Logan smiled through the safety glass panel as Mr Seafield and his arthritic stinkhound turned and hobbled across the reception area and away through the main doors.
Soon as the doors closed, Logan hauled out his phone and stabbed at the screen. Listened to it ring.
‘Colin Miller.’
‘What the bloody hell are you playing at? I thought we had a deal!’
There was a thump and a faint buzzing noise. ‘Can’t a man have a wee prowl through his colleagues’ packed lunches without police harassment?’
‘You promised me you’d spike the story! You bloody promised me!’
‘And I did. Did you see it on the front page? No, you didn’t. Because I got my hands on a juicy wee exposé about a couple of pervert coppers who—’
‘Then why, Colin,’ getting louder as he unfolded the sheet of paper, ‘why am I holding a printout of the thing from your piece-of-crap website?’
‘Moi? Nah, that wasn’t me, that was the system. Automatically flags articles to publish online. Me? I deleted it, but you know what newspapers are like these days: Wee Shuggy Public is desperate for content! Blogs, tweets, feeds, podcasts—’
Logan forced the words out through gritted teeth. ‘I will personally...’ Ram a photocopier up his backside? Slam his head in the fridge he was raiding? Rip the rest of his fingers off? Deep breath. Calm. Calm. ‘Get it off the internet, Colin. Get it off NOW!’
‘What’s this I spy in lovely Tupperware? Is that leftover pie?’ The crunk of a plastic lid being removed. ‘Ooh, payday.’
‘Colin, I’m serious!’
‘Aye, aye, keep yer frilly lace panties on.’ What sounded like a microwave door opening was followed by it slamming shut and some beeping. ‘I’ll get it deleted off the website. But favours begat favours, right?’
‘Gah!’ Logan hung up. Stood there, trembling. Gripping his phone like a stone ripe for the hurling. Then turned on his heel and stormed off down the corridor. ‘They don’t have to put up with this in North Korea! They’d just execute the bloody lot of them...’
He thumped through the office door. Bloody Colin Miller. Bloody Colin Scumbag Lying Tosspot Miller!
Tufty was bent over a laptop, fiddling away at the keyboard. He’d put his uniform on today, so looking a lot less scruffy. Rennie waded through a box of manila folders, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie tucked in between two buttons, the jacket of his used-car-salesman suit draped over the back of his chair.
And then there was Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel, scuffed boots in need of a clean and up on her desk. A silk shirt with what looked like egg stains on the front. Holding the phone to her ear with one hand and rummaging about in her cleavage with the other. ‘No, Barry, I’m no’ being unreasonable... No.’
Because why set a good example when you could set a bad one instead?
Logan thumped the door shut and scowled at her.
She gave him a cheery wave in return. ‘You think this is unreasonable, you wait till I get started.’
He raised his voice to the room in general. ‘Anything?’
Rennie looked up from his box. ‘Sheriff’s working on our search warrant for Norman Clifton’s mum’s house. Says to give it an hour. So I’m going through Ding-Dong’s old cases again: see if we missed anything.’
‘You think?’ A nasty chuckle from Steel. ‘Oh I’ll do you one better, Barry: I’ll come down there myself, and see when I do?’
‘I need you to try getting hold of Fred Marshall’s dental and medical records again. If he’s what we dug up yesterday, I want to know for sure.’
‘Again.’ Rennie sagged. ‘Oh joy of joys.’
‘Oh aye? Think I won’t? You just try me, Barry.’
Logan crossed his arms. ‘And while we’re at it: what’s happening about dragging Chalmers’ husband in for questioning?’
‘He’s having a dirty weekend in Glencoe with an account controller called Stephanie from Kennethmont. I’ve asked Northern to send a car round. See if we can’t spoil the lovebirds’ mood a bit.’
‘Good. Now: dental records. Go.’
‘Guv.’ Rennie grabbed his jacket and hurried out the door.
Tufty looked up from his laptop. ‘Sarge? Do you want those—’
‘You: dig up whatever you can on one Mr Graeme Seafield. Says he’s been complaining about Russell Morton for years.’
The lazy wee sod pulled on a spanked puppy-dog face. ‘But I made—’
‘Now, Constable.’
‘Eek...’ He turned and battered away at his keyboard.
Logan paced the room — pausing only to glare at Steel on the way past.
She gave him a wink in return. ‘Oh, you better believe it. Like a ton of the proverbial, Barry. With hobnail boots on.’
‘Okeydokey.’ Tufty scrolled through the search results he’d got back from the Police National Computer. ‘Graeme Seafield... Ooh, he’s been busy.’ Then silence.
‘Well?’
‘There’s a massive catalogue of complaints he’s made against the Mortons. Everything from putting out their wheelie bin on the wrong day to... Wow: “Undertaking satanic child-sex rituals in the back garden.” Uniform investigated — apparently it was a kids’ Halloween party.’
And that was why you always went on your first impression.
‘So he’s a nutter.’
‘Like a squirrel’s underpants.’ Tufty spun around in his seat. ‘Now, do you want to see these maps I made?’
‘Maps?’
‘From the GPS on DS Chalmers’ phone? I did has a genius, remember?’
Steel raised her heels an inch, then thumped them down on her desk. ‘Oh aye... That’s right. With both boots.’
‘Go on then.’ Logan held out his hand and Tufty dug a folder from his desk, produced half a dozen sheets of paper and passed them over. Each one had a screenshot from Google Maps on it, printed in colour, with little red, green, and blue lines crisscrossing Aberdeen city and shire — peppered with tiny arrows.
‘See, most people don’t know their phones store GPS data, but if you access—’
‘Are these in any sort of order?’
‘I dated them in the top corner and put arrows on the lines so you can see which direction she was going in and when. See?’
Logan spread the maps out on the desk.
‘No, thank you, Barry. Been a pleasure doing business with you... Aye, and the same to you with knobs on.’
Tufty scooted his chair over and sorted the maps into date order. ‘So this is yesterday — her phone basically stays at home in Kingswells till I arrest Naughty Naked Norman Clifton.’ He poked the sheet of paper next to it. ‘Saturday: all day at Kingswells.’ The next sheet. ‘This is the day she died.’
It was a larger scale map than the others, the lines tracing back and forth across Aberdeen, out to Kingswells...
‘You’ve got the arrows going both ways here.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Tufty traced the route with his finger. ‘That’s because she went out to this industrial estate, then came all the way across town to here and stopped at this pub, then went home, then went off to the industrial estate again.’
Steel stretched out in her seat, hands behind her head, eggy shirt riding up to expose a yoghurt-pale slash of belly. ‘You may all now bask in the glory of my magnificence.’