And last, but not least, some more pictures of the woods. The bridge. The stream. The tributes. Not a single crime-scene photograph to be seen.
Logan closed the book. ‘Two options: we go see Fred Marshall’s family, or we try our luck with Sally MacAuley’s private investigators.’
Rennie dug a fifty-pence piece from his trouser pocket and held it up. ‘Toss you for it.’ Then his face contorted in a pantomime wink. ‘Oo-er missus!’
‘I’m an inspector with Professional Standards, Detective Sergeant. And if you expect to join us, you’re going to have to learn the difference between what is and is not acceptable. Professional Standards don’t do “oo-er missus”.’
His face sagged. ‘Sorry, Guv.’
‘We do “fnarr-fnarr”.’
17
‘...anything else?’
‘No, that’s good for me. Thanks, Brucie.’ Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket.
Rennie took a left, parking outside a drab beige-and-white row of tenement flats in Hayton. Four storeys of rain-soaked brick and harling, punctuated by steamed-up windows and rusting satellite dishes. Eight flats to a communal door, three doors per block. An identical tenement faced it across the potholed parking area.
Why did council housing have to look so depressing? Why couldn’t they build something nice for people to live in?
Tower blocks loomed behind the flats — big and grey, sticking up like the transistors on a circuit board — their upper floors scratching at the low grey sky.
The pool car’s wipers clunked and groaned.
Rennie pulled a face. ‘Well, this is... lovely.’
‘Intel’s a bit out of date, but Brucie says Fred Marshall’s last known associates were Liam Houghton, Valerie Fuller, Oscar Shearer, and Craig Simpson.’
‘Urgh. Great. Crowbar Craig. Don’t suppose we can call for backup, can we?’
Logan climbed out of the car, into the rain. Stuck his hat on his head as he hurried up the little path to the middle door. A crack in the downpipe sent a gout of water spraying across the harling, like a teeny waterfall. Or a slit wrist.
The intercom was broken, wires protruding from its battered casing, the names obliterated by a squirt of red paint that bled its way down the wall. He gave the door a quick shove — it swung open.
Rennie scurried up the path after him, shoulders hunched around his ears. ‘What if they’ve got a dog? Or a sawn-off? Or a candlestick in the library?’
‘Then I’ll hide behind you.’
Inside, the stairwell was every bit as bleak and damp as the outside. Rainwater made lopsided puddles on the concrete floor. Or at least it looked like water.
Rennie’s face curdled, nostrils flaring as he sniffed. ‘Smells like a tramp’s Y-fronts in here.’
Logan picked his way up the stairs. ‘Top-floor flat.’
‘And not a healthy tramp either. One who’s been drinking anchovy smoothies and rubbing his crotch with mouldy onions.’
‘Feel free to stop talking now.’
Around the landing and up another flight.
‘And then peeing on the onion. Then eating it.’
Another flight. Another landing. Another questionable puddle.
‘And then peeing out oniony piddle and rolling in it.’
‘Will you shut up about piddling?’
The third-floor landing had all the charm of an abattoir, only without all the blood and dead animals. Instead the skeletal remains of a bicycle were chained to the metal balustrade, both wheels missing, the frame kicked and bashed into a twisted wreck. Two flats — one on either side.
Logan knocked on the door to number seven.
Rennie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s not too late to call for backup.’
Across the hall, what had to be an utterly massive dog barked and barked, thumping against the door, making it rattle.
‘Oh God...’ Rennie reached into his jacket and pulled out his extendable baton. ‘I knew I should’ve taken Donna swimming this morning...’
Logan knocked again: three, loud and hard.
Another dog joined the cacophony, only this one high-pitched and whiny, coming from number seven.
Then a woman’s voice. Small, thin, and wary. ‘Who is it?’
He held his warrant card up to the spyhole. ‘We need to talk about Fred Marshall.’
Irene Marshall’s flat was spotless. OK, so the furniture and décor were a bit old-fashioned and dark, as if a pensioner lived there, but there wasn’t a hint of dust anywhere.
A playpen sat in front of the TV, imprisoning a toddler in a tiger onesie who was busy banging the living hell out of some wooden blocks. His teddy bear cellmate was about three times bigger than him, eyes sparkling in the reflected light of a kids’ show with the sound turned off.
Mrs Marshall sat on the brown corduroy couch. Late-twenties, dressed like a schoolteacher, hair cut into a curly brown bob. Big glasses. An ugly yappy miniature sausage dog in her lap. She fidgeted with its ears, eyes fixed on the rain-streaked window. ‘No. Not for two years one month and twenty-seven days.’ Deep breath. ‘Something must have happened to him.’
Sitting on a throw-covered armchair, Rennie scribbled in his notebook. ‘Happened to him...’
Logan leaned back against the sideboard. ‘What about his friends? Liam Houghton, Valerie Fuller, Oscar—’
She sniffed. ‘They weren’t his friends, they were bad for him. Every time Freddie got into trouble, one of them was standing right behind him, egging him on. As soon as Freddie found out I was pregnant, that was it. He never spoke to any of them ever again. Ever.’
‘Never spoke to them ever again...’
‘So where do you think he went?’
‘He loves me and he loves baby Jaime. He would never abandon us!’ The dog whimpered and she hugged it, all four little legs poking out straight ahead. ‘Shhh, Tyrion. Daddy loves you too.’ She sniffed back another tear. ‘He was going to catering college...’
‘Going to catering college...’
‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant, I think we can do without the echo chamber.’
Rennie blushed. ‘Sorry, Guv.’
Idiot.
‘Mrs Marshall, did Fred ever mention someone called Aiden or Kenneth MacAuley?’
She frowned, head on one side. ‘He was... that little boy who went missing, wasn’t he? I remember, because the book came out when I was pregnant with Jaime. And I felt so sorry for that poor woman. If anything like that happened to Jaime I’d die. I would, I’d just die.’
The ugly dog whimpered again.
‘Did Fred say anything that made you think—’
Her mobile phone dinged and buzzed, on the couch next to her. She ignored it.
Logan had another go. ‘That made you think he was in trouble of some kind?’
‘Other than you lot hounding him and blaming him for things he hadn’t done?’ She stood, holding the dog even tighter, its tail whapping against her stomach. ‘I have to put Jaime down for his nap.’
Another ding-and-buzz from her phone. She glanced at it. Licked her lip. Stepped between it and Logan.
‘We’re trying to help, Irene. We’re trying to get Fred back for you.’
Mrs Marshall’s eyes flicked to the window. ‘Please, I need to put baby Jaime to bed! He’s tired.’
The prisoner went on battering his wooden blocks together.
‘Don’t you want Fred back?’
Her face flushed. ‘OF COURSE I WANT HIM BACK! I MISS HIM LIKE I’D MISS A LEG, YOU...’
A rattle sounded in the hall, followed by the front door’s creak. Then a man’s voice, getting louder: ‘Baby? Baby, I got them Oreos you like: peanut butter...’