Chapter 11 #2
‘Just some guy missed his bus.’ So there’d been no need to go charging out into the road, like an idiot.
But it’d been a long day.
Know what? Steevie was right: a twelve-hour shift was enough for any man, and Logan had been at this for fourteen, so it was time to sod-this-for-a-game-of-soldiers, sign out, and be home in time to read Elizabeth that gory story about the little skeleton boy she liked so much.
Because kids were weird.
But yeah: enough was—
Logan’s phone ding-buzzed. Probably Tara.
He pulled it out and sagged. Not Tara.
DCI RUTHERFORD:
Can you check on the search teams?
DCI Hardie’s come down with the plague so now I’m stuck in his stupid protest march oversight meeting.
Wonderful.
So much for getting home anytime soon.
A fat yellow sun skimmed the horizon, casting long blue shadows and a warm golden light that sparkled across the swollen river. Making the fog-banks of midges glow.
DS Doreen Taylor had thrown caution to the wind and stripped her SOC suit to the waist, showing off a damp ‘KERMIT FOR PRESIDENT’ T-shirt that clung to her rounded tummy and industrial bra.
Wilting perm held back in a sweat-stringed ponytail.
Perspiration actually dripping off her as she chugged a bottle of water.
Standing hip-deep in a forest of nettles at the side of the River Don.
The rest of her four-person team waded their way along the riverbank behind her, wearing thick red rubber gauntlets as they poked and shoved at the stinging undergrowth.
Out in the middle of the river, DS Marshall’s team picked their way through an archipelago of reeds. Bracing themselves against the current with big search poles.
Someone had clearly taken a Health-and-Safety course, because all four of them were roped together and wearing bright-orange life jackets. Because it was better to look like a right numpty than get washed out to sea.
Doreen drained the last dregs from her bottle and surfaced with a gasp. ‘Jings . . .’ Wiping a damp hand across her shiny face. Then wafting the hem of her soggy T-shirt. ‘Like a sauna in here.’
Hard not to smile at that. ‘Did you actually say “Jings”?’
‘And the midges! Don’t believe them when they say these bloody suits are bug-proof. Little sods are eating me alive!’ Scratching, scratching, scratching.
‘I’m guessing you haven’t found anything?’
‘If we had, we wouldn’t keep it to ourselves, trust me!
Sooner I’m out of this one-woman, bug-infested sweat-lodge the better.
’ She kicked at the nettles with a black welly boot.
‘This is a massive jamboree of jobbies. A carnival of crap. A . . .’ She frowned, then sagged.
‘Nope: that’s all I’ve got the energy for. ’
‘Parade of poop?’
Doreen grimaced out at the shining clouds of vampiric bugs. ‘By my reckoning we’ve got . . . maybe forty minutes? before it’s black as a politician’s heart out here. Don’t fancy searching this stuff by torchlight. Not with the river at full whoosh.’
‘Just do what you can, OK?’ Hand up. ‘I know, I know: it’s horrible, but if some dog-walker finds Charles MacGarioch’s mouldering corpse tomorrow morning, washed up on the riverbank, we’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘Not going to happen: your boy’s long gone.
Body wouldn’t even have made it past the weir.
’ Doreen tossed the empty bottle to Logan.
‘He’s made us look like a right . . . tombola of turds.
’ Then she wrestled her wet arms back into her squelchy sleeves, pulled her zip up, did the same with her hood, and waded out into the ocean of nettles again. Leaving Logan alone on the bank.
She was right – there was no point risking officers’ lives searching the river in the dark. But the media were still going to crucify them for it.
He turned around, elbows and hands raised to shoulder height as he shuffled his way back to the path, doing his best to avoid brushing any of the vicious plants. Because an SOC suit might be nettle-resistant, but his fighting one most certainly wasn’t.
Soon as he was back on sting-free tarmac, Logan pulled out his phone and called Rutherford.
It rang and rang and rang and rang as he marched back towards the car, but finally the DCI’s voice slumped out of the speaker. Sounding about as full of life as a baked jobbie. ‘Logan?’
‘Still no sign of MacGarioch?’
A cough. ‘He’s not washed up, yet?’
