by getting celebrities to come on and do cover versions of the cover versions Alison and Jenny McGregor did in order to get on the show and become the kind of celebrity that got asked to do tribute shows …
The first couple of acts were OK. But after every one the camera would zoom in on the row of judges for their comments.
Logan took another slurp of Stella. ‘What’s the point? Not like they can say anything nasty, is it?’
And then a familiar figure bounded onto the stage. Gordon Maguire, head of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions, dressed in the same Reservoir Dogs get-up as not-Ant-and-Dec. He waited for the applause to die down. ‘Thanks, guys. This has been one hell of a rollercoaster. First we thought Jenny was dead. Then the police told us they‘d made a mistake, and she was still alive after all!’
A cheer went up.
‘And then, we all saw that horrible video this afternoon.’
That didn’t get a cheer.
The record producer nodded. ‘I know, I know. They told us we had fourteen days to raise enough money to save Jenny and Alison’s lives … well we’ve only got four days left. I want to remind everyone that the charity single is on iTunes, Amazon, and Britains NextBigStar.com , or you can buy it at HMV. All proceeds are going to pay the ransom …’
Samantha shifted on the couch, a little line puckering the skin between her neatly-trimmed eyebrows. ‘He’s a greasy little shite, isn’t he?’
‘Hmmm …’ Logan crumpled the empty tin.
‘Oh, I saw the Reverend today. He’s got a new dog collar – black leather with silver studs. I quite fancy one if you’re feeling flush.’
On screen, Maguire finished his rousing speech to a standing ovation. Then there were comments of support from the judges. And then Lily Allen doing the McGregors’ version of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
‘And viewers, tonight you can vote for which of our celebrities will perform Wind Beneath My Wings at the end of the show.’
‘Yes, and don’t forget: every phone call you make contributes towards the Alison and Jenny Freedom Fund …’
Samantha turned the volume up. ‘He wants to know if you’re using the lotion.’
‘What is this, Silence of the Lambs?’
‘You have to use the lotion. Do you want it to get infected?’
‘I’m using the lotion.’ Logan stood. ‘You want another beer?’
She raised her tin. ‘Check on the lasagne when you’re there?’
It looked like pretty much every ready-meal vegetarian lasagne he’d ever seen, bubbling away in its little oven-proof plastic tray. Smelled good, though. He pulled another two tins from the fridge.
The Alison and Jenny Freedom Fund – who the hell came up with that one? Made them sound like terrorists …
He popped open the cupboard above the fridge, hunting for crisps. Then groaned: his mobile was ringing, deep in the pocket of his steaming jacket. Logan shifted the chair and went rummaging until he found it. The number was withheld.
Sod it then. They could wait till he was on duty.
Unless it was something important.
Maybe Superintendent Green was calling to say he was sorry for being such a cock. That he didn’t realize what a deductive genius Logan was. That he wished he hadn’t picked Doreen to be his babysitter.
Not that Logan was jealous. The man was a prick after all. But what did Doreen have that he didn’t? Other than boobs. And an ex-husband who’d run away with a social worker called Steve?
He hit the pick-up button. ‘McRae.’
A pause. Then a fuzzy, vague voice sounded in his ear. ‘Gotta give us them back, yeah?’
It took a moment to place her. ‘Trisha? Trisha Brown? That you?’
‘They came to my mum’s house and everything. Broke her leg and that.’
‘Deal still stands, Trisha: tell me who they were, and we’ll get them locked up. Don’t want them to get away with battering your mum, do you?’
There was a big bag of Bacon Frazzles lurking behind a tub of Twiglets from last Christmas. Logan pulled them out and clunked the cupboard door shut again.
‘Trisha?’
‘Shuggie says they’ll kill us if they find us.’
‘All the more reason to dob them in then, isn’t it?’
Silence.
Logan tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear, picked up the tins of beer and the crisps. I’m going to hang up now, Trisha.’
‘He says you gotta give them back, or next time he’s gonna use a Stanley knife, you know?’
‘On your mum?’
‘To write your name on my chest …’
Samantha appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘What, are you brewing the beer yourself?’ Arms folded across her ‘ONE OF THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE’ T-shirt, left hip jutting out. That line back between her eyebrows.
He held up a hand, mouthed, ‘One minute …’
‘I’m going for a pee – you’ve got till the end of the adverts.’
‘Trisha, you have to tell me where you are.’
‘You gotta give them back.’
‘Who is it? Who’s going to cut you?’
But she’d hung up.
An old man wheezed his way up the stairs, one hand on the black balustrade, the other clutching a rolled up, bright-pink Hello Kitty umbrella.
‘Morning, Doc.’ Logan leaned against the wall. ‘Back again?’ Doc Fraser scowled from beneath hairy eyebrows. Water dripped from the point of his brolly. ‘This is all your fault. I could’ve stayed retired, at home, chasing Mildred around the conservatory in my pants, but nooooo …’ The pathologist shook his shoulders, sending a little downpour pattering to the stairs at his feet. ‘Your mate Hudson’s called in sick again. So it’s either muggins here, or no one.’
‘Toes?’
‘Yes, toes. It’s always bloody toes these days.’
‘Erm …’ Logan glanced up the stairs, then down. No one around. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
Logan
