Hang on a minute.
He peered at the wee loon. ‘This Murray guy’sbroke?’
‘I think he kinda drunk the family fortune after his wife and kid died.’
Well, well, well...
‘So, a man who’s financially screwed, owns a hotel that suddenly catches fire?’ Logan grabbed his peaked cap. ‘How much do you want to bet there’s a dirty-big insurance claim in the offing?’ Marching for the door. ‘Grab a pool car, we’re going to pay “poor old Mr Murray” a house call.’
Logan gave the door three loud, hard knocks, then stepped back.
The dirty granite walls of Mr Murray’s house had soaked up so much heat over the last week-and-a-bit that they blared it out like a radiator. Making things even worse as the punishing sun blistered down.
Sweat prickled across Logan’s brow, an itch spreading across his shoulders as it clawed its way down to his bones.
Whatever idiot decided to make the Police Scotland uniform all-sodding-black needed a good kick in the unmentionables.
This must be how bread felt when Tara made toast...
Tufty took his cap off and used it to waft himself. But then he was in the full stabproof-and-high-vis getup, so probably on the verge of melting.
Logan tried again:knock,knock,knock...‘Don’t suppose he’s lying in there choking on his own vomit, do you?’
‘Totally yes possibles. We shouldtotesdo a wellness check. Wink, wink.’
‘Stop saying “wink, wink”, you twit. The “wink, wink” isimplied.’ Looking up at the door lintel. ‘Can you see a key?’
‘Oh, I can do better than that.’ Tufty whirled his hands around in circles, making wiggly finger gestures at the door; then a deep breath and, ‘OPEN-SAYS-TUFTEEEEEE!’ Like something offAli Baba and the Forty Thieves.
The wee loon turned the handle and pushed.
Then stepped inside. ‘Mr Murray? Are you OK?’
What?
Logan followed him into a manky monochrome hallway straight out of a Tim Burton film. ‘How did youdothat?’
‘Wasn’t locked.’ A grin. ‘See, a door is eitherlockedor itisn’t, one or the other, so I had a fifty-fifty chance itwouldn’tbe. Worth a punt to look cooltastic, wasn’t it?’
Unbelievable.
‘You’re an idiot.’ Logan cupped his hands either side of his mouth. ‘MR MURRAY?’
Tufty copied him. ‘THIS IS YOUR FOUR O’CLOCK WELLNESS CHECK! ARE YOU OK?’ Then stuck his head into the living room. ‘MR MUUUUUU-RRAY?’
Logan tried the door at the end of the hall, which openedon a dusty, gloomy kitchen slowly disappearing under a sea of empty bottles. But no Mr Murray.
Time to search the rest of the house.
Ten minutes, and two floors later, they found him at the very top of the house.
‘Mr Murray?’ Tufty tiptoed into what looked like a small child’s bedroom – still fully furnished andclean, unlike the rest of the place – complete with teddy bear and rocking horse. As if the kid was just late home from school. ‘Mr Murray, are you OK?’
He was lying on the floor, curled up on the only bit of carpet in the whole building, sobbing quietly, with his face pressed against the tail end of a Mr Man duvet cover.
So not OK.
And from the look of things, he probably never would be again.
