‘Creepy Sheila? We should all chip in and get her a broomstick.’ A pause. ‘I know, I know. We’re not allowed to say things like that in Professional Standards.’
‘No we’re not.’
‘Not even a little bit?’
‘No.’ Logan skimmed the letter to DI Bell’s kids. ‘Got my hands on Bell’s suicide notes. He wants his children to know how proud he is of everything they’ve achieved and everything they’re going to achieve. No mention of why he’s allegedly topping himself.’ Suicide note number two: ‘“My dearest Barbara, I’m sorry, but I’m so tired. I can’t do this any more. I know I’ve not been the best husband for the last few months and I’m truly, truly sorry for that. You were always my soulmate and I want you to be happy, but all I do is make you miserable.”’
‘That’s cheery. You want my exciting news?’
‘“I really do love you, Barbara, I always have. Please don’t hate me for doing this. Give my guitar to Bob and my AFC collection to Gavin. I love you.” Signed, “Duncan”. Again, no reason why.’
‘Jerry the Mole, AKA: Jerry Whyte with a “Y”. She’s real and I’ve got an address.’
Logan slipped note number two back into the envelope. ‘Criminal record?’
‘Not even in the system: clean as a pornstar’s bumhole. Found her through a friend of a friend of a backdoor burglary specialist. And no, that’s not a euphemism.’
‘Address?’
‘Ooh, do I get to come too?’
The wee sod was probably just trying to get out of doing some actual work for a change.
‘Have you done your report for the Procurator Fiscal?’
‘Done, spell-checked, and submitted. For I am the very model of a modern major SIO.’ His voice took on a saccharine child-asking-for-a-toy-and-or-sweetie tone. ‘So can I? Please? I promise I’ll be ever so good!’
Logan glanced at the suicide note to Bell’s kids again. Then shrugged. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’
The man behind the reception desk gave them the benefit of a perfect white smile. ‘Give me a second and I’ll see if Jerry’s free.’ He stood. Had to be at least six two, maybe even six four. Mid-fifties in a Breton top, jeans, designer stubble, and glasses, with a grey shark-fin haircut perched on the top.
It was a fairly plush reception room, with leather couches and prints by local artists on the walls. A fancy coffee machine and a water dispenser.
Mr Sharksfin opened the door behind his desk and poked his head through.
A woman’s voice boomed out from the room. ‘That sounds great, Lee. I think all we need to do now is...’ Then fell silent as Mr Sharksfin waved at her.
‘Sorry to bother you, Jerry, but the police would like a word.’
‘Have to call you later, Lee. Some people here I need to speak to. OK. Yeah... Bye.’
Mr Sharksfin turned and beckoned to Logan and Rennie. ‘She’ll see you now.’
Logan stepped into a large office, overlooking the car park with its cordon of yet more chain link and the dreich day beyond. For some reason they’d clad the room in pine, like a sauna, then added huge rubber plants, a display cabinet full of awards and booze, rap-star furniture and a row of fancy wooden filing cabinets.
The company logo filled one entire wall — a cheery Westie in a red collar and the words ‘WHYTEDUG FACILITATION SERVICES LTD. ~ YOU NAME IT, WE CAN HELP.’
That booming voice again: ‘Gentlemen.’ It belonged to the woman lounging on one of the matching white sofas that dominated the middle of the room, her bare feet on the coffee table. A crisp dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a bold red tie, and grey suit trousers. Stylish pixie cut, bleached the colour of bone. As if she was trying out for a Eurythmics tribute band. Moles peppered her face and arms — dozens and dozens of them. She placed a mobile phone facedown on the sofa beside her.
Mr Sharksfin wafted Logan and Rennie towards the other couch. ‘Now, would anyone like a tea or coffee?’
Rennie opened his mouth, but Logan got in first: ‘We’re fine, thank you.’
Jerry Whyte stretched her arms out along the back of her sofa. ‘Harvey: give Stevie Zee a bell, make sure that marquee’s up and ready to go Wednesday for the run-through, yeah? Don’t let him fob you off with “It’ll all be up by Thursday.” Wednesday.’
‘Will do.’ Mr Sharksfin strutted from the room, closing the door behind him.
A smile from the woman opposite. ‘So, what can I do you for?’
That logo wasn’t the only Westie in the room. The other one was a wheezy old thing, fur stained to a smoker’s-yellow, snuffling and grunting its way around the coffee table. It made a beeline for Logan’s trousers and gave them a damn good sniffing.
He reached down to scratch the dog’s head, the fur slightly sticky against his fingertips. ‘What exactly do you do here, Mrs Whyte?’
A smile. ‘It’s Miss. And I help people accomplish things. I facilitate.’ She pointed at the closed door. ‘That marquee’s for the Aberdeen Examiner. They’re doing a world record bid — biggest ever stovies-eating competition — and we’re pulling it all together for them. MC, catering, advertising, social media, the works.’
‘So you’re an event coordinator.’
She shrugged. ‘Events, recruitment, mediation, logistics, PR, project management... You name it, we facilitate it.’
Of course she did.
Logan nudged Rennie with his foot.
And for once, the silly sod did what he’d been told. ‘Did you do any facilitation for Fred Marshall?’
‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ She stood and padded her bare feet over to the filing cabinets. Rummaged through one. ‘Fred Marsh?’
Rennie shook his head. ‘Marshall.’
‘Marshall, Marshall, Marshall... Here we go.’ She pulled out a file and opened it, flicking through the contents. ‘Yup, placed him as a doorman at the Secret Service Gentlemen’s Club for three months. Six-month stint as a security guard at Langstracht Business Park. Some more security work at maybe a dozen concerts? Couple of gigs as a courier during Oil Week.’ She held a sheet of headed notepaper up, reading from it. ‘“Fred Marshall is a conscientious worker who gets on well with his fellow employees and isn’t afraid of hard work. Would hire again.”’
‘I’m confused, ma’am.’ Rennie scooted forward, giving her that idiotic Columbo look of his. ‘You had him working as a security guard?’
The wee dog stopped sniffing Logan’s trousers and lumbered over to Rennie. Squared up to him and barked. Twice. Then let loose a wee wheezy growl.
‘You have to forgive Haggis, he’s a devil when he’s riled.’ Whyte popped the file back in her cabinet. ‘And if you’re asking about Fred Marshall’s criminal record: yes. We were fully aware of it when we placed him, as were all of his employers. Not everyone is prejudiced against people who’ve been through the criminal justice system, Inspector...?’
Chin up. ‘Detective Sergeant Rennie.’
The smile turned more than a little condescending. ‘I believe in rehabilitation, DS Rennie. We’ve got a number of ex-offenders on our books, ex-police-officers too, and serving ones. At W.F.S. we don’t discriminate, we facilitate.’
‘Frank Marshall was a thug for hire and you’re the one who—’
Logan stamped on Rennie’s foot.
‘Ow!’
At that, Haggis stopped growling, turned his bum on Rennie, and scuffed his back feet through the carpet a couple of times. Then waddled over to the other couch and scrambled up onto it.