A sleek black Mercedes appeared over the Grandholm bridge, then turned onto the riverside road. Making straight for the cordon.
Logan stood up a little straighter. ‘Here we go...’
‘Oh aye?’
Barrett snapped to attention, then raised the ‘POLICE’ tape to let the Merc through.
Colin lowered his voice. ‘Won’t be long till the numpties arrive with their outside broadcast vans and their camera crews.’ He produced a packet of extra-strong mints, proffering the open end to Logan, as if that was going to be an effective bribe. ‘Maybe you and me can do a deal? Back scratching, like.’
Logan tried not to grimace, he really did. ‘Just...I’ll think about it, OK? Now make yourself scarce – don’t want the boss thinking I’m a fifth columnist for the fourth estate.’ Then marched towards the Mercedes.
The driver’s door opened and out climbed the Chief Super’s sidekick, all done up in Police Scotland black. Sergeant Brookminster. Thin, and efficient-looking. The kind of man who could carry off a side parting and a David Niven moustachewithoutlooking like a sex offender. He jerked his rugged chin at Logan, then marched smartly around the car to open its rear passenger door.
There was a pause, then Chief Superintendent Pine climbed out – dressed all in black, like her sidekick, only with a lot more decoration on the epaulettes. Phone pressed to her ear as she pulled her peaked cap on, followed by a pairof sunglasses. ‘Yes...I understand that...Look, I appreciate your concern, First Minister, but I assure you my officers are proceeding with theutmostprofessionalism.’ She pressed the phone against her chest and grimaced at Logan – dropping her voice to a hard-edged whisper. ‘What the buggering hell is going on here?’
‘Sorry, ma-am.’
Back to the phone. ‘I have to go: duty calls...Yes, First Minister...OK, love to Ellie and the kids...Bye.’ She hung up, then sagged.
Logan stayed where he was and kept his mouth shut.
A drone sizzled through the air, with the Sky News logo on the side and a dirty-big gimbal camera mounted underneath. Performing a slow, panning pass of the crash scene for the viewers at home.
Nosey bastards.
Pine rubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘Where’s Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford?’
‘Supervising the search of Charles MacGarioch’s flat, ma-am. We’re hoping there might be some clue about where he’s—’
‘Why,’ squeezing the words out as if every one of them was physically painful, ‘in the name ofallthat’s holy, was there no one watchingthe rear of the property?’
‘It’s—’
‘Didno onethink he might do a runner?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ – Steel’s voice, right behind them.
Pine flinched. Logan winced.
Then they both turned and there she was, overalls unzipped to her waist, belly button on show where her ‘SexWeasels!’ T-shirt had ridden up. Pale and worrying. Like a zombie’s eye...Steel gave it a scratch. ‘The wee scrunk-bag lives on the top floor. What was he going to do, sprout wings and fly?’
‘Sproutwings?’ The Chief Super stared at her, then performed a slow three-sixty with her arms out, indicating the high degree of fuckupitude on display at this location and beyond. ‘Well, he’s doing a damned good impersonation of it!’
‘Don’t worry: we’ll find him.’ Stopping scratching for long enough to dig a vape out of her overalls. ‘Roberta Steel always gets her man. Or woman.’ A wink. ‘And may I say you’re lookingparticularlyfetching today in that nice tight T-shirt? Really brings out the swell of your—’
‘That’s quite enough of that.’ Pointing off towards the knackered van. ‘Away and do something useful. Before I bust you down to the Friday Night Vomit Squad.’
That got her a lazy salute as Steel took a long drag on the vape and released a sticky-sweet cloud of strawberry shortcake. ‘Ah, I love it when you’re all take-chargey.’ Another wink, then she sauntered off, puffing away. ‘But if you change your mind...’
‘And no vaping on duty!’ Pine scowled at Logan. ‘I swear to God that woman isitchingfor a constructive dismissal.’
‘Her thirty’s up next month. She’ll be long gone by the time HR get the disciplinary paperwork sorted.’ He shifted his feet on the warm setts. ‘But she’s right: we were on the top floor. The only reason Charles MacGarioch isn’t on his way to the mortuary right now is he managed to hit a trampoline instead of the ground. Pure blind luck. By rights he should be splattered all over the dried-up grass in his nan’s back garden.’
Pine grimaced out at the scene for a bit: from the silvered oldies and the ruined police van; to the lifesaving ring – currently bobbing in the river, because Logan had tied it to one of Mr FreezyWhip’s tyres. Marking the site of the wreck.
‘We haven’t had a cock-up of this magnitude for ages.’
‘Sorry, ma-am.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone’s doing their best.Turns out: being an Operational Support Unit isn’t as easy as Sergeant Mitchell and his thugs make it look.’