Chapter 71
Sunlight streamed in through the window, making the dusty black flakes sparkle as Logan scraped the burnt bits off his toast, into the sink.
Which turned the low-fat spread a bit grey as he slathered it on. But it was all going in the same place as his mug of tea, so it didn’t really matter.
Technically, given he was in full uniform again this morning – complete with a third pip on each epaulette – it should’ve been coffee and doughnuts for breakfast, but you made do with what you had.
Something folky high-diddle-de-deed out of the radio, to accompany Logan’s return trip to the fridge – there to liberate, unwrap, and flop the last slice of plastic cheese onto his hot can’t-believe-it’s-not-buttery toast.
Crunching away, as the teeny birds mobbed the feeders in the back garden. Like a swarm of itsy-bitsy feathery sharks. All the borders were in bloom, a sea of colour for the bumbling bees. Quite bucolic, for a Friday morning in Aberdeen.
Have to give that grass a mow before the barbecue, though.
The microwave’s clock blinked over to 06:18.
Soon be time to get a wriggle on.
And speaking of wriggling: Cthulhu tarted about on the patio, rolling over onto her back and exposing the World’s Most Excellent Tummy to the morning light.
The kitchen door opened and in sludged Tara, in a floaty kimono-dressing-gown that showed off a lot of leg, while a yawn showed off a lot of fillings. Hair like Worzel Gummidge in a wind tunnel.
Logan polished off his last corner of toast. ‘How come you’re up?’
Another yawn. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Kept having all these really weird dreams about clowns and dinosaurs and tigers . . .’ She frowned. ‘You weren’t there, but I couldn’t find my socks. And Tufty kept turning into a penguin.’
‘Bet Freud would have a field day.’
‘Urgh . . . That’s Friday the thirteenth for you.’ She slouched over to the fridge and took a couple of glugs straight from the milk carton, while scratching the back of one calf with her other foot. Very stylish.
Logan downed the last of his tea. ‘You’ve got the table manners of a Labrador, you know that don’t you?’ Putting the mug in the sink. ‘Don’t forget to pick up that stuff for Sunday, OK? List’s on the noticeboard.’
‘I know, I know.’ She rummaged through the fridge. ‘You want sausages, chicken, pork chops, hotdogs, blah, wankity blah.’ Then squinted at him. ‘What happened to all the plastic cheese?’
‘And go large on the booze: you know what off-duty police and trading standards are like.’ He kissed her on the cheek.
‘Don’t know when I’ll be home tonight, depends what happens.
And tomorrow’s a write-off with this stupid protest.’ He drooped against the worktop.
‘Really looking forward to a quiet day at home.’
‘Good job we’ve got thirty-one people coming for Sunday lunch then, isn’t it?’
‘Thirty-one? You said it was going to be a “small gathering”! Are you trying to kill me, you horrible snudge of a woman?’
The clock hit 06:20.
‘Better shoot. Text you later, Fornicator.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and marched for the door.
‘Hoy: Fart-Fish!’
He turned, halfway out the door, and Tara whipped her kimono open and flashed him. Throwing in a little jiggle for good luck. Then hid it all away again.
Logan groaned.
She grinned. ‘See? You love me really.’
True.
But there was no time to do anything about it right now.
‘. . . coming up in a minute, but it’s half six, so it’s time for the papers. The P-and-J leads with “Search Ongoing For Missing Media Mogul”, detailing police efforts to find local press baron, Natasha Agapova.’
Logan cruised along North Deeside Road – with the window down and one arm leaning on the sill – through one of Aberdeen’s more affluent bits. The trees offering a bit of cool shade as the sun scorched its way up the sky.
Not a lot of traffic this morning, but then it was still pretty early. A familiar tartan van approached on the other side of the road, with ‘AUCHTERTURRA GLAZING COMPANY LTD’ down the side. Its battered and dented rear wing held together with duct tape and hope.
‘The Scottish Daily Post goes all in on: “Migrant Gang Plot To Kidnap Newspaper Natasha” and there’s more coverage on pages three, four, seven, and eight – including an exclusive interview with Natasha Agapova’s husband: news tycoon Adrian Shearsmith.’
Who had to be up for a Vindictive Ex-Husband of The Year award by now.
‘While the Aberdeen Examiner’s gone for “Sicko Sent Hate-Mail Threats To Abducted Editor”. Asking: if these threats were common knowledge before she was kidnapped, why didn’t the police do anything about it?’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Logan flipped two fingers up at the radio. ‘How about because they didn’t tell us about them till yesterday afternoon!’
Honestly.
