If you were feeling generous. She pointed at the crumpled Ford. ‘You’ll find out.’
Typical – milking every minute of it.
They slipped on their facemasks then she led the way down the slope to the tape cordon, holding it up for him to duck under.
Logan did. ‘Only, RTCs aren’t usually a Professional Standards kind of thing.’
She turned and waved a hand at the hill. ‘Local postie was on his way to work, sees skidmarks on the road up there, looks down the hill and sees the crashed car. Calls one-oh-one.’
A pair of tyre tracks slithered and writhed their way down the yellowing grass to the Ford Focus’s remains. How the driver had managed to keep the thing from rolling was a mystery.
‘See, we’re more of an “investigating complaints made against police officers when they’ve been naughty” deal.’
‘Traffic get here at six fifteen, tramp down the hill and discover our driver.’
Logan peered in through the passenger window.
The man behind the wheel was big as a bear, hanging forward against his seatbelt, the first rays of morning a dull gleam on his bald head. His broad face, slack and pale – even with the heavy tan. Eyes open. Mouth like a bullet wound in that massive thicket of beard. Definitely dead.
‘Still not seeing it, Doreen.’
She gestured him over to the driver’s side. ‘Course it looks like accidental death, till they open the driver’s door and what do they find?’
Logan stepped around the driver’s open door… And stopped.
Blood pooled in the footwell, made deep-red streaks down the upholstery. Following it upwards led to a sagging hole in the driver’s shirt. So dark in there it was almost black.
‘Oooh…’ Logan hissed in a breath. ‘Stab wound?’
‘Probably. So they call it in and we all scramble out here like good little soldiers. Body’s searched: no ID.’
‘Give the hire company a call. They wouldn’t let him have the car without ID.’
She turned and stared at him. ‘Yes, thank you Brain of Britain, we did actually think of that. Car was booked out by one Carlos Guerrero y Prieto.’
‘There you go: mystery solved.’ Logan stuck his hands on his hips. ‘Now, make with the big reveal, Doreen: why – am – I – here?’
Little creases appeared at the sides of her eyes. She was smiling at him behind her mask. Dragging it out.
‘Seriously, I’m going to turn around and walk away if—’
‘While we were waiting on Trans-Buchan Automotive Rentals to get their finger out and stop moaning about data protection, someone had the bright idea of taking the deceased’s fingerprints with one of the wee live scan machines. We got a hit from the database. Dramatic pause…’
The only sounds were the clack-and-whine of crime-scene photography as she waggled her eyebrows at him.
‘Were you always this annoying? Because I don’t remember you being this annoying.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m surprised you don’t recognise him. OK, so he’s lost a bit of weight and shaved his head, and the Grizzly Adams beard and tan are new, but it’s still him.’
‘Doreen…’
‘Carlos Guerrero y Prieto’s real name is Duncan Bell, AKA: Ding-Dong, late Detective Inspector of this parish.’
Logan stared.
The hairy hands dangling at the end of those bear-like arms. The rounded shoulders. The heavy eyebrows. Take off the beard. Add a bit more hair. Put him in an ill-fitting suit?
‘But … he’s dead. And I don’t mean “just now” dead – we buried him two years ago.’
Doreen nodded, radiating smugness. ‘And that’s why we called you.’
The duty undertakers lifted their shiny grey coffin, slipping and sliding in the damp grass. Two of the scene examiners broke off from collecting samples and grabbed a handle each, helping them carry it away from the crashed Ford.
Logan unzipped his suit a bit, letting the trapped heat out, and shifted his grip on his phone. ‘We’ll need a DNA match to be a hundred percent, but they’ve done the live scan on his fingerprints five times now and it always comes up as DI Bell.’
‘I see…’ Superintendent Doig made sooking noises for a bit. When he came back, his voice was gentle, a tad indulgent. ‘But, you see, it can’t be him, Logan. We buried him. I was at his funeral. I gave a speech. People were very moved.’
‘You tripped over the podium and knocked one of the floral displays flying.’
‘Yes, well. … I don’t think we need to dwell on every little aspect of the service.’
‘If it is DI Bell, he’s been lying low somewhere sunny. Going by the tan and new name, maybe Spain?’
‘Why would Ding-Dong fake his own death?’
‘And having faked his own death, why come back two years later? Why now?’
One of the examiners wandered up and pulled down her facemask, revealing a mouthful of squint teeth framed with soft pink lipstick. ‘Inspector McRae? You might wanna come see this.’
‘Hold on a sec, Boss, something’s come up.’ Logan pressed the phone against his chest and followed the crinkly-white oversuited figure to the crashed Ford’s boot.
A shovel and a pickaxe lay partially unwrapped from their black plastic bin-bag parcels – metal blades clean and glittering in the dull light.
She nodded at them. ‘Bit suspicious, right? Why’s he carting a pick and shovel about?’
Logan inched forwards, sniffing. There was a strange toilety scent – like green urinal cakes undercut by something darker. ‘Can you smell that?’
‘Smell what?’
‘Air freshener.’
She leaned in too, sniffing. ‘Oh… Yeah, I’m getting it now. Sort of pine and lavender? I love those wee plug-in—’
‘Get the pick and shovel tested. He’s been digging something up, or burying it, I want to know what and where.’
The other scene examiner sauntered over, hands in his pockets, glancing up at the hill. ‘Aye, aye. We’ve got an audience.’
A scruffy Fiat hatchback lurked at the side of the road above, not far from where the crashed car’s tyres scored their way down the mud and grass. Someone stood next to it peering through a pair of binoculars. Auburn curls made a halo around her head, tucked out of the
