Chapter 53
Back at the station, Logan suppressed a yawn and pushed through the double doors, back into the open-plan office.
Normally the place would be humming – reverberating with the clatter of keyboards as people slunk in to do ‘completely necessary paperwork activities’ in the run-up to home time.
But today, Divisional Headquarters had a decidedly Flying Dutchman feel to it – with only a cursed skeleton crew left to man the ship while storms and sea monsters battered at the hull . . .
And even then, one of the dwindling support staff was hacking and coughing and spluttering all over the printer.
No wonder the bloody thing never worked properly.
Tufty poked and fiddled with his phone, walking to heel like a good little sidekick. ‘We’ve got time to grab a coffee, then sit in on the review for Operation “Camper Vans Stolen To Order” if you like?’
‘I most certainly don’t like. Besides: wouldn’t want Acting DI Taylor to think we were checking up on her.’ Pausing at the coffee machine, he poked the buttons till it whirred and grumbled out a frothy wax-paper cup of burnt-toast-flavoured yuck. Yum, yum, yum.
Logan handed the scalding beverage to Tufty. ‘That hate mail from “Anonymous One-Two-Three”, can you trace the IP address?’ Going in for another poke at the machine.
‘Already did, Sarge, while we were waiting on Keira Longmore being processed. It’s a VPN node in London.’
Nope.
‘Worry not, I has an explaining: it does mean Virtual Private Network – hides who you are, where you’re connecting from, and encrypts everything in-between. Mr One-Two-Three am being an ghostie.’
‘Of course he sodding is.’ Logan took a sip of hot brown. Which tasted every bit as awful as it smelled. ‘In that case, you’d better get on to Spudgun – see if anything’s cooking at Wallace Tower. Now we’ve raided his girlfriend’s boudoir, MacGarioch might go to ground again.’
‘Sarge.’
‘And if he’s still unfindable, we’ve got the Orphan Circus Outing to fall back on. Which means we’re going to need at least a half-dozen tickets. Assuming the Chief Super actually gives us enough bodies to . . .’
Bugger.
Sergeant Brookminster entered through the far door, stood there for a moment, looking around, then homed-in on Logan. Striding between the cubicles, with an iPad tucked under his arm as if it were a swagger stick. ‘DCI McRae.’ He gave Tufty a nod. ‘Constable.’
The wee loon stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘Greetings fellow comrade in this Great Fraternity of Sacred Sidekicks!’
Brookminster looked at the hand, eyebrows puckering into a one-up-one-down frown. ‘Yes, well . . . DCI McRae, the Boss would like a word, if you’ve got a moment?’
Which sounded like an invitation, but clearly wasn’t.
Fair enough.
Logan gave Tufty a nudge. ‘Constable: put your hand away and go chase-up Sergeant Moore. Then see if you can get your hands on those tickets.’
‘Aye-aye, Sarge.’ A quick salute and click of the heels, then off he scampered.
‘Bizarre . . .’ Brookminster led the way through the desks, towards the Forbidden Corridor, where all the bigwigs’ offices lurked. ‘Is there a reason Constable . . . Quirrel, is it? – refers to you as “Sarge”? I mean, he does know you’re an acting detective chief inspector, doesn’t he?’
‘I was the boy’s first sergeant when he was doing his probation. Up in B Division. When B Division still existed.’ Ah: the good old days. Sort of. ‘Suppose it’s a weird term-of-endearment, slash, nickname.’
The Forbidden Corridor was much nicer than the main bit of the office, with a view out over the old Divisional Headquarters on Queen Street, in all its seven-storey grey-and-black liquorice-allsort-striped glory.
Which, presumably, someone would be demolishing soon to make way for an even uglier office block.
The corridor also had a couple of large pot plants that looked suspiciously non-plastic, and instead of standard-issue losing-the-will-to-live motivational posters, there were a handful of nice paintings on the walls.
‘Yes . . .’ Brookminster’s free hand made spiders in the air. ‘He certainly seems a little . . . odd.’
‘Oh, to a band playing.’
They stopped outside the door marked ‘CHIEF SUPT. ROSLYN PINE OBE’, where Brookminster plucked the nasty coffee from Logan’s hand. ‘Trust me: it’s for the best.’ Then knocked. And marched off again, leaving Logan standing there. Coffeeless and blinking.
Kind of got the feeling that today wasn’t about to get any better.
Pine’s voice barked through the door: ‘Come.’
Back straight.
Deep breath.
And in we go . . .
Her office seemed weirdly out-of-place for a police station: no filing cabinets or whiteboards; no coffee-stained carpet tiles; no ceiling tiles that looked like a map of Europe, painted in dysentery.
What she did have were some nice bookshelves, a nice desk, a nice big office chair, a couple of nice armchairs, a nice coffee table, a nice view over the Marischal College quad – even if it was all grey and empty – and a nice sideboard thing with a pod-coffee machine gleaming away on top of it.
The head cop for Aberdeenshire and Moray sat behind her desk, flipping through a file. She looked up as Logan stepped inside and closed the door behind him. ‘Ah, good. Have you seen the Aberdeen Examiner’s latest nonsense?’ Grabbing that morning’s edition from her in-tray and waving it at him.
‘Just been there, actually – got a possible line of inquiry for you.’ He took the proffered paper and pointed at her armchairs. ‘Can I . . .?’ Then avalanched into one of them, sagged, puffed out his cheeks, and unfolded Colin’s hatchet-job handywork.
NEWSPAPER OWNER ABDUCTED BY SICK WEIRDO
POLICE FUMBLE INVESTIGATION AS WORLD PRESS LOOKS ON
Natasha Agapova (48) made her career in print journalism.
