Chapter 76
Tufty poked and clicked at the borrowed laptop, wheeling a finger round and around the trackpad. Like everything around here, the machine was festooned with NorrelTech logos.
A bunch of wires stuck out the side, snaking across the BMW’s driver’s seat and into a USB port.
Logan huffed out a breath. ‘Are you done yet?’
‘Almost there . . . Almost there . . .’
Been saying that for the last five minutes.
Logan turned and parked his bum against the van in the next bay.
And there was Nick Wilson: watching from an upstairs window, chewing away at the fingers on one hand. Probably worrying where all this was going. And how he could spin it so his wife wouldn’t get everything in the divorce.
Yeah, good luck with that.
Logan’s phone launched into ‘Ode To Joy’. Might as well. Just hanging about here anyway. He checked the caller ID, then pressed the green button. ‘Spudgun?’
‘Aye, Guv? Yeah, you wanted someone to have a chat with Graeme Anderson, our local Racist In Chief? Scummer says the Anglo Saxon Defence Group has just as much right to march on Saturday as the rest of them. Called me a fascist. Twice.’ A sniff.
‘Which was a bit ironic, given his stance on the old democratic process. And invited me to bugger off out of it before he set his swanky-pants lawyers on me for harassment. Only he put it more politely, being a public schoolboy and all that wank.’
‘Think they’re going to behave themselves?’
‘At the protest?’
Silence.
‘Spudgun?’
‘Having myself a wee think, Guv. See, pricks like Anderson like to talk the talk, but they like others to walk it. That way they can take credit if it all goes to plan, and denounce it if it doesn’t. So I’m guessing no.’
‘You give him a friendly word to the wise?’
‘That’s when he threatened us with legal action. But yeah.’
‘OK, thanks, Spudgun. Put the word out, though – anyone hears anything about the ASDG, I want to know about it, OK?’
‘Guv.’ And he was gone.
Logan put his phone away. ‘Are you still at it?’
‘Almost there . . .’ Tufty’s wee pink tongue popped out between his teeth as he poked and clicked some more.
Then sat back on his haunches, firing finger-guns at the dashboard.
‘Peeew! Peeew! And I has blowed up the Deathstar!’ He unplugged the USB cable and handed it back to Dougie.
‘Thanks.’ Shutting the laptop. ‘I’ll get this back to you soon as. ’
Dougie shrugged. ‘No skin off my cock. Not like I use the thing anyway.’
The back door swung open and out scrunched Steel, hat firmly wedged on her head, sipping from an overbranded NorrelTech mug.
She jerked her chin at Dougie. ‘Does it no’ roast your balls, working for a greasy wee shite like that?’
Logan winced. ‘What . . . Don’t! OK? Just . . .’ He turned to Dougie. ‘I apologise for my colleague. That was unprofessional and uncalled for. If you want to make a formal complaint—’
‘Nah: she’s right. Nick is a greasy wee shite. His wife’s properly lovely, and there’s him shagging his way round every slapper in Aberdeen. “Oooh, come see my yacht, come see my yacht . . .”’ Dougie tossed the cable into the car. ‘Getting too old to be running round after arseholes.’
‘Aye.’ Steel patted his arm. ‘Me too.’
Logan’s phone launched into ‘Ode To Joy’ as they headed back towards the pool car, and when he checked the caller ID, there was ‘SPUDGUN’ glowing away in the middle of the screen.
He poked the button. ‘This better be good news.’
Could tell by the pitch of Spudgun’s voice that it wasn’t. ‘Aye, Guv? All hands on deck: we’ve just had a call . . .’