Chapter 22
The living room struggled under the weight of a dark wooden table, bookcase, and mantelpiece stuffed full of ugly ceramic angels.
Which made a change from ugly china cats.
But unlike Victoria MacGarioch’s flat, there wasn’t a single photo of the royal family on display.
Or anyone else, come to that. Instead, a brass urn had pride of place on the mahogany sideboard, in a wreath of white plastic roses.
A ridiculously large TV took up one whole corner, the screen filled with some sort of be-jumpered Scandi crime drama – paused mid-gruesome discovery.
Logan shifted on the saggy, striped couch, not drinking the tea they hadn’t been offered.
Why did no one on the telly have the faintest clue about crime-scene management? Never mind an SOC suit, Politisjefinspect?r Melancholy Ugly-Sweatersdóttir wasn’t even wearing gloves.
Rennie stood in front of the window, looking out and down at the street below. Presumably lording it over Tufty.
Which left Mrs McQueen: sitting in pinched stillness on the room’s only armchair as the clock ticked.
Yup: great to feel wanted.
Finally, the living-room door opened and in slouched a young man whose DIY beard kit fluffed out from a puppy-fat face.
It went with little pink eyes and a nose that looked as if it’d been broken more than once.
He hadn’t bothered to dress for company, scuffing his way to the couch in a Lego Ninjago T-shirt, Spider-Man boxer shorts, and nothing else.
Collapsing into the seat beside Logan, with a yawn and a scratch, hair sticking out in all directions.
And even though his skin was pale and lumpy as a tub of cottage cheese, his accent sounded like a wobbly Detroit-gang-banger-from-the-projects knock-off: ‘Go see’s a Coke, Gran.’
‘Get it yersel, ya lazy wee gype. Staggerin’ in at aw hours.’
‘Gra-aaaa-annnn . . .’ Whining and whinging.
‘Oh, in the name o’ the hairy Christ . . .’ She levered herself out of her armchair and lumbered from the room.
Rennie got his notebook out – pen at the ready.
‘Jericho.’ Logan put on his best non-threatening-we’re-all-friends-here voice. ‘You’re one of Charles MacGarioch’s mates, right?’
‘Might be. Don’t mean I’ve done nothing. Even if he has. Which he hasn’t.’
‘Any idea where he might’ve got to?’
A lopsided shrug. ‘Dunno: at his nan’s or his bitch’s, innit? I ain’t his keeper, bro.’
Logan kept his face perfectly still, because giving the wee shite a bollocking for referring to women as ‘bitches’ wouldn’t help catch Charles MacGarioch.
And Soban Yūsuf deserved better than that.
‘Sure you didn’t see him yesterday? Or maybe he popped past early this morning, when everyone else was asleep? ’
‘Nah: whatever you’s trying to pin on Charlie is sod all to do with me.
Jericho was working all night.’ He mimed playing twin turntables, while holding imaginary headphones to his ear.
As if talking about himself in the third person, in a borrowed accent, didn’t make him enough of a tosser.
‘Got me, like, a hunnerd-an-fifty witnesses, innit?’
‘That’s cool.’ Logan leaned in, as if he was about to share a secret: ‘Where’s he hiding?’
‘Don’t know. Wouldn’t tell you if I did. Cos Jericho don’t clype on his homies.’
Time to try concerned-parent mode. ‘It’s only going to get worse for him, Jericho. The longer Charlie’s in the wind, the harder they’re going to crack down when they find him. Help us to help him.’
Jericho stiffened. ‘You deaf, bro? Jericho – don’t – clype.’
‘I can respect that.’ OK, so concerned-parent didn’t work, how about gossipy-mate? ‘How long have you two known each other?’
‘Since. You know?’ He looked across the room, at the urn sitting on the sideboard. ‘We was in that support thing, for kids that didn’t have no mums and dads. Growed up with our nans or grandads . . . aunties, that kinda shit.’
‘Must’ve been tough.’
‘Nah.’ Jericho looked over his shoulder at the door, a wee smile on his face. ‘She’s a daft old bitch, and her taste in music is well crap, but I love her, you know? She bin good to me all these years. Jericho would fuckin’ die for that woman.’
Fair enough.
Logan produced his phone and called up the photo he’d found in MacGarioch’s bedroom. ‘Charlie found himself someone to love too.’ Holding the screen out.
‘Yeah, he’s a lucky guy.’ Jericho did that stupid finger-clack thing rappers used to do about a decade ago. ‘She is unjustifiably hot. Spicy trembles, you know what I’m saying?’
Not even vaguely.
Turning the phone back the right way, Logan frowned at the screen. Ooh, look at me: being all confused. ‘Keira still lives at home, doesn’t she?’
‘Nah, man. She’s got her own place in Powis, innit. Sharing with them vegans and shit.’
A nod. ‘Sweet.’ Now all they needed was a last name and an address.
‘Totally.’ His grin pulled that horrible ratty pseudo-beard even further out of shape.
‘Likes to mess with them, cos she brings home, you know leftover steak from the restaurant and leaves it in the fridge for them to freak out about.’ Jericho waved his hands about and put on a hippy voice.
‘“It’s a dead animal, man! I’m like totally shocked and offended! ” Ha!’
‘Yeah. Of course. She works at the . . .’ Logan scrunched his face up, throwing in a little shake of the head. ‘I always forget the name of the place.’
‘“The Star-Sprinkled Heavens”. Which is well wanky, but you gotta make wedge, right?’
