The lip curled some more. ‘She that frizzy-haired bint? Bit rough around the edges, but still kinda doable if you’ve had a couple of pints?’
Steel nodded. ‘That’s the one.’
‘Yeah, I spoke to her.’ Russell Morton shook his head. ‘Bitch wanted to know where I was when Ellie got snatched, didn’t she?’ Pause. ‘Cos I was with me mates.’
Of course he was.
‘You were flashing cash about that night, weren’t you Russell? Bought pizza for everyone and gave the delivery man a big tip.’
A shrug. ‘I’m a nice guy.’
‘Oh aye.’ Steel nodded. ‘A veritable prince among men.’
‘I got a bit of cash in my pocket, why not splash it about? Spread the happy, yeah?’
Logan checked his notebook. OK, so there was nothing actually written there, but Morton didn’t know that. As far as he was concerned Logan knew things. ‘Where were you this Friday, Russell?’
‘Pfff... About. You know, helping search for Ellie and that. Cos she’s missing.’
‘What about Friday night?’
He spread his hands, indicating his floral-print domain. ‘Back here, with Katie. Poor cow’s broken up about Ellie, isn’t she? Cos you lot can’t get your finger out long enough to find her.’
‘Where did you get the money from, Russell?’
‘But you’re doing sod-all aren’t you? Too busy harassing me.’
The singing someone emerged from the kitchen with a mug in each hand. Angela Parks, from yesterday’s media scrum outside Mrs Bell’s house — the thin androgynous one. She had the same suit on, her shirt looking worn and unwashed. She shuffled her way through the upholstered obstacle course and offered one of the mugs to Russell Morton. ‘Milk and three.’
He took it without a word of thanks. As if it was his due. Sipped at it, staring at Logan. ‘You want to know where I got the cash?’
‘Cash?’ Angela Parks turned. ‘What cash?’
‘Got it on a scratcher, didn’t I? Three grand. Sweet as hell, like.’
She stuck her free hand towards Logan for shaking. ‘Angela Parks, Scottish Daily Post. Why are you asking him about cash?’
Morton jerked his chin up. ‘None of anyone’s business, though, is it?’ He jabbed a finger at Angela. ‘And you don’t print a word about it, right? Katie doesn’t know and it’s staying that way or you can kiss your exclusive ta-ta.’
Steel clamped her legs together. ‘You won three grand on a scratch card and didn’t tell your wife?’
‘Course I didn’t. She didn’t win the cash, did she?’ Another sip of tea. ‘Anyway, better not to. Money changes people, yeah? And Katie’s got enough on her plate as it is.’
‘Unbelievable...’
Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Where did you buy the scratch card? I’ll need the address.’
‘See, you lot swan in like something off Downton Abbey and you think we’re gonna be all bowing and “Yes, m’Lord”, don’t ya? Your frizzy-haired bitch was the same.’
‘Supermarket, newsagent’s, garage?’
‘But we got the power, don’t we? Us. The little people. The working class ain’t taking your crap no more.’
Steel laughed, slapping her thigh as if it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Laying it on thick. ‘Working class? You have to do some actual work to be working class, Russ.’
He bared his teeth and stood, chest out. ‘You calling us a scrounger?’
‘A scrounger?’ Angela Parks looked as if she was about to wet herself with glee. ‘Oh, I am so going to quote you on that.’
‘Not my fault there’s no jobs, is it?’ Morton’s voice got louder. Sharper. ‘Austerity. Banking crisis. Downturn in the oil price and that.’
‘Mr Morton is coping bravely with the disappearance of his little girl and you’re here calling him a scrounger? That’s going right across the front page tomorrow!’ She painted the headline with her hand. ‘Callous Cops Brand Ellie’s Dad A “Scrounger”!’
And at that, Morton turned on her. ‘You think this is funny?’ He put his mug down, curled a pair of fists. Stepped towards her. ‘Ain’t no one’s business but mine if I got a job or not, you skinny munter cow. You try to make me look like a fanny in print and I’ll have you. We shiny?’
She shrank away from him. ‘It... We... I was only trying to defend you.’
Louder. Closer. ‘Well you’re doing a piss-poor job of it, aren’t you?’ And then, as if someone had thrown a switch, he was back to normal — smiling at Logan. Nothing to see here, Officer. ‘I can’t remember where I bought the scratcher. Got wankered with my mates, right? Found it in my pocket the next day — head like a broken hoover, mouth like a septic tank. Then it comes up three grand.’ The smile turned into a grin. ‘Best hangover ever.’
Logan tried to keep the disgust out of his voice. ‘Where did you cash it?’
The smile brittled. ‘Nah. Think I’m done being nice to you tossers.’ Morton jerked his head towards the door. ‘Don’t let it hit your arse on the way out.’
Angela Parks followed them down the shabby hallway with its collection of shabby coats and shabby shoes gathered by the shabby door. Keeping her voice down. ‘Course, he’s going to change his mind about me printing the story, you know that, right?’
Steel glowered at her.
She shrugged. ‘Not my fault you called him a scrounger, is it?’
A sniff. A look of disgust. ‘Here, Laz, Can you smell something rank? Cos I can smell something rank.’
‘Don’t be like that. I could make it all... go away if you like? Pretend I never heard you insulting the stepdad of a missing child?’ Parks inched closer, eyes shining. Eager. ‘What do you know about something called the “Livestock Mart”? Where they sell kids to paedos? It’s a real thing, isn’t it?’
‘Nope.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. Never heard of it.’
‘Ellie Morton and Rebecca Oliver: abducted here, Stephen MacGuire in East Kilbride, Lucy Hawkins in St Andrews. Three kids in eight days, all of them under five.’ Parks grabbed at his sleeve. ‘They’ve been abducted to order, haven’t they?’
‘I think we can show ourselves out.’ He removed her hand.
‘I won’t stop digging, whether you help me or not! This is your chance to avoid a PR disaster.’
He opened the door and Steel followed him into the rain.
Parks stayed in the hall, glaring at them. ‘I mean it: I’ll splash “Scroungergate” right across the front page!’
And that’s when Steel paused, turned in a graceful pirouette, stuck up two fingers and blew her a long wet raspberry. ‘And you can quote me on that!’
28
Steel puckered her lips, whistling something cheery as she drove them away from Ellie Morton’s house.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Logan stared at her. Doing his best. Really, really doing his best to stay calm. ‘What the goat-shagging hell was that supposed to be?’
She stopped whistling and turned onto the main road. ‘That song off Timmy and the Timeonauts. The one about the stinky dinosaur who—’
‘Not the bloody whistling: goading Russell Morton!’ OK: now he wasn’t doing quite so well at the staying-calm thing. Starting to get a bit shouty, to be honest. Which was perfectly justifiable in the circumstances.