swivelled his chair around and wiggled his mouse, bringing up the next slide on the daily PowerPoint presentation. Martin Milne stared out at them. A strong face with high cheekbones and a dimple right in the middle of his chin. Straight brown hair with a Hugh Grant fringe. ‘I checked distinguishing features on the misper form, and there’s no mention of Milne having a tattoo. So that means whoever we found yesterday, it’s not him. Might be worth checking signs of activity on his bank or credit cards?’
Isla rolled her eyes. ‘You got any idea how long it’ll take his bank to authorize that?’
‘Ah, but no, my dearest Constable Anderson, because I has a clever.’ Tufty leaned forward. ‘We don’t need to hang about and wait for his bank to approve access if he’s on internet banking: we can ask his wife to log on and check. Could ask her about the tattoo while we’re there – make sure that whatever muppet filled in the misper form got it right.’
‘Is that cynicism I hear?’ A smile pulled Isla’s cheeks into shiny pink apples. ‘Ah, Tufty, we’ll make a police officer of you yet.’
‘Next.’ A click of the mouse and a man’s face filled the screen: jowls, one solid eyebrow, hair shaved at the sides to match the bald spot at the top. ‘Mark Connolly violated his parole, Friday…’
Sitting in the driver’s seat, Tufty doo-de-doo-de-dooed along with the old Oasis track jangling out of the speakers. He slowed down as the beige outskirts of Whitehills appeared, then took a left, heading towards the slate-grey sea.
Wind buffeted the Big Car, rocking it on its springs. Rain crackled against the windscreen, blurring the world for a moment, before the wipers squeaked it away. Only for more rain to replace it moments later.
Logan shifted in his seat. The limb restraints made a hard lump in the small of his back, right where the stabproof vest ended. And would they shift? Of course they wouldn’t.
The road narrowed – lined on both sides by billowing green clouds of jagged gorse. Writhing beneath a raven sky.
Why did Samantha think he could just kill Reuben? That he was even capable of killing another human being. OK, maybe ‘human being’ was stretching things a bit where Reuben was concerned, but still. To actually murder someone. Cold. Premeditated.
Logan’s stomach lurched, sour and gurgling.
Oasis faded a bit and the DJ teuchtered all over them. ‘Wisn’t that a flash fae the past? You’re listening till “Gid Mornin’ Doogie!” and it’s bang on eight, so here’s oor Ashley with a’ the news and weather.’
‘Thanks Dougie. A family of four died in a three-car pile-up on the A90, just north of Portlethen last night…’
Tufty kept on drumming. ‘Sarge? You know time, right?’
Logan let his head thunk against the passenger window. ‘Here we go.’
‘No, listen. Quantum mechanics and the theory of general relativity have these, like, completely different ideas about how time works.’
‘…Mrs Garden, sixty-nine, was remanded in custody following a road-rage incident outside the Strichen Post Office…’
‘Einstein says time’s relative, depending on where you are and how fast you’re going, yeah? Faster you go, the slower time is.’
Logan turned and faced the passenger window. ‘He’s right. When I’m in the car with you it slows to a sodding crawl.’
Brown and dull-green fields stretched away on either side of the road. A flock of sheep huddled in the lee of a drystane dyke.
‘…man’s body discovered in woods south of Macduff yesterday. Police Scotland aren’t releasing any details until the next of kin have been informed…’
‘Quantum mechanics, on the other hand, says time’s absolute and external to the universe: keeping track of the wave function in quantum systems.’
Maybe getting killed by Reuben wouldn’t be so bad? At least he wouldn’t have to sit here listening to Tufty any more.
‘…were angry scenes outside BP’s offices in Dyce yesterday, as protesters gathered to picket the oil giant over redundancies and proposed cuts to service companies’ rates…’
Skinned alive and fed to the pigs.
Logan closed his eyes. Swallowed down the bitter taste of tarnished copper.
How was he supposed to kill Reuben? How?
What switch was he supposed to flip to make that possible?
A hand squeezed his shoulder, delicate, the nails painted a shiny black.
Samantha leaned forward from the back of the car. ‘Maybe you could sneak a gun out of the firearms store? There was that hunting rifle you confiscated last week – the one with the telescopic sight and silencer. That’d do it. Get a bit of distance, find somewhere with a good vantage point, and put a bullet straight through Reuben’s head.’
‘Never going to work.’
Tufty nodded. ‘Exactly: they can’t both be right, can they? Time’s either fixed or it isn’t. And some scientists say it doesn’t really exist at all.’
‘All you’ve got to do is squeeze the trigger.’
‘I’m not talking about this.’
‘Yeah, I know it’s a bit complicated, but stick with me, Sarge.’
Pull the trigger? Simple as that? Point a gun at someone’s head and kill them?
Logan’s stomach lurched again.
‘…further protests organized for tomorrow. Weather now…’
‘According to the thermal time hypothesis, time’s a statistical artefact—’
‘For God’s sake, Tufty. Can we … five minutes… Please.’
‘…afraid this cold snap looks set to continue for the rest of the week. The Met Office have issued a yellow warning…’
Tufty pursed his lips. Shrugged one shoulder. ‘Thought you’d be interested.’
Half a dozen bungalows appeared on the right, clustered in the corner of a field. They looked like the advance guard of a much bigger army, posted on the clifftop to keep a lookout over the waves. An eight-foot-high chain-link fence wrapped around the chunk of field next to them, already scarred with a rough arc of gravel and concrete. Pipes and cables jutted up from concrete foundations like thick plastic weeds. Reinforcements on their way.
Samantha squeezed his shoulder again. ‘Just think about it, OK? That’s all I’m asking.’
‘…back with more at nine.’
‘Thanks Ashley. Noo, let’s kick off the hour with a wee bittie Proclaimers and “Sunshine on Leith”, cos looks like we’re gettin’ neen o’ that fir weeks up here.’
Tufty
