Chapter 44
The pool car headed northwest along the Parkway, past warehouses and car showrooms, joining the trucks and lorries heading to various industrial estates as rush hour in the Bridge of Don set in.
Grinding everything to a halt. Tufty behind the wheel, while Logan dozed in the passenger seat.
Drifting in and out as the wee loon wittered on:
‘. . . so I went down to the Forensic IT lab, and I said to them, I said: “You does has a being crap at this computering malarkey!” And they was all like, “No way, we is the bestest!” And I’m like, “Give me Charles MacGarioch’s pooter and I’ll crack it like a Tunnock’s Tea Cake!
”’ A pout. ‘And they said, “No.” So I said—’
The first bars of Beethoven’s ‘Ode To Joy’ burst out of Logan’s phone, cutting across Tufty’s riveting anecdote. Oh dear, what a shame.
And it would be rude not to answer it. ‘Hello?’
A tired voice grumbled into Logan’s ear: ‘Dr Drummond.’
‘Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number. This isn’t—’
‘No: I’m Dr Drummond. Critical Care Unit, Aberdeen Royal Infirmary? I’ve got a note here to call a “Logan Mackay” about Spencer Findlater?’
Tufty turned onto Lochside Road, swapping industrial-estate chic for a winding maze of mature trees, wee houses, and bungalows.
‘Has he got a visitor?’ Sitting up a bit straighter.
‘He’s actually survived the night, which is a surprise, given his injuries. People don’t appreciate the damage a car can do, even at thirty miles an hour. Two tons of metal exerts a force of—’
‘Is Spencer going to be OK?’
There was a pause, filled with medical seething. Because if there was one thing people like Dr Drummond hated it was being interrupted. Well, tough – that’s what he got for getting Logan’s name wrong.
Drummond cleared his throat. ‘The important thing is he’s unlikely to drop dead before teatime, so he’s not our problem any more. We’ve transferred him to the Orthopaedic Trauma Unit. Ward two-twelve, in the Pink Zone.’
At the end of the entrance road, a huge sign reared out of the bushes with ‘LOCHSIDE ROAD’ at the top, and ‘LEADING TO’ followed by a list of fourteen different streets, seven on each side.
Tufty took a right.
‘You’ve turfed him out?’ Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Is that not a bit—’
‘Do you have any idea what kind of bed shortages we’re dealing with here? If he’s stable, he’s someone else’s problem.’ A humphing noise. ‘And now that I’ve done my bit and called you, is it OK if I get back to all these half-dead folk? Thank you.’
‘Hold on! Hold on.’ Before the sarcastic bugger could hang up. ‘We left an advisory notice – in case Spencer gets a visitor? It’s important.’
A long sigh. ‘That what all these stupid posters are about?’
‘Can you make sure the new ward knows he’s—’
‘Don’t you think I’ve got more important things to do than run around after you? I’m trying to save lives here!’ And the line went dead.
Logan puffed out his cheeks. ‘I get that the NHS is a marvel, and we’re lucky to have it, and most of the people working there are brilliant, dedicated, selfless individuals, who do their best under incredibly difficult circumstances . . . but by Christ there’s some complete and utter arseholes.’
He scowled out the window as the pool car wound deeper into the maze.
Had to admit: it was kind of nice here. Green and leafy, arranged around a wee lochan. Like being in the countryside.
Still, there was no time to enjoy the view, not now that Dr Drummond had made life more difficult.
Logan thumbed out a text to Doreen:
Do me a favour and get on to whoever’s at ARI today.
Ward 212 need to call ASAP if Spencer Findlater gets any visitors.
Ward 202 has posters!
SEND.
Tufty took another right, into a nest of branching cul-de-sacs, ending up outside a bungalow with a garage conversion and a brown Volvo on the lock-block driveway.
Stifling a yawn, Logan climbed out.
A white picket fence bordered a flat rectangle of grass featuring an array of garden gnomes, dressed as Darth Vader and his stormtroopers, the alien from Predator fishing in a star-shaped pond, and a knee-high concrete AT-AT that doubled as a bird bath.
Not exactly what you’d call classy.
Tufty locked the pool car, then trotted up the drive and rang the bell. Instead of a good, wholesome ‘ding-dong’ it launched into the Cantina tune from Star Wars. Which was far too jaunty for this time in the morning.
As it tootled out, Tufty gazed at the lawn ornaments with a wistful sigh.
‘See, this is what you miss out on when you live in a flat.’ He gave Logan a wee sideways glance.
‘Sa-arge, I know I is only a lowly sidekick and all that, but . . . I thought we’re meant to be all about the big newspapery abduction today? ’
‘Try it again.’
Tufty poked the button and ‘Doot-da-doot-da-dooda-doo . . .’ parped out once more.
