Chapter 21
‘. . . denies all involvement and says he looks forward to clearing his name when the case comes to court in September.’
The pool car puttered up Holburn Street, stuck behind an extremely large man on a bicycle, doing five miles per hour in a drench of sweat and soggy Lycra cycling shorts.
Silly sod.
Had to be thirty degrees out there. And everyone knew Scottish people started melting if it got above eighteen.
Rennie’s hand kept twitching towards the horn, as if that would make their rolling roadblock go any faster. But then he’d been in a grump since they’d left the lay-by. What with doing all the driving while Tufty lounged in the back. Making him little more than a bleached-blond chauffeur.
‘. . . revelations that NHS trusts across Scotland are declaring a state of emergency, as admissions hit an all-time high for the year . . .’
Logan went back to gazing out the window.
This bit of Holburn Street was a bit on the shabby side, to be honest. But it could’ve been worse. At least it wasn’t all charity shops, vape shops, phone shops, bookies, and boarded-up units, like Union Street.
Tufty leaned through from the back. ‘Do you know what I think?’
‘Hmmph.’ Rennie glowered across the car at Logan. ‘Did you have to bring him?’
‘Couldn’t exactly leave the wee loon behind. Imagine the trouble he’d get into.’
‘. . . struggling to keep up with the number of patients. Joanna Parkinson, leader of the Scottish Conservatives, has blamed “decades of SNP underinvestment” for the situation . . .’
‘Yeah, but he should be Biohazard’s problem, now. Not ours.’
‘No, but listen,’ Tufty tapped both headrests, ‘I think we should go back to the station, because it’ll be way easier to cross-reference sexual assaults and offender profiles within geographically specific parameters.
’ He bit his bottom lip and grinned at the same time, making him look like a demented hamster.
‘And I does has leftover Chicken Jalfrezi and naan bread in the CID fridge for lunch. We did get a celebratory curry last night, because Kate said . . . yes!’ Bouncing up and down in his seat.
‘I does has a bidie-in! How cool is that?’ Serious face. ‘But mostly the sexual assaults thing.’
‘. . . Fordyce, MSP for Aberdeen South and North Kincardine invited her to “awa and bile her heid”.’
Logan smiled. ‘Congratulations.’
Rennie just humphed again.
The lights were with them, for a change, and they crawled across the three-way junction where Holburn Street crashed into the tail end of Alford Place and the start of Union Street.
Back in the day, Aberdeen’s main thoroughfare was vibrant and alive, now it was all grey and moribund. Seemed as if every day there was something else closing down, or ‘TO LET, MAY SELL’.
‘. . . following a riot at her concert in Glasgow. The American pop star, and vocal Trump critic, has received numerous death threats . . .’
Still stuck behind their one-man Tour de France, Rennie’s thumb stroked back and forth across the car’s horn. As if he was trying to arouse it. ‘We’re not going back to the station. Call the support team: get one of them to do it. We’ve got bigger haddock to batter.’
Which was true.
After all, Charles MacGarioch’s friends weren’t going to interview themselves. And every single one of them would need talking to.
Tufty’s bottom lip poked out, no doubt mourning that leftover curry, then he whumped back in his seat, and pulled out his phone. Noodling away at the screen. Probably playing some daft game. Because no one could just sit quietly any more, could they. They always had to be entertained.
Rennie glared in the rear-view mirror. ‘Constable! I said call the—’
‘Has-ing a bash at it online, Sarge.’ Poking and scrolling. ‘Searchity search, search, search . . .’
‘. . . and three people were stabbed. The First Minister has called for calm, calling the outbreak of violence this week “a cowardly and racist attack” . . .’
Logan unfolded the list of Charles MacGarioch’s known associates and scanned down it for the closest address. Then pointed at the traffic lights. ‘Left here.’
Rennie switched lanes, accelerating past Mr Soggy Spandex, then wheeching around the corner onto Rose Street with its collection of takeaways and sitty-ins. Each one a siren’s call to Logan’s empty stomach.
Well, it was a long time since breakfast, and a couple of mouldy meeting-room custard creams did not count as tenses.
‘. . . claim the arson attack on the refugee support centre, in Edinburgh’s Cowgate last night, was inspired by the burning of a hotel housing migrants in Aberdeen.’
There was a sports shop on the junction with Thistle Street, where two women in overalls were removing a big sheet of plywood from a shattered window.
Presumably to replace it with one of the units strapped on the back of their tartan van – the one with ‘Auchterturra Glazing Company Ltd’ down the side.
‘Though most politicians have condemned the events, Ian Wilson-Vale, of Vision for Britain, said:’
A full-on twat bloviated out of the car’s speakers.
Like a fart made flesh. ‘People are angry that our proud country doesn’t feel like it’s theirs any more.
