Leaving Andrew alone in the house of horrors.
— we all scream...—
3
Logan stopped dead, squinting up at the hard blue sky, phone pressed to his sweaty ear. ‘He’sdead?’
A relentless sun baked the car park behind Tillydrone Library, making the sticky tarmac shimmer, the grass a thirsty shade of yellowy green. Trees drooping under the onslaught of an unholy Aberdonian summer. That peppery smell of roasting dust.
Detective Chief Superintendent Pine grunted down the phone at him.‘Given his injuries? Surprised he lasted this long. Lucky he never regained consciousness, to be honest.’
Not much of a bright side...
It wasn’t bad, as car parks went, with the wooden-clad rear of the library on one side, four-storey blocks of flats on another, and the arse-end of a McColl’s on the third. A stand of tower blocks in the middle distance, their windows glowing like daggers in the punishing light.
Logan unhooked one side of his clip-on tie and undid his top button. Should’ve worn the pale-grey fighting suit, today. Too sodding hot for a dark-blue one.
The sound of a local radio station burbled through the lazy air, mingling with a bumblebee’s buzz and the whine of a petrol strimmer. While off in the distance, the distinctive tinkly ‘Greensleeves’ of an ice-cream van beckoned.
And his phone was silent, so either they’d been cut off, or Pine was expecting him to say something.
‘Yes, ma-am.’
That seemed to do the trick.
‘I want this bastard caught, Logan. Operation Iowa is officially a murder investigation, as of fifteen minutes ago.’
‘Yes, ma-am.’
‘No cock-ups.’
‘No, ma-am.’
A dozen or so cars were parked behind the library: hatchbacks mostly, with makeshift visors shading their interiors from the sun – cardboard boxes and old bed-sheets, giving them a boarded-up feel – but an unwashed police van sat off to one side, in the shade of a wilting tree, with its riot grille up, and every door and window wide open. Trying to lure in the non-existent breeze.
‘The media are going full-on Bampot Junction. Let’s give the buggers some good news for the evening bulletins, OK?’
‘We’ll do our best.’
‘Good. Keep me informed.’And with that, she was gone.
Logan scuffed his way back to the grubby van, the radio getting louder with every step. So much for following orders.
And ifthatwasn’t bad enough, his team of ‘crack police officers’ were sitting inside, in the full Method of Entry Gear: blue overalls; stabproof vests; hard plastic guards on their elbows, wrists, knees, and shins. Only they’d removed their riot helmets and gauntlets to enjoy a variety of ice lollies.
Ice lollies.
The song on the radio clattered to a halt, and a broad Doric DJ boomed out instead:
‘Richt, that wis “Twist and Wallop” by The Mighty Beetroot, and this next een’s fer Alice Muchty, faeRhynie, fa says, “Aye, aye,Dougie, can ye dee us a favour and play oanything by the Rolling Stones for oor Cathy, who’s sitting herdrivingtest the day—”’
Logan clambered up into the passenger seat and switched the radio off – to an instant chorus of disapproval from the team.
Well, tough.
‘No radio.’ He dumped his phone on the dashboard. Which was like a sodding frying pan, so he snatched it up again, before the electronics cooked. ‘Bloody hell...’
A voice from the back:‘Oh come on!’