The hill was a lot steeper on the way up than the way down, and by the time they reached the top sweat was trickling down between Logan’s shoulder blades and into his pants. He paused at the crest, looking back towards the makeshift SOC tent, breath fogging the air in thick white puffs.
Calamity’s face had gone all flushed and shiny. She gave him a lopsided grimace. ‘Got a bad feeling about this.’
‘They’ve investigated murders before.’
‘Only two types of people wear trilby hats, Sarge: auld mannies and tossers.’
‘Really?’ Tufty unzipped his high-viz jacket and flapped the sides. Steam rose from his stabproof vest. ‘I think they’re kinda cool.’
‘Which proves my point.’ She took off her bowler hat and fanned herself with it. ‘And why’s he holding that stick?’
‘He thinks it makes him in charge. How did you get on with Maggie?’
‘Strange stick obsession and a trilby hat.’ Calamity did a bit more grimacing. ‘He’s a tosser, isn’t he?’
‘Detective Sergeant Rennie isn’t a tosser.’
Down at the base of the slope, Rennie was directing his constables as they did a preliminary sweep of the scene – standing on a tree stump and using the Sacred Stick like a conductor’s baton. He was getting into it, swinging his arms about, wheeching the stick back and forth.
Logan bared his teeth. ‘OK, he’s a bit of a tosser. But…’
Rennie slipped and went flat on his backside in the middle of the track.
‘Actually, I’m going to leave it there.’
‘And they made that a detective sergeant.’ Calamity sighed. ‘Isla says we’ve got half a dozen mispers on the books with tattoos. That’s going back three years, including the unsolveds.’
‘Half a dozen?’ Tufty stopped flapping. ‘How many without tattoos?’
‘Hundred and twelve.’ She shrugged. ‘Half the time no one bothers to tell us Uncle Stinky’s come home. Other half…’ Another shrug.
One of the DCs – Owen, was it? – hauled Rennie to his feet. Then picked up the stick and handed it back to him.
Yeah, because that was a good idea.
Probably end up putting someone’s eye out with it.
‘Don’t suppose it matters now. Not our case. It’s theirs.’ Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take an interest, would it? Just in case. He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t suppose any of our tattooed half-dozen have a narwhal on their upper left arm?’
‘Nope. Or if they do it’s not in the database.’ She folded her arms, staring down at the three-man advance unit from Steel’s MIT. ‘Look at them. Here we are, serial killer on the loose, and our only hope for catching him is Tweedle-Dee, Tweedle-Dum, and their boss: Tweedle-Dumber.’
Couldn’t really argue with that.
‘Come on, we’ve got a division to police.’
Logan turned his back and headed for the car.
‘COME BACK HERE, YOU WEE SOD!’
But Lumpy Patrick was off, bone-thin arms and legs pumping for all he was worth. Long greasy strands of hair flapping about like damp string as he sprinted. Pilfered packs of bacon and cheese cascading from the pocket of his stained brown hoodie.
Logan grabbed hold of his peaked cap and gave chase through the rain.
They hammered down High Street with its strange collection of old stone buildings and harled monstrosities.
A lunge to the left and Lumpy sprinted across the road by the wee hidden library. A rusty Vauxhall Nova slammed on its brakes, the horn screeching out like an angry badger. Logan nipped across the back of it, picking up a bit of speed on the downhill run.
More tiny Scottish houses, their dark stone walls and slate roofs slick with rain.
A soggy woman at the bus stop watched them wheech past. Cigarette in one hand, can of energy drink in the other, screaming toddler kicking off in a pushchair.
Lumpy got to the corner and skidded round onto Skene Street, heading downhill back towards the centre of Macduff. Two packs of streaky and a chunk of cheddar went flying out into the road, where they were flattened by a Transit van.
Logan followed, pulse thumping in his ears – past rows of old grey buildings, past the chip shop, across the road, past the Plough Inn where a couple of damp smokers, sheltering in the doorway, stopped mid-fag to cheer Lumpy on.
He almost collided with an auld mannie coming out of Buttons & Bobs, skittered around him instead with some fancy footwork in his stained trainers, dropped another pack of smoked streaky, and kept on going. Ignoring the OAP’s torrent of abuse and rude gestures hurled at his back.
The gap was narrowing. Logan lengthened his stride, kept his mouth open. Long slow breaths, free arm swinging, the other keeping his hat in place.
Sploshed through a puddle.
Where the hell was Calamity?
Then a gap opened up between the buildings on the right – at street level, the house on this side looked single storey, but the ground dropped away sharply on the other side of a wall, had to be at least twenty feet.
Lumpy didn’t even pause: he vaulted up onto the wall and jumped, arms windmilling.
Sod that.
Logan screeched to a halt, grabbed the wall.
A line of garages stretched away from him, about twelve feet down: parking for the four-storey block of flats on the other side of the gap. Lumpy was back on his feet, limping along the line of corrugated roofs.
Gah.
Deep breath. Then up. Logan scrambled onto the wall and over the other side. Dropping like a breezeblock. The garage roof rushed up to meet him, then BANG he was through it, clattering into the empty garage in a hail of broken grey slabs and dust.
The concrete floor was a lot less forgiving.
Ow…
He lay there, flat on his back, staring up at the drizzle.
Dragged in a ragged breath.
Everything hurt. Arms, legs, back, head. Even his teeth hurt.
Probably did himself a serious injury.
Probably broke something, other than the roof, in the fall. Probably going to die of a punctured
