Chapter 9 #2
Cameras click-click-click-clicked, flashguns flickering as Rutherford muffled a cough.
Then pulled his chin up. ‘Two days ago, nine people were injured, four of them seriously, when the Balmain House Hotel on Broomhill Road was deliberately set on fire. Earlier today, we learned that, sadly, Soban Yūsuf has died from his injuries.’
An outbreak of murmuring rippled through the press pack, accompanied by a fresh strobe of camera flashes.
‘Our thoughts and sympathies are with his family at this terrible time.’
A bunch of hands went up, but Rutherford ignored them.
Had a wee cough instead, while the hubbub died down.
‘Soban acted as a translator for British forces in Helmand Province, and then later in Kabul. He leaves behind a wife, Zahra, and two children: Kamnoosh, thirteen; and Shahmeer, eight. All of whom suffered from smoke inhalation during this cowardly and racially motivated attack.’
Another bout of coughing. As if in sympathy with the family.
‘Excuse me.’ Clearing his throat again. ‘This afternoon – following information from a member of the public – we attended an address in the city’s Tillydrone area. Officers attempted to serve a warrant on an individual suspected of being involved in the arson attack.’
More hands shot into the air.
But instead of taking questions, Rutherford turned to Logan instead. ‘Detective Inspector McRae?’
‘Thank you.’ And it was Logan’s turn to get up on his hind legs and face the hordes. He treated them to a long hard serious look – what Elizabeth called his ‘Paddington Stare’ – then a curt nod. ‘Today, just after five p.m., I and a team of officers forced entry to the suspect’s flat . . .’
Meeting Room Two was a lot less ‘Out-Of-Town Convention Centre’ than where they’d held the media briefing, but every bit as magnolia and impersonal.
Windowless. With two whiteboard walls covered in marker-pen scribbles: lists and lists of officers’ names with arrows and dates and various ongoing investigations.
As if someone had been trying to brainstorm their way through the staffing crisis.
Good luck with that.
Now that the briefing was over, Rutherford was back to looking like squeezed crap again, grimacing at the cheap mug of cheap coffee in his hand, which came with an even cheaper biscuit on the side.
Sweeny offered the tin to Pine, who demurred, and Logan.
Who helped himself to a custard cream and gingersnap.
Maybe they’d make the coffee drinkable?
Biscuit duty over, Sweeny popped another antacid and crunched, face almost as miserable as Rutherford’s. ‘Could’ve been worse, I suppose.’
His partner in gloom grunted. ‘And what’s with all the stupid questions?
“Are you certain this was a racist attack, Detective Chief Inspector?” Course we bloody are, you sodding halfwit!
They firebombed a hotel full of asylum seekers – what the bloody hell did you think it was: performance art?
’ He turned to the Boss. ‘Anything from the search team while we were in there?’
Pine sniffed at her coffee, as if it might be caustic.
‘Not so much as a cocktail weeny. If MacGarioch clawed his way out of the Don, he didn’t do it before Seaton Park.
’ She risked a sip. Shuddered. Put the mug down.
‘And there’s no point looking at me like a kicked puppy – we’ve got miles of riverbank to search and not enough people to search it. ’
‘Well . . .’ you could almost hear the gears in Sweeny’s head, creaking, ‘maybe we could do an appeal for members of the public to help?’
Pine pursed her lips. Rutherford opted for a withering look.
Sweeny crunched down another Gaviscon.
‘Anyway,’ the Boss turned towards the whiteboard wall with its lists of officers, ‘D Division are lending us a drone operator, but not till tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Rutherford’s face soured a little more. ‘MacGarioch will have scarpered halfway to Benidorm by then. That or been washed up on the Norwegian coastline.’
Time for Logan to inject a bit of cheer to the proceedings:
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll foul on an oil rig somewhere along the way?’ Not a single smile. ‘OK . . . How about we get the TV news teams in and ask them to scan the riverbanks? We know Sky’s got a dirty-big drone, right? Saw it down at the crash site.’
Rutherford opened his mouth, looking ready to shoot that down, but Pine got there first:
‘Might work . . . if we give them an incentive. And make them sign an NDA.’ A nod.
‘Yes . . . Pretty sure I can sell that.’ She tapped a finger on the table.
‘Logan: I want all local hospitals, GP surgeries, chemists, and vets to keep an eye out. If MacGarioch survived, he’s probably injured and looking for treatment. ’
‘Ma-am.’
‘Ron: chase the search team. With a pointy stick, if you have to. We’ve got . . .’ glancing at the wall clock, ‘two-and-a-bit more hours of daylight. I’ll give you every warm body I can spare, but find him.’
Rutherford did a bit more coughing. One hand covering his mouth, the other held up – till he could squeeze out a wheezy, ‘Do our best.’
‘And while you’re at it, ride Forensics like a dirty bicycle.’ Giving them all a much fiercer Paddington Stare than Logan ever managed. ‘I need to see progress, people. Progress!’
And then she was off, pushing out through the door into the corridor, phone at the ready. Already dialling as she disappeared. ‘Nigel: you’re with me!’
Sweeny grimaced, popped another antacid, then scarpered after her.
The door clunked shut and Rutherford wilted. Coughed. Sighed.
Which wasn’t exactly encouraging.
Logan gave him a wee pat on the back. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
He waved that away, grimacing at the closed door. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s an enormous tidal wave of shite coming our way?’