SEND.
‘Working class? Never done a hard day’s work in their bloody lives!’
Ding-buzz.
TARA:
Logan!
Yeah...Had a feeling that wouldn’t go down well.
‘You knowwhythey want to drag us all back to the seventies? It’s costhat’swhen they werekids– no responsibilities, no worries, no mortgages, or any of that shite. Mummy looked after their every need, and you could call people “nig-nog” and get away with it.’ A grunt. Some angry chewing. ‘Bunch of fucks.’
Logan’s thumb ticked across the teeny keyboard:
Picked up another murder this afternoon. A really nasty one.
But I WILL be there, I swear on Cthulhu’s fuzzy whiskers.
And you couldn’t get a more solemn oath than that.
SEND.
The rear door creaked open and in thumped Tufty – all black and fluorescent yellow, like a radioactive liquorice allsort. ‘Mr Bhattacharjee thinks it was one of the kids from a couple of streets over. They wriggled in through the bathroom window, ransacked his mum’s bedroom – she wasn’t there, on account of being in hospital with the lurgie – and made off with her life’s savings. About two and a half grand, stashed under the mattress.’
Logan popped his phone back on the dashboard. ‘Think he might be our killer?’
‘Doesn’t drive. And it’s going to look weird if you call an Uber and ask if it’s OK to pop a body in the boot.’
True.
Logan polished off the last morsel of pie. ‘Starting to think this housebreaking idea of yours is a washout.’
‘Was only a hypothesis, Sarge.’
Rennie crammed in the final toenail-curl of pastry, chewing as he scrunched up the paper bag and lobbed it over his shoulder. Where itjustmissed Tufty’s head. ‘Stoneywood, ho!’
And off they went again.
24
Logan clunked the pool car’s door shut, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare as a white plane with a red-tartan tail scrambled into the sky, propellers going like the clappers.
The tiny bungalow they’d parked outside sat in the middle of a row of dilapidated wooden sheds. Isolated from the rest of the street. As if the other houses were scared of catching something.
It didn’t even have a strip of pavement outside.
This was ‘SAOR ALBA’, according to the nameplate screwed to the wall by the gate. Grey harled walls, lichen-greened slate roof, the woodwork peeling and in need of a paint. The front garden was a bit of a mess too. But the building backed onto a field of barley – rapidly losing its green tinge as it slowly baked – so at least the view was nice. If you didn’t mind being on the Aberdeen Airport flight path...
Rennie climbed out and pulled on a pair of shades. ‘Lonnnng way from Duthie Park.’
With insights like that, it wasamazinghe hadn’t made Inspector yet.
Logan opened the garden gate, setting it groaning and squealing like a haunted pig, then marched over to the front door. Rapping on the wood with his knuckles.
‘This is all a waste of time, isn’t it.’ Rennie scuffed down the short path, following him. ‘Stupid idea.’ Casting a scowlback towards Tufty – currently gazing out across the field, like a badly dressed garden gnome.
A muffled, ‘Hold on...’ came through the door, then it swung open and a small woman appeared. Sixty-something? With grey hair, jeans, clogs, and a lime-green sweatshirt that had ‘ENDOFEMPIRE’ embroidered across the chest, along with some twee thistles. Looking rumpled and a bit confused as she blinked out at Logan and Rennie...then sagged in disappointment.
