Rennie stared at Logan. ‘What was that—’
Logan thumped him. ‘When did you last hear from Fred Marshall, Miss Whyte?’
‘Oh.’ She dug her file out again and checked. ‘According to this, he wanted to try a job in catering... two and a bit years ago? We didn’t have anything at the time, but when something came along we tried to get in touch. No answer.’ A shrug. ‘Sorry.’
‘Does anyone else on your books know him?’
‘No idea... But I can ask around, if you like?’ She carried the file over to her desk and wrote something on a Post-it note. Stuck it on her monitor. ‘I know Fred Marshall did some bad stuff in his time, but he was getting his life together. When you find him, tell him he’s always got a place on our books.’
Logan nodded. ‘Thank you. We’ll be in touch.’ He made for the door, but Rennie stayed where he was. Sitting there, head on one side. Logan pointed at him. ‘Heel.’
Rennie didn’t. ‘You were on the radio today, weren’t you, Miss Whyte? You put up a five grand reward for info about Ellie Morton.’
She shook her head. ‘How could anyone do that to a wee girl? I’ve got a niece that age; see if anyone laid a finger on her...’ Whyte gave herself a little shake. ‘Anyway, we’ve got to pull together as a community, don’t we?’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘And you tell your mates at the station: bring Ellie home safe and there’s a case of Glenlivet waiting for you.’
Rennie bustled over to the pool car, unlocking it and scrambling in out of the rain.
Logan paused, one hand on the door handle, looking up towards the building.
Jerry Whyte’s office was on the first floor, and there she was: standing at the window, phone to her ear, smiling down at him. She even raised her hand and gave him a little wave.
He didn’t wave back. Opened the door and got in the car.
Rennie reversed out of the space. ‘Like we need bribing with whisky to find Ellie Morton. Not saying it wouldn’t be a nice bonus, though.’
She was still standing there, watching them.
Logan fastened his seatbelt. ‘Notice how everyone says Fred Marshall was a really great guy?’
‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Yeah, you are. You’re thinking it’s time to go visit Fred Marshall’s last known address, shake the family tree and see how many dead bodies fall out.’
‘Why are they all bigging him up? You’ve seen his criminal record, he was a violent thug.’
‘Maybe he had one of those Scrooge-type epiphanies? Three ghosts, “Oh poor Tiny Tim!”, and it’s turkey-and-presents for everyone.’ Rennie drove them out onto the main road and took a right at the roundabout, heading into town again. ‘Or, maybe DI Bell got it wrong and Fred Marshall didn’t have anything to do with Aidan MacAuley’s abduction after all?’
‘Don’t know. It’s all a bit... itchy. Like there’s something we need to scratch till it bleeds.’
‘Don’t be revolting.’
‘We just need to figure out who to scratch first.’
15
People didn’t appreciate places like this enough. Nice places. Family places. Traditional places. OK, so it was a little run-down, but nothing a bit of elbow grease wouldn’t fix. A grid of static caravans followed the contours of the hill, overlooking a lovely sandy beach. There was even a nice mown area at the far end to park your Swift Challenger 460 — power point and water hook-up included — with the other discerning touring-caravan owners. A low building in the middle of the site for showers and a wee shop that did a very nice sandwich and scone. Then out across the emerald grass to the golden dunes and the sapphire sea beyond. Well, the Moray Firth, anyway — the Black Isle clearly visible through the afternoon haze.
Happy families played on the sand with kites and balls and Frisbees and dogs — shrieks of children’s laughter wafting up the hill towards him on a deliciously salty offshore breeze. The sun warm on his face and bare arms.
You wouldn’t think it was October. No July day was ever nicer than this.
Absolutely lovely.
‘Lee?’
Oh, the tyranny of owning a mobile phone.
‘I’m really in the middle of something...’ He shifted on his picnic bench, turning to keep them in sight.
The wee blond boy squealed with delight, face one big grin as he hammered up and down the sand — a kite fluttering at the end of his string. His mum wasn’t doing a great job of keeping up with him, but she was trying. Bless. Couldn’t be easy, especially since she’d clearly not managed to lose all that baby weight yet. Her podgy arms and legs were sunburnt where they protruded from her shorts and ‘I VOTED YES!’ T-shirt.
‘I’ve just had a visit from two police officers.’
Interesting.
‘That’s nice.’
The wee lad wasn’t looking where he was going, lost his footing and went sprawling. Whoomp, right on his tummy. Little bare feet kicking at the air as if they hadn’t realised he’d stopped running yet.
‘At Whytedug Facilitation Services we’re always happy to help the local authorities.’
‘And did the nice officers want anything in particular?’
‘Information on a young man I used to get work for.’
Mummy reached the wee lad and helped him up. Ruffled his hair. Laughed. Now that was good parenting. None of this, aw did poor liddle diddum hurt himsewf, nonsense.
‘And this concerns me, because?’
‘I think it’s wise if we concentrate on our core projects at the moment. Best not take on anything else right now.’
The wee boy ran and squealed on the end of his kite’s string again. Not a care in the world...
‘Did you hear me? No more extra projects.’
‘That’ll leave us short stocked.’
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of enforced scarcity. No one wants to go home empty-handed — it’ll incentivise them to dig deep and bid high. And, more importantly, it reduces opportunities for... unfortunate occurrences. Do you understand?’
Ah well.
Lee stood, gathered up his sandwich wrapper and the paper plate that came with his scone and popped them in the bin. Nothing worse than people who littered: it was everyone’s countryside. ‘Fine.’
He screwed the top on his thermos of tea, shook out the cup and clicked it into place. Picked up his holdall from the picnic bench — familiar and heavy, reliable — then headed for the car. Also familiar, heavy, and reliable, in a forgettable shade of anonymous beige.
‘Trust me, it’s for the best.’
He hauled the tailgate up and chucked the holdall into the boot. The zip popped open a couple of inches, exposing two rolls of duct tape, some rope, a ball gag, and a couple of knives. Oops!
Lee zipped it up again. Then checked the tartan rug was still nice and snug over the pet carrier and its silent occupant. Of course there was a risk of overheating, but he had parked in the shade and opened the windows a—
‘And listen: I also wanted to tell you that we’ve picked a venue for the company barbecue.’
About time!
Lee straightened up, grip tightening on the phone. ‘Where?’
‘A lovely little farm, out past Inverurie. I’ll text you the details. Just make sure it’s all set-up for Monday night.’