The throat-shredding cough hacked its way to a halt, leaving Logan slumped and wheezing. But at least he had enough breath to give Tufty a good hard thump on the arm. ‘Thought you’d drowned!’
‘Nah. I does has an advanced swimming certificate.Anda lifesaving badge.’
Logan thumped him again. ‘You tried to jump in with the full kit on!’
‘Yeah. But they made us rescue rubber bricks in our pyjamas, so I was kinda working on instinct. I is alifesavingdude.’
Idiot.
So Logan thumped him one more time, for luck.
Extra hard, this time.
vii
Harsh sunlight streamed through the ratty venetian blinds as Colin Miller (56) – world-class journalist, snappy dresser, first-rate husband, brilliant father, andtotallegend, by the way – frowned at the printout in his leather gloved hands. ‘HERO COP STOPS SICK “LIVESTOCK MARKET”’ complete with photo of a burning cattle shed and some pretty bloody great writing.
Definitely good enough for the portfolio. So it got a quick visit to Mr Hole Punch, then snapped into Mr Ring Binder.
TheAberdeen Examiner’s bullpen was an anaemic photocopy of its former self. Aye, the big open-plan space still had loads of cubicles, with their tatty blood-red walls, but the wee personal touches had been stripped away, packed into cardboard boxes for that sad final trudge to the pub: goodbye speech, platter of supermarket sausage rolls, and empty promises to keep in touch. Leaving nothing but an empty desk behind, now covered in file boxes and dust.
Most of the chairs had gone too – pillaged by the handful of remaining staff to replace their own knackered ones.
Oh, the signs still hung from the ceiling, marking out the different sections: like ‘PICTUREDESK’ and ‘OBITUARIES’, but no oneworkedthere any more.
Instead, the chair thieves sat at scattered desks, keepingtheir heads down, poking away at laptops and phones, hoping they weren’t going to be next...
But while everyone else had opted for the try to-no’-be-too-visible approach, Colin had built himself a wee fort out of file boxes and box files, walling off this corner of the bullpen.
He plucked another printout from the pile.
‘BODIES FOUND IN CLIFFTOP-COTTAGE FREEZER’ with the subheading, ‘MISSINGUNIONISTS“TORTUREDTODEATH” SAYSSHOCKEDPARAMEDIC’.
Aye...maybe no’ his finest hour.
That one went in the bin.
‘“CROOKED COP FRAMED ME” CLAIMS LOCAL BUSINESSMAN’, subheading: ‘OFFICERPLANTSCHILDPORNOGRAPHYONSUSPECT’SCOMPUTERAS—’
‘Hoy, Grandad.’There was a knock on his file-box wall, and Tamsin Johnson (21) sauntered into his inner keep. She had a boy’s haircut, Numbered Onions T-shirt, ripped jeans, and grubby Hi-Tops. Tattoos all down one arm. Spots. Enough piercings in both ears to pick up a decent FM signal.
‘Who you calling “Grandad”?’ Colin sat up a wee bitty straighter, so she could drink in the fitted, pink, Ralph Lauren shirt, top three buttons open to show off some tasty gold chains and manly chest hair. Even if it was going a little grey. And there wasslightlymore of it than there was on top of his head.
‘Be still my beating.’ Voice flat as her chest. She peered at the ring binder. ‘Not done your homework for teacher, yet?’
Colin punched two holes in the printout and added it to the binder. ‘Waste of bloody time.’
‘And can you not do all thisdigitally?’ Perching her wee flat bum on the edge of his desk. ‘God, you’re such a dinosaur.’
Cheeky sod.
‘Haven’t you got a listicle to write? “Top ten reasons cellulite is the new margarine!”, or some shite.’
‘Print’s dead, Daddy-O.’ Tamsin hooked a thumb at the door. ‘Quitting time. We’re hitting Dodgy Pete’s for some scoofage: you want?’
He snatched another sheet from the pile – ‘POLISH SHOPKEEPER BLINDED IN HORROR ATTACK’ – scowling at the photo of Victoria Road in Torry. ‘And who the hell does she think she is? You got any idea how many scoops I’ve written?’ Waving his printout at the newsroom walls, and all the framed front pages hanging there. ‘Seventy percent of these buggers are mine! Probably more like eighty.’ But did that matter? Did it hell. ‘Making me audition for myownspot on the bloody paper...’
Over in the opposite corner, the office printer squealed and clunked like someone was battering mice with a wooden mallet.