Chapter 24 #2
A rumbling howl grew louder, and an aeroplane appeared from behind the flats, outbound this time – white-and-green, with a shamrock on the tail – clawing its way into the clear blue sky. Wings shining in the blazing sun.
‘They could’a died, man. If Charles MacGarioch hadn’t swerved intae the Don, they’d be geriatric mince by now. People are saying he’s a hero, like. Sacrificing himself, instead of ploughing through them OAPs.’
A hero?
‘Ha! That’s me laughing at you. Did you hear it? Ha!’
‘Then there’s those wee boys on the bikes. Could’a driven straight through them an’ all. Didn’t, though, did he.’
‘Charles MacGarioch is not a hero. He’s a . . .’ Logan clamped his gob shut, before something classified fell out.
‘Oh aye?’ Colin adopted a sly, sleekit tone. ‘You know: it might help yer cause if you was to tell me why youse were after him in the first place. Put his “heroism” in a wee bitty context? Especially now he’s dead – drowned as a result of your police chase.’
Logan gazed out across the barley.
The Aer Lingus flight had shrunk to little more than a shining dot in the distance.
A tortoiseshell cat bustled across the hot tarmac, tail swaying, disappearing into one of the tatty wooden sheds.
And Colin didn’t say a word. Letting him stew.
OK. Who knew – maybe it would help.
‘Strictly off the record? And I mean one hundred percent in no way for publication?’
There was a wee pause, then: ‘Agreed.’
‘The body we fished out of the Dee wasn’t Charles MacGarioch. So, if you publish that, A: you’re going to traumatise his grandmother for nothing, and B: you’ll look like an idiot when the details come out.’
No response.
Logan turned his back on the sun. ‘Isobel tells me you’re a sad lonely git with no friends.’
‘Are you positive it’s no’ him?’
‘She wants me to invite you to the barbecue at my place, Sunday.’
‘Cos if you’re screwing with me . . . ?’
Oh, for Christ’s sake: you try to do someone a favour.
‘Of course it’s not sodding him. I’m a police officer; unlike you shifty journalist bastards, we actually tell the truth.’
Most of the time, anyway.
‘Aye, fair enough.’ A grunt. ‘And I’m no’ “sad and lonely”, I’m just a bit .
. . Our new owner’s doing that fire-and-rehire crap, and half the guys I work with are out.
Apparently, proper, trained, experienced journalists are “too expensive”.
Why pay them, when you can “hire” a bunch of spotty unpaid interns to churn out click-bait instead? ’
‘Yeah, well, it’s Sunday from one. Feel free to bring a bottle of something swanky.’
The bungalow’s front door swung open, and out lumbered Tufty, listing to one side under the weight of the pool car’s SOC kit – like an oversized make-up case in dented stainless steel, with a handle that was almost solid duct-tape.
Rennie was right behind him, carrying a slithery armful of evidence bags.
‘Got to go.’ Logan hung up, not waiting for a goodbye.
Mrs Shaw shuffled into the doorway, peering about again. Probably expecting her wee boy to turn up at any moment.
Seemed a bit cruel not to tell her, but until they knew for sure? No point breaking her heart for nothing.
Logan gave her a little wave instead.
She nodded back, then disappeared inside – into the gloom.
Tufty popped the boot and heaved the SOC kit inside, with Rennie tumbling his collection of evidence bags in after it.
‘Find anything?’
‘Plenty fingerprints.’ Tufty wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t know about DNA, though – been a while since I did the course.’
‘Not you, you desiccated Clanger. Simon?’
Rennie shuffled his haul. ‘Got those night-vision goggles; box of black nitrile gloves, still in the packaging; squirty thing of bleach . . .’ He pulled one of the bags out and held it aloft.
‘While here, we have an electric bump gun.’ Then gave Tufty a patronising smile.
‘It’s a device used for quickly picking locks.
’ Back to Logan: ‘There’s also a collection of women’s lacy underwear.
And one ski-mask, complete with printed-on pointy shark teeth.
’ He held that one up too – a disembodied mouth grinned out at them.
So they’d have to break Mrs Shaw’s heart after all.
Logan at the bungalow, with its overgrown garden and tiny little rooms. ‘Call Scenes – I want them out here right now.’
‘Guv.’ Rennie marched away, phone out, already dialling.
‘You OK, Sarge?’ Tufty closed the boot. ‘Only you look all squinky. Thought you’d be happy.’
‘This whole thing just got a shed-heap more complicated.’ He drooped back against the car.
‘Whoever killed Andrew Shaw, they’re probably someone he tried to rape.
Or someone he did rape. Or a victim’s spouse, maybe relative.
’ Gesturing at the field and the street and the manky sheds.
‘But why come all the way out here to trash Shaw’s bedroom?
Hardly counts as revenge if you’ve already beaten the bastard to death – you do it because you’re looking for something. ’
‘Ah, I seeeeeee.’ Tufty poked the boot. ‘When I dusted the night-vision goggles for prints, I finded an empty SD card slot on the side. Maybe Shaw recorded his outings so he could “enjoy” them later?’ A grimace. ‘You know, on his own. Playing “Shuffle Mr Wibbly”.’
Probably.
Which means this wasn’t a crime of passion.
If Andrew Shaw had broken into their house and they killed him in the heat of the moment, he would’ve have had the goggles on him – there’d be no need to search his room.
No: whoever did it, they found out who he was, hunted him down, tortured and killed him. Then broke into his mum’s house and got rid of any evidence he’d brutalised their family in the first place. Which explained why the laptop and all the computer equipment were missing too.
And that pointed the finger in a very horrible direction.
Logan took a deep breath. ‘Tufty: do me a favour and go through the five rape victims’ statements. See if any of them are police officers, OK? Or related to one?’
‘Police?’ Both of Tufty’s eyebrows clambered up his pointy wee face. ‘Sarge.’ And off he trotted.
Logan let his head fall back, to stare up at the shiny blue sky.
Maybe they’d get lucky, and he’d be completely wrong about this?
Yeah . . .
The whirling clatter-and-thrummmmm of rotors rushed closer, then a bright red-white-and-blue Super Puma helicopter snarled overhead, whisking oil workers away to some far-distant oil field, in the middle of the North Sea.
‘Jammy sods.’