hunched his shoulders, turned, and limped along the road, heading past the ancient buildings, their pastel-coloured walls slick with rain. Every step sent needles jabbing into his ankle. Stupid garage roofs…
There weren’t many people on the streets, just an old woman fighting with the umbrella in her left hand and the Doberman attached to her right. Both of which seemed determined to go in opposite directions.
Left at the discount store with its racks of high-viz jackets sitting out the front, dripping. Up the road and out into what passed for a town square at the end of Low Street, where the squat sandstone lump of the Biggar Fountain looked like an evil gothic cupcake, complete with buttresses and crowned cap.
Someone had wedged three traffic cones into the structure, adding to the general pointiness.
Logan’s phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ again. Brilliant. Should never have turned the damn thing back on.
He ducked into the doorway of the takeaway and pulled his mobile out. Hit the button. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’
‘Been calling you for ages. Where the hell have you been?’
‘Doing my job. Try it sometime.’
‘You think your job’s tough? Try leading a Major Investigation Team in a sodding murder case, when the sodding pathologist and sodding SEB won’t let you take the sodding bag off your sodding victim’s sodding head.’ Her voice went up in volume, as if she was playing to an audience. ‘How am I supposed to ID someone when I can’t see their face? What use is that?’
‘Are you finished?’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve had anyone reported missing with a bag over their head, have you? Because that’s the only way I’m going to get an ID.’ A sniff. ‘I’m cold, I’m wet, and I need a drink. Or six. Better call it a bottle.’
‘Tough.’
The old lady made it around the corner, still struggling with dog and brolly.
‘Lazy sod’s no’ doing the post mortem till ten tomorrow.’
‘At least you can get fingerprints.’ He shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy here, so if you don’t mind…?’
‘Fat lot of good fingerprints did us. Put them through our fancy new handheld scanner and do you know what came up? Sod all.’ There was a sigh, then Steel’s voice took on a bit of a whine. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy joining the team, do you? If I have to put up with Rennie much longer he’ll be singing soprano for the rest of his life. And Becky’s no’ much better: woman looks like someone’s jammed a traffic cone up her backside.’
‘No chance.’ Logan hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. Took a breath, then lumbered out into the rain, round the corner and up the steep narrow brae – wincing with every needle-filled step – past the grey row of little shops on one side, and the bland slab of buildings on the other. Popping out onto Castle Street.
His phone went again. He yanked it out as he limped across the road. ‘No, I am not joining your bloody MIT. Leave me alone!’
There was a pause. Just long enough for Logan to pass the solicitor’s and the butcher’s.
Then: ‘Mr McRae. Long time, no speak.’ A man’s voice, with more than a hint of Aberdonian burr to it.
Logan slowed to a trot as he reached the building next to the Co-op. Stopped with one hand on the door. ‘Can I help you?’
‘It’s me: John.’
Nope, no idea.
‘John Urquhart? I bought your flat?’
Logan flinched. Snatched his hand back as if the door had burnt it. Licked his lips. ‘How did you get this number, Mr Urquhart?’
‘Call me John, yeah? Known each other for what, six, seven years, right? John.’
‘Is there something wrong with the flat?’ Because if there was he could take a flying leap. No way Logan was paying to fix anything. Things were bad enough as it was.
‘I’m calling on behalf of Mr Mowat. He wants to see you.’
And now, they were worse.
Logan closed his eyes and leaned against the door. ‘I can’t—’
‘He really wants to see you, Mr McRae.’ Urquhart puffed out a breath. ‘He’s an old man. And he’s dying.’
‘He’s not dying. No way a little cancer is getting the better of Wee Hamish Mowat: it wouldn’t dare. He’s—’
‘Oncologist says maybe a week, week and a half if he’s lucky.’
Oh. ‘I see.’
‘Please?’
Logan pushed through the door into a warm, small-ish room with a couple of leather settees arranged on two sides of a glass coffee table. Tasteful flower arrangements. Framed testimonials on the walls. An understated desk with a brass carriage clock on it – no computer, no brochures, no paperwork. And no sign of anyone. ‘I’m a police officer, I can’t… If they find out I’m sitting vigil with Wee Hamish—’
‘He’s dying and he wants to see you. It matters to him.’
‘I…’ Logan’s shoulders slumped, dragged down by the weight of all the knives stabbed between them. ‘I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try, OK? If I can.’
‘Thanks. He’s looking forward to it.’ And Urquhart was gone.
Logan stood there, frowning down at his phone till the screen went dark.
Wee Hamish Mowat.
Oh, Chief Superintendent Napier would love that. Gah… Why did the Ginger Whinger have to be sniffing about now? Why couldn’t he have waited a month or two till it was all over?
By then, with Hamish dead, Reuben would’ve taken over. And after he’d finished killing everyone, Logan would probably be facedown dead in a ditch somewhere and wouldn’t have to worry about getting hauled up in front of Professional Standards and done for corruption.
Yeah, that was it: look on the bright side.
Logan put his phone away. Scrubbed a hand across his face.
Oh God…
And when he lowered them, a thin man in a black suit was standing in front of him, head lowered, hands clasped together. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Then an eyebrow went up. ‘Sergeant McRae? Well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ He stuck his hand out for shaking.
