Number Two pointed at Rennie. ‘This arsehole barged in like he owned the place.’ He swung his arm around and jabbed the finger at Logan. ‘And this arsehole’s begging for a kicking.’
Logan looked down at his own clothes. ‘You can see I’m wearing a police uniform, right? You do know what “the police” is?’
Danners stepped in close to Rennie, looming over him, even though they were much the same height. ‘This tiny strip of piss isn’t wearing one.’
‘I’m a police officer too!’
She curled her top lip. ‘You have to be joking. No way they’d give something like you a warrant card.’
Rennie stuck his chest out. ‘I’m Senior Investigating Officer on a very important case!’
‘Oh aye?’ Number Two raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind of half-arsed case could you possibly... Ooh, I know: is it shoplifting?’
Danners poked Rennie. ‘Overdue library books?’
‘Someone’s stealing the CID biscuits?’
Rennie stuck his nose in the air. ‘It’s the suicide of a police officer, thank you very much!’
‘Ah...’ Danners looked away. Cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. Didn’t know.’
Number Two shrugged. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘Pair of halfwits.’ Raymond Hacker shook his head. ‘Now, if we’re all quite finished playing British Bulldogs: Andy, get the kettle on. Danners, see if we’ve got any biscuits left in the tin.’ Then Hacker stepped down from the Portakabin and held his business card out to Logan. ‘Raymond Hacker, Inspector...?’
‘McRae.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Hacker settled behind his desk. ‘We had a couple of Soprano wannabes in last week, trying to tap us for protection money. Well, you saw what they did to the front door. Danielle and Andy are a bit... disapproving about that kind of thing.’
It wasn’t a huge office, but it took up about a quarter of the Portakabin, separated from the rest of it by a dividing wall and a glazed panel door. On the other side of the glass, Number Two, AKA: Andy, was busying himself with a kettle in a tiny kitchen area at the far end while Danners rummaged through a barricade of filing cabinets.
No filing cabinets for Hacker’s office. Instead he had a couple of large pot plants, framed testimonials, and a photo of him shaking hands with the First Minister. A big digital camera, mounted on a tripod, overlooked the desk and visitors’ chairs. A fish tank burbling away to itself, full of little fish in cheery colours.
‘So, what can we do to help our brothers in blue?’ Hacker gestured towards the chairs. ‘Well, brothers in black now, I suppose.’
Logan sat. ‘Are you still working for Mrs MacAuley?’
‘Sally?’ He seemed a bit surprised at the question. ‘Yes. We’re still looking for Aiden on her behalf.’ He turned his chair and waved at the framed testimonials. ‘Course our bread-and-butter’s divorces. Cheating husbands, wayward wives — you know the drill. But we always keep an ear out for Aiden.’
‘Any luck?’
A shrug. ‘Rumours from time to time. Sightings everywhere from John o’ Groats to Istanbul. But nothing solid.’ Hacker sat back and squinted at him. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’
‘Did you have much to do with DI Duncan Bell?’
‘Ding-Dong? God, now there’s a blast from the past. Ding-Dong was my DI for about two years, before I left the force.’
Rennie took the other chair, notebook at the ready. ‘You were Job?’
‘Divisional Intelligence Office. But I never liked following other people’s orders. That’s why I left — to set up this place. Be my own boss.’
‘Don’t remember you...’
‘DIO isn’t meant to fraternise with other teams. Can’t risk compromising sources.’
‘Oh.’ Rennie nodded. ‘Yeah, suppose.’
Logan leaned forward. ‘Did DI Bell ever talk to you about the MacAuley case?’
‘I resigned from the force long before Aiden was abducted, but yeah. When Sally hired us I tried to get Ding-Dong to spill his beans loads of times. Only managed it once — think it was a couple of weeks before he topped himself. If I remember it right, he was sweating like a paedo in a nursery, acting all shifty.’
The fish tank gurgled.
Outside, in the office, a phone rang and Danners answered, the conversation too muted by the closed door to be audible.
Rennie shifted in his seat.
And Hacker just sat there. Completely unfazed by the silence.
Ah well, worth a try. ‘And what did DI Bell say?’
‘Word for word? Don’t remember.’ Hacker pulled a face, rocking his hands back and forth. ‘Something about time and consequences and never getting any justice for poor wee Aiden. He was pretty cut up about it.’
There was a knock on the door and Andy appeared with a tea tray — three mugs, a plate of biscuits, and a one-pint plastic container of milk. ‘Don’t have any full-fat, so you’ll have to make do with semi-skimmed.’
He put the tray on the desk and Rennie and Hacker helped themselves.
Logan left his where it was.
Andy thumped a hand down on Rennie’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Sorry about earlier. Thought you guys were here to smash up the place, like. No hards, right?’
An uncomfortable smile. ‘Yeah.’
‘Andy?’ Hacker plucked a chocolate Hobnob from the plate. ‘Get on to Benny, will you? Make sure he’s got our equipment ready for that surveillance on the Buchan job before we close.’ A crunch of biscuit. Chewing as he turned back to Logan. ‘You’d be surprised how much infidelity goes on at the weekends. People get two days off and they’re at it like guinea pigs.’
Andy slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.
‘What else did DI Bell say?’
Hacker polished off his Hobnob. ‘If you’re after something in particular, might as well save us both the time and get to the point.’
‘Did he talk about suspects?’
A grin. ‘And there it is! You want to know about Freddie Marshall.’ He held up a chocolatey finger. ‘Yes, Ding-Dong told me about Freddie. My opinion? Don’t get me wrong, Freddie Marshall was an Olympic gold-medal-winning scumbag, but a killer?’
‘Everyone keeps telling me what a great guy Marshall was. Family, friends, social worker...’
‘A great guy? OK: pop quiz.’ Hacker wheeled his seat forward. ‘For ten points: who broke an old man’s arm in three places because he wouldn’t hand over his wife’s purse?’
Sarcasm. Great.
‘Is this really—’
Hacker made a harsh buzzing noise. ‘Nope, it was Freddie Marshall. Ten points: who battered a fifteen-year-old boy so badly the kid’s now confined to a wheelchair?’
‘I get the—’
Another buzz. ‘No. Freddie Marshall again. A bonus five if you can tell me who stabbed Limpy Steve Craigton three times in the guts over a twenty-quid wrap of heroin.’
Logan’s hand drifted down to cover his own collection of scar tissue.
‘I’m going to have to hurry you.’
Logan stared at him.
Hacker threw his arms in the air. ‘No, the answer was Freddie Marshall! But thanks for playing.’
‘Have you finished?’
Hacker picked up another biscuit, gesturing with it for emphasis. ‘I asked around. I probed. I questioned. And you know what? The only thing pointing at Freddie was Crowbar Craig Simpson. No forensics, no witnesses. Nothing but Crowbar’s word for it.’ A bite sent crumbs tumbling down the front of his shirt. ‘Did you know he’s shacked up with Freddie’s missus now? A more cynical man might draw a line connecting those two things. Still, all’s fair, eh?’