Chapter 38
‘. . . yeah, no: anonymous tip-off.’ Logan paced the grass square, outside Big Frank’s building – from a wilting tree to a drooping rhododendron and back again.
Lying to his superior officer. ‘Someone thinks they saw Spencer Findlater coming out of Capercaillie Sports on George Street after the break-in.’
Which might’ve been true.
Who could tell?
Nearly nine o’clock, and the sun was sinking towards the horizon, painting everything with a warm golden-syrup glow. Making the air a bit . . . sticky.
Rennie and Tufty loitered by the pool car, forbidden to come any closer so they had plausible deniability if it ever came out that Logan had fiddled the facts slightly.
Finally, Chief Superintendent Pine came to a decision: ‘All right, I’ll get you a search warrant for Findlater’s flat.’
‘Thanks, Boss. And he’s one of Charles MacGarioch’s mates, so it might be an idea to test anything they find for accelerants too.’ Keeping it nice and casual, as if he’d just thought of it. ‘Belt and braces.’
A sigh rattled down the phone. ‘Anything else while I’ve got my chequebook out?’
‘Now you mention it . . .’ He stopped pacing and looked up at Flat Four. ‘With Spencer in hospital, there’s no one to look after his grandad, and he won’t last the week if we leave him on his own. He’ll either starve to death or burn the house down.’
‘You want me to sort out a care package at five to nine, on a Wednesday night? Yes, thanks for that.’ There was an ominous pause. ‘Speaking of Charles MacGarioch . . .?’
‘Still working on it, Boss.’ Back to pacing again.
‘And while I’ve got you, would you care to explain why I’ve got three officers sitting on their thumbs in Seaton Park, playing I Spy?’
‘Ah . . .’ The truth probably wasn’t the best option in this case either.
Not unless he wanted Pine to pull the op, because ‘they’re probably bored’ didn’t exactly make his team sound very professional.
‘Well, of course, as you know . . . Erm . . .’ Why on earth did Spudgun let them play games on a stakeout?
Worse: why did he let senior bloody management catch them doing it?
Surely there had to be a . . .
Aha!
‘As you know, Boss: I Spy is a recommended attention-centric activity for ICSOs like this. Boredom leads to a lack of focus – people start missing things – but playing I Spy requires constant observation and evaluation of your surroundings, which is what they’re actually there to do in the first place. Ma-am.’
That sounded believable, didn’t it?
‘ICSO?’
‘Impromptu Covert Surveillance Operation.’
‘I see . . .’ Her voice took on a vindictive little smile. ‘Very convincing. I look forward to you giving a presentation on that at our next Divisional Training Management Meeting.’
Sod . . .
Logan buried a groan. ‘Yes, Boss.’
‘What happens if Charles MacGarioch doesn’t show up at your ICSO?
I haven’t got enough officers as it is, without wasting resources on a red herring.
’ She huffed out a breath. ‘I’m pretty sure half the buggers off on the sick are swinging the lead – pretending they’ve got the plague, so they don’t have to do any sodding work.
Well, maybe not half, but a good twenty percent, anyway.
The point is: I can’t afford to have three of the officers I do have tied up all night on a no-show. ’
‘Like you say: “What choice do we have?” If he turns up and we’re not there to catch him, we’re screwed.’
Logan wandered back towards the car while she considered that.
He’d made it as far as the road, before Pine rejoined the conversation:
‘Sergeant Moore and his team have all been on since zero-seven-hundred. Your op can run till ten, then you need to swap them out for other officers. Everyone’s running on fumes as it is.’
Well, that went better than expected.
‘I think I can—’
‘But you’re only getting two nightshift bodies. And I want everyone in for Morning Prayers! That includes you.’
Suppose it was better than nothing.
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Which means you clock off at ten as well. No one’s handing out Hero Points for running yourself into the ground.’
He checked his watch. Just over an hour to go, before home-time. ‘Thanks, Boss.’
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a care package to organise . . .’
She hung up, and Logan sagged for a moment.
Could’ve been worse.
Right: he straightened up and marched across the road.
Tufty jingled the car keys. ‘Where to, Sarge?’
Logan opened the passenger door. ‘ARI – let’s go pay Big Frank’s grandson a visit.’
‘Seriously?’ Rennie pulled a face. ‘But he’s unconscious, Guv, it’s—’
‘Then you can stay here, or walk back to the station if you like?’
The idiot scrambled into the back.
‘Thought so.’
The Critical Care Unit smelled of disinfectant, drain cleaner, and despair. Having all the blinds drawn didn’t help – shutting out the sinking sun, and replacing every bit of natural light with dimmed LED bulbs.
The muffled sound of trainers on the terrazzo floor squeaked out under the part-glazed door to Ward 201, bringing with them the whirr and bleep and hisssss of machinery designed to keep the hospital’s most vulnerable patients alive.
Rennie drooped against the corridor wall, fiddling on his phone, while Logan waited by the locked door for the doctor to slouch over here and let them in.
