The patrol cars’ doors sprang open and the uniformed officers made for the same block, swiftly followed by the rest of Steel’s team. Harmsworth huffing and puffing at the back of the pack, carrying the Big Red Door Key, struggling under the mini-battering-ram’s weight.
Logan, on the other hand, took his time – strolling up the path to the stairwell door at a far more leisurely pace. After all, Steel’s team had their riot gear on – if anything nasty happened, they were dressed for it. He wasn’t.
The uniforms from the patrol car took up positions: two on either side of the door. Staying back as a saggy bloke in scruffy black cargo pants and a moth-eaten Police Scotland baseballcap appeared. PC MacLauchlan. Squint nose. Jagged little teeth. As if he’d recently crawled out from under a bridge to steal some children. And eat them.
He was being dragged towards the flats by amassivehairy Alsatian, straining at her leash, ears pricked, plumey tail wagging away as she bared every pointy tooth in her pointy head.
MacLauchlan grinned like a troll at the assembled officers. ‘Don’t worry, PD Branston doesn’t bite. Do you, girl?’
Branston let out a short-sharp bark that made it clear she didindeedbite, enjoyed doing it, and was quite ready to demonstrate her skill in this department on anyone willing to volunteer. And possibly a few people who weren’t.
Off in the middle distance, that ice-cream van tinkled its way through ‘Greensleeves’ again. Luring little kiddies for MacLauchlan and Branston to devour.
It sounded as if there were a bunch of them shrieking away behind the building, playing with something that went ‘thud-adudadududa...’ over and over again. Unaware of the hairy scary stranger danger.
The intercom beside the door had seven buttons – one for each flat, and an extra one marked ‘SERVICES’.
Barrett tapped the label for Flat E: ‘MACGARIOCH’. ‘This is us: Charles MacGarioch.’ Pronouncing it ‘Mac-Gar-eee-och’ with a gritty coffee-machine hiss for the ‘och’ as in ‘loch’.
Steel shook her head. ‘It’s “Mac-Geeee-reeee”, you spudge-nugget.’
A frown. ‘“Mac-Gee-reee”? You sure? Because—’
‘Ahem!’ Logan pointed. ‘Can we get on with this please? Before someone notices there’s a dirty big police van parked on their lawn!’
‘All right, all right. Keep your pants on.’ Steel poked a finger onto every single button, except for ‘FLAT E’, and held them down, making the intercom growl.
Everyone stared at the speaker’s dirty little grille.
Even Branston.
Then a woman’s voice crackled out:‘What the buggeringhellis it now?’
Steel put on her broadest teuchter voice. ‘Aye, aye. It’s Ina fae thecooncil. Says here yer hivin’ trouble wi somerats?’
‘Rats? Ghhhaaaagh...We’ve gotrats?’
The door buzzed, then clicked.
Steel shoved it open. ‘Cheers, min!’ Then let go of the buttons and waved Harmsworth through. ‘You waiting for an engraved invitation?’
Harmsworth hefted the Big Red Door Key and lurched into the building, followed by Steel and her team, then PD Branston and PC MacLauchlan.
Good.
Logan thumbed the button on his Airwave. ‘Entered main property.’ Then nodded at the uniformed officers, and stepped into the manky stairwell.
Notpiddlymanky, but manky nonetheless.
The stairs doglegged around between each floor, and the first landing made a small cupboard-like space on the ground level, where residents had abandoned three knackered bicycles, a broken pushchair, and a doorless washing machine stuffed full of junk mail. That kind of manky.
The scrum bustled up the stairs, with Steel second from front – whipping Harmsworth before her. ‘Come on, Lumps-And-Bumps, shift it!’
Logan jogged up the steps behind them, not stopping on the first floor with its pronounced sharp fug of uncleaned litter tray.
Rutherford’s voice fizzed through the Airwave again.‘Eyes open, people – we want a result here.’
Around the landing and on, up to the top floor, whereHarmsworth was already going a sweaty-beetroot shade of red. Meaning his complexion clashed with his mini-battering-ram.