Chapter 31
Logan wrinkled his nose against the triple stinks of cigarette smoke, festering bins, and old chip fat. ‘Have you got a last name, Keira? Or are you more like Adele and Madonna?’
She blinked back at him, head tilted, cool as a bitter sorbet. Then shrugged. ‘Longmore. Fourteen F, Allenvale Court, Gairn Terrace, Aberdeen, AB Ten, Six EW.’
Logan checked to see if anyone was writing that down – Rennie and Tufty both had their notebooks ready, biros already scribbling.
Keira stuck her chin out. ‘I look after my grandad.’
Not according to Jericho McQueen.
‘Thought you shared a flat with a bunch of vegans?’
‘Nah. That’s what I tell the Thirsty Boys: Jericho, Spencer, Wallace, and the rest. Think they can get it on with this fine ass?’ Patting herself on the bottom. ‘No way I’m telling them where I live!’
Fair enough.
‘What about Charles MacGarioch.’
There was a tiny pause, then: ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Really?’ Logan called up the photo from MacGarioch’s bedroom. ‘Because I heard you two were an item.’
Her mouth pinched as she considered the picture. ‘Maybe. Why? What you think he’s done?’ Keira flicked a cylinder of ash onto Bruno’s vacated perch. ‘Not that it’s anything to do with me. Whatever it is.’
‘Where is he?’
‘How would I know?’ Throwing it back, hard and fast.
‘Because you’re his girlfriend.’
‘You’re the ones chased him into the river.
’ She leaned back against the wall, wearing that cruel smile again.
‘What, you cops think we can’t read the papers?
I hear he’s a proper hero for saving those kids and those oldies.
’ Another long inhale. ‘Anyway: haven’t seen him in ages.
His bitch grandma’s scared of people like me.
Says I’m a black whore, trying to corrupt her poor little darling. ’ A snarl. ‘Racist cow.’
Logan nodded. ‘Yeah . . . That was kind of the impression I got too.’ Maybe try appealing to old affections? ‘We need to talk to Charles, Keira. And it’s in his best interests to talk to us. You want to help him, don’t you?’
She sent another cloud of smoke Logan’s way. ‘How’d you find me?’
‘Keira, it’s important, OK? After the crash yesterday: he could be hurt. What if he’s got . . . internal bleeding, or a concussion?’
‘And whose fault would that be?’
One more go: ‘He could be dying, right now, and not even know it. You want that to happen?’
She smoked and smoked and smoked, burning through her extorted cigarette, making it hissssss.
Looking off into the middle distance, towards the centre of town.
Forehead creased between the concealer-plastered zits.
‘Charlie always said he wanted to go to Ireland. The south bit, where all the Guinness and leprechauns is.’ A smile broke free – a genuine one this time, nothing malicious about it.
‘Had this great-big dream of getting his own B-and-B. I’d do the meals and he’d look after the rooms. We’d both get fat and pop-out a whole heap of kids .
. .’ She dropped the spent butt, grinding it out against the concrete.
‘Course, we’d need to wait for his granny to snuff it – Charlie won’t abandon the old cow, and no way she’s moving to Ireland.
Surrounded by all them foreigners? Living in the EU?
She’d rather claw her cobwebbed fanny out with a carving fork. ’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Months ago.’ Keira pulled one shoulder up to her ear.
‘His nan’s debts were getting him down; old bag never was any good with money.
Tried picking up extra shifts at the chippy, but it’s not exactly wedge, is it?
Minimum wage and all the second-hand grease you can scrape off your hair?
’ She dug into her apron and pulled out a tube of extra-strong mints.
Popped one, frowned at the packet, then extended the open end to Logan.
‘Thanks.’ He offered a business card in exchange. ‘If you hear from Charlie, or anything, can you let me know? We’re genuinely worried about him.’
She eyed the thing, as if it might bite. ‘You never said why you’re after him.’
‘Someone tipped us off he’d been involved in something a bit shady. We went round to get his side of the story.’ OK, so strictly speaking that wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t exactly a lie, either.
Keira plucked the card from Logan’s fingers, turning it over to read the mobile number printed on the back in biro. Then filed it away with her mints. ‘If he calls.’
‘Thanks.’ Nodding at the restaurant. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’
Logan shooed Rennie and Tufty through the emergency exit, into a short corridor with scuffed white walls and doors marked ‘MANAGER’ and ‘STORES’ on one side, ‘STAFF/CHANGING’ and ‘KITCHEN’ on the other. And dead ahead: ‘FRONT OF HOUSE ~ REMEMBER: YOUR SMILE MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE!’
Because it wasn’t just Police Scotland who were addicted to ‘motivational’ wank.
Soon as they were all inside, Rennie flattened himself against the wall, snuck back to the emergency exit and cracked it open a sliver. Ear pressed against the gap.
Oh for God’s sake.
Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘What are you doing, you idiot?’
