‘Jammy sods.’
25
SOC-suited figures rustled from their manky Transit van to Andrew Shaw’s house – carting empty evidence crates one way, and full ones the other.
They weren’t the only newcomers. A patrol car had joined the party and brought a couple of rusty Vauxhalls with it. Now their occupants were going door-to-door and searching the field behind the house.
Giving them a bit of space, Logan retreated to the car park, outside the block of flats, in the scattered shade of a drooping tree.
‘A cop...’ Biohazard had clearly got the Chief Super’s memo, because he’d changed into regulation black, only without the stabproof vest and utility belt, because he was a fancy-pants DI now. His bare arms already going red as he paced the pavement – one hand massaging his forehead. ‘Oh, for Christ’s...buggering...’ He stopped and stared at Logan. ‘Acop?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Who else could track down a rapist like that? Private investigator? Journalist?’
‘But acop?’
‘Might be worth checking the Police National Computer – see if “Andrew Wallace Shaw” has turned up in any search results lately.’
‘Nooooooo...’ Biohazard crumpled forwards, like a rumpledquestion mark. ‘Guv, maybe Doreenwouldbe better as SIO on this one? I don’t mind searching the riverbank, honest I don’t. It’s quite calming really...’
Fat chance.
‘You should get someone to contact Shaw’s dentist. Whoever killed him did a number on his teeth, but you might ID the body if there’s any work intact. A fiver says he had veneers fitted. And talk to his GP surgery: we’re looking for any old broken bones or scars.’ What else? ‘See if you can find his car too: must’ve left it somewhere.’
Biohazard groaned. ‘This whole thing’s a proper sodding poisoned chalice full of...jobbies.’ He straightened up and pointed at the bungalow. ‘I catch the killer and he’s a cop: everyone hates me, horrible press, career suicide. Idon’tcatch the killer: everyone hates me, horrible press, career suicide.’
Logan patted him on the back. ‘That’s the spirit.’
‘But,Guv...’ Like a puppy, destined for a hessian sack and the nearest river.
But before Acting DI Marshall could start whimpering, Tufty scampered over from the pool car, holding out his Airwave handset. ‘Sarge? Got a call for you; someone called PC Kent?’
No idea why they didn’t just dial his direct number. Or even who PC Kent was. But it was that kind of day.
He took the handset and poked the button. ‘Safe to talk.’
A Peterhead accent jerked out of the speaker:‘Sir? I mean, Boss. No: Guv. Yes. Hello? It’s Hilary. PC Kent? Watching Balmain House Hotel? Where the fire was?’
Ah,thatPC Kent.
‘What can I do for you, Hilary?’
‘Yeah, Guv? I’ve got the hotel owner here, and he’s...“feelin’ nae pain”, if you get my drift. Maybe, you could...you know? Cos he’s demanding access and I’m telling him no, and he’s not takingthat for an answer; and he wants to speak to whoever’s in charge; and there’s only me here; and when I asked the station for backup, they just said to call my SIO; only I don’t really have one, cos I’m on loan from Peterhead, like I said; and the owner’s becoming “agitated”; and I get the feeling everyone’s going to disapprove if Itwathim one. So...?’
‘No twatting members of the public!’
Suppose it wouldn’thurtto lend a hand.
After all, everything was under control here, Scenes would be at it for ages, yet. And Biohazard was a big boy now, and ugly enough to cope on his own.
‘We’ll be there soon as we can.’
‘Unless you secretlywantme to twat him one, Guv? I can, you know. Be delighted to, actually. We Blue Tooners do “reasonable force”reallywell.’
‘Definitely not! Sit tight till we get there, and don’t let him into that building.’ Because today was bad enough, without some drunken sod crashing through the burnt-out hotel’s floor and killing himself.
‘Thanks, Guv.’
Logan handed the Airwave back to Tufty. Huffed out a breath. Then gave Biohazard a ‘buck-up’ thump on the arm. ‘You’ll be fine. Just make sure no one cocks anything up. We want a clean result on this one, OK?’