Chapter 10 #2
PC Kent winced. ‘One of the girl’s dad’s a bit of an arsehole.’ Her cheeks coloured again. ‘I mean – sorry, Guv – he’s a lay preacher with a history of domestic violence and they didn’t want him finding out they’d been boozing it up and partying till three.’
Back here, in the real world, the mother with the pushchair finished wrestling with her DIY banner, took a selfie with it and the Totally Spontaneous And Not At All Cynical Public Outpouring Of Grief Diorama? – duck pout, throwing a victory-V – then wheeled her toddler away.
No doubt looking forward to all the comments about how kind and thoughtful she was.
Logan watched her go. ‘Give me this lay preacher’s name and I’ll see he gets a little visit. Without mentioning the girls, of course.’
‘Aye . . .’ PC Kent bared her top teeth. ‘No disrespect, Guv, but sometimes that just makes the bastards worse. Winds them up – then they go looking for an excuse to take it out on their wife. Or kid.’ A shrug. ‘Speaking from experience.’
Because no good deed ever went unpunished.
Logan sighed. Then nodded. ‘OK. In that case, we probably better . . .’
Hang on a minute.
The young bloke with the mylar balloon was still lurking by the bus shelter. You’d think, now that the mother had gone, he’d be scuttling up here to take his turn, but he hadn’t budged. Just stood there. Looking shifty. And disturbingly hairy. In blue jeans and a denim jacket.
Logan turned, so Mr Hairy was just visible in the corner of his eye. Keeping his voice down. ‘You see what I see?’
PC Kent snuck a quick peek, then acted as if she was more interested in her phone. Matching Logan’s whispery volume. ‘Bloke like a half-shaved Sasquatch in a Torry Tuxedo? Yeah. Been hanging around off-and-on all day.’ A wee smile. ‘Think he’s been working up the courage to ask me out?’
‘Maybe I should play Cupid?’ Heading for the gate. ‘Give me two minutes, then go say hello.’
Logan stepped out onto the pavement, shutting the gate behind him. Which was when he finally saw the tribute of sympathy and support that Mummy Dearest had left.
The banner was made up of eight laminated A4 sheets, with a simple message printed across them in bright, bold, colourful letters: ‘NO MORE MIGRANTS: SCOTLAND’S FULL!!!’
‘Oh for . . .’ He ripped the whole lot down, bundling it up – which wasn’t easy with the stiff, plastic-coated paper. Then pulled out his phone and marched across the road. Kidding on he was actually talking to someone. ‘Tara? . . . Yeah . . . No, it’s me . . . Did she?’ Fake laugh. ‘Yeah, yeah.’
Turning right, he strolled along the pavement, making for the junction those girls must’ve emerged from, going by where the burning hotel had been on the footage. ‘I know . . . . No!’ Another laugh, camping it up a little. ‘God, the woman’s a nightmare, she really is . . .’
Mr Hairy barely glanced at Logan as he sauntered past, then went back to watching the hotel again.
Good.
Logan sped up a bit, dropping the fake-call routine now it was clear Mr Hairy wasn’t interested.
Soon as he reached the junction, Logan turned to nip back across the road. And stopped. Staring as a clown car puttered out from Balmoral Place.
A one hundred percent, genuine, bona fide, multicoloured, clown car – with big googly headlights and a polka-dot bowtie on the radiator grille.
It even had one of those oversized manual honka-honka horns, and a man in the full make-up driving.
Only instead of grinning and waving custard pies about, he was grim-faced, puffing away on a fag as his car ‘backfired’.
Producing a puff of bright-pink smoke that drifted away into the baby-blue sky.
Now there was something you didn’t see every day.
The car crossed Broomhill Road and puttered away into the distance. Letting out another Barbie fart every hundred foot or so.
OK . . .
Logan gave himself a wee shake and hurried across the road, stuffing Mummy Dearest’s shitty banner into the bin outside the corner newsagent’s – ‘M.C. GIBBONS Est. 1936’ – almost falling over the A-frame headline board plonked outside it: ‘PROTEST ORGANISERS CALL FOR “DAY OF DISRUPTION”’.
Well, they could sod right off.
He loped back along the pavement, heading for the bus stop. Like. A. Ninja.
Mr Hairy was still there, shifting from foot to foot, clutching his balloon and his flowers. Facing the burnt-out hotel as PC Kent stepped out of the gate.
She marched straight towards him.
He shuffled a bit faster. Clearly trying to figure out what to do next. Stay, or leg-it?
Leg-it must’ve won, but when he turned to make himself scarce, Logan was right behind him.
Mr Hairy flinched so hard his wee feet left the ground for a second, his heart-shaped balloon escaping from his startled hand.
He spun around, scrambling for the string, but the Mylar Gods must’ve been smiling on him today, because the balloon wafted in under the bus shelter’s canopy.
So instead of floating off into the great blue yonder, it was trapped beneath the Perspex roof. Bobbing there, as if it was beating.
PC Kent reached out and caught hold of the string.
Catastrophe averted.
Logan thumped a hand down on Mr Hairy’s shoulder, making him flinch again. ‘I think we need to talk.’