‘Hmmmm...’
Like a bomb going off in a crowded supermarket, a murder might ‘only’ kill one person, but it injures everyone around it. And some of them will never recover.
Logan turned the page and there were the photographs again. The happy family snaps before the bomb went off.
Rennie sighed. ‘Don’t know why I bother.’ He thumped into his seat and ripped open the biscuits. ‘Have you approved my press release yet?’
Kenneth MacAuley, standing at the family barbecue — in the back garden at Skemmelsbrae Croft, going by the playset and the sheds behind him — cooking sausages and chicken. Shorts and a Pink Floyd T-shirt. Sunglasses perched on top of his head. Eyes squinted against the smoke. A smile on his face as he toasts the photographer with his free hand and a bottle of Beck’s, big fancy watch dangling from his wrist. Massive Newfoundland Monster Dog in the background...
‘Hello? Press release?’
Logan stared.
It’d been right there, all along.
‘Earth to Inspector McRae, are you receiving me? Over.’
He grabbed his desk phone and dialled the custody suite.
‘Downie.’
‘Jeff? It’s Logan. Crowbar Craig Simpson — have you still got his property?’
‘For my sins. He’s been a complete pain in the ring all morning. “My tea’s too cold.” “My porridge’s too hot.” “My—”’
‘I’ll be right down.’
Sergeant Downie tipped the contents of a brown paper bag into a blue plastic tray. Spread it out, then held up the chunky silver watch Crowbar was wearing when they arrested him. ‘One rip-off Rolex.’
Logan took it — holding it next to the photo of Kenneth MacAuley at the barbecue. That arm raised in salute. The big fancy watch hanging off of it.
The two watches were identical. Which was either a massive coincidence or...
He turned the watch over. The words, ‘TO K FROM S WITH LOADS OF LOVE’ were engraved on the back. Bingo. ‘Stick Crowbar in an interview room.’
Downie puffed out a breath. ‘You got any idea how long it’ll take to get a duty solicitor down here on a Sunday?’
‘Then you’d better get cracking, hadn’t you?’
Logan stopped outside Hardie’s office. Again. This time the door was open and no one was shouting. Which was nice.
The place was a bit crowded though: Hardie behind his desk, DS Scott on the phone, DS Robertson changing things on a whiteboard, DI Fraser on one of the visitors’ chairs — in a green shirt-dress today — frowning at printouts of something as DS Becky McKenzie handed them to her. DI Porter had the other chair, playing with the mole on her cheek while she scrolled through something on an iPad. Everyone talking over everyone else.
DS Scott pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, then checked some paperwork. ‘Yes... OK, no... No, put the POLSA on, OK?... Look, put her on, please.’
DS McKenzie handed Fraser another sheet. ‘And that’s the third death threat since Friday...’
Fraser shook her head and sighed. ‘What is wrong with people?’
Porter looked up from her screen and grimaced at Hardie. ‘I honestly don’t see how we can do more without at least another dozen uniform.’
He grunted. ‘Where am I supposed to get twelve officers from? We’re stretched razor-thin as it is.’
‘Well go find her then!’ DS Scott thumped his paperwork down on Hardie’s desk. ‘God’s sake, Constable Guthrie, it’s not University Bloody Challenge!’
Logan knocked on the door frame.
Hardie gave another grunt. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I came by earlier, you were busy. Who do you want me to hand the Chalmers investigation over to? Oh, and I might have a lead on the Kenneth MacAuley murder, if you’ve got someone free?’
McKenzie handed Fraser another sheet of paper. ‘This one’s a threat to rape. There’s six of those.’
Hardie sagged. ‘Do you know how much crap I’ve got on my plate right now?’
Fraser handed it back. ‘What about the usernames?’
‘No one’s using their real names. It’s all MummyLover1962 and SlipsterDavie stuff.’
‘Tell you what,’ Hardie held up his hand, ‘let’s count them, shall we?’ Ticking the fingers off one by one: ‘Search for Ellie Morton. Search for Rebecca Oliver. Murder inquiry into DI Bell’s stabbing. Murder inquiry into whoever it was Bell killed two years ago. Chalmers’ murder.’
DI Fraser nodded. ‘OK: get onto Twitter and find out who they really are. They must have IP addresses, something.’
‘Not to mention a huge drugs bust I can’t postpone, because it’s been set up for weeks.’
DS Scott settled his bum on the edge of Hardie’s desk, still working the phone. ‘Stringer?... Stringer, it’s Charles Scott... Yeah... Yeah, look: I need you to widen your search... Yeah, it—’
Hardie slammed his hand down on the desk, making the pen holder rattle. ‘Can everyone just shut up for thirty sodding seconds?’ Silence. Everyone stared at him, sitting there, looking as if his head was about to go boom. ‘Can’t hear myself think.’
Someone appeared at Logan’s shoulder, peering in from the corridor, dressed in full Police Scotland black with combat trousers and matching riot accessories. Sergeant Rob Mitchell, so big he had to stoop to look through the door, arms thick with muscle and corded with sinew. A wee smile as he waved at Hardie. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Boss, but we’re going to have to get the briefing underway or we’ll lose the dog team.’
Hardie covered his face with his hands and screamed.
26
Hardie hauled open the door, revealing a tiny galley kitchen off the MIT office and a uniformed officer in the middle of doing a little dance. Short, with a Lego-style black bob. Bopping and shimmying away with her back to them, earbuds in as the kettle boiled.
PC Dunn did a Michael-Jackson-style spin and froze, one hand clutching the crotch of her trousers. She yanked out her earbuds. ‘Chief Inspector. I was... It’s not what—’
‘Give us a minute, will you, Stacey?’ Hardie hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
‘Yes. Sorry.’ She glanced at the six mugs lined up in front of the kettle. ‘I can... Yup.’
Hardie had to shuffle out of the way to let her squeeze past. Then stepped inside. ‘Inspector?’
Logan joined him and closed the door. ‘Are you OK?’
The two of them pretty much filled the place.
‘It’s like trying to juggle jelly, broken bottles, and hand grenades all at the same time.’ He slumped against the sink, pointing towards his office. ‘How am I supposed to organise everything if they won’t leave me alone for five minutes?’
The kettle clicked and Hardie started filling PC Dunn’s mugs. ‘Officially, Superintendent Young is SIO on the Chalmers murder. Dead police officer, so it had to be someone senior. Which means I have to run the actual investigation. Which means DI Jackson should have been in charge of operational matters. Which means...?’ Letting it hang there.
‘Wait: “should have been”?’
Hardie put the kettle down. ‘Jackson’s son was hit by a car this morning. He’s only five.’
Oh no... ‘Is he...?’
‘Touch and go. And I can’t get anyone to fill in for Jackson till Monday morning at the earliest. Maybe Tuesday.’ Hardie gave Logan a pained smile, then raised his eyebrows. ‘So...?’