Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
‘Rough night, boss?’
Tyler dumped his bag on the floor by his desk, and was halfway through taking off his jacket before he realised the Big Board had been stripped bare.
‘Oh! Shit! What? Did we miss it?’
Sinead, who had entered the Incident Room a couple of paces behind her husband, stopped when she saw the look on Logan’s face.
‘You OK, sir?’ she asked. ‘What happened?’
And so, he told them. About Bosco, and the bothy, and Sergeant Fleck’s involvement in the murders.
About his plan, and his motive.
About his death.
Curtis Neil had been arrested, along with the other members of HAWKS who had gathered to watch Bosco Maximuke face Fleck’s brand of justice.
Curtis had already confessed to pulling the trigger on Kendrick Crichton, and slitting the throat of Victor Belov after Fleck stunned him with a blow to the skull.
He denied any knowledge of a woman being at the scene. His girlfriend, Cassidy, claimed not to know about it either.
It would all come out in the wash, Jack was sure.
The banker, Archie Howden, hadn’t been present in the bothy.
He’d been picked up in his office at the Caledonian, where he’d babbled out a story about how he hadn’t wanted to get involved with the relocation of Eleanor Belov’s fortune, how he’d been forced into it, how he hadn’t been left with any choice.
Maybe there was some truth in that. Maybe there wasn’t. Either way, his banking days were over. Probably his free man days, too.
‘I can’t believe we missed all that!’ Tyler cried. ‘We just fell asleep in front of the telly watching Junior Bake Off.’
‘What about the money?’ Sinead asked. ‘Eleanor’s millions?’
Logan deferred that one to Dave Davidson, though his answer wasn’t exactly conclusive.
‘Dunno. Might well be lost.’
‘All of it?’ Tyler practically squeaked.
Dave shrugged. ‘She might be able to get it back. There are, like, retrieval specialists who might be able to help her.’ He didn’t sound confident. ‘Fingers crossed she does, because it’s not going to reflect well on the polis if one of ours has half-inched the lot of it right under our noses.’
‘Shite. Aye,’ Tyler mumbled. ‘That’s a point.’
Logan finished filling them in on how the night had wrapped up. The charges that had been brought. The lives that had likely been ruined forever.
What he didn’t tell them about was everything after that. His return home to a house that had been empty aside from an excited dog, and a note from Shona telling him they needed some time and some space, and not to call. Not yet. Not for a while.
Under the desk, Taggart let out a soft huff, like he was reading Logan’s mind, and either empathising with him, or holding him personally responsible.
It was hard to say which, with a dug.
A burst of chatter from the entrance drew all eyes to the door. Hamza and Ben came striding in, the older man leading the way with a white paper bag that bulged at the seams.
‘Morning, all!’ Ben declared.
‘You back again?’ Logan asked.
‘Can’t keep you away, eh, boss? Old boss. Ex-boss. Whatever,’ Tyler said.
‘Funny you should say that,’ Ben said. He set the bag on Logan’s desk before addressing the room. ‘I’ve had a great time. It’s been a blast. Seriously. It’s been good to feel part of it again.’
He smiled fondly, dwelling right here in this moment for as long as he could.
‘But you lot don’t need me anymore. Hamza sure as hell doesn’t!
’ He shushed the DI when he started to object.
‘You don’t. None of you do. And that’s good.
Because I am too bloody old to be chasing masked men in transit vans.
With my knees? Not a chance! I’ll stick to drawing cocks on people’s cappuccinos. ’
‘I knew it,’ Logan said. ‘I knew those weren’t bloody fern leaves!’
Ben cackled. When he stopped, the smile stayed behind. ‘I’ll no’ be far away. Just over the back. You know where to find me.’
He leaned over and unwrapped the top of the bag.
‘Oh, and a wee parting token for you all.’
Tearing the paper bag down one side, he revealed an assortment of muffins, pastries, and cream-filled cakes.
‘Aw, nice one!’ Tyler said.
Dave rolled himself in closer. ‘Bagsy that Portuguese tart.’
‘Thanks for this,’ Logan said.
‘No bother.’ Ben held out a hand. ‘Twelve fifty.’
Logan snorted. ‘Aye. Good one.’
Ben’s hand remained outstretched. An eyebrow raised. ‘Come on now, Jack,’ he said, and though there was a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, Logan knew the old bugger had never been more serious about anything in his life. ‘You think I’m made of money?’
Tyler made the tea, and then they all set about the cakes. Ben helped himself to a coconut finger, despite Logan having paid for the whole bloody lot from his own pocket just moments before.
They spoke then. About the case and its potential repercussions. There would be paperwork, of course. Lots of paperwork. Internal investigations to be complied with, questions to ask and to answer.
Going forward, there would be long days and late nights, other killers and other deaths.
And there would be cakes. And tea. And all of them together like this.
Once the cups were empty and the last crumbs devoured, Ben led Hamza to the DI’s desk, glanced around to make sure they weren’t being watched, then quietly slid open a hidden panel in the top drawer, revealing two Tunnock’s Tea Cakes and a Time Out.
He tapped the side of his nose, winked, and then slid the compartment closed again. And with that, the handover was officially complete.
‘Detective Constables Neish, Bell.’
Nobody had seen or heard Detective Superintendent Mitchell enter the room, but there she was now, standing just a few feet away, like she’d been beamed down from outer space.
