off.’
‘No one gets crippled either.’
A pause.
‘Sarge?’
‘What?’
‘Why haven’t I got a nickname? I mean Stewart’s Tufty, Dean’s Deano. Even you’ve got one. I’m just Janet. Or Nicholson. Is it because I’m a woman?’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Frown. ‘Well … what do you want to be called?’
‘Oh no you don’t – only tosspots pick their own nickname.’
‘We could call you Constable Pain-in-the-Hoop?’
‘Funny.’ Voice flat. ‘Good job I’m wearing my stabproof vest, razor-sharp wit like that. Ha. Ha. Etc.’
‘Listen, do me a favour: have a bit of a drive round on Rundle Avenue. I want Frankie Ferris to know we’re watching him. Keep him on edge.’
‘God: a cow on the road, a bit of standing about behind a cordon, and the chance to kerb-crawl past a druggie scumbag’s house for the rest of the shift? All in one day? You’re right, why would anyone want to abandon that for a life in CID?’
Strichen was as small as it was quiet. But Logan gave it the same treatment – up and down the side streets. Look at me, I’m a police officer. Your taxes at work. The only thing even vaguely noteworthy was the naked man duct-taped to the ‘STOP’ sign outside the town hall on the corner of Bridge Street and the High Street.
Well … he was probably naked. It was difficult to tell under all the treacle and feathers. And they hadn’t exactly skimped on the duct tape either.
Logan buzzed down the pool car’s passenger window. Leaned across the seats. ‘You OK?’
Mr Tar-And-Feathers blinked back at him, then released a lazy grin. ‘I’m … I’m getting mar … married!’ The words all slurred and wobbly.
‘Congratulations.’ He buzzed the window back up again and headed off north towards Fraserburgh.
‘Control to Shire Uniform Seven.’
Logan looked left and right. No one else in the aisle. All alone with the rows and rows of soup tins. He pressed the button on his handset. ‘Safe to talk.’
‘You’re in Fraserburgh tonight? Anywhere near Arran Court?’
‘No idea. I’m in that Tesco on South Harbour Road.’ The tattie and leek was cheap. But not as cheap as the lentil.
‘Neighbours are worried about a Mrs Bairden at number twenty-six. Not been seen since yesterday morning. History of heart problems. Not answering the door or the phone.’
Lentil it is. Three tins went in the basket, joining the multipack of generic salt-and-vinegar and a bog-standard loaf of white.
‘Give me five minutes.’
‘Will do.’
Quick march, round the corner and a few aisles down, where the medicines and toothpaste lurked. Condoms, pile cream, antacids, eyedrops … Ah. There they were. Laxatives.
It’d break the weekly budget, but what the hell. Sometimes you had to live a little.
He picked two different brands at random and flipped them over to read the instructions.
A tap on his shoulder.
Logan turned to see a young woman in the standard blue-short-sleeved-shirt-and-black-trouser uniform. An ‘ASK ME ABOUT CAR INSURANCE’ badge pinned above the one with her name on it: ‘AMANDA’. She smiled up at him. ‘Are you looking for something specific?’
‘Do you have anything really strong and quick-acting?’
She picked a green-and-yellow packet from the shelf. ‘My nan uses these – gentle, predictable relief.’
‘Nah. I’m looking for something a bit more aggressive. Wire-brush and Dettol time. Got anything that fits the bill?’
Arran Court. A single row of terraced houses: white harling walls, slate roofs; the occasional block of dark wood connecting upper and lower windows. The street was hidden away in Fraserburgh’s winding knot of cul-de-sacs. Surrounded by the back gardens of other buildings. A small patch of green sat opposite, lit by the yellow glow of a concrete lamp post. A handful of cars parked in front.
Logan counted the doors off, and stuck the patrol car in front of number twenty-six.
Three middle-aged women formed a clot by the garden gate. Two of them sitting on the low wall between it and number twenty-five. The third pacing back and forth, leaving cigarette trails in the street-lit air. All of them in pyjamas and dressing gowns.
Peaked cap on, out into the night. Logan clunked the car door shut and marched over. ‘Does anyone have keys?’
The woman with the cigarette stopped pacing and stared at him. Face souring. ‘You think we’d be standing here like lumps if we did?’
‘How about relatives? Or maybe a carer?’
One of the wall-sitters shook her head. ‘Her daughter, Sandra, lives three streets over, but she’s in Edinburgh for a thing.’
He stepped through the gate. ‘And you’re sure she’s not gone out somewhere? Night out in Aberdeen? Visiting friends in Peterhead?’
Number three sniffed. ‘She’s got a heart condition. What if she’s dead?’
Logan tried the door handle. Locked.
No lights on inside.
‘OK, let’s try round the back.’ He pointed at Mrs Cigarette. ‘Do you have the daughter’s mobile number?’
She dug a mobile from her dressing-gown pocket, poked at the screen, then held the thing out. ‘Ringing.’
He took it. Stuck it against his ear as he marched to the end of the street and slipped around the side of the last house. A little lane ran between the back of Arran Court and the rear of the next street over. Logan counted his way along the patchwork of wooden fences to number twenty-six as the mobile phone rang. And rang. And rang.
And finally, ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, thin and nervous.
‘Is this Sandra Bairden?’
There wasn’t a gate into the back garden. Instead, a seven-foot-tall woven wood screen stretched the length of the garden. It wobbled when he grabbed hold of it.
‘Who is this?’
