voice of Control was back. ‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes he was picked up an hour ago by Alpha Three Nine. Was in the Burning Buck, absolutely plastered. They’re checking him every fifteen minutes to make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.’
Chance would be a fine thing.
‘Give it a bit, then stick him in interview room three. We’ll be back in…’ Five minutes to traverse Kintore, half an hour to mollify Anthony Chung’s parents, call it another twenty minutes from there back into town… ‘Make it an hour.’
Pause. ‘Yeah, you better take that up with the desk sergeant.’ And she was gone.
Chalmers picked the book off the dashboard, weighing it in her hand as she drove. ‘Agnes knows her mum and dad are checking up on her, so maybe she keeps a fake diary in the bedroom where they can find it, and a real one in the cupboard under the stairs.’
‘Read it. And call the Procurator Fiscal: I want a GSM trace authorized on Agnes and Anthony’s mobile phones. Then get on to every hospital in Scotland – tell them to look out for attempted suicides.’
‘Can you imagine someone watching you all the time like that, never giving you any privacy? I’d have run away years ago.’
The last-known address for Anthony Chung – before he ran away to rescue his girlfriend from her demented overbearing mother – occupied a corner plot in a swanky development on the southern edge of Kintore. Big houses with big gardens and big cars parked outside. The Chung residence even had a set of wrought-iron gates, mounted on sandstone pillars, but there was nothing behind them – the driveway was empty.
Chalmers pulled up at the kerb. Left the motor running. ‘Not looking good, is it?’
Logan climbed out into the sunshine.
The whumping blades of a helicopter thrummed from somewhere over Kirkhill Forest; a child’s happy squealing came from nearby, punctuated by the high-pitched yip of a small dog; the distant bagpipe drone of a lawnmower. Tuneless whistling from the man three houses down as he washed his Range Rover Sport.
Logan opened the gate and marched up the drive. A portico jutted out of the building, making a little rectangle of shade from the sun. He pressed the button on the intercom and classical music sounded deep within the house, followed by a dog barking. Something big, with lots of teeth.
A minute later, Ravel’s Bolero faded away. Still nothing from the intercom. But the hell-hound sounded like a gun going off, over and over again.
Logan gave the bell another try.
Chalmers wandered up beside him. ‘Maybe they’re out?’
‘Or maybe they’re just— Sodding hell, what now?’
Steel’s ringtone blared out of his pocket. He hauled out his mobile and pointed Chalmers at a sweep of lockblock leading around the side of the house. ‘Try round the back.’
She looked up at the house, rubbing her thumb across the tips of her fingers. ‘What if the dog—’
‘If it could get outside, we’d be running for our lives with no arse in our trousers by now. Go.’
As soon as she was gone, he took the call. ‘I’m doing it, OK? I’ve just been to the Garfields’, and now I’m at the Chungs’.’
‘What’s happening with that sodding necklacing victim? How come you’ve no’ got an ID yet?’
He stared up at the pale-blue sky. A plane roared into view, fresh out of Aberdeen Airport, banking around to head south, or east, going somewhere else. Lucky sods. ‘How many things do you think I can actually do at the one time? I’m looking for—’
‘What did I tell you about organizing things? You’re no’ supposed to be running about—’
‘You told me to come out here! You, not me.’
A harrumph. ‘Aye, well… Don’t change the subject.’
‘We’ll get an ID when we get an ID. Now bugger off and let me do my job.’ He hung up. Chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. Maybe telling Steel to bugger off wasn’t the best of ideas. He switched the thing off.
Chalmers appeared through the gate again. Stopped by the side of the house, and scraped the sole of her shoe across the kerbing that bordered the path. ‘All locked up round there. The only thing moving in there is an Alsatian the size of a horse. So Mr and Mrs Chung are either hiding under the bed, the dog’s eaten them, or they’re out.’ Then more scraping.
Logan took out a business card and printed a note on the back of it in small careful letters: ‘SORRY WE MISSED YOU. CAN YOU GIVE ME A CALL SO I CAN ARRANGE A TIME TO COME OVER AND DISCUSS ANTHONY?’ Then stuck it through the letter box.
Chalmers had finished with the kerbing, now she was dragging her shoe across the grass… ‘Where to?’
Logan marched down the drive towards the gates. ‘Nothing else we can do here. Time to call it a night.’
Logan slid the viewing hatch open and peered into the cell. Blinked. Then backed off a couple of paces, wafting his hand in front of his nose. The sharp-edged stench of stale alcohol curdled the air, making his eyes water. ‘God, it’s like a brewery in there…’
The Police Custody and Security Officer wrinkled her nose. ‘He was doing tequila shots when they picked him up. I hear he’d downed a whole bottle of Bells on his own first.’
Logan stepped up to the hatch again.
The cell wasn’t much bigger than a hotel bathroom. The red-brown terrazzo floor was littered with discarded clothing, bright sunlight streaming through the little square panes of glass that made up the window. They cast glowing cubes of light on Reuben’s naked back, making the tuft of hair between his shoulder blades shine.
He was lying on his side, bum to the door, naked except for a pair of dark-blue pants and a single sock. Snoring. Like a pig from a horror film.
The PCSO shuddered. ‘Took three of us to get him into the recovery position.’
‘He give you any trouble?’
‘Nope: all nice and calm. Told Michelle he loved her, then did the same to Mark. But me?’ She sighed. ‘Always the bridesmaid…’
Reuben twitched and a deep rattling grunt echoed out into the corridor.
She clacked the hatch closed again. ‘Be still my beating heart.’
Logan looked back, along the corridor. ‘Any chance you can stick him in an interview room?’
‘Couldn’t even wake him for the Duty Doc’s examination. That lump of raw sex is dead to the world. Going to have a stinker of a hangover tomorrow morning.’
‘Good.’
The nurse looked up from her copy of Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason and smiled. It made little dimples in her plump cheeks. ‘Evening, stranger.’
Logan smiled back. ‘Evening, Claire, how’s Bill’s piles?’
She stuck out a hand, palm down, fingers spread, then wiggled it from side to side. ‘You know what he’s like. Loves a curry, never thinks of the consequences. Men, eh?’
‘That’s why you ladies love us.’ He pointed down the corridor to the private room at the end. Blinds drawn. ‘She in?’
‘Well, she popped out for a bit of shopping, but she’s back now. Why don’t you go in and I’ll be along in a bit?’
Logan let himself into the room. Dark. He squinted in the gloom. ‘What, you’re a vampire now?’
He crossed to the other side and hauled the curtains