Inside, a small cluster of beds sat in the middle of the room, fanning out in a circle.
Each one had about three times the amount of space you’d get anywhere else in the hospital – presumably to make it easier for a crash team to surround the patient – with banks of equipment and high-tech screens and computers on arms and all that whizzy life-saving stuff.
A handful of private booths ran around the outside, not quite as Robocop, but still advanced compared to the normal wards.
There were a lot more nurses in attendance too, bustling about between the beds, while their charges lay flat on their backs, zonked on sedatives, and wired up to all that whirring, bleeping, hissing kit.
The doctor paused to check some poor sod’s notes, then dragged her pink Crocs over to the door.
With the facemask and surgical cap on, there wasn’t much of her on show, just a pair of eyes with dark bags underneath, and a few wisps of brown curly hair that had escaped from its prison. Blue scrubs and rumpled PPE.
Logan waved through the glazed partition, but she just glowered back, pointed at her own mask, then jabbed a finger towards the door.
Following the pointing digit led to a wall-mounted dispenser full of individually wrapped N95 masks.
He plucked two from the stack and handed one to Rennie.
The doctor waited till they were both masked-up before opening the door and slipping out into the corridor. Her voice sounded as if it had just run a marathon, with a fridge-freezer strapped to its back. ‘This better be important.’
‘Dr Emslie?’ Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector McRae: we’re here about Spencer Findlater.’
She glanced back at the ward. ‘He’s only just out of surgery, and to be honest, it’s eighty-twenty he doesn’t make it.’
Rennie snorted. ‘You’re kidding.’
Dr Emslie squared her shoulders. ‘You want a list of what’s broken, Sergeant?
Cos we’ll be here for a while. Then there’s the list of what’s ruptured, torn, detached, perforated, and leaking.
’ Giving him a scowl. ‘You smash two tons of metal into someone, hurl them through the air like a rag doll, and whack them against tarmac at speed, and see how optimistic you feel.’
Pink flushed across Rennie’s ears, making them glow. ‘Was only thirty miles an hour.’
‘Want to try it? We can go out to the car park, right now, and flag down the nearest flatbed truck!’
Logan raised his hands. ‘OK, OK, let’s just turn the heat down a bit.’ Poking Rennie. ‘You: go wait outside.’
A wee grumbling mumble sounded behind Rennie’s mask, then off he flounced. With all the grace of a sulky teenager.
Dr Emslie glared at his departing back.
‘Sorry about that.’ Logan forced a smile. ‘Been a long week.’
‘Oh, please: do tell me about it.’ She gave herself a wee shake. ‘Spencer Findlater’s been placed in a medically induced coma. So if you’re planning on interviewing, or arresting him anytime soon – you’re shit out of luck.’
Bit harsh.
‘Can I see him?’
‘No you can’t bloody see him! What do you think this is: a petting zoo? They’re not exhibits, they’re human beings.’
‘But—’
‘He’s – just – out – of – surgery!’ The glare returned. ‘And how do I know you’re not asymptomatic? How do I know you’re not going to spread Covid all over my ward, wiping out half the unfortunate bastards in there?’
‘But—’
‘Cos that’s what it is, OK? It isn’t “the flu”, or “the sniffles”, or “the Lurgie”, or “Captain Trips”, it’s Covid!
That’s why half the bloody city’s off sick.
’ Getting louder. ‘Just because every wanker, newspaper, and politician wants to pretend it’s magically gone away, that doesn’t make it happen! ’
‘OK . . .’ Logan backed off a couple of paces. ‘Look: Spencer might get a visitor. If he does, I need you to call us immediately.’ Digging out his phone and bringing up the photo of Charles MacGarioch and his fellow orphans in the pub. Zooming in on Charles’s face till it filled the screen.
‘He dangerous?’
‘Hard to say.’
Dr Emslie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, that is helpful. Thank you so much.’ She produced her own phone with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Send me a copy and I’ll get Marilyn to print out some posters.’
It took a couple of goes, but eventually they got the image transferred.
Logan put his mobile away. ‘Officers on-site will keep an eye out too, but with all these entrances . . .?’
‘Because my job isn’t difficult enough?’ She threw a sharp, stabbing gesture at the ward door.
‘I’ve got a skeleton staff, full beds, and a bunch of people already calling in sick for tomorrow.
Aberdeen’s like a bloody plague pit . . .
’ On either side of the mask, her jaw muscles clenched.
A deep breath and Dr Emslie shook her head, then looked away.
‘Fine: we’ll shout if we see him.’ Her arm came up, pointing away down the corridor.
‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind sodding off – I’ve got a bunch of dying people to save. ’
She turned to go.
Then stopped.
‘And don’t you dare come back here without a mask on!’
And with that jolly farewell, Dr Emslie slapped her pass against the security reader and shoved back into the ward. Pulling the door shut behind her, in case Logan, or his germs, tried to follow.
He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And a merry Christmas to you too.’
Then marched off towards the exit, taking his cooties with him.