It was a little terrace of six houses, next to another identical one, and a third that looked a bit like a schoolhouse.
This bit of Kincorth was all uphill, the front gardens bordered by a steep slope down to the road below. Then a nice little strip of parkland, then another road, then more houses, descending all the way to the River Dee. Though the water itself was hidden behind a ripple of bright-green trees.
Still a nice view, though.
About a dozen teenagers had set up a picnic site on the yellowing grass, complete with camp chairs, tartan rugs, barbecues, cool boxes, and a Swingball set.
Smaller kids scampered around the trees and bushes, giggling and screeching as they hunted each other with Super Soakers and bubble guns.
Everyone was in shorts and T-shirts, enjoying the sun, while the enticing scents of charcoal and sizzling chicken wafted through the warm air, and a handful of Bluetooth speakers pumped out cheery tunes.
Had to admit, it was kinda idyllic.
Shame to spoil things by asking about a racist, arsonist, wee shite like Charles MacGarioch.
Logan headed down the steps, and across the road, rollingup his shirtsleeves, because it was far too Mediterranean out here to wear a suit jacket.
‘Sarge.’ Tufty joined him at the edge of the small park, doing a hoppity-skip to get his feet left-righting at the same time as Logan’s. Because clearly it would kill him to act like a normal,sensiblehuman being for ten minutes.
‘Twit.’ Logan strolled onto the grass, one hand shading his eyes, voice raised above the music: ‘Randolph Hay?’
Over by the barbecue, a young man in a camping chair raised his tin of Stella in reply. Long red hair, tucked back behind his ears; squint front tooth; the kind of nose you’d normally find on busts of Roman emperors; and a ‘FK CAPITALISM!’ T-shirt. A brightly coloured tattoo rampaged all down one arm: Norman Picklestripes ‘being intimate’ with Betsy. Randolph took a scoof of lager. ‘I go by Ralph, though. You guys want a cold one?’ Pointing at the little kids. ‘We got non-alcoholic for the weenies?’
‘Can we talk?’
Ralph stood. ‘Course. Course.’ Grabbing a weenie as they hurled past, he wheeched them up into the air, upside down. Giving them a wee shoogle till they shrieked with delight. ‘Watch my chair, OK? Don’t let the Bumbersnatch steal it!’
The weenie giggled and wriggled as Ralph lowered them into his vacated seat.
Then Mr Fk Capitalism led Logan and Tufty away, across a road, to the next small chunk of park. He leaned against a tree trunk; took a swig from his can. Keeping an eye on the weenies. ‘So, you want to talk about Charlie.’ Grinning as Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘The Orphan Grapevine’s been ringing.’
Quick check to make sure Tufty was writing this down.
‘You’re one of the support group.’
‘Family holiday, staying with friends in Cornwall. Mum andDad had a run-in with a London estate agent going way too fast on a twisty country road after a liquid lunch.’ He toasted them with his Stella. ‘I was five. And in the back seat.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Meh...’ Shrug. ‘There are worse origin stories, believe me.’ Another swig. ‘Haven’t seen Charlie for about...week and a half? Talking about a trip to the circus in Westburn Park. Get the whole gang together and hit the final night.’
Logan tucked his hands into his pockets, keeping it casual. As if there weren’t a shortarse police constable, in the full uniform kit, taking notes. ‘He say anything about money worries?’
‘We used to hang out all the time – the whole lot of us. Broken little people, looking for our tribe. But it’s hard to do that when people start disappearing off to university.’ Ralph made a spreading-out gesture with one hand. ‘So yeah...’ Drifting away for a moment, creases deepening between his eyebrows. Then back again. ‘Charlie’s a good guy. I mean you’llneverfind anyone more loyal: literally give you the shirt off his back – seen him do it. But he’s not winningCelebrity Mastermindanytime soon, if you get my meaning. Always coming up with get-rich-quick schemes; always having to bum a couple of quid for the bus fare home.’
Logan looked out across the park, to where there was nothing more pressing or important in the whole world than getting your little sister or brother soaking wet, or pretending to be a dinosaur. ‘What do you think he’d have made of the protest this weekend? Environmentalism, capitalism, immigration...? Would he be pro or anti?’
‘Charlie?’ A laugh. ‘Wants to be the next Steve Jobs; doesn’t really understand how the market economy works. Recycles, but dreams of jetting-off to exotic, far-away lands on a private jet. And as for migrants: you’ve met Keira, right? Her dad’sfrom Ghana; mum’s from Inverurie, via Algeria. Charlie’s nan might be a weapons-grade right-wing “friend of Nigel”, but Charlie’s cool.’
OK, time to ask thebigquestion. ‘Any idea where he might be hiding? We’re worried he hurt himself when he drove that ice-cream van into the river. Could be serious.’
‘Ah.’ Ralph frowned at the treetops, one finger tapping against his tin of Stella as the silence stretched. Then he scrunched up his face, and drained the can. Decision made. ‘After Charlie’s mum died, he used to run away a lot. Not far – you know the Wallace Tower, in Seaton Park? There was a loose bit of plywood boarding-up the windows, so he’d squeeze through the gap and spend the night. Don’t know if you can still do that. Maybe?’
‘Thanks. You’ve been a huge help.’ Logan offered a business card. ‘If he does get in touch?’
‘Understand – I’m notclypingon Charlie, I’m only trying to help him.’ Ralph took the card. ‘The daft sod’s his own worst enemy...’
Tufty climbed back in behind the wheel, looking across the pool car and out through Logan’s window, towards the park – where Ralph was chasing a couple of weenies around the makeshift picnic area, arms in the air, making monster noises and pretending he was going to eat them, while they laughed and screeched.