Logan sooked his fingers clean. ‘What about known associates?’
‘Was going to do it this morning, but DS Gallacher says King’s got someone on it already.’
‘Fair enough.’ A sigh. ‘So, we’re basically clueless until someone spots Haiden Lochhead.’ Great. Unless Tufty had managed to find something online? And if not, a boot up the bum might motivate him. ’Grab your hat, we’re off to see a weirdo.’
Rennie blew a short, wet raspberry. ‘Be quicker getting out and walking.’
The rush-hour traffic crawled along Queen’s Road, the trees hiding Rubislaw Quarry barely shifting in the passenger window.
Logan inched them forward another car’s length. ‘Don’t whinge.’
‘I said we should’ve gone Auchmill Road, but nooo, you said out to the ring road and back would be faster.’
‘I can get another sidekick, you know.’
‘What, like Steel?’ Rennie smirked. ‘Yeah, good luck with that. I’m the best of the best, the rest are just...’ a frown, ‘something that rhymes with best, but means the opposite.’
Another car length.
‘So — and I say this as the best sidekick you’ll ever have — that team-building night you went on with DI King and DCI Hardie...’
Logan glanced at him. ‘What about it?’
Pout. ‘Why didn’t I get an invite?’
‘Because you’re a soggy sack of sharny socks, that’s why. And you’re not of inspector rank, or above.’ Not to mention being a pain in the hoop.
‘Hmmph. You’re the so-called “elite” Brexiteers are always going on about, aren’t you?’ One side of Rennie’s face creased for a moment. ‘Depressed? Obsessed? Molest?’
If this was a top-of-the-range sidekick, God knows what a bargain-basement one would be like.
A wail of sirens erupted from somewhere behind them, followed two seconds later by flickering blue lights in the rear-view mirror. The cars following Logan’s Audi parted to let a patrol car through — blues and twos going.
Logan pulled over too, and as soon as they were past — pulled out after them, poking the switch that set his own lights and siren going. Raising his voice over the din: ‘In case they need our help.’
‘The rest are just a pest!’
Idiot.
The parting traffic meant he could finally put his foot down, accelerating to a heady thirty-five miles an hour.
‘Get on the blower, find out what we’re chasing.’
Rennie twisted around and fumbled at the back seat, coming out with a Police Scotland fleece in the usual shade of furry black. He dug an Airwave handset from one of the pockets. ‘Alpha Whisky Six Three Two, to Control, safe to talk?’
A sigh gurgled out of the speaker. ‘What can we do for you this time, Sergeant Rennie?’
They burst out onto the roundabout with Anderson Drive, a pair of matching eighteen wheelers bookending the dual carriageways on both sides. Some idiot in a Lexus 4x4 tried to sneak out behind one of them, then slammed on the brakes as the patrol car zipped past. Did exactly the same thing a second later as Logan’s Audi followed.
Why couldn’t people learn to drive?
Rennie grabbed for the handle above his seat as they jinked onto Queen’s Road again. ‘We’re following a patrol car down Queen’s Road, looking to give assistance. Can you detail the shout?’
‘Elderly I–C-One Male on Whitehall Place is hurling excrement at passers-by.’
Rennie grimaced across the car at Logan. ‘And is it his own or...?’
‘He’s apparently got several large carrier bags with him, if that helps?’
‘Ah. Yes. OK.’ He pulled his eyebrows up and showed Logan all of his teeth. Mouthing, ‘Do you want?’ in silence.
Not a chance in hell.
Logan shook his head.
Rennie nodded and pressed the Airwave’s talk button. ‘Control? You know, I’m sure the first responders don’t need Professional Standards muddying the waters. Right? Breathing down their necks.’
‘More comfortable throwing it than having it thrown at you, eh?’
‘You’re breaking up, I can’t... it... hello?... hear...’ He made hissing noises into the handset, then tossed it onto the seat behind him. ‘Yeah, let’s not do that.’
Logan killed the siren and flickering blue lights, as he merged with the slow-moving traffic again. ‘Not that I wouldn’t have helped out if I was needed.’
‘No. No. Me too. Definitely.’
Big granite buildings crept past on the left. Mostly offices now, but the occasional one still kept as a private residence for people with utterly shedloads of money. Jammy sods.
Logan followed the Golf in front past one of the swanky boutique hotels. ‘What happened about those lookout requests, by the way?’
‘Lookout...’ Rennie looked at him, mouth hanging open. Then, ‘Oh, the ones on Haiden Lochhead! Aha. Yes.’ A nod. ‘From Land’s End to Lerwick, we’ve had about sixty-four reported sightings. All of which will be from the kind of nutters who frequently mistake their own knees for Lord Lucan and Shergar.’
‘Local forces looking into them?’
‘And bitching mightily about it.’ He gave a big pantomime sigh. ‘I don’t know why we bother asking the public stuff. Don’t get me wrong: they’re not all idiots, but it’s a sodding large percentage. I tell you—’
His Airwave gave its three point-to-point bleeps and he jumped in his seat. ‘Eek!’
A muffled, ‘Control to Alpha Whisky Six Three Two, safe to talk?’ burst out into the car.
Rennie turned and fumbled for the handset, holding it like a pinless grenade as he took the call. ‘If this is about the auld mannie with bags full of jobbies, I’m not interested.’
‘Have you got Inspector McRae with you?’
A sly expression slunk its way across his face, making him look a bit like a sunburnt weasel. ‘Depends. Who wants to know?’
‘One: tell him to sign out an Airwave handset. I know he’s been off on the sick, but that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from carrying one.’
Logan’s shoulders tried to drag him down, along with the groan that accompanied it.
‘Second: DCI Hardie says he wants to see him in his office ASAP. Only he used a lot more words than that, many of which I can’t repeat in an open-plan office.’
Oh joy of fabulous joys.
‘And thirdly: tell Inspector McRae it’s nice to have him back. Even if he hasn’t bothered popping past to say hello yet.’
Rennie nodded. ‘Will do.’ Then returned Satan’s Telephone to his pocket with a grimace. ‘Wonder what’s crawled up Hardie’s backside and set up base camp. Maybe he’s got a hangover from going on the lash with you last night and wants to take it out on someone?’
‘Try not to sound so pleased about it.’
‘Pleased? Moi?’ A grin. ‘So, given the choice: being shouted at by Hardie, or helping out with that jobbie-flinging grandad, which one sounds better?’
Either way, he probably wasn’t going to like what was thrown at him.
23
King’s incident room felt a lot smaller today, which probably had something to do with the extra desks, chairs, whiteboards, and computer kit that had been squeezed into it. A row of support staff were battering data into the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System so it could churn out actions. Because following orders from DCI Hardie and all the monkeys further up the tree wasn’t bad enough, now they got to do what a computer program told them as well.