Logan picked up the map and peered at it.
The scale was so large it was hard to make out exact details, but the bit Tufty called ‘this pub’ looked familiar. ‘That’s Huge Gay Bill’s Bar and Grill, isn’t it? Chalmers was in the pub toilets when I tracked her down.’
Tufty glanced at Steel, his face all shifty and puckered. Trying to keep his voice innocent. ‘And I didn’t help you with that at all. You found her all on your own.’
Steel frowned at the pair of them. ‘Well, don’t all rush at once!’
Logan followed the line to Northfield. That shonky green duck shape underneath it looked like Allan Douglas Park. Which meant Chalmers had been...
Sod.
He grabbed his fleece from the coatstand. ‘Tufty — get the car!’
‘Guv.’ Tufty snatched up the printouts, his stabproof vest, and equipment belt, jamming his peaked cap on his head as he bolted from the room. Logan hurried after him.
‘Oh for...’ Steel’s voice rang out into the corridor. ‘Does no one want to bask in my sodding magnificence?’
37
Tufty stopped at the junction with Broad Street. Morning rush-hour traffic crawled past: buses, cars, taxis, vans, and lorries full of miserable-looking people trying to get to work for nine. And probably failing. The new development loomed on the other side of the street — a massive block of grey and glass — Satan’s Rubik’s cube, all streaked and gloomy in the rain. Marischal College squared up opposite it, façade like a cathedral in granite with spikes and turrety bits.
Tufty sat forward, pulling his seatbelt tight. ‘Where to, Sarge?’
‘“Inspector”, you muppet.’ Logan took out his wallet and selected Raymond Hacker’s business card from the dog-eared collection of social workers, lawyers, senior officers, and other assorted layabouts.
A small off-white rectangle with the ram’s-head logo on it, ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD.’, and the company address, website, and Twitter handle underneath. Complete with Hacker’s mobile and office number.
According to the info printed on the back they were open Wednesday to Sunday, ten till half six. Which was sod-all use at twenty to nine on a Monday morning.
Logan called Hacker’s mobile.
It picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Yup?’
‘Mr Hacker, it’s Inspector McRae. We met on Saturday.’
‘McRae? Oh right. Yes. You wanted to know about Ding-Dong.’
‘I need to ask you a couple of follow-up questions. Tell you what, give me your address and we’ll come to you.’
‘Ah...’ There was a faint whirr, click, whirr, click noise in the background and was that someone whistling? ‘Sorry, the office is shut till Wednesday and I’m out of town. Working.’
Aye, right.
‘Oops, sorry, can you hold on for a second, my DS wants something...’ Logan pressed ‘MUTE’ and stuck out his hand at Tufty. ‘I need your phone.’
Tufty unlocked his mobile and handed it over.
Logan pressed ‘MUTE’ again. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Hacker. You know what the Job’s like. Monday mornings, eh?’ Logan thumbed the AberRAD office number into Tufty’s phone.
‘Right, well, I’ll get in touch with you next time I’m in Aberdeen.’
The office number rang on Tufty’s mobile. And, in a weird unforeseeable coincidence, a phone rang in the background of Logan’s call to Hacker. Strange that. It was almost as if he’d lied about being away on business.
Logan smiled. ‘If you would, that would be very much appreciated, Mr Hacker. Enjoy your trip.’ He hung up both phones. Returned Tufty’s. ‘Northfield. And step on it. I want to get there before Hacker realises we’re on our way.’
‘Oooh, lights, camera, action!’ Tufty hit the button on the dashboard and the blue-and-whites hidden behind the pool car’s front grille flickered into the rain, accompanied by the siren’s mournful wail.
The rush-hour traffic parted... and they were off.
Anderson Drive ruined their winning streak. Even with the lights and sirens on, the traffic was thick as day-old porridge. Why did no one get out of the bloody way any more?
So Logan killed the lights-and-music, then moved on to the next GPS map from Chalmers’ phone.
The windscreen wipers protested their way across the glass, clearing greasy arcs in the rain.
Tufty reached a hand for the car radio, fingers hovering over the controls. ‘Can I...?’
‘Why not?’
‘Groovy.’ He clicked it on and something upbeat and jangly bounced out of the speakers. ‘Ooh, I like this one.’
Logan pointed at a high-level map that extended all the way south to Stonehaven. ‘She was at Nairhillock Farm five days ago.’ He pulled out another one that extended north to Dufftown. ‘Four days ago she visited Ben Rinnes.’
‘And never said a word about it, either. Sodding sloped off when she was meant to be helping me and DS Steel interview people about Ellie Morton.’ He shook his head. ‘Not exactly a team player.’
Tufty took the first left at the roundabout, onto Provost Fraser Drive. Strange little houses drifted by on the left, the red-brick penitentiary of Northfield Academy on the right.
‘OK.’ Logan shuffled the maps into an orderly stack. ‘What else did you get off the phone? You said texts... and?’
‘Photos. And there’s printouts of her call history in the folder.’
Logan reached behind him and plucked the folder off the back seat. Flicked through the contents. ‘Where’s the photographs?’
That got him a smirk. ‘You’re kidding, right? Had to upload the photos to my phone, there’s loads and loads and loads of them.’
‘Hmmm...’ He pulled the call history from the folder. Tufty had married up all known numbers with their contact name in Chalmers’ phone, printing everything out in a table with number called, time, duration of the call, and whether it was outgoing or incoming.
Logan’s own number appeared a fair few times, each instance tied to the contact, ‘MCRAE: AVOID!!!’ Charming. ‘What about fingerprints?’
‘On the phone? Mix of Chalmers and Norman Clifton.’
They passed more strange little houses. A fenced-off area. Then a row of bungalows. All brown and bleak in the rain.
The Granite Hill Transmitter loomed in the middle distance, huge and ominous, warning lights shining red against the heavy dark clouds. Like a massive angry Dalek.
Logan frowned at the list. ‘Why would she delete everything except the Samaritans call? Doesn’t make any sense, does it? Even if there’s something incriminating in here, what do you care? You’re killing yourself anyway.’
A cheery mishmash of guitars and drums and saxophones brought the song to an end and the DJ blared out instead. ‘Kitten-Heel Pirates there, with their latest single: “Onion Boy”!’
Tufty turned right onto Kettlehills Crescent. ‘Maybe she was covering for someone?’
‘Maybe...’ Didn’t feel right, though.
‘Don’t forget we’re helping raise money for Ellie Morton’s family all week here on Silver City FM.’
They drove past a wall of bushes.
‘And I’m delighted to announce that in addition to putting up a reward for any information, local company Whytedug Facilitation Services Limited have pledged a thousand pounds to the fund!’
Past the swimming pool.
‘Aha!’ Tufty held up a finger. ‘Maybe it wasn’t her! Maybe Naughty Norman deleted it?’