Free In the Cold Dark Ground by Stuart MacBride Page B

uniformed officers in Police Scotland ninja black stared at him.
    Calamity clicked the point of her pen in and out and in and out.
Click
,
click
,
click
. ‘What about a national appeal? Maybe we’re not getting any sightings because Tracy’s left the area?’
    A wee soft voice piped up. ‘Can’t really blame her, can you?’ Isla pulled her auburn hair back into a thick ponytail and tied it off. Didn’t matter if she was in her thirties or not, she still looked like a teenager – heart-shaped face, red lipstick, with more eyeshadow and mascara than was strictly necessary for arresting people. Her little legs barely reached the ground as she swivelled back and forth in her chair, the toe of her boots barely scraping the carpet. ‘If I had Big Donald Brown for a dad? I’d do a runner too.’ Hair done, she took a sip of coffee. ‘Good luck to her.’
    Logan frowned up at the rogues’ gallery above the radiator – a double row of local drug dealers and thieves scowled back at him from their photocopied pictures. Big Donald Brown was second row, three in from the right. A slab of flesh with a broad forehead, prominent ears, and the kind of eyebrows that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Border terrier. ‘Anyone know if she’s run away from home before?’
    Tufty checked his notes, the pink tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he skimmed them. The strip light glowed in his ginger crewcut, giving him a fiery halo. Which was probably as close as he was ever going to get. ‘She’s nineteen, Sarge. It’s not really running away from home, is it?’
    ‘Still…’ Logan chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. ‘Doesn’t matter how much of a scumbag her dad is, he’s worried about her.’ He pointed. ‘Isla, get onto the media office and tell them we’re after a spot on the news and all the social media they can throw at it. If they give you any grief you have my permission to do the little-girl-lost routine you think none of us know about.’
    A nod. ‘Sarge.’
    ‘Next: Constable Quirrel, I believe you have an announcement for us.’
    A grin ripped across Tufty’s thin face, He swept his arms out, as if introducing a magic trick. ‘And on the second-last shift of his indented servitude, verily didst the Probationer say, “Let there be Jaffa Cakes!”’
    Calamity and Isla gave him a round of applause.
    Logan couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well done, young Tufty. You shall go to the top of the class.’
    The grin got bigger. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’ He dipped into his desk and came out with the promised packet of cakey biscuits.
    Logan helped himself. ‘And as a reward, you can lead the rest of the briefing.’
    Tufty swivelled his chair around and wiggled his mouse, bringing up the next slide on the daily PowerPoint presentation. Martin Milne stared out at them. A strong face with high cheekbones and a dimple right in the middle of his chin. Straight brown hair with a Hugh Grant fringe. ‘I checked distinguishing features on the misper form, and there’s no mention of Milne having a tattoo. So that means whoever we found yesterday, it’s not him. Might be worth checking signs of activity on his bank or credit cards?’
    Isla rolled her eyes. ‘You got any idea how long it’ll take his bank to authorize that?’
    ‘Ah, but no, my dearest Constable Anderson, because I has a
clever
.’ Tufty leaned forward. ‘We don’t need to hang about and wait for his bank to approve access if he’s on internet banking: we can ask his wife to log on and check. Could ask her about the tattoo while we’re there – make sure that whatever muppet filled in the misper form got it right.’
    ‘Is that
cynicism
I hear?’ A smile pulled Isla’s cheeks into shiny pink apples. ‘Ah, Tufty, we’ll make a police officer of you yet.’
    ‘Next.’ A click of the mouse and a man’s face filled the screen: jowls, one solid eyebrow, hair shaved at the sides to match the bald spot at the top. ‘Mark Connolly