These are legitimate concerns, and the government isn’t helping by pretending everyone who feels that way is somehow “racist” or part of the “far right”. ’
Sitting in the back, Tufty noodled on. ‘Doodley, dooodley, searchity poo . . .’
‘Following his comments, Marion Lewis – minister for Culture, Media and Sport – is facing calls to resign after she was picked up on a live microphone after her interview with BBC Breakfast News this morning:’
A tired female voice grumbled out of the radio, the audio muffled and crackling: ‘Christ, that man’s a bigoted moron. The real question is: why would anyone elect a racist [BLEEP]-wit [BLEEP]-[BLEEP]ing [BLEEP] like Ian [BLEEP]-For-Brains Witless-Vile?’
‘The minister wasn’t available for comment. But her department did issue the following statement:’
‘Searchity, bingity, bongity, boo, spidgity, spodgity, spudge . . .’
Rennie rolled his eyes. ‘The idiot’s right about one thing: we should drop him off at the station.’ Nodding in agreement with himself. ‘Biohazard’s going to need all the help he can get. I mean, how are we supposed to set up yet another murder inquiry with no flipping officers to staff it?’
With difficulty.
Logan pointed. ‘Straight through at Skene Street.’
‘“. . . for calm, rather than seeking to divide our country by stoking the flames of isolationism, xenophobia, and hatred.”’
They crossed just as the lights changed, onto Esslemont Avenue, with the austere granite lump of Aberdeen Grammar School on one side and a long run of grim-grey tenement flats on the other.
Rennie slowed to avoid mowing down a middle-aged man with a shark’s fin haircut.
‘Suppose we could get officers to double up, but you know what the press are gonna say if they find out we’re half-arsing it.
Unless it turns out our victim was a rapey pervert.
Then they’ll probably give the killer a medal. ’
‘What a time to be alive.’
‘. . . sex scandal engulfing American politics as a third Republican senator is questioned by the FBI . . .’
Tufty looked up from his phone. ‘Do you want the depressing news, or the depressinger news? One hundred and sixty-three unsolved rapes still on the books.’
‘Christ . . .’
Rennie boinked a fist off the steering wheel.
‘You know what we should do? Mandatory DNA database for every male in the country. And anyone entering the country too. Soon as you set foot on Scottish soil: DNA swab, thank you very much; into the database you go.’ Sniff.
‘Fingerprints too. That’d help the clear-up rate. ’
‘Oooh . . .’ Tufty scooted forwards again. ‘Maybe you could fit everyone with ankle monitors as well? Or tracker chips? Make sure you know where they are at all of the times.’
‘Good idea!’
Logan thumped Rennie on the arm. ‘He’s being sarcastic, you coagulated Moomin.’
A scowl. ‘Doesn’t stop it being a good idea.’
Soon as they passed the Grammar School, Esslemont Avenue narrowed to a grey trench – four-storey tenements on both sides, facing off across the road.
The ones on the right were armed with satellite dishes, all pointing their antenna spears back towards the town centre, but the left was completely unarmed.
Now there was a metaphor . . .
Logan folded the list and stuck it back in his pocket. ‘Anywhere you can find a space.’
Rennie squeezed the pool car in behind a pair of huge communal black bins, tightly sealed against the brain-eating seagull menace.
‘Right.’ Logan scrunched around in his seat. ‘You find any rapes in Duthie Park?’
‘Doing my best, Sarge.’ Poking and frowning away at the phone’s screen.
‘Location fields aren’t searchable by geographic proximity .
. . you can only list addresses alphabetically.
Who coded this? The API’s rubbish!’ Poke, poke, poke.
‘See, this is why I wanted to go back to DHQ . . . That and the curry.’
Rennie climbed out of the car, then poked his head back in, smiling like a hungry wolf.
‘Then you’d better sit here and go through them, one by one, hadn’t you, Constable.
’ He held up a paw. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll crack a window for you.
Wouldn’t want someone calling the RSPCA on me.
’ Then thunked his door shut, leaving Logan and Tufty alone in the car.
‘Sa-arge?’ The wee loon curled his top lip. ‘Is he always this much of a snudge?’
‘No barking at passers-by. And try not to chew the upholstery.’ Logan slipped out onto the pavement, wagging a finger through the open door. ‘Stay . . .’
Clunk.
Bloody hell . . .
The riverbank had been hot, but it was nothing compared to this. All that granite must’ve spent the last few days soaking up the heat, and now the tenements were like massive radiators, pounding out even more warmth as the sun baked down.
Other than the satellite dishes, and occasional downpipe, the flats were devoid of fancy ornamentation. Here and there, windows lay wide open, trying to coax in the non-existent breeze, letting music and TV shows ooze out into the sticky air.
