Rutherford gave a little snort.‘You want paperwork? This protest march I’ve inherited from Hardie is an utter buggerfest. Bad enough when it was just hand-knitted lefties campaigning against climate change, but now I’ve got a bunch of far-right prickwanks holding an anti-migrant rally too. And both lots of bastards want to do it right down the middle of Union Street!’A fit of coughing rattled down the phone. Followed by some heavy breathing. Then:‘You got any idea how much paperwork that generates?’
‘Not a competition, Guv.’
There was a groan, then more coughing.‘Sorry. Been one of those days.’Poor sod sounded as if he was about ready for a post mortem.‘Speaking of which: how long you been on for?’
Logan checked his watch. ‘Since half six.’
‘Look, we don’t need you for Morning Prayers tomorrow. Have a long lie; just make sure you’re in for nine, all right?’The call went silent for a moment, then an almighty barrage of coughs blasted in Logan’s ear, going on and on and on – the salvo finishing with a wheezing whimper.
‘You OK?’
Nothing from the other end.
Logan kept walking, following the river upstream towards the car park. ‘Guv?’
Nope.
He turned around, peering back towards the search team – just visible in the distance, their outlines growing indistinct in the dying light.
‘Guv, are you OK?’
‘Have to be, don’t I.’A pained sigh.‘Consider yourself off duty, Inspector. Nine sharp tomorrow morning! We’re going to noise-up everyone MacGarioch’s ever met.’
Thank God for that: time to go home.
Logan let himself in through the front door, closed and locked it behind him. Sagged there for a moment, until the siren scent of his fresh fish supper dragged him upright again. Crisply rustling in its cardboard box, with ‘WEEJIMMYSWANKY’S~CHIPPERTOTHESTARS’ printed on the top and ‘SCOTLAND’SREALNATIONALDISH!’ on every side.
Dark in here.
He clicked on the lights.
Sighed.
Picked the little pair of red Paddington wellies off the floor and put them in the rack with all the other shoes, boots, and trainers. Slipped out of his fighting-suit jacket and hung it up with everyone’s coats.
Because to hell with laying it by upstairs. Not when there were hot chips needing eaten.
‘Hello?’
No reply.
But familiar music thrummed out through the living-room door. Sinister and...scuttley. Which could only mean one thing.
He grimaced. Braced himself. And crept inside.
They’d closed all the curtains, shutting out the twilight, so they could bathe in the well-worn creepy glow ofWitchfireon DVD. Even though, strictly speaking, the film was inno wayage-appropriate for a six-year-old. Especially the ‘spiders’ scene – currently scurrying its way across the TV – which always gave Logan the willies.
Apartfrom that, it was a nice room: painted a cheerful yellow, with three well-stuffed bookcases, a coffee table littered with toys and magazines, and a couple of red velvety couches. One of which was occupied by The Stinkers.
Tara had taken the centre spot, sagging back with her head on a couch pillow, eyes closed, glasses squint, gob open. Looking unnaturally pale in the flickering spidery light – freckles standing out against her heart-shaped face. Strong jaw. Long, wavy, dark-red hair.
She had a book open in her lap, and a small child snuggled into her side – also asleep with the gob hanging open. It wasn’t the only thing she’d inherited from her mother. She had the same red hair and freckles, but those were definitely her daddy’s ears.
Poor wee sod.
That soppy warm fuzziness ballooned in his chest, making his wizened old heart tingle as if Tara and Elizabeth had just poured space dust all over it. And all they were doing was sitting there, snoozing it up as the film got to thereallyhorrible bit.
Gah...