Chapter 8
Logan shifted sideways, until his phone was shaded by the tree he’d hung his socks on, bare feet slapping against the warm setts.
Shoes sitting on the riverbank. Trousers now uncomfortably damp, rather than sopping wet.
Shirt no longer see-through. Which was just as well, because there were only so many Roberta Steel ‘jokes’ about your nipples one man could take.
The knackered police van had been joined by two patrol cars and an ambulance – lights swirling as a paramedic thunked the door shut. A whoop from the ambulance’s siren, and off it went. Helped through the cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape by a moist Barrett.
The cordon stretched across the road, along the side of the parkland, and back to the river again – with its tail end tied to the metal pole where Steel had found the lifebuoy. Making a little rectangle of sanity in a world gone absolutely bonkers.
Take the group of old ladies who’d been out walking their assorted dogs and the token husband.
For some unfathomable reason, they’d each been given one of those silvery ‘marathon runner’ blankets, even though it was hot enough out here to bake them like potatoes.
Glinting away as a couple of uniforms took their statements.
Madness.
Logan moved around a bit further, till he could see the phone’s screen properly.
TARA:
Got our timeslot for parent/teachers tonight: 1850.
I vote CHIPS for tea!
Excellent idea.
He thumbed out a reply:
Motion carried – chips it is.
I’m at a crime scene, but I think
Was as far as he got, because as the ambulance disappeared over the bridge, a short-arse wee hardman in a linen suit strolled into view, hands in his pockets. Like he was out for an early evening constitutional.
Colin Miller.
Logan groaned, put his phone away, then padded over, bare footed, to intercept him at the cordon.
‘Aye, aye.’ Colin gave a big Weegie grin. ‘Hear you went for a wee swim.’
‘How? It only happened twenty minutes ago. Who told you?’
‘Gotta protect my sources, and all that.’ He stood on his tiptoes, peering at the crime scene. ‘So . . . you got something juicy for me?’
Logan returned the smile. ‘No. Feel free to sod off.’
‘That any way to talk to an old friend?’ Digging into the suit jacket with a leather-gloved hand, he produced a much fancier phone than Logan’s. Holding it out, so the screen was visible.
A sort of slideshow was playing, only instead of stills it was made up of short video files – shaky and a bit grainy, clearly taken on mobile phones – of Mr FreezyWhip being chased all over Tillydrone by the police van.
Five bits of footage, none of which lasted more than a couple of seconds, on a loop.
Colin gave his phone a waggle. ‘Thought it’s doughnuts youse bastards are obsessed with?’ Then put it away and had another peer at the collection of old folk. ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with that fire last night, would it?’
‘No comment.’
A tut. ‘Hell of a thing. What kinda racist wanker torches a hotel for migrants? Lucky no one died, but.’
Logan kept his face completely still.
Colin blinked. ‘Oh, you’re kidding me!’
So much for styling it out. ‘Strictly off the record. Soban Yūsuf died of his injuries an hour and a half ago.’
‘Christ.’ Shaking his head. ‘That who you were chasing: our xenophobic arsonist arsehole? You know, as we’re “off the record”, like.’
‘Should you not be back at the office, currying favour with the new boss?’ Logan pulled on his best American accent: ‘Hold the front page! We got eight new ways to blast belly fat and you ain’t gonna believe number six!’
‘Aye, you think you’re joking?’ Colin pointed off towards Altens.
‘See back in the good old days: that newsroom was thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of ink and cheap coffee, clattering with typewriters . . . Now it’s just me, and a handful of sodding children.
’ Scowling out at the glittering water. ‘Work experience and unpaid interns. Like it’s sodding bob-a-job week!
’ Throwing his gloved hands in the air, because the wee sod could never resist a bit of melodrama.
‘And these kids got no nose for a story. If you can’t nick it off Twatter, ThickTok, or FacePuke it’s too much work! ’
Logan nodded. ‘Yup.’
He puffed out his cheeks. Looked away. ‘So come on, big man – dees a favour and support local journalism.’
Maybe he was right? Maybe the press could help for a change, instead of making everything worse? And it wouldn’t hurt to have the Aberdeen Examiner owing them a favour. So maybe just a tiny bit of . . .
Sod.
A sleek black Mercedes appeared over the Grandholm bridge, then turned onto the riverside road. Making straight for the cordon.
Logan stood up a little straighter. ‘Here we go . . .’
‘Oh aye?’
Barrett snapped to attention, then raised the ‘POLICE’ tape to let the Merc through.