Rennie turned around a couple of times, a Labrador in an ill-fitting suit, looking up at the buildings. ‘Where we going, Guv?’
‘Go easy on the wee loon.’ Heading across the road. ‘Not his fault you’re jealous.’
‘Not jealous.’ Rennie scurried after him. ‘If anyone’s jealous, it’s him. Because I’m so great.’
Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.
‘And the RSPCA don’t operate in Scotland – it’s the SSPCA up here.
If you’re going to make fun of people, at least get your references right.
’ Logan stopped outside number sixty-five.
Checked the paperwork again. ‘Jericho McQueen: one of Charles MacGarioch’s little friends.
We start here then we work our way through the list. Someone’s got to know where the racist wee shite’s hiding. We’re . . .’
The main door to number sixty-five swung open and an auld mannie in baggy jeans and a polo shirt scuffed out, bald as a boiled egg, hauling a tartan shopping trolley behind him.
‘Here.’ Logan stepped forward, catching the door before it bit into the trolley’s flanks. ‘Let me get that for you.’
Mr Bald-And-Baggy wrestled his trolley free, then gave the pair of them a good squint.
‘You Jehovah’s Witnesses or cops?’ Waving that away before they could answer.
‘Don’t care, long as you give that idiot in Two B a hard time.
He’s an ASBO waiting to happen. And a wanker.
That’s a sin, right: wanking?’ He waved that away too.
‘Course it is. Everything’s a sin with you miserable bastards. ’
With those kind parting words, he shambled off, hiding that shiny head beneath a green woolly bunnet.
‘That was lucky.’ Logan stepped into the building’s lobby, which was nice enough if you liked brown.
Brown woodwork, brown tiles on the floor, chocolate-mousse-coloured paint on the walls.
A framed picture of a teeny kitten in a teacup hung at the foot of the stairs – a nugget of sweetcorn in a four-storey jobbie.
He popped his head outside again. ‘You just going to stand there gawping, or can we get on with this?’
Rennie stared after the old man. ‘Rude auld bugger. I mean, do I look like a Jehovah’s Witness?’
Not unless they’d really let themselves go.
‘Anyway,’ Rennie joined Logan in the lobby, ‘before we start: who’s playing “good cop”; and who’s the crazy, nothing-to-lose, loose-cannon that doesn’t take any shit and won’t stop till he gets a result?’
‘How about we play “professional cop”, “other professional cop”? You know, for a change.’ Heading upstairs.
Rennie trotted along behind him. ‘You’ve no respect for tradition, that’s your problem.’
‘No, my problem is that I’m surrounded by idiots.’
‘And halfwits?’
‘Halfwits?’ Logan snorted. ‘I dream of being lucky enough to work with halfwits.’
The first-floor landing was another study in turd-brown, this time featuring a picture of a baby rabbit, sitting in the middle of a salad bowl, eating the lettuce.
And on they climbed.
‘I’d need three of you mooshed together to count as a halfwit.’
Rennie grinned. ‘I miss our little talks, Guv. We should work together more often.’
The second floor had a duckling peeking out of a shoe, and yet more brown. And the armpit-sweaty fug of cannabis hanging in the air.
Not Logan’s problem.
One floor to go.
‘Guv?’ Rennie dawdled a bit at the back. ‘We still on for Sunday? Unless the city’s like something off Mad Max after the protest, of course. Welcome to the Teuchterdome!’
‘Emma bringing her tattie salad?’
‘Coleslaw. And I’ve got two of those big things of beer from Costco. Like a mini keg?’
The top landing boasted a puppy wearing a bowtie and a soppy expression to enliven the poop-inspired decor.
Logan stopped outside Jericho McQueen’s flat, and pointed at the door.
Rennie gave it a knock. ‘Anything I should know before we go in?’
‘I like her tattie salad better. Oh, and Steel’s bringing, and I quote, “homemade lesbian sausages”.’
‘Urgh . . .’
The door opened an inch and a wrinkled face peered out – narrowing her eyes as she clocked their fighting suits. ‘If yer here tae ask aboot my eternal soul: I gied it tae a wee mannie wie a forky tail and horns twa wicks ago.’
‘Is Jericho in?’ Logan held up his hands. ‘He’s not in any trouble, we just need to have a word about one of his friends.’
Suspicion seeped onto the landing, thicker than the smell of weed downstairs. ‘Oh, aye?’
Silence.
Then a sigh.
And the door swung open all the way.
The wrinkled face belonged to a woman in her mid-eighties, with a tan corduroy skirt, Sex-Pistols T-shirt, thick-rimmed glasses, and a red cardigan. ‘Suppose ye’d better come in. But wipe yer mochit feet!’
It was always nice to feel wanted . . .