‘And again: no comment.’
‘C’mon Laz, don’t be an arse. Haven’t had my meeting with the new owner, yet – assuming she ever deigns to turn up. Be nice if I had a wee scooparoonie to show off my skills, but.’
There was still no sign of Tufty or Rennie. Hopefully the pair of them were doing a decent job of pretending to be an SOC team. Only without the scrunchy white suits and grubby Transit van.
‘You should get your ears checked, Colin. Man your age – hearing’s the first thing to go. That and the willy.’
‘OK, how about this: any comment on the old dears you traumatised yesterday, chasing that ice-cream truck into the river?’
Logan scowled out at the barley. ‘No one wastraumatised! No matter what crap you printed this morning.’
A rumbling howl grew louder, and an aeroplane appeared from behind the flats, outbound this time – white-and-green, with a shamrock on the tail – clawing its way into the clear blue sky. Wings shining in the blazing sun.
‘They could’a died, man. If Charles MacGarioch hadn’t swerved intae the Don, they’d be geriatric mince by now. People are saying he’s a hero, like.Sacrificinghimself, instead of ploughing through them OAPs.’
Ahero?
‘Ha! That’s me laughing at you. Did you hear it? Ha!’
‘Then there’s those wee boys on the bikes. Could’a driven straight through them an’ all. Didn’t, though, did he.’
‘Charles MacGarioch isnota hero. He’s a...’ Logan clamped his gob shut, before something classified fell out.
‘Oh aye?’Colin adopted a sly, sleekit tone.‘You know: itmighthelp yer cause if you was to tell me why youse were after him in the first place. Put his “heroism” in a wee bitty context? Especially now he’s dead – drowned as a result ofyourpolice chase.’
Logan gazed out across the barley.
The Aer Lingus flight had shrunk to little more than a shining dot in the distance.
A tortoiseshell cat bustled across the hot tarmac, tail swaying, disappearing into one of the tatty wooden sheds.
And Colin didn’t say a word. Letting him stew.
OK. Who knew – maybe itwouldhelp.
‘Strictly off the record? And I mean one hundred percent inno wayfor publication?’
There was a wee pause, then:‘Agreed.’
‘The body we fished out of the Dee wasn’t Charles MacGarioch. So, if you publish that, A: you’re going to traumatise his grandmother for nothing, and B: you’ll look like an idiot when the details come out.’
No response.
Logan turned his back on the sun. ‘Isobel tells me you’re a sad lonely git with no friends.’
‘Are youpositiveit’s no’ him?’
‘She wants me to invite you to the barbecue at my place, Sunday.’
‘Cos if you’re screwing with me...?’
Oh, for Christ’s sake: you try to do someone a favour.
‘Of course it’s not sodding him. I’m a police officer; unlike you shifty journalist bastards, we actually tell the truth.’
Most of the time, anyway.
‘Aye, fair enough.’A grunt.‘And I’m no’ “sad and lonely”, I’m just a bit...Our new owner’s doing that fire-and-rehire crap, and half the guys I work with are out.Apparently,proper, trained, experienced journalists are “too expensive”. Why paythem,when you can “hire” a bunch of spotty unpaid interns to churn out click-bait instead?’
