Chapter 45
Granville Place was a quiet residential street, not far from Broomhill Road, with big grey-granite detached bungalows on one side and big pink-granite semis on the other.
Lots of attic conversions and neat little front gardens encased in ankle-high walls, well-trimmed hedges and flowering borders.
Where nearly every car was a newish hatchback.
Tufty pulled up outside one of the grey houses, featuring a blue door, a handful of rose bushes, and a water feature. ‘It’s not my fault we had to stop for petrol, Sarge.’
Logan climbed out into the sticky morning. ‘You could’ve picked a car that wasn’t running empty!’
‘No I couldn’t.’ Plipping the locks and following Logan up the path to the front door.
‘Everyone plays “How Low Can The Petrol Gauge Go?” these days. You lose ten points if you have to fill it up again. I’m on minus sixty.
’ He scuttled ahead and rang the bell. A wee frown puckered his empty forehead.
‘I sometime worry that we work with a bunch of Trouser Grinches.’
And speaking of idiots . . .
Logan pulled out his phone and texted Rennie:
Where’s my update on that ICSO?
SEND.
A deadbolt clunked, then the door swung wide, revealing a young woman in Mr Men pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt emblazoned with ‘THE MIGHTY MR RHODODENDRON’.
Long nose, glasses, and huge amount of dark frizzy hair.
A bit like Elizabeth’s English teacher, only a lot more suspicious of strangers.
She looked them up and down, then pulled her chin in. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Good morning, Miss.’ Logan checked the list. ‘Is Marshall Carter in?’
That produced a grimace. ‘She is. And before you say anything – I know, but it’s too late to change it now.’
Marshall Carter bustled about with mugs and teabags as the kettle rumbled to a boil.
‘. . . and I tried going by “Marsha” for a while, but it just ended up as “Marshy”, then “Swampy”, then “Swamp Thing”. Then I had to move schools because of fighting, and it was easier to go back to “Marshall” again.’
The kitchen wasn’t bad, with lots of wood and shiny appliances, and a view out over the well-tended back garden.
She peeked into a biscuit tin. Went, ‘Poop.’ Then plonked it back down beside a wee pile of post, today’s paper, and a couple of flyers for ‘RUMPLINGTON brOTHERS’ CIRCUS OF DELIGHTS!’ – complete with photos of strangely un-miserable clowns, acrobats, and a funfair.
Logan leaned back against the worktop. ‘I take it you’ve heard we’re looking for Charles MacGarioch.’
She poured boiling water into all four mugs. ‘Word is he torched that migrant hostel.’
Tufty raised his eyebrows.
‘Really?’ Logan kept his voice nice and neutral. ‘Who told you that?’
‘The first rule of Orphan Club is: you do not clype on other members of Orphan Club.’
‘And you’d be . . . OK with him burning the hotel down, with people inside? If that’s what he’s done.’
‘Course not.’ Mashing the teabags with a spoon, working her way down the line.
‘But . . .?’
She dumped the first bag in the sink, then fished out a second. ‘It’s weird. To start with I hated being called an “orphan”. It’s such a heavy word to tie around a child’s neck. “You’re an Orphan now, Marshall, and you have to go live with Pappa Carter.”’
She put on a child’s sing-song voice. ‘“Mar-shall’s an orphan, Mar-shall’s an orphan.”; “Where’s your parents, orphan girl? Oh, that’s right, you haven’t got any!”’
A splosh of milk in everyone’s tea. ‘Sometimes you have to reclaim a word, wear it with pride so the bastards can’t use it to hurt you.’
She handed a mug to Logan. ‘You’ve been to see Keira, right?
Charlie never stayed at her house overnight, because his nan would freak if he was out of her sight for that long.
Obviously the world’s full of corrupting influences for her nice little white boy.
’ A sad little laugh. ‘She’ll be throwing a total wobbly now he’s missing. ’
‘So . . . you think his grandmother radicalised him? He burned the hotel to please her?’
‘Charlie’s been shagging the darkest one of his friends to spite the old cow.
’ She passed a mug to Tufty. ‘Sorry, that was unfair. There was probably a bit of spite involved, but Charlie really does love Keira. The only reason he doesn’t have her name tattooed across his chest is his nan would find out.
’ Marshall rolled her eyes. ‘And “Oh, the stress would kill her!” Good sodding riddance.’
Marshall picked Mug Number Three off the worktop. ‘’Scuse me. Need to take this up to Grandad.’ Then off she went, shutting the door behind her.
Tufty had a slurp. ‘Sarge: you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘I severely doubt it.’ Frowning out at the garden. ‘Every single one of Charles MacGarioch’s friends swears he wasn’t racist. Or xenophobic. Or a violent prick. So why the arson attack on a migrant hotel?’
