Chapter 48
The conference room was packed. They’d even had to draft in extra chairs from the council offices. And now the noise was borderline deafening, as the assembled press fidgeted in their seats, shouting to each other, checking their equipment, yelling down the phone because it was so sodding loud.
Oh yes: a fatal arson attack on a migrant hotel, and a murdered body in the river, were sort of newsworthy enough, in their way, but a missing Media Tycoon was a STORY!
Logan scanned the room again.
No sign of the Chief Super, but PC Sweeny had taken shelter behind the cluster of flipcharts in the corner, crunching Rennies like they were on special offer, a stack of paper clutched to his chest, and a worried look on his face.
Logan slipped around the edge of the seating area and joined him. ‘Where’s the Boss?’
‘She’ll be here.’ A look of horror slithered across his face. ‘Why? Did someone say she wouldn’t be? Has something happened?’ Juggling his paperwork and dragging out his phone. ‘God’s sake, no one ever tells me anything . . .’
‘Far as I know, the briefing’s still on. I’m just looking for her.’
Sweeny scowled. ‘Don’t do that.’ He poked at his screen.
‘The one-o’clock feeding frenzy is going to be insane.
We’ve got CNN and Fox News and Al Jazeera and .
. . some stations from France, Germany, and Italy I can’t pronounce.
Then there’s the Australian broadcasters and New Zealand and Mexico and Canada and I just want to go back to CID and be a proper policeman again . . .’
The door opened and in marched Chief Superintendent Pine.
Some of the less experienced newshounds perked up the moment she appeared – microphones, cameras, and notebooks at the ready – while the more practised hands kept right on doing what they were doing, safe in the knowledge that sod-all would happen till the briefing officially started.
Pine marched across the room to Sweeny’s flipchart fortress, and raised an eyebrow at Logan. ‘Don’t remember shouting “frog”.’
Sweeny checked his watch. ‘We’re going to be late.’
‘Been trying to get hold of you, Boss. Didn’t reply to any of my texts.’
‘Texts?’ A frown. ‘What texts? Are you sure you . . .’ She produced her phone, flipped the cover open, then sagged. ‘Bloody battery’s flat.’
So, it wasn’t just him.
‘That’s what I get for never being off the damn thing today.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Thought I told you to dress the part.’
Eh?
Full black uniform, peaked cap under the oxter, shiny black shoes. ‘But—’
‘You were trying to get hold of me?’
Sweeny made wafting gestures towards the podium, with its covered table and garland of microphones. ‘I’m sure whatever DCI McRae has to say, it can wait till after the briefing. Can’t keep the world press waiting!’
‘Boss: we have a complication.’
‘Oh God . . .’ Pine’s head fell back, and she winced at the ceiling. ‘I knew it was going to be a crap day the moment I got up . . .’
For a building that was so Gothic and over-the-top on the outside, Marischal College’s quad was strangely antiseptic and austere. There wasn’t a single bush or tree or bit of green in evidence. Just grey granite walls and big flat paving slabs.
The only things breaking the monochrome monotony were a line of uncomfortable-looking benches, and one of those stupid paint-a-fibreglass-statue-of-some-random-animal-or-cartoon-character-in-whacky-colours-to-express-your-civic-pride things.
A large multicoloured haggis in this case, complete with tammy, bagpipe legs, and massive grin.
Somehow, it just made the bare space seem even more grim.
Logan and Chief Superintendent Pine stood in the sunlight, but Sweeny lurked in the nearest shadow. Like an indigestion-prone Gollum.
‘Christ.’ Pine covered her face with her hands. ‘That went well . . .’
‘Hardly your fault, Boss. It’s one of their own who’s missing – they were always going to turn this into a three-ring-circus of shite.’
‘Could’ve done without Adrian Shearsmith recording a sodding video address “for immediate release”.’
Yeah . . .
That definitely hadn’t helped.
Buried deep in his trouser pocket, Logan’s phone ding-buzzed at him. But he left it where it was, because Chief Superintendents were even worse than teachers when it came to things like that.
Sweeny tapped his watch. ‘Hate to rush you, Boss, but you’ve got a one-on-one with Channel Seven News in fifteen minutes. All the way from Australia.’
It was a bit underhand, but Logan floated the idea anyway: ‘Don’t suppose we can leak that Shearsmith’s putting his ex-wife’s life at risk with all this publicity?’
‘No!’ Sweeny reached for the antacids again. ‘Can you imagine what would happen if they found out we’d briefed against the victim’s family? Absolutely not.’
Pine shrugged. ‘Though we could have a private word with him? Try to make him see sense. All on the same side; pulling together as a team. Appeal to his conscience.’
‘He’s a media mogul. They don’t have one.’ Sweeny checked his watch again. ‘Fourteen minutes.’
‘I would really appreciate some sort of breakthrough on this one, Logan. A morsel of chum to throw to the sharks?’
