Logan moved around a bit further, till he could see the phone’s screen properly.
TARA:
Got our timeslot for parent/teachers tonight: 1850.
I vote CHIPS for tea!
Excellent idea.
He thumbed out a reply:
Motion carried – chips it is.
I’m at a crime scene, but I think
Was as far as he got, because as the ambulance disappeared over the bridge, a short-arse wee hardman in a linen suit strolled into view, hands in his pockets. Like he was out for an early evening constitutional.
Colin Miller.
Logan groaned, put his phone away, then padded over, bare footed, to intercept him at the cordon.
‘Aye, aye.’ Colin gave a big Weegie grin. ‘Hear you went for a wee swim.’
‘How? It only happenedtwenty minutes ago. Who told you?’
‘Gotta protect my sources, and all that.’ He stood on his tiptoes, peering at the crime scene. ‘So...you got something juicy for me?’
Logan returned the smile. ‘No. Feel free to sod off.’
‘That any way to talk to an old friend?’ Digging into the suit jacket with a leather-gloved hand, he produced a much fancier phone than Logan’s. Holding it out, so the screen was visible.
A sort of slideshow was playing, only instead of stills it was made up of short video files – shaky and a bit grainy, clearly taken on mobile phones – of Mr FreezyWhip being chased allover Tillydrone by the police van. Five bits of footage, none of which lasted more than a couple of seconds, on a loop.
Colin gave his phone a waggle. ‘Thought it’s doughnuts youse bastards are obsessed with?’ Then put it away and had another peer at the collection of old folk. ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with that fire last night, would it?’
‘No comment.’
A tut. ‘Hell of a thing. What kinda racist wanker torches a hotel for migrants? Lucky no one died, but.’
Logan kept his face completely still.
Colin blinked. ‘Oh, you’rekiddingme!’
So much for styling it out. ‘Strictlyoff the record. Soban Yusuf died of his injuries an hour and a half ago.’
‘Christ.’ Shaking his head. ‘That who you were chasing: our xenophobic arsonist arsehole? You know, as we’re “off the record”, like.’
‘Should you not be back at the office, currying favour with the new boss?’ Logan pulled on his best American accent: ‘Hold the front page! We goteight new waysto blast belly fat and youain’t gonna believenumber six!’
‘Aye, you think you’re joking?’ Colin pointed off towards Altens. ‘See back in the good old days: that newsroom was thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of ink and cheap coffee, clattering with typewriters...Now it’s just me, and a handful of sodding children.’ Scowling out at the glittering water. ‘Work experience and unpaid interns. Like it’s sodding bob-a-job week!’ Throwing his gloved hands in the air, because the wee sod could never resist a bit of melodrama. ‘And these kids gotnonose for a story. If you can’t nick it off Twatter, ThickTok, or FacePuke it’s too much work!’
Logan nodded. ‘Yup.’
He puffed out his cheeks. Looked away. ‘So come on, big man – dees a favour and support local journalism.’
Maybe he was right? Maybe the press could help for a change, instead of making everything worse? And it wouldn’t hurt to have theAberdeen Examinerowing them a favour. So maybe just atinybit of...
Sod.