‘No, I left that bit out, because clearly I’m some sort of bum-sniffing moron!’ A groan. Then another sigh. ‘Sorry, Guv. Been a long day.’
‘Yeah.’ Logan stopped on the landing. ‘Look, pack up, sign out, and go home. Spend some time with your family.’
‘Donna will be in bed by—’
‘And tell Tufty and Steel they can sod off too. But I want everyone back here tomorrow — seven sharp.’
‘Half seven for cash?’
‘Don’t push it.’ Logan hung up. Sagged for a moment. ‘Right. One more stop to make and we’re done for the night.’
Hardie stared at him, mouth hanging open.
Logan shifted in his seat.
It was a bit like facing down a goldfish. A goldfish in an ugly suit. That needed a shave.
Then finally, Hardie’s mouth clicked shut. A blink. ‘He was tortured?’
‘That was pretty much my reaction.’
DI Fraser stretched in her seat, stifled a yawn. ‘The media’s going to love this.’
‘How could Ding-Dong torture someone? I was at his twenty-first wedding anniversary...’
‘I’ve sent the team home for the night. Can’t do much else till the warrants come in.’
Fraser nodded. ‘Good idea. My lot are stumbling about like half-shut knives too. Maybe it is time to pack up for the night?’
Hardie rubbed at his face. ‘We’ve got two missing girls; an ex-police-officer who was stabbed to death; an exhumed murder victim no one can identify; a serving police officer who’s been hanged; and now you say the body you dug up in the middle of nowhere wasn’t just murdered, it was tortured first!’ He pressed his palms into his eye sockets and made a muffled screaming noise.
Logan and Fraser grimaced at each other.
Then she stood and put a hand on Hardie’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Boss, you’re tired. We all are.’ She gave the shoulder a squeeze. ‘Inspector McRae’s right. Time to pack up and go home for the night. Get some rest. Things will look a lot better in the morning.’
Hardie’s shoulders slumped even further. ‘You’re right, Kim. Of course you’re right. I didn’t mean to...’ His head fell back and he stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘God, I hate being a police officer.’
‘Then do what I do — go home, make yourself a nice big vodka-and-Diet-Coke, and soak in the bath till you look like an elephant’s knee.’
‘How come you don’t do kebabs?’ The wee loon in the Man United tracksuit and expensive trainers stuck his bottom lip out.
Idiot.
Logan settled onto the windowsill, next to an avalanche of yesterday’s red-top tabloids. ‘JUNGLE LIZZY IN UNDERWEAR HORROR’, ‘POLICE SCANDAL SUICIDE SHOCKER’, ‘MUM’S TEARFUL PLEA: “LET MY BOY DIE!”’, ‘SCOTTISH YOBBOS’ W.T.O. RAMPAGE’, ‘CANDLELIT VIGIL FOR MISSING MILLIE’.
The takeaway wasn’t that busy. Just Logan; a woman waiting for salt-and-pepper squid, chicken chow mein, beef in black bean sauce, and a prawn-fried rice; the grim-faced auld wifie behind the counter; and Little Lord Kebab.
Who turned and flounced out of the Chinese takeaway, ramming a baseball hat on his head. ‘You’re getting a one-star on TripAdvisor!’
Logan pulled out his phone and sent Tara a text:
If it helps, I’m getting those spare ribs in Peking sauce you like?
This is me trying to make it up to you, by the way.
SEND.
Ding.
TS TARA:
Can’t. I’m going round unlicensed sex shops with Dildo the Boy Wonder, tomorrow morning. A Trading Standards Officer’s work is never done.
Hmm...
Prawn toast, crispy chilli beef, Szechuan char sui pork, Mongolian king prawns, special fried rice, and Singapore noodles. I’ve ordered enough for six!
SEND.
Mrs Salt-and-Pepper-Squid kept sneaking glances at him. Sitting there in his Police Scotland fleece, itchy trousers and muddy boots. And every time he caught her looking, she developed a sudden overwhelming interest in the menu mounted on the wall.
He thumbed out another message:
I’m never going to eat all this on my own. And Singapore noodles give Cthulhu the squits.
SEND.
Ding.
Well, she was replying straight away, so that was a good sign. Wasn’t it?
It’s really late Logan & I’ve got work in the morning. So do you. See how things go tomorrow.
Ah. Maybe not so good.
Mrs Salt-and-Pepper-Squid was at it again.
Logan smiled at her. ‘Can I help you?’
Her cheeks flushed and her nose went up. ‘Why aren’t you out there trying to find that wee girl?’
Great.
‘I can assure you we’re doing all we can.’
‘You’re not! You’re sitting there, ordering Chinese takeaway and playing on your phone!’
The miserable old lady behind the counter dinged a small bell. ‘Order for McRae.’
Logan stood. Bit back the reply.
What was the bloody point?
Pfff...
Logan hauled on the handbrake, switched off the headlights, then the windscreen wipers, killed the engine, and climbed out of the car. Sagged for a second in the darkness and drizzle. Reached into the passenger footwell for his takeaway. Plipped the locks and made for the house.
God, what a day.
He let himself in, thumped the door shut and deadbolted it.
‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s got Chinese for tea!’
Heavy-pawed thuds walloped down the stairs, then Cthulhu sashayed over — her huge plumed tail sticking straight up in the air as she purred and coiled around his ankles.
At least someone wanted to spend the evening with him.
‘Wrrrnnnggh!’ Logan sat bolt upright, the duvet crumping down around his waist, and blinked in the gloom. Heart lump-thumping like Long John Silver staggering down a staircase.
Cthulhu gave an irritated prrrrrrp and jumped down from the bed with all the delicacy of a breeze block.
Faint orange light oozed in around the curtains’ edges, the only other illumination coming from the alarm-clock-radio: 23:45
‘Urgh...’ A whole thirty-two minutes’ sleep. That’s what he got for eating all those spicy—
He froze.
A pale-yellow glow outlined the bedroom door.
Either the aliens had come to abduct him, or something a whole lot worse.
He eased over in the bed, dropped his right hand to the floor and felt about underneath. Cat fluff. Toy mouse. Discarded sock. Ah. Now that was more like it. His fingers curled around the pickaxe handle.
Right.
Let’s see how clever whoever-it-was felt when he caved their skull in.
And that’s when the door thumped open and there was Tara, looking a little dishevelled about the hair, wearing a padded jacket over a set of tartan jammies. Slippers on her feet.
She clicked off the hall light and scuffed into the room. Closed the door behind her.
Logan let go of the pickaxe handle. ‘Thought you had an early start.’
Tara hauled off her jacket, dumped it on the floor and slipped into the bed. ‘Don’t get your hopes up: this is not a bootie call.’ She helped herself to two thirds of the duvet. ‘Idiots in the flat upstairs are having a party and they — won’t — shut — up.’
‘It’s lovely to see you too.’
She turned her back to him, searching for his legs beneath the duvet with her feet. ‘No funny business.’