Another text, this time from ‘IT’S TUFTALICIOUS!’ In it, the woman from the first picture was dressed in jeans and a ‘NO TO FASCISM!’ T-shirt, grinning at the camera as a police officer led her away in cuffs, surrounded by people with anti-Trump placards.
King tapped him on the shoulder. ‘What’s going on? Why do you look like something horrible’s happened?’
Logan turned away from him, back on the phone again. ‘Well... maybe it’s someone with the same name?’
‘Yeah, if it was just “Mhari Powell”, but with that middle name? No chance. This is the real one: one hundred percent, stake my rubber duckie on it. And that’s not a euphemism.’
‘Buggering...’
Logan barged out through the main doors onto the sun-baked concrete slabs outside DHQ.
He limp-ran to the top of the stairs, standing there looking down at Queen Street. The parked cars. The ‘shoes of all nations’ display in the windows of McKay’s. The granite lump of Greyfriar’s Church, up by the junction. The glittering spines and twirls of Marischal College beside it.
Where the hell was she?
King skidded to a halt beside him. ‘What’s got into you? Why are—’
‘It’s not her!’ He hurpled down the stairs and along the pavement, heat pounding down on his black-clad shoulders. Came to a halt at the junction. A bus rumbled past, followed by a small flurry of bicycles. A crowd of office workers, bustling along the pavements, determined to spend as much of their lunch hour out in the sun as possible.
No sign of Mhari, or whoever the hell she really was.
King grabbed him. ‘Will you tell me what’s—’
‘She’s been lying to us the whole sodding time!’ He did another three-sixty, scanning the crowds. ‘Where did you go?’ One more time around, but she was long gone. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
26
The only light in the room came from the bank of TVs that covered nearly a whole wall. All showing various views of Aberdeen city centre and the surrounding areas. A couple of CCTV operators sat at the central bank of controls, fiddling with joysticks to move the cameras, hunting for the con artist formerly known as ‘Mhari Powell’.
Inspector Pearce — mid-forties with a haircut that was a bit too mumsy for her, or anyone else, come to that — pointed at one of the back-wall screens. It showed the junction between Queen Street and Broad Street as Mhari marched into shot. ‘She crosses the road to here...’ The inspector moved her finger to another screen, showing an alley lined with tall granite buildings — a pub, and some shuttered shopfronts. Mhari appeared again, a definite spring in her step. ‘And this is waiting for her on Netherkirkgate.’
It was a rusty white Nissan Micra, last seen parked outside Mhari’s house in Pitmedden. The car sat on double yellows in front of what used to be Craigdon Sports, facing the camera. Meaning the driver was clearly visible.
King whistled. ‘Haiden Lochhead. Sodding hell.’
‘He was parked there about fifteen minutes by the time she turned up.’
Great. Haiden Lochhead, the scumbag they’d set up a nationwide manhunt for, had been sitting right there, barely a three-minute walk from Divisional Headquarters. That would go down well when the top brass found out.
Logan winced. ‘You’d better get back to Port of Dover Police and tell them they can stop searching the ferries and docks.’
‘Oh God...’ King sagged against the wall. ‘They’re going to love that.’
Mhari jumped into the passenger seat and grinned across the car at Haiden, then pretty much leapt over the gearstick to give him a serious snogging.
Pearce sniffed. ‘Any idea who she really is?’
‘Not a sodding clue.’
Snog over, Mhari sat down again, scarlet lipstick all smeared. Then Haiden started the Nissan and drove off the edge of the screen.
‘We pick the car up on Union Street.’ Pearce frowned, naming the streets as the picture jumped from camera to camera, following the Nissan. ‘Past Market Street, Trinity Centre. Right onto Huntly Street. Next time we see it it’s on Carden Place.’ The car chugged past and out of sight. She clicked a button and the screen went blank. A pained smile. ‘Sorry.’
King stared at her. ‘They can’t just disappear!’
‘There’s only so many roads covered by CCTV and ANPR. We’ve got a flag out, though: if the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system picks them up, we’ll know. Till then?’ She shrugged.
Wonderful.
Logan groaned. King covered his face with his hands, swearing under his breath.
Pearce shrugged again. ‘Nothing I can do.’
They were so screwed. ‘She was right here and we let her walk out the front door.’
Pearce patted him on the shoulder. ‘I can offer you a nice slice of coconut macaroon cake, if that helps?’
Yeah, it’s a crappy wee car, but it’s not so bad when you get used to it. Kinda fun, really. Maybe that’s why he’s in such a good mood? Or maybe it’s cos they’ve put one over on those moron coppers.
Muppets.
Or maybe it’s because he’s with her.
Haiden smiles across the Nissan Micra at Mhari. God, it’s amazing how she does that — one minute she’s looking like a librarian spinster, the next like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. Sexy and beautiful and smart as a whip.
What she sees in a lump like him is anyone’s guess, but by Christ he’s gonna enjoy it while he can.
She reaches out and puts her hand on top of his as he changes the gears. All it takes is that one wee gesture, and his cock’s like a crowbar.
He grins at her. ‘We did it!’
‘No, Haiden, you did it.’
‘No, you did it.’
She squeezes his hand, then reaches further and puts her hot little hand on his thigh. ‘You were right, baby: they think you’re in Dover, on your way to Calais, and we, my dear Haiden, are free!’
Damn right.
‘Nothing we can’t do, cos we’re a team.’
Her hand drifts up. ‘Go team us!’
Oh yeah. ‘Go team us.’
This time, when she moves her hand, she cups his erection through his jeans. That little bit of pressure making him moan.
Then Mhari turns and looks over her shoulder at the rear seat. Rubbing him as she does. ‘Have you got the...?’
Focus, Haiden. Don’t disappoint her. ‘In the boot: two rolls of duct tape, six foot of electrical cable, box of gloves, decorators’ masks, overshoes, paper oversuits. And check the glove compartment.’
She does, keeping her other hand at its business as she rummages through the usual driver’s manual and service history crap. Then pulls out the carrier bag, opens it, and peers inside. ‘Ooh, pretty.’
‘Knew you’d love it.’ Soon as he saw it, he knew. Cos he’s a damn good boyfriend, no matter what his bitch ex-wife said.
Mhari lets go of his cock to slip the hunting knife from its sheath. Eight inches long, serrated down one side and polished to a glittering shine. She grips it in her left hand and takes hold of him again, licking her cherry-red lips. Squeezing and rubbing till he’s breathing heavy. ‘Baby, we’re going to have so much fun tonight!’
Oh yes, they definitely are...
Logan found King out front, perched on one of the grimy concrete wall / planter things that lined the stairs down to Queen Street. Sitting there, with his back to the station, face to the sun. Shoulders slumped, face hanging. He didn’t look up as Logan sat beside him, just sighed. ‘Well, that’s it, we might as well march ourselves up to Hardie’s office and resign now.’