Suppose this was her officially shouting ‘frog’.
OK.
Logan dug out his notebook. ‘We need door-to-doors on the road where Shaw’s car was found – canvass the whole area. Maybe he was thick enough to park near where they’re hiding Agapova?’
‘Could be worth a try.’ Though she didn’t sound convinced. ‘But why—’
‘SARGE!’
Everyone turned, and there was Tufty scampering across the quad like an excited squirrel, while Steel sashayed along behind him – playing it cool, pulling on a pair of massive sunglasses that looked suspiciously like the ones Rennie had ‘lost’.
‘Sarge, Sarge, Sarge, Sarge, Sarge!’ The wee loon skidded to a halt, ogled at Pine for a second, then tugged his forelock. ‘Oh, and Boss, of course.’
Steel caught up with him, waggling her eyebrows at the Chief Super. ‘Hey, Sexy.’
Pine stiffened. ‘Are you going to be like this till you retire?’
‘Probably worse, if anything.’ Big smile. ‘But I’m sweetly pretty and come bearing good news, so I’m sure you’ll indulge me.’ Wink. She turned to Logan. ‘Remember that bollocks you were on about: “Shaw worked in a hairdresser, Agapova has hair”? Well—’
‘We did find an connection!’ Tufty bounced on the spot. ‘She was one of his clients! Got a trim and her roots done, last week.’
Steel thumped him one for spoiling her big surprise. ‘We’re on our way to check the place out, if anyone’s interested?’
‘Go.’ Pine gave Logan the nod. ‘See who else is on Shaw’s books. And if anyone knows about an accomplice.’
Which sounded like a massive waste of time, but a wise frog did what he was told. ‘Boss.’
Steel sidled closer. ‘Why don’t you come, Roslyn? Be a bit crowded in the car, but you could sit on my lap? Wink, wink.’ Dropping her voice to a saucy whisper. ‘If you like, I can get the wee loon to drive over all the potholes. Bump-bump, jiggle-jiggle . . .?’
‘You do know I can have you suspended?’
‘Aye: on full pay.’ Adopting a damsel-in-distress pose: one arm out and down, the back of her other hand to her forehead. ‘Lawd have mercy – how ever will ah cope?’
Sweeny showed everyone his watch. ‘Twelve minutes. Look, it really would help to meet the reporter and crew first. Establish a rapport before they start filming? Please?’
Right: it was time for someone to take charge.
Logan poked a finger at Steel. ‘You: put your wrinkly libido back in its box.’ Then Tufty.
‘You: get a car.’ Then Sweeny. ‘You: you’re a police officer!
Stop whining and grow a truncheon.’ Then Pine.
‘And you . . .’ He lowered his pointing finger.
Cleared his throat. ‘We’ll get right on that. Boss.’
Biohazard’s voice whined out of Logan’s phone, as the pool car drifted up Union Street. ‘Oh, in the name of pish! How? I’ve got three more work-shy bastards signed off on the sick since yesterday – barely coping as it is . . .’
To be honest, Aberdeen’s main street was a bit depressing these days, dressed in all its boarded-up-and-To-Let-/-May-Sell finery, where charity shops and mobile phone places rubbed shoulders with vape stores, bookies, and the occasional chain outlet.
A few local businesses had bucked the trend, but it was nothing like it used to be.
Tufty – doing the driving – was probably too young and teuchtery to remember it in its glory days, and Steel – parked in the back, like Lady Muck – was too demob-happy to care.
‘Come on, Guv: where am I supposed to find extra bodies for door-to-doors?’
‘That’s why they pay you the big bucks, Acting Detective Inspector Marshall. And you’d better PNC check everyone living in a two-street radius as well. Never know your luck . . .?’
The Doric-columned pomp of the Music Hall went by on the right, draped with banners for the Aberdeen International Book Festival.
On the other side of the road, a busker wanged away on her guitar outside Burger King, singing about how meat is murder and the monarchy are all a bunch of chinless parasites anyway.
‘Still there?’
Biohazard groaned. ‘Being a DI sucks balls.’ He hissed out a long breath, then: ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Good lad.’ Logan hung up.
Probably wouldn’t do any good, but at least it would look as if they were doing something. And with some investigations that was half the battle – making sure no one noticed you were just keeping busy until a lucky break popped up.
And who knew, maybe Andrew Shaw really had been thick enough to park his Peugeot outside wherever it was they were keeping Natasha Agapova?
This whole thing could be solved by teatime.
‘Sa-arge?’ Tufty waved across the car at him. ‘Do you think I should have a housewarming, Sarge? Well, another one. I mean I did has one when I moved into the flat, but—’
‘Ha!’ Steel reached through from the back and thumped him one. ‘A forty-eight-hour Dungeons and Dragons marathon isn’t a party. A party has booze, nipples, nibbles, and car keys in a bowl.’