bit his top lip. Then shrugged. ‘It’s a comment on our political elite and the disenfranchisement and disengagement of the common man.’ His voice tried out three octaves along the way.
‘Spray-painting willies on a Conservative Party billboard doesn’t count as political commentary.’
‘Does too.’
She pushed him at Logan, then dragged out her notebook. ‘Name?’
He tensed, as if he was about to bolt again. Logan grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You want a go in the handcuffs? Because I can arrange that.’
He looked up, over his shoulder. A blush filled in the pale skin between his freckles. ‘You’re not going to tell my mum, are you?’
Nicholson poked him with her pen. ‘Name?’
‘I mean, they lord it over us from Edinburgh, don’t they? Our political masters. No one really cares what we think any more. We’re like drones to them, only instead of honey they grow fat on our taxes.’
Logan pulled his chin in. ‘Our taxes? You’re, what, thirteen? When did you last pay any tax?’
‘Workers control the means of production.’
Nicholson poked him again. ‘You’ve got one more chance, then I’m doing you for refusing to give your details. Now: name?’
He took a deep breath. Stared down at his trainers. ‘Geoffrey Lovejoy.’ Then a sniff, and his head came up again, eyes glinting. ‘I’m a political prisoner. I demand you call the United Nations. Power to the people!’
Logan looked up from his notebook. ‘And you’re sure you’d recognize her again if you saw her?’
The shopkeeper nodded, setting a crowd of chins on a Mexican wave. ‘Absolutely. She had half a dozen bottles of Chanel Number Five, a handful of Touche Éclat concealer, Elizabeth Arden, and every single bit of Paco Rabanne we had on display!’ He swept a hand towards the other side of the chemist’s, where the front door was being held open by a little old lady wearing a plastic headscarf. ‘Scooped them up and ran off without so much as a blush. Our Stacey chased her, but …’ A shrug.
Nicholson’s stabproof was beginning to look as if she’d smeared it with camouflage paint – green grass stains mingling with the mud from their run-in with the escaped cow. It wasn’t a good look. She pointed at the security camera bolted to the wall behind the till. ‘You get it on CCTV?’
A blush swept across the puffy cheeks. ‘It’s plastic. I bought it off eBay for a fiver.’
Nicholson pointed. ‘Is that not Liam Barden?’
On the other side of the road, a chubby man in an Aberdeen Football Club shirt walked into the Co-op.
Logan frowned as the automatic door closed, hiding the man and his bright-red shiny shirt. ‘You sure?’
‘Certain.’ She parked outside the shop. ‘Well … eighty percent. You got the ID sheet?’
He dug into the glove compartment and came out with four creased sheets of A4, stapled together. Two photos on each sheet, along with names and details of when and where they went missing. Liam Barden was on the third page: grinning away at a Caley Thistle match, both thumbs up, and what looked like a gravy stain splodging the Orion Group logo on his blue-and-red football top. A wee gold thistle glinted on a golden chain around Liam’s neck. Very classy. A proper Ratners special.
Liam shared the printout with a picture of everyone’s favourite drug-dealing scumbag, Jack Simpson – jagged tribal tattoos on his neck, sunken cheeks, pierced nose and ears.
He’d also grown a Hitler moustache, a pair of glasses, Frankenstein’s Monster bolts, and a blacked-out tooth. There was even a speech balloon with ‘I HAS A SEXY!!!’ written in it.
‘For God’s sake.’ Logan held the sheet out. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to draw things on missing persons photos?’
‘Don’t look at me: don’t even own a blue biro.’
‘How would you feel if one of your relatives went missing and someone scrawled all over their picture? Jack Simpson’s a nasty wee git, but he deserves the same treatment as everyone else.’
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘Like working with a bunch of three-year-olds …’
Still: had to admit that the photo of Liam Barden did look a bit like the guy who’d gone into the store. Heavyset, balding from the back, toothy smile. ‘Only problem is, what’s happened to his moustache?’
‘Maybe he shaved it off?’ Nicholson unbuckled and climbed out into the sunshine. Pulled her hat on. ‘You coming?’
‘And why’s he dumped Inverness Caley Thistle for AFC?’ Logan joined her on the pavement. Held out the sheet again. ‘See?’
She frowned at the picture. ‘Not illegal to support more than one club. Besides, think how stoked his wife and kids will be if we find him.’
Which was more than could be said for Jack Simpson. Missing for ten days already and not even his mum wanted him back. If he hadn’t owed his granny money, he probably wouldn’t even have been reported missing.
Logan turned the page. ‘And why does no one update these things?’ He rummaged through the zip-pockets on his stabproof vest. Frowned. Took out his notebook. Put it away again. ‘Sodding Hector.’ He held out a hand. ‘Lend me a pen?’
She handed one over and Logan drew a thick X over the face of a little boy on the bottom of page four. ‘We found Ian Dickinson four days ago.’
‘You take my word for it – next one you can score off is Liam Barden.’ Nicholson straightened her cap and marched into the Co-op.
Logan took a lick of his ice lolly, working his way through the raspberry coating to the cheap vanilla inside. Sun warm on the back of his neck. ‘Well, it was worth a go.’
‘Could have sworn it was him.’ Nicholson worked her left arm around in a circle – Cornetto making chocolaty dribbles in her other hand as they wandered down the hill.
‘How’s the shoulder?’
A shrug. ‘Still say we should’ve arrested the vandalizing wee sod.’
‘Then we’d have to take him all the way to Fraserburgh for processing, and that’s you and me off the streets for at least two hours. With Deano and Tufty still up the hospital, who’s going to look after the good people of Banff and Macduff?’
‘That’s not the point, he’s—’
‘All the kid did was draw a big willy on a billboard. Some people might think our prospective Conservative MSP looks much better with a big willy sprayed all over him. At least Citizen Geoffrey’s taking an interest in the political process.’
Four bleeps sounded from his Airwave handset. ‘Sergeant McRae?’
Another
