Chapter 20
Logan stepped out onto the click-clatter of little round stones, blinking at the bitter-sharp parmesan stink of fresh vomit.
He skirted the half-chewed spatter, and across the slithery beach, to the traffic cones. Staying behind the glaring-yellow strip of tape as the two uniforms wanked about with the other ends.
PC Ferguson was a nondescript bloke with an underwhelming moustache and all the grace of a tumble-dryer. PC Greig: a good six inches shorter, with a pageboy haircut, sharp little nose, and blinky eyes – making her look as if one of The Beatles had sex with a sparrow.
Ferguson and Greig were both knee-deep in the river, wobbling about, trying to get their Gandalf’s staffs to stay upright in the fast-flowing water. And failing.
‘Hoy!’ Logan waved at the pair of them. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
PC Greig shoogled her stick. ‘Inner cordon, Guv.’
‘Who are you protecting the body from, mermaids? Get out of the bloody water, before you fall in and drown.’
While they splish-splashed back to shore, Logan had a good frown at the body. Back of the guy’s head looked like half a pound of raw stewing steak, mixed with strawberry Angel Delight.
So that’s what the seagull had been after.
Which probably explained the vomit.
Ferguson waded ashore, ‘Hi, Guv. It’s—’ and promptly fell over on the beach. Sending pebbles rattling. ‘Buggering . . .’
‘You’re bloody hopeless.’ Greig rolled her eyes and hauled him to his feet. Then nodded at Logan. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘Better get the road closed – you can see all this from the lay-by. No entry to Riverside Drive from the Duthie Park Roundabout and . . . other side of the railway bridge. And get on to the park – I want those gates shut and padlocked.’ He looked up at the bright blue sky and its hungry, circling seagulls.
‘We need a crime-scene tent down here ASAP too, before the TV people turn up with their sodding drones.’
‘Guv.’ And away she wobbled, keeping a firm grip on Ferguson, in case he went Alpha Oscar Tango again.
Soon as they were gone, Rennie slithered over, with Tufty in tow. The peroxide idiot pouted at the body. ‘So if it isn’t MacGarioch, who is it?’
As if Logan was supposed to know.
Time for another withering Paddington scowl.
Tufty held a hand up. ‘I has chased-up Scenes, Sarge. They is on their way, but did give an ETA of twenty minutes, on account of Ernie has-ing the squits.’
‘Make sure he’s got bicycle clips on his SOC suit then.’ Logan looked out at the shining river. They weren’t that far from the harbour, here. Less than a mile, for sure. Which meant something else to deal with: ‘Is the tide coming in or going out?’
‘On it.’ Tufty whipped out his phone and wandered off, poking away with his tongue sticking out.
Rennie made a show of getting his mobile out too. ‘And I’ll get cracking on the misper list: see if anyone’s lost a . . .’ squinting at the body, ‘six-foot, IC-one, male, dark hair, undercut, last seen wearing black cargo pants, black boots, and a black sweatshirt.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Logan stepped right up to the cordon.
All in black: the guy was even wearing black nitrile gloves – like the ones tattoo artists used.
So not wanting to be seen, or leave any fingerprints.
Dressed for cat-burglaring. ‘While you’re at it, see if there’s been a string of thefts-by-housebreaking anywhere around here.
Could be our victim picked on the wrong property?
Householder fights back, things get out of hand, “oh no”, panics, dumps the body.
’ Turning to look uphill, at the trees towering above.
‘Which probably means within three or four streets of the park. You don’t take the guy you just accidentally killed on a magical mystery tour. ’
‘Unless you’re in some sort of fugue state, cos of the shock?’
That was true.
Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Better make it all of Aberdeen, then.’
Which was when Rennie realised that he’d just vastly increased his workload. A groan, a sag, and off he sodded.
Over in the middle distance, Tufty waved. ‘SARGE!’ Jumping up and down to attract attention. ‘TIDE’S COMING IN!’
Of course it sodding was.
Scenes better get here quick then, or he’d have to compromise the crime scene to secure the body. And the Procurator Fiscal would love that. Not to mention their horror-show Pathologist. But they’d love it even less if he let the remains float away.
Maybe—
‘Hoy.’ A gravelly voice, right behind him.
‘Jesus!’ Logan skittered sideways. Turned. ‘Don’t do that! Sneaking up on people . . .’
‘I called in Scenes, by the way.’ Steel glowered up at him. ‘And the PF, and Dr Death, even though it’s no’ my spudging job.’
‘How can you creep about on this stuff?’ Just moving his feet set pebbles rattling. ‘Like a horrible terrier-haired ninja.’
The scowl deepened.
Not far up the pebble beach, Tufty was turning slowly in place, with his phone out.
