He piled in the back. ‘That was close! Thought I was going to miss you, there.’
Rennie’s mouth pinched, back stiffening.
Logan turned in his seat. ‘I think DS Rennie was hoping for some quality time.’
Big grin from Tufty. ‘Don’t mind me.’
Rennie took off his sunglasses and glared. ‘Oh, but wedo.’
‘No fighting, children.’ Putting the car in gear and heading for Union Street.
‘Don’t you have anythingbetterto do, Constable?’
‘Depends on your definition of “better”, Sarge.’ Tufty leaned forwards, so his head poked through the gap between the seats. ‘The Ominous Harbinger Of Ultimate Doom is on a bit of a rampage at the moment, on account of having to be back in uniform, so it’s best to stay out of the way.’ He gave Rennie a wee pat on the shoulder. ‘“The Ominous Harbinger Of Ultimate Doom”: that’s Detective Sergeant Steel. It’s one of the nicknames me and Sarge have for her.’
‘Iknowwho she is! I’ve worked with her longer than—’
‘Apparently all her uniform trousers have “shrunk in the wash” again, so she’s got IBS. Incredibly Belligerent Sergeant syndrome.’
‘And for your information:Iwas calling her “Wrinkles McBumFace” when you were still in short trousers!’
Logan stopped at the lights, watching the buses rumble across the box junction and the flattened corpse of a big fat seagull. Too slow or too old to get out of the way of whatever turned it into a feathery pedestal mat. ‘Can the pair of you just, for oneteeny tinyminute, focus on the case?’
Rennie snorted. ‘Which one?’ Holding up both hands to count them off: ‘We’ve got Andrew Shaw’s murder, Charles MacGarioch on the run, drugs in Lithuanian teddy bears, the break-ins at all those sports shops, car thefts, burglaries—’
‘All right, all right. We get it.’ He scowled up at the lights, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.
OK.
‘I need a PNC check on one Graeme Anderson.’
Tufty whipped his phone out. ‘Sarge.’
Logan looked across the car. ‘This restaurant Charles MacGarioch’s girlfriend works at – think it’ll be open by now?’
Rennie popped his oversized shades back on. ‘I could eat.’
A long, flat-fronted, granite terrace curved along one side of Bon-Accord Crescent. Two storeys up and one storey down – where each basement level was set back behind its own little lightwell, with steps leading down below road level. Mullioned windows and grand double doors; olde-worlde lamp-posts and iron railings. Looking out over a verdant triangle of parkland. Even if most of it was hidden behind a swathe of trees.
The restaurant menu was mounted to the railings, beside an open gate and stairs down to a welcoming mini-courtyard with sculptural pot plants and a wee seating area.
Rennie leaned in for a good squint at the glazed frame as Logan locked the car and joined Tufty on the pavement.
The wee loon held up his phone. ‘Graeme Anderson: forty-three, Libra, history of DV and possession-with-intent. Got four years for putting a junior doctor in a wheelchair.’
‘Doesn’t he sound nice.’
‘I had a sneaky wee look at his socials, Sarge. He does not has a very niceat all.’
Rennie whistled. ‘Sodding hell...“Tempura haddock, with triple-cooked chips, crushed petit pois, and sauce gribiche” – guess how much.’
‘Here.’ Logan tossed him the car keys.
‘Oh no. I’m not keeping a dogandbarking.’ He lobbed them at Tufty instead. ‘Youcan play chauffeur.’
‘Eeek...’ There was a bit of juggling as Tufty fumbled the catch. Then a clatter as they hit the deck. Then some scrambling to pick them up again. ‘Bad keys: naughty!’ He pocketed the things. ‘Anyway, so Anderson’s always liking horrible posts from Vision for Britain and the Anglo Saxon Defence Group and the People’s Sovereign Army. He’s what nice polite people call acompletearseholish turd-wit.’
‘Seriously,’ Rennie pointed at the menu, ‘thirty-six quid. For a fish supper!’