Chapter 41
Half the lights were off, turning the open-plan office into an abandoned labyrinth of cubicles.
Over in the far corner, someone coughed and hacked away, but other than that? Nightshift had succumbed to the lurgie just like everyone else.
But at least it was quiet.
Logan sat at his desk, surrounded by piles and piles of inherited paperwork, drinking horrible coffee from the machine, and picking away at a report on his steam-and-hamster-powered computer.
So much for going home at ten. It was gone eleven now, and still no—
‘What the hell are you still doing here?’
Didn’t need to look up. That gravelly voice was its own calling card.
He kept on typing. ‘Could ask you the same question.’
‘Nicking office supplies.’ Steel reached over his cubicle wall and pinched his coffee as well.
‘But mostly, because we caught a jumper: Marischal Court, right up on the roof – nineteen floors of straight-down-and-splat. Lost his job, his mum, his dog, and his girlfriend in the space of a week.’ She blew on the coffee, as if that would improve it.
‘Yours truly talked him down, of course. Which gives one the warm-and-fuzzies, but the paperwork’s a pain in the arse.
’ Taking a sip. ‘Gah . . . This is disgusting. You never heard of milk and hazelnut syrup?’
He stuck his hand out. ‘Give it back then.’
She didn’t. ‘Might grow on me . . .’ Another sip, another grimace. ‘You know your problem? You’re suffering from NRDS: New Responsibility Derangement Syndrome.’
‘What I’m suffering from is Listening To You Rabbit On When I Should Be Finishing This Report Syndrome.’
‘See, you’ve been made up to acting DCI, and now you think the whole division’ll grind to a halt without you. Well, it won’t.’ Steel leaned on his cubicle wall. ‘You’re just a greasy wee cog in a big rusty machine. It’ll no’ fall apart if you go home and get some sleep.’
‘And you thought I was bad at motivational speeches.’
‘What will fall apart are your cases, when you’re too knackered to focus tomorrow, cos you’ve been here all night like a martyred numpty.’ She handed back his hideous coffee. ‘Go home.’ Then wandered off. ‘And treat yourself to a stapler and some packs of Post-it notes on the way out!’
Yeah, she was probably right.
Time to go home.
Could always finish this tomorrow, after all.
Steel had almost reached the door, when a lone PC in the full outdoor kit banged through it at speed. Nodding at her on the way past as he hurpled over to Logan’s desk. Breathing hard, like a chain-smoking pervert.
So this couldn’t be good news.
Logan gave him a nod anyway. ‘Aye, aye, Shandy.’
PC Ian Shand looked as if he’d been made by four-year-olds out of knotted string and old cat hair.
And when he opened his mouth, every single one of his teeth pointed in a different direction.
‘Guv!’ He staggered to a halt. ‘Bleeding heck . . .’ Bending over and grabbing his knees.
‘Not answering . . . your Airwave . . .’
The thing hadn’t so much as bleeped.
He picked it off the desk and checked the screen. But it didn’t even show a missed call, because the battery was flat.
Should’ve put it on to charge the moment he got back to the office.
Silly sod.
It was a bit late, but Logan plugged it in anyway.
Steel wandered back, hands in her pockets. ‘Come on, Shandy: spill it before you keel over.’
‘We’ve got . . . we’ve got a serious problem!’ Waving his hands about. ‘Missing . . . missing person!’
Logan sat upright. ‘Is it a kid?’
‘Not . . . a kid.’ Shandy shook his sweaty head. ‘No, it’s . . . way more complicated . . . than that . . .’
Chief Superintendent Pine groaned. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake – did we not have enough on the go?’
Twenty to midnight, and Natasha Agapova’s house was lit up like a funfair. Not just the internal lighting, the outdoor floods were on too, turning the front garden into an ominous wonderland of trees and shadows.
On the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a lock-block driveway played hostess to a patrol car, the Scenes Transit van, the pool car Logan had rocked up in, and a garish-red BMW.
