Chapter 39
In an ideal world, the biggest hospital in the northeast of Scotland would’ve had a fancy front entrance.
Something that spoke of Aberdeen’s position as the energy capital of Europe.
Something that reflected all the oil money that had flowed through the city since the seventies.
Something that gave a little nod to the billions of pounds of tax revenue generated for the UK Treasury.
But it was, to be honest, a bit of a shithole – more like the pedestrian entrance to an underground car park, with a pair of sliding doors surrounded by an array of half-arsed signs.
Auld mannies and wifies were lined up in the fading light, still wearing their baffies and dressing gowns, grimly puffing on cigarette after cigarette, in bloody-minded defiance of all the posters telling them not to.
Back in the day, there’d been a nice big overhang to shelter beneath and enjoy your fag out of the wind and snow and rain.
But the Health Trust had filled it all in, leaving the patients with nowhere to stand and indulge their vices but outside in the open air.
And it still wasn’t enough to deter these Wrinkled Priests and Craggy Priestesses of Sainted Lady Nicotine.
Logan stepped out into the sunlight, phone to his ear, waiting for Doreen to pick up.
Her voice groaned out of the speaker. ‘If you’re calling to make my life even more depressing: don’t, OK? The only thing keeping me upright is visions of a phenomenally large G-and-T when I get home. With lots and lots and lots of ice.’
He headed for the multistorey opposite – a weird, elongated-OXO-cube of a thing, wrapped in sheets of holey metal. ‘No sign of Charles MacGarioch?’
‘Guv, I swear to God, if we do find his body, I’m going to kick the crap out of it before we call anyone.’
Bit unprofessional. But understandable.
‘How far you got to go?’
‘Dunno – maybe a quarter mile? We’re well past the bridge anyway.
’ A knackered sigh. ‘Sun’s going down: it’s all long blue shadows and a zillion midges out here.
Going to be dangerous if we keep going much longer.
And I know it’s going to be twilight till eleven, but that’s sod-all use for searching.
’ Doreen gave a little sob. ‘Just want to pour the sweat out of my wellies, lie down, and cry . . .’
‘OK – Give it another twenty minutes, then head back to the station. We’re calling it quits at ten, today.’
‘I’m too tired and squelchy to celebrate.’
Logan hurried across the road. ‘Just do me a favour and get someone to have a quick march along the last bit of riverbank, OK? In case his body’s just lying about.’
‘He’s not here, Guv. You’ve got dog walkers crawling over every bit of this . . . what is it, an estuary? Where the beach-and-all-that-bollocks starts? If he was here, they’d have found him by now.’
Yeah, she was probably right.
Biohazard sounded as if he was about to pop an aneurism. ‘And then there’s that stupid woman in the bikini, wanging on about finding the body like it’s a sodding marketing opportunity! You name a broadcaster: she’s had a bash at selling them her story.’
The lift dinged, and Logan stepped out onto the rooftop level of the hospital car park.
Which wasn’t quite as tall as the big number thirteen painted on the wall made it sound, given each ‘floor’ was only half the OXO cube’s width, and a half-step above the one before.
But it was still high enough to have a great view out across the city and off to the sea, where a row of bright-orange supply ships glowed against the greying water.
A flash of pale pink marked distant wind turbines, hanging motionless on the horizon, caught by the sinking sun.
Though you did have to peer through the holes in the tinfoil wrapper to see them.
‘Christ’s sake: she makes her money doing soft porn videos for sadwanks! And now we’re supposed to pretend she’s some sort of hard-hitting journalist? Kate Adie in a frigging thong?’
Nearly half nine, and this bit of the car park was deserted, except for the pool car. Which Tufty had parked in the furthest corner from the lifts, for some stupid reason.
Rennie paced up and down in the distance, on the phone to someone. Rubbing his forehead and making soothing noises, so probably getting a telling-off.
The wee loon, on the other hand, had his arms out like a tightrope walker, wobbling his way along the edge of the inner parking spaces. Keeping himself ‘busy’.
‘They interviewed her on the BBC, Guv!’
‘Have you tried asking her nicely to stop?’
‘Oh, apparently her fans have a right to know all about it. She even took video. Of the remains!’
‘So confiscate her phone. It’s evidence in an ongoing murder investigation.’
‘I did. She and her halfwit boyfriend already uploaded a “report” to YouTube before they even called us. In her bikini!’ Biohazard made a noise like a ruptured coffee machine. ‘We’re trying to get it taken down, but you know what that’s like.’
