Well, you never knew your luck, did you...?
Logan slumped along Balmoral Place, sticking to the pavement this time. The dented Porsche was gone, along with its angry driver, and so had the quarrelling OAPs. Leaving behind the chirp of birdsong and the sound of violins and a choir, coming from one of the houses – mournful,darkmusic that clashed with the vibrant gardens and flowering shrubs.
And fitted today perfectly.
A voice from across the road:‘Aye, aye.’
Great.
Colin Miller lurked against a tree, suit jacket hooked on a finger, over his shoulder, as if out for a stroll on the piazza in Venice. He gave Logan a wee salute with his free hand. ‘Miss me?’
Nope.
Logan kept going. ‘Can we not, today? Haven’t got the energy for sparring.’
‘Busy day for you, the day.’ Colin fell in beside him. ‘It’s no’ bad going, though: murder-victim-discovered-in-the-river mid-morning, ID’d by teatime.’
‘We haven’t ID’d anyone.’
Wink. ‘Courseyou haven’t.’
‘Thought you were meeting your new owner.’
‘Aye, right. The great Ms Agapovastillhasnae shown. Probably off swanking it up with her posh-and-or-rich chums.’ A sniff. ‘She’s just doing it to torture me.’ Then Colin put on an Australian accent so bad it would strip the hair off a koala at thirty paces: ‘“Nah-but-yeah, keep the poor bugger hangin’, he’ll be fair-dinkum sweating through his Grundies, waitin’ for the chop.Rippa!”’
Logan frowned. ‘Didn’t know she was Welsh.’
They wandered past the metal signs – one blocking the road, the other directing traffic to go down Braemar Place instead – and the funereal melody faded away, replaced by the squeals and shrieks of little children playing instead.
‘And how come you can still churn out your squalid little rag without an editor?’
‘Editors are like colonoscopies. Aye, sometimes they might be necessary, but most of the time they’re just a pain in the arse.’ Colin gave Logan the side-eye. ‘This barbecue invite: better no’ be some sort of half-arsed bribe, so I’ll go easy on youse in the paper.’
‘Told you – it was Isobel’s idea.’ Shrug. ‘But it wouldn’t hurt you to be less of a dick about everything.’
‘It’s myjobto be a dick about everything. See: it’syourjob to catch bad guys and impose the will of the state. I’m there to hold you to account. Otherwise, who’s gonnae keep youbuggers honest?’ The screeching got louder, followed by a flotilla of shimmering bubbles, wafting out from behind a high wall. ‘So your deid man in the river’s Andrew Shaw.’
Logan stopped and stared at him.
Grin. ‘People phone and email the paper all the time. They see all youse daft buggers in your SOC suits, tramping in and out of their neighbour’s house? Theytendto notice something’s up.’
‘We search lots of houses, all the time. Doesn’t mean it’s—’
‘Andrew Wallace Shaw: thirty-two. Gigolo-Joe-looking motherfucker – all Botox and Brylcreem. Works at Brenda’s Hair and Beauty Palace on Chapel Street, doing perms and colouring. Very good at it, so I’m told.’ Frown. ‘No’ any more, like. On account of him being deid.’
Logan headed off again. ‘You’re fishing, Colin.’
‘Nah, I’m no’.’ Radiating smugness.
‘One of your little birdies?’
‘Gotta protect my sources, but. Only thing Icantell you is: it’s no’ Isobel. She wouldnae tell me shite, even if my job was on the line. Which it probably is, byraway.’
Logan turned right at the crossroads, heading up Broomhill Road, back towards the Mobile Command Unit. On the other side of the road, a wee man was out changing the display on the newsagent’s sandwich board to ‘CITY CAR CHASE ENDS IN CARNAGE!’
Colin scowled. ‘I mind the day when being a journalistmeantsomething. Now we’re all bloody “Content Creators” and “Engagement Engineers”. I shite you not – “Engagement Engineers”!’ A snort. ‘Used to be about digging out the facts, no fear or favour; speaking truth to power, sticking up for the little guy...Now it’s all “How many tweets did you put out the day?”, “How many likes and retweets did you get?”, “How many bloody comments?”’
‘You saying that headline wasn’t you?’
