‘Will do, Chief.’ He gave himself a wee satisfied chuckle as he wandered off towards his precious bloodstains. ‘“Ask any woman.” Priceless, Leonard, priceless.’
Looked as if Tayside’s policy on hiring weirdos was every bit as robust as Aberdeen’s.
Logan picked his way past the cordon and out into the night.
No moon. Nothing but the glow of every light in Scott Meyrick’s house blazing away beneath a blanket of indifferent stars. The Dundee lot had marked out a common approach path with blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape, and Logan followed it as far as his Audi, bypassing one of the white-suited team, on their hands and knees in the gravel, working away with a high-powered torch.
Logan pulled out his phone, one finger hovering over the contacts list. Not even three o’clock yet. It wasn’t really fair to call Jane McGrath this early.
Then again, why should he be the only one up and worrying about this stuff?
He poked her name and his mobile rang, and rang, and rang, and rang, and rang and—
‘Gnnnn...? Wh... Urgh. Do you know what time it is.’
‘Yes.’ He leaned against his car. ‘The press are going to find out about Scott Meyrick soon. No way we can keep this quiet.’
‘I’m not an idiot, Logan, I’m well aware of that.’ A sort of half-yawn-half-gurgle noise came down the line. ‘His bloody agent held a press conference about thirty minutes after she called nine-nine-nine. It’s all over the twenty-four-hour news outlets.’
‘Oh for God’s sake...’
‘So you woke me up for nothing. And I’ve got to be on the BBC in... Aaaargh! Four and a bit hours!’
‘Sorry.’ No he wasn’t, but at least she couldn’t see him grinning. ‘Jane... off the record... hypothetically speaking—’
‘What?’ And just like that she sounded a lot more awake. ‘OK, you’re worrying me now!’
‘Have you ever heard of someone called “Robert Drysdale”?’
‘Who’s Robert Drysdale?’ An edge of panic was creeping in. ‘Why should I have heard of him? Has something happened?’
‘Call it “idle speculation”.’ All innocent.
‘Oh great. Thank you very much. How am I supposed to get back to sleep now?’
‘Well it’s—’
‘Going to be up all night worrying about Robert Bloody Drysdale! Gah!’ And with that, she hung up.
It was hard not to grin, it really was. After all, a problem shared...
Logan climbed into his Audi, clicked on the lights, and drove off into the night.
— in case of emergency: break glass —
35
The last bars of something far too raucous for this time of the morning screeched and hollered out of the car radio as Logan turned onto Queen Street. Sunlight glittered on the granite buildings, made the concrete glow, sparkled in the looming windows of Divisional Headquarters. A handful of miserable people trudging along the early morning pavements on their way to work.
The DJ laughed. ‘I know, I know, but it’s growing on me. Got the news, travel, and weather coming up at seven. And we’ll be going live to Aberdeen Divisional Headquarters for a special exclusive report on Scotty Meyrick’s abduction last night.’
‘Oh... sodding hell.’
‘If you’re out there listening, Scotty, everyone here wants you to know we’re thinking of you at this difficult time. Stay strong!’
‘Yes, because that’ll do him a huge amount of...’
The armada of journalists who’d gathered outside DHQ hove into view — doing their early morning bulletins to camera. Serious faces for a serious story.
Logan slowed to have a bit of a nosy.
A big BMW van was parked just ahead, splattered with Sky TV branding, a paddling-pool-sized satellite dish on the roof. The side door rattled open as he passed and that wee hairy Philip Patterson hopped out, tissue paper stuffed into his collar so he wouldn’t get however many tons of makeup he was wearing on his shirt. A camerawoman clambered out after him, jostling up the walkway to the Front Podium.
Be sure to get a shot with the Police Scotland signage in the background, don’t want people to think you’re not really here...
‘Great.’
‘Anyway, you’re listening to OMG It’s Early!, with me, Rachel Gray. And now, here’s an oldie but a goodie: The Eagles and “Hotel California”. This one’s for you, Scotty!’
Yeah, not exactly appropriate.
PC Ugly was behind the desk outside the Chief Superintendent’s office again, hammering away at his keyboard as if going for a new world record.
King lowered himself into the seat one down from Logan’s, clean shaven, Hollywood hair slicked back, suit, shirt, and tie immaculate. As if he hadn’t turned up half-cut at the crime scene last night. He dug into a pocket and waggled a roll of extra-strong mints in Logan’s direction. ‘You look rough.’
Cheeky sod. But Logan took a mint anyway, sticking it into his cheek like a hamster.
King put the packet away. ‘They give you a time for the press briefing yet?’
‘No. You?’
‘Why would they tell me? I’ll be fired by then.’
Welcome to the Friday-morning pity party.
‘They’re not going to fire you just because Scott Meyrick got abducted. That wasn’t our fault.’
‘You’ve not read the Scottish Daily Post this morning, then?’
Logan turned in his seat. ‘Didn’t have time. You?’
‘Didn’t need to. I know what’s coming.’
Wonderful. So he’d been right yesterday — there was worse on its way. ‘What has Barwell—’
The office door opened and Superintendent Bevan stuck her head out. The smile she flashed wasn’t a hopeful one. ‘Ah, Logan. Good. Can you join us inside, please?’
He and King stood, but she waved at King to sit again. ‘Sorry, Frank, I need you to wait here for now.’
King’s smooth shaved cheeks darkened. ‘I see. That’s how it is.’
Logan patted him on the shoulder, then followed Bevan inside. Closed the door behind him, shutting out King’s hurt wee face.
Big Tony Campbell’s office was done out in the same Spartan fashion as the reception area outside. The only nods to decoration were the framed photos of Big Tony with various local VIPs and a couple of First Ministers. No whiteboards, no filing cabinets, no pot plants — just a big-ish desk with the man himself, Chief Superintendent of all he surveyed, glowering away behind it, a coffee table, and half a dozen comfy chairs. Only one of which was unoccupied.
Bevan settled into it, between Superintendent Young, and Jane McGrath: who looked at Logan as if he was something needing biopsied. Hardie sat on the other side of the coffee table with an unknown woman: grey-streaked shoulder-length hair, a proud chin, superintendent’s pips on the epaulettes of her dress uniform.
Scowls and frowns all round. And not one of them could look him in the eye.
Fair enough, it was going to be one of those meetings.
Logan nodded at each of them in turn. ‘Boss, Guv, Chief, Super, Jane...’ He raised an eyebrow at their mystery visitor. ‘Ma’am?’
She nodded at him.
It was Big Tony Campbell who broke the ensuing silence. ‘Three pro-union public figures in less than a fortnight, Logan. Three.’