‘We are.’ Logan stretched his shoulders and back.
‘We’ve got Steel’s lot on background, we’ve got door-to-doors interviewing the neighbours, we’ve got search teams out, people reviewing ANPR and CCTV footage, Forensics going over the house with a magnifying glass, and support staff sticking it all into HOLMES.
So instead of getting in the way, we are multitasking.
Someone needs to interview the last of Charles MacGarioch’s little friends, and it might as well be us. ’
He pointed at the bell, and Tufty did the honours a third time.
‘Doot-da-doot-da-dooda-doo . . .’
‘Besides: Chief Superintendent Pine is in charge of Operation “Find Natasha Agapova”. I’ve still got everything else to run.’ Lucky sod that he was. Another point. ‘And again.’
‘Doot-da-doot-da-dooda-doo . . .’
Logan’s phone ding-buzzed.
DOREEN:
AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!!
Have I not got enough on my plate?
He poked out a reply while the Cantina theme launched into its fourth encore. Or was it fifth?
Good leadership is about delegation.
And I’m delegating to you.
You’re a DI now, remember?
So be a good leader.
(as long as it gets done)
Tufty was reaching for the bell again, when the door finally opened a crack and a bloodshot eye peered out at them.
A rough voice slithered after it, reeking of stale booze. ‘Frelling smeg. Have you got any idea what time it is?’ There was a cough, and a sniff, then a long, sticky moan as whoever it was twigged. ‘Oh . . . wank. It’s the cops.’
Either the Cunninghams were a proper bunch of slobs, or they’d thrown some sort of hedonistic rave last night.
The living room was littered with crumpled beer and lager cans, empty wine and alcopop bottles, and overflowing ashtrays.
Making everything smell like a pub carpet from the eighties.
In what was probably meant to be an ironically retro touch, the remains of a cheese-and-pineapple hedgehog wilted on a fat dinner plate.
The hollow bones of Pringle tubes crushed into the floor.
Along with what might have been Monster Munch.
Framed film posters adorned the walls – Close Encounters, Alien, Silent Running, Star Trek II and IV, The Empire Strikes Back, The Fifth Element . . . – and although there wasn’t a single ornament on display, a pair of crossed lightsabers glowed above the fireplace. One red, one blue.
A pair of patio doors were cracked open an inch, letting in the grinding snores of a large man sparked-out in the paddling pool. Lying flat on his back with his arms hanging over the inflatable sides, head dangling towards the house. Greying stubble wrapped around a slightly chubby face.
Going by the flush of angry red spreading across his round, pale, hairy belly and chest, he’d been snoozing out there in the sun for a while.
Tufty bumbled over to the doors, stood on his tiptoes, and peered into the garden. ‘Oooh . . . They does got a firepit that looks like the Deathstar!’
Of course they did.
Logan swept a scattering of popcorn and cigarette papers onto the floor, then whumped down on the couch, making the black leather squeak.
Which had the added bonus of giving him a clear line of sight into the kitchen, to make sure their host wasn’t doing a runner.
Alexis Cunningham must have partied hearty last night because she shuffled about like a broken banana today.
Limp hair hanging over her heavy dark eyebrows, pale washed-out face, dark circles under her eyes, and a large mole on her top lip.
Not really dressed for company in a grey ‘NOSTROMO MAINTENANCE CREW’ T-shirt, pink running shorts, bare legs, and fuzzy Yoda slippers.
She thunked the fridge door shut, cracked the ringpull on a fresh tin of Rampant Gorilla – ‘CAFFEINATE TO DOMINATE!’ – and took a big long scoof. Before belching, sagging, and slouching back through into the living room.
Alexis blinked her way over to the lightsabers and flicked a hidden switch, killing the glow. Then turned to survey the devastation. ‘Urgh . . . Shazbot.’ Another scoof. ‘You here about Charlie?’
Logan checked to make sure Tufty was writing this down. ‘Let me guess: Orphan Grapevine?’
‘Our drums have been pounding in the darkness for days . . .’ She banged a palm against the patio doors. ‘GRAHAM, YOU DAFT BUGGER: YOU’LL FRY! COME IN!’ More Rampant Gorilla. ‘Swear to God, that man can not drink tequila.’
‘Quite the party last night.’
She pulled her top lip back, exposing little pointy teeth. ‘Well, aren’t we an observant little Samuel Vimes.’
Nope.
No idea what that was supposed to mean.
Tufty looked up from his notepad. ‘He’s the big detective character in Terry Pratchett’s Diskworld novels, Sarge.’
Alexis squinted her bloodshot eyes at the wee loon. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’
‘Any chance we can circle back to Charles MacGarioch?’ Logan pointed at the scattered party debris. ‘Was he here, last night?’