‘Tell me, Craig, if I was to get a sample of Jaime’s DNA would it match Fred Marshall’s or yours?’
His face flushed red as a freshly popped zit. ‘No comment.’
‘Yeah, thought so.’
Hardie didn’t look up from his paperwork as Logan slipped into his office.
‘Have you got a minute, Chief Inspector?’
Hardie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Inspector McRae. Lucky me.’
‘It’s about the Kenneth and Aiden MacAuley investigation. We—’
‘I’m going to stop you right there.’ He held up a hand. ‘Whatever it is: I don’t care. Go tell the Senior Investigating Officer.’
Logan settled into one of Hardie’s visitors’ chairs. ‘Don’t think it would do much good. DCI Gordon’s still going to be off on the sick.’
And at that Hardie looked up. ‘Please tell me you’re trying to be funny?’
Logan shook his head.
‘Oh in the name of the hairy Christ!’ He crumpled the form he’d been reading, then did the same with his face. ‘Why the hell did I agree to do this job? I could’ve stayed where I was, banging up drug dealers, but no...’
‘Look on the bright side: at least DCI Gordon had his stroke before you took over. Not your fault Truncheon Tom forgot to assign a new SIO.’
‘Try telling our beloved leaders that.’ Hardie stared at the ceiling tiles for a moment. Sagged even further. ‘OK, OK, leave it with me. Gah...’
Logan let himself out.
Logan scuffed into his temporary office. Still no sign of any minions.
Rennie was there, though, with his feet up on his desk, hands behind his head. Whistling a cheery tune.
Logan dumped his fleece on the back of his chair and sat. ‘Should you not be working?’
‘Ten to six, Guv, shift’s over, time to go home.’ A grin. ‘Or better yet: time to go out and celebrate! Three and a half years the MacAuley case has been going on, and who gets the first breakthrough? We do. Ka-ching!’
‘Just because Crowbar Craig Simpson says something, doesn’t make it true.’
Rennie held up a hand. ‘Don’t widdle on my parade, I’m having a moment.’
‘You’re having an idiot.’ He pointed at Rennie’s computer. ‘Did you get an address for Sally MacAuley’s private eyes yet?’
A Post-it was produced with a flourish. ‘AberRAD Investigation Services Limited. Northfield Industrial Estate on Quarry Road. Open Wednesday to Sunday, ten till six thirty.’
Logan stood and grabbed his fleece again. ‘Well don’t sit there like a sack of neeps: get the car keys! If we hurry we might make it before they close.’
Rennie did a little wiggly dance in the driver’s seat as the pool car drifted across Northfield — singing along with some horrible autotuned nonsense on the radio, in what, to be honest, was a perfectly passable light baritone. Didn’t make it any less irritating, though. Especially as the whole thing was out of time with the groaning windscreen wipers:
‘Cos I’m a deep-sea diver, and I’m searching for your love,
Got the sharks down there beneath me and the boats soar up above...’
Logan hit him. ‘I’m trying to read, here.’ Then returned to his copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite. According to Sally MacAuley, when the investigation stalled, they—’
‘And the octopus, he knows me, cos his heart is lost like mine,
But we’re both sure we’ll find it, if you’ll only give us time...’
‘Seriously, I’ve read this page three times now. Shut up, or I’ll rip your ears off and make you eat them.’
A humph emanated from the boy idiot. ‘Not my fault you don’t like music.’
The car lumped and bumped its way across a potholed stretch of road and into a small industrial estate opposite the playground on Quarry Road. What looked like a builder’s yard and a couple of warehouse-style buildings.
‘That isn’t music.’ Logan clicked off the radio. ‘It’s a venereal disease with a tune.’
The pool car lurched to a halt in front of a cluster of Portakabins, in the corner furthest from the entrance, backed against the boundary wall and fence.
Rennie pulled on the handbrake. ‘How do you want to play this?’
‘I don’t care as long as it doesn’t involve you singing.’
‘Good cop, bad cop? Maybe a bit of Columbo?’ Rennie put on the voice. ‘“Ehhh... Just one more thing...”’ Then back to normal. ‘No?’
‘I should’ve left you at the station.’ Logan tapped the page he’d been over four times now. ‘It says here that DI Bell was a regular visitor to Sally MacAuley’s house.’
‘Told you they were at it.’ Rennie pointed at the Portakabins. ‘Shall I see if anyone’s in?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he climbed out of the car and strode over to the nearest one. A big sign was mounted on the side: ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD. ~ FAST, EFFICIENT, & DISCREET’ in bright-red letters, beneath a stylised ram’s head logo.
The Portakabin’s front door must’ve had a glazed bit at one point, but now the glass was boarded over with chipboard. Rennie opened the door and ducked inside.
Logan flicked through to the photos again. Stopped at the one of DI Bell organising his team. ‘What the hell were you involved in?’
No answer from the dead man in the photograph.
Rennie made a surprise reappearance, backwards — staggering to a halt on the tarmac as two figures bustled out of the AberRAD offices.
Number One: black biker jacket, black jeans, black trainers, and a bright-pink top. Long hair streaming out behind her as she surged forward, chin out, perfectly made-up face contorted into a snarl.
Number Two: a small burly bloke in blue jeans, with a brown leather jacket on over a garish Hawaiian shirt. Not a lot of hair left on his head. Both hands curled into fists.
The pair of them advanced on Rennie, who, for some reason, had adopted a fighting stance.
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Logan closed his book and climbed out into the drizzle.
The woman shoved Rennie, sending him staggering away. ‘You want some, do you? You want some?’
‘I’m warning you, I’m a—’
‘Aye, he wants some.’ Her friend rolled his shoulders. ‘Look at him, Danners, he wants some: big time.’
Wonderful.
Logan reached into the pool car and grabbed one of the collapsible batons.
Number One, ‘Danners’ shoved Rennie again. ‘I’m going to tear you apart and feed what’s left to my dog, little boy.’
Number Two grinned. ‘Ooh, you’re screwed now, sunshine!’
Logan slammed the car door. ‘All right, that’s enough.’
Number Two turned, arms out. Teeth bared. ‘Get back in the car, Lugs, unless you want a spanking as well.’
Danners gave Rennie another shove. ‘You’re mine, sunshine!’
‘You’re not listening.’ Logan clacked his extendable baton out to its full length. ‘I said, that’s enough!’
A grin spread across Number Two’s face. ‘Oh it — is — on!’ Bouncing on the balls of his feet, cricking his head from one side to the other.
Then the Portakabin door thumped open again.
‘Hoy!’ Raymond Hacker stood on the top step, a mobile phone clamped to his chest. ‘Will you idiots keep it down? I’m on the phone with a client.’ He looked much the same as he did in Sally MacAuley’s book. The swept-back hair was maybe a bit greyer at the sides, and the lines in his face a little deeper. But it was definitely him.