Chapter 57
The trees in Westburn Park were in full-green, but that was nothing compared to the riot of colour hiding just behind them.
The circus had taken over both sides of the park, with the big top towering above a slew of small rides and attractions – a red-white-and-blue-striped monarch ruling over its little kingdom, with a trio of long pennants fluttering from the king pole.
The larger rides were grouped on the other side of the access road, waltzers and a small rollercoaster, chairoplanes and one of those Viking-longboat-on-a-swinging-pivot things, a haunted house and a whole heap of food stands.
And it was all festooned with flashing lights and copyright-infringing graphics.
A dozen different fairground tunes vied for supremacy, barking over the dings and wibbles that blared at Logan from every side. Because nothing here could be accused of being subtle.
All the rides were absolutely rammed and so was the park. As if half the city had turned up to munch on candyfloss, popcorn, and hotdogs, waiting for their go on ‘THE VOMINATOR!’ and ‘SIR PUKESALOT’S SWIRLING BARFLAND ADVENTURE!’
Logan strolled through the crowds, keeping a firm grip on Elizabeth’s hand, as she oooooh-ed and ahhhh-ed at all the garish stuff. Tara slipped her arm through his, laughing as a fire-juggling hipster sent a plume of yellow flames fwoooshing into the sky.
Then Doreen’s voice cracked out of Logan’s earpiece: ‘All clear on the Western Front.’
Tara gave his arm a squeeze. ‘Told you it’d be fine.’
‘Won’t be if the Boss finds out you’re here.’
‘Anyone asks: I just happened to have tickets for tonight. Why should I cancel my plans just because Police Scotland wants to play Smiley’s People at the circus?’
Biohazard: ‘Nothing on the south entrance.’
‘I don’t think we’re slick enough to be Smiley’s—’
Somone tapped him on the shoulder and Logan froze.
It was sodding Chief Superintendent Pine, wasn’t it. He’d summoned her by accident and jinxed the whole operation.
He forced a smile and turned . . .
But it wasn’t Pine, it was Tufty. All dressed down, in jeans and a red ‘WILLY’S BAR DARTS TEAM: THE FLYING POLGARA!’ long-sleeved T. The wee loon must’ve been at the face-painting stall, because he’d turned into a tiger from the neck up. And a disturbingly realistic one, at that.
The Lizz-Ness Monster gazed up at him. ‘Coooool . . .’
At which point, Tufty struck a pose, hunkering down in front of her as he burst into song:
‘Tiger-Man, Tiger-Man,
Does some things that a tiger can,
Has a stripy face, pounces too,
But he doesn’t smell of poo,
Oh no: he’s a very clean Tiger-Man . . .’
Finishing with a slightly camp clawing gesture. ‘Rarrrrr.’
Logan winced. ‘You are so blissfully free from the burdens of reality. What the hell were you thinking?’
‘Sneaky cleverness, Sarge.’ Bouncing upright again. ‘See, this way none of Charles MacGarioch’s friends will recognise me and raise the alarm, cos I is a Master of the Disguises!’
‘Master of being an idiot.’
He held up a stack of leaflets. ‘And I did get a big pile of flyers to hand out. The circus is off to Huntly next, and no one pays any attention to people handing out flyers.’ He handed one to Logan, and . . . got to admit the wee loon had a point.
Even if he was a weapons-grade twit.
There was a little remote extension attached to Logan’s Airwave – cable running from the handset in his inside pocket, all the way down his sleeve. He raised it to his mouth and pressed the button, keeping the thing hidden, as if he were covering a cough. ‘DI Steel?’
Silence from the earpiece.
A frown pulled at Tufty’s tiger face as he wiggled his earpiece too.
Let’s have another go: ‘Roberta . . . Flipping Steel, report!’
Scrunch, munch, munch, followed by a muffled, ‘Sod off. I’m eating a toffee apple.’
‘Do you want to go back to being Detective Sergeant Non Grata? Because the Logan giveth, and the Logan can taketh away.’
‘Bludgering hell . . .’ Crunch, crunch, crunch.
‘No sign of target at eastern entrance. Happy now?’ Scrunch.
‘Still say this is a stupid plan. We should take MacGarioch when he’s in the big top: way smaller space to secure than the whole park.
Which means less potential for him running away and us looking like clueless twunts. ’
Not this again.
‘We’ve only got seven people, OK? We take him soon as he’s takeable. Had enough disasters this week, thank you very much.’
Crunch, crunch, munch. ‘Won’t be saying that when he’s halfway down Craigie Loanings, and we’re still stood here with our pants round our ankles.’
A second little-big cat appeared at Tufty’s shoulder – every bit as short as he was, with oatcake-blonde hair in a ponytail, quirky smile, and a button nose.
In a ‘KLINGON BALLET’ T-shirt. She’d clearly been at the same face-painting stand, only instead of a tiger, she’d gone full-on leopard.
Made extra weird by a pair of glasses over the top.
