Well, that was excellent news. He put his mobile away. Smiled. It’d been far too long since the last one.
The Volvo’s boot squealed as he closed it — have to get some WD-40 on that. And then another squeal eeeeeeked out behind him, only this one was due to delight, rather than a rusty hinge.
The wee blond boy burst over the brow of a dune, running through the spiky grass, hauling his saggy kite with him.
He thundered past the Volvo.
Lee’s hand snapped out, grabbing hold of the wee boy’s T-shirt — pulling him up short. Holding him there as Lee knelt beside him.
More rustling in the undergrowth and Mummy lurched over a different dune, pink-faced and puffing hard.
Lee waved to her, then gave the wee boy a tickle, making him wriggle and giggle.
Mummy staggered over. ‘Urgh... Thanks, he’s a proper little monster this one. Nought to sixty in three seconds!’
The little monster squirmed, beaming. ‘I want ice cream!’
Lee gave her a wink. ‘Not a problem.’ Then ruffled the kid’s hair. ‘You have fun, Tiger.’
He let go and the wee boy took his mummy’s hand.
The pair of them skipped off towards the low building and its shop, singing a happy song about dinosaurs and soap.
Lee smiled. ‘Cute kid.’
Ah well.
He climbed in behind the wheel, pulled out of his parking space, and made for the exit. Sticking to the five-mile-an-hour speed limit. No point taking risks when there were small children running about.
The wee blond boy and his mum waved as he passed them, and Lee waved back. Then adjusted his rear-view mirror until the pet carrier filled it, draped in its jolly tartan rug.
‘Looks like it’s just you and me, Kiddo.’
Lee slowed at the junction, waited for a blue Nissan to rumble past, and turned onto the main road. Time for home.
Deep breath:
‘Ninety-nine green bottles, hanging on the wall...’
— the mortuary songbook —
16
A bus rumbled past the pool car and Logan turned away from it, a finger in his other ear. Didn’t make any difference to the noise, though — still couldn’t hear the phone. ‘Sorry? I didn’t get that.’
Outside the car windows, George Street was a grey mass of grey buildings beneath the grey sky. A swathe of down-at-heel businesses lined the bit they’d parked in: bookies, charities, pawn shops, and a wee café with steamed-up windows.
A gust of wind slapped an empty crisp packet against the windscreen. It caught on the wipers and writhed there, crackling.
But at least it’d stopped raining. For now.
Superintendent Doig sighed and had another go. ‘I said, “Well what is it in particular that’s worrying you?”’
‘Don’t know. It just feels... off.’
‘Have you seen the opinion piece in today’s paper?’ Rustling sounds came down the phone, followed by, ‘Listen to this. “It’s about time Police Scotland admitted NE Division,” brackets, “formerly known as Grampian Police,” close brackets, “is incapable of finding little Ellie Morton and send in a team of more qualified officers instead.”’ Another sigh. ‘No wonder Hardie’s got his Y-fronts in a knot.’
‘Why would DI Bell kill someone and fake his own death? Why not simply disappear?’
‘Of course it’s all that Colin Miller’s fault. Stirring things up. Nothing he likes more than putting the shoe-leather into us poor souls.’
‘He had to be panicking that something was going to come out. Some secret so bad that he’d be utterly screwed if anyone discovered it.’
‘I bet he was bottle-fed as a child. You can always tell.’
On the other side of the road, Rennie emerged from the coffee shop — a paper bag in one hand and a cardboard carrier-thing in the other. It had two wax-paper cups in it. So at least he’d got that bit right.
‘Only it didn’t come out. So there he is, lying low in Spain, worrying at it like a loose filling.’
‘You want a bit of advice, Logan?’
‘Hiding away all that time, until now. What changed? Why come back now?’
‘The human heart is a dark and sticky animal, but nobody does anything without a reason. Your job is to figure out what that reason is.’
Logan slumped in his seat and rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, thanks for that, Boss. Very helpful.’
You could hear the smile in the rotten sod’s voice. ‘I thought so.’ And then he hung up.
Always nice when senior officers shared the fruits of their hard-won experience.
Not far up the road, a woman with a pushchair launched into a screaming row with an older man. The pair of them in tracksuits that looked as if they spent more time in the kebab shop than the gym. Flailing their arms around and yelling at each other, their words torn away by the wind, leaving nothing behind but the pain on their faces.
The driver’s door opened and Rennie thumped in behind the wheel. He plucked one of the wax-paper cups from his carrier and passed it over. ‘Iced Caramel Macchiato, with a shot of raspberry, and white chocolate sprinkles.’
Logan curled his lip and creaked the plastic lid off. Sniffed at it. Sort of sweet and bitter and fruity all at the same time. ‘I asked for a coffee.’
‘It’s got coffee in it.’ He held out the paper bag. ‘Bought this for you from the charity shop.’
OK...
Inside was a paperback copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite, by Sally MacAuley and someone billed as ‘AWARD-WINNING JOURNALIST: BOB FINNEGAN’. The cover was a bit lurid — the Aberdeen skyline Photoshopped into a scene from Skemmel Woods, a close-up of that teddy bear cable-tied to the tree, and a head-and-shoulders of Aiden and Kenneth MacAuley. A bit tatty around the edges, the pages yellowing, spine cracked.
‘Are you happy working with Professional Standards, Simon?’
‘What?’ A look of utter horror crawled its way across Rennie’s face. ‘But... But I bought you a coffee, and a book!’
‘I’m not firing you, you halfwit, I’m asking if you’re enjoying the job.’
Rennie’s mouth clamped shut and his eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Superintendent Doig is thinking of offering you a permanent post. Well, two to three years, depending. Something to think about, anyway.’
A smile, then he reached across from the driver’s seat. ‘Guv...’
Logan batted his hands away. ‘No hugging. I can still tell Doig you’re a liability.’
Rennie beamed at him.
Urgh...
Logan opened Cold Blood and Dark Granite, flipping through to the shiny pages in the middle, where the photos were.
First up: a smiling family at Aiden’s third birthday — party hats, cake, candles, and grins.
Then another pic of Aiden, sitting in the back garden, little face fixed in a serious frown as he played with a Dr Who action figure and a couple of Daleks.
Next up was a series of holiday snaps. Then one of Kenneth MacAuley lording it over a smoking barbecue in shorts and a T-shirt. Sausages and chicken blackening away.
And the next page: DI Bell, looking threadbare and knackered, directing a group of uniformed constables.
Opposite him was a black-and-white portrait of a middle-aged man with a hint of grey in his swept-back hair. A strong nose and jaw. The caption underneath was, ‘RAYMOND HACKER — ABERRAD INVESTIGATIONS.’