‘I need to speak to someone about Lorna Chalmers.’
‘One moment.’ Some flappy, clacky typing sounded in the background. ‘Yes indeed. Lorna’s coming in to see us on Tuesday at six for a cut and colour. Does she need to change her appointment?’
‘Well, she died on Friday night, so I don’t think she’ll be able to make it.’
‘But we confirmed it with her on Thursday?’ As if that was going to make any difference to the situation.
‘I can check, but I’m pretty sure she’ll still be dead.’
‘Oh, OK.’ Every bit as cheerful. ‘Well never mind, that’s that cancelled now.’ A bleep. ‘Please hold, I have a caller on line two.’
No chance.
Logan hung up. Wrote ‘HAIRDRESSER’ next to the number.
Well, that settled things, didn’t it? People planning on killing themselves didn’t make appointments to get their roots done.
Right: next number.
‘Yeah, about a week ago?’ There was a muffled voice in the background. ‘Ooh, hang on a second, I think our man’s come out of the... No. Sorry, it’s not him.’
Logan swivelled in his chair. ‘What did she want?’
A knock on the door and DI Fraser stuck her head into the room. ‘You about ready?’
He pointed at the phone in his other hand, then mouthed ‘Two minutes.’ at her.
‘It was weird. Chalmers calls us up, completely out of the blue, like, wanting intel on Fred Marshall. Last known whereabouts, associates, home address, outstanding warrants etc.’
‘She say why she wanted it?’
‘Nah, but you know what Chalmers is... was like. Never wanted to share anything with anyone. She... Ooh! That’s definitely him this time. Got to go.’ The clunk of a car door opening. ‘HOY! YOU! STAND—’ Silence. He’d hung up.
Logan wrote ‘DC OWEN’ next to his number. Stuck the list in the ‘pending’ tray, grabbed the case report and an A4 notepad. Stood. ‘Right. Shall we?’
‘Yes, because nothing lifts the spirits like sitting in a three-hour ongoing-cases meeting when we could be out, oh, I don’t know...’ she rolled her eyes, ‘actually solving crimes?’
‘So if you turn to page seventeen in your briefing you’ll see the numbers.’ DI Vine wheeched his laser pointer across the screen, circling the pie chart. ‘Car crime is a particular concern, especially in zones E through H...’
Logan turned the page and nodded. Then went back to doodling in the margins of his pad.
It wasn’t that Vine was boring — though he really, really was — it was just very difficult to get excited about car crime when there were murder investigations to get on with.
‘You’ll note that vandalism is on the up in zone B as well...’
The meeting room was packed — a dozen officers sitting there with their piles of briefing notes, printouts of PowerPoint slides, notebooks, glasses of water, cups of terrible tea and nastier coffee, waiting for their turn with the laser pointer, all doing their best to look interested. Most of them failing.
And still Vine droned on. And on. Standing there, like a heavyweight boxer with his broken nose, squinty eyes. A massive forehead that ended in a pointy black widow’s peak.
‘Page eighteen.’ The slide on the screen changed to a bar graph. ‘Antisocial Behaviour Orders.’
Pff...
Of course, the real question was: how did Chalmers find out about DI Bell in the first place? She’d been to the pig farm where he’d buried the body, she’d been to the mountainside where he’d reburied it last week, she’d even been to the crash site where they’d found Bell’s body in the car.
But how did she know?
Maybe she’d seen him somewhere? Recognised him, realised he wasn’t dead, and started digging.
‘...that right, Inspector McRae?’
Or was she looking into something else and somehow managed to stumble across him that way?
There had to be a connection. All Logan had to do was figure out what it—
‘Inspector McRae?’
Someone nudged him.
He blinked.
The whole room was staring at him.
Sod.
No idea what the question was. So Logan nodded, pulling his face into a thinking frown as if he were actually considering it. ‘In what way?’
DI Fraser nudged him again, hooking her thumb at the screen where his name was projected in big block capitals above the words, ‘INVESTIGATION INTO EX-DI DUNCAN BELL’S FALSIFIED SUICIDE. INVESTIGATION INTO LORNA CHALMERS’ ALLEGED SUICIDE.’
Ah. Right. It was his turn with the laser pointer.
DI Fraser stuffed her stack of briefings, printouts, and other assorted nonsense into her massive handbag as the rest of the room filed out. Keeping her voice down. ‘Three and a half hours. Three and a half.’ She smiled and waved at Hardie as he lumbered away, already on his phone. ‘Did you see the colour Hardie went when McCulloch kept talking over the top of him?’
Logan gathered up his papers. ‘Would’ve gone a lot quicker if that idiot McPherson hadn’t broken the projector.’
‘What do you expect: it’s McPherson.’
He followed her out into the corridor. ‘True.’
‘Think we’re too late to get something from the canteen?’
‘Mushroom stroganoff today. That or breaded haddock.’
‘Blearg. Mushrooms are the devil’s bumfungus. And so are fish.’ She did a quick turn, the hem of her black skirt-dress flaring out, and stared towards the stairs. ‘Come on then: how much of your briefing was a load of old testicles?’
He smiled. ‘Don’t know what you mean, Kim. Why, how about yours?’
‘Twenty, maybe twenty-five percent.’ A sigh. ‘In real life we’ve no idea who stabbed Ding-Dong or why. Would help if we had an ID on the body you dug up.’
‘You think it was a revenge attack? DI Bell killed their friend, so they killed him?’
She pushed into the stairwell. ‘Makes sense. He comes back from Spain, digs up the guy he tortured to death, and reburies him. Then a couple of days later someone parks their knife in Ding-Dong’s side.’ She gave Logan a sideways glance as they started down the stairs. ‘You sure you don’t know who it is?’
‘A hundred percent? No. And the last time I suggested who it might be, I got my head bitten off by our delightful pathologist.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Ever heard of a thug-for-hire called Fred Marshall? We’re trying to get hold of his dental and medical records for comparison.’
‘Fred Marshall... Fred Marshall...’ Fraser stopped on the landing and frowned. ‘Wait, wasn’t he one of Crowbar Craig Simpson’s cronies?’
‘Yes, but a knife’s not really Crowbar’s style, is it?’
‘People change.’ A smile spread across her face. ‘I might go pay Mr Simpson a social call. See if I can’t rattle something out of him.’
‘You’re in luck — we arrested him on Saturday morning. He’s not up before the Sheriff till half four, so if you hurry...?’
‘Now you see me.’ And she was off again, clattering away downstairs on her three-inch heels.
Logan watched her go. Oh to be young and enthusiastic again.
He used his elbow to turn the handle and pushed through into the temporary office, both hands tied up with a fish-finger buttie on a paper plate and a wax-paper cup of proper coffee.