Chapter 49
Logan nodded at the wall of photos, above the till. ‘Andrew Shaw works here.’
‘Andy?’ Brenda let go of Steel’s mane and grabbed her shoulders instead.
Steering her towards a seat. ‘Well, sort of. He hires a chair. Not been in today, though. Or yesterday, come to that. But it’s his money he’s wasting, right?
’ She plonked Steel down and froofed her hair some more.
‘Have you ever thought of a bit of colour? I mean, you’re rocking the grey, but auburn would be nice with your complexion. Ooooooh: or a nice rich chestnut!’
Logan tried again. ‘Do you have a list of his clients?’
‘Hold on.’ Looking over her shoulder. ‘EMMA? EMMA SWEETIE, CAN YOU HELP THESE GENTLEMEN WHILE I GLAM UP THIS NICE LADY?’
A young woman emerged from a door at the back of the shop, with blonde hair down to the middle of her back and a wad of chewing gum on the go. All dressed up in pink and black.
Brenda clapped both hands down on Steel’s shoulders. ‘Now: how do you feel about a curly pixie with shaved sides?’
‘Ermm . . .’ Looking a bit like a hedgehog caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
Emma slouched up to Logan and Tufty. Gave their haircuts a quick once-over, then rolled her eyes. ‘Yup?’ Sounding as bored as she looked.
‘Hi.’ Logan tried a friendly smile. ‘We need to see your appointments book, going back about eight wee—’
‘Six months would be great.’ Tufty tilted his head on one side. ‘Your hair is amazing, by the way. It’s like molten gold!’
‘Oh.’ And she locked right in, giving the wee loon a little hair flip and a giggle. ‘Why thank you. You’re so sweet.’ Emma slipped her arm into Tufty’s. ‘You come with me, and we’ll get you logged on to the computer.’
Logan did a slow three-sixty. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got CCTV, do you?’
She pointed with her free hand, lowering her voice to a whisper, even though there was no one else here. ‘Cameras are fake.’ Then squeezed Tufty’s arm. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ And led him away, back through the door she’d emerged from.
Didn’t sodding ask Logan if he wanted a coffee though, did she. Just snuck off with the wee loon.
Because women were essentially weird.
Meaning Logan had been abandoned, all alone, in the middle of the salon.
Pfff . . .
He wandered over to the coffee table and had a squint at the newspapers.
The Aberdeen Examiner blared out its completely unfair ‘POLICE FUMBLE INVESTIGATION AS WORLD PRESS LOOKS ON’ nonsense, but because they’d scooped everyone on the Natasha Agapova story, none of the other publications were covering it.
Yet. Instead, most of the tabloids hawked some variant of ‘SOAP STAR SIGOURNEY’S COCAINE SHAME’, except for the Scottish Daily Post which screamed ‘ILLEGAL MIGRANTS ROBBING OAP GRAVES’.
Because when racists were lobbing Molotov cocktails, why not give them tokens for free petrol?
Bunch of bastards.
Logan abandoned the papers and went for a frown out through the shop windows at Chapel Street’s various comings and goings instead. Which wasn’t exactly thrilling.
Worse yet, the shop looked straight into the dining room of the hotel opposite, where a bunch of people were tucking into lunch.
His stomach snarled, like a wee gurgly wolf.
Well, it wasn’t as if he was doing anything right now.
Might as well make use of this time to achieve something . . .
Logan emerged from the Chapel Bakery – EST. 1954 – the proud owner of a takeaway coffee and two wee paper bags, promisingly spotted with grease.
Soon as his foot hit pavement he opened one of the bags, shoogling the pie inside upwards, until half of it poked out. Took a bite of mince-and-mealie. Whoopha-whoompha-whoomphing his breath around the blisteringly hot, but delicious mouthful.
Then scuffed his way down the street, munching away, trying not to burn his mouth as the sun battered down from its dusty blue sky.
Probably should’ve put on sunscreen this morning, because the skin on his cheeks was already starting to tighten.
When he got to the pool car, Logan popped his coffee on the roof and went to do the same with his other paper bag.
But some sort of evil seagull radar must’ve tipped off Landfill and Mixed-Recycling to its contents, because the pair of them stopped screaming at each other and glared across the road with envious eyes.
Well, they could sod right off.
He kept a jealous grip on both bags. Munching away, and talking to himself, as he reread the posters in Brenda’s shop window. ‘What the hell is a “Charity Hen Night”?’
A voice cut through the warm air, almost directly behind him: ‘It’s kinda like bring-a-party-to-a-party, only with screaming drunken women, and male strippers.’
Logan swallowing his bite of pie before turning around.
It was the gangly young guy from the salon.
Mr Blue-Hair had swapped sweeping-up for fiddling with a bicycle-handlebar-sized vape.
