Three-storey blocks lined the court – each one made up of four or five units, with six flats apiece and a central stairwell. If you were lucky enough to live on the upper floors, you got a balcony of your very own, but the ground floor had access straight out onto a shared garden area. Where all the recycling bins lived.
There were even more bins lined up along the overgrown hedge outside the first block. About twenty feet of them. All black and wheelie and waiting for collection.
Rennie whistled as they drove slowly by. ‘That’s alotof bins to burn...’
Tufty parked behind a fusty Transit with ‘SANDYTHEHOOSEBUILDER’ on the side and a peeling graphic of a cartoon joiner. ‘Think the arson connection’s relevant? You know, with the hotel?’
They climbed out into the stifling heat, and Rennie popped on his stupid sunglasses again. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Everyone goes through a “burning things” phase. Right?’
Logan stared at him.
Tufty raised both eyebrows.
Rennie pulled his chin in. ‘What?’ Following Logan through the knee-high gate and up to the front door. ‘Oh, come on! It’s not just me.Everybodydoes it.’
‘Enough.’ Logan rang the bell for Flat Four. ‘We’re about to tell some poor sod their grandchild’s been mangled in an accident. Either you’re on your best behaviour, or you’re waiting in the car. But you’renotgoing up there to act the prick, do I make myself clear?’
Maybe a bit close to the bone, but he deserved it.
Pink scoured its way up Rennie’s neck. ‘Sorry, Guv.’
Should think so too.
A black cat sauntered past, tail in the air, pausing only to mark its territory against a brown garden-waste bin.
A woman tottered along the pavement, coughing and hacking away.
Somewhere in the distance, children were chanting a skipping song:
‘Your dad is a big fat tosser,
He did a wank upon a saucer,
Your mum cooked it for your tea,
With bogies and a big jobbie!
How many jobbies did you eat?
One, two, three, four...’
Logan was reaching for the bell again when a man’s voice growled out of the intercom, old and mushy and distorted by the cheap speaker:
‘Yeah, what?...Erm...What you...want?’
‘Mr Findlater?’
No reply.
Tufty raised his hand. ‘You’ve got to press the button, Sarge.’
‘Hmmph.’ Logan pressed the button. ‘Mr Findlater, can we come in, please? We need to talk...’
‘Oh for...erm...fuck’s sake.’
But hebuzzzzzed them in anyway.
Mr Findlater must’ve been a bear of a man when he was younger, but now he was bent like a paperclip as he shuffled back to his baggy armchair. Most of his hair had gone, leaving a straggly collar-length droop behind, but his face was a thing to scare children – lumpen craggy features and a nose that had been broken so many times it barely counted as a nose any more. His burgundy cardigan had faded to the colour of old blood, and even though it had to be in the mid-thirties outside, he was bundled up in a shirt and jumper too. His brown cords were worn through at the knees, much like the carpet.
