‘Well ...’ you could almost hear the gears in Sweeny’s head, creaking, ‘maybewe could do an appeal for members of the public to help?’
Pine pursed her lips. Rutherford opted for a withering look.
Sweeny crunched down another Gaviscon.
‘Anyway,’ the Boss turned towards the whiteboard wall with its lists of officers, ‘D Division are lending us a drone operator, but not till tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’Rutherford’s face soured a little more. ‘MacGarioch will have scarpered halfway to Benidorm by then. That or been washed up on the Norwegian coastline.’
Time for Logan to inject a bit of cheer to the proceedings:
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll foul on an oil rig somewhere along the way?’ Not a single smile. ‘OK...How about we get the TV news teams in and askthemto scan the riverbanks? We know Sky’s got a dirty-big drone, right? Saw it down at the crash site.’
Rutherford opened his mouth, looking ready to shoot that down, but Pine got there first:
‘Mightwork...if we give them an incentive. And make them sign an NDA.’ A nod. ‘Yes...Pretty sure I can sell that.’ She tapped a finger on the table. ‘Logan: I want all local hospitals, GP surgeries, chemists, andvetsto keep an eye out. If MacGarioch survived, he’s probably injured and looking for treatment.’
‘Ma-am.’
‘Ron: chase the search team. With a pointy stick, if you have to. We’ve got ...’ glancing at the wall clock, ‘two-and-a-bit more hours of daylight. I’ll give you every warm body I can spare, butfindhim.’
Rutherford did a bit more coughing. One hand covering hismouth, the other held up – till he could squeeze out a wheezy, ‘Do our best.’
‘And while you’re at it, ride Forensics like a dirty bicycle.’ Giving them all a much fiercer Paddington Stare than Logan ever managed. ‘I need to seeprogress, people. Progress!’
And then she was off, pushing out through the door into the corridor, phone at the ready. Already dialling as she disappeared.‘Nigel: you’re with me!’
Sweeny grimaced, popped another antacid, then scarpered after her.
The door clunked shut and Rutherford wilted. Coughed. Sighed.
Which wasn’t exactly encouraging.
Logan gave him a wee pat on the back. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
He waved that away, grimacing at the closed door. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s an enormous tidal wave of shite coming our way?’
10
There wasn’t much left of the Balmain House Hotel – not from the front, anyway. Just a flat-faced, mid-terrace, two-storey rectangle of smoke-blackened granite blocks, with a dormer layer on the top for those swanky penthouse-suite views of a baby-scanning centre, a newsagent’s, and a dog-grooming place called ‘Pup, Pup, & Away!’
All the windows were gone: blown out by the fire. The front door was missing too. And so was most of the roof, leaving only a handful of beams and a smattering of grey slates behind.
The front garden had been paved over, making a wee parking area for a pair of...Actually, it was difficult to tellwhatthey’d been, because now there was nothing left but their blackened, flame-stripped carcasses. Even the wheelie bins were melted blobs.
But at least the wrought-iron railings had survived. Which gave people something to fix their floral tributes, football scarves, and teddy bears to. Votive offerings for the Gods Of Tragedy And Public Displays Of Grief.
The buildings on either side seemed OK, but the box-hedges between the three properties were screwed.
Logan parked behind the Mobile Command Unit – a very fancy title for a glorified Mercedes Sprinter van, kitted out as a half-arsed office – and climbed out into the sticky, oppressive air. Watching as a pair of little girls fixed a teddy bear to theiron railings with a cable-tie around its throat. Tightening the garotte taut enough to make Teddy’s legs poke straight out.
Logan leaned back against his Audi and checked his phone, letting them finish their strangulated tribute.
Hmmm...
No reply from Tara.
That wasn’t good.