‘And inflatable willies, of course. Lots and lots and lots of inflatable willies.’ Fiddling finished, he took a sook on the thing, puffing out a dragon cloud of fruity steam.
‘I worked behind the bar at one. Could’ve scraped oestrogen off the walls – thick as cream cheese it was. ’
Logan finished off his pie. ‘You been at Brenda’s for long?’
‘Man and boy.’
‘Suppose you know Andrew Shaw?’
‘Andy? Yeah. Got a wicked touch with the colouring. His cuts need work, but that man can take you from a Three-PB Deepest Espresso Brown to a Ten-B Extra-Light Beige Blonde without even breaking a sweat.’ Another gargantuan tutti-frutti cloud puffed into the sky.
‘Total respect, like. Dude’s game’s got crackle, you know? ’
Nope.
Why did young people have to talk a load of shite these days? When did words stop meaning what they’re meant to mean? And how OLD had Logan become since Elizabeth was born?
He creaked the lid off his coffee and took a sip. ‘Andrew have a lot of friends?’
‘Nah. Well, maybe down the gym. But think he kinda mostly keeps himself to himself. If we’re off for a cocky-T after work, he’s like half-a-lager and goneski.’
‘I see.’ Logan partially unwrapped Pie Number Two and had a bite. Mmmm: chicken curry. ‘Are you his friend?’
The young bloke chewed on the inside of his cheek for a bit. ‘Depends what he’s done. You being polis and everything.’
‘Ever hear him talk about his female clients?’
‘What, in a pervy way? Naaaaaahhhhh. Andy isn’t like that.
’ A huge sook on the vape produced a volcanic cloud.
‘Only time I ever seen him completely tinfoiled was at the Christmas party. We all pile into The Groove Machine, for drinks-and-dancing after dinner, and he snogs some subsea engineer called Duncan. Said he only did it for a joke, but they were joking hard, you know? Tongues and,’ miming cupping someone’s crotch and giving it a squeeze or two.
‘Pretty sure he got noshed-off in the gents, after.’
Logan bit into the crisp pastry and savoury filling. ‘Just goes to show: you never know with people.’ Munch, munch, munch. ‘So, what about you?’
His mouth pinched, chin rising an inch with a sniff. ‘Just cos I work in a hairdresser’s, doesn’t make me gay.’
‘I meant, “are you Andrew’s friend?”’
‘And it doesn’t make Andy gay, either. He’s just . . . flexible. Besides, all our clients are middle-aged wifies; you’ve seen the bloke – he must be beating them off with a stick.’
Logan scarfed down the last mouthful. ‘Oh, you have no idea.’ He crumpled up his paper bags, scoofed his coffee. Frowned across the road at Brenda’s Hair & Beauty Palace. ‘What gym did he go to? Where he might have friends.’
‘Wellheads Fitness Studio, but you’re wasting your time. Wanna know who Andy’s best friend in the whole-wide-world is? His mum.’
With Steel keeping the salon’s owner occupied, and Tufty off mining Emma for information, Logan retreated to the pool car. Sitting in the passenger seat with the windows rolled down, notebook out in front of him and a worried Biohazard Bob in his ear:
‘Far as I can tell, they’ve all got alibis.
And you know how you can always tell when someone’s a murdering bastard, but trying to cover it up?
Not getting that from any of them.’ A sad little breath grunted down the phone.
‘Might be wrong, but I’d put a crate of baked beans on whoever killed Andrew Shaw not being one of his victims. Or their family. ’
‘Could’ve hired someone to do it.’
‘Yeah, if you’re an idiot. That’s perfect blackmail material for life, isn’t it.
Someone goes out and kills for you: next thing you know, you’re putting their kids through private school and buying them a five-berth caravan.
Sides: you’ve still got all that guilt by association.
’ Biohazard put on a tortured voice: ‘“I’m responsible for this guy getting beaten to death . . .”’ Then back to normal again.
‘Hard for everyday folk to live with something like that.’
True.
Mixed-Recycling and Landfill must’ve declared some sort of truce, because the pair of them were sharing a half-eaten Mars Bar at the side of the road.
At least, hope it was a Mars Bar . . .
Probably best not to think about it too closely.
‘You coming back to the ranch anytime soon, Guv? Only the Chief Super’s giving me the willies.’
‘As long as they’re not inflatable.’
Silence.
‘Never mind.’ Logan tapped his pen on his notebook, where ‘VICTIMS = KILLER(S)?!?’ was underlined three times. ‘Don’t suppose they found any other DNA at Natasha Agapova’s house, did they?’
‘Nah, because that would be helpful. Normally, you’d think hot-and-dry weather equals long-lasting DNA, but our kidnap victim was a great believer in humidifiers. We were lucky to get what we got from the pish stain.’
Now that they’d finished the ‘Mars Bar’, Landfill and Mixed-Recycling were at it again – screeching and flapping and screaming at each other.