Logan stepped into a gloomy little living room. The blinds were down, shutting out the rain and the media, but a standard lamp cast just enough light to see the dark patches on the walls where pictures must have hung for years, leaving nothing behind but the unfaded wallpaper and a capstone of dust. Most of the shelves were empty too, as if they’d had a clear-out recently. The only thing left was a single photo in a black frame: Mrs Bell and her husband. Her in a blue frock and him in his dress uniform, taken at some sort of official ceremony.
She was sitting on the couch now, by the electric fire, bottom jaw twitching as if she was trying to work something out from between her teeth. Eyes focused on the fake flames.
But Barbara Bell wasn’t the only one in here.
Sitting in the armchair opposite was a wee hardman in a well-fitted suit. Broad shouldered with a good haircut, even if his head was going a bit threadbare on top. Colin Miller. A trio of gold chains glinted around his neck, signet rings on over his black-leather-gloved fingers. And standing behind him: an older lady in a safari-type waistcoat — its pockets bulging with photographic equipment. A huge Cannon DSLR hanging around her neck.
Last, but by all means least: a young male PC, face covered with a moonscape of pockmarks, sitting in the other armchair. He struggled to his feet. ‘Inspector. I know this isn’t—’
Logan pointed at Miller. ‘Colin. Should you not be outside with the rest of your lovely Fourth Estate mates?’
A grin, followed by a Glaswegian accent so strong you could have stood on it. ‘Laz, my man, you’re lookin’ well, but. We’ve been expressing our sympathy to poor Barbara here. Haven’t we, Debbie?’
The photographer nodded, one side of her mouth clamped shut as if there were a fag poking out of it. ‘Terrible shame.’
Logan stood in front of the couch. ‘Mrs Bell?’
She didn’t even look at him. Just made a shooing gesture, batting away an invisible fly. Saggy and defeated.
He nodded. ‘Well, I’m sure everyone would like a nice cup of tea. Colin, why don’t you lend a hand?’ Then marched from the room, thumping Rennie on the way past. ‘You too.’
Rennie filled the kettle at a Belfast sink that was far too big for the small kitchen. Colin Miller leaned back against the working surface, crossing his arms and smirking.
Logan gave him a loom. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’
‘Easy, Tiger.’ He held up his hand in self-defence — some of the fingers stiff and twisted in his black leather gloves. ‘That any way to talk to an old friend?’
‘She’s just discovered that her husband died. Again. Bad enough you splashed it all over the front page this morning — she doesn’t need—’
‘Speaking of suicides,’ he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper, ‘a wee birdy tells us you’ve got another deid copper on your hands.’
‘I mean it, Colin: leave Barbara Bell alone!’
‘So did Lorna Chalmers really kill herself, or did she do a DI Ding-Dong Bell? Enquiring minds and all that.’
Logan backed off a step. ‘Who told you about Lorna Chalmers?’
‘Cos, see, it’s no’ hard to put two and two together, is it? Babs is sitting there in her gloomy wee living room and even she knows what’s coming. Her beloved deid husband killed someone to take his place in the grave.’
‘I’m going to count to three, then you either tell me who told you about Lorna Chalmers or I hurl you out of here on your arse.’
A grin slashed its way across Miller’s face. ‘That the quote you want me to use when this is all over the Examiner’s front page tomorrow? Cos I’m cool with that.’
The kettle rumbled to the boil and clicked off.
Silence.
Logan glowered at Miller. Miller grinned back at him.
Then Rennie broke the moment by hauling a bunch of mugs out of a cupboard and clattering them down by the kettle.
Miller shrugged. ‘It’s no’ goin’ all that well for Northeast Division, is it? You can’t find Ellie Morton, DI Bell turns up not-dead-but-dead-again, and now DS Lorna Chalmers tops herself.’ He tried on a casual, innocent voice: ‘You were investigating her for something, weren’t you?’
‘DS Rennie, make sure one of those mugs has extra spit in it.’
‘All right, all right. Easy, big man. Me and Debbie got all we need from Babs already. Was only hanging about to be nice to the poor dear. Keep her company and that.’ Miller pushed himself upright. ‘She’s all yours.’
Logan settled back on the couch as Rennie laid out four mugs of milky tea on the coffee table.
The thump of a closing door came from the hall and Family Liaison Officer McCraterface stepped into the room again. ‘That’s them gone now.’
Logan smiled at Mrs Bell. ‘Barbara, you didn’t have to speak to them.’
She flexed her hands into fists. ‘He lied to me.’
‘Of course he did, he’s a journalist.’
‘He left a bloody suicide note!’ Mrs Bell bared her teeth at the electric fire. ‘I memorised it. I thought I’d done something. Two bloody years and I thought... I thought if only I’d done something. If only I’d noticed how depressed he was. If only I’d got him some help!’ She picked up one of the mugs and hurled it at DI Bell’s photo. Knocking it flying, the mug shattering. Tea exploded across the wall. ‘And he wasn’t even dead! He was living it up in the sunshine, drinking sangria and shagging some Spanish tart!’
Logan shook his head. ‘Barbara, we don’t know that.’
‘Oh, we bloody well do! Mr Miller got someone to track down Duncan’s new family in Villaferrueña.’
Wonderful. The wee sod never mentioned that.
Mrs Bell ground her fists into her lap. ‘Duncan and his Spanish tart have a one-year-old son. I thought he was dead and he’s been making bloody babies!’ She snatched up another mug and hurled it to join the first. Another sharp-edged shattering and beige tea sprayed the wall.
Rennie grabbed his tea before it went flying too.
Logan took out his notebook. ‘We need to ask you some questions about what happened two years ago.’
She was still scowling at the tea-drenched wallpaper. ‘I boxed up all his crap. Did it last night, soon as they told me he hadn’t really killed himself.’ A sniff. She wiped at her eyes. Voice brittle. ‘I’ve been keeping this house like some sort of bloody shrine. Like he’d magically come back from the dead and everything would be fine again. I’m such a bloody idiot.’ Her whole face crumpled.
‘Can you remember him talking about a case he was working on at the time? Maybe something that was preying on his mind?’
‘Well, you know what? I’m happy he’s dead. I’m glad someone stabbed him. I hope they get away with it!’
11
Logan was last in line, barely able to see over the top of his large cardboard box. At least it wasn’t that heavy. He followed the FLO and Rennie out through the front door and into a lightning storm of camera flashes.
‘Inspector? Anne Darlington, BBC.’ Her blonde curls bounced as she fell into step, dragging a cameraman after her. ‘Inspector: is it true you’ve uncovered the identity of the individual who died in that caravan two years ago?’
Logan shifted his box, turning it into a cardboard shield between himself and the rampaging hordes of the media. ‘Please get out of the way.’
The Ewok man — Patterson? — jogged alongside as they hurried towards the pool car. ‘Is this case linked to the recent suicide of Detective Sergeant Lorna Chalmers?’