walls and shelves. A halo of them made a wee shrine around a framed photo of Karl shaking hands with the First Minister. Only someone had given her a Post-it note speech balloon with, ‘OH KARL, YOU SEXY BEAST OF A MAN, YOU!’ on it.
The ‘Sexy Beast of a man’ sat at the workbench that bisected the room.
Perched on a high stool, with a thin grey cardigan on over his Police Scotland uniform T-shirt, thick-rimmed round glasses, and salt-and-pepper hair in desperate need of a cut, he was just a hookah pipe and a fez away from being the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland.
He clambered down from his mushroom and beamed. ‘Logan of the Clan McRae! I heard rumours of your …’ His nostrils twitched and he curled forwards, peering at the packet in Logan’s hand. ‘Ooh, do these ancient eyes deceive me, or are you bearing votive offerings for my humble self? Hmmmmm?’
Logan popped the Rice Krispie squares on the desk and Karl snaffled them up, sniffing the wrapper.
‘Ah, the delights of puffed rice and assorted sweetly sticky things …’ A sigh, long and wistful. ‘I miss Norman, don’t you? He used to prepare decadent baked treats that would tempt even the most parsimonious of souls.’ Karl ripped the pack open. ‘I remember once he baked a batch of scones with Mars Bar bits, Gummy Bears, and jelly beans, that—’
‘Can I beg a favour?’
Karl tore off a sticky corner and popped it in his mouth, chewing through a big smile. ‘Mmmm … You have made sacrifice to the all-mighty, all-seeing, all-knowing Oracle, so ask away, Brave Traveller.’
‘I need you to track down some Twitter accounts for me.’
‘Names, addresses, inside-leg measurements – that kind of thing?’
‘As much as you can get.’
A nod. ‘Luckily, my dear Logan, the only things I have on this afternoon are a pair of tattered pants and a second-hand bobble hat.’ He sooked his fingers clean. ‘Consider your tweetists found!’
And with any luck they’d have whoever abducted Professor Wilson in a cell by the close of business.
Superintendent Bevan sat behind her desk, hands busy with a ball of multicoloured wool and a crochet needle. Making something that looked disturbingly like a huge willy warmer.
Logan tore his eyes away from it and settled in his seat. ‘I’m going to have to go over some of his cases, speak to a few of his colleagues to be sure, but I get the feeling DI King is telling the truth. It was a long time ago and he’s genuinely changed.’
She frowned for a moment, crocheting away, then nodded. ‘Better safe than sorry, Logan. Better safe than sorry.’
Yup, that was looking more like a willy warmer with every passing second. She’d got as far as the testicley bits … OK, no way that was appropriate for an office environment.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Course, it would help if we knew what the Scottish Daily Post had on him. Be easier to manage.’
Bevan didn’t look up. ‘“Manage” is perhaps the wrong word. We’re not here to put a positive spin on things, we’re here to find the truth and resolve the situation. For good or ill.’
‘I don’t think he’s going to be a risk to the Professor Wilson investigation, anyway.’
‘I hope not, Logan. I really do. Politically, there’s a lot riding on this one and if DI King slips up …’ A pained expression pulled her mouth down. ‘Keep an eye on him for me, will you? Be his shadow for a day or two. Actually, better make it three, just in case. Because the fallout would be horrific.’
Not quite as horrific as what she was making. Those testicular bits were getting bigger …
Look at something else!
Anything else!
How about … that big frame on the wall, the one with the ancient green-and-white car and the speeding ticket?
‘Err … so you’re into classic cars?’ Pointing at it.
‘Hmm?’ She glanced up from her crocheted codpiece. ‘Oh, no. I keep that as a reminder. Oh, I used to love that Hillman Minx. Got done for speeding, when I was nineteen. Five K over the speed limit, so that’s about …’ Working it out. ‘Three miles an hour too fast? But the cops in Auckland were very strict about that kind of thing.’ More testicalling. ‘So I keep it as a reminder.’
Crochet, crochet, crochet.
OK …
‘Of what?’
‘I was nineteen, I was in teachers’ college, and I was in a hurry to get home after yet another day’s placement at Blockhouse Bay Primary School – “going on section” we called it, part of the training.’ A sigh. ‘So I broke the speed limit. And now look at me!’ She tugged at the ball bags, flattening them out. ‘It reminds me that we all make mistakes, Logan. We all deserve a second chance.’
Fair enough.
‘Like DI King?’
‘Exactly.’ She looked up from her willy warmer. ‘I don’t like our officers being savaged by the press, Logan. I don’t like it one little bit.’
‘Have you tried calling the journalist: see if they’ll tell you what they’ve got on King?’
‘Tricky. You give credence to the allegations just by questioning them. Next thing you know, the press is full of stories about how Professional Standards are investigating him. That, or accusing us of being involved in a cover-up.’ Creases appeared between her eyebrows as she added another layer to the crocheted horror. ‘I suppose, if you think you can pull it off? But try not to stir up more trouble than we’re already in, OK?’
Lovely: a poisoned chalice, all of his very own.
Logan pointed at the door. ‘So, should I …?’
There was a ding, then a buzz, and Bevan’s huge iPhone skittered on the desktop. She peered over the top of her glasses at the screen. Sighed and shook her head. ‘Honestly! Some husbands send their wives dick picks, what do I get?’ She let go of the wool and turned the phone around, so Logan could see.
It was a photo of a man’s mid-section, bit of trousers, belt, and waist. A big yellow banana poked out of his flies.
‘I swear that man is sixty-one going on twelve.’
So that’s who the willy warmer was for.
Logan stood. ‘Well, I’d better be—’
‘Sergeant Rennie says you taught him all he knows.’
Typical Rennie: rotten little clype was probably trying to spread the blame.
‘That depends on what he’s done.’
‘Inspiring people is always a good thing.’ She smiled. ‘Have you considered what you’re going to do when your tour of Professional
