‘—charity single tipped to hit number one, we spoke to Gordon Maguire, chairman of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions—’
‘At least I—’
‘The Simpsons isn’t bloody Panorama, is it?’
A middle-aged man in a T-shirt and suit jacket appeared on the screen. He had trendy sideburns with bits cut out of them, a soul patch, a Dundee accent, and a bald head. ‘—bear in mind that the kidnappers still have Alison and we all have to make sure—’
‘I’m just saying it’s exploitative, OK? It’s—’
‘Have you even watched it?’
‘—have to keep raising money while there’s still a chance we can bring her home safely.’
‘What? I don’t need to watch—’
‘See!’ She poked the arm of the couch with a black-painted fingernail. ‘You have sod-all idea what you’re talking about!’
‘—thank you. And now over to Gail with the weather.’
Logan slumped further into the couch. ‘Can we not—’
‘Apart from anything else, this is why Jenny and Alison got kidnapped. If they weren’t on TV, they wouldn’t be famous. And if they weren’t famous, they wouldn’t have been grabbed.’ Samantha stopped poking the couch’s arm, and poked Logan’s instead. ‘So you’ve got no business being a snobby cock, this is directly related to your case.’
‘—mass of Arctic air coming in will hit the north east of Scotland, so we can expect some unseasonably cold weather over the next couple of days—’
Logan finished his wine in a single gulp. ‘OK, OK: fine. I’ll set the machine.’
She didn’t look around, just stared straight at the TV, where the map of Scotland was a mess of blue and grey. ‘Thank you.’ Clipped.
He levered himself to his feet. Tried to force a smile into his voice. ‘You want some more wine?’
Silence.
‘Sam?’
‘How’s your arm?’
Logan looked down at the sleeve of his shirt, all bulked out by the bandages. ‘It’s OK.’ No it wasn’t. It throbbed and stung every time he brushed against anything. Bloody Steel punching it hadn’t helped.
Sam sneaked a glance at him. ‘You’re a terrible liar.’ Then back to the telly. ‘And we’re watching Britain’s Next Big Star tomorrow, whether you like it or not.’
‘Fffff?’ Logan sat straight up in bed, blinked a couple of times, then breathed out again. Squinted at the alarm clock. Quarter past two.
He collapsed back into the pillow. Who the hell called at quarter past two?
Lying next to him, Samantha made mumbling noises.
The phone kept ringing.
Logan rolled out of bed, grabbed his mobile, and hit the button. ‘This better be important!’
‘Hullo? Hullo?’ A broad Doric accent, not one he recognized. ‘That DS McRae?’
‘Who’s this?’ Rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand.
‘PC Gilbert, doon the station? Anyway, got a wifie in here screamin’ blue murder. Keeps sayin’ she’s been raped.’
Another yawn.
‘Hello? Sarge?’
‘Gilbert, I’m going to call you a very rude name, then I’m going to hang up. Then you can go get someone who’s on bloody duty to deal with it! I’m on day-shift, you—’
‘Hud oan, DI Bell wants a word …’
The constable’s voice disappeared, there was some muffled talk, then DI Bell’s voice grated in Logan’s ear. ‘McRae? Get your arse up here.’
‘It’s quarter past two in the—’
‘I don’t care if it’s the second coming, I’ve got a mental cow up here trying to castrate people, and she’s got your name on her.’
‘No offence, sir, but—’
‘I mean literally. She’s literally got your name on her. In black marker pen. And if you’re not wanting a visit from Professional Standards first bloody thing, you’ll do as you‘re sodding well told!’
Half-two on a Saturday morning and the streets were in their usual post-pub haze. By now most of the chucking-out-time violence had settled down. It would only to flare up again when the nightclubs kicked their crop of boozed-up idiots out onto the streets. Men and women, barely dressed, bashing the crap out of each other for a place in the taxi rank, or kebab shop queue, ‘Are you lookin’ at my bird?’ ‘Leave it, Tracy, she’s not worth it …’
Logan paused halfway across Union Street, waiting for a battered Toyota with a taxi sign bolted to the roof to grumble past. There were two blokes just inside the entrance to Lodge Walk: the usual short-cut to the back of FHQ. One was keeping himself upright with a hand against the wall, peeing on his own shoes, the other making retching noises.
He took the scenic route instead, round the council buildings and down Queen Street.
Stopped outside the Sheriff and JP Court.
The crowd gathered on the forecourt outside Force Headquarters was a lot smaller – just forty, fifty people? All linking arms and swaying back and forth. They had makeshift lanterns: tea lights in old jam and pickle jars, the captive flames flickering a warm waxy glow that made shadows writhe as they sang.
It took a while for Logan to recognize the tune: Wind Beneath My Wings. Of course it was. Only someone had changed the lyrics so it was all about Jenny and Alison McGregor. Christ that was quick.
And touching …? Or creepy. It was hard to decide.
A few uniformed officers hovered on the periphery, some watching the crowd, the rest watching the small knot of drunken idiots lurching about and trying to sing along.
Logan wandered over to the nearest officer – a wee man with thick hairy eyebrows and a baggy face. ‘What’s this?’
Constable Baggy sniffed, then nodded towards the crowd. ‘Candle-lit vigil, Guv. Don’t know what possible bloody good they think it’ll do. Outside the house, or the church where they’re doing that memorial thing, maybe, but here?’ He sucked on his teeth for a moment. ‘Whole city’s gone fuckin’ mental.’
The Police Custody and Security Officer puffed out her cheeks and scowled at Logan. A red mark covered half of her chin, slowly purpling itself into a bruise. She pointed along the corridor, mouth barely moving, teeth clamped together. ‘Down