There was a seriousness to her tone—a rigidity that told them she was fully in work mode. Not that she ever truly wasn’t.
‘Follow me to my office, please. The panel has reached its decision.’
Tyler sprang to his feet, like he’d been waiting for this moment, and was desperate for it to be over with. Beside him, Sinead took a moment to wipe the crumbs from her desk before tossing them into the waste-paper basket below it.
She stood up, dusting herself down, and then nodded to say she was ready.
‘Jack? Do you want to come sit in?’ Mitchell asked.
Logan stifled a yawn, then rose to his feet.
‘Aye, why not?’ he rumbled, following them towards the door. ‘I could do with a laugh.’
When they reached Mitchell’s office, two chairs had been positioned across from her own. She gestured for Tyler and Sinead to take them, leaving Logan to stand leaning against the door, arms folded, ready to watch all this play out.
Tyler sat so far back he practically reclined. Sinead crossed her legs, adjusted her trousers, then crossed them again the other way before placing her hands on her knee.
‘First of all, the panel wanted me to apologise for the delay in reaching their decision,’ Mitchell said, taking her seat across the desk.
‘That free breakfast prove just too tempting?’ Logan asked.
The detective superintendent didn’t react to that. Nor did she disagree with it.
‘The interview, of course, was just one part of the process. The panel also took into account your records, your references—including from DCI Logan and myself—and even your time spent in training and in uniform.’
She smiled at them both, but it was a well-rehearsed and clinical thing.
‘I have to say, you were very evenly matched. You should both be proud of your accomplishments. As I am.’
‘Thanks, ma’am,’ Sinead said.
‘Aye, cheers, ma’am,’ Tyler agreed.
‘In the end, it came down to the interview itself,’ Mitchell continued.
‘Sinead, it was unanimously agreed that you presented yourself very well, with competence and authority. You knew your stuff, and when there were gaps in your knowledge, you spoke confidently about how you would work to fill those in.’
Sinead blushed. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘Tyler.’ Mitchell shifted her weight, making her chair groan beneath her. ‘You took a somewhat more… unorthodox approach to the interview process, and the panel agreed that it wasn’t something we’d ever care to sit through again.’
Sinead frowned and shot her husband a curious look. Tyler shrugged, playing dumb, fighting very hard to hide the smile that was trying its damndest to spread across his face.
Across the desk, Detective Superintendent Mitchell cleared her throat.
‘However.’
Something about the tone of it made Logan straighten up.
‘They also agreed that it showed a real dedication to your team, and a willingness to put their needs before your own,’ the detective superintendent continued, in a tone that suggested she didn’t quite believe the words coming out of her mouth.
‘They believe you acted selflessly, and without thought to your own needs or, indeed, your own dignity.’
‘Wait, what?’ Tyler said.
Mitchell clasped her hands together, fingers interlocked.
‘Those qualities, they believe, are precisely what we should be looking for in our more senior roles. Empathy. Leadership. The instinct to put team before self.’
Oh, God, Logan thought. Oh, God, surely not?
Mitchell stood, extending a hand across the desk.
‘Congratulations,’ she said, ‘Detective Sergeant Neish.’
Tyler stared at the hand, then twisted in his seat to look at Sinead. She was beaming at him, happy for him, her smile almost fully concealing just the faintest hint of disappointment in her eyes.
Tyler looked back over his shoulder at Logan, who appeared to be almost as shocked as he was.
He turned back to the detective superintendent and the hand she was holding out towards him.
‘Oh.’
He swallowed.
Grimaced.
‘Oh, shite!’
Logan left them to it and returned to the Incident Room, only to find it empty.
Nearly empty, anyway. Taggart lay under a desk, flat on his back with his legs in the air, snoring softly as his tail twitched and wagged in his sleep.
Logan crept in and closed the door quietly so as not to wake him up. Let him rest. He needed it after being kept awake all night by Jack’s pacing back and forth, and all his muttered self-recriminations.
He sat in his chair, took out his phone, and checked for messages.
Nothing.
He considered firing one off. A quick hello. An apology. Something that said he got it, he understood, and he’d be waiting to fix things when the time was right.
If the time was ever right.
He opened the app to write something, but stopped when Taggart’s head slipped onto his lap. The dog’s big brown eyes looked up at him in silence. Once again, Logan got the impression the animal was trying to tell him something.
Once again, he didn’t have the first bloody clue what it was.
‘Aye, I see you,’ he said, patting the dog behind the ears.
He pressed the button to return his phone to standby mode, and dropped it on his desk. It was only then that he noticed the flowers. They sat beside his computer monitor in a little cellophane-wrapped presentation box. Yellow and pale blue something-or-others. He had no idea what.
A small card was fastened to the box, his name printed on the front in large but neat block capitals.
JACK.
It wasn’t Shona’s handwriting. He wasn’t that lucky.
He plucked the card from its envelope, revealing a cartoon drawing of a cowboy on a bucking bronco.
Turning it over, he read the message on the back. It was written in the same careful style as his name on the envelope.
CRUSHED IT, BUDDY! it read. And then, below that:
BEST WISHES, BUCK HOWDY.
Logan considered the card. He considered the flowers.
Then, he picked both up, and dumped them straight in the waste-paper basket beside his desk.
‘Aye, well, he can fuck off with that,’ he said.
And then, as Taggart curled up at his feet once again, he got back to work.