King whacked back the last of his whisky and raised the empty glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
Music blared through the open toilet door, loud and clear, then fading to a muffled thump-and-grind as the door bumped shut again. The sharp rancid-vinegar of a pub gents’ mingling with the weird artificial-mango scent spritzing out of the air freshener mounted on the wall.
Logan’s knees weren’t working at full strength for some reason, making him wobble a bit as he directed the stream of wee after a lump of someone’s discarded chewing gum — chasing it up and down the trough.
The newcomer took up position at the opposite end. Belched. Did a little wobble of his own as the sound of a zip joined them at the urinal. ‘Can’t remember...’ Oh, it was King. He burped and wobbled some more. ‘Can’t remember the last time I went... went out drinking with...’ another belch, ‘anyone from work.’
‘Nope.’
The chewing gum performed a little pirouette and headed off the other way. Slippery customer.
‘That’s the trouble... with being an inspector, isn’t it? When you’re... you’re a constable, you’re one of the gang. When... you’re a sergeant, you’re the buffer between the dicks in charge and the constables, so everyone likes you.’ His voice drooped like a sad willy. ‘Then you get promoted and... and suddenly you’re one of the dicks in charge.’
‘Yup.’
The chewing gum drifted to a halt — no more pee to push it.
Logan gave PC Naughty a shake and tucked him away again. Did his zip up and stiff-legged over to the sinks. No funny business, knees!
Now wash your hands.
King’s back was reflected in the graffiti-scrawled mirror: broad shoulders and that thick mane of hair. Like he was in a commercial, or a cop show, or something. ‘And it... it wouldn’t be so bad, if it was... like the TV, or the books, and...’ belch number three, ‘and you got to go running about interviewing people and cracking cases, but it’s... it’s ninety percent paperwork and bloody meetings!’ A lurching two-step to the left, quickly rectified. ‘Briefings. Debriefings. Status reports. Stragety... I mean, strategy focus groups. Statistics...’
Logan rinsed the soap off his hands. Took care over the words, in case they got a bit squished by all that lager and the whiskies. ‘You lied to Hardie.’
‘Did I?’
‘You didn’t see Haiden in the window.’
‘Yes I did.’
He flicked water off his hands and onto the brown tiles. ‘Steel knocked on Mhari Powell’s door, because... because she has the impulse control of... a six-month-old Labrador. Not because Haiden Lochhead appeared.’
King shoogled his bum from side to side, probably finishing up. Sounding genuinely puzzled: ‘You would rather... you rather I landed her in it?’
‘I’m not saying that.’ He crossed to the hand dryer — a motion sensor setting it roaring.
‘Then what...’ King raised his voice over the blower. ‘Then what’s the problem? She screwed... screwed up. Everybody screws up sometimes. God knows... know I have. We all have! But... but we deserve a second chance, don’t we?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘It doesn’t matter now. Far as Hardie’s concerned: I saw Haiden, we went after him.’
It doesn’t matter?
‘He — got — away.’
King zipped himself up. ‘And we’re going to have to live with that.’
‘Yes.’ Logan wiped his hands dry on his trousers and headed for the door. ‘The problem is: Professor Wilson probably won’t.’
— dead letters and abandoned mail —
22
The voice belted out at full volume: ‘Fit like, loons and quines? It’s six o’clock, which means you’re listening to OMG it’s Early!, with me, Rachel Gray. Glad you could join us.’
Gnnn...
Logan forced his eyes open, and blearied at the ceiling, one hand searching for the bloody alarm-clock-radio.
‘It’s going to be another scorcher out there, so let’s get in the spirit with some Alicia Lewis, and “Summer’s Ashes”.’
Tara reached across the bed and hit him, voice mushy and sour. ‘Make it stop!’
‘Take it away, Alicia!’
‘Trying...’ Where the hell was the button?
A horribly cheery hand-clap-and-guitar thing bounced out of the speaker.
She hit him again. ‘Makeitstop, makeitstop, makeitstop!’
‘Baby, can’t you see it’s you and me, and we’re burning?
It’s time we—’
His finger found the button and blessed silence rolled back into the bedroom.
Oh God...
Logan slumped. Groaned. Rubbed at his face. Ground the grit out of his eyes.
Six in the sodding morning.
It felt as if someone had emptied a bin bag into his mouth and then set fire to it. The pounding in his head matching time with the lurching of his stomach.
Who the hell thought flaming Drambuies were a good idea at one in the morning?
He struggled his way out of bed and stood there, drooping, scarred and slightly out of focus in the bedroom mirror.
His reflection grimaced back at him. ‘I hate mornings...’
Logan fastened the epaulettes to his T-shirt’s shoulders on the way to the front door, then bent down and rubbed Cthulhu’s head as she wound herself around his legs. Probably leaving a trail of grey and brown on his itchy police-issue trousers.
Still, at least the rest of him was clean.
She gave an extra loud purr as he got to her ears.
‘Better be nice to Aunty Tara today, she’s in a grump. And be nice to Daddy when he gets home too — it’s going to be one of those days, if—’
His phone launched into its generic ringtone and when he pulled it out the words ‘SUPT. BEVAN’ loomed in the middle of the screen. Great. Because that was bound to be good news.
Logan groaned, then answered it. Doing his best to sound happy to hear from her. ‘Boss, I’m on my way in. You need anything?’
Her New Zealand accent was slightly cooler than usual. ‘I do indeed, Logan. You, in my office. Please.’
Yeah, that didn’t sound good. He stepped out of the front door. ‘Be right there. Call it fifteen minutes if the traffic’s...’
Buggering hedgehogs of doom.
Not even twenty to seven yet, and the driveway was flooded with sunlight, dappling its way through the trees to make leopardskin patterns on the lock block. Birds singing like sarcastic bastards in the trees. Mocking the big empty space where his Audi should have been. But wasn’t. Because he’d left it at Divisional Headquarters last night.
Wonderful.
A strange cat sashayed along the top of the garden wall, as if it was wearing high heels.
He’d have to either get a bus into town, or wake Tara up and plead for a lift.
Oh, she was going to love that.
‘Logan?’
‘Sorry, Super, better make that half an hour.’
‘I see.’ A pause. ‘And when you come in, remind me to discuss your timekeeping as well.’ She hung up.
‘Urgh...’ He bent backwards, wincing up at the bright blue sky. ‘I really hate mornings.’
Right, just had to hope that Superintendent Bevan was ‘morally flexible’ when it came to accepting caffeine-based kickbacks. Logan shifted both wax-paper cups of coffee into one hand and knocked on her door.