Chapter 50
Brenda was still wrestling Steel’s unruly mop into shape, with a hairdryer and set of curling tongs, when Logan stepped back into the salon.
The Crenellated Horror herself was fast asleep in the barber’s chair, and by the look of things, she was in for a bit of a shock when she woke up. Which would be nice.
Tufty stuck his head out through the door at the back and gave Logan a wave. ‘Sarge? Got something.’ Then disappeared again.
Logan followed the vanishing twit into a cramped space with boxes and boxes and boxes of shampoo and conditioner and colourant and every other kind of hairy malarkey stacked up against the walls, two or three deep in places.
No sign of Emma.
A small desk was wedged in beneath a couple of shelves laden with lever-arch files. And that’s where Tufty was sitting, fiddling about with a denture-beige desktop PC. ‘I went through every appointment for three-and-a-bit years.’
Logan leaned his bum against a carton of hair gel. ‘Thought you said six months?’
‘Yes, but then I did find things. So I went back further and keeped finding things. Till three-and-a-bit years ago, which is when . . .?’ Eyebrows up.
‘Let me guess: Andrew Shaw started working here.’
‘Not saying he was definitely responsible, but in addition to the victims we already knew about, I found eleven more. And that’s just the ones who reported a sexual assault.
Otherwise . . .’ The wee loon puffed out his cheeks.
‘I know it’s wrong to be glad someone’s dead, but Andrew Wallace Shaw was an utter shite.
’ A droop. ‘Bad Tufty: pound in the swear jar.’
Eleven more victims . . .
‘Think we’ll let you off with that one.’ Logan pointed at the computer. ‘You got a list of names?’
‘Should be sitting in your inbox. But just in case:’ he hit three buttons on the keyboard and a teeny, old-fashioned ink-jet printer stuttered into life – screeking back and forth as it slowly clunked out a sheet of A4.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll purge the print queue soon as it’s done.
’ Swivelling his chair from side to side.
‘Not sure if Shaw was being careful or not, but they weren’t all his clients.
He was working at least one day when the victim was in here getting their hair cut by someone else, though. ’
‘Bloody hell.’ Logan plucked the printout from the machine, scanning the names. ‘How did no one notice the connection?’
‘Don’t think anyone looked, Sarge.’ A frown.
‘To be fair, when someone’s been sexually assaulted and we take their statement, we don’t usually start with, “Ooh, where do you get your hair done?”’ Tufty poked some more keys and ‘DELETING PRINT HISTORY’ appeared on the screen.
He stood. ‘Hope when they bury Horrid Andrew Shaw they plumb his grave up with a flush, because there’s going to be a lot of people widdling on it. ’
Quite right too.
The funeral home wouldn’t even need to preserve Shaw’s body in formaldehyde: his corpse would be pickled in urine.
Logan pocketed the list. ‘Meanwhile: let’s go see if we can’t achieve something on the Natasha Agapova case. Think the Chief Super could do with a bit of good news today.’
Especially after the email he was about to send her.
As he stepped back out onto the salon floor, Brenda had the wee rectangular mirror out – showing Steel what the back of her own neck looked like – full of hairdressery pride. ‘It takes years off you.’
Difficult to know if Steel agreed though, because she just sat there, in the pink-and-chrome chair, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, blinking at herself.
Her hair was shorn incredibly short at the sides and back, tapering outwards as it rose, towards a big wedge of curls on the top of her head – swept forwards so they coiled over her right eyebrow. Grey at the nape of her neck, darkening to a rich chocolaty brown.
Had to admit it was a huge improvement. Especially as her barnet normally looked as if someone had stuck a pound of Semtex up a badger.
‘Time to go.’ Logan handed Brenda a business card. ‘Thanks for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else.’
Tufty lowered his voice and leaned towards her. ‘Word of advice – you might want to take this one down,’ pointing at Andrew Shaw’s portrait, ‘and burn it.’
She looked a bit confused at that, but she’d find out soon enough . . .
But looking on the bright side, at least this means we can potentially close out eleven unsolved rape cases and bring a bit of closure to Shaw’s victims.
Logan gave his email one last readthrough, then sent it off to Chief Superintendent Pine, with Tufty’s list attached.
The windows were down in the pool car, but there was precious little breeze to stir the muggy air as they sat outside Brenda’s Hair Operation “Car Thefts”; and unless we break the sound barrier, Operation “Break-ins At Sports Shops” will have to start without you. But—’
‘Nope. I already solved that one: it was Spencer Findlater. He’s been feeding his protein-powder addiction. Evidence is all piled up in his bedroom.’
