Then the road dipped beneath the old Wellington Bridge, following the river inland...
And still not a peep from Steel.
Logan sighed. ‘OK. Sorry. That was...But it’s your own fault for being a pain in my hoop.’
No reply: just the car’s roaring engine and wailing siren.
A series of pseudo-art-deco office blocks whisked by on the right. On the other side of the river, up a steep forty/fifty-foot embankment, sat a neat row of granite tenements, then a bunch of flats where Craiginches Prison used to be. Because nothing in this sodding city could ever stay the same.
‘You there?’
The pseudo-art-deco offices gave way to an eight-storey block of pseudo-art-deco flats, then a pseudo-art-deco warehouse. Because Riverside Drive liked to pick a theme and stick with it.
They whooshed beneath the railway bridge, and the eastmost edge of Duthie Park appeared – a playground area with shrieking kids, bored mums, and an over-excited spaniel.
Stillno response from Steel.
Tufty leaned through from the back of the car. ‘She doesn’t like people talking about “The Great Fall From Grace”, Sarge. Gets her all...dark and bitey.’ He patted Rennie’s shoulder, and pointed. ‘That’s us over there.’
Rennie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, thank you,Constable, I did manage to work it out for myself.’
Would be hard not to: a pair of patrol cars blocked off the lay-by and two uniformed officers were busy erecting a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. Cordoning off access to the crime scene.
They weren’t the only cars parked there, though – a ratty Honda Civic festered between them, its rear driver’s-side wing held on by what looked like cable-ties.
Rennie double parked, blocking it in, and killed the engine. Radiating smugness. ‘Inrecordtime.’
Idiot.
Logan climbed out into the hammering sun, one hand making a visor above his eyes to cut the glare down a bit.
Green exploded everywhere. Trees in full leaf, bushes in full...bush. Weeds running rampant all the way down the bank to the water’s edge. The south entrance to Duthie Park sat on the other side of the road, with its fancy granite chess-piece gateposts, and lacy wrought-iron railings. Which was probably going to cause problems later. But for now, Logan tipped a nod at the PCs erecting the outer cordon and marched across the lay-by, past a vandalised phone box, and over to the muchplainer railings – there to keep stupid people from tumbling downhill into the river.
From up here, there was an almost uninterrupted view of the water below. Bramble, nettles, and rosebay willowherb choked the steep bank, partially hiding a narrow pebble beach below. But the main action was thirty-odd feet off to the left, downriver, where another pair of uniforms did battle with a roll of black-and-yellow tape: ‘CRIMESCENE–DONOTENTER’. Trying to erect an inner cordon. With nothing convenient to tie it to, they’d stuck a pair of orange traffic cones on the bank and fixed one side to them. God knows why, but instead of leaving it there, they’d decided to enclose the crime scene by wading out into the water with great-big sticks they could jam into the riverbed.
Because when you were thick as mince, health-and-safety didn’t count.
What they weretryingto enclose floated facedown in the water – legs up on the bank. Dressed all in black and definitely dead. A huge feathery seagull swooped down onto the body, but one of the PCs yelled and waved their arms at the thing till it flapped into the air again. Screaming avian obscenities as it climbed. Circling overhead. No doubt waiting for another chance and plotting revenge.
Upriver, a familiar rumpled figure was talking to a bare-footed woman in a trench coat and an emaciated baboon in a tracksuit. That would be WhatsHerFace and Thingumy – the couple who discovered the body.
Steel might’ve been sulking, but at least she wasdoingsomething.
Logan snapped on a pair of gloves and leaned out over the railings, scanning the undergrowth.
‘Guv?’ Rennie sidled up, keeping his voice low. Presumably so Tufty wouldn’t hear. ‘What we looking for?’
‘Unless he jumped off a train, someone must’ve chucked the body in from somewhere.’
‘Eh?’ Chin in, making that ridiculous bleached Vandyke bristle. ‘But he was...Nah: Charles MacGarioch went in the water, remember? When the ice-cream van crashed?’
Just when you thought Rennie couldn’t get any thicker...
‘That was the RiverDon, you vulcanised Flump!This,’ putting on a singsong lilt, to really sell the sarcasm, ‘is the RiverDee. Dee – Don. Don – Dee.’ Logan treated him to a withering scowl. ‘What: you think he got swept out to sea, then back again, all the way through the harbour, and a mile-and-a-half upriver? Like he’s been on a wee cruise trip for corpses?’ Waving a hand at the half-floating body. ‘Oh, and did he stop off somewhere along the way to change intocompletely different clothes? Or did the little fishies help him with that?’
At least Rennie had the decency to blush as he peered at the remains. ‘Ah...’
‘Exactly.’ Logan turned to Tufty. ‘Where’s the common approach path?’
