Awhat?
He stared at her. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘To get the ice-cream truck out the river. Or are you planning on leaving it there? Cos I can tell you for a fact: Scenes are gonna bitch and whinge if you make them take fingerprints underwater.’
Oh, for God’s sake.
The horror had a point.
And what was worse:heshould’ve thought of it.
Logan sagged, grimacing up at the swaying leaves and rippling light. ‘Great.’
Steel patted his other arm. ‘Don’t worry about MacGarioch: the wanker won’t get far. His days as a murderous arsoning wee shite areover.’ A big sook on her vape, and she enveloped them both in another cloying fruity cloud. ‘Till then: call a crane.’
9
Now that Charles MacGarioch’s living room wasn’t stuffed full of police officers and a happy barky dog it looked larger. But not much.
DCI Rutherford slumped on the sofa, in a suit so sharp you could shave with it. Which would probably help, because a heavy seven-o’clock shadow rampaged across his miserable face. Hair tussled at the front and fanned out at the back, where it pressed against a starched antimacassar. Bags under his eyes. Looking stretched, knackered, and defeated.
Logan turned to look out the window instead.
A handful of kids were out, playing on their scooters, pretending not to watch as a forensic tech from ‘Scenes’ lugged a blue plastic evidence crate to the grubby Transit.
They weren’t the only ones keeping an eye on things – two photographers had their cameras out, snapping away, while a lone TV news crew filmed a bloke in a suit.
Had a perfect view of his bald spot from up here.
All shiny and strawberry-coloured in the baking sun.
‘Just ...’ Logan glanced back at Rutherford, ‘forewarned, OK?’
The DCI slapped both hands over his face. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. We’re on the top floor!’
‘That’s whatItold her.’
A groan, followed by more slumping.
Rutherford didn’t look as if he’d be surfacing anytime soon, so Logan pulled out his phone and checked his text messages instead. Scrolling back to where he was so rudely interrupted earlier.
TARA:
Got our timeslot for parent/teachers tonight: 1850.
I vote CHIPS for tea!
Followed by his unsent reply:
Motion carried – chips it is.
I’m at a crime scene, but I think
He deleted the whole thing and tried again –tick-tick-tickticktick:
Sorry, change of plan – got to do a press conference (3-line whip).
We’re having ‘a day’.
