Chapter 3
Logan stopped dead, squinting up at the hard blue sky, phone pressed to his sweaty ear. ‘He’s dead?’
A relentless sun baked the car park behind Tillydrone Library, making the sticky tarmac shimmer, the grass a thirsty shade of yellowy green. Trees drooping under the onslaught of an unholy Aberdonian summer. That peppery smell of roasting dust.
Detective Chief Superintendent Pine grunted down the phone at him. ‘Given his injuries? Surprised he lasted this long. Lucky he never regained consciousness, to be honest.’
Not much of a bright side . . .
It wasn’t bad, as car parks went, with the wooden-clad rear of the library on one side, four-storey blocks of flats on another, and the arse-end of a McColl’s on the third. A stand of tower blocks in the middle distance, their windows glowing like daggers in the punishing light.
Logan unhooked one side of his clip-on tie and undid his top button. Should’ve worn the pale-grey fighting suit, today. Too sodding hot for a dark-blue one.
The sound of a local radio station burbled through the lazy air, mingling with a bumblebee’s buzz and the whine of a petrol strimmer. While off in the distance, the distinctive tinkly ‘Greensleeves’ of an ice-cream van beckoned.
And his phone was silent, so either they’d been cut off, or Pine was expecting him to say something.
‘Yes, ma-am.’
That seemed to do the trick.
‘I want this bastard caught, Logan. Operation Iowa is officially a murder investigation, as of fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Yes, ma-am.’
‘No cock-ups.’
‘No, ma-am.’
A dozen or so cars were parked behind the library: hatchbacks mostly, with makeshift visors shading their interiors from the sun – cardboard boxes and old bed-sheets, giving them a boarded-up feel – but an unwashed police van sat off to one side, in the shade of a wilting tree, with its riot grille up, and every door and window wide open.
Trying to lure in the non-existent breeze.
‘The media are going full-on Bampot Junction. Let’s give the buggers some good news for the evening bulletins, OK?’
‘We’ll do our best.’
‘Good. Keep me informed.’ And with that, she was gone.
Logan scuffed his way back to the grubby van, the radio getting louder with every step. So much for following orders.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, his team of ‘crack police officers’ were sitting inside, in the full Method of Entry Gear: blue overalls; stabproof vests; hard plastic guards on their elbows, wrists, knees, and shins.
Only they’d removed their riot helmets and gauntlets to enjoy a variety of ice lollies.
Ice lollies.
The song on the radio clattered to a halt, and a broad Doric DJ boomed out instead:
‘Richt, that wis “Twist and Wallop” by The Mighty Beetroot, and this next een’s fer Alice Muchty, fae Rhynie, fa says, “Aye, aye, Dougie, can ye dee us a favour and play oanything by the Rolling Stones for oor Cathy, who’s sitting her driving test the day—”’
Logan clambered up into the passenger seat and switched the radio off – to an instant chorus of disapproval from the team.
Well, tough.
‘No radio.’ He dumped his phone on the dashboard. Which was like a sodding frying pan, so he snatched it up again, before the electronics cooked. ‘Bloody hell . . .’
A voice from the back: ‘Oh come on!’
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. You know that.’ Pointing at the 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 to this rubbish 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 sodding choc ice?’
Harmsworth shuffled his bum in its seat. ‘Yeah, but—’
‘No radio! No more lollies! And that’s final.’
Which was the cue for a lot of pouty posturing and folded arms.
Fine: let them 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 staying off.
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’s Aberdeen 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 ‘SLEEPING REFUGEES AWAKE TO FIND ROOMS ABLAZE IN MIDDLE OF NIGHT’. 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?’
‘Urgh, please . . .’
‘If it helps, you can imagine Susan smearing me all over with factor twenty?’
No. No, it did not help at all.
A wee brown bird landed on the van’s bonnet, hopping up onto a windscreen wiper to peer in through the window as if the occupants were a bunch of dafties.
Maybe it had a point?
Stuck in here, wilting in the stifling warmth of a stuffy police van. Half the team were half asleep, and the other half were on their way to the full snooze. All except for one.
Tufty sat forward in his seat, eager as a spaniel. ‘You know, there’s one thing the Americans got right.’
At which, everyone woke up enough to groan.
A sigh from Barrett. ‘Come on then.’
Steel pulled down the driver’s sun visor and tapped the sign mounted on the back: ‘DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM!’ Scowling in the rear-view. ‘You know the rules.’
Lund twisted around, so she was facing the daft wee spud. ‘Tell us, oh Guru of the Tremulous Wingwang, what have Americans “got right”?’
‘Oh, in the name of the hairy . . . spudge.’
‘Pants.’ Tufty nodded, as if that was the most insightful thing anyone had ever said. ‘They’re right about pants.’ Reaching into his overalls to ping his own elastic. ‘I mean these are underpants, right? They go under pants. They’re not undertrousers, are they.’
