on it’s for an informant?’
Logan swivelled left and right, then back again. The bearings groaned underneath him. Just like the old days… ‘You’re not allowed to have unregistered informants: anything Chiz-related would have to go through the Secret Squirrel Squad. Put it down as a teambuilding expense under Finnie’s “Forward To Tomorrow” cost-code. By the time he gets back from Malaga no one will remember what it was meant to be used for anyway.’
‘Ta.’ Bob’s biro scribbled something down on the form.
Logan creaked the seat around in a full circle, drawing his knees in at the last minute to avoid the leg of the desk. ‘See, that’s what I’m talking about: you’re out on stakeouts with a bottle of Glenfiddich, and I’m up to my ears in spreadsheets, cost centres, and budget plans. I remember when—’
‘Yeah, being dragged about, moaned at, and told to do stuff is just great. At least you get a shot at being DI, when’s my go?’ He grabbed another receipt from the pile and scowled at it. ‘You want anything in particular, or are you just slumming it for fun?’
‘Going out to the Garfield and Chung houses – fly the flag for community policing.’ Hydraulics go up, hydraulics go down, hydraulics go up.
‘The missing kids?’ Bob stood and picked a beige corduroy jacket off the back of his chair. ‘Suppose you want me to drive.’
Logan stopped playing with the chair. Narrowed his eyes. ‘What did you have for lunch?’
Bob pulled the jacket on. ‘Why?’
‘Bob…?’
‘Cauliflower and lentil curry from that wee place on Belmont Street.’
Which explained the Post-it note on the door.
‘In that case, you can stay here and finish your expenses. No way I’m sharing a car with you.’
‘That’s discrimination.’
‘Self-bloody-preservation more like.’
The Wee Hoose’s door opened and DS Chalmers marched in, carrying a stack of printouts, glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She smiled. ‘Keeping it warm for me?’ Pause. ‘The chair?’ Then dumped the paper on the desk behind him.
Right: not his chair any more. Not his desk. He stood. ‘It’s your lucky day, Chalmers – instead of sitting here being gassed to death by Biohazard Bob, I’m rescuing you. Grab your jacket, we’ve got parents to visit.’
Agnes Garfield’s mother glowered at them from the doorway. ‘Well, perhaps if you’d done something when we told you she was missing, she’d be home by now.’ Her long brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she fiddled with the ends, teasing them apart with yellow-tipped fingers. A smoker. But instead of stale cigarettes she stank of Ralgex and spearmint.
Posters festooned Agnes Garfield’s bedroom walls: brooding vampires with greasy hair, monobrowed werewolves, Harry-Bloody-Potter… Then there were a few for books that looked as if they’d been lifted from the local Waterstones: The Night Circus, Golden Compass, Witchfire, Narnia… One wall was completely given over to bookshelves stuffed full of paperbacks, the occasional hardback sticking out like a tombstone.
The window was open a crack, letting in the scent of freshly mown grass and the smoky promise of a back-garden barbecue from somewhere nearby. Agnes’s room was at the back of the house, with a view out over the rooftops towards the sprawling housing estates of Danestone on one side, and rolling countryside on the other. Fields of violent-yellow rapeseed shone like burnished gold in the evening light.
Logan stepped back. The computer desk in the window recess didn’t have a single piece of clutter or dust on it. ‘And they haven’t been in touch at all?’
Agnes’s mum stuck her chin out. ‘If they had, we’d have said something! Think we kicked up all this fuss trying to get you to do something because we thought it would be fun?’
‘Girls that age … well, they’re not girls any more, are they? Eighteen years old: they’re adults.’
‘Our Agnes would never run away from home. She loves us. She’s safe here. She knows that.’ The yellowed fingers pecked at her hair, like jaundiced crows going after roadkill. ‘It’s that bloody Anthony Chung. He’s done this. Abducted her. I said so, last time you were round, but you didn’t do anything about it, did you? Bloody police…’
DS Chalmers patted her on the shoulder. ‘We’re going to do everything we can, Mrs Garfield.’
Agnes’s mother scowled at her. ‘Don’t you patronize me. If you’d taken us seriously and done something in the first—’
‘Why don’t you leave us to it for a bit, and we’ll come down when we’re done?’
The chin went up again. ‘You won’t find anything. I’ve been through this room a dozen times, there’s nothing here. Agnes has no secrets from me. You need to be out there, hunting down that bloody Chung!’
Chalmers smiled, showing off those pointy little teeth. ‘I know, but you want us to be thorough, don’t you? We’ll be down soon as we’re done.’
A sniff. A thinning of the lips. Then she jabbed a finger at Logan. ‘If he’d done his job when he came here, instead of drinking tea and eating my biscuits, she’d be home by now.’ A nod. Agnes’s mum backed out of the room and slammed the door.
‘Pffffff…’ Logan sank down on the single bed. The wooden frame creaked, the mattress sagging beneath him. ‘Before you say anything, it was DI McPherson. Sent me out here, told me to poke about a bit, reassure them, then get back to solving actual crimes. Course, then he gets seconded to the Scottish Parliament on the Force Integration Project – as if they didn’t have enough bloody numpties screwing things up already – and hey presto, suddenly it’s my problem.’
He glanced up… The roof was covered in pale-yellowy-green and white stars. Had to be hundreds of them up there, filling the ceiling from edge to edge. Oh to be young and daft again.
Chalmers poked her way through the bookshelves. ‘Whenever my mother hated any of my boyfriends, it just made them more appealing. Even Hamish Campbell with his big teeth and stickie-out ears. Dad hated him too, and after that I’d have run away with him in a heartbeat…’
The bedside cabinet contained a mix of hankies, granny-pants, and a tiny collection of cheap jewellery – each piece individually wrapped in tissue paper. Logan slid the last drawer back into place, then pushed aside the little troupe of fluffy toy animals to peer into the gap between the mattress and the wall. Nothing.
‘What you looking for?’
‘A diary. Address book. Something like that.’
Thump. A black leather journal landed on the duvet. It was held shut with a black ribbon.
Logan picked it up, weighed it in his hand. ‘Where was it?’
Chalmers pointed at the bookcase. ‘Top shelf, next to the collected Roald Dahl.’
Left in full view,
