Chapter 55
‘Gaaaaaaaaaaaah . . .’ Logan’s eyes snapped open as a horrible marimba tune bonk-bong-dwiddled out of his mobile. The phone skittered and vibrated away on the bedside cabinet, as if the tune wasn’t irritating enough.
One hand fumbled for the bloody thing, killing the alarm.
Then he sagged back into the mattress, blinking up at the ceiling. Followed by a gargantuan yawn. And a groan.
Oh right – the op.
Cthulhu was snuggled into the gap between his arm and his stomach, her fur warm against the skin as she grunted out little-fuzzy-cat snores.
Logan creaked out of bed, pausing to give Cthulhu a kiss on the head, let another yawn shudder-burp free, then grabbed his dressing gown and slouched away for a pee.
Logan scuffed into the kitchen, pulling a plain grey T-shirt on – tucking it into his jeans and hiding all those puckered ribbons of scar tissue – smothering a yawn.
Casting an eye at the kitchen clock as he slumped over to the fridge.
Twenty-two minutes to get back to the station and set up some sort of operational briefing.
Tara and Elizabeth sat at the table, watching him. Cup of tea for Tara, ‘Evening, sleepyhead.’
While the Elizabomb tucked into mini-hotdogs-and-beans on toast with a dollop of brown sauce and a glass of milk on the side. Very Heston Blumenthal.
Logan ruffled her hair on the way past.
‘Da-ad!’
A disapproving look from the Tea-Drinking Department. ‘Tell me you’re not going back into work.’
He liberated a slice of plastic cheese. ‘Have to. Got a horrible little racist scumbag arsonist to catch; briefing’s at seven.
’ Unwrapping the floppy yellow square. ‘We’re going to swoop in and arrest him at the circus, which is a first for me .
. . I’ve arrested people at abattoirs, and film sets, stone circles, and sex dungeons, but never the circus.
’ A bite of buttery, unchallenging comfort.
‘Speaking of which – your protégé, Tufty, called. Apparently the lady at the ticket office thought he was a “cutie”, so he’s got a dozen complimentary tickets for the eight o’clock show tonight.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Which means Lizzasaurus Rex and I will be joining you.’
More cheese. ‘Tufty might be a lot of things, but he is not my “protégé”. He’s . . .’ Hang on a minute. ‘No – you can’t come! That’s just . . . no.’
Elizabeth bounced up onto her knees. ‘Oh, come on, Daddy! Can we? Can we, please?’ Playing up the lisp. ‘Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeathe?’
Logan finished off his artificial square of processed dairy product. ‘Definitely not. And it’d be way past your bedtime.’
Tara frowned at him. ‘Don’t see why.’
‘How about because it’s an active murder investigation?’ Unwrapping another slice.
‘Going by how you’re dressed, this is an undercover op, and I do hundreds of those with Trading Standards. Probably way more than you have.’
‘That’s not the—’
‘And what looks less suspicious – you creeping about the circus on your own, like a pervert, or a man with his wife and child?’ She stood and plonked her mug in the sink.
‘Besides, it’ll be nice not having to pretend Dildo’s my husband for a change.
I mean, his arse is nice enough, but he’s an awful kisser. ’
Kisser?
Logan blinked at her. ‘Wait, what?’
Tara tidied away Elizabeth’s plate. ‘Come on, Lizz-zilla: grab your coat and get your boots on. We’re going undercover!’
‘But—’
She clapped her hands. ‘Move it, people: wheels up in five!’
‘I didn’t agree to any of—’
‘Don’t want to be late for the briefing, do you?’
‘But . . .’
‘We’ll take The Tank; I’m driving.’
And she was out the door, with Elizabeth skipping along behind – singing:
‘Going to the circus,
Going to the circus . . .’
Leaving Logan alone in the kitchen with his flaccid slice of not-quite cheese.
Logan strode into the open-plan office, bang on seven o’clock, to see what sort of crack team of hotshot officers Chief Superintendent Pine had assembled for him.
Which turned out to be Steel, Tufty, Barrett, Biohazard, Doreen, and Sergeant Bernard ‘Spudgun’ Moore – an unremarkable middle-aged man with mousey hair, a pronounced chin-cleft, and one leg slightly longer than the other.
Suppose some days you just had to work with what you had.
They were all dressed up in the full Police-Scotland-black outfit – with stabproof vests, utility belts, and high-vis waistcoats standing by – playing a spirited game of ‘Fud-or-Fanny’, waiting for the briefing to kick off.
‘OK,’ Biohazard bit his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes, ‘Vladimir Putin.’
Doreen didn’t even hesitate: ‘Fud. Massive, monstrous, murderous . . .’ She looked up and saw Logan. ‘Guv.’
‘Why are you all in uniform?’
Tufty struck a pose. ‘Chief Superintendent Pine sent out a memo, remember? We must has a reassuring the public.’
Oh, for God’s sake.
‘It’s an undercover operation, you bunch of fermented numpties! How are we supposed to sneak up on Charles MacGarioch with you lot dressed like an episode of The Bill? Go: get changed.’
The six of them scarpered.
‘And no fighting suits: casual clothes only!’
Halfwits.