Chapter 25
SOC-suited figures rustled from their manky Transit van to Andrew Shaw’s house – carting empty evidence crates one way, and full ones the other.
They weren’t the only newcomers. A patrol car had joined the party and brought a couple of rusty Vauxhalls with it. Now their occupants were going door-to-door and searching the field behind the house.
Giving them a bit of space, Logan retreated to the car park, outside the block of flats, in the scattered shade of a drooping tree.
‘A cop . . .’ Biohazard had clearly got the Chief Super’s memo, because he’d changed into regulation black, only without the stabproof vest and utility belt, because he was a fancy-pants DI now.
His bare arms already going red as he paced the pavement – one hand massaging his forehead.
‘Oh, for Christ’s . . . buggering . . .’ He stopped and stared at Logan. ‘A cop?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Who else could track down a rapist like that? Private investigator? Journalist?’
‘But a cop?’
‘Might be worth checking the Police National Computer – see if “Andrew Wallace Shaw” has turned up in any search results lately.’
‘Nooooooo . . .’ Biohazard crumpled forwards, like a rumpled question mark. ‘Guv, maybe Doreen would be better as SIO on this one? I don’t mind searching the riverbank, honest I don’t. It’s quite calming really . . .’
Fat chance.
‘You should get someone to contact Shaw’s dentist. Whoever killed him did a number on his teeth, but you might ID the body if there’s any work intact.
A fiver says he had veneers fitted. And talk to his GP surgery: we’re looking for any old broken bones or scars.
’ What else? ‘See if you can find his car too: must’ve left it somewhere. ’
Biohazard groaned. ‘This whole thing’s a proper sodding poisoned chalice full of .
. . jobbies.’ He straightened up and pointed at the bungalow.
‘I catch the killer and he’s a cop: everyone hates me, horrible press, career suicide.
I don’t catch the killer: everyone hates me, horrible press, career suicide. ’
Logan patted him on the back. ‘That’s the spirit.’
‘But, Guv . . .’ Like a puppy, destined for a hessian sack and the nearest river.
But before Acting DI Marshall could start whimpering, Tufty scampered over from the pool car, holding out his Airwave handset. ‘Sarge? Got a call for you; someone called PC Kent?’
No idea why they didn’t just dial his direct number. Or even who PC Kent was. But it was that kind of day.
He took the handset and poked the button. ‘Safe to talk.’
A Peterhead accent jerked out of the speaker: ‘Sir? I mean, Boss. No: Guv. Yes. Hello? It’s Hilary. PC Kent? Watching Balmain House Hotel? Where the fire was?’
Ah, that PC Kent.
‘What can I do for you, Hilary?’
‘Yeah, Guv? I’ve got the hotel owner here, and he’s .
. . “feelin’ nae pain”, if you get my drift.
Maybe, you could . . . you know? Cos he’s demanding access and I’m telling him no, and he’s not taking that for an answer; and he wants to speak to whoever’s in charge; and there’s only me here; and when I asked the station for backup, they just said to call my SIO; only I don’t really have one, cos I’m on loan from Peterhead, like I said; and the owner’s becoming “agitated”; and I get the feeling everyone’s going to disapprove if I twat him one. So . . . ?’
‘No twatting members of the public!’
Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to lend a hand.
After all, everything was under control here, Scenes would be at it for ages, yet. And Biohazard was a big boy now, and ugly enough to cope on his own.
‘We’ll be there soon as we can.’
‘Unless you secretly want me to twat him one, Guv? I can, you know. Be delighted to, actually. We Blue Tooners do “reasonable force” really well.’
‘Definitely not! Sit tight till we get there, and don’t let him into that building.’ Because today was bad enough, without some drunken sod crashing through the burnt-out hotel’s floor and killing himself.
‘Thanks, Guv.’
Logan handed the Airwave back to Tufty. Huffed out a breath. Then gave Biohazard a ‘buck-up’ thump on the arm. ‘You’ll be fine. Just make sure no one cocks anything up. We want a clean result on this one, OK?’
A grimace. ‘Oh, thanks a sodding heap.’
They left him to it – marching across the sticky tarmac to the pool car.
Rennie had all the doors wide open, but the thing was still hot as a crematorium as Logan thumped into the passenger seat.
The peroxide twit looked up from his phone. ‘Emma says she’ll do tattie salad if Tara makes whatever-it-is: with the little bits of pasta that look like maggots?’
And didn’t that sound delicious . . .
Logan clunked his door shut. ‘Buckle up: we’ve got a sozzled hotel owner to rescue from a Peterheadcase!’
Trees lined North Anderson Drive, their leaves: muted green, beneath a layer of summer dust. Set too far back from the dual carriageway to cast any shade.