‘Thank you very much.’ Steel massaged her forehead, rearranging the wrinkles. ‘What part of “don’t encourage him” do you scrunkfudgers not get?’
Harmsworth shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me: I remember what happened last time.’
‘Yeah,’ Barrett turned around too, ‘but maybe they’re pants that go under your trousers. Ergo: underpants. Pants that go under.’
Tufty’s eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Ooh, good point!’
Logan hissed the words out the side of his mouth: ‘Is it always like this?’
Steel just poked the sign, face creased in pain.
Harmsworth shrugged again. ‘That’s why we usually have the radio on.’
‘No radio.’ Logan checked the dashboard clock again – nearly quarter to five and still no shout. ‘What the hell’s the hold-up?’
‘Aha! Now,’ Lund wagged a finger, ‘did you know “trousers” is Scottish? Comes from the Gaelic “triubhas”, AKA: trews. Something else we invented.’
Steel banged the flat of her palm against the sign.
Barrett nodded. ‘And it’s a pair of trousers, cos you used to have one for each leg. Separate, like.’
There was a moment’s silence, as everyone contemplated that. Then Tufty spread his hands, laying down the wisdom of the ancients: ‘Like assless chaps, only without the built-in belt, and Y.M.C.A. disco vibes.’
Steel’s face scrunched like a baby’s fist. ‘AAAAAAARGH!’
Yeah . . .
Maybe Harmsworth had a point.
Logan switched the radio back on.
A happy song burbled out of the van’s speakers, as the six-person team sat and steamed in their four-wheeled microwave oven.
Barrett was slumped back in his seat, with his eyes closed and his gob open.
Harmsworth had taken possession of Steel’s newspaper, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he tackled the crossword with muttered curses and much rubbing out.
Lund fiddled on her phone, playing some sort of game with the sound turned down, so only the occasional electronic bing and wibble escaped.
While Tufty had his head right back, trying to balance a biro on the end of his pointy nose.
‘They’ve lost him, haven’t they.’ Steel unzipped her overalls as far as the stabproof vest would allow and flapped the edges. ‘We’ve been stuck here, sweating like sex offenders in a sausage factory, and the bugger’s done a runner.’
Barrett kept his eyes closed. ‘Pound in the swear jar.’
‘Oh, go . . . crunk yourself.’
Logan’s thumbs ticked across his phone’s screen, tick, tick, tick-tick-tick . . .
Has ANYONE got eyes on this guy?!?
SEND.
The song crumpled to a halt, and the DJ’s teuchter voice barrelled out: ‘Fit wye’s that no’ been a massive hit?’
Because it was rubbish?
‘Yer listening till Dougie In The Aifterneen, and time’s fair bangin’ oan, but we’ll squeeze in wan mair tune afore the news, then it’s “ta-ta” fae me, and “aye-aye” tae Rush-Hour Records wie Big Sandy Thomson!’
Logan’s phone dinged three times in quick succession. Incoming text messages:
BIOHAZARD BOB:
Sod all here
DOREEN:
Nothing doing on our end.
SPUDGUN:
Think we’ve been sold a sack of shite?!?
‘So, oor last request fer the day is fae a loon cried “Stewart Quirrel”—’
Tufty sat bolt upright, waving at the radio as the biro went flying. ‘Turn it up! Turn it up!’
‘He’s aifter a romantic, smoochie number, and he’s gieed us a wee notey tae read oot.’ At which point a diabetically syrupy tune faded up under the DJ. ‘“My dearest Kate,” says the boy, “would you dae me the great honour of becoming my bidie-in?”’
Tufty beamed.
Barrett gave a low whistle.
Lund: a celebratory round of applause.
Harmsworth harrumphed.
The background music swelled as a piano and guitar joined in.
‘Here’s Custard and the Vegetarians, wie “Loveshine”. Guid luck, Stewart, hope yer quine says “Aye”!’
And saccharine vocals globbed out of the speakers, sticky as golden syrup:
‘I see your shadow everywhere,
A scent that lingers on my heart,
Without your light the world’s threadbare,
And all my dreams they fall apart . . .’
‘Jesus.’ Steel’s nose curled. ‘That sounds like turds smell . . .’
Lund poked her. ‘Shut up. It’s romantic.’
Yeah . . .
People were weird.
Logan’s thumbs went ticking again:
How long do we give this before packing it in?
SEND.
‘Cos your love shines brighter,
Your love shines brighter,
Your lo-o-o-ove shines brighter than—’
Everyone’s Airwave handset blared out three bleeps, followed by DCI Rutherford’s rasping voice:
‘We’re go! Repeat: go! Go! Go!’