Shoving through the doors at the bottom as his phone boomed out theBBC Newstheme tune. He juggled his papers and answered it as they strode across the short corridor, to the security-controlled entrance to the main lobby. ‘Boss! How—...Yes, yes: I know it starts at seven.’ A grimace as he poked the keycode into the lock. ‘I know...Yes....I’ve been working on DI McRae’s—’ Pink bloomed in his cheeks. ‘Yes, Boss...Sorry.’
Logan followed him across the Police Scotland crest set into the lobby floor – the words ‘SEMPER VIGILO’ already getting a bit scuffed by all the foot traffic.
‘We’re on our way now...Yes, Boss...Just about to walkthrough the door.’ Sweeny performed a bit of human origami to pin the folder and papers to his chest and the phone to his ear as he fumbled with his lanyard – bending almost double to clack it against the automatic turnstile beside the reception desk. ‘Honestly. We’re like right there.’
The gate glowed green and beeped.
Sweeny shoved through, marching fast. ‘I know I said—...Yes, Boss...Sorry, Boss. But it’s—’ Disappearing through the door marked ‘CONFERENCESUITES’.
Logan shared a nod with Big Gary – perched behind the desk, like an evil Buddha, with a sudoku book – and beeped himself through the turnstile.
The ‘Conference Suites’ door opened on yet another corridor, where a row of portraits displayed every Chief Constable from the old Grampian Police days, then every Chief Superintendent since Police Scotland came in and spoiled all the fun.
Down at the end, Sweeny was disappearing through into the main conference room. ‘Yes, Boss...No, Boss...Honestly: I’m here, I’m here.’
Logan stopped outside the door. Straightened his suit jacket. Then his shoulders. Took a deep breath. And pushed into Bedlam.
A sea of journalists and cameras stared at the three of them, sat at the front of the conference room – the chatter falling silent as DCI Rutherford stood to address the mob.
He’d had a shave and combed his hair, put on a fresh shirt and tie, looking every bit the professional police officer. Almost unrecognisable from the wrung-out, despondent lump, drooping away on MacGarioch’s sofa.
He was flanked by Sweeny on one side and Logan on the other, while Chief Superintendent Pine was nowhere tobe seen. Having buggered off at the first available opportunity; putting a bit of distance between herself and whatever omnishambles was about to unfold. Because it wasn’t going to be easy spinning this as anything less than a monumental cluster-wank.
Camerasclick-click-click-clicked, flashguns flickering as Rutherford muffled a cough. Then pulled his chin up. ‘Two days ago, nine people were injured, four of them seriously, when the Balmain House Hotel on Broomhill Road was deliberately set on fire. Earlier today, we learned that, sadly, Soban Yusuf has died from his injuries.’
An outbreak of murmuring rippled through the press pack, accompanied by a fresh strobe of camera flashes.
‘Our thoughts and sympathies are with his family at this terrible time.’
A bunch of hands went up, but Rutherford ignored them.
Had a wee cough instead, while the hubbub died down.
‘Soban acted as a translator for British forces in Helmand Province, and then later in Kabul. He leaves behind a wife, Zahra, and two children: Kamnoosh, thirteen; and Shahmeer, eight. All of whom suffered from smoke inhalation during thiscowardlyand racially motivated attack.’
Another bout of coughing. As if in sympathy with the family.
‘Excuse me.’ Clearing his throat again. ‘This afternoon – following information from a member of the public – we attended an address in the city’s Tillydrone area. Officers attempted to serve a warrant on an individual suspected of being involved in the arson attack.’
More hands shot into the air.
But instead of taking questions, Rutherford turned to Logan instead. ‘Detective Inspector McRae?’
‘Thank you.’ And it was Logan’s turn to get up on his hind legs and face the hordes. He treated them to a long hardserious look – what Elizabeth called his ‘Paddington Stare’ – then a curt nod. ‘Today, just after five p.m., I and a team of officers forced entry to the suspect’s flat...’
Meeting Room Two was a lot less ‘Out-Of-Town Convention Centre’ than where they’d held the media briefing, but every bit as magnolia and impersonal. Windowless. With two whiteboard walls covered in marker-pen scribbles: lists and lists of officers’ names with arrows and dates and various ongoing investigations. As if someone had been trying to brainstorm their way through the staffing crisis.
Good luck with that.
Now that the briefing was over, Rutherford was back to looking like squeezed crap again, grimacing at the cheap mug of cheap coffee in his hand, which came with an even cheaper biscuit on the side. Sweeny offered the tin to Pine, who demurred, and Logan. Who helped himself to a custard cream and gingersnap.
Maybe they’d make the coffee drinkable?
Biscuit duty over, Sweeny popped another antacid and crunched, face almost as miserable as Rutherford’s. ‘Could’ve been worse, I suppose.’
His partner in gloom grunted. ‘And what’s with all thestupidquestions? “Are youcertainthis was a racist attack, Detective Chief Inspector?” Course we bloody are, you sodding halfwit! They firebombed a hotel full of asylum seekers – what the bloody hell did you think it was:performance art?’ He turned to the Boss. ‘Anything from the search team while we were in there?’
Pine sniffed at her coffee, as if it might be caustic. ‘Not so much as a cocktail weeny. If MacGarioch clawed his way out of the Don, he didn’t do it before Seaton Park.’ She risked a sip. Shuddered. Put the mug down. ‘And there’s no pointlooking at me like a kicked puppy – we’ve got miles of riverbank to search and not enough people to search it.’