Probably taking panoramic crime-scene photos that had better not end up on Twitter.
Then the phone rang in his hands, making him jump and drop it with a high-pitched ‘Eeep!’ Scrambling to catch the thing before it shattered on the stones.
He stuck a finger in his ear, and answered it, waving at WhatsHerFace and Thingumy as he passed.
The seagulls circled high above, like albino vultures.
The river flowed.
The sun shone.
And Steel just stood there, regarding Logan with a look cold enough to reverse global warming in a single glance.
Sigh. ‘If this is about Doreen and Biohazard being acting DIs, don’t.’
She stuck her nose in the air. ‘Oh aye: like I care.’
One of the gulls broke away from its mate, swooping down at the remains, hoping for another tasty gobbet.
Steel snatched a golf-ball-sized lump of rock from the beach and hurled it – the stone wheeching off on a perfect intercept course.
Almost got it too, but the feathery velociraptor jinked clear a heartbeat before the pebble hit. Flapping away from the gory buffet in an explosion of scrawking and kee-ow~kee-ow~kee-ow . . .
‘Nah.’ Steel brushed grit off her hands. ‘All the extra responsibility and work for none of the extra pay?’ Turning and slouching away. ‘Kiss my sharny arse.’
Because no one sulked like Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel.
As if they didn’t have more than enough to worry about.
Like the unidentified body with its head bashed in. And if that was an accidental death, Logan’s bum was made of cheese.
This was murder.
He dug out his Airwave handset and pressed the button. ‘DCI McRae to Control: better tell the Chief Super we’ve got another problem . . .’
A lot had changed in the last two-and-a-bit hours. The patrol cars had been joined by Scenes’ grubby Transit van, a mud-spattered black Range Rover, and two unmarked Vauxhalls that looked as if a strong sneeze would make bits fall off.
With the road closed from the roundabout to the railway bridge, they weren’t restricted to the lay-by, so they’d spread out along the front of Duthie Park. Where the gates were locked and secured with a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.
And because the road was shut, the usual collection of Outside Broadcast Units were nowhere to be seen. So were all the press vehicles. Which made a nice change.
It also meant that the media scrum was trapped behind the park’s fancy iron railings. Penned in like nosy zoo animals, poking their cameras over the bars.
A small crowd of lookie-loos had joined in – after all, it was a lovely day, so why go picnic in the park with your loved ones, when you could gawp at a bit of human tragedy?
Logan shifted his phone from one side to the other, ducking behind Scenes’ Transit, out of the cameras’ glare. ‘Biohazard? You still there?’
There was a wee pause, then: ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yup.’
He leaned on the railing.
The river was higher now, raised by the incoming tide, but Scenes had still managed to get a blue-plastic marquee erected over the riverbank, extending out into the water.
A couple of SOC-suited figures headed inside, carrying a body bag.
Good luck to them, with the sun beating down it had to be like a kiln in there.
‘And you’re definitely not shitting with me?’
‘Doreen’s now officially in sole charge of the search. Get your farty arse back to the ranch and commandeer an incident room. I want a Murder Board, HOLMES instance, and some bodies ready to go by the time I get there.’
Suspicion scuttled down the phone. ‘But I’m running the team, right?’
‘Reporting to me, but yeah: you’re running the team.’
A drone whined past overhead, its dead gimbal eye taking in the scene, ‘SKY NEWS’ emblazoned down the side.
Tempting to flip it the Vs, but that probably wouldn’t go down well back at headquarters.
Biohazard barked out a wee laugh. ‘Only been acting DI a couple of hours and I’m already leading a murder case!’
‘The Chief Super still has to OK it.’
‘Doreen’s gonna poop breeze blocks when she finds out!’ You could almost hear him rubbing his hands. ‘There’s me swanking about the air-conditioned office, while she’s stuck here sweating her boobs off in a Tyvek romper suit.’
‘Don’t wind her up, it’s not nice. You’re—’
‘Hold on, I can see her on the other side of the river . . .’ There was a scrunching sound, and everything got a bit muffled.
‘HOY! DOREEN! GUESS WHO’S OUTTA HERE? ME!
’ Followed by a jagged burst of maniacal laughter.
‘I GOT A MURDER TO RUN! . . . THAT’S RIGHT!
THE SEARCH IS ALLLL YOURS, BABY!’ Then Biohazard was back on the phone again.
‘Ooh, she does not look happy.’ Giggling away to himself.
Then: ‘How big a team do I get to lord it over, Guv? A dozen? Two dozen?’
‘You’ll be sodding lucky. Do the best you can, OK?’
Going by today’s staffing crisis, that would probably be three officers, a stapler, and a bottle of Tipp-Ex.