Stood.
Snapped off his gloves and pocketed them. Before retreating from Spencer Findlater’s bedroom and closing the door behind him.
Logan eased back into the living room, carrying a mug of tea and a digestive biscuit on a wee plate.
Someone had turned the TV on, and now Tufty, Rennie, and Mr Findlater sat there, watching some old boxing match. Well, Mr Findlater and Tufty were sitting – the old man in his sagging armchair, the wee loon on the dining-room chair – whileRennie stood off to one side. Clearly not wanting to risk another shouting-at.
The picture was a bit grainy, and there was a stripe down one side, but that didn’t seem to bother them as two huge men battered the living crap out of each other in the ring.
Mr Findlater’s shoulders twitched in time with every punch thrown by the guy in the red shorts.
Rennie looked up from the screen. Reaching for the mug in Logan’s hand. ‘Cheers, Guv.’
‘Notforyou.’
‘Oh...’ The idiot drooped for a second, then perked right up again. ‘Anyway, you’ll never guess: but we’re in the company ofgenuinesporting greatness. This,’ Rennie put on an OTT announcer’s voice and shoogled both hands towards their host, ‘is theone, theonly: Francis “Big Frank”Findlaterrrrrrrrrrrr!’
Never heard of him.
Logan handed ‘Big Frank’ the mug and the old man took it without moving his eyes from the screen.
‘Thought I recognised the name when we came in, but then I saw all the videos.’ Rennie hooked a thumb at the bookcase. ‘Big Frank had golden gloves, man. He could put a guytwicehis size on his arse in three rounds. Biff, bang, crash, wallop!’
Logan hunkered down beside Mr Findlater’s armchair. ‘Frank, do you know where Spencer was on Sunday night, Monday morning? Can you remember for me?’
Nothing. Not even a frown.
‘Course it all went south after the Roxborough fight. Roxborough was aye a cheating bastard, though. Got a six-month ban for what he did, but poor Frank never fought again.’
‘Frank? Where was Spencer on Sunday night? Was he out?’
Something flickered inside Mr Findlater and he resurfaced from the boxing ring. ‘Spencer’s in hospital....He’s...Policecame round...erm...came round and told me...Spencer’s in hospital.’ His forehead furrowed. ‘They do all these...tests...’
Logan patted his arm. ‘I know, Frank. I’m sorry.’
And then he was gone again.
38
‘...yeah, no: anonymous tip-off.’ Logan paced the grass square, outside Big Frank’s building – from a wilting tree to a drooping rhododendron and back again. Lying to his superior officer. ‘Someone thinks they saw Spencer Findlater coming out of Capercaillie Sports on George Street after the break-in.’
Whichmight’ve been true.
Who could tell?
Nearly nine o’clock, and the sun was sinking towards the horizon, painting everything with a warm golden-syrup glow. Making the air a bit...sticky.
Rennie and Tufty loitered by the pool car, forbidden to come any closer so they had plausible deniability if it ever came out that Logan had fiddled the facts slightly.
Finally, Chief Superintendent Pine came to a decision:‘All right, I’ll get you a search warrant for Findlater’s flat.’
‘Thanks, Boss. And he’s one of Charles MacGarioch’s mates, so it might be an idea to test anything they find for accelerants too.’ Keeping it nice and casual, as if he’d just thought of it. ‘Belt and braces.’
A sigh rattled down the phone.‘Anything else while I’ve got my chequebook out?’
‘Now you mention it...’ He stopped pacing and looked up at Flat Four. ‘With Spencer in hospital, there’s no one to look after his grandad, and he won’t last the week if we leave himon his own. He’ll either starve to death or burn the house down.’
‘You want me to sort out a care package at five to nine, on a Wednesday night? Yes, thanks for that.’There was an ominous pause.‘Speaking of Charles MacGarioch...?’
