Something was going on in Westburn Park – lights flickering and strobing in the growing gloom.
Logan rolled down his window and the sound of Wurlitzer music whumped through the sticky evening air, accompanied by the clatter-whoosh of funfair rides and the happy screams and cries of the people playing on them.
A mini-rollercoaster was visible through the trees, along with waltzers, spinny-swingy things, dodgems, coconut shies and other entertainments of dubious honesty.
And, rising above it all, the red-white-and-blue stripes of a big top, lit up from the inside like an alien spaceship.
Happy families wandered about, eating candyfloss and chips. Completely unfazed by all the death and destruction in the world. Not worrying about asylum seekers trapped in a burning building, or young men with their heads caved in, or rape and trauma and abuse and war and famine and dying alone with dementia...
‘...Sarge?’
Logan blinked.
OK.
Tufty had obviously just asked him a question, but no idea what it was.
The wee loon frowned across the car at him. ‘You OK?’
‘Sorry. Miles away.’
‘I did has an scheduling query: that MAPPA meeting isn’t till nine thirty, so do you want to visit the last of Charles MacGarioch’s friends first thing tomorrow, before it kicks off?’
‘Might as well. Unless you’ve got a cunning plan to get me out of the thing?’ Hopefully...But going by the expression on Tufty’s face, probably not. ‘Never mind.’
The glowing big top faded in Logan’s wing mirror, swallowed by trees. He huffed out a long breath. ‘Being a police officer is a little bit like joining the circus. When you’re a probationer, you’re on the dodgems – yeah, you take a bashing, but it’sexciting. Thrilling, even. Then you’re a PC and riding the rollercoaster: you’ve got no control over speed or direction, it’s all ups and downs, but it still feels as if you’re going somewhere. And maybe you start to think: one day I’m going to ride the Ferris wheel and I’ll finally see the big picture. Or maybe I’ll even get to be Ringmaster, controlling the whole show...’
Westburn Road turned into Hutcheon Street, with its terraced flats on one side and the decaying carcasses of derelict factories on the other.
‘But whatactuallyhappens when you get promoted, is they lock you in the coconut shy and hurl meetings at you till you fall off your perch.’ Logan sniffed. ‘The only constant is: you’re always surrounded by bloody clowns.’
XL
Colin Miller (56) had a wee sip of coffee – his own blend of Guatemalan, Kenyan, and Mexican beans, cos it didn’t hurt to be a bit classy now and then – wandered across the patio, and frowned out at the garden.
A cluster of scarlet roses glowed against the dark-green foliage, like blood spatter...
Patches puffled along the edge of a border, snuffling away, stubby tail wagging as she explored the same old familiar world with the kind of excitement only a springer spaniel could muster.
The sky still glowed a ghostly blue, but Mr Sun had sodded off for the day, leaving only the solar-powered lights to illuminate their massive garden.
Quite proud of that, actually. Took a lot of work to get the place looking this good. And it wasn’t easy having green fingers when you were missing great chunks off four of the buggers.
Colin tightened his grip on the mug, black leather gloves squeaking on the pale china.
They didn’t really go with the old Pink Floyd T-shirt and chinos, but you sort of got used to them. In the end.
There was aclunk, and Professor Isobel McAllister (53) emerged through the French doors from the kitchen. Glass of Merlot in one hand, casual but stylish in a burgundy short-sleeveV-neck dress. Hair tucked behind her ears. Wearing the little square glasses she only used at home. Flip-flops were a bit of a sartorial low point, but Isobel was still the most beautiful woman in the whole frigging world, so you could excuse the occasional faux pas.
A few more creases bloomed between her eyebrows. ‘You’re not out here smoking those stinky cigars again, are you?’
He went back to frowning at the roses. ‘Ever wonder why you bother?’
‘Because they’re bad for you. Always trust a pathologist when they say you should stop doing something – we’ve seen enough people’s innards to know what we’re talking about.’ She took a sip of wine, then transferred the glass to her other hand and slipped her naked fingers between his gloved ones.
‘No’ quite what I meant.’ Sigh. ‘Kinda get the feeling our new owner’s screwing with me. Dangling the job over my head, you know? “Here’s a meeting to see if you still get to work here, or if you’re out on your arse like all your mates. Only I’m no’ gonnae turn up for it,orreschedule. Instead you can bloody sweat.”’ The coffee turned bitter in his mouth. ‘Natash Aga-frigging-pova. TheScottish Daily Postused to be a decent paper, till she got her hands on it – now it’s nothing but a right-wing tabloid shite-rag, obsessed with fuckin’ celebrities and fearmongering and “the world’s full of paedos and foreigners and everything you don’t like iswoke...”’ He dumped his mug on the patio table. ‘Now she’s gonna do the same with theExaminer. I seen the mock-ups. And I’m expected tobegfor my job?’
Isobel pouted for a moment. ‘Do you want me to be honest, or supportive?’
