‘Someone needs to deliver the death message to his mother.’
‘Biohazard’s on his way now.’ Rennie puffed out a heavy breath. ‘Don’t envy him that one: “Sorry, Missus, your wee boy’s dead – someone bashed his brains in and dumped him in the river. Oh, and by the way, turns out you raised a rapey wee shite.”’
Yeah...
Logan checked the clock again. ‘Get your bum out front – I’ll pick you up on Broad Street.’
‘Cool.’He lowered his voice. ‘And don’t worry: I won’t tellYou-Know-Who. We can have some decent grown-up conversation without Constable Sodding Quirrel wanging on about particle physics and who’d win in a fight: Stephen Hawking or Davros. I mean, everyone knows Davros’s chair is equipped with Dalek—’
Logan ended the call.
He dawdled past the old Robert Gordon’s building – now turned into some sort of ‘tech hub’ – and the ‘UNIQUEDEVELOPMENTOPPORTUNITY’ that used to be the old student union, and the old...whatever it was the Academy shopping centre used to be before it became a shopping centre. Probably an academy, going by the name. Then past the hairdressers that used to be a museum and art gallery.
Giving Rennie time to escape from the office and meet him out front.
And yes,technicallyLogan was meant to go back to the station and give a formal statement about what happened on Holburn Street, but there were things to be getting on with.
Ading-buzzsounded deep in his pocket, but he wasn’t daft enough to read text messages while driving.
Not after nearly totalling a bus stop...
Schoolhill turned into a pedestrian-and-cycle zone at the crossroads with Back Wynd and Harriet Street, but Logan flickered the pool car’s blue lights and drove down it anyway.
Rebel that he was.
St Nicholas Kirk appeared between the graveyard trees, then he was at the bottom of the hill, waiting for the lights to change as sweaty people with carrier bags streamed from one bit of the Bon Accord Centre across the road to the other bit.
A rookery of nuns in black habits were busking outside the Bank of Scotland, playing a weird mash-up of punk, folk, and techno, singing away as they rocked out on guitars, decks, tambourine, double bass, and a cajon. They seemed to be having a great time, even if no one was paying any attention to them.
On the opposite side of the street, a miserable clown handed out flyers. Clearly regretting his career choice and wishing he’d become a nun instead.
The lights changed and Schoolhill turned into Upperkirkgate.
Logan did some more dawdling.
Sure there used to be a Blackwell’s bookshop here. God knew what it was now – maybe the games shop? And what happened to the Tasty Tattie?
That was the trouble with getting older: everything changed...
Well, except for The Kirkgate bar.
At the top of the street, Logan turned right, and Marischal College reared into view, a jagged granite confection of narrow windows, mini-spires, and assorted pointy bits, all sparkling in the early evening sunshine. Facing off against the miserable row of ugly grey Rubik’s cubes that went up to replace the old council buildings.
Like a jobbie, plonked down beside a wedding cake.
And speaking of jobbies – there was Rennie, leaning back against the plinth that Robert the Bruce’s horse stood on. Brucie himself, sat in the saddle, cast in bronze, holding aloft the 1319 Stocket Charter...but to be honest, it looked as if the statue was trying to send a message to someone in the horrible office building opposite.
Like the final scene of a very strange romcom.
Rennie probably thought he looked dead cool, standing there, with one foot up on the granite behind him, in the full Police Scotland uniform, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses that gave him the air of a seventies lothario.
Logan pulled up and Rennie peered out over the top of his shades, before swaggering over and popping the passenger door.
What a knob.
‘Guv.’ He was in the middle of fastening his seatbelt, when a smaller,pointierfigure scurried across the pedestrian area, waving at them.
Tufty.