The wee loon beamed. ‘Total coincidence: Kate had tickets for tonight too! Wink, wink.’ He threw in an actual wink, as if saying it hadn’t been clear enough. ‘So we is joining forces, cos she is both a police-officer-type person and highly skilled ninja thing. And won’t charge for the overtime.’
Kate grinned. ‘Guv.’
‘Oooooh . . .’ Elizabeth bounced on her feet, staring at Tufty’s feline bidie-in. ‘That is so cool!’ Grabbing Tara’s hand. ‘Can we, Mum? Can we? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeathe? I want to be a dinosaur! RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAWRRRR!’
Was there something in the water? Or was everyone always this daft?
Crunch, crunch, mumble. ‘And while we’re at it: why can’t everyone just shut their sodding yap till something happens?’
Yeah . . . There was the distinct possibility that Logan wasn’t entirely in control of the situation any more.
OK. Take charge.
He pointed off into the funfair. ‘Yes. You and Mummy should definitely go do that. Off you go. Daddy has people to arrest.’
‘“Report in!”, “Report in!” It’s nothing more than an ego trip for snudgewadgers and . . . scrunknips!’
Tara stuck her hand out at Logan. ‘Tickets.’
‘Here you goes.’ Tufty passed two over. ‘When you get to the face-painting tent, tell Courtney I did send you and she’ll give you mates’ rates!’
‘What do you think we’re gonna do, if MacGarioch turns up and it’s not “report in” time? Keep it a frunking secret?’
With a happy wave, Tara and Elizabeth disappeared into the crowd – off to be dinosaurised.
‘It’s no’ as if MacGarioch’s even going to show. I could be home with my swanky new haircut, my wife, a DVD of Colette, and a jar of Nutella right now. Nothing’s happening! It’s all a waste of—’
Barrett: ‘Aaaaaand we’re on the move. Secondary targets are drinking up and exiting the Queen Vic now.’
Logan pressed the call button. ‘Still no sign of MacGarioch?’
‘Negative.’ A schrooooomphing noise crackled in the earpiece, then: ‘Yeah, they’re getting in an Uber . . . Sounds like they’re headed your way. Will follow on.’
‘Is excitement time!’ Tufty beamed at him, like a disturbing thing from the island of Dr Moreau.
Kate rolled her shoulders, as if gearing up to ninja someone.
And all around, the crowd flowed by, like a slow-moving river.
Biohazard: ‘We’re on, my sticky little friends! That’s Randolph Hay entering the park by the south entrance with a group of people. Repeat: south entrance.’
‘Is Charles MacGarioch with them?’ Come on . . .
‘Don’t see him. Just a bunch of teenagers and some wee kids.’
Logan headed for the park’s south entrance, not pushing and shoving, moving just fast enough not to draw attention, with Tufty and Kate following in his wake.
‘Everyone hold your positions – he might try sneaking in by another entrance.’ Letting go of the button to gently thump Tufty on the shoulder.
‘Get ready. The bastard doesn’t get away this time. ’
The crowds thinned out a bit when they reached the access road that bisected Westburn Park, thickening again on the other side as people queued for the more popular rides. Now where was . . .?
Ah – over there.
Ralph Hay, with a handful of teens from yesterday’s barbecue and a bunch of weenies. Who all seemed super excited to be here.
No sign of Charles MacGarioch.
He’d be here soon though, right? Performance started in sixteen minutes . . .
Pfff . . .
Logan stood in the shadow of the half-arsed ‘Haunted’ House, that made ‘spooky’ sounds on a ninety-second loop while a thrash-metal version of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ battered out, and the barker did her best to whip-up some punters with a bullhorn:
‘Dare you brave what lurks in the darkness? Dare you take the Blood Road to the very gates of Hell . . . itself?’
Which was a bit over the top, given the haunted house had a ‘YOU HAVE TO BE THIS TALL TO RIDE →’ out front that was slightly shorter than Elizabeth.
And still no Charles MacGarioch.
Biohazard: ‘Incoming.’
Maybe this was it?
Marshall Carter, Alexis Cunningham, and Jericho McQueen wandered up the road, all rosy-cheeked and smiling after their ‘couple of pints’ in Rosemount. Taking in the deafening sights and garish wibbles.
Logan shrunk back against the ride.
The three of them met up with Ralph Hay – all hugs and cheek-kisses and ruffling the weenies’ hair. Who didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture any more than Elizabeth.
Zero evidence of Charles MacGarioch.
Where the hell was he?
Perhaps the legendary loyalty and never-missing-an-orphan-outing had been a bit . . . exaggerated?
Or maybe the Orphan Club had got together to persuade MacGarioch to sit this one out, because the police were after him?
Or maybe, Logan had just got this whole thing wrong?
It’d hardly be the first time.
Probably wouldn’t be the last, either.
He checked his watch – ten minutes till showtime.
Come on, come on, come on, come on . . .
Logan pressed the button. ‘He’s going to turn up eventually. Charles MacGarioch never misses these things.’
Hopefully.