Chapter 33
Logan stepped out of the front door, shutting it behind him.
It was a little terrace of six houses, next to another identical one, and a third that looked a bit like a schoolhouse.
This bit of Kincorth was all uphill, the front gardens bordered by a steep slope down to the road below. Then a nice little strip of parkland, then another road, then more houses, descending all the way to the River Dee. Though the water itself was hidden behind a ripple of bright-green trees.
Still a nice view, though.
About a dozen teenagers had set up a picnic site on the yellowing grass, complete with camp chairs, tartan rugs, barbecues, cool boxes, and a Swingball set.
Smaller kids scampered around the trees and bushes, giggling and screeching as they hunted each other with Super Soakers and bubble guns.
Everyone was in shorts and T-shirts, enjoying the sun, while the enticing scents of charcoal and sizzling chicken wafted through the warm air, and a handful of Bluetooth speakers pumped out cheery tunes.
Had to admit, it was kinda idyllic.
Shame to spoil things by asking about a racist, arsonist, wee shite like Charles MacGarioch.
Logan headed down the steps, and across the road, rolling up his shirtsleeves, because it was far too Mediterranean out here to wear a suit jacket.
‘Sarge.’ Tufty joined him at the edge of the small park, doing a hoppity-skip to get his feet left-righting at the same time as Logan’s. Because clearly it would kill him to act like a normal, sensible human being for ten minutes.
‘Twit.’ Logan strolled onto the grass, one hand shading his eyes, voice raised above the music: ‘Randolph Hay?’
Over by the barbecue, a young man in a camping chair raised his tin of Stella in reply.
Long red hair, tucked back behind his ears; squint front tooth; the kind of nose you’d normally find on busts of Roman emperors; and a ‘F took a swig from his can.
Keeping an eye on the weenies. ‘So, you want to talk about Charlie.’ Grinning as Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘The Orphan Grapevine’s been ringing.’
Quick check to make sure Tufty was writing this down.
‘You’re one of the support group.’
‘Family holiday, staying with friends in Cornwall. Mum and Dad had a run-in with a London estate agent going way too fast on a twisty country road after a liquid lunch.’ He toasted them with his Stella. ‘I was five. And in the back seat.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Meh . . .’ Shrug. ‘There are worse origin stories, believe me.’ Another swig. ‘Haven’t seen Charlie for about . . . week and a half? Talking about a trip to the circus in Westburn Park. Get the whole gang together and hit the final night.’
Logan tucked his hands into his pockets, keeping it casual. As if there weren’t a shortarse police constable, in the full uniform kit, taking notes. ‘He say anything about money worries?’
‘We used to hang out all the time – the whole lot of us. Broken little people, looking for our tribe. But it’s hard to do that when people start disappearing off to university.
’ Ralph made a spreading-out gesture with one hand.
‘So yeah . . .’ Drifting away for a moment, creases deepening between his eyebrows.
Then back again. ‘Charlie’s a good guy. I mean you’ll never find anyone more loyal: literally give you the shirt off his back – seen him do it.
But he’s not winning Celebrity Mastermind anytime soon, if you get my meaning.
Always coming up with get-rich-quick schemes; always having to bum a couple of quid for the bus fare home. ’
Logan looked out across the park, to where there was nothing more pressing or important in the whole world than getting your little sister or brother soaking wet, or pretending to be a dinosaur.
‘What do you think he’d have made of the protest this weekend?
Environmentalism, capitalism, immigration . . .? Would he be pro or anti?’
‘Charlie?’ A laugh. ‘Wants to be the next Steve Jobs; doesn’t really understand how the market economy works.
Recycles, but dreams of jetting-off to exotic, far-away lands on a private jet.
And as for migrants: you’ve met Keira, right?
Her dad’s from Ghana; mum’s from Inverurie, via Algeria.
Charlie’s nan might be a weapons-grade right-wing “friend of Nigel”, but Charlie’s cool. ’
OK, time to ask the big question. ‘Any idea where he might be hiding? We’re worried he hurt himself when he drove that ice-cream van into the river. Could be serious.’
‘Ah.’ Ralph frowned at the treetops, one finger tapping against his tin of Stella as the silence stretched.
Then he scrunched up his face, and drained the can.
Decision made. ‘After Charlie’s mum died, he used to run away a lot.
Not far – you know the Wallace Tower, in Seaton Park?
