estate consisting of crowded car showrooms and double parking. The security guard took one look at Watson’s uniform and raised the barrier, smiling a gap-toothed smile as he waved them through.
‘ABERDEEN JOURNALS LTD’ was written in gold lettering on polished granite next to the reception’s revolving door, right above a brass plaque proclaiming the paper’s history. ‘FOUNDED BY JAMES CHALMERS IN 1748 …’ blah blah blah. Logan didn’t bother to read the rest.
The pale lilac walls of the reception area were bare. Only a carved wooden plaque, commemorating the paper’s employees lost in World War Two, broke the monotony. Logan had been expecting something a bit more newspaper-ish: framed front pages, awards, photographs of the journalists. Instead it looked as if the paper had only just moved in and hadn’t got around to decorating yet.
Weedy pot plants sat on the violently-coloured floor: big linoleum squares of bright blue fake marble, set in a gold-and-pink grid.
The receptionist didn’t look much better: pink eyes, lank blonde hair. She reeked of mentholated cough sweets. Peering blearily up at them, she honked her nose on a scabby hanky.
‘Welcome to Aberdeen Journals,’ she said with zero enthusiasm. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
Logan dragged out his warrant card and held it under her runny nose. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae. I’d like to speak to whoever phoned the home of Alice Reid last night.’
The receptionist looked at his identification, looked at him, looked at WPC Watson and sighed. ‘No idea.’ She paused for a sniff. ‘I’m only here Mondays and Wednesdays.’
‘Well, who would know?’
The receptionist just shrugged and sniffed again.
WPC Watson dug a copy of the morning’s paper out of a display rack and slapped it down on the reception desk. ‘MURDERED TODDLER FOUND!’ She stabbed her finger at the words: ‘BY COLIN MILLER’.
‘How about him?’ she asked.
The receptionist took the paper and squinted her puffy eyes at the by-line. Her face suddenly turned down at the edges. ‘Oh … him.’
Scowling, she jabbed at the switchboard. A woman’s voice boomed out of her speakerphone: ‘Aye?’ and she grabbed the phone from its cradle. Her accent suddenly switched from bunged-up polite to bunged-up broad Aberdonian.
‘Lesley? Aye, it’s Sharon … Lesley, is God’s Gift in?’ Pause. ‘Aye, it’s the police … I dinna ken, hang oan.’
She stuck a hand over the mouthpiece and looked up, hopefully, at Logan. ‘Are you going to arrest him?’ she asked, all polite again.
Logan opened his mouth and shut it again. ‘We just want to ask him a couple of questions,’ he said at last.
‘Oh.’ Sharon looked crestfallen. ‘No,’ she said into the phone again. ‘The wee shite’s no’ gettin’ banged up.’ She nodded a couple of times then grinned broadly. ‘I’ll ask.’ She fluttered her eyelashes and pouted at Logan, doing her best to look seductive. It was an uphill struggle with a flaky red nose, but she did her best. ‘If you’re not going to arrest him, any chance of a little police brutality?’
WPC Watson winked conspiratorially. ‘See what we can do. Where is he?’
The receptionist pointed at a security door off to the left. ‘Don’t be afraid to cripple him.’ She grinned and buzzed them through.
The newsroom was like a carpeted warehouse, all open plan and suspended ceiling tiles. There must have been a couple of hundred desks in here, all clumped together in little cliques: News Desk, Features, Editorial, Page Layout … The walls were the same pale lilac as reception and just as bare. There weren’t any partitions and the desktops spilled into one another. Piles of paper, yellow Post-its and scribbled notes oozing from one desk to the next like a slow-motion avalanche.
Computer monitors flickered beneath the overhead lighting, their owners hunched over keyboards, turning out tomorrow’s news. Apart from the ever-present hum of the computers and the whirr of the photocopier it was eerily quiet.
Logan grabbed the first person he could find: an older man in saggy brown corduroy trousers and a stained cream shirt. He was wearing a tie that sported at least three of the things he’d had for breakfast. The top of his head had said goodbye to his hair long ago, but a trapdoor of thin strands was stretched over the shiny expanse. He wasn’t kidding anyone but himself.
‘We’re looking for Colin Miller,’ said Logan, flipping out his warrant card.
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh aye?’ he said. ‘You goin’ to arrest him?’
Logan slipped his identification back in his pocket. ‘Wasn’t intending to, but I’m starting to think about it. Why?’
The old reporter hitched up his trousers and beamed innocently at Logan. ‘No reason.’
Pause, two, three, four …
‘OK,’ said Logan, ‘so where is he?’
The old man winked at him, jerking his head towards the toilets. ‘I have no idea where he is, officer,’ he said slowly, one innuendo-laden word after another. He finished off with another couple of significant glances towards the gents and a grin.
Logan nodded. ‘Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’
‘No I haven’t,’ said the reporter. ‘I’ve been “vague and rambling” like the “senile old fart” I am.’
As he ambled off back to his desk, Logan and WPC Watson made a beeline for the toilets. To Logan’s surprise Watson stormed straight into the gents. Shaking his head, he followed her into the black-and-white-tiled interior.
Her shout of ‘Colin Miller?’ produced assorted journalistic shrieks as full-grown men scrabbled at their flies and scurried out of the toilets. Finally only one man was left: short, heavily-built, wearing an expensive-looking dark-grey suit. Broad-shouldered, with a pristine haircut, he whistled tunelessly at the urinals, rocking back and forth.
Watson looked him up and down. ‘Colin Miller?’ she asked.
He glanced over his shoulder, a nonchalant smile on his lips. ‘You want tae help me shake this?’ he asked with a wink, Glaswegian accent ringing out loud and proud. ‘Ma doctor says I’m no’ to lift anythin’ heavy …’
She scowled and told him exactly what he could do with his offer.
Logan stepped between them before Watson could demonstrate why she was called ‘Ball Breaker’.
The reporter winked, shoogled about a little, then turned from the urinal, zipping himself up, gold signet rings sparkling on almost every finger. A gold chain hung around his neck, lying over the silk shirt and tie.
‘Mr Miller?’ asked Logan.
‘Aye, you wantin’ an autograph?’ He strutted his way to the sink, hitching up his sleeves slightly as he did so, exposing something chunky and gold on his right wrist and a watch big enough to sleep four on the left. It wasn’t surprising the man was well-muscled: he had to be to cart about
