Hope he wasn’t the groom...
‘...and they’ve also got a big spread on pages four and five that deserves a mention: “City Cops Cause Circus Chaos”. And the photos that go with it are well worth a look. Especially if you’ve never seen an undercover policeman with a clown in a headlock...’
Logan switched the radio off and glowered.
Nothing like spoiling a beautiful morning.
The stale-digestive-biscuit scent of old feet mingled with the sharp cumin-and-chilli whiff of Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle, filling Observation Suite Number Two. Three empty cartons in the bin testified to the whiff’s provenance, but raised some disturbing questions about who’d been in here last and what they considered a balanced breakfast...
It was a smallish space, with a bench table and a couple of squealy blue plastic chairs, four flatscreen monitors, some push-button microphones, and a worryingly enthusiastic Tufty.
But at least he’d made Logan a mug of instant coffee, rather than fetching something revolting from the machine, so as long as he kept his gusto to himself, that was OK.
The four screens displayed various views of Interview Room Number One – each camera mounted high up, in the corners of the room, and trained on the table where Biohazard and Doreen did their best to get the truth out of Charles MacGarioch. Which was far more difficult than it should’ve been, thanks to his ‘duty solicitor’.
MacGarioch was in grey joggy-bots and a fading blue T-shirt: presumably lent to him by whoever was on the custody desk this morning. While his legal representative wore a suit that probably cost more than his client earned in a year.
Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA: Hissing Sid – a tall, thin man who looked as if he’d shrunk a couple of sizes since he last wore that particular Savile Row number. His hair was swept back like a bank of snow, with only a few streaks of grey left amongst the white. But then he had to be in his late seventies now. With a matching silk-tie-and-pocket-square, and a superior tilt to his long nose.
Waiting to strike.
Charles MacGarioch shifted in his seat, looking away with a one-shouldered shrug as the silence stretched on.
Hissing Sid shook his head, as if saddened by having to explain somethingblatantlyobvious to someone thick as plasticine.‘My client has already informed you, Acting Detective Inspector Marshall: he is not a racist, does not hold any racist beliefs, and has never discriminated against anyone because of their skin colour or country of birth. Now, can we move on, please?’
Biohazard leaned forwards.‘Then why burn down a hotel full of migrants, Charlie? Help me understand.’
MacGarioch just looked at his solicitor.
A smile.‘Perhaps this interview would progress more easily if you took notes as we go? Then you’d be able to see that my client has already denied these baseless allegations.’Hissing Sid waved a patriarchal arm towards the camera.‘It’s not a problem for me,per se – I’ve got nothing on till lunch with the Lord Provost – but I understand there’s a lot more pressing things that you and your colleagues could be getting on with?’
Doreen had a go.‘If you didn’t do it, Charlie, how do you explain the jerry can we found with your fingerprints all over it? What could’ve caused that?’
MacGarioch picked at the tabletop, eyes focussed on the chipped Formica.‘Dunno.’
There was a sharp knock on the observation-room door and Chief Superintendent Pine strode in without waiting. Frowning at the monitors.
Logan stood. ‘Boss.’
‘DCI McRae, I need a word.’
On all four monitors, Hissing Sid sighed.‘Surely it’s not illegal for a young man to help a friend in need torefueltheir car. Or has that changed since I last practised criminal law?’
‘Yes, Boss.’ He thumped Tufty. ‘Give the Chief Super your seat.’
The wee loon scrambled out of his chair and snapped to attention. Then made seat-offering gestures. Like a creepy waiter.
Pine sat anyway. ‘Thank you.’
‘Or perhaps it’s because the petrol can in question was in the bin for landfill, rather than correctly sorted for recycling? I wasn’t aware Police Scotland were sokeenon environmental issues.’
Logan pointed at the smug git in the sharp suit. ‘I know you said they owed you a favour, Boss, but could you not’ve asked for someone a little less...him?’
‘Mr Moir-Farquharson volunteered. Turns out he’s mostly retired now; does a bit of consulting, one day a week.’ A grimace. ‘This is his idea of “keeping his hand in”.’
Doreen checked her notes.‘Whose car were you refuelling?’
‘Was Spence, wasn’t it. On account of him...’MacGarioch’smouth clamped shut. That lone shoulder curled its way towards his ear again.‘Running out, like.’
