‘Anyway,’ Rennie joined Logan in the lobby, ‘before we start: who’s playing “good cop”; and who’s thecrazy,nothing-to-lose,loose-cannonthat doesn’t take any shit and won’t stop till he gets a result?’
‘How about we play “professional cop”, “other professional cop”? You know, for a change.’ Heading upstairs.
Rennie trotted along behind him. ‘You’ve no respect for tradition, that’s your problem.’
‘No,myproblem is that I’m surrounded by idiots.’
‘And halfwits?’
‘Halfwits?’ Logan snorted. ‘I dream of being lucky enough to work withhalfwits.’
The first-floor landing was another study in turd-brown, this time featuring a picture of a baby rabbit, sitting in the middle of a salad bowl, eating the lettuce.
And on they climbed.
‘I’d need three of you mooshed together to count as a halfwit.’
Rennie grinned. ‘I miss our little talks, Guv. We should work together more often.’
The second floor had a duckling peeking out of a shoe, and yet more brown. And the armpit-sweaty fug of cannabis hanging in the air.
Not Logan’s problem.
One floor to go.
‘Guv?’ Rennie dawdled a bit at the back. ‘We still on for Sunday? Unless the city’s like something offMad Maxafter the protest, of course.Welcome to the Teuchterdome!’
‘Emma bringing her tattie salad?’
‘Coleslaw. And I’ve got two of those big things of beer from Costco. Like a mini keg?’
The top landing boasted a puppy wearing a bowtie and a soppy expression to enliven the poop-inspired decor.
Logan stopped outside Jericho McQueen’s flat, and pointed at the door.
Rennie gave it a knock. ‘Anything I should know before we go in?’
‘I like her tattie salad better. Oh, and Steel’s bringing, and I quote, “homemade lesbian sausages”.’
‘Urgh...’
The door opened an inch and a wrinkled face peered out – narrowing her eyes as she clocked their fighting suits. ‘If yer here tae ask aboot my eternal soul: I gied it tae a wee mannie wie a forky tail and horns twa wicks ago.’
‘Is Jericho in?’ Logan held up his hands. ‘He’s not in any trouble, we just need to have a word about one of his friends.’
Suspicion seeped onto the landing, thicker than the smell of weed downstairs. ‘Oh, aye?’
Silence.
Then a sigh.
And the door swung open all the way.
The wrinkled face belonged to a woman in her mid-eighties, with a tan corduroy skirt, Sex-Pistols T-shirt, thick-rimmed glasses, and a red cardigan. ‘Suppose ye’d better come in. But wipe yer mochit feet!’
It was always nice to feel wanted...
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