Logan stretched out a bit. ‘Can’t believe you’reactuallyretiring.’
The inset changed to an arson attack on a community library.
‘Wee birdy tells me you got a result on the hotel fire?’
He groaned. ‘Human beings are bloody awful.’
‘Shock, horror. No. Please: say it ain’t so.’
‘I mean, I used to think people were basically OK, you know? They meant well. Now they’re just...getting stupider and nastier and more and moreselfish. “Screw the rest of the world, long asIget whatIwant – right – sodding –now!”’
The fire got swapped for a greasy politician, no doubt caught doing greasy politician things in a greasy political way.
Logan grimaced at the screen. ‘Craig Murray’s going bankrupt, so he hits on the great idea of burning his hotel down, blaming racist tosspots, and claiming on the insurance. He bumps into Spencer Findlater down the local off-licence, they get chatting, and Spencer agrees to torch the place with a mate of his, for the princely sum of three hundred pounds.And that’s noteach, that’s between the two of them.’ Logan’s head fell back to stare at the ceiling tiles. ‘That’s what Soban Yusuf’s life was worth. One-fifty a piece. Jesus...’
Steel shook her head. ‘Gotta love people.’
The inset changed to mass protests in some former Soviet country, not keen on the Kremlin wanking about with their elections.
She stuffed a bit of jollity into her voice. ‘Can you imagine what my leaving do’s going to be like? Booze and stripperseverywhere.’
‘Yeah, but after that it’s just golf and gardening and taking the kids to various whatnots for the rest of your days. Sounds...’
Then an aerial shot of Gorseburn Croft filled the screen.
‘Hold on.’ Waving a hand at her. ‘Turn it up, turn it up!’
Steel fiddled with the remote and the newsreader’s voice swelled through the speakers:
‘...an isolated farmhouse, twelve miles from the city centre.’
The picture jumped to the big conference room, where Chief Superintendent Pine and PC Sweeny shared the briefing table with a tanned, tailored, coiffured, middle-aged man. Sort of Indiana Jones meets Crocodile Dundee, in averyexpensive suit. Adrian Shearsmith: Natasha Agapova’s ex-husband.
Bet the chunky gold watch on his wrist cost more than Logan’s house.
‘Aye, you can tell by looking at him: the boy’s an utter bawbag.’
Pine leaned into the nest of microphones.‘Thank you. I can confirm that following anextensiveinvestigation, officers raided a croft in the Durris area and rescued Natasha Agapova at noon today. Ms Agapova was severely dehydrated and had sustained multiple injuries; she was rushed to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary in an Air Ambulance...’
‘Hello?’There was a knock at the waiting-room door. A baggy-eyed doctor in pale pink scrubs and purple Crocs slouched across the threshold, most of his face hidden behind an N95 mask. ‘You here about Natasha?’
Steel hit mute again and stood, whipping her peaked cap off. Only instead of a carefully styled and curled coiffure, today’s hairdo was a flattened mop of hingin’ mince. She must’ve felt him staring. ‘What?I couldn’t get it to sit right this morning, OK?’
Dr Pink checked his clipboard. ‘The bruising and contusions are fairly superficial, but she’s got three broken ribs, and her knee is – please excuse the complicated medical terminology – what our orthopaedic specialists like to call “buggered”. If she pulls through, she’ll probably want to have her nose reset at some point.’ He clutched the clipboard to his chest, like a thin, flat teddy bear. ‘The bigger problem isdehydration. Go without water for long enough and your body starts to, basically, steal moisture from your internal organs. Leading to kidney damage, multiple organ failure,braindamage, and ultimately: death.’
Logan cleared his throat. ‘“Ifshe pulls through”...?’
‘The next forty-eight hours will beextremelycritical, but with a bit of luck?’ Dr Pink stopped cuddling his clipboard. ‘We’re pushing fluids as hard as we can...however: it’s going to be a long road. If she can make it to Monday, I’d say we’re in with a fighting chance. It’s—’ A bleeping noise came from his pocket. He pulled out a pager, and squinted at the screen. ‘Bugger-fudge. Sorry, got to go.’
And off he clomped, fast as his Crocs would carry him.
Logan slouched back to the seat and retrieved his hat.
On the TV, Pine shuffled her notes and sat down again.
Then Adrian Shearsmith, rose to his feet, pulled his chin up, buttoned his suit jacket, and launched into what looked likeaveryangry rant. Jabbing his finger at Chief Superintendent Pine while she sat there, stony-faced and immobile.
The cameras flashed and flickered as pain crawled its way across Sweeny’s face.