Chapter 46
Forty-five minutes in and still no sign of rescue from Tufty.
Instead, Logan was stuck in the same boring Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements meeting, with the same boring talking points from the same boring people, the same assortment of disappointing biscuits, and the same burnt-plastic-tasting-mouldering-away-in-a-thermos coffee.
Wasn’t easy – pretending to pay attention when the air was treacle-thick, after a scant two-hours’ sleep in the passenger seat of a manky Vauxhall.
Oliver from Waste and Recycling pointed his clicker at the pull-down projection screen and yet another dull graph loomed across the wall. ‘So, we can see that the projected refuse from the event is likely to overspill all bin capacity in the designated area . . .’
Maybe no one would notice if Logan just shut his eyes for a minute or three. Not as if there was anything worth listening to anyway.
Jessica from the Roads Department swirled the little red dot of her laser pointer across a map of central Aberdeen. ‘. . . and unless we limit the scope of the march, we’re looking at road closures on Holburn Street, Alford Place, Rose Street, Chapel Street, Bon-Accord Terrace—’
‘All right, Jessica,’ Keith from the Council waved a hand in her direction. ‘I think we can all read the slide.’
Her face pinched. ‘Excuse me, Keith, but I don’t remember interrupting your presentation with passive-aggressive attacks. I am merely trying to illustrate the scale of the challenge presented by the proposed route.’
To be honest, even another dead body would be welcome at this point . . .
The air in Conference Room One was now so stale you couldn’t even sell it as a roadside-service-station sandwich.
Logan propped his head up with one hand, freeing the other to write the same five words in his notepad, over and over again: ‘KILL THEM. KILL THEM ALL!’
Abby from the Ambulance Service scrubbed her hands across her face, making her silver bob quiver.
Even the three-pipped epaulettes on her dark-green, short-sleeved shirt were beginning to wilt as she had another go: ‘Look, I’m sorry if this is inconveniencing everyone, but there’s limited capacity and we’re already looking at a restricted service due to illness.
Add in the fact that we’re running out of hospital beds, and this whole thing is a major incident waiting to happen! ’
Keith gave her the benefit of a patronising smile. ‘I think what Abby is trying to say is that while there are challenges to overcome, Aberdeen can meet them – with sufficient planning and some smart resource management!’
She curled her hands into claws and bared her teeth at the ceiling tiles. ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all! I’m saying this march is the worst possible thing, happening at the worst possible time!’
Logan’s pen went to work again: ‘KILL THEM. KILL THEM ALL!’
Two and a half hours after it started, everyone filed out of the meeting room. Bustling off to make someone else’s life miserable for a change.
Logan ripped the incriminating pages from his notebook, crumpled them up and lobbed them overhand at the bin.
Ten points.
Which was the first good thing that’d happened since arriving back at the station.
He stepped into the corridor, and there was Captain Useless, waiting for him with a clipboard.
Logan gave Tufty a glare. ‘Where were you, when I needed rescuing in there?’
‘First: Sergeant Rennie’s been sent home with the Snottery Ague.’
Of course he had.
‘So, who’s running the surveillance op?’
‘Sergeant Moore. He says,’ reading from the clipboard, ‘“Still no sign of MacGarioch. Now bored wankless and regretting decision to become a policeman.”’ A shrug.
‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Back to the clipboard. ‘Second: you’ve got a review at one for Operation Hedgehog, two o’clock for Operation Red Dragon, half two for Operation Beholder, three fifteen is Operation Basilisk.
Then you’ve got a break till half four and it’s Operation Owlbear, four forty-five: Operation Firedrake, and Professional Standards at five.
We shall call that “Operation Necrophidius”, which, as we all know, means “Death Worm”.
And DI Marshall wants a word about Operation Disenchanter, soon as possible. ’
Logan stared at him. ‘What the utter, goat-buggering hell are you talking about?’
‘I named all the operations, Sarge, so we know which one we’re talking about.’
Unbelievable.
He shook his head, stalking off down the corridor. ‘Halfwits. Just . . . total . . .’
Tufty scampered after him. ‘Oh, and Operation Gelatinous Cube are waiting for you now.’ A little wistful sigh whined free. ‘They has got chips!’
They pushed through the door at the end, into reception.
Council workers bustled about, buying sandwiches from a man with a cart, or heading out for a sneaky lunchtime pint or three to get them through the day.
Logan scuffed to a halt. ‘Gelatinous what?’
‘Cube, Sarge. It’s a ten-foot block of acidic ooze that consumes any organic material it finds in the dungeon. Like—’
‘Just . . . What – is – it: the operation, you ffffff . . .’ Don’t say it.
Calm. Try not to scream at whatever the buggering fuck this was.
He scrunched his eyes closed and strangled it down.
‘Please, Tufty, do not screw with me right now. I’ve had nothing to eat, except a couple of manky meeting-room biscuits, since yesterday lunchtime; I’ve had two hours’ sleep; I’m running on caffeine and fumes;’ peeling one eye open to glare at the little twit, ‘and I will genuinely murder you!’
Tufty pulled his chin in. ‘Ah . . . OK: it’s Acting DI Steel’s team doing background on Natasha Agapova and Adrian Shearsmith.’
‘THEN JUST BLOODY SAY SO!’
The lunchtime buzz evaporated, and everyone turned to stare at the shouty police officer.
Deep breath. ‘Sorry.’ Logan massaged his temples. ‘Can we . . .’ pointing at the stairwell. ‘Please?’
Going pink from the nape of his neck to the tips of his ears, Tufty scurried over there, unlocked the security door and held it open. ‘Sarge.’
He stomped past into the stairwell. ‘Thank you.’
