thought was his mum’s friend, then sold on at a disused-petrol-station in the middle of a run-down industrial estate. It was probably quite overwhelming for a wee lad.
Still, that was no reason to mope, was it?
‘How about a sing-song to pass the time? Come on then, all together now: A hundred green bottles, hanging on the wall,’ belting it out, with a smile in his heart and his voice, ‘A hundred green bottles, hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle, should accidentally fall, there’d be…?’
He glanced in the mirror again. Stephen stared back with his tear-stained cheeks and duct-tape gag.
‘Oh, that’s right. Sorry.’ Lee shrugged. ‘Never mind.’ Deep breath: ‘There’d be ninety-nine green bottles, hanging on the wall…’
‘But how?’ DCI Hardie’s voice whined out of the phone, making him sound as if someone was slowly beating him to death with a haddock. ‘How did they find out so quickly?’
The Asda car park was getting busier as workers in Dyce’s industrial estates and oil offices rolled up to buy something for lunch. At least it had stopped raining.
‘No idea, but you know what the press are like. They don’t have to go through official channels, they can just bribe people.’ Logan hunched over the pool car’s boot. Shifted his phone – freeing up his other hand to rummage about in one of the cardboard boxes from DI Bell’s house. Well, ex-DI Bell’s ex-house.
This one was nearly all clothes, suits and shirts and trousers, crumpled and mangled where they’d been rammed in.
‘And he was living in Verti…?’
‘Villaferrueña.’ There were socks in here too. And Y-fronts. ‘There’s probably more info, but Miller’s saving it for the front page tomorrow. Unless we’ve got something we can trade?’
‘I’ll get on to the Spanish cops, see what they can dig up.’
‘The press are having a feeding frenzy outside Mrs Bell’s house, by the way. And from the sound of things they’ve started making stuff up.’ Some ties. A ten-pin bowling trophy sat at the very bottom of the box; the little man on top’s head had been snapped clean off.
‘Wonderful. Well, I’ve got a press conference starting in half an hour. Looking forward to that about as much as my last colonoscopy.’
Should probably go through all the jacket and trouser pockets too.
‘When Rennie gets back, we’re off to speak to Sally MacAuley. Bell was obsessed with her case, so maybe…?’
‘But probably not.’
‘Probably not.’
And talking of Rennie – he was bumbling his way out through the supermarket’s main doors, pushing a small trolley with a wonky wheel. Not a care in the world.
Must be nice to be that divorced from reality.
Logan dipped into the box again. A handful of serial-killer thriller paperbacks with cheesy predictable titles on a ‘DARK DEADLY DEATH BLOOD DEATHLY DYING’ theme. ‘While I’ve got you: you’ll need a Senior Investigating Officer for the Chalmers suicide. Because she was a police officer?’
‘Are you volunteering?’
‘No. But what about DS Rennie?’
‘As SIO?’ A laugh barked out of the phone. ‘I’d rather put drunken hyenas in charge of my granddaughter’s third birthday party.’
‘Yes, but he’s done the training course; he’s worked on several murders; he’s not got himself suspended, demoted, or fired; and it’s an open-and-shut suicide. Not even Beardie Beattie could screw this one up.’
‘Hmmmm…’
Rennie made a massive detour around a puddle, trolley juddering and rattling away as if it was having a seizure. The idiot was grinning like this was the most fun he’d had in ages.
Maybe Hardie was right? Maybe making Rennie SIO was asking for—
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but OK. On the strict condition that he goes nowhere near the media and you supervise him the whole time. And I mean the whole time.’
Rennie arrived with his wobbly trolley. He pointed at the contents and waggled his eyebrows.
‘Do we have a deal?’
Oh God… He was going to regret this, wasn’t he?
‘Fine. If that’s what it takes.’ Logan pointed at Rennie, mouthing the words in silence: ‘You owe me!’ Then back to the phone. ‘Got to go. Good luck with the press conference.’
‘We’ll need it.’ And Hardie was gone.
Logan put his phone away.
Rennie frowned. ‘Owe you for what?’
‘You’re now officially SIO on Laura Chalmers’ suicide.’
His eyes bugged and a wonky grin lopsided itself across his face. ‘Woohoo!’ He even did a little dance between the puddles, finishing with a half-arsed pirouette. Pointing at his purchases again. ‘And to celebrate: one pack of spicy rotisserie chicken thighs, hot. One four-pack of white rolls. One squeezy bottle of mayonnaise. One bag of mixed salad. Bottle of Coke, bottle of Irn-Bru. Six jammy doughnuts for a pound. Luncheon is served.’
The pool car’s engine pinged and ticked as it cooled, the bonnet dulled by a thin film of drizzle. From here the view was … interesting: looking down, past a couple of fields to the massive concrete lumps of the new bridge over the River Don. The fabled Aberdeen Western Peripheral Route, rising from the earthworks slow and solid. A dark slash across the countryside, trapped beneath the dove-grey blanket of cloud. About forty years after they should have started building the damn thing. Back when the area was awash with oil money. Before the industry tanked.
Ah well, better late than never.
Rennie passed in front of the car again, pacing round it in the rain. Idiot.
The windows were getting foggy, so Logan wound his one down, letting in the distant roar of construction equipment and passing traffic.
Rennie did another lap. ‘No, I’m not kidding, they made me SIO!’ A pause, then his voice went all deadpan. ‘Oh: ha, ha, ha. No, it doesn’t stand for “Seriously Idiotic Onanist”. Thank you, Sarah Millican.’
Logan poked away at his phone again:
Did DS Chalmers say anything to you about any leads she was following about Ellie Morton’s disappearance?
SEND.
‘Senior Investigating Officer, Emma! They made me Senior Investigating Officer on the Laura Chalmers case. … Yeah, it is a pretty big deal.’
