Logan picked up the paper, closed and folded it, then tucked the thing under his arm. ‘OK. Thanks for your help.’ Pointed at Tufty and Steel. Turned. And marched for the door, taking the Post-it clarted printout with him.
‘Hoy!’ Colin stood behind his Interim Editor desk. ‘Aren’t we forgetting something?’
Sod.
Logan paused on the threshold. ‘Off the record? Mr FreezyWhip is an ungrateful bastard; the OAPs are only milking it for attention; you might want to soft-pedal on painting Spencer Findlater and Charles MacGarioch as poor wee orphans, unless you want to end up looking like aserioustwat; and we’re still contacting Andrew Shaw’s victims, so tread lightly. Going to be hard enough on them as it is.’
Colin’s chin came up. ‘Andonthe record?’
Good question...
‘This shit isn’t easy, but we’re doing our best.’
52
‘Oh noes...’ Tufty scuffed his little feet to a standstill, gazing across the car park, bottom lip all a-tremble as a large man in T-shirt-and-shorts locked up a food trailer with ‘DORICDAVE’SDEVOURABLEDELICIOUSNESS!’ painted all over it.
TheAberdeen Examiner’s exterior was every bit as depressing as the inside had been: a large bland grey warehouse, surrounded by other large bland grey warehouses, in the middle of a large bland grey industrial estate.
A wedge of the North Sea was just visible in the distance – down the hill, between an oilfield-digital-services company and an industrial-equipment supplier – sparkling blue beneath the searing sky. But other than that, pretty much everything was a depressing mix of concrete and steel.
Logan marched over to the pool car, digging his phone out on the way. Scowling through a quick Google search. ‘Haven’t seen MacGarioch in months, my arse...’
Steel slouched up behind him. ‘So: we off to noise-up this Sweaty Wilson prick?’
‘Turns out Rennie was right – shock, horror – Keira Longmore has beenlyingto us.’ He pressed the ‘CALL’ button.
They picked up on the third ring:‘The Star-Sprinkled Heavens. How can I help you this lovely afternoon?’
Logan forced a smile. ‘Hi. Is Keira working today?’
There was a small pause, then a pinch of suspicion seasoned the maître d’s voice.‘Can I ask who’s calling?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector McRae, we met yesterday? Got a couple of follow-up questions I need to ask her. Nothing serious.’
And just like that, the salty edge mellowed.‘I’m afraid Keira’s not in till tomorrow night. She’s going out with friends.’
Surprise, surprise.
‘OK. No problem. Like I said, it’s nothing serious. I’ll try again tomorrow. Thanks.’ He hung up, tried the passenger door handle.
Locked.
Where the hell was...?
The wee loon was still rooted to the spot, mourning the loss of devourable deliciousness.
‘HOY, TUFTY!’
He jerked back to the real world, scurrying across the sticky tarmac to unlock the pool car. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Getting in behind the wheel. ‘NorrelTech-Wellhead-Intervention-Limited-ho?’
‘No.’ Logan yanked his door open. ‘Think it’s about time we mobbed round to Keira Longmore’s address and see what else she’s been lying about.’
Most of Gairn Terrace was given over to the kind of pale post-war housing that normally featured south of the border, butthisend of it played host to a ten-storey tower block on one side, and a big lump of flats on the other.
They clustered together in a sort of flattened horseshoe of large beige-and-breeze-block-coloured buildings – four floors each, with Dutch-barn roofs and communal stairwells. The one calling itself ‘Allenvale Court’ was partially hidden beneath a skin of scaffolding and tarpaulin, where all the harling had been chipped off the front walls, exposing the breeze blocks underneath.
A pair of guys in bum-crack jeans were busy fitting a new UPVC window to one of the properties.