Interesting. ‘Triedto?’
‘They does also has avery big dog. And Captain Woofalot doesn’t like burglars.’
Rennie raised an eyebrow. ‘Bingo.’
‘No: no “bingo”. Mr Knowles is in a wheelchair, Mrs Knowles is in a leg brace, and they’rebothin their eighties.’ Pausing for a chin stroke. ‘Unless she beat him to death with her walking stick, I don’t think they’re our killers. Plus, it’s difficult to dump a body when you drive a mobility scooter...’
Rennie’s face tightened, but the threat of being demoted to squelchy-riverbank-searching kept him silent.
Tufty consulted the Post-it-note map. ‘Northfield?’
‘Northfield.’ And now it was Logan’s stomach’s turn to howl. ‘But we’re stopping somewhere for lunch, first.’
Rennie took a scoof of Irn-Bru. ‘...but the thing that worries me is: what happens if it all kicks off like last time? Costhat’s what these bastards want, isn’t it – anti-migrant riots on the streets, smashing in corner-shop windows, burning people out their homes. And all the time they’re raking in the cash!’
This bit of Northfield was a lot less swanky than Rubislaw Den. Instead of granite mansions, the pool car sat between twin terraces of beige-and-brown harling. Two-storey, flat-faced, with the occasional tiny awning bolted above the front door. No mature trees, or towering green hedges here. Instead, most of the gardens had been lock-blocked, or tarmacked-over for off-street parking. Hatchbacks and vans, instead of Range Rovers and BMWs.
‘And you know what?’ Rennie took a bite of pie, chewing through the words. ‘Bet half of it comes from Russia too. Destabilising the West, one knuckle-dragging racist arsehole at a time.’
To be fair, they were very nice pies.
And it was easier to let him rant on by himself – just throwing in the occasional, ‘Uh-huh,’ every now and then to show willing – than actually pay attention to whatever it was he waswangingon about this time.
Logan shifted his pie around a little, using the paper bag as a container to keep the grease off his fingers. Steak mince. The king of pies. Hot, gristle-free, savoury, dark, and delicious, from the bakery on Byron Square.
Munch, munch, munch.
It was just the two of them in the car, the back seat lying vacant while Tufty was out doing a bit of work for a change.
That would teach the little sod to stuff himself full of fancy finger sandwiches and tasty pastries.
‘Tell you,’ Rennie swigged more Irn-Bru, ‘we should make it illegal to own a newspaper, or radio station, or any of that shite, if you don’t liveandpay tax in the UK.’
Logan’s phoneding-buzzed on the dashboard. He checked it, one-handed, leaving the other free to provide another tasty munch of crisp pastry and beefy gravy.
‘And they’re forever bleating on about being “patriotic”, and “having pride in our country”! How are we supposed to be proud of it, when it’s full ofwankerslike Charles MacGarioch and those hostel-burning pricks in Edinburgh? What, we’re supposed to just turn a blind eye and salute the sodding King?’
TARA:
Don’t forget: P/T conference is TONIGHT!
New time = 1930
Will you be home first?
Good question.
‘And don’t get me started on the politicians!’ Rennie tore at his pie, getting flakes of pastry all down his clip-on tie. ‘Pretending they’re “men of the people” – half these tossers went to private school!’
Logan pecked out a reply with one thumb:
Do my best.
If I’m not home by 7 – go without me and I’ll meet you there.
...
Promise.