Chapter 52
‘Oh noes . . .’ Tufty scuffed his little feet to a standstill, gazing across the car park, bottom lip all a-tremble as a large man in T-shirt-and-shorts locked up a food trailer with ‘DORIC DAVE’S DEVOURABLE DELICIOUSNESS!’ painted all over it.
The Aberdeen Examiner’s exterior was every bit as depressing as the inside had been: a large bland grey warehouse, surrounded by other large bland grey warehouses, in the middle of a large bland grey industrial estate.
A wedge of the North Sea was just visible in the distance – down the hill, between an oilfield-digital-services company and an industrial-equipment supplier – sparkling blue beneath the searing sky. But other than that, pretty much everything was a depressing mix of concrete and steel.
Logan marched over to the pool car, digging his phone out on the way. Scowling through a quick Google search. ‘Haven’t seen MacGarioch in months, my arse . . .’
Steel slouched up behind him. ‘So: we off to noise-up this Sweaty Wilson prick?’
‘Turns out Rennie was right – shock, horror – Keira Longmore has been lying to us.’ He pressed the ‘CALL’ button.
They picked up on the third ring: ‘The Star-Sprinkled Heavens. How can I help you this lovely afternoon?’
Logan forced a smile. ‘Hi. Is Keira working today?’
There was a small pause, then a pinch of suspicion seasoned the ma?tre d’s voice. ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector McRae, we met yesterday? Got a couple of follow-up questions I need to ask her. Nothing serious.’
And just like that, the salty edge mellowed. ‘I’m afraid Keira’s not in till tomorrow night. She’s going out with friends.’
Surprise, surprise.
‘OK. No problem. Like I said, it’s nothing serious. I’ll try again tomorrow. Thanks.’ He hung up, tried the passenger door handle.
Locked.
Where the hell was . . .?
The wee loon was still rooted to the spot, mourning the loss of devourable deliciousness.
‘HOY, TUFTY!’
He jerked back to the real world, scurrying across the sticky tarmac to unlock the pool car. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Getting in behind the wheel. ‘NorrelTech-Wellhead-Intervention-Limited-ho?’
‘No.’ Logan yanked his door open. ‘Think it’s about time we mobbed round to Keira Longmore’s address and see what else she’s been lying about.’
Most of Gairn Terrace was given over to the kind of pale post-war housing that normally featured south of the border, but this end of it played host to a ten-storey tower block on one side, and a big lump of flats on the other.
They clustered together in a sort of flattened horseshoe of large beige-and-breeze-block-coloured buildings – four floors each, with Dutch-barn roofs and communal stairwells.
The one calling itself ‘Allenvale Court’ was partially hidden beneath a skin of scaffolding and tarpaulin, where all the harling had been chipped off the front walls, exposing the breeze blocks underneath.
A pair of guys in bum-crack jeans were busy fitting a new UPVC window to one of the properties.
So at least Keira had been telling the truth about that.
Mind you, she didn’t know Rennie was listening in, so it didn’t count.
Logan strode towards the stairwell door, leaving Tufty to plip the locks and hurry after him while Steel strolled along behind, hands in her pockets.
Up the steps – two at a time. Then one at a time. Then puffing his cheeks out and using the handrail. Getting slower and slower. Because two hours’ sleep, in a pool car’s passenger seat really wasn’t enough when stairs were involved.
Meaning Tufty had no problems keeping up now, even weighed down by the full stabproof-and-utility-belt kit.
Not so Acting DI Steel – instead she whistled a jaunty tune from somewhere down below, echoing around the bland concrete stairwell. Apparently unbothered about joining them anytime soon.
On the second floor, outside Flat Fourteen F, Logan crumpled back against the banister. Legs like boiled string. And nodded at the doorbell.
Tufty nodded back and gave it a poke.
A good old-fashioned dinnnnnggggg-donnnnngggg sounded inside.
Downstairs, the whistling grew fainter, followed by what sounded like a door closing, then silence.
The lazy sod hadn’t even bothered climbing the first flight of stairs – just sodded off out the back.
No doubt to vape and pose for yet more stupid selfies.
Because being demob-happy meant you didn’t have to do any bloody work.
Well, she was in for a nasty surprise when they finished up here. Let’s see how she liked being demoted, yet again.
The wee loon was looking at him. ‘You OK, Sarge?’
‘Just tired. Give it another go.’
But before Tufty could ring it, clunks came from inside, then the door inched open – brought up short by the chain fixed on the inside.
A small, wrinkly old man, with skin the colour of midnight and hair pale as the moon, squinted out at them.
Wearing an AFC replica top, grey joggy-bots, furry slippers, and the kind of Aberdonian accent you could plough fields with.
‘Aye, aye, it’s the polis. Youse here aboot them minkers doonstairs? ’
Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘Keira in?’
A wet sigh. ‘Aye. Fit’s she deen, noo?’
‘Can we come in, please?’
‘Gie’s a mintie.’ The door clunked shut, there was a rattle of chain, then it opened again. Only their host was already scuffing off down the hall. ‘The quine’s in her room.’ Before vanishing into the lounge. ‘Ah’m nae mackin’ tea, mind!’
The hallway was almost the full depth of the building, with two doors off each side and one at the end.
