Barrett was slumped back in his seat, with his eyes closed and his gob open. Harmsworth had taken possession of Steel’s newspaper, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he tackled the crossword with muttered curses and much rubbingout. Lund fiddled on her phone, playing some sort of game with the sound turned down, so only the occasional electronicbingandwibbleescaped. While Tufty had his head right back, trying to balance a biro on the end of his pointy nose.
‘They’ve lost him, haven’t they.’ Steel unzipped her overalls as far as the stabproof vest would allow and flapped the edges. ‘We’ve been stuck here, sweating like sex offenders in a sausage factory, and the bugger’s done a runner.’
Barrett kept his eyes closed. ‘Pound in the swear jar.’
‘Oh, go...crunkyourself.’
Logan’s thumbs ticked across his phone’s screen,tick, tick, tick-tick-tick...
Has ANYONE got eyes on this guy?!?
SEND.
The song crumpled to a halt, and the DJ’s teuchter voice barrelled out:‘Fit wye’s that no’ been amassivehit?’
Because it was rubbish?
‘Yer listening tillDougie In The Aifterneen, and time’s fair bangin’ oan, but we’ll squeeze inwanmair tune afore the news, then it’s “ta-ta” fae me, and “aye-aye” taeRush-Hour Recordswie Big Sandy Thomson!’
Logan’s phone dinged three times in quick succession. Incoming text messages:
BIOHAZARDBOB:
Sod all here
DOREEN:
Nothing doing on our end.
SPUDGUN:
Think we’ve been sold a sack of shite?!?
‘So, oor last request fer the day is fae a loon cried “Stewart Quirrel”—’
Tufty sat bolt upright, waving at the radio as the biro went flying. ‘Turn it up! Turn it up!’
‘He’s aifter a romantic, smoochie number, and he’s gieed us a wee notey tae read oot.’At which point a diabetically syrupy tune faded up under the DJ.‘“My dearest Kate,” says the boy, “would you dae me the great honour of becoming my bidie-in?”’
Tufty beamed.
Barrett gave a low whistle.
Lund: a celebratory round of applause.
Harmsworth harrumphed.
The background music swelled as a piano and guitar joined in.
‘Here’s Custard and the Vegetarians, wie “Loveshine”. Guid luck, Stewart, hope yer quine says “Aye”!’
And saccharine vocals globbed out of the speakers, sticky as golden syrup:
‘I see your shadow everywhere,
A scent that lingers on my heart,
Without your light the world’s threadbare,
