Soon be time to get a wriggle on.
And speaking of wriggling: Cthulhu tarted about on the patio, rolling over onto her back and exposing the World’s Most Excellent Tummy to the morning light.
The kitchen door opened and in sludged Tara, in a floaty kimono-dressing-gown that showed off a lot of leg, while a yawn showed off a lot of fillings. Hair like Worzel Gummidge in a wind tunnel.
Logan polished off his last corner of toast. ‘How come you’re up?’
Another yawn. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Kept having all thesereallyweird dreams about clowns and dinosaurs and tigers...’ She frowned. ‘You weren’t there, but I couldn’t find my socks. And Tufty kept turning into a penguin.’
‘Bet Freud would have a field day.’
‘Urgh...That’s Friday the thirteenth for you.’ She slouched over to the fridge and took a couple of glugs straight from the milk carton, while scratching the back of one calf with her other foot. Very stylish.
Logan downed the last of his tea. ‘You’ve got the table manners of a Labrador, you know that don’t you?’ Putting the mug in the sink. ‘Don’t forget to pick up that stuff for Sunday, OK? List’s on the noticeboard.’
‘I know, I know.’ She rummaged through the fridge. ‘You want sausages, chicken, pork chops, hotdogs, blah, wankity blah.’ Then squinted at him. ‘What happened to all the plastic cheese?’
‘And go large on the booze: you know what off-duty police and trading standards are like.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Don’t know when I’ll be home tonight, depends what happens. And tomorrow’s a write-off with this stupid protest.’ He drooped against the worktop. ‘Really looking forward to a quiet day at home.’
‘Good job we’ve got thirty-one people coming for Sunday lunch then, isn’t it?’
‘Thirty-one?You said it was going to be a “small gathering”! Are youtryingto kill me, you horrible snudge of a woman?’
The clock hit 06:20.
‘Better shoot. Text you later, Fornicator.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and marched for the door.
‘Hoy: Fart-Fish!’
He turned, halfway out the door, and Tara whipped her kimono open and flashed him. Throwing in a little jiggle for good luck. Then hid it all away again.
Logan groaned.
She grinned. ‘See? You love me really.’
True.
But there was no time to do anything about it right now.
‘...coming up in a minute, but it’s half six, so it’s time for the papers. TheP-and-Jleads with “Search Ongoing For Missing Media Mogul”, detailing police efforts to find local press baron, Natasha Agapova.’
Logan cruised along North Deeside Road – with the window down and one arm leaning on the sill – through one of Aberdeen’s more affluent bits. The trees offering a bit of cool shade as the sun scorched its way up the sky.
Not a lot of traffic this morning, but then it was still pretty early. A familiar tartan van approached on the other side of the road, with ‘AUCHTERTURRAGLAZINGCOMPANYLTD’ down the side. Its battered and dented rear wing held together with duct tape and hope.
‘TheScottish Daily Postgoes all in on: “Migrant Gang Plot To Kidnap Newspaper Natasha” and there’s more coverage on pages three, four, seven, and eight – including an exclusive interview with Natasha Agapova’s husband: news tycoon Adrian Shearsmith.’
Who had to be up for a Vindictive Ex-Husband of The Year award by now.
‘While theAberdeen Examiner’s gone for “Sicko Sent Hate-Mail Threats To Abducted Editor”. Asking: if these threats werecommon knowledgebeforeshe was kidnapped, why didn’t the police do anything about it?’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Logan flipped two fingers up at the radio. ‘How about because they didn’ttellus about them till yesterday afternoon!’
Honestly.
The Marcliffe at Pitfodels drifted by on the left, or at least the entrance did, the hotel itself was hidden away behind a riot of trees and assorted greenery.
A bilious man in the full kilt-and-Prince-Charlie outfit stiff-legged it down the drive and out onto the pavement, heading for town. Clearly escaping from whatever wedding he’d attended last night.
