guess they finally recognised all the great work I’ve been doing. … Oh yeah.’
Logan frowned and picked out a reply:
She’s DEAD, Roberta. Whatever secrets she had aren’t hers to keep any more.
SEND.
‘Who’s your daddy?… Damn right I am.’
No reply from Steel.
Probably sulking. Or sodded off for a vape.
Some things never changed.
‘OK, yeah. … Love you, Fluffkins. … OK, bye. … Bye. … Bye, bye.’ Rennie blew a half-dozen kisses, then hung up. Turned to see Logan staring at him. ‘What?’
‘You’ve got a mayonnaise moustache.’ Logan took another bite of chicken-thigh buttie – savoury and salty and spicy and creamy. Talking with his mouth full. ‘And that’s not a euphemism.’
‘Ta.’ Rennie wiped his face with a napkin, scrumpled it up and tossed it over his shoulder into the back of the car. ‘So far we’ve had a suicide, a collapsed coffin, a baying mob of reporters, and I’ve got my first SIO gig.’ He performed a little bum-wriggling dance in the driver’s seat. ‘Best day at work for ages.’
‘When we get back to the Big Top, write up your report on Chalmers’ suicide and submit it to the Procurator Fiscal. Then I want you to go through the boxes in the boot. See if you can find any of DI Bell’s old notebooks in there. Maybe we’ll get lucky for a change?’
Rennie peered across the car at the bag on Logan’s lap. ‘You wanting that bit of skin?’
‘Nope.’
He grabbed the slab of chicken skin and wolfed it down. ‘How come you always call him “DI Bell” now instead of “Ding-Dong”? Always used to call him “Ding-Dong”.’
‘Because you shouldn’t use friendly nicknames for police officers who kill people.’
‘Ah. Point.’
Outside, a crane lowered another chunk of grey onto the massive Lego set crossing the river. A handful of sheep skirted the chunk of flooded grass at the bottom of the field. The sound of chewing and slurping filled the car.
Rennie had another scoof of Coke. ‘Yeah, but maybe he didn’t mean to kill whoever it was we buried? Maybe it was, like, a fight to the death!’
‘Then why use the body to fake your own suicide?’
‘Convenience? Wasn’t like anyone else was using it.’ Another mouthful, bits of salad falling into his lap.
‘And the person who attacked him coincidentally happened to be a good enough match for height and weight that everyone would be fooled?’
‘Another point.’ Rennie polished off his buttie and sooked his fingers clean. Checked his watch. ‘Oops, nearly missed it!’ He clicked on the car radio, stabbing the buttons until ‘NORTHSOUND 1’ appeared on the dial and a horrifically upbeat pop song belted out of the speakers.
Logan turned it down a bit. ‘My money’s still on Fred Marshall.’
Rennie dipped into the doughnut bag. ‘Nah, can’t be. I read his file: Marshall was six-two and built like a whippet. Ding… DI Bell was five-ten tops and built like a grizzly bear. No way you’d get them mixed up. Not even after a fire.’
The song on the radio faded out, replaced by a teuchter accent so thick it had to be fake. ‘Ah, michty me, another Dougie’s Lunchtime Listening Classic there. Gets better every time I hear it! But it’s one o’clock now and we ken fit that means: here’s Claire with the news and weather. Aye, aye, Claire, fit like the day, quine?’
Claire didn’t even try to do the accent. ‘Nae bad, Dougie. Commuter chaos came to Aberdeen this morning when a burst water main flooded the Denburn roundabout…’
Logan frowned. ‘Six foot two?’
‘Well, probably a bit less once you took the top of his head off with a shotgun. But yeah, not the same body type at all.’
‘Good job we didn’t get those warrants then.’
‘…for missing three-year-old Ellie Morton, local businesswoman Jerry Whyte has put up a five thousand pound reward for any information…’
Logan helped himself to a doughnut. ‘Better go through all the missing person reports for the month DI Bell allegedly killed himself.’
‘Assuming it was someone anyone would miss.’
A woman’s voice thumped out of the radio, positive and confident. ‘I’m glad to be in a position to help. And if we all chip in, I’m sure we can make a difference.’
Then Claire was back. ‘And we can go live now to Northeast Divisional Headquarters.’
Rennie licked the granulated sugar from his lips. ‘What if he offed a homeless person? Or a crim?’
‘Thank you all for coming.’ DCI Hardie didn’t sound as if he meant that. ‘I can confirm that the body of a man found in a crashed car yesterday morning was that of Duncan Bell, a former detective inspector with Police Scotland.’
Logan’s doughnut popped with sharp-sweet raspberry jam. ‘Then we’re screwed.’ He caught the drip with a finger. ‘They couldn’t get any viable DNA the first time round, and I doubt we’ll do any better. Bell didn’t set fire to that caravan by accident, he knew it’d cook the remains and cover his tracks.’
‘Mr Bell had been living in Spain under an assumed name, having apparently staged his own suicide two years ago.’
‘Tooth pulp cavity?’
Logan shook his head. ‘Blew them all out with a shotgun, remember?’
‘…currently working with the Spanish authorities to establish his whereabouts during that time.’
‘Maybe someone picked them up?’
‘Maybe.’
‘We are treating Mr Bell’s death as murder and have set up a Major Investigation Team to look into his death.’
‘But knowing our luck?’ Logan washed the last chunk of doughnut down with a mouthful of Irn-Bru. Suppressed a belch. ‘If Bell hadn’t set fire to the caravan you could’ve just dug them out of the walls, but mixed in with all that burnt wreckage?’
‘Anne Darlington, BBC: have you identified the body buried in DI Bell’s grave?’
‘Investigations are ongoing and I would urge anyone with information about Mr Bell’s murder to get in touch.’
Rennie held out the doughnut bag. ‘Better eat another one before I scoff the lot.’
‘No,