From humble beginnings, reporting on animal shows and am-dram productions for her local newspaper in Melbourne, she graduated to the Australian national press, working on multiple titles, before making the leap to the UK with her (then) husband, media mogul, Adrian Shearsmith.
Here she took the helm of the Scottish Daily Post, turning it from a failing weekly with falling circulation to a daily tabloid and one of Scotland’s most popular newspapers.
Logan sniffed. ‘You can always rely on Colin Miller for a run-on sentence and a buried lead. And “most popular newspapers”? I wouldn’t use the Scottish Daily Post to line my cat’s litter tray.’ Skimming the text. ‘Blah, blah, blah . . .’
. . . and even though multiple officers searched the house, it was down to this reporter to find the message left by the monster who abducted the Aberdeen Examiner’s new owner, in a violent attack at her modest home, near Peterculter.
Bloody hell.
‘“Modest”? It’s massive. She’s got four bedrooms, a home gym, a sauna, and a steam room. Plus, he was there before we were! How are we supposed to search a property before we know a crime’s been committed?’
Then another chunk of melodramatic crap about bloodstains and ‘the lonely smile of an abandoned teddy bear’ before the boot was landed right into A Division’s testicles:
Which means that yet again we need to ask if Aberdeen police are competent enough to investigate a crime of this magnitude, when they’re so clearly out of their depth that no progress has been made in discovering who took plucky Natasha from us, or why.
He slapped the paper shut and thumped it down on Pine’s desk. ‘Blah, blah, wankity wank, wank . . .’ Then sat up, heat blooming in across his ears. ‘Sorry, Boss.’
‘Hmmmph . . .’ She stood, busying herself with the coffee machine.
Setting it whirring. ‘I think “wank” is putting it mildly, to be honest. Only upside is no one else got the story in time to make the morning editions. Tomorrow it’ll be everywhere.
’ She fiddled with little cups, keeping it casual, but the hope was clear in her voice. ‘You said you have a possible lead?’
‘Second-last person to see Natasha Agapova – Nick Wilson, director at something called NorrelTech. Sat next to her at the charity-auction, Monday night. You’ve already spoken to the taxi driver?’
She let loose a long, kind-of-pissed-off sigh, then placed a tiny cup on the desk, in front of Logan. ‘Espresso. You look like you could use it.’
‘Thanks, Boss.’ Taking the teeny cup of evil. ‘We did speak to the taxi driver, didn’t we?’
‘Of course we did. He didn’t see anything, didn’t suspect anything, didn’t do anything.
And he’s still managed to sell his story to “one of Scotland’s favourite newspapers”.
’ A grimace. ‘Meanwhile that ridiculous “Penny Thistle” woman got interviewed in her bikini for Channel 5 and just about every news outlet south of the equator. Topless for the Venezuelans.’ Pine yanked the spent pod from the machine and hurled it into the bin.
‘This whole thing’s a disaster: the First Minister’s office called six times today, Tulliallan are nipping my head on an hourly basis, and the world press are quite happy to paint this division as a bunch of useless, half-witted, flat-footed, couldn’t-find-their-fat-arseholes-with-a-compass-and-a-team-of-sherpas clowns, because apparently we should’ve found Natasha Agapova by now!
We are dead, Logan, if we can’t catch whoever did it and rescue her, ASA-frigging-P!
’ The Chief Super rammed another pod in the machine, slammed it shut, and set it whirring.
‘And quite frankly, we could do without the Aberdeen Examiner giving us a kicking too!’
Logan took a sip of espresso, dark and bitter and fruity all at the same time.
The effects clearly weren’t instant, though, because a massive yawn rattled free.
He shivered in his seat then slumped a little further.
‘Sorry.’ Blink. Blink. ‘Maybe we could give them something? A little exclusive to get the buggers onside.’
She frowned down at him. ‘When did you last sleep?’
‘Think I got ten minutes in the pool car, this afternoon?’
‘Right: home. And that’s an order. I want you sharp and focussed for tonight’s op. We are not letting Charles MacGarioch get away again, just because you can’t keep your eyes open.’ She reached across the desk and confiscated Logan’s coffee.
‘But I was—’
‘Go!’ Pointing at the door. ‘Get some sleep. And I expect you to be properly dressed when you get back.’
‘Eh?’ He looked down at his perfectly serviceable uniform. ‘But I’m wearing the—’
‘Standards matter, Logan.’ The Chief Super glanced at her watch. ‘Briefing’s at seven, so you’d better get moving. Longer you sod about here, the less time you’ve got.’
He abandoned his car in the driveway, plipping the locks over his shoulder as he scuffed to the front door and let himself in. Hung his peaked cap on the newel post and kicked off his boots, padding upstairs in his socks – pulling off his Police Scotland T-shirt on the way.
Bathroom: teeth, quick wee.
Bedroom: close curtains, dump clothes on wicker chair, timber into bed, wriggle under covers.
Swear.
Wriggle out again.
Set alarm on phone for 18:30.
Back under covers.
Swear again.
Text Tara:
I’ve got an hour and a half at home to sleep.
I love you both but if you wake me up I WILL DIE!!!!!
And I’m taking everyone with me!
SEND.
Back under covers.
Sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep . . .
Cthulhu hopped up onto the bed, treadled her way up the duvet, then thumped down on the pillow next to Logan. Reached out a paw – big, fluffy, with a faint biscuity whiff – and placed it against his head. Purring her way to sleep.
A smile tugged at Logan’s lips. He sighed, closed his eyes, and joined her.