Chapter 11
There was a fly, trapped somewhere inside the Mobile Command Unit, buzzing away. Banging its head against the van’s walls.
Which pretty much summed up Logan’s day so far.
A bulkhead separated the driver and passenger seats from the rest of the vehicle, meaning the only natural light in this bit came through a frosted skylight.
Because ‘no windows’ meant the paparazzi couldn’t stick their lenses against the glass, hoping for a juicy shot to sell to the tabloids.
And even heavily tinted glazing was transparent if the buggers had a flash bright enough.
A fold-down table took up a big chunk of space, flanked by a pair of manky office chairs, beneath a triptych of wall-mounted whiteboards – bearing various diagrams of the crime scene in shonky marker pen.
To add a touch of four-star luxury, someone had installed a teeny section of worktop, with a cupboard underneath, and a battered kettle the colour of smokers’ teeth.
Mr Hairy sat at the table, hunched into himself, as if he was scared to touch anything. Fidgeting with his forecourt flowers as the sweat-bitter scents of beer and fruit oozed out of him.
Logan had the other chair, sitting directly across from Mr Hairy while PC Kent loomed. Mind you, she was still holding that heart-shaped mylar balloon, bobbing away on the end of its string, which rather undermined the sense of menace . . .
‘I see.’ Logan stretched back in his seat. ‘And is there a reason you don’t want to give us your name?’
Mr Hairy didn’t look up from his flowers. ‘Am I under arrest?’
‘Should you be?’
The bouquet’s lone chrysanthemum lost a petal to those jittery fingers. ‘I don’t have to give you my name or anything else unless you inform me why I’m being detained and questioned.’
‘We’re not detaining you, Mr . . .?’
Silence.
Apparently Mr Hairy wasn’t falling for that one.
OK. Logan made a show of looking around the grubby, cramped, faux office.
‘We invited you into our nice cool Mobile Command Unit for a chat. And you accepted our invitation.’ Reassuring smile.
‘My colleague was just a little concerned about your wellbeing. What with you hanging around a murder scene, in the blazing sun all day. Wanted to make sure you were OK.’
The fly buzzed.
The jolly red balloon swayed.
The chrysanthemum suffered: pluck, pluck, pluck.
Mr Hairy scrunched one shoulder. ‘It’s . . . difficult, OK?’
Logan let the silence stretch, and grow, and fester into something truly uncomfortable.
Until Mr Hairy couldn’t take it any longer.
‘I mean, I read the papers, yeah? I stay informed about stuff.’ He looked up from his tormented flower.
‘We’re such a small country, but they keep cramming more and more people in.
Health service is fucked, transport’s fucked, council’s fucked .
. . You try getting a dentist’s appointment, or a decent job!
There’s – no – more – room.’ He sat forward.
‘I’m not saying it’s OK to burn them out, but .
. . something, yeah?’ Pointing towards the hotel.
‘But not . . . I mean, there were kids in there. Kids!’ Then went back to torturing that poor chrysanthemum. ‘You don’t do shit like that.’
‘Do you know something about the fire? Or who set it?’
‘I know they burned kids.’ Mr Hairy poked the table. ‘How can anyone do that and pretend they’re not monsters? Should string them up.’
Logan tipped his head to one side, like a curious cat regarding a bird. ‘So, why were you hanging about all day?’
‘Wasn’t. Came out to look. Went off to the pub for a bit. Came back. Had a bit of a think. Bought some flowers and a balloon . . .’ Another couple of petals fluttered to the van’s floor. ‘They keep telling us we’ve got to take more and more people.’ Pick. Pick. Pick. ‘But they were kids . . .’
Time to try again: ‘Sure you don’t want to give us your name?’
‘Darryl. Darryl Merickson. I stay with my nan in Headland Court. On account of Dad being a man with “strong opinions” and Mum being dead with cancer.’
Logan leaned back against the iron railings, checking his phone as an elderly lady laid a small wreath of paper flowers outside Balmain House Hotel.
TARA:
Rearranged the P/T meeting for tomorrow night so you’re not getting away with it THAT easy.
Well, she was still speaking to him, so that was good.
He thumbed out a reply:
I’m still at the crime scene. One of them anyway.
Am I too late for chips?
SEND.
PC Kent emerged from the MCU, wafting her face with a leaflet on ‘HOW TO SPOT A TERRORIST’.
‘PNC checks out. Darryl Merickson, 423 Headland Court, no priors, lives with his grandmother.’ She jerked her head in the vague direction of town.
‘Had a sneaky look at his dad. Talk about “a man of strong opinions” – currently doing four years for assault. Didn’t like the way an Asian gentleman “barged in” at karaoke to sing “Livin’ On A Prayer”.
Cos apparently that’s his song.’ Her expression soured.