The pool car cruised up the hill, past the fire station and some sort of council art installation featuring an endless line of orange traffic cones. Probably making a statement about the futility of human existence.
A parpy-trumpet indie-rock number tootled out of the radio, upbeat and jolly. Tufty nodding along in the back with a vacant smile on his face. Rennie tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Logan’s shoe marking time in the footwell.
Then three-beeps blared across the beat – announcing an incoming call on Logan’s Airwave as they slowed for the semi-organised chaos that was the King’s Cross Roundabout. He clicked off the radio, prompting disappointed noises from the idiots. ‘Grow up.’ And answered the call. ‘Safe to talk.’
‘Guv? It’s Doreen.’
He checked the handset’s screen: it was indeed.
‘If you’re calling to complain about the search: tough. There’s no point—’
‘We’ve found something.’
And with that, everyone sat up straighter.
‘Brig of Balgownie. Charles MacGarioch was last seen wearing a black T-shirt, right?’
‘Four Mechanical Mice.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ There were some rustling noises, then: ‘Found it caught in a shopping trolley, wedged against the bank. Ripped down the back, so looks like it was torn off.’
That didn’t sound good.
Rennie eased them closer to the roundabout, hunched over the wheel, rocking back and forward, looking for a gap in the traffic.
‘Sure he didn’t just take it off?’
‘Not unless he’s Edward Scissorhands. I’ve called Scenes – see if we can get DNA or something – but the only working van’s sodding about somewhere in Stoneywood. Any chance you can light an acting-chief-inspector-sized fire under their arses?’
‘Not really. They’ve got a serial rapist’s house to process.’
Over on the pavement, a leathery couple were out walking a sausage dog – her in a bikini, him in budgie-smugglers, both in sun hats and flip-flops. Grey haired and saggy. So it wasn’t just their feet going flip and flop.
What the hell was wrong with people?
No one wanted to see—
‘Guv?’
Logan snapped back. ‘Erm . . . Who’s doing door-to-doors in Hillhead?’
‘Spudgun’s team.’
Rennie flickered the car’s police lights, whooping the siren a couple of times to cheat his way into the swirl of vehicles and straight across the roundabout. Bit naughty, but at least Logan didn’t have to look at Mr and Mrs Baggy-Wrinkles any more.
‘OK. Tell Spudgun to shift focus to Bridge of Don and Seaton. Chances are, if MacGarioch’s made it ashore, naked from the waist up, he’s going to be pretty distinctive.’
‘On one of the hottest days of the year? It’s “taps-aff” weather, Guv. Half the buggers in Aberdeen will be wandering around like pre-boiled lobsters.’
As the Bikini/Budgie-Smugglers proved.
‘My money’s on him washing straight out to sea. Maybe he’s hit his head on a rock or a log or something, and it’s away to the briny deep he goes.’
Logan grimaced. ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ But she wasn’t wrong. ‘OK: keep searching. Got to hope MacGarioch’s made it out alive. Or if he is hurt, he’s somewhere we can get to him.’
A whine slithered into Doreen’s voice. ‘Come on, Guv, I’ve gone boil-in-the-bag in this sodding SOC suit. Everything squelches!’
‘You want me to make Spudgun acting DI instead?’
She let loose a wee theatrical sob, then a massive sigh. ‘Yes, Guv. Searching it is, Guv. Thank you, Guv.’
Should think so too.
Outside the Balmain House Hotel, that mass of tribute teddy bears and grief bouquets had spread along the railings like a gaily coloured cancer.
Rennie parked behind the Mobile Command Unit, which didn’t look so mobile any more, because someone had slashed the tyres.
Weren’t people lovely?
A couple of young men finished off cable-tying a replica Aberdeen FC shirt to the railings, with the front facing the scorched remains, so the world could see that they’d had ‘YOˉSUF’ printed across the back.
They posed for a couple of selfies – bent-knees-and-victory-Vs – in front of the maudlin display. Grinning away like the morons they were.
Photos taken, they sloped off, leaving the crime scene dead and deserted. No sign of a drunken hotel owner or PC Kent.
Not sure if that was a good thing or not . . .
Logan climbed out into the furnace afternoon.
Soon as his foot hit the pavement, Kent emerged from the MCU – her brown-blonde hair looking a lot more dishevelled than yesterday. ‘Guv.’ She nodded at Tufty and Rennie as they shuffled up. ‘Other people.’
The knuckles on her right hand were scuffed, and a little swollen patch reddened across her chin.
‘Hilary, when you said, “reasonable force” how reasonable was it?’
A happy sigh. ‘Very reasonable.’ Kent hooked a thumb at the No-Longer-Mobile Command Unit. ‘He’s inside, having a wee rest, if you want?’
‘Might as well. As we’ve come all this way . . .’