‘Just . . . do what you can, OK?’
Logan hung up and strolled across the rooftop level. The sun might’ve been skimming the horizon, but the black surface of the parking bays radiated heat up his trouser legs.
Tufty nodded as he approached. ‘Sarge.’
‘This what passes for “being productive” these days?’
The daft wee sod tapped his own forehead, still wobbling along the white line. Indulging in a faux-French accent that probably counted as a hate crime: ‘Zee leetle grey cells, they are a-working ’ard, monsieur Lestrade.’
‘Lestrade was Sherlock Holmes, not Poirot, you reticulated Clanger.’ Logan cupped his hands into a makeshift loudhailer and bellowed a ‘HOY!’ across the car park. ‘WE’RE LEAVING!’
Over by the ramp down to the next level, Rennie waved. Ending his call before hurrying back to the car.
Tufty climbed in behind the wheel and started her up. ‘Where to avec les automobile, monsieur?’
Good question.
Logan puffed out his cheeks, and sank into the passenger seat. ‘Back to the ranch. We’ve got half an hour till home time, and I still need to file a report on Spencer Findlater’s accident.’
Rennie bundled himself into the back. ‘Did you say “home time”? Are we getting home? Cos Emma would very much like that.’ Checking his watch.
‘Better yet, Donna, Lola, and Charlize will be in bed: we can veg in front of the telly for a change.’ Rennie closed his eyes, an expression of bliss on his silly face. ‘Eating ice cream in our pants . . .’
Now, there was an image to put you off your Cornetto.
By the time the pool car emerged from the multistorey car park, the road was shrouded in gloom. Sunlight might still be skimming the top layers, but it had abandoned the ground to evening’s muggy grasp.
They wended their way around the half-empty staff car park, past various ugly grey lumps of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary outbuildings, and off the hospital estate. Heading back towards the centre of town.
Not exactly the prettiest bit of the city, but it could be worse.
Especially if you liked grey.
Things got a bit greener, as they approached the junction with Argyle Place and Argyle Crescent.
Then the pool car popped across the lights, and they were surrounded by it: Victoria Park on the right, Westburn Park on the left.
Trees overhanging the road on both sides, shadows lengthening beneath them.
Something was going on in Westburn Park – lights flickering and strobing in the growing gloom.
Logan rolled down his window and the sound of Wurlitzer music whumped through the sticky evening air, accompanied by the clatter-whoosh of funfair rides and the happy screams and cries of the people playing on them.
A mini-rollercoaster was visible through the trees, along with waltzers, spinny-swingy things, dodgems, coconut shies and other entertainments of dubious honesty.
And, rising above it all, the red-white-and-blue stripes of a big top, lit up from the inside like an alien spaceship.
Happy families wandered about, eating candyfloss and chips.
Completely unfazed by all the death and destruction in the world.
Not worrying about asylum seekers trapped in a burning building, or young men with their heads caved in, or rape and trauma and abuse and war and famine and dying alone with dementia . . .
‘. . . Sarge?’
Logan blinked.
OK.
Tufty had obviously just asked him a question, but no idea what it was.
The wee loon frowned across the car at him. ‘You OK?’
‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘I did has an scheduling query: that MAPPA meeting isn’t till nine thirty, so do you want to visit the last of Charles MacGarioch’s friends first thing tomorrow, before it kicks off?’
‘Might as well. Unless you’ve got a cunning plan to get me out of the thing?’ Hopefully . . . But going by the expression on Tufty’s face, probably not. ‘Never mind.’
The glowing big top faded in Logan’s wing mirror, swallowed by trees.
He huffed out a long breath. ‘Being a police officer is a little bit like joining the circus. When you’re a probationer, you’re on the dodgems – yeah, you take a bashing, but it’s exciting.
Thrilling, even. Then you’re a PC and riding the rollercoaster: you’ve got no control over speed or direction, it’s all ups and downs, but it still feels as if you’re going somewhere.
And maybe you start to think: one day I’m going to ride the Ferris wheel and I’ll finally see the big picture.
Or maybe I’ll even get to be Ringmaster, controlling the whole show . . .’
Westburn Road turned into Hutcheon Street, with its terraced flats on one side and the decaying carcasses of derelict factories on the other.
‘But what actually happens when you get promoted, is they lock you in the coconut shy and hurl meetings at you till you fall off your perch.’ Logan sniffed. ‘The only constant is: you’re always surrounded by bloody clowns.’