Colin lowered his voice. ‘Won’t be long till the numpties arrive with their outside broadcast vans and their camera crews.
’ He produced a packet of extra-strong mints, proffering the open end to Logan, as if that was going to be an effective bribe.
‘Maybe you and me can do a deal? Back scratching, like.’
Logan tried not to grimace, he really did. ‘Just . . . I’ll think about it, OK? Now make yourself scarce – don’t want the boss thinking I’m a fifth columnist for the fourth estate.’ Then marched towards the Mercedes.
The driver’s door opened and out climbed the Chief Super’s sidekick, all done up in Police Scotland black.
Sergeant Brookminster. Thin, and efficient-looking.
The kind of man who could carry off a side parting and a David Niven moustache without looking like a sex offender.
He jerked his rugged chin at Logan, then marched smartly around the car to open its rear passenger door.
There was a pause, then Chief Superintendent Pine climbed out – dressed all in black, like her sidekick, only with a lot more decoration on the epaulettes.
Phone pressed to her ear as she pulled her peaked cap on, followed by a pair of sunglasses.
‘Yes . . . I understand that . . . Look, I appreciate your concern, First Minister, but I assure you my officers are proceeding with the utmost professionalism.’ She pressed the phone against her chest and grimaced at Logan – dropping her voice to a hard-edged whisper.
‘What the buggering hell is going on here?’
‘Sorry, ma-am.’
Back to the phone. ‘I have to go: duty calls . . . Yes, First Minister . . . OK, love to Ellie and the kids . . . Bye.’ She hung up, then sagged.
Logan stayed where he was and kept his mouth shut.
A drone sizzled through the air, with the Sky News logo on the side and a dirty-big gimbal camera mounted underneath. Performing a slow, panning pass of the crash scene for the viewers at home.
Nosey bastards.
Pine rubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘Where’s Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford?’
‘Supervising the search of Charles MacGarioch’s flat, ma-am. We’re hoping there might be some clue about where he’s—’
‘Why,’ squeezing the words out as if every one of them was physically painful, ‘in the name of all that’s holy, was there no one watching the rear of the property?’
‘It’s—’
‘Did no one think he might do a runner?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ – Steel’s voice, right behind them.
Pine flinched. Logan winced.
Then they both turned and there she was, overalls unzipped to her waist, belly button on show where her ‘SexWeasels!’ T-shirt had ridden up.
Pale and worrying. Like a zombie’s eye .
. . Steel gave it a scratch. ‘The wee scrunk-bag lives on the top floor. What was he going to do, sprout wings and fly?’
‘Sprout wings?’ The Chief Super stared at her, then performed a slow three-sixty with her arms out, indicating the high degree of fuckupitude on display at this location and beyond. ‘Well, he’s doing a damned good impersonation of it!’
‘Don’t worry: we’ll find him.’ Stopping scratching for long enough to dig a vape out of her overalls. ‘Roberta Steel always gets her man. Or woman.’ A wink. ‘And may I say you’re looking particularly fetching today in that nice tight T-shirt? Really brings out the swell of your—’
‘That’s quite enough of that.’ Pointing off towards the knackered van. ‘Away and do something useful. Before I bust you down to the Friday Night Vomit Squad.’
That got her a lazy salute as Steel took a long drag on the vape and released a sticky-sweet cloud of strawberry shortcake. ‘Ah, I love it when you’re all take-chargey.’ Another wink, then she sauntered off, puffing away. ‘But if you change your mind . . .’
‘And no vaping on duty!’ Pine scowled at Logan. ‘I swear to God that woman is itching for a constructive dismissal.’
‘Her thirty’s up next month. She’ll be long gone by the time HR get the disciplinary paperwork sorted.
’ He shifted his feet on the warm setts.
‘But she’s right: we were on the top floor.
The only reason Charles MacGarioch isn’t on his way to the mortuary right now is he managed to hit a trampoline instead of the ground.
Pure blind luck. By rights he should be splattered all over the dried-up grass in his nan’s back garden. ’
Pine grimaced out at the scene for a bit: from the silvered oldies and the ruined police van; to the lifesaving ring – currently bobbing in the river, because Logan had tied it to one of Mr FreezyWhip’s tyres. Marking the site of the wreck.
‘We haven’t had a cock-up of this magnitude for ages.’
‘Sorry, ma-am.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone’s doing their best. Turns out: being an Operational Support Unit isn’t as easy as Sergeant Mitchell and his thugs make it look.’
‘Urgh . . .’ She headed for the riverbank. ‘Ice-cream van’s owner?’