‘Going to be dark soon. And the river’s swollen. And I’d rather not fill in six tonnes of paperwork because we got one of the search team drowned.’
Rutherford gave a little snort. ‘You want paperwork? This protest march I’ve inherited from Hardie is an utter buggerfest. Bad enough when it was just hand-knitted lefties campaigning against climate change, but now I’ve got a bunch of far-right prickwanks holding an anti-migrant rally too.
And both lots of bastards want to do it right down the middle of Union Street!
’ A fit of coughing rattled down the phone.
Followed by some heavy breathing. Then: ‘You got any idea how much paperwork that generates?’
‘Not a competition, Guv.’
There was a groan, then more coughing. ‘Sorry. Been one of those days.’ Poor sod sounded as if he was about ready for a post mortem. ‘Speaking of which: how long you been on for?’
Logan checked his watch. ‘Since half six.’
‘Look, we don’t need you for Morning Prayers tomorrow. Have a long lie; just make sure you’re in for nine, all right?’ The call went silent for a moment, then an almighty barrage of coughs blasted in Logan’s ear, going on and on and on – the salvo finishing with a wheezing whimper.
‘You OK?’
Nothing from the other end.
Logan kept walking, following the river upstream towards the car park. ‘Guv?’
Nope.
He turned around, peering back towards the search team – just visible in the distance, their outlines growing indistinct in the dying light.
‘Guv, are you OK?’
‘Have to be, don’t I.’ A pained sigh. ‘Consider yourself off duty, Inspector. Nine sharp tomorrow morning! We’re going to noise-up everyone MacGarioch’s ever met.’
Thank God for that: time to go home.
Logan let himself in through the front door, closed and locked it behind him.
Sagged there for a moment, until the siren scent of his fresh fish supper dragged him upright again.
Crisply rustling in its cardboard box, with ‘WEE JIMMY SWANKY’S ~ CHIPPER TO THE STARS’ printed on the top and ‘SCOTLAND’S REAL NATIONAL DISH! ’ on every side.
Dark in here.
He clicked on the lights.
Sighed.
Picked the little pair of red Paddington wellies off the floor and put them in the rack with all the other shoes, boots, and trainers. Slipped out of his fighting-suit jacket and hung it up with everyone’s coats.
Because to hell with laying it by upstairs. Not when there were hot chips needing eaten.
‘Hello?’
No reply.
But familiar music thrummed out through the living-room door. Sinister and . . . scuttley. Which could only mean one thing.
He grimaced. Braced himself. And crept inside.
They’d closed all the curtains, shutting out the twilight, so they could bathe in the well-worn creepy glow of Witchfire on DVD.
Even though, strictly speaking, the film was in no way age-appropriate for a six-year-old.
Especially the ‘spiders’ scene – currently scurrying its way across the TV – which always gave Logan the willies.
Apart from that, it was a nice room: painted a cheerful yellow, with three well-stuffed bookcases, a coffee table littered with toys and magazines, and a couple of red velvety couches. One of which was occupied by The Stinkers.
Tara had taken the centre spot, sagging back with her head on a couch pillow, eyes closed, glasses squint, gob open. Looking unnaturally pale in the flickering spidery light – freckles standing out against her heart-shaped face. Strong jaw. Long, wavy, dark-red hair.
She had a book open in her lap, and a small child snuggled into her side – also asleep with the gob hanging open. It wasn’t the only thing she’d inherited from her mother. She had the same red hair and freckles, but those were definitely her daddy’s ears.
Poor wee sod.
That soppy warm fuzziness ballooned in his chest, making his wizened old heart tingle as if Tara and Elizabeth had just poured space dust all over it. And all they were doing was sitting there, snoozing it up as the film got to the really horrible bit.
Gah . . .
Logan grabbed the remote and killed the TV.
Of course, what he really should do is wake them up. Send them both off to do their teeth and go to bed. But they looked so peaceful.
Plus, if they were awake, they’d lay siege to his chips.
And as the great Greek philosopher Aristotle said in his fourth-century-BC treatise, Nicomachean Ethics: sod that.
Because blood might be thicker than water, but chips were thicker than both.