There was a loose bit of plywood boarding-up the windows, so he’d squeeze through the gap and spend the night.
Don’t know if you can still do that. Maybe? ’
‘Thanks. You’ve been a huge help.’ Logan offered a business card. ‘If he does get in touch?’
‘Understand – I’m not clyping on Charlie, I’m only trying to help him.’ Ralph took the card. ‘The daft sod’s his own worst enemy . . .’
Tufty climbed back in behind the wheel, looking across the pool car and out through Logan’s window, towards the park – where Ralph was chasing a couple of weenies around the makeshift picnic area, arms in the air, making monster noises and pretending he was going to eat them, while they laughed and screeched.
‘Do you think a Bumbersnatch is related to the fuminous Bandersnatch? Perhaps the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in Kincorth?’ Sniff. ‘Or is it just a coincidence?’
Silence.
Logan didn’t even move.
In the back, Rennie was graveyard still.
Both doing their best not to encourage him.
Finally, Tufty shrugged, started the car, and launched into a lumpy three-point turn.
With the moment broken, Rennie pointed. ‘Right: Seaton ho!’
Logan pressed buttons on his Airwave, and waited for the bleeps. ‘Sergeant Moore, safe to talk?’
‘Fit like, Boss Mannie?’
‘Spudgun: need you to grab a couple of bodies and stakeout the Wallace Tower in Seaton Park. Low key. No lights or sirens.’
Three-point completed, Tufty headed back towards the Bridge of Dee.
‘Oh aye? We looking for anything in particular?’
‘Charles MacGarioch used to hide out there as a kid. Might be nothing, but worth a punt.’
‘Could go in mob-handed if you like?’
‘Not unless you know he’s definitely there. Don’t want to spook him, otherwise.’
‘See what I can do.’
‘Thanks, Spudgun.’ Logan ended the call. ‘Fingers crossed.’
A snort from Rennie. ‘Yeah, because when have we ever been that lucky?’
Good point.
The peroxide idiot sat forward, poking his head between the seats. ‘If we’re gonna do a stakeout, we should order pizza!’ Rubbing his hands. ‘And none of that meat-free bollocks: eighteen-inch American hot, with extra spicy sausage and jalapenos.’
‘Nope.’
Rennie pouted. ‘Oh come on, Guv – don’t even get proper cheese at home any more. Emma’s gone all vegan-bolshy.’
‘I mean “nope” as in “we’re not going on a stakeout.” Spudgun’s a big boy now: doesn’t need us to hold his hand.’ Logan pointed through the windscreen. ‘Countesswells ho.’
‘Eh? But what’s more important than catching Charles MacGarioch?’
Tufty took a left, pootling down Abbotswell Drive towards the bridge. ‘We does has a prior appointment.’
‘But . . .?’
Logan shook his head. ‘Don’t make me “nope” you again. It’s . . .’ His phone ding-buzzed an incoming text. ‘Hold on.’
SGT. brOOKMINSTER:
URGENT MEMO – ALL SENIOR OFFICERS!!!
Uniforms MUST B worn @ all times till staffing issues resolved!
The Chief Super thanks U 4 Ur cooperation!
Bet she did.
Urgh . . .
Suppose there was only one thing for it, then.
‘But we’ve got a quick stop to make first.’
The pool car scrunched to a halt on the driveway and Logan scrambled out, running for the front door. Unlocking it and letting himself into the house. Peeling off his suit jacket as he charged upstairs.
Dumping it on the bed, unclipping his tie, then stripping down to his socks and pants, before hauling on his itchy uniform trousers. While Cthulhu watched from atop the laundry basket, head on one side, tail twitching, as if he was insane.
Clingy, black, police-issue T-shirt on, Logan straightened his epaulettes and rushed downstairs again. Sitting on the bottom step to lace up his black boots.
Into the kitchen.
He tore open a sachet of chicken and extruded the gelatinous slab into Cthulhu’s bowl – giving her a wee stroke and a kiss on her fuzzy little head as she tucked in.
Then into the hallway again, grabbing his lanyard and peaked cap before wheeching out the front door, slamming it behind him.
Locking it.
Then leaping back into the passenger seat.
Logan banged a hand on the dashboard. ‘Drive. Drive!’
And Tufty did.
Kirkenwell Academy was a concrete monstrosity that looked about as welcoming as a prison block.