Wee birdy tells me you fished something from the river this morning.
How the hell did he find out so quickly? Like a sodding psychic.
Logan’s thumbs rattled a reply:
You’ve got a sodding cheek after that hitjob in the paper this morning.
‘CARNAGE’?!?!?!
SEND.
He’d barely made it to the first floor when the reply cameding-buzzing back.
COLINMILLER:
You chased an ice-cream truck halfway across Aberdeen – course we’re going to write about it.
>%)
Come on: what did you find?
No chance.
Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket and kept on climbing.
Hard to believe that a police search team had ransacked the place yesterday – normally they left places looking like a tipped-out wheelie bin, but clearly Mrs Victoria MacGarioch was the houseproud type, so every doily, antimacassar, and creepy little cat ornament was back in its place. No sign of fingerprint powder or size-eleven bootprints.
The lady of the house was ensconced in her armchair, in front of the telly, wearing the same grey-tracksuit-and-brown-cardigan as yesterday. Squinting through milk-bottle-bottom glasses at some antiques / attic / reality / competition programme – puffing away on a cigarette as Logan bumped through the door.
Doing his best not to spill anything.
Been a while since he’d last made tea in a pot. Let alone one with Princess Diana’s face plastered all over the outside.
Mrs MacGarioch pointed her walking stick at the sideboard, and Logan eased the tray into a wee gap between the feline figurines. Most of which wereremarkablyugly.
‘Here we go.’ He poured tea into a delicate china cup that featured King Charles’s regal mug. Nodding at the collection of maudlin moggies. ‘See you’re a cat person? All the best people are.’
She sniffed, eyes fixed on the TV screen. ‘Can’t stand animals. They’re parasites, eating your food and piddling everywhere.’
OK...
He added milk from the jug: Queen Elizabeth, and sugar from the bowl: Prince Philip. ‘It can’t have been easy, raising Charles all on your own.’
‘Andthey shed hair all over the place.’ Accepting the proffered cup without so much as a thank you. ‘His dad was no use. Feckless. Lazy. Took off, first sign our Diana was pregnant.’ Mrs MacGarioch gazed up at a framed photo of all the Windsors on a balcony at Buckingham Palace, doing a bit of ceremonial waving. ‘No sense offamily. No sense ofduty.’
Logan helped himself to a cup: Princess Margaret, with a splash of the Queen and no Royal Consort.
‘Not that Diana was much better.’ Mrs MacGarioch glowered into her tea. ‘Dropped Charles off here for what shesworewas just a long weekend, so she could go on holiday with her friends to Ibiza.’ Back to the TV. ‘That was sixteen years ago.’
Ooh – potential line of inquiry alert.
Logan kept his voice casual. ‘Does she keep in touch? With Charles.’
‘Not unless he’s got a Ouija board under the bed.’ Taking a big sook on her cigarette. ‘Got herself killed in a car crash on Corfu. That’s one of the Greek islands.’ A proud, smoky sniff. ‘Prince Philipwas born there.’
As if that somehow made her daughter’s death worthwhile...
‘Any other family?’