Logan turned.
He was big, broad, with tiny piggy eyes and a barbed-wire tattoo around his neck. Handlebar moustache and a chin tuft. Hair shaved at the sides and swept back on top. Fancy-looking chunky watch on his wrist, gold sovereign rings on his fingers. A hessian bag-for-life covered in daisies in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.
‘Well, well, well.’ Logan reached for his handcuffs. ‘If it isn’t Crowbar Craig Simpson. How nice of you to...’
And Simpson was off, dropping the phone and legging it.
Rennie scrambled out of his chair and ran after him, Logan close on his tail.
Down the short hallway, and onto the landing.
Crowbar hammered down the stairs, taking them two at a time, arms out to keep him upright.
Bloody hell, he was quick. Throwing himself around the corners, bouncing off the walls, getting away.
Logan skidded around onto the first-floor landing. ‘STOP! POLICE!’
And then Rennie grabbed hold of the bannister and vaulted it, clearing the gap between the flights of stairs — coat-tails flapping out behind him, like a cut-price Batman. Crashing down on top of Crowbar as he reached the bottom step.
They tumbled across the wet concrete floor in a tangle of arms and legs.
Grunting and hissing. Struggling.
A lurch to the left and Rennie was on top. ‘Hold still, you wee—’
Crowbar roared. His fist snapped forward, right into Rennie’s jaw, sending him rocking backwards.
And as Rennie thumped against the wall, Crowbar wrestled his way upright, lurching to the front door and yanking it open as Logan clattered down the last few steps and leapt.
BANG — Logan slammed into his back.
They burst out through the open door and thumped onto the rain-slicked path. Rolling over and over. Crowbar swinging his arms and legs. Grunting. Teeth bared. ‘GERROFF OF ME!’
A fist whistled past Logan’s nose.
He grabbed the wrist it was attached to, twisting it around the wrong way and leaning on it.
A flicker of lightning sparked the sky white for a moment, then thunder roared — a vast booming crackling howl. And the rain hammered down.
‘GERROFF ME! I’LL KILL YOU!’
Logan twisted harder.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Thrashing and writhing.
‘Hold still!’ Logan yanked Crowbar to the left, grabbed a handful of his Peaky Blinders haircut and forced his face into the grass at the side of the path.
‘I AIN’T DONE NOTHING!’ The words muffled by mud. ‘GERROFF ME! YOU’RE BREAKING MY ARM!’
‘I said, hold still!’
Rennie staggered out through the front door, clutching his jaw. ‘Rotten sod...’
‘Little help?’
‘You’re not meant to punch police officers in the face!’ Rennie pulled out his cuffs and snapped one end onto Crowbar’s wrist. Forcing it up behind his back so he could get the one Logan was holding as well. Crrrrritch. All nice and secure.
They stood, panting as Crowbar bellowed his rage out into the downpour.
Served him right.
Irene Marshall sat on the couch with her ugly little sausage dog, glaring up at them.
The middle of the tidy living room was almost completely taken up with Rennie and Crowbar Craig — still in handcuffs and all clarted in mud — dripping on the carpet.
Logan shook the rain from a trouser leg. Absolutely soaked right through. ‘So that’s why you were so keen to get rid of us.’
Mrs Marshall hugged her dog tighter. ‘No comment.’
‘What happened to “they weren’t his friends, they were bad for him”?’
‘Oh yes, because you know what it’s like being a single mother living on benefits!’
Crowbar tightened. ‘You leave her alone.’
Rennie patted him on the shoulder. ‘Easy...’
‘I have needs! OK? I’m flesh and blood and I have needs.’ The ugly dog bared its teeth at Logan and growled. ‘Shhh, Tyrion. Shhh...’ Mrs Marshall turned her back on them. ‘I have needs.’
The custody suite had that strange biscuity smell to it again, like stale digestives and vinegary BO. It went with the painted breeze-block walls, community engagement posters, and row of creaky plastic seating. It especially went with Sergeant Jeff Downie — standing behind the chest-high custody desk, ignoring his domain. Skin so pale it was nearly fluorescent, shining in the overhead strip lights. Hooded eyes. Almost no chin.
Gollum in a Police Scotland uniform.
He was reading that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner. The one with the photo of DI Bell’s crashed rental car and ‘“SUICIDE COP” FAKED OWN DEATH’ headline.
Logan squelched over to the desk and knocked on the Formica top. ‘Got a present for you.’
Downie looked up, sniffed, then actually smiled for a change. Beaming at Crowbar Craig. ‘Ah, Mr Simpson! How lovely to see you again. You’ll be pleased to hear that your usual suite is available. I’d recommend a spa treatment, but I see you’ve already had a mudbath. And what is that delightful smell?’
Crowbar glowered at him, jaw clenched shut.
‘Now, how about we empty our pockets so I can sign it all in?’
Rennie dug through Crowbar’s pockets, lining the contents up on the custody desk. ‘Assorted keys, cash, a wallet, a bag of weed, rolling papers, some betting slips.’ He patted Crowbar on the arm. ‘Come on then, let’s have those sovereign rings. That massive lump of a watch too.’
Between them they added his jewellery to the line.
Sergeant Downie picked up the watch and gave it a good hard squint. ‘Ooh, now that’s a swanky timepiece if ever I’ve seen one. Stolen?’
Crowbar shrugged. ‘Knock-off, isn’t it?’
‘Story of my life.’ Downie tried the wallet next, pulling out a credit card. ‘What have we here? When did you become Agnes Deveron? Looking after it for a friend, are we?’
‘No comment.’
Logan helped himself to Downie’s copy of the Aberdeen Examiner and wandered off to the line of plastic chairs while Rennie got Crowbar booked in. The photo of DI Bell’s crashed car with accompanying article by Colin Scumbag Miller.
He scrolled through the contacts on his phone and set it ringing.
It rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And—
‘Mortuary.’
‘Sheila, I need to talk to Isobel.’
‘My mistress is engaged in her profession and cares not for interruptions.’
‘Your...? Why are you talking like that?’
‘Talking like what?’
‘Just get Isobel on the phone, OK?’
Her voice went a bit muffled, as if she was partially covering the mouthpiece. ‘Inspector McRae craves your attention, Professor.’
Isobel’s voice was barely audible in the background. ‘Urgh... Oh, all right then: put him on.’ And then she was up to full volume. ‘If you’re calling for DS Chalmers’ post-mortem results, you’re at least three hours too early.’
Logan gave the Aberdeen Examiner a pointed rustle. ‘I had a run-in with your husband today.’
‘How nice for you. Now, if that’s all, I’m busy. It’s gone five and I’d like to get home before the children are all in bed.’
‘He was in DI Bell’s widow’s house this morning, with a photographer. Says he knows what Bell’s been up to for the last two years, but he’s not going to tell us.’