The wee loon put on his old-man-doctor voice again. ‘“In times like these, my old friend and colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes, would go back to the very beginning, because it’s a very good place to start.”’
‘If you burst into song, I’m going to wallop you one.’
There had to be some sort of reason for all this horror and misery. People didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to torch a hotel full of people.
A lovely big ginger cat padded its way across the grass, tail a feather-duster plume against the dark foliage.
A blackbird hurled abuse at it from the branches of a plum tree.
A quartet of bluetits swarmed around a dangly thing of peanuts . . .
Maybe the wee loon had a point?
‘OK, let’s go back to the very beginning: how did we land on Charles MacGarioch as our suspect? Easy: we got an anonymous tip-off on the Crimestoppers hotline.’ Logan took a sip of tea. Bit peely-wally, but not bad. ‘Can you bring the call up? Play it?’
‘Erm . . .’ Tufty fiddled with his phone. ‘Might take a while . . .’
‘So, the informant tells us about some forensic evidence planked in Tillydrone. We go look, and lo-and-behold, there’s Charles MacGarioch’s fingerprints all over a five-litre petrol can.
Tests show that bits of foliage from a hedge next to the hotel got trapped when the lid was screwed back on.
’ Logan plucked the newspaper from the pile of post by the poopy biscuit tin – that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner.
‘We get a warrant – go in locked-and-loaded – and the next thing you know, we’re pulling an ice-cream van out of the river and Charles MacGarioch’s disappeared. ’
He unfolded the paper: ‘NEWSPAPER OWNER ABDUCTED BY SICK WEIRDO’ above a photo of Natasha Agapova, with the subheading ‘POLICE FUMBLE INVESTIGATION AS WORLD PRESS LOOKS ON’.
Bloody Colin Bloody Miller.
‘Oh for . . .’ Logan thumped the front page. ‘How can we be fumbling it? We only found out last night! Bunch of bastards.’
‘Bingoroonie.’ Tufty pressed something, then held his phone out.
A distorted electronic voice crackled from the wee speaker: ‘I GOT SOME INFORMATION FOR YOU ABOUT THE FIRE AT THAT HOTEL, WITH THEM MIGRANTS. IT WAS CHARLES MACGARIOCH WHAT DID IT. HE BURNED THEM OUT GOOD. . . . AND I GOT EVIDENCE. LOOK IN THE BIG SHARED BINS AT TILLYDRONE COURT. . . . HE’S A DIRTY WEE RACIST BASTARD, WHO HATES IMMIGRANTS AND FOREIGNERS, AND HE DESERVES EVERYTHING HE’S GOT COMING. ’
Tufty lowered his phone. ‘That’s the lot.’
The door banged open and Marshall stomped in, finger up, mouth open, looking as if she was ready to give them a shouting at.
But instead of having a go, she stopped in the middle of the kitchen, frowning. Turning on the spot. Looking for something. Or someone . . .
‘Oh . . . Thought I heard Spence.’ She shook her head, then helped herself to the last mug of tea. ‘Muscle-headed idiot still owes me fifteen quid for his circus tickets.’ She froze, frowning back at Logan. ‘What?’
He put the paper down. ‘You thought you heard “Spence”? Spencer Findlater?’
‘He’s got this stupid app on his phone that does voices.
You record a message and play it back as .
. . I don’t know: Hannibal Lecter, or the Joker, or .
. . whatsit – killer robot thing from that Netflix show with all the explosions.
’ She pulled a face. ‘That one got old really quick.’ Poking the worktop with an angry finger.
‘Well, he’d better show with my money or I’ll jam that hilarious phone of his right up his wankhole.
Bastard swore he’d come round yesterday, and did he? Did he bollocks.’
Sod.
Yesterday.
And Marshall’s house was, what, a ten-minute walk from the Balmain House Hotel, where Spencer Findlater had done a runner? Maybe fifteen, tops. He’d been coming here.
Tufty opened his mouth, but Logan cut across him, before he could say anything stupid.
‘I’ll bet. Boys with their toys, eh?’ Taking a swig of tea, nice and casual. ‘So: you’re all going to the circus? I was thinking of taking the family. We’re probably too late to get tickets, though. As it’s the last night.’
She shrugged one shoulder. ‘Probably depends which performance you want to see. I booked ours weeks ago for the eight o’clock.
Couple of pints in the Queen Vic first, wander up to Westburn Park, catch the show, then hit the funfair.
’ A smile spread across her face. ‘Leave a trail of hotdog-and-candy-floss vomit all the way home.’
Oh, to be young and foolish.
She toasted them with her mug. ‘If Spence doesn’t turn up with my cash soon, I’ll scalp you his ticket if you like?’
Ah . . .
‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news about that.’ Logan put his tea on the counter. ‘You might want to sit down . . .’
‘. . . and flipping bazinga!’ Tufty bounced about in the driver’s seat, as if dancing to some punk-rock tune only he could hear.
