Chapter 51 #2
He opened his phone and scrolled through to the photo hidden away in Charles MacGarioch’s bedroom. The dodgem cars were identical, and so were the trees off to one side. And the stripy red-white-and-blue background. ‘How long’s the circus been there?’
‘Dunno. Week, I think.’ Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
Ah.
Probably best not to tip the press off.
‘No reason.’ A nonchalant shrug. ‘Just . . . thinking of taking the family tonight.’ Quick: change the subject. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any photos from that SME charity-auction-ball thing, do you?’
‘Oh. Yeah: we did one of those cheesy “out and about” features. Like anybody gives a toss.’
She fiddled with the laptop, bringing up a different slideshow.
With Colin in the editor’s chair, Logan was demoted to one of the short ones in front of the desk, perching on the edge to swipe through the awkwardly posed group shots of various numpties from various oil-sector-support companies, in various posh frocks or nearly identical dinner suits. Fake grins and not-so-fake tans.
There were more photos of people at tables, raising their glasses, pretending to have a good time. Then some of the auction for ‘things money can’t buy’ – because no one would sodding want them – followed by a whole bunch of the dancing afterwards.
Logan swiped back and forth, forehead creased, peering not just at the figures in the foreground, but the ones further back. Searching.
Steel reached over his shoulder and tapped the screen. ‘Take it that’s who you’re looking for?’
Natasha Agapova, in an elegant black ballgown, sitting at a table with a sign on it proclaiming, ‘ABERDEEN EXAMINER!’, and a whole slew of empty wine bottles.
She was trapped between that oversized teddy bear of hers and an earnest, rosy-cheeked, shiny-faced middle-aged man.
He had one hand on a nearly full glass of red wine and the other on Natasha’s bare shoulder, leaning in and talking. While she looked like someone trying not to appear as bored as she really was.
Another swipe and there they were again, still sitting at the same table, in the background of another dancing shot. Him telling some sort of hysterical anecdote with his arms thrown wide – clutching a whisky this time – while Natasha Agapova pretended to smile, and the bear grinned away.
Wonder if her boring dinner companion was Captain Sleazy of the HMS HumpYacht?
Logan zoomed in. ‘We have any idea who the guy is?’
‘Hold on.’ Henry vanished, leaving her laptop behind.
Tufty waved at them from the long table. ‘Sarge? I has a finished.’
Might as well, as they were waiting.
The wee loon had made a neat job of laying all the hate mail out – a mixture of A4 printouts, lined sheets torn from various notepads, and random scraps of paper – some of which now boasted little tabs made of orange Post-it note.
Tufty pointed at both ends of the table: ‘Oldest to newest. One bit of sticky for each keyword.’
It wasn’t hard to spot the sheet of A4 with seven bits of bright orange stuck to it. Must’ve come through the website, because the printout came complete with a wodge of metadata at the top, with things like the user’s IP address, time, date, and referring URL.
Username: Anonymous123
Email: fakename@
Department: Editorial
Subject: Reap the hurricane
Message:
REMEMBER ME, BITCH? YOU BETTER, BECAUSE I AM GOING TO BE THE LAST THING YOU EVER SEE.
YOU CANT HIDE FROM KARMA, BITCH, AND IT IS COMING FOR YOU!
I WILL BURN YOUR FUCKING HOUSE OF LIES TO THE GROUND WITH YOU IN IT.
YOU ARE DEAD, BITCH. I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD BURY ME, BUT YOU CANT.
BECAUSE I AM EVERYWHERE. AND YOU WILL BE SCREAMING FOR MERCY AND FORGIVENESS BEFORE I AM DONE. SEE YOU SOON.
Tufty poked the page. ‘I know “see you soon” wasn’t on your keyword list, but I marked it up anyway, cos I has an initiative.’
Logan checked the ‘DATE SUBMITTED’, then scowled at Colin. ‘Two weeks ago! And you didn’t tell us?’
‘What, I’m supposed to know the content of everyone’s Hate Box, now?’
Henry reappeared, holding an issue of the Aberdeen Examiner. ‘Got it.’
Colin raised a hand. ‘Hoy, Henry, you got anything exciting in your Hate Box?’
‘Me? Nah.’ She opened her paper and spread it across the desk, displaying a whole heap of those uncomfortable group shots of people in suits and gowns, with a list of names under each photograph.
‘My hate mail’s the usual boring collection of misogynists, pricks, and people who want to know why I made them look “so fat” in that photo about the thing.
Oh, and men who won’t take “Sod off, I’m married! ” for an answer. Why?’
‘Plod here think we should be intimately familiar with every piece of hate mail that comes into the building.’
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘All right: that’s not what I—’
‘Hell with that. Be here all week!’ She squinted at the laptop. ‘Right, let’s see who Mr Pink-And-Sweaty is . . .’ Running a finger over the paper, one photo at a time.
‘What I meant is: why don’t you report the hate mail?’
‘God, you’re right!’ Colin clapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Cos if we did that, you guys would rush round here with all guns blazing and solve the crime! Would you? Really? Course you sodding wouldn’t.’
‘Got him.’ Henry poked a gathering of numpties in their charity-ball finery. ‘Nick Wilson, director at NorrelTech Wellhead Intervention Limited – and before you ask: no. No idea. They donated a fortnight’s timeshare in New Orleans, if that helps?’
Logan picked up the paper, closed and folded it, then tucked the thing under his arm. ‘OK. Thanks for your help.’ Pointed at Tufty and Steel. Turned. And marched for the door, taking the Post-it clarted printout with him.
‘Hoy!’ Colin stood behind his Interim Editor desk. ‘Aren’t we forgetting something?’
Sod.
Logan paused on the threshold. ‘Off the record? Mr FreezyWhip is an ungrateful bastard; the OAPs are only milking it for attention; you might want to soft-pedal on painting Spencer Findlater and Charles MacGarioch as poor wee orphans, unless you want to end up looking like a serious twat; and we’re still contacting Andrew Shaw’s victims, so tread lightly.
Going to be hard enough on them as it is. ’
Colin’s chin came up. ‘And on the record?’
Good question . . .
‘This shit isn’t easy, but we’re doing our best.’