Chapter 48 #2
Logan scowled at her in the rear-view. ‘Do you have to?’
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘I am not. I just don’t see why you’ve got to get randier and lechier with every passing day.’
Ding-buzz.
COLIN MILLER:
Your boss had a well crappy press conference.
Looked like someone jammed a half-defrosted jobbie up her arse.
Terrible liar too.
Steel stroked her chin. ‘It’s impending retirement that does it. Thirty years I’ve given this job. Thirty sodding years. I’ve got a lot of repressed angst to get rid of.’
Straight across at the lights, where Waterstones and Ottakar’s used to be – replaced by a New-York-style eatery and a Pret A Manger respectively. Because that was ‘progress’.
Ding-buzz.
COLIN MILLER:
Something’s happened, hasn’t it?
Given I tipped you numpties off about this whole thing – think you owe me an update on any developments!
Cheeky bastard. As if he and his stupid newspaper hadn’t made everything worse.
‘Aye, wait, did I say “repressed angst”? I meant “mischief”.’ Steel flashed an evil grin. ‘Soon as I’m retired, who am I going to wind up: Susan? She doesn’t deserve that.’
‘But we do?’
‘Trust me, Laz: you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.’
‘Like a peptic ulcer.’
The car drove past more boarded-up units and estate-agents’ signs.
Then a bit of a highlight with Gilcomston Church – all pointy and fancy, shining in the afternoon sun.
A couple of homeless gentlemen sat on the steps outside: Oliver Sharples, scoofing tins of Special Brew; while his associate, Eddy Dunn polished off a two-litre bottle of Strongbow, in contravention of Aberdeen City Council Bylaws 2009.
They toasted the pool car as it pottered along.
Logan thumbed out a reply to Colin’s text:
You didn’t ‘tip us off’ you cried for help. NOT the same thing.
And after your ‘fumbling the investigation’ story you get sod all!
That would teach him.
The wee loon slowed for the junction ahead, smiling away to himself.
‘You’d’ve been very proud, of Old Romantic Tufty, Sarge.
Have I telled you the tale of how I did go down on one knee and gived Kate a wee jewellery box with her very own flat key in it?
’ Wriggling in his seat. ‘It was an special key off the interwebs, what you can has cut at a Timpsons or the like, with a happy Totoro on it!’
Nope.
Logan looked over his shoulder. ‘Do you have any clue what he’s on about?’
‘To be honest, you kinda tune it out after a while. It’s sort of soothing in a way. Like white noise. Or geeky whale song.’
They stopped at the lights, alongside a bus full of schoolkids, who all looked as if someone had just told them Peppa Pig was off down the abattoir to be made into sausages.
Ding-buzz.
COLIN MILLER:
OK, how’s this: the Aberdeen Examiner’s official position is 100% BASH THE COPS.
If you’re OK with that – don’t speak to me.
Great.
The lights changed and Tufty hooked a right, abandoning Union Street for the delights of Chapel Street, where takeaways faced off against boutique stores. ‘Ooh, nearly forgot, Kate wants to know: should we bring anything for the barbecue on Sunday?’
‘Nooooooo . . .’ Steel wrapped her arms around her head. ‘Tell me you didn’t invite him!’
‘Tara insisted.’
‘Ooh, ooh: how about mac-’n’-cheese, Sarge? Or pasta salad? Or a really big bag of oven chips? Everyone likes chips.’ He pulled into a parking space, across the road from a hairdresser’s with pink-and-purple signage: ‘brENDA’S HAIR one advertising that circus in Westburn Park; and one for a ‘CHARITY HEN NIGHT!!!’, whatever that was, at the Hilton DoubleTree.
Logan climbed out into the scalding sunlight. ‘No one likes pasta salad, it’s like “yuck” mixed with “blah” in a bin-bag full of “meh . . .”’ And that was being polite.
A pair of seagulls screeched at each other from the top of adjoining communal bins, though it was hard to tell which one was winning: Landfill or Mixed-Recycling.
Tufty waited for Steel to slouch out from the back, then locked the car. ‘OK, but everyone loves macaroni-cheese, right?’
‘Long as you don’t put tomatoes in it.’
Steel fiddled with her uniform. ‘We have fried onions and bacon bits in ours.’ Digging at the crotch of her black Police Scotland trousers. ‘But then we’re very sophisticated.’
Tufty scampered across the road and opened the hairdresser’s door for them, with a little bow. Which looked bloody ridiculous in the full stabproof-and-high-vis kit.
Inside, Brenda’s Hair & Beauty Palace was . . . pink. With a pink-and-black tiled floor, pink walls, black work surfaces, and a row of circular mirrors reflecting the pink-and-chrome barber’s chairs. Even the sinks were pink. And the whole place had a disturbingly gynaecological air.
The usual collection of newspapers and magazines were piled up on a coffee table for the patrons’ reading pleasure, while a wall-mounted telly displayed afternoon TV with the sound turned off, so you could really enjoy the piped Bananarama jingling out of the salon’s speakers.
A grid of headshots graced the wall above the till – each one grinning or smouldering for the camera. Andrew Shaw was middle-left, doing his best Blue Steel with that big plastic face of his.
Down here, on the salon floor, a gangly young man was sweeping up a fuzzy drift of brown-and-grey hair, in skin-tight black jeans and a floaty pink shirt. His curly blue locks held back in a bouffant ponytail.
‘Welcome to chez moi!’ A plump middle-aged woman – Brenda, presumably – swept out from behind the desk, all smiles and open arms: pedal-pushers, wedge heels, a pink leopard-print blouse, and immaculate hair.
She gave all three of them a good look, then wafted a hand in Logan and Tufty’s direction.
‘Well, I’m not sure even I can do anything about you two,’ pouncing on Steel to froof her fingers through the rampant chaos of sticky-out grey hair. ‘But this, I can work with!’
Steel’s eyes went wide, flicking from Logan to Brenda and back again. ‘Help . . .?’
No chance.
She was on her own this time.