‘Actually...’ Rennie sucked in a theatrical breath. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell us?’
‘My client has already told—’
Logan tapped the tabletop. ‘You licked her face, didn’t you, Norman?’
‘I...’ His eyes widened. ‘It...’
‘We found your saliva on Laura Chalmers’ cheek.’
‘Wow.’ Rennie tried a sympathetic voice. ‘Was that before, or after you killed her, Norman?’
Mrs Scowly Cardigan stared at Norman, open-mouthed. ‘What did you...’ Then blinked and shook her head. Fussed with the buttons on her cardigan. ‘I think I need to consult with my client again. In private.’
The vending machines droned away to each other: one wholesome — full of crisps and chocolate and bags of sweeties — while the other was pure EVIL. They sat like Cain and Abel, next to the empty chiller cabinet. Nearly all of the canteen chairs were stacked on the tables, legs in the air, giving the place a cold and hostile look. Ready to repel invaders.
That hadn’t stopped Logan and Rennie, though. They sat at the table nearest the scrubbed-down counter, nursing evil-tasting coffee in an evil plastic cup from the evil vending machine.
Rennie pulled out his phone and poked at the screen. ‘Nearly twenty past. Taking their time, aren’t they?’
‘Be fair, she’s just found out her client was up to a bit more than an inappropriate wank.’
‘True.’ A nod and a frown. ‘Do you think he did it? I think he did it. You can’t trust people with those flesh-tunnel ear things. It’s not right.’
‘What happened with the missing person reports?’
‘Even the word’s perverted, isn’t it? “Flesh tunnel”. Who goes into a shop and asks for a “flesh tunnel”?’
‘Stop saying “flesh tunnel”.’ Logan reached across the table and thumped him. ‘Now focus: missing persons?’
‘Which ones?’
‘For the love of... I told you to go through every missing person report for the month DI Bell faked his own death!’
‘Oh, that. Did that ages ago.’
The evil vending machine buzzed.
Someone walked past the canteen door, whistling the theme tune to Danger Mouse.
Logan reached across the table and thumped Rennie again. ‘And?’
‘Oh, right. Won’t be a tick.’ He scrambled out of his chair and hurried from the room.
‘I’m surrounded by idiots.’ Logan took another sip of hot brown yuck. ‘Urgh...’ Then called up the contact list on his phone, found ‘HORRIBLE STEEL’, and set it ringing.
Her voice crackled in his ear, all echoey and distorted, as if she’d answered from inside a filing cabinet. ‘What?’
‘“Workshy scrounger”. Remember that?’
A papery rustling noise. ‘I’m kinda busy.’
‘I had to defuse an unexploded DCI Hardie, because you couldn’t keep your mouth from running away with itself in front of Russell Morton!’
More rustling. ‘Says here there’s a guy in Dundee who’s grown a six-foot marrow. It’s in the Sunday Post, so it must be true.’
‘So much for “if she prints a word of it he’ll have her”.’
‘Who wants to eat a six-foot marrow? Be like chewing a roll of linoleum stuffed with mouldy peas.’
Typical. She couldn’t even be arsed paying attention to a bollocking.
‘You really don’t give a toss, do you? We’re trying to find missing kids and track down cop killers and you simply don’t care!’
‘Course I care. Waste of good courgettes, letting them grow that big.’
‘Hardie thought it was my fault!’
‘Well, you were the senior officer, so he’s got a point. If you can’t control the people working for you...’
‘You dirty, rotten, two-faced, backstabbing—’
‘Temper, temper.’ A hollow knocking sound echoed out in the background. Steel raised her voice. ‘Occupied.’
Oh no!
Logan recoiled from the phone. Holding it away from his ear. ‘Please tell me you’re not on the toilet!’
More knocking. ‘Are you smoking in there? Because you’re not allowed to smoke in there!’
‘Occu-sodding-pied!’
‘Oh God, you’re on the toilet, aren’t you?’
How could anyone be that manky?
The canteen door thumped open and Rennie staggered in, all red in the face and breathing hard. Holding a folder above his head like a revolutionary flag. ‘Got it!’
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of making wee Russell Mortons here and you’re putting me off my stroke.’ And with that, she hung up.
‘Gahhhh...’ Logan put his phone down and wiped his hands on a napkin. Probably have to scrub his ears with bleach now. ‘The woman’s a horror show.’
Rennie collapsed into his seat and sagged there — one arm dangling, the other hand clutching his ribs. ‘Arrgh... Stitch.’
A shudder rippled its way across Logan’s shoulders. ‘On the toilet.’
‘Anyway,’ Rennie opened the new folder, ‘just to be safe, I did an extra month before Bell didn’t kill himself as well. Eliminated anyone too tall, too short, too womany, the wrong number of limbs, or who’s been found since — and that leaves us with...’ He produced three printouts and laid them on the table in front of Logan — mugshots with personal details underneath. ‘Number one: Joseph Horman. Librarian from Buckie. Been suffering from depression for three years, then one day he walked out of the family home and never came back.’ Rennie tapped the next mugshot. ‘Number two: Barry Linwood. Self-employed accountant from Mintlaw. Wife reported him missing after a four-day bender. And number three: Evan Forshaw. He was a Church of Scotland minister who vanished off the face of Peterhead in the middle of the night. Turned out he’d been embezzling cash from a fund-raising thing. Sick kids in Syria, I think.’
‘Yeah...’ Logan examined each one in turn. Horman’s flat forehead, Linwood’s jowly face, Forshaw’s sticky-out ears. ‘None of them look much like DI Bell.’
‘Which is why I present, for your viewing pleasure, Bachelor Number Four.’ Rennie delved into the folder again and pulled out one more printout, laying it on top of the others with a flourish. ‘No one reported him missing, but Rod Lawson here disappeared at some point during the week Bell’s meant to have died.’
‘At some point?’
A shrug. ‘Was supposed to see his parole officer on the Wednesday. Never turned up. No one’s heard from him since.’
Just like Fred Marshall.
Logan picked up Rod Lawson’s mugshot.
A sullen, hairy man scowled out of the picture, a police measurement chart clearly visible on the wall behind him, his name in magnetic letters on the small board he was holding. Bags under his eyes, a smattering of cold sores around his mouth. Blotchy skin.
‘Let me guess: drugs?’
‘To a band playing. DI Bell did him a couple of times for possession with intent. Same height as Bell, same basic build, same hairiness. About ten years younger, and the nose, ears, and eyes are all wrong, but if you’re blowing his head off and setting fire to the remains...?’
‘Close enough.’ Logan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Of course, if we could find his teeth we might actually have some DNA to do a match with.’