In here, however, a lone forensic tech zwipped-zwopped across the entrance hall and tried to wrestle a gigantic teddy bear into a body bag. Presumably because there were no evidence bags big enough.
Logan leaned on the balcony handrail, making his Tyvek crumple and rustle. Hood up. Phone tucked inside the elasticated hem. ‘You’re right: maybe I should hop in my Tardis, jump back to Monday morning, and ask Ms Agapova not to get abducted?’
Yeah . . .
Maybe that wasn’t the best idea when talking to the Divisional head of state?
He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Boss. Been a long day.’
She left a little pause – probably to make sure he knew his place. ‘And we’re sure it’s an abduction, not a kidnap?’
‘No sign of a ransom demand yet. Her ex-husband’s seriously loaded, so it’s possible the kidnappers are waiting for the right moment, but . . .?’
‘Urgh . . .’ A thumping noise, banged down the line. ‘Why did she have to be a bloody press baron? The media love talking about themselves, can you imagine what they’ll be like when they find out?’
‘Ah. About that.’ Logan wandered along the landing, peering in through the open doors.
Forensic techs haunted Ms Agapova’s home office and main bedroom like crinkly ghosts.
Going through her things. ‘Someone needs to tell the ex-husband. But he only owns three local radio stations; a podcast company; the Scottish Daily Post, the Yorkshire Clarion, Midlands Gazette and Bulletin, and London Daily Citizen; so we’re probably OK. ’
One of the spare bedrooms had nothing but unassembled flatpack furniture in it. The next was full of packing boxes.
Another thump from Pine’s end. Maybe she was banging her head off the desk? ‘In the name of . . . fuck.’ A strangled sigh. ‘Suppose I don’t need to tell you this is a top priority.’
‘Along with everything else.’
‘Exactly.’ Thump. ‘Suppose I better go wake the Chief Constable. She’s going to love me.’
The third bedroom was a little girl’s: full of stuffed animals, rainbows, and unicorns. Not dinosaurs, ninjas, and pirates, like Elizabeth’s.
‘Anything happens: I’m in the loop, understand?’
‘Boss.’
She hung up.
Logan puffed out his cheeks. Sagged.
Wait a minute.
There was something . . . funky in here. Stinky. The sharp-yellow stench of sunbaked urine.
Weird.
The kid – Brooklyn, going by the nameplate on the door – was meant to be abroad at finishing school. And the bed was made. You wouldn’t make a bed if someone had piddled in it. And surely, if Brooklyn was old enough for finishing school, she was too old for that kind of thing.
He tiptoed across to the window, eyes fixed on the oatmeal carpet. Nothing.
Maybe . . .
Hang on. The door lay wide open, but there was something hidden behind it. On the floor, by the wall. And the closer he got, the stronger the smell.
Right.
He marched along the corridor to the main bedroom and stuck his head over the threshold. ‘Hello?’
The Scenes tech was on her hands and knees, rummaging about under Natasha’s bed. She stopped what she was doing and glowered back at him. ‘If you’re going to make inappropriate comments about my bum again: don’t.’
‘What?’
Whoever it was, sat back on their haunches. ‘Oh, it’s you, Guv. Nothing. Sorry.’
‘OK . . .’ Because that didn’t sound suspicious at all. He hooked a thumb back across the corridor. ‘There’s what looks like a urine stain in the kid’s bedroom. Can we run some sort of test on it?’
‘It’s your budget. I can test whatever you want, long as someone’s paying for it.’
‘Thanks.’
That sorted, he headed downstairs again, past the wrestling match – which the teddy bear seemed to be winning – down the corridor, past the lounge, home gym, and cinema room, and into the kind of kitchen they featured in design magazines.
Perfect. Elegant. Spotless. As if no one had ever cooked or eaten a meal there.
It looked out over a large back garden, where all the floodlights were on too, revealing a pair of techs in the full Smurf-suit outfit, examining a flowerbed at the far end, by the fence.