Halfway up the stairs, in strained silence, and here came Biohazard, clattering his way down towards them. Carnivorous underwear eating his rectum again. Leaving him a little out of breath. ‘Guv! Guv! Oh, thank shite for that. There’s a—’
‘Should you not be elbows-deep in a post mortem right now?’
‘Got called out of it. We have a . . . situation. Complication. Thing.’
Was there ever anything else?
Logan headed up the steps again. ‘Why me?’
Biohazard hurried after him. ‘You know you got them to run tests on a pish stain at that newspaper woman’s house, right?’
‘If someone wants to whinge about the Forensics budget, tell them to take it up with the Chief Super.’
‘No, Guv, it’s . . .’ He grabbed Logan’s sleeve. ‘They got DNA off it and there’s a hit in the database.’
‘Finally something goes right! Who was it?’ Turning to shout down the stairs. ‘Tufty: get a car, we’re off to arrest the bastard and save the day!’
‘That’s the complication:’ Biohazard cleared his throat, then looked off into the distance – not making eye contact. ‘DNA matches the guy we pulled out of the river yesterday. It’s Andrew Shaw.’
Logan barged into the tiny incident room and the stomach-growling aroma of hot chips and sharp vinegar. ‘How?’
Biohazard slunk in after him. ‘Well, I don’t know, do I! I got the message: I came to tell you. I’m just the messenger here, I’m not for shooting!’
Contrary to expectations, Steel’s team had actually done some work for a change: the whiteboard wall was covered in notes and lines and boxes, the flipchart even had a checklist of steps on it – most of which had been ticked off.
And now, they were all sitting about, munching through their chipfest.
Steel popped a chunk of fish in her gob, chewing with her mouth open. ‘Aye, aye, it’s the Chuckle Brothers. Come to spread a bit of lunchtime cheer?’
Tufty pulled a chair over to the whiteboard wall and climbed up onto it to write ‘OPERATION “FIND NATASHA AGAPOVA”’ at the top, above all the boxes and squiggles.
‘You:’ Logan stabbed a finger at Biohazard, ‘I need a list of last-known associates, right now.’
An embarrassed cough. ‘We’re still working on it, and—’
Logan clapped his hands, turning to face the lunch-munching room. ‘Everybody – change of plan. I need you to stop whatever you were doing and dig into Andrew Wallace Shaw instead.’
‘Urgh . . .’ Harmsworth made a depressed-frog face. ‘Didn’t I say this was going to bite us on the behind?’
Steel sooked her fingers clean. ‘And do you want to tell us why?’
‘Shaw was in Natasha Agapova’s house – he pissed in her daughter’s bedroom.’
‘Eh?’ Barrett blinked. ‘So, what, we’re saying he kidnapped her?’
Lund ripped the end off a mealie pudding. ‘Didn’t do a very good job of it, though, did he? Ended up dead in the river.’
‘Yeah, I know that, but I thought he was a rapey wee spud, not a kidnappy one.’
A grimace from Biohazard. ‘Oh, he was definitely rapey.’
‘Can we all please . . .’ Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, but the headache was already beginning to form. ‘That’s why we need a list of Shaw’s associates.’
The silence that followed was only interrupted by the sound of crunching and chewing. Lots of frowns doing the rounds. Hopefully as people thought about the implications.
Biohazard was the first to twig. ‘Hang on: you think Shaw had a rape buddy, right? But there’s no mention of him having a partner for any of the other attacks!
Not in the witness statements, anyway.’ He bit his bottom lip, wrinkles growing between his eyebrows.
‘But maybe, when Shaw breaks into Agapova’s house, he’s already decided he won’t just rape-and-run – he’s going to abduct her.
Take her somewhere to abuse, for as long as he likes.
And that’s why he needs a rape buddy this time. ’
Lund curled her lip. ‘Can we not use the words “Rape Buddy”? There’s nothing jolly-ha-ha about it.’
‘But something happens: Shaw and his . . .’ Biohazard cleared his throat as Lund scowled at him, ‘and his accomplice fall out. They fight, accomplice kills him, dumps his body, makes off with our victim.’
‘Ah . . .’ A raised eyebrow from Harmsworth. ‘Didn’t want to share the ransom.’ He bit into his mock chop, then paused, mouthful unchewed – making the words all muffled. ‘Hang on. In that case, why phone the answering machine and leave that “karma hurricane” threat?’
Steel crunched some more. ‘The boy’s got a point.’
A bit of mock-chop-chewing, then: ‘Theatrics? Or maybe it’s to throw us off the scent? We’re off looking for a lone-gunman-sort-of-revenge-killer when it’s really a pair of kidnappers?’
Logan pointed at Biohazard again. ‘Does the Chief Super know?’
‘Oh no.’ Backing away, hands up. ‘Just because I’m an acting DI, doesn’t mean I’ve got a death wish. And it’ll sound better coming from you, right, Guv?’
Steel grinned a greasy grin. ‘I’ll do it.’ Then dipped a lump of battered fish into a big sklodge of mayonnaise – munching away as a dollop fell onto her black T-shirt. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with her.’
Yeah, right.
‘No thank you, Monica Spewinsky. Things are bad enough, without you joining in.’
Come on: there had to be a logical way through this . . .
Logan paced in front of the whiteboard wall.
‘Maybe this kidnap plot didn’t just spring out of nowhere – maybe Natasha Agapova and Andrew Shaw’s paths crossed somehow?
’ That made sense, didn’t it? Logan grabbed Biohazard by the shoulder and marched him towards the door.
‘Shaw worked in a hairdresser; she has hair. Start there. And tell Forensics, Shaw’s car is now top priority – could be our abduction vehicle.
Strip it down to the bare metal if they have to, but find us something!
’ Pausing on the threshold to point at everyone else.
‘The rest of you: less eating, more digging!’