speedbumps and identical driveways. Tiny patches of miserable soggy grass masquerading as lawns. Trees that would probably still look like twigs for years to come. Four-by-fours parked on bricked-over front gardens. Grey harling with fake-stone details.
Three houses down, the road was packed with outside broadcast vans and journalists’ cars. No way through. A lone uniformed PC stood outside the front door, two down. Holding the mob at bay.
Rennie pulled into the kerb. ‘Pffff… Maybe we should come back later, when they’ve all got bored and sodded off?’
‘Don’t be so damp.’ Logan climbed out into the rain and strode along the pavement on the other side of the road, skirting the scabby Saabs and fusty Fiats parked half-on-half-off of it. Keeping his head down.
Didn’t work though.
He’d barely made it level to the house when someone spotted his uniform and they all crowded in on him. Shouting over the top of each other.
A curly blonde weather-girl-made-good type forced her way to the front. Pekinese perky. A red-topped microphone in her hand. ‘Inspector? Inspector, Anne Darlington, BBC: is it true you suspect DI Bell of murder?’
A ruddy-faced man who looked as if he’d fallen off the back of a tractor. Sounded like it too: ‘Come on, min, oor readers have a right to know what’s goin’ oan here. Have you got a suspect yet or no’?’
An androgynous woman in a shabby suit and short-back-and-sides. Deep voice: ‘Angela Parks, Scottish Daily Post: are you aware of the rumours that DI Bell was involved in people trafficking in Spain?’
A well-dressed short bloke with a bushy beard – like an Ewok off for a job interview at a bank. English accent: ‘Phil Patterson, Sky News: why won’t Police Scotland come clean about DI Bell’s previous whereabouts? What are you hiding?’
Anne Darlington pushed past him. ‘Police Scotland exhumed a body this morning – is that connected to this case?’
Angela Parks shoved her iPhone in Logan’s face, a red ‘RECORDING’ icon glowing in the middle of the screen. ‘Is it true that DI Bell was stabbed during a drug deal that went wrong?’
Logan kept his chin up and his face forwards, pushing through them, not slowing down. ‘We are pursuing several lines of inquiry and I can’t say any more than that at this juncture.’
Rennie struggled on at his shoulder. ‘’Scuse me. Pardon. Sorry. Oops. ’Scuse me…’
Anne Darlington pushed her microphone in front of Logan again. ‘Was DI Bell under investigation at the time of his alleged death?’
‘Fit’s the deal, min? Fit lines of inquiry are ye followin’?’
Another eight feet and they reached the relative safety of the tiny porch – more an extension of the garage roof than anything else.
‘Inspector, was it a drug deal gone wrong or not?’
The PC at the door opened it, shifting to one side so Logan and Rennie could squeeze past, hissing out the side of her mouth as they did. ‘It’s like a swarm of sodding leeches.’ Then stepped forward with her arms extended, blocking the way. ‘All right, you heard the Inspector: everyone away from the house. Let’s give Mrs Bell some privacy.’
Anne Darlington stayed where she was. ‘If you didn’t bury DI Bell in that grave two years ago, who did you bury?’
Phil Patterson was right behind her. ‘Was DI Bell involved in organised crime? Is that why—’
Rennie thumped the front door shut, cutting the rest of it off. ‘Now I know how rock stars feel. Only without the ever-present threat of group sex and free drugs.’
The hallway was an antiseptic-white colour with a single family photo next to the light switch. DI Bell, his wife and their two children at the youngest’s graduation ceremony. Everyone looking very proud and alive.
A door was open at the end of the hall, murmured voices coming from within.
Logan stepped into a gloomy little living room. The blinds were down, shutting out the rain and the media, but a standard lamp cast just enough light to see the dark patches on the walls where pictures must have hung for years, leaving nothing behind but the unfaded wallpaper and a capstone of dust. Most of the shelves were empty too, as if they’d had a clear-out recently. The only thing left was a single photo in a black frame: Mrs Bell and her husband. Her in a blue frock and him in his dress uniform, taken at some sort of official ceremony.
She was sitting on the couch now, by the electric fire, bottom jaw twitching as if she was trying to work something out from between her teeth. Eyes focused on the fake flames.
But Barbara Bell wasn’t the only one in here.
Sitting in the armchair opposite was a wee hardman in a well-fitted suit. Broad shouldered with a good haircut, even if his head was going a bit threadbare on top. Colin Miller. A trio of gold chains glinted around his neck, signet rings on over his black-leather-gloved fingers. And standing behind him: an older lady in a safari-type waistcoat – its pockets bulging with photographic equipment. A huge Cannon DSLR hanging around her neck.
Last, but by all means least: a young male PC, face covered with a moonscape of pockmarks, sitting in the other armchair. He struggled to his feet. ‘Inspector. I know this isn’t—’
Logan pointed at Miller. ‘Colin. Should you not be outside with the rest of your lovely Fourth Estate mates?’
A grin, followed by a Glaswegian accent so strong you could have stood on it. ‘Laz, my man, you’re lookin’ well, but. We’ve been expressing our sympathy to poor Barbara here. Haven’t we, Debbie?’
The photographer nodded, one side of her mouth clamped shut as if there were a fag poking out of it. ‘Terrible shame.’
Logan stood in front of the couch. ‘Mrs Bell?’
She didn’t even look at him. Just made a shooing gesture, batting away an invisible fly. Saggy and defeated.
He nodded. ‘Well, I’m sure everyone would like a nice cup of tea. Colin, why don’t you lend a hand?’ Then marched from the room, thumping Rennie on the way past. ‘You too.’
Rennie filled the kettle at a Belfast sink that was far too big for the small kitchen. Colin Miller leaned back against the working surface, crossing his arms and smirking.
Logan gave him a loom. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’
‘Easy, Tiger.’ He held up his hand in self-defence – some of the fingers stiff and twisted in his black leather gloves. ‘That any way to talk to an old friend?’
‘She’s just discovered that her husband died. Again. Bad enough you splashed it all over the front page this morning – she doesn’t need—’
‘Speaking of suicides,’ he dropped his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper, ‘a wee birdy tells us you’ve got another deid copper on your hands.’
‘I mean it, Colin: leave Barbara Bell alone!’
‘So did Lorna
