The wrinkles around Mrs MacGarioch’s mouth deepened. ‘I told that...fat,uglypoliceman all this. The sweaty one.’
That would be Harmsworth. ‘Yes, but you know what fat ugly people are like. Can’t trust them.’
She pursed her lips for a moment, rearranging the creases. Then nodded. ‘I had a brother once, but he got cancer in his...downstairs.’
‘What about Charles’s dad? Or maybe his dad’s side of the family?’
‘They moved to Australia. “Moved.”’ A snort. ‘Ran away, more like. Don’t know which bit, don’t care. Nineteen years and he’s never sent my Charles so much as a birthday card!’
‘How about—’
‘What kind of father does that? Just abandons his kid? Dumps him, like yesterday’s rubbish and sods off to start a new family somewhere else?’
Good question. And a bit of a sore point. But Logan just took another sip of tea and moved on. ‘Girlfriend? Boyfriend?’
Mrs MacGarioch sat up straight, wattles wobbling. ‘Not underthisroof! And my Charles isn’t some sort of nancy gayboy, thank you very much!’
‘That’s—’
‘The veryidea. With all those pictures of half-naked women on his walls? And hehada girlfriend, for your information.’ The proud sniff was back. ‘But I put a stop to that. You can tell when someone’s no good. Like that horrible Markle woman.’
‘You didn’t approve?’
‘Coming between a son and his father; poisoning Harry with all this woke, American, “mental health” nonsense. We never had “mental health” in my day, we kept calm and carried on!’
As if she’d ever been in the war. She was, what...seventy? Seventy-five, tops.
‘“Mental health.”’Mrs MacGarioch ground her cigarette out on the bones of its fallen comrades. ‘They should bring back National Service!’
Logan produced his notebook. ‘I’m going to need her details.’
‘I don’t know, do I. “Keira” something. And don’t ask me what she looks like, because they all look alike.’
Right...
He closed the notebook again, because there was no way he’d be writingthatdown. ‘I’ll just take a look in Charles’s room, then. Leave you to ...’ pointing at the TV, ‘whatever that is.’
Then got the hell out of there.
17
It looked as if Mrs MacGarioch had worked her magic in Charles’s room as well, clearing up after the search team’s ‘enthusiastic rummaging’. She’d changed the bed, picked everything up off the floor, and tidied the desk – though there were obvious holes where the computer, games console, and every single game had been confiscated.
With any luck they’d be getting analysed right now, rather than played with.
Just in case the search team had missed something, Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and had a wee peek under the mattress.
Nothing there.
There was nothing interesting in the rolling-drawer things under the bed, either. Unless you were fascinated by neatly folded T-shirts, ironed pants, and paired socks.
So Logan tried the bedside cabinet – checking behind and beneath it. Then did the same with every drawer.
Nope.
The wardrobe was full of shirts, trousers, and jackets; a scuffed mountain of trainers; and an open six-pack of Lynx Africa. Three were missing, so Charles had already squirted his way through half the packet. Probably all in one day, going by how much it honked in here when they broke the door down yesterday.
One last place to try: Logan squatted down in each of the room’s four corners and tugged at the carpet, but it was all securely nailed down. No access to loose floorboards and secret hidey-holes.