‘Oh, aye: Dad’s got “strong opinions” all right. ’
Logan frowned at the van. ‘What do we think about Darryl’s story?’
She looked both ways, then leaned in, voice all whispery, as if she was about to share a massive secret.
‘Just between me and you, Guv, I think we might be witnessing a racist tosser coming to terms with the fact that brown people don’t deserve to be firebombed.
’ Then back to normal again, in the shadow of a burnt-out hotel.
‘Just a shame it took ten litres of unleaded, one dead, and eight injured to get there.’
‘Urgh . . . Why does tragedy bring out all the damaged people? If it’s not kids with abusive dads, it’s racists and wanknuggets. Sometimes all three.’
‘That’s moths for you.’ She did a bit more wafting. ‘You want me to let him go?’
Logan’s phone ding-buzzed in his hand.
TARA:
We’ve had our tea.
Half an hour and the Lizz-Ness Monster is going to bed.
FINGER OUT if you want to read her a story!
‘Sod.’
‘Guv?’ PC Kent was staring at him. ‘What do you want me to do about Darryl Merickson?’
‘Hmm . . .? Oh, right. Well, it’s not like we’re holding him, or anything. Free to go any time he likes.’
A nod. ‘Guv.’
She disappeared into the MCU again, and Logan had a bash at composing a reply to Tara’s text.
Don’t think I’m going to make it home for storytime. Tell Elizabeth I’m sorry.
Honestly, this case is
His thumbs stopped as little hairs pricked across the back of his neck.
Someone was watching.
Logan raised his eyes from the screen.
There – on the other side of the road – another young man, but unlike Mr Hairy, AKA: Darryl Merickson, this one wasn’t armed with a bouquet of cheap flowers and a mylar party balloon.
Instead he had a carrier bag from the same off-licence as those pirates, earlier.
And muscles. Lots of them. Showing them off in a tight wife-beater vest with ‘HARRY’S PROTEIN SUPPLEMENTS’ on it.
Arms like tattooed anacondas. And one of those halfwit haircuts, where it’s shaved at the sides and shaped like a bunnet on top. Plus moustache.
Strangely, even with the all the muscles, tattoos, and facial hair, he somehow managed to look like a primary schoolboy. Assuming the school had a very lax policy about steroids.
But he wasn’t actually looking at Logan – he was staring up at what was left of the hotel.
Fair enough.
The Mobile Command Unit’s side door popped open and out lumbered Darryl, with his balloon and half-bald flowers, followed by PC Kent.
It must’ve been the sound of the door clunking shut again, but Mr Muscles glanced towards the MCU, caught Logan’s eyes, and gave a wee start.
And now he was staring at Logan.
The Number 2 bus grumbled down Broomhill Road, heading for ‘AUCHINYELL & RGU’, partially blocking Logan’s view as Mr Muscles flickered between the passengers, through the windows.
Still staring. Eyes are getting wider.
Darryl Merickson frowned. Looking out into the street, as if he was missing something important here. ‘What?’
But when the Number 2 had passed, Mr Muscles wasn’t there any more. Vanished. Gone. Flushed away.
Logan stepped out into the road . . . and there he was, running after the bus. Waving. Trying to attract the driver’s attention.
Nothing suspicious about it all.
And while that haircut should’ve been illegal, it probably wasn’t an arrestable offence. More a cry for help.
Anyway . . .
Logan returned to the pavement. ‘Right, thank you for your time, Mr Merickson.’
Darryl went up on his tiptoes, peering after the Number 2 as it shrank into the distance. ‘What?’
‘Nothing to worry about. You take care, OK?’
He stayed where he was, looking from Logan to the road and back again. Shrugged. Then squatted in front of the hotel railings and added his drooping flowers to the growing mass of tributes, tying his balloon next to that strangled teddy bear.
Then stepped back to take it all in. Closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Kids . . .’
Maybe this was one of those ‘teachable moments’? But given that Darryl clearly wasn’t the sharpest spoon in the cutlery drawer, it was probably best to lay it on a bit thick.
Logan made a big show of looking up at the hotel’s blackened remains.
‘This is what happens when someone thinks it’s OK to hate people based on the colour of their skin.
Or their religion. Or their sexuality, gender, nationality, football team: whatever it is they don’t like.
’ Pointing at the ruins. ‘Convince yourself that they’re lesser than you and you can commit atrocities.
’ Dramatic pause . . . ‘Even kill kids.’
Darryl’s face hardened, then a nod. A grunt. And off he stomped.
Hopefully to be a bit less of a prick.
PC Kent scrunched up one side of her face. ‘Not exactly subtle, Guv.’
‘Some people don’t work well with nuance.’
‘Suppose.’ She had a good peer down the road, where the Number 2 was little more than a little red lump. ‘So, what was that all about?’