And she wasn’t naked. So unless the Northeast’s answer to John Wayne Gacy is a bit confused about his MO, it’s not exactly likely, is it?’
‘Probably not.’ Logan checked his watch. Still no sign of Calamity. ‘We were a bit surprised to see you here.’
‘Think I’m welded to my desk back at Banff, do you? Office-bound? There’s more to my job than counting paperclips, Sergeant, thank you very much.’
‘OK, OK…’ Logan backed off, hands up. ‘Only making conversation, Guv. Didn’t mean anything by it.’
She sighed. ‘I was here for a MAPPA meeting, if you must know. Multi Agency Public Protection Arrangements my shiny backside. More like Morons And Police Pricking About.’ McGregor dug out her car keys. ‘Four agencies represented, and do you know what startling insight we came to? Apparently Charles Richardson still represents a very real danger to little old ladies who don’t like being raped. Two hours it took us to come up with that.’
Footsteps rattled on the stairs above. Then Calamity appeared, zipping up her high-viz jacket. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’
‘Thought you’d fallen in.’
The Inspector pulled her peaked cap on and pushed the door open, letting in the shhhhhhhhhhhh of rain on tarmac. ‘Do we have any idea who the victim is? The one with the bag over his head?’
‘Nope.’ Logan followed her out into the downpour. ‘PF won’t let them take the bag off till the post mortem. Steel was all for ripping it off then and there, but you know what the Fiscal’s like.’
McGregor stopped beside a shiny grey BMW with mud spattered up around the wheel arches. ‘Suppose it’s just as well. No point compromising any trace evidence left inside the bag.’ She pointed her keyfob and the car’s lights flashed. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance we could solve the whole thing on our own tomorrow, is there? I don’t want to get back to work on Sunday night and find the MIT have moved in permanently. Like ticks on a dog.’
‘First they’re locusts, now they’re ticks?’
‘And leeches, and cockroaches, and fleas.’ She popped open her door then slid into the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t like my station being infested, Logan. I don’t like it at all.’ Then clunk, the door shut and she drove off.
Calamity hunched her shoulders up around her ears, rain bouncing off the brim of her bowler and the shoulders of her high-viz. ‘Is it just me, or is the guvnor getting weirder?’
‘Probably.’ Logan limped towards the Big Car. ‘Come on then: hometime.’
‘Night, Maggie. Night, Hector.’ Logan zipped up his fleece and stepped out into the rain. Pulled the blue door shut behind him. Squeezed between the two patrol cars that sat outside the tradesman’s entrance – one with a flat tyre, the other with a cracked windscreen – and onto the road.
Banff Police Station loomed in the orange sodium glow: three storeys of rain-slicked stone, with fancy gables, cornicing, twiddly bits over the windows, and urns on the roof. A small tree had sprouted in the thin fake balcony that jutted out over the main door. Water dripped from its leaves, ticking down onto the illuminated police sign. Making little sapphire splashes.
Lights shone from the bottom-left windows, but the rest of the place was in darkness. Much like the street. Four in the afternoon, and the whole town had been swallowed by gloom.
From here, Banff Bay gleamed like a slab of pewter, hissing and spitting against the beach. Nothing between him and the North Sea but a small car park, a stretch of tarmac, and a chest-high wall of speckled concrete.
He hunched his shoulders, turned, and limped along the road, heading past the ancient buildings, their pastel-coloured walls slick with rain. Every step sent needles jabbing into his ankle. Stupid garage roofs…
There weren’t many people on the streets, just an old woman fighting with the umbrella in her left hand and the Doberman attached to her right. Both of which seemed determined to go in opposite directions.
Left at the discount store with its racks of high-viz jackets sitting out the front, dripping. Up the road and out into what passed for a town square at the end of Low Street, where the squat sandstone lump of the Biggar Fountain looked like an evil gothic cupcake, complete with buttresses and crowned cap.
Someone had wedged three traffic cones into the structure, adding to the general pointiness.
Logan’s phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ again. Brilliant. Should never have turned the damn thing back on.
He ducked into the doorway of the takeaway and pulled his mobile out. Hit the button. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’
‘Been calling you for ages. Where the hell have you been?’
‘Doing my job. Try it sometime.’
‘You think your job’s tough? Try leading a Major Investigation Team in a sodding murder case, when the sodding pathologist and sodding SEB won’t let you take the sodding bag off your sodding victim’s sodding head.’ Her voice went up in volume, as if she was playing to an audience. ‘How am I supposed to ID someone when I can’t see their face? What use is that?’
‘Are you finished?’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve had anyone reported missing with a bag over their head, have you? Because that’s the only way I’m going to get an ID.’ A sniff. ‘I’m cold, I’m wet, and I need a drink. Or six. Better call it a bottle.’
‘Tough.’
The old lady made it around the corner, still struggling with dog and brolly.
‘Lazy sod’s no’ doing the post mortem till ten tomorrow.’
‘At least you can get fingerprints.’ He shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy here, so if you don’t mind…?’
‘Fat lot of good fingerprints did us. Put them through our fancy new handheld scanner and do you know what came up? Sod all.’ There was a sigh, then Steel’s voice took on a bit of a whine. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy joining the team, do you? If I have to put up with Rennie much longer he’ll be singing soprano for the rest of his life. And Becky’s no’ much better: woman looks like someone’s jammed a traffic cone up her backside.’
‘No chance.’ Logan hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. Took a breath, then lumbered out into the rain, round the corner and up the steep narrow brae – wincing with every needle-filled step – past the grey row of little shops on one side, and the bland slab of buildings on the other. Popping out onto Castle Street.
His phone went again. He yanked it out as he limped across the road. ‘No, I am not joining your bloody MIT. Leave me alone!’
There was a pause. Just long enough for Logan to pass the solicitor’s and the butcher’s.
Then: ‘Mr McRae. Long time, no speak.’ A man’s voice, with more than a hint of Aberdonian burr to it.
Logan slowed to a trot as he reached the building next to the Co-op. Stopped with one hand on the door. ‘Can I help you?’
‘It’s me: John.’
Nope, no idea.
‘John Urquhart? I bought your flat?’
Logan flinched. Snatched his hand back as if the door had burnt it. Licked his lips. ‘How did you get this number, Mr Urquhart?’
‘Call me John, yeah? Known each other for what, six, seven years, right? John.’
‘Is there something wrong with the flat?’ Because if there was he could take a flying leap. No way Logan was paying to fix anything. Things were bad enough as it was.
‘I’m calling