speaking.
It was like working with a small child.
Logan let his head fall back against the rest. ‘Sorry.’
Another shrug. Then Tufty pointed through the windscreen at the furthest bungalow in the development. It was huge – had to be at least five bedrooms – with a blockwork drive, double garage, conservatory, and landscaped front garden that looked a lot more bedded in than any of the other houses. ‘That’s it.’
A couple of manky hatchbacks lurked at the kerb to either side, engines idling. Windows rolled down a crack so the warty individuals inside could smoke while they waited for something to happen.
Tufty pulled onto the drive, parking in front of a white Range Rover Sport. Switched off the engine. And sat there, still not saying anything.
‘I said I was sorry.’
‘No problem.’ Then Tufty climbed into the rain, jamming his hat on his head. Clunked the door shut and marched up the drive to the front door. Rang the bell.
A very small, very annoying child.
Logan grabbed his high-viz jacket from the back seat and got out of the Big Car.
The occupants of the hatchbacks scrambled out, shoulders and hoods pulled up, fiddling with big digital cameras. ‘Hoy! Over here! Sergeant? Did you find Martin Milne’s body yesterday? Is it him?’
Wind snatched at the fluorescent-yellow material of the jacket as Logan fought his way into it. Rain hammered and pattered off the surface. Off his hat. Off his stabproof vest. Stinging his face and hands like a thousand frozen wasps. While the two lumpy middle-aged men snapped photos.
‘How did Martin Milne die? Did he commit suicide?’
Logan hauled the zip up and turned his back on the wind. ‘How long have you two been out here?’
‘It’s Martin Milne, isn’t it?’
He pointed at the hatchbacks. ‘Police Scotland aren’t issuing any statements at this time. Now, please return to your vehicles and respect the Milne family’s privacy.’
The garden sloped away to the East, where the sea surged and pounded against the curling line of the headland. Probably really impressive in summer, when the sun was shining, but on a dreich Thursday in February? Sod that.
The shorter of the two curled his top lip. ‘Come on, Sergeant, throw us a bone, eh? Been freezing my nuts off out here since six. Is it Martin Milne?’
‘We’re not issuing any—’
‘“Statements”, yeah, I got that the first time.’ He tucked his camera into his coat. ‘Off the record?’
The other one sidled up beside him. A nose like a sandblasted golf ball, wrapped round with broken spider veins. ‘Promise we’ll sod off if you let us have something.’
Logan stared at the ground for a moment. ‘I can’t right now, but…’ He glanced over his shoulder at the house and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, give me your business cards, and I’ll let you know what’s going on soon as I can. You get first dibs.’
Frozen Nuts sniffed. ‘What, both of us?’
‘But you have to promise not to tell anyone else I tipped you off, OK?’
‘Deal.’ Golf-Ball Nose dug into his pocket and came out with a card. ‘Bob Finnegan, Aberdeen Examiner. That’s got my mobile number and my email.’
His opposite number produced a card of his own. ‘Noel McGuinness, Scottish Independent Tribune. You promise?’
‘If you promise to back off and leave the family alone till I give you the nod.’
The two of them shared a look, then nodded.
A quick shaking of hands and they retreated to their cars. Got in. And drove away.
Soon as they were gone, Logan marched up the drive to the front door. Gave Tufty’s arm a thump with the back of his hand. ‘Are you planning on sulking all day?’
Tufty poked the bell again, setting something buzzing inside the house. ‘I’m not sulking. I’m disappointed.’
‘You’re disappointed?’
‘Calamity or Isla: I could understand them not getting it, but I thought you were interested in the…’
The door clunked then swung open.
A woman glared out at them from behind a pair of large square glasses. Long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail with a sprinkling of grey at the roots. Teeth bared. Already going at full volume: ‘IF YOU VULTURES DON’T GO AWAY, I’M CALLING THE POLICE!’
Tufty raised his eyebrows. ‘Hello, Katie.’
‘Ah.’ She closed her mouth. Grimaced. ‘Officer Quirrel. Sorry. I thought you were that pair of…’ Then she stared at them, eyes widening. Bit her bottom lip. Wiped her hands down the front of her green-and-white striped apron. ‘Oh God, they were right. It is him isn’t it? The body they found in the woods? It’s Martin.’
She staggered back a step, blinking at the wood laminate flooring. Holding onto the doorframe.
Tufty held out a hand. ‘Katie, does Martin have a tattoo on his left shoulder? Maybe a dolphin or a whale or something?’
‘What?’ Mrs Milne pulled her chin in, wrinkling her neck. ‘No. No he doesn’t. He doesn’t have any tattoos. Why would he have tattoos?’
Logan stepped forward. ‘Then it’s not Martin, Mrs Milne: the man we found yesterday had a tattoo.’
She sagged where she stood, letting out a long breath. ‘Oh thank God.’ Another breath, one hand against her chest. ‘Look at me. Sorry. Come in. Please.’
The hallway was light, airy, with framed photos and scrawled crayon drawings lining the walls.
Mrs Milne led them through into the kitchen, where a little boy sat at a rustic table, both hands wrapped around a tumbler of orange juice. Blond hair, red sweatshirt, white shirt, black trousers. Plaster cast on his right arm. The smell of frying butter filled the air.
‘Would you like a tea, or coffee, or something? Or pancakes? I’m making for Ethan.’
The little boy stared back at them through glasses like his mother’s.
Logan slipped out of his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. It dripped onto the slate floor. ‘Tea would be lovely. But don’t worry, Constable Quirrel can make it. Can’t you, Constable?’
A nod. ‘Don’t want to stand in the way of Ethan’s pancakes.’
‘Oh.