‘We does has cracked the case wide open, like an alien chestburster and John Hurt’s chest. Only we is definitely the xenomorph in this scenario and not John Hurt, cos his character did wind up dead, whereas we has wound up victorious investigators! ’
Twit.
Carden Place slid by the pool car’s windows, its granite buildings sparkling in the burning sun as Logan poked out a text to Chief Superintendent Pine:
We think it was Spencer Findlater who put in the anonymous tip-off about Charles MacGarioch.
If Forensic IT can crack his phone, they might find a recording.
His finger hovered over the ‘Send’ icon.
Yes, but what would getting Forensic IT involved actually achieve? And how long would it take them, given their caseload? Never mind the operational costs – did it make any difference if they could prove the guy in intensive care ratted out his mate?
Assuming they ever got their hands on Charles MacGarioch, they could just play him the recording and let him jump to his own conclusions.
Logan deleted that last sentence and replaced it with:
It’s possible they were in on it together.
Can you pressure Forensics for an answer on the accelerants?
Thanks.
Because surely the head of A Division would have more luck shouting ‘FROG!’ at them than he had.
Worth a go, anyway:
SEND.
Tufty stopped bum-dancing and had a frown instead. ‘Do you think Marshall’s going to be OK? She took it pretty hard.’
‘At least she’s got her grandad. And her friends.’
Speaking of which . . .
He brought up Randolph Hay’s last text and fired-off a reply:
Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I wanted you to know that Spencer Findlater has been in a serious accident.
He’s in ARI: Ward 212
Knowing the Orphan Grapevine, every one of Spencer’s friends would know by lunchtime. With any luck, maybe one of them would even check in on his grandad?
Must remember and ask Pine about that care package . . .
Tufty sighed. ‘It’s a shame we can’t just be the Happy Police. Nothing but good news and handing out sweeties.’
Yeah. That’s how people ended up on the register.
Logan tapped his phone against his chin as the pale spiky mass of a deconsecrated church loomed at the side of the road.
In an ideal world, they’d just head up to ARI and interview Spencer Findlater. But that was a bit tricky, what with him being unconscious and everything.
Just have to find Charles MacGarioch the old-fashioned way.
Still no reply from Rennie about the stakeout, so Logan gave the lazy sod a call. Listening to it ring and ring and ring.
Carden Place turned into Skene Street and one side of the street swapped granite grey for leafy green.
‘You have reached the Triple-Five Messaging Service. Please leave a message after the tone.’
Bleeeep.
Logan did: ‘Where are you?’ Then hung up. ‘Rennie’s not answering his phone.’
Tufty nodded, as if that were only to be expected of a second-rate ex-sidekick. ‘Did I tell you Kate’s moving in tonight? Well, mostly moving in; she’s still got a bunch of stuff at her dad’s. But I does officially has a “lovenest”!’ Dancing in his seat again.
Logan tried Steel instead – it just rang and rang as well.
A grin from the wee loon. ‘Never lived with a woman before. Well, my mum, but that doesn’t count for the purposes of this narrative.’ Looking across the car. ‘When did you get your first lovenest Sarge? Was it—’
‘The hell do you want?’
Charming as ever.
‘Progress report would be nice.’
‘Lunchtime, you said: it’s not even twenty past nine!’
‘Have you guys not done anything at all?’
‘Course we sodding have, but it’d go quicker without you crawling up my bumhole every five minutes.’
They nipped straight through the lights by Aberdeen Grammar School, just as they changed to amber.
‘Rennie’s not answering his phone.’
‘Then go make his life miserable instead of mine! Gaaaah!’ And with that, she hung up. Because Steel had never really got the hang of being demoted, as if the world should just pretend she still outranked him.
‘You know,’ Logan popped his phone on the dashboard, ‘I’m beginning to regret bumping her up to acting DI again.’
Tufty took them straight across the junction with Rosemount Viaduct, past the Noose & Monkey, and on down the hill – because he clearly wasn’t wild and rebellious enough to drive down Schoolhill, violating its pedestrian-and-cycle zone.
‘If you’re looking for someone to promote, I’m in the market, Sarge.
Now that I’ve got a lovenest to support. ’
‘Detective Inspector Stewart Quirrel . . .’ He pantomimed out a massive shudder. ‘That’s a bilious sack of cheese-fuelled nightmares, waiting to happen.’
‘But it would make a great six-part drama for BBC Two. I could play myself, on account of already being an international-film-star-celebrity-type person!’
Do not encourage him.
Logan changed the subject: ‘When we get back to the ranch, I want you to come up with a plan that’ll get me out of this stupid MAPPA meeting, OK? Some sort of breakthrough, like yesterday.’ Hang on . . . ‘Only no more dead bodies! We’ve got enough crap to wade through as it is.’