‘Ian Rawlings. DC Barrett and PC MacLauchlan performed CPR till the ambulance got here. It was close, but they think he’ll be OK.’
‘That’s something, at least.’ She aimed a kick at a clump of weeds, clipping the puffy seedhead off a dandelion, making it explode. ‘I take it we’re working on the assumption that Charles MacGarioch survived the crash?’
‘Unless his body washes up further downstream. Assuming he’s not been swept out to sea, of course.’
She sagged some more. ‘Oh you do know how to cheer a girl up, don’t you.’
‘We’ve circulated a lookout request.’
Mottled spots of sunlight swirled around them as a breeze caressed the leaves above. Out on the churning river, a confused-looking duck swept past. Someone coughed . . .
Pine stuck her chin out. ‘I don’t like racist, murdering, arsonous, wee bastards running around on my patch, Logan.’ Then a sigh. ‘I understand your desire to cover for DCI Rutherford, but planning the dunt was his responsibility. He should’ve had people positioned out back.’
‘It was the top floor—’
‘I appreciate the loyalty, but . . .’ Another dandelion met the executioner’s boot. ‘I need to know if he’s up to the job.’
Well, that didn’t put Logan in a difficult position at all.
At the far end of the cordon, Colin Miller was making his way towards the OAPs in their baked-tattie tinfoil blankets. Ready to whip up a story.
That Sky News drone made another pass.
Chief Superintendent Pine grunted. ‘Not that I can do much about it. We’re understaffed as it is: who am I going to replace him with?’ Dandelion number three lost its head. ‘Still waiting on an answer, by the way.’
‘It’s . . .’ Deep breath. ‘Everyone’s just a bit stressed-out and frazzled right now. Having to pick up the slack from all the other departments.’
‘Middle of a sodding heatwave and half the division’s off with “Man Flu”.
’ Victim number four died in a puff of teeny gossamer umbrellas.
‘I want Charles MacGarioch in custody by close of play tomorrow at the latest. Custody or the mortuary – don’t care which.
’ She held her hand up as Logan winced. ‘If he’s drowned.
Either way we’re diffusing this issue before that stupid protest march.
No point giving the mob something else to stick on their bloody placards. ’
‘Ma-am.’
Out of dandelions, her killing spree moved on to booting small stones into the river instead. ‘Media briefing at seven. I want you there, prepped and ready to explain . . .’ waving her arms again, ‘this.’
Ah.
‘I can’t. It’s parent-teacher night at Lizzie’s school, and we’re—’
‘Oh, you should’ve said.’ All smiles. ‘Right. Well, we’ll just ask the assembled camera crews, TV broadcasters, newspapers, journalists, newsreaders, and podcasters not to talk about the story till you’re free. How does Wednesday sound? Or is Thursday better for you?’
Heat prickled the skin on Logan’s cheeks. ‘Ma-am.’
‘Good man.’ The smile tightened as she patted him on the arm. ‘Knew I could rely on you.’ Then turned and marched back towards her waiting Merc. ‘Press are going to crap in our stovies over this one, Logan. And I’m shit-out of brown sauce.’
Sergeant Brookminster opened the rear passenger door for her, but she didn’t even acknowledge him – already on another call.
‘Nigel.’ Slipping into her seat. ‘No . . . Will you shut up for two minutes and listen? It’s—’
Her sidekick clunked the door shut. Then gave Logan a sort of cross between a salute and a wave, then climbed in behind the wheel.
The Mercedes swung around in a scrunchy three-point turn. Slowing so Barrett could raise the cordon once more. And off they went.
A voice at Logan’s shoulder: ‘Nice arse.’
‘Arrgh!’ He spun around, and there was Steel, letching as the Chief Super’s car rumbled onto the bridge. ‘Stop sneaking up on people!’
Steel produced another cloud of strawberry shortcake. ‘Yeah, she’s a bit stuck-up, but I like a challenge.’ A good long puff. ‘You got a crane sorted yet?’
A what?
He stared at her. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘To get the ice-cream truck out the river. Or are you planning on leaving it there? Cos I can tell you for a fact: Scenes are gonna bitch and whinge if you make them take fingerprints underwater.’
Oh, for God’s sake.
The horror had a point.
And what was worse: he should’ve thought of it.
Logan sagged, grimacing up at the swaying leaves and rippling light. ‘Great.’
Steel patted his other arm. ‘Don’t worry about MacGarioch: the wanker won’t get far. His days as a murderous arsoning wee shite are over.’ A big sook on her vape, and she enveloped them both in another cloying fruity cloud. ‘Till then: call a crane.’