‘Course it sodding wasn’t. Think I don’t know the difference between an ice-cream van and a car? Can’t have a car chase with a pair of soddingvans. And you nevereverput a dog’s cock on a headline!’
OK...
No idea whatthatmeant, and no desire to find out.
The wee man unfurled a new poster for the sandwich board’s back face, too: ‘UK BRACED FOR MORE RACE RIOTS’.
Colin snarled, shoulders up. ‘And don’t get me started onthatbollocks. Whipping up fear while simultaneously promoting the bloody thing you’ve just told everyone to be afraid of! Tell youse, it’s—’
‘Hello?’A voice honked out, right behind them. One of those teenage-boy noises that wobbled about from bass to treble mid-word.‘Out of the way! Excuse me. Thanks.’
Logan stepped aside and a young man trundled past, wheeling a pushchair and talking on a mobile phone at the same time. His AFC tracksuit was two sizes too big, flapping about in his wake as he clomped away at speed, on massive trainers, heading up Broomhill Road. Taking his World War One haircut, yodelly voice, and schoolboy zits with him. ‘No!...Because it’syourturn to change the nappies! Ialwayschange the nappies....Yeah, well I want to go on the school trip to Belgium too – how about we prioritisemyneeds for a change, Sharlene?’
Kids today...
Colin dug his free hand deep in his pocket. ‘And when did it become OK to dumbdowneverything? Who decided we’re all thick as breeze blocks?’
‘Did you just come here to whinge?’
‘Hmmm? Oh.’ A frown. Then Colin jerked his head back,over his shoulder. ‘Yeah: yer man, back there, Mr Tarmac Tartare. This mean youse’ve finally got a suspect for the hotel fire?’
‘Off the record?’
A nod.
‘Can’t say. And I don’t mean that in a police “we can’t talk about ongoing investigations” way: we don’t know. He was standing right there,’ Logan pointed at the pavement, opposite the burnt-out hotel, ‘watching the place, and when he saw us, he legged it. Don’t even know who he is.’
‘What is it with you bastards and chasing folk till something shitey happens?’
They crossed the end of Balmoral Terrace, slowing up as the crime scene loomed. The pool car was still tucked in behind the MCU, so at least Rennie and Tufty hadn’t sodded off with it when he’d sent them back to the station.
Small mercies.
Colin pulled his lips in, as if tasting a fine wine. Then spat out, ‘I was thinking...steak. How many people you got coming to this thing, Sunday?’
‘About twenty, twenty-five?’
‘Aye, maybe burgers, then. And some beer. No point wasting quality wine on you bunch of philistines.’
‘Speaking of whipping up fear – you heard any rumours about this protest march? Rumblings? Plots?’
‘What: racist arse-nuggets versus anti-fascists; climate change deniers versus eco nutters; pro-war – anti-war; far-right wankers – woke socialist tossers; sharks and the jets...?’ He bared his teeth. ‘Hope you’ve got the Fire Brigade standing by. Isobel and me are barricading the doors and sheltering-in-place till it’s all over.’
Logan headed across the road. ‘Thanks for that. Very helpful.’
‘I’m no’ an informer, Laz. Got to keep my shiny shield of impartiality polished to an impeccable sheen.’ A quick shifty glance, left and right. ‘But wouldn’t hurt to have aweelookie at Graeme Anderson. You know, on the off chance...?’
The name was familiar, but not sure why.
Find out soon enough, though.
‘OK. Thanks, Colin.’
‘Aye, well – one: you didn’t hear it from me, and two: youoweme. Again. And don’t you forget it!’
30
The pale granite lumps of the Central Library and Saint Mark’s gave way to the pale granite lump of His Majesty’s Theatre – whose name was finally topical again after seventy years. About a dozen little kids skipped along the pavement towards it, all wearing knitted pink onesies with oversized ears – being shepherded by a trio of adults dressed as the Grim Reaper. Scythes glinting in the baking light as a heat haze shimmered above the tarmac on Rosemount Viaduct.
