Chapter 73
The pool car crawled along Auchmill Road, through a forest of orange traffic cones. No idea why they were there though – thousands and thousands of the things: sod-all evidence of anyone doing any work.
Should rechristen them ‘Roadnotworks’.
The radio burbled away to itself, but Tufty wasn’t boogying along in the driver’s seat. Instead, he was making sour-frog faces and doing lots of sighing.
Lounging in the back, Steel was still wearing her peaked cap, kicking the back of his seat every now and then. Scowling away.
Which left Logan in the passenger seat, working through Doreen’s one-page reports on all the sharny cases he’d inherited. Blah, blah, blah, blah . . .
Ding-buzz.
Probably better check that. Never knew: might be important.
And even if it wasn’t it was better than reading all this boring rubbish.
TARA:
GOOD NEWS!
Susan says she can get me into Costco on her card.
We’re going after work to buy MUCHO FOOD!
AND BOOZE!!!
‘Hmmmph.’ Steel kicked Tufty’s seat again. ‘Said we should’ve taken the bypass.’
‘It’s not my fault they has roadworks everywhere!’
Another kick. ‘Straight out Hazlehead, get on at the Kingswells junction, and we’d be there by now.’
Logan poked out a reply:
If you see something nice for tea – nab it.
And maybe some corn on the cob?
And a cheap piano wouldn’t hurt.
Do they sell pianos?
SEND.
Aaaaand back to the reports.
Tufty raised a finger. ‘You know what I think?’
Kick. ‘You don’t think, that’s the problem.’
Actually:
Maybe a keyboard would be better?
One with headphones she can plug in, so we don’t have to listen to her practising.
I does has a GENIUS!
Hold on a minute.
Logan blinked at the last line. Oh, no, no, no, no, no . . . he had clearly been spending FAR too much time with Tufty.
He gave himself a shake and deleted that bit.
SEND.
The horrible wee spud had his finger up again: ‘I think the press would be happier if something horrible does happen to Natasha Agapova. Did you see that thing in the Scottish Daily Post this morning? Flipping wingwang!’
And it was back to the reports again. For real this time.
He turned to Operation ‘Drugs In Lithuanian Teddy Bears’, skimming the complete lack of any progress. Glanced at Tufty. ‘What about the Post?’
‘Well . . .’ Cranking up the gossipy vibe. ‘They say there was this big plot by some of the people-smuggling gangs – joining forces in a League Of Evil Sticky Foreigners – to kidnap Ms Agapova and torture her and send some of her fingers to her husband with a demand for fifteen million quids!’
Steel snorted. ‘Boll . . . derdash.’ Giving Tufty’s seat another kick. ‘And who told the Post this rubbish: Princess Porkies the Lie Fairy?’
‘Apparently it’s because Ms Agapova’s been “leading the crusade to stop the boats” and “save our proud nation” from “woke lefty traitors” who want to “flood the country with—” Ow!’
Steel thumped him again. ‘Stop making quote bunnies when you’re driving!’
The wee loon’s bottom lip poked out. ‘Only going three miles an hour.’ He rubbed at his walloped arm. ‘Sa-arge, she’s hitting me!’
‘Aye, well it’s for your own good. Says so in the Highway Code.’
Logan finished the last page, flipped it over, then back again. Frowning as he rifled through the small stack of paper. ‘Where’s the summary for Operation . . . what was it, “Disappointment”?’ Digging out his phone to call Doreen.
Tufty sniffed. ‘Bet the Highway Code says you’re not allowed to biff the driver while he’s driving!’
‘Can if he’s a dangerous wee snudgehead.’
‘Boss?’ The sound of clacking boot-heels on a terrazzo floor, rattled from the phone. ‘Is it urgent, only I’m bursting for a comfort break and the MAPPA meeting kicks off in ten.’
‘Been going through your cheat sheets and I can’t find one for Operation “Find Natasha Agapova”.’
‘You mean “Disenchanter”? That’s cos I didn’t do you one. Thought you were all up to date; otherwise, why leave Biohazard running the MacGarioch interview?’
‘Because you and him are the only trained interviewers on dayshift. Every bugger else is off with The Pestilence.’
Her voice took on a pained whine. ‘Guv . . .?’ Then a groan. ‘All right, all right, all right.’ There was a thunk and the sound went all echoey. As if Doreen had bustled into some sort of largish tiled space. ‘What do you want to know?’
A smaller clunk, and the sound became a bit compressed. As if she was now in a much smaller room. But still strangely echoey.
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t have to ask.’
An even smaller clunk was followed by some rustling. Then: thump. ‘Hold on . . .’
The pool car inched a little further along Auchmill Road, past yet more Roadnotworking cones – some of which wore those jaunty orange blinking lights, so people would be extra vigilant about the workmen who weren’t here not doing anything.