The Marcliffe at Pitfodels drifted by on the left, or at least the entrance did, the hotel itself was hidden away behind a riot of trees and assorted greenery.
A bilious man in the full kilt-and-Prince-Charlie outfit stiff-legged it down the drive and out onto the pavement, heading for town. Clearly escaping from whatever wedding he’d attended last night.
Hope he wasn’t the groom . . .
‘. . . and they’ve also got a big spread on pages four and five that deserves a mention: “City Cops Cause Circus Chaos”. And the photos that go with it are well worth a look. Especially if you’ve never seen an undercover policeman with a clown in a headlock . . .’
Logan switched the radio off and glowered.
Nothing like spoiling a beautiful morning.
The stale-digestive-biscuit scent of old feet mingled with the sharp cumin-and-chilli whiff of Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle, filling Observation Suite Number Two.
Three empty cartons in the bin testified to the whiff’s provenance, but raised some disturbing questions about who’d been in here last and what they considered a balanced breakfast . . .
It was a smallish space, with a bench table and a couple of squealy blue plastic chairs, four flatscreen monitors, some push-button microphones, and a worryingly enthusiastic Tufty.
But at least he’d made Logan a mug of instant coffee, rather than fetching something revolting from the machine, so as long as he kept his gusto to himself, that was OK.
The four screens displayed various views of Interview Room Number One – each camera mounted high up, in the corners of the room, and trained on the table where Biohazard and Doreen did their best to get the truth out of Charles MacGarioch.
Which was far more difficult than it should’ve been, thanks to his ‘duty solicitor’.
MacGarioch was in grey joggy-bots and a fading blue T-shirt: presumably lent to him by whoever was on the custody desk this morning. While his legal representative wore a suit that probably cost more than his client earned in a year.
Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA: Hissing Sid – a tall, thin man who looked as if he’d shrunk a couple of sizes since he last wore that particular Savile Row number.
His hair was swept back like a bank of snow, with only a few streaks of grey left amongst the white.
But then he had to be in his late seventies now.
With a matching silk-tie-and-pocket-square, and a superior tilt to his long nose.
Waiting to strike.
Charles MacGarioch shifted in his seat, looking away with a one-shouldered shrug as the silence stretched on.
Hissing Sid shook his head, as if saddened by having to explain something blatantly obvious to someone thick as plasticine.
‘My client has already informed you, Acting Detective Inspector Marshall: he is not a racist, does not hold any racist beliefs, and has never discriminated against anyone because of their skin colour or country of birth. Now, can we move on, please?’
Biohazard leaned forwards. ‘Then why burn down a hotel full of migrants, Charlie? Help me understand.’
MacGarioch just looked at his solicitor.
A smile. ‘Perhaps this interview would progress more easily if you took notes as we go? Then you’d be able to see that my client has already denied these baseless allegations.
’ Hissing Sid waved a patriarchal arm towards the camera.
‘It’s not a problem for me, per se – I’ve got nothing on till lunch with the Lord Provost – but I understand there’s a lot more pressing things that you and your colleagues could be getting on with? ’
Doreen had a go. ‘If you didn’t do it, Charlie, how do you explain the jerry can we found with your fingerprints all over it? What could’ve caused that?’
MacGarioch picked at the tabletop, eyes focussed on the chipped Formica. ‘Dunno.’
There was a sharp knock on the observation-room door and Chief Superintendent Pine strode in without waiting. Frowning at the monitors.
Logan stood. ‘Boss.’
‘DCI McRae, I need a word.’
On all four monitors, Hissing Sid sighed. ‘Surely it’s not illegal for a young man to help a friend in need to refuel their car. Or has that changed since I last practised criminal law?’
‘Yes, Boss.’ He thumped Tufty. ‘Give the Chief Super your seat.’
The wee loon scrambled out of his chair and snapped to attention. Then made seat-offering gestures. Like a creepy waiter.
Pine sat anyway. ‘Thank you.’
‘Or perhaps it’s because the petrol can in question was in the bin for landfill, rather than correctly sorted for recycling? I wasn’t aware Police Scotland were so keen on environmental issues.’
Logan pointed at the smug git in the sharp suit. ‘I know you said they owed you a favour, Boss, but could you not’ve asked for someone a little less . . . him?’
‘Mr Moir-Farquharson volunteered. Turns out he’s mostly retired now; does a bit of consulting, one day a week.’ A grimace. ‘This is his idea of “keeping his hand in”.’
Doreen checked her notes. ‘Whose car were you refuelling?’
‘Was Spence, wasn’t it. On account of him . . .’ MacGarioch’s mouth clamped shut. That lone shoulder curled its way towards his ear again. ‘Running out, like.’