Wasn’t hard to guess which one was Keira’s. R no sign of Keira Longmore.
Bloody hell.
Logan lunged over there and clambered out onto the scaffolding boards.
They’d braced the whole structure against the wall with wooden batons in every other window opening, wedging it into place. One of those orange-plastic-chute things zig-zagged down to a rubble-filled skip. A ladder sat off to the right, going up to the top floor and down to the first.
And there was Keira: clambering down it to the next level, wearing a biker jacket and a ‘NUCLEAR KILL SYNDROME’ T-shirt, a pair of jeans clutched in one hand, a pair of red trainers in the other.
‘HOY!’
Her head snapped up and she froze, top half poking up through the gap in the boards.
Logan strode over there. ‘There’s police officers at the bottom, waiting for you, so you can clamber down the ladder with your pants on show, if you like.’ Shrug. ‘Might be a little more dignified going down the stairs with your trousers on?’
Keira closed her eyes, pressed her forehead against the ladder’s rung, and swore and swore and swore and swore . . .
Logan marched Keira out through the stairwell door at the front of the building – now all glammed-up in trousers, trainers, and this season’s must-have accessory: handcuffs – to find Steel waiting for him. Glowering.
Bits of twig and leaves poked out of her nice new hairdo, and she looked even more rumpled than normal. ‘Blah!’
He steered Keira towards the pool car. ‘Where the hell were you?’
Steel spat out a sliver of greenery. ‘Waiting round back, just in case. Cos, unlike you, I remember what happened at MacGarioch’s flat.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘Some bugger landed on me! Didn’t see anything but a naked hairy arse, and bang: I’m facedown in the bloody undergrowth.’ She pulled a twig from her curls. ‘Then that stupid wee spud’s sprinting past, going “Woo, woo, woo, woo, woo!” chasing after the bastard.’
Another quality A Division operation . . .
And speaking of disasters:
Tufty limped back along the road, red-faced and breathing like a leaky space hopper, one hand pressed against his ribs. A weeping red scrape arced across his cheek.
No Charles MacGarioch.
The wee idiot staggered to a halt. ‘Couldn’t . . . couldn’t catch . . . wasn’t . . .’ Wheezing and coughing. ‘Got . . . away from . . . from me! . . . Pfff . . .’ He sagged against the car. ‘Argh . . . Puff . . . Pant . . . Et cetera.’
Keira stuck her nose in the air. ‘Told you: haven’t seen Charlie for ages.’
‘Really?’ Logan opened the rear passenger-side door. ‘So who was the naked bloke slathered in Lynx Africa in your bedroom, then?’
No answer.
‘It was Charles MacGarioch, wasn’t it.’ Logan put a hand on her head, so she wouldn’t brain herself on the door frame, and plonked her into the car.
Produced his phone and scrolled through to the secret photograph.
‘This was taken at the circus in Westburn Park. And you, Miss Longmore, have been lying to us.’
Her eyes narrowed, jaw clenching – making the zits writhe. ‘I’m not saying anything else without a lawyer.’
The Police Custody and Security Officer printed the words. ‘VERY SARKY!!!’ on the little wipe-clean noticeboard mounted to the cell door, then clacked the viewing portal closed. Shutting Keira away.
Twin rows of identical, heavy blue doors sealed off each cell in the custody suite’s female wing. Though most of them had things like ‘BITES!’ and ‘SPIT RISK!’ written on them.
The Police Custody and Security Officer was broad of shoulder and short of leg, with a no-nonsense haircut going grey at the temples, and thick-soled comfortable shoes. She turned back towards the custody desk. ‘She’s a cool one, eh? You sure she hasnae got a criminal record?’
Tufty poked at the scabbing scrape across his cheek. ‘Clean as a whistle, far as we know.’
‘Aye, and my arse squirts finest prosecco.’ The PCSO checked her watch. ‘You’ll be waiting here a while: nearest duty solicitor’s in Dundee on a double murder.’
Logan groaned. ‘Oh, for . . .’
‘Every bugger’s got the lurgie. Entire criminal justice system’s dropping like flies.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks.’ He turned and headed back up the stairs again.
‘But you owe me a pie or something!’
Which was fair enough.
The stairwell was every bit as awe-inspiring as a stairwell in a police station could be, only less so. Bare breeze-block walls, concrete steps, and a ‘motivational’ poster hanging on every landing.
Tufty followed him up. ‘Do you think our half-naked bloke really was Charles MacGarioch, Sarge?’
‘If you hadn’t lost him we wouldn’t have to guess.’
The wee loon drooped. ‘I got wanged by a minibus!’ He held up a pair of pinched fingers.
‘Came this close to getting squished. And I’m too young to be squished – I has a bidie-in and a lovenest to support.
’ Poking at his scabs again. ‘By the time I’d picked myself up out the bushes, there was no sign of the scrunk-wadger .
. .’ Then Tufty scuffed his feet on the bare steps, head hanging. ‘Sorry, Sarge. I should’ve caught him.’
Urgh . . .
Yeah, well.
Suppose it wasn’t entirely his fault.
Logan waved it away. ‘If there’s one thing Charles MacGarioch’s good at, it’s scarpering.’
And burning poor bastards alive . . .