Steel pulled her hat on a little tighter. Then kicked Tufty’s seat again.
‘Stop that! Saa-arge, she’s doing it again!’
A sigh of relief slumped into Logan’s ear, then: ‘OK, let’s check the folder . . . Right: Forensics are having another bash getting DNA from Agapova’s house, no joy yet, but they’re trying some fancy new technique to amplify samples.’
At which point, the muffled sound of flushing came down the line.
Urgh . . .
‘Doreen, you better not be on the—’
‘You want this info, or don’t you? . . .
Thought so.’ The gurgling whoosh of a cistern refilling.
Or at least hopefully that’s what the noise was.
‘Says here: Biohazard’s team is still working their way through Andrew Shaw’s associates.
Nothing sticks out yet. They even spoke to everyone at the gym he used, but they were sod-all help.
And looks like his mum’s threatening to sue us for defamation.
No way her precious wee angel could possibly have raped all those women; rant, rant, rant, rant. ’
Yeah, good luck with that.
‘Murder weapon?’
‘Probably a hammer, going by the skull fractures. Greedy seagulls didn’t help, though. They’ve bloodied the water by . . . urgh . . . eating a bunch of the evidence.’
‘No sign of the hammer?’
‘We could dredge the River Dee, if you like, or get a scuba team in? Won’t be cheap, though.’
Tough one. Maybe adding thousands to the budget would be worth it, if they found the thing.
Assuming they could get prints or DNA off it after all this time in the water.
And assuming it was even in the river in the first place.
Because if it wasn’t, the bean-counters at head office would be crawling up his fundament, wanting to know why he’d blown so much money on a dead end.
Logan frowned at the slow-motion creep of traffic along Auchmill Road.
‘Better let me clear it with the Boss.’ And in the meantime, perhaps there was an opportunity here?
Worth a go, anyway. He cleared his throat.
‘Speaking of operational budgetary constraints: have you ever calculated overtime variance against KPI baselines? Because if not, I may have a treat for you . . .’
NorrelTech Wellhead Intervention Limited turned out to be an ugly, two-storey, green-and-white building, wedged in between a logistics-distribution warehouse and a wellhead-service yard.
Both of which were surrounded by full-on prison-style jagged metal fencing topped with razor wire, CCTV cameras, and warning notices.
Clearly, NorrelTech was big on branding, with far too much signage and liveried vehicles featuring the company logo in shades of green, blue, and yellow. Like a cut-price Bond-villain’s lair.
Tufty parked in one of the ‘VISITORS ONLY’ slots around the front, but there was a bigger area out back full of electric vans and cars, where a white-haired bearded gent was washing the company fleet with a big soggy sponge and not much enthusiasm.
Logan, Steel, and the wee loon climbed out into the blistering sun.
‘There.’ Tufty plipped the locks. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’
Steel hit him, then popped on her pilfered shades. ‘You’re an idiot. Mr Rumpole can drive better than you, and he’s a cat.’
‘Ow! Saaaaaa-aaarge!’
Logan pulled on his peaked cap. ‘Can we at least pretend to be professionals for five minutes?’ He jabbed a finger at Tufty.
‘You: stay here. And take the bypass next time.’ The finger poked in Steel’s direction.
‘You: stop hitting people.’ That got him a scowl.
‘Don’t care. And when we’re inside, you’re on taking notes and asking follow-ups.
No letching, troublemaking, or being a pain in my hoop – otherwise you can help Doreen with the budget-variance, soon as we get back to the factory, understand? ’
She squared her shoulders. ‘You remembering I used to be your boss, you jumped-up, trouser-faced, wee . . . Hoy, don’t march off while I’m insulting you!’
The reception door bweep-bwopped as Logan stepped into NorrelTech-logo central.
A huge, 3D version dominated one wall. Posters featuring it and various bits of equipment covered most of the other three, while what looked like an old exhibition-display-stand thing stood behind the reception desk, clarted in little NorrelTechs.
Even the desk had a big logo on the front.
As if the owners were worried that visitors might forget what they came in for.
A middle-aged blonde woman with a faint horsey air was poised behind the desk, in a black suit, with a NorrelTech neck scarf.
Which sort-of gave her the look of a flight attendant.
Her name badge said ‘MANDY’ but her expression was more ‘I DON’T GET PAID ENOUGH FOR THIS SHIT’.
She forced a smile anyway. ‘Can I help you?’
Logan removed his hat. ‘Looking for a Nicholas Wilson.’
‘Twice in two days? Are you going to arrest him this time?’
Hmmm . . . ‘Should I?’
The smile warmed a little. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here. Please: take a seat.’