Steel and Colin Miller slouched at the breakfast bar, nursing mugs of coffee, presumably from the very swanky machine in the corner, by the double fridge.
Colin was in trousers and a T-shirt, but Steel had peeled her SOC suit down to the waist, showing off her Police Scotland top with optional biscuit crumbs.
Logan poked a finger at her. ‘Have you been sexually harassing the scene examiners again?’
She grinned. ‘How was our fearless leader? Was she in bed, in a low-cut lace nightie? Is she, even now, rushing over here to support the troops with handies and tickle-me-Elmos?’
Urgh . . .
‘I don’t even want to know what a “Tickle-me-Elmo” is.’ He unzipped his Smurf suit and plonked his bum onto a spare seat at the breakfast bar. Didn’t bother smothering a jaw-popping yawn. ‘And thanks for the offer – I’d love a coffee.’
There was a moment’s angry scowling, then Steel rustle-flounced off to fiddle with the machine.
Logan swivelled his seat around to face Colin. ‘Want to tell me what you were doing creeping around your new boss’s house at quarter to eleven on a Wednesday night?’
‘Came to tell her where she could stick her job.’ He held up a gloved finger. ‘Which doesn’t count as “motive” cos I was firing her. Plus: it was me called this in. And I’ve got an alibi, so don’t even start, OK?’ Waiting for a response he didn’t get. ‘OK.’
‘Then why didn’t you call me?’
‘Cos it’s “quarter to eleven on a Wednesday night!” Far as I know: you’re off-duty, half-cut, and playing hide-the-bagpipe with Ginger-Curls McSexpot.’
Over by the coffee machine, Steel snorted. ‘Nah, they did that this morning. Dirty monkeys.’
‘Her name is Tara! What is wrong with you two?’
‘Whatever.’ Colin pulled out his phone. ‘And you should probably hear this,’ fiddling with the screen until a small, tinny, electronic voice buzzed its way into the kitchen:
‘MESSAGE FIVE:’
Followed by a man – sharp-edged, snarling out the words so every syllable became an offensive weapon. ‘Karma comes in like a hurricane, Bitch, and it’s going to blow your house of lies right down. See you tonight!’
‘END OF MESSAGE. MESSAGE—’
The phone went silent.
Colin put the handset down on the countertop. ‘Far as I can tell, Natasha Agapova, forty-eight, got herself a taxi from the SME charity-auction dinner at half eleven on Monday night. Dropped her off here around twelve, didn’t see anything suspicious.’
‘Hold on,’ Logan eyed the phone, ‘how did you get that recording?’
‘Point is: if you check the call logs, that message was from a withheld number at eleven forty-two. So she was already in the car on her way home.’
Steel looked up from the machine. ‘Have you been a naughty wee phone-hacking grubby tabloid scumbag?’
‘I was searching the house to make sure she wasn’t lying unconscious somewhere, in need of help.’ His shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘I may have accidentally bumped against the answering machine . . .?’
‘Aye, and you just accidentally happened to have your wee phone out, recording? My sharny arse.’
‘Point is: our guy on the phone has to know she’s no’ here, right? Otherwise, he calls, it tips her off, she gives you bastards a shout, and the whole abduction-kidnap plan’s screwed.’
There was more to the monologue, but Logan sort of tuned it out, because over Colin’s shoulder – through the kitchen windows, way down at the end of the garden – one of the ghostly Smurfs was on their feet, waving their arms at the house.
As if they’d found something.
He wrenched open the kitchen door, marched through a small utility room, and out onto a big triangle of decking.
One of the forensic team hurried across the grass towards him, holding up a hand.
‘Found a couple of great footprints. Which is lucky – someone must’ve watered the garden not long before it happened, cos otherwise it’d be dry as a camel’s arse out here and the definition would be for shite.
’ They turned, pointing back to where they’d come from.
‘Our guy hopped the back fence, landed in the flowerbed. Should get a really sharp cast from the prints – you find us the shoes, we’ll prove it was him. ’
Yes!
About time something went their way . . .