‘Oh. Coolio. Tick that one off the list . . .’ Poke, fiddle, scroll.
‘Which means, if we leave now, you can still make Operation “Drugs In Lithuanian Teddy Bears”, Operation “Camper Vans Stolen To Order”, Operation “Food Van Turf War”, before talking to Professional Standards about Princess Crumpled-Bum McGrumpy-Lumps.’
Speak of the Devil.
The back door opened, and Steel thumped into her seat, with a scowl on her face and brand-new curls bouncing away on top of her head. ‘Better no’ be talking about me, you pointy-nosed wee fart!’
Hang on . . .
Logan turned to Tufty. ‘Camper vans? Food vans? No, no, no, no, no: those aren’t Rutherford’s investigations.’
‘Yeah.’ He bared his top teeth. ‘They were DCI McCulloch’s, only now he’s off on the sick as well, so . . .?’
‘Of course he is.’ Sagging back in the passenger seat. ‘Yet more sodding work.’
Steel checked herself in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you seriously going to slog your way through a bunch of sharny review meetings? When we could be out there: catching crooks and showing off my swanky new hairdo?’
‘God’s sake . . .’ Logan scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘I have responsibilities. I can’t just—’
‘You’re such an idiot, Laz. Did you no’ learn anything all the years I was your boss?
’ Tousling her curls as she preened in the mirror.
‘You’re an acting DCI now – you don’t do your own case reviews!
You pick some hapless halfwit DI and you make them do it.
And if they whinge, you say it’s a “career-path development opportunity” and you’re doing them a favour.
’ Waving a hand as if it was all settled.
‘Tell them they have to produce a one-page summary for each meeting – in case some tosser further up the tree asks you about it – and everyone’s happy. ’
Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea.
‘Know what? I’m going to take your advice and palm my case reviews off on a hapless DI.’ He pointed at her primping reflection. ‘Here’s a “career-path development opportunity” for you, Acting DI Steel.’
‘Aye, nice try. Doesn’t work if the victim knows what you’re up to.’ Steel clicked her seatbelt on. ‘So: where we going?’
Ah well, it’d been worth a try.
‘Altens. Time to have a rummage through our missing newspaper tycoon’s work-life.’
The patrol car drifted south along Great Southern Road – which was a very grand name for a tooty-wee stretch of dual carriageway strung between two roundabouts.
Duthie Park was almost invisible behind a granite wall and bank of trees on the left, but a veritable henge of headstones popped above the eight-foot-high enclosure on the other side of the road.
Which was, hopefully, tall enough to keep all the dead folk from breaking out of Allenvale Cemetery anytime soon.
Steel had moved on from admiring herself in the rear-view mirror to taking puckered-lips selfies, like a teenager.
Tufty nodded along to whatever song was playing in his hollow little head.
While Logan had a quick peek at his phone’s screen to make sure the call hadn’t been disconnected.
Doreen finally found her voice again: ‘Are you sure, Guv?’
‘Think of it as a reward for all the sweaty searching. Plus, it’s a great career-path development opportunity: shows the bosses you’re ready to step up to DI full-time, if a vacancy opens up.’
‘Thanks, Guv! I won’t let you down.’
‘I know: I trust you. Just make sure you’ve got those one-page summaries done by close of play, OK? Right, off you go. First meeting’s in thirty-eight minutes.’
Logan ended the call and sat back in his seat.
Not feeling guilty about it in the slightest.
Not even a tiny bit.
Nope.
Tufty kept his eyes front, mouth pinched shut, not noggin-dancing any more. Radiating . . . judgement.
‘Well, it is a good career opportunity.’
Still nothing.
‘Oh . . . shut up.’
The park’s high boundary wall gave way to more decorative wrought-iron railings, but the cemetery maintained its eight-foot barrier to contain the dangerous dead.
Tufty’s stomach broke the judgemental silence with a popping grumble. ‘Sarge, after we’ve been to the newspaper, can we go back to the ranch? I has not had no lunch, and there’s still delicious curry in the CID fridge from yesterday.’
Steel stopped taking her own photograph for long enough to grin. ‘No there isn’t.’
‘Sarge!’ The wee loon pouted across the car. ‘Saaa-aarge: tell her!’
‘Don’t be such a snidge.’ She posed for another snap. ‘How was I supposed to know it wasn’t free to a good home?’
‘It had a note on it: “Is Tufty’s Lunch! Hands Off Thieving Bumheads!” with three exclamation marks!’
‘You know the rules: any food left in the CID fridge overnight is fair game.’ A happy sigh. ‘And a very nice breakfast it made.’