genuine distillery might
‘It’s counterfeit.’
Dildo took the bottle back. ‘There’s two or three bottling plants for this stuff somewhere down the south of England. Trading Standards have been after them for years – shut one down and two months later another one springs up.’ He stuck the bottle back in the box.
‘Who the hell makes fake Grant’s Vodka? It sells for, what: eight quid a bottle? If you’re going to counterfeit something, counterfeit the expensive stuff.’
