‘OK. Tell Spudgun to shift focus to Bridge of Don and Seaton. Chances are, if MacGarioch’s made it ashore, naked from the waist up, he’s going to be pretty distinctive.’
‘On one of the hottest days of the year? It’s “taps-aff” weather, Guv. Half the buggers in Aberdeen will be wandering around like pre-boiled lobsters.’
As the Bikini/Budgie-Smugglers proved.
‘My money’s on him washing straight out to sea. Maybe he’s hit his head on a rock or a log or something, and it’s away to the briny deep he goes.’
Logan grimaced. ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ But she wasn’t wrong. ‘OK: keep searching. Got to hope MacGarioch’s made it out alive. Or if heishurt, he’s somewhere we can get to him.’
A whine slithered into Doreen’s voice.‘Come on, Guv, I’ve gone boil-in-the-bag in this sodding SOC suit. Everything squelches!’
‘You want me to make Spudgun acting DI instead?’
She let loose a wee theatrical sob, then a massive sigh.‘Yes, Guv. Searching it is, Guv. Thank you, Guv.’
Should think so too.
Outside the Balmain House Hotel, that mass of tribute teddy bears and grief bouquets had spread along the railings like a gaily coloured cancer.
Rennie parked behind the Mobile Command Unit, which didn’t look so mobile any more, because someone had slashed the tyres.
Weren’t peoplelovely?
A couple of young men finished off cable-tying a replica Aberdeen FC shirt to the railings, with the front facing the scorched remains, so the world could see that they’d had ‘YO¯SUF’ printed across the back.
They posed for a couple of selfies – bent-knees-and-victory-Vs – in front of the maudlin display. Grinning away like the morons they were.
Photos taken, they sloped off, leaving the crime scene dead and deserted. No sign of a drunken hotel ownerorPC Kent.
Not sure if that was a good thing or not...
Logan climbed out into the furnace afternoon.
Soon as his foot hit the pavement, Kent emerged from the MCU – her brown-blonde hair looking a lot more dishevelled than yesterday. ‘Guv.’ She nodded at Tufty and Rennie as they shuffled up. ‘Other people.’
The knuckles on her right hand were scuffed, and a little swollen patch reddened across her chin.
‘Hilary, when you said, “reasonable force” how reasonable was it?’
A happy sigh. ‘Veryreasonable.’ Kent hooked a thumb at the No-Longer-Mobile Command Unit. ‘He’s inside, having a wee rest, if you want?’
‘Might as well. As we’ve come all this way...’
Logan followed her into a stuffy funk of stale booze, unwashed clothes, and warm dust. Which probably had something to do with the man slumped across the table. Eyes closed and gob wide open, snorking away as a puddle of drool spread. A half-drunk mug of something brown sitting beside his head.
Kent plucked the mug from the tabletop, then banged her hand down hard. ‘WAKEY, WAKEY, MR MURRAY!’
‘Gnnnnggffff...?’ He jerked upright, then collapsed back into his seat. Blinking. A string of dribble still connecting his mouth to the tabletop like a fleshy balloon. Mid-fifties, maybe? With double bags under his eyes and a proper soup-strainer moustache. Scrapes on his left cheek and forehead. His polo shirt was all rumpled too, collar half-up, half-down; stains on his chinos – hole in one knee.
He wobbled a bit, as if the MCU was driving down a rutted track. One eye screwed shut as he peered around at the four of them. Or possibly eight, depending on how drunk he was.
Rennie and Tufty stationed themselves by the kettle, looking hopeful, as PC Kent loomed over their guest.
Meanwhile, Logan clunked the door shut and locked the thing,beforeleaning back against it – because you only madethatmistake once – and folded his arms.
Kent wobbled the mug. ‘Thought I’d sober him up a bit, before deciding whether to charge him or not. Isn’t that right, Mr Murray?’
He answered with a rattling belch, filling the van with a rancid miasma of garlic and old whisky.