Rennie did a little squint-shouldered pose. ‘You got that right, bruv.’ Making devil’s horns with both hands and half-folding his arms so they pointed at forty-five degrees, as he launched into a rap:
‘She’s called Keira, like Knightley,
Cos she’s hot and she’s spicy,
But you treat her politely,
Ask nicely, go lightly,
And her surname is . . .?’
Oh, for God’s sake.
Jericho stared at him, as if the daft bastard had just grown an erect penis in the middle of his forehead. Which might have been less embarrassing.
‘Ah, nah.’ Jericho shook his head. ‘Nah, nah, nah.’ Jumping to his feet and jabbing a finger at Rennie’s stupid face. ‘You bastards is playing me! Like I is some sort of fuckin’ idiot!’
Logan poured on the oil. ‘Forget about him, he’s the idiot. It’s OK: you and me were just chatting and—’
‘Jericho ain’t no clype!’ The pointing finger swung around to the living-room door. ‘Get yo lying police asses out my nan’s crib!’
At which point that very door swung open and in scuffed Mrs McQueen, carrying an ice-filled glass in one hand and a can of off-brand Coke in the other.
She took one look at her grandson, then Rennie, then Logan. ‘What?’
‘It’s nothing.’ Logan stood, making soothing gestures. ‘We’re cool. Everyone just needs to calm down and we can—’
‘Gran, these police wankers is trying to get us to clype on Charlie! I want them gone, like.’
Her mouth pinched – tight as a tourniquet. ‘You heard the boy: out.’
‘Well . . . how was I supposed to know?’ Rennie stumbled out onto the pavement, courtesy of a not-too-subtle shove.
Logan followed him into the sun-baked street. The glare almost blinding after the brown gloom of the stairwell. ‘A rap? Are you insane?’
‘It’s not . . . He’s . . .’ Sulky pout. ‘Wasn’t going to cooperate anyway.’
‘He was cooperating! Till you did your Slim Shifty impersonation.’ Logan stomped off towards the pool car.
‘At least we found out where MacGarioch’s girlfriend works, right? They’ll give us her last name, and Bob’s your wingwang.’
Idiot.
‘Jericho McQueen’s probably up there, right now, on the phone, warning Keira that we’re looking for her boyfriend!’
Rennie loped around to the driver’s side, casting a pitying look across the roof as if Logan was the one who’s daft. ‘It’s literally in all the papers. Charles MacGarioch’s face was on the morning TV news bulletins. Trust me: she knows.’
‘You’re still an idiot.’ Logan hauled open the passenger door and thumped into a four-wheeled air-fryer. Peeling off his jacket before he reached medium-rare. ‘Now she knows we know about her and Charles.’
Tufty was still in the back seat, still poking away at his phone, and still wearing the full Police-Scotland-black outfit with stabproof and high-vis. Little sod must’ve been sweltering, but there wasn’t even a drop of sweat on his pointy face.
He’d nicked the map from the pool car’s glove box and spread it across his knees – Aberdeen, laid out in all its sprawling glory – only now the city was peppered with teeny tags made of torn-up Post-it notes. Two colours: yellow, and pink.
Rennie whumped in behind the wheel. ‘Yeah, but does that really matter?’ Digging out his own phone and fiddling with it.
‘They’re not an item any more – you said the racist old-bag grandma broke them up.
’ He held the phone to his ear. ‘Might make this “Keira” a bit bitter and ready to dob her ex in. I mean, what kind of tit doesn’t stand up for his woman, when some rancid—’ He sat forward, putting on a polite, slightly plummy voice.
‘Hello, yes, is that the Star-Sprinkled Heavens? . . . Good . . . . Yes . . . . Lovely, thank you . . . . Can I ask, I know it’s a bit cheeky, but is Keira working this lunchtime?
She’s my wife’s favourite . . . . Now, that is a shame .
. . . Oh, she will?’ Flashing a thumbs-up at Logan.
‘Smashing . . . . Tell you what, let me check with my wife and I’ll phone you back about booking that table .
. . . OK, thanks . . . . Thanks . . . . Bye.
’ He hung up. ‘The mysterious Keira won’t be in till this evening. ’
‘Subtle.’
‘Oh yeah.’ Rennie gave his head a wee shoogle. ‘This isn’t my first dance recital.’ Then he stuck a hand into the back of the car, snapping his fingers like a prick. ‘You finished yet?’
Tufty applied another nib of torn yellow Post-it. ‘Almost.’ Then sat back and peered at the map.
A sniff. ‘Told you he was useless.’
The wee loon pulled a face. ‘See, I’m thinking there’s maybe a case for not reporting it.
’ Running a finger around the map. ‘If you’ve just accidentally-on-purpose killed the guy who broke into your house to rape you – or your wife, girlfriend, mother, child – do you ditch the body in the river then call the police to say “Help! We’ve been attacked! ”?’
True. ‘Not if you wanted to get away with it.’
Another yellow nib. ‘So maybe you don’t report it at all? Or maybe you report it as something else, cos you need a crime number for the insurance? Which is why I did go back to the housebreakings again.’
Logan sat up. ‘Anything for last night?’
‘Near Duthie Park?’
‘Preferably.’
‘No.’ Tufty tore a teeny square of yellow from a Post-it and stuck it down near the airport. ‘Last night we’ve got three in Rubislaw, one in Northfield, one in Stoneywood, and two in Danestone.’ Tapping each location in turn. ‘Busy night for thieves of a cat-like nature.’
‘Then we start in Rosemount and work our way out.’ Logan thumped Rennie. ‘Drive.’
A groan. ‘Should we not be leaving this to Biohazard?’
‘Where’s your team spirit? Besides, like you say: Keira won’t be at work till this evening. Maybe we can get this thing solved before then?’
After all, you never knew your luck . . .