‘Now, here’s a blast from the past for all you old rockers out there. It’s Twenty-Five Cartridges and their 1973 number one chart-smasher: “Lovehammer”!’
The Gordon Brae bridge appeared between the trees, its modern slab of concrete hovering above a hot-pink sea of rosebay willowherb. Some of which was still half-drowned after last week’s rains.
Power-chords whanged out of the car’s speakers, joined by a thumping drumbeat and a whirling synthesiser. Building until the singer barged in over the top, aggressive and adenoidal:
‘Baby! Baby I got love for you!
So much love, give you all of my love!
Gotta lay down, Baby, and feel my—’
Logan’s phone triggered the car’s Bluetooth hands-free thing, cutting the song off mid-unsubtle-sexual-reference. He poked the green button. ‘Hello?’
‘Sarge? It is I: Tufty!’
Idiot.
‘Told you to stop doing that.’
A sort of pre-bridge faded into view, like a damp underpass, choked with drooping weeds. Docken and ragwort ran rampant, up and down the embankment, in swathes of sickly green and fire-bomb yellow.
‘Sorry, Sarge.’Not sounding it in the least.‘The Empress of Pokey Filth said you wanted someone to do the hospital rounds? I does has an results for you.’
Logan pulled up at the junction, waiting for a line of traffic to pass. ‘If you’re expecting a drum roll, you’ve called the wrong person.’
‘Oh, right.’Some rustling noises crinkled out of the car’sspeakers.‘Well, first I thought about getting in touch with all the GP practices too – because they sometimes treat people, don’t they – but then I remembered that most don’t open till nine, so MacGarioch couldn’t—’
‘While we’re still young, Tufty.’
OK: gap in the traffic, time to pull...
It was that bloody clown car again, heading north towards Danestone, but this time the driver had another clown in the passenger seat. All done up in the full regalia, complete with bright-red honkable nose. And an expression you could sour milk with from three hundred paces.
Going by the grim-faced glares, maybe they were on their way to murder someone?
Mind you, not sure you could take hitmen seriously if they dressed like that. Suppose, with all the make-up, it’d be harder to identify who was underneath though, so it made sense from an anonymity / getting-away-with-it point of view.
But then clownsregisteredtheir ‘look’, didn’t they – there was a BBC Two documentary about it – painting their face on an egg, so no one copied it. There was even a central registry in Wookey Hole and a place in London...
The clown car ‘backfired’, letting free a wee cloud of baby-blue smoke as it puttered away up the road.
Wonder ifassassinclowns would do the same? Made sense, didn’t it? Couldn’t have someone else claiming credit for your kills. Wouldn’t be sporting.
‘...asked everyone to keep their eyes to the ground and their ears peeled.’
What?
No idea what the wee loon had been wanging on about.
Logan gave himself a shake and turned left, across the pre-bridge, making for Tillydrone. ‘Sorry – lost you there. Went through a tunnel.’
‘I said, “Charles MacGarioch did not has a going to hospital.” Or, if hedid, he didn’t match the description or photo I emailed out. But I asked them—’
‘To keep an eye out. I know. I heard.’
And finally it was time for the main-course bridge, spanning the swollen River Don. Silty grey water flashing like a welder’s arc in the morning glare – sharp and stinging. Logan narrowed his eyes and flipped down the sun visor.
‘Saa-aarge?’
