‘Only, apparently, Elizabeth is part of her gang now – like it’s prison or something. They’ll be getting matching tattoos and wearing colours next...Are yousurewe can’t afford to send her to private school?’
‘Rebecca’s a good kid, don’t be mean.’
Tufty shook Alexis’s hand, then the bloke – Graham, was it? – lifted him off the ground in a great big bear hug. Laughing.
‘I’d better go – looks like the wee loon’s finished playing Sci-Fi Film Star.’
‘Invite him to the barbecue, you miserable old bumfart.’
‘Go away and...confiscate some counterfeit handbags. I’ve got a killer to catch.’ He hung up.
That would teach her.
Probably not.
But it was the thought that counted.
Logan took out the list of Charles MacGarioch’s associates, and put a line through Alexis Cunningham’s name as Tufty pretty much skipped down the garden path and over to the driver’s side.
The wee loon wriggled in behind the wheel, then waved out the window at his brand-new fans. Who both waved back at him.
Tufty started the car. ‘Weren’t Alexis and her unclenice?’
Maybe, if you liked weirdos.
‘And she’s promised to help us, now – cos I is a international celebrity of famousness.’
‘Drive.’ Logan pointed back towards town. ‘We’ve only got an hour to wheech over to Broomhill, interview Marshall Carter, and get back to the station in time for that meeting.’
‘Nah.’ Tufty tapped the dashboard clock. ‘Hour andten, Sarge.’
Logan shot a full-on Paddington across the pool car. ‘Those ten minutes are my pee-and-coffee time. Donotspoil them.’
‘Eeek!’
Tufty drove.
45
Granville Place was a quiet residential street, not far from Broomhill Road, with big grey-granite detached bungalows on one side and big pink-granite semis on the other. Lots of attic conversions and neat little front gardens encased in ankle-high walls, well-trimmed hedges and flowering borders. Where nearly every car was a newish hatchback.
Tufty pulled up outside one of the grey houses, featuring a blue door, a handful of rose bushes, and a water feature. ‘It’s not my fault we had to stop for petrol, Sarge.’
Logan climbed out into the sticky morning. ‘You could’ve picked a car that wasn’t running empty!’
‘No I couldn’t.’ Plipping the locks and following Logan up the path to the front door. ‘Everyone plays “How Low Can The Petrol Gauge Go?” these days. You lose ten points if you have to fill it up again. I’m onminus sixty.’ He scuttled ahead and rang the bell. A wee frown puckered his empty forehead. ‘I sometime worry that we work with a bunch of Trouser Grinches.’
And speaking of idiots...
Logan pulled out his phone and texted Rennie:
Where’s my update on that ICSO?
SEND.
A deadbolt clunked, then the door swung wide, revealing a young woman in Mr Men pyjama bottoms and a T-shirtemblazoned with ‘THEMIGHTYMRRHODODENDRON’. Long nose, glasses, andhugeamount of dark frizzy hair. A bit like Elizabeth’s English teacher, only a lot more suspicious of strangers. She looked them up and down, then pulled her chin in. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Good morning, Miss.’ Logan checked the list. ‘Is Marshall Carter in?’