The idiot stuck a finger to his lips, so quiet he was barely audible: ‘Seeing if she calls MacGarioch to tell him we were here . . .’
Tufty hooked his thumbs into his utility belt, rocking on his heels like an old-timey prospector.
‘I got a job in a chip shop after school. Worked my way up from peeling tatties to doing the pizzas. Very responsible job, doing the pizzas.’ Nodding at the wisdom of that.
‘It’s not all deep-fried Mars Bars, you know. ’
Rennie scowled. ‘Will you shut up? Trying to listen, here.’
‘We used to do deep-fried Crunchies too. Mmmm . . .’ Then a grimace. ‘Cadbury’s Creme Eggs were a step too far, though. Like a weenie hand grenade full of napalm, they were.’
Halfwits. Logan was surrounded by halfwits.
He ignored the reminder to smile and pushed his way into reception, anyway.
The ma?tre d’, on the other hand, flashed her dentures as he emerged from the door, pointing at the phone currently pressed to her ear, as if he couldn’t see it. But he gave her a thank-you wave anyway.
Tufty tottered after him. ‘They’d burn straight through the roof of your mouth. Remember the fizzy acid blood in Aliens? That. Only all chocolate and fondanty.’
Bet Inspector Morse never had to put up with this nonsense.
Sunlight streamed through the canopy of leaves at the side of the road, stirred by a faint breeze, making the dalmatian spots ripple across the pool car and tarmac.
Tufty lounged against the driver’s door, hands in his pockets, eyes closed, face up, a wee smile on his daft pointy face.
Across the road, a well-heeled couple headed downstairs to The Star-Sprinkled Heavens for ferociously expensive fish-and-chips.
And there was still no sign of bloody Rennie. Two more minutes, and that was it – they were leaving. With or without him.
Logan cupped a hand over his phone, cutting a bit of the glare, and squinted at Tara’s latest message:
P/T meeting = 1930 remember?
Don’t be late or there WILL be spanking!
And NOT the fun kind!!!!!
He poked out a reply.
That’s the plan.
I’ll have to go back to work afterwards, though.
Sorry.
SEND.
And that was it: time up.
He knocked on the car roof. ‘Let’s go: some of us have things to do.’
Tufty jumbled in behind the wheel, grinning and pointing at himself with both thumbs. ‘Oh yeah: promoted to sidekick.’ Starting the car as Logan settled into the passenger seat. ‘Where to, Holmes? Is the game afoot?’
Logan checked the list of Charles MacGarioch’s associates. ‘Kincorth. Then I need to be in Countesswells for half seven. Sharp.’
‘Huzzah!’ Wriggling his bum, like a happy terrier. ‘Sa-arge, now that I is your official sidekick, and I did has the genius idea about rapists and burglaries . . . can I come to the barbecue on Sunday?’
‘No.’
He drooped. ‘But why?’
Logan gave him a Paddington Stare. ‘You know why.’
And with that, the happy terrier realised it was on the way to the vet to get snipped. ‘Oh.’ A sniff. Then a shrug. ‘Still promoted to sidekick, though.’ He put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb.
Which is when Rennie decided to finally put in an appearance, wandering up the steps from The Star-Sprinkled Heavens’ subterranean lair. Eyes popping as he watched the car leaving without him.
He sprinted for the back door, yanking it open and diving inside. ‘What the hell?’ Thumping Tufty on the arm. ‘Constable!’
‘Ow!’
‘Don’t blame him.’ Logan pointed. ‘It’s your own fault for wanking about.’
‘That was really sore.’ Still rubbing his arm, Tufty headed off down Bon-Accord Crescent, following the road around to the left as it turned into a narrow lane.
Rennie struggled with the seatbelt. ‘And for your information, I wasn’t “wanking about”, I was conducting an impromptu covert surveillance operation.
Or an ICSO, as it’s known in Secret Service circles.
’ Click. ‘Because, of course, Keira was lying. I can tell when a girl’s telling porkies a mile off – their lips move. ’
Tufty took a right, heading downhill on Bon-Accord Street, making for the lights with a frown on his face. ‘Bit misogynistic, Sarge.’
‘I’ve got three daughters and a wife with a shoe addiction, Constable: I know when women are lying.’ He sat forward. ‘So it was logical to assume that Keira Longmore would get in touch with Charles MacGarioch, soon as we’d gone.’
Might as well indulge the lad: ‘And did she?’
‘Called her grandad to check he was OK after the men from the Council had been to fix the living-room window.’
‘Oh, the horror.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Rennie squinted off into the middle distance, as if that made him look any less daft.
‘Course, maybe she wasn’t talking to her grandad at all?
Maybe it was MacGarioch. And maybe “the men from the Council” is code for us – the police – and “fixing the living-room window” means . . . we’ve been round asking questions?’
‘Bit of a stretch.’
Rennie dug out his Airwave. ‘Going to run a PNC check – see what she’s been done for . . .’
Tufty clicked on the radio. ‘Meantime, let’s have us some tunes!’