keeping Grampian Police on the straight and narrow.’
Logan sucked in a breath. ‘Better watch that kind of rebellious talk. There is no Grampian Police, there is only Police Scotland. All bow to our conquering overlords.’
‘Ah, screw them. What they going to do, fire me?’
There wasn’t much to see at Broch Braw Buys at five to midnight on a Monday night.
It was wedged between the Coral betting shop and a chip shop. Both closed for the evening. The Kenya Bar and Lounge on the corner had its door shut, the metal gate locked over the top. The sound of hoovering rattled out from somewhere inside.
Logan closed the pool car’s door and crunched his way through little cubes of broken glass.
They’d obviously used the same tactics to get into the place and steal its cash machine, because the shop’s front window was now boarded up with chipboard. Someone had stapled a poster right in the middle of the raw wood: ‘£1,000.00 REWARD F OR A NY I NFORMATION L EADING T O THE BASTARD’S W HO D ID T HIS G ETTING T HEIR LEGS BROKEN!!!’
Logan reached out and tore it down. While a nice sentiment, it wasn’t exactly legal. And besides, that misplaced apostrophe grated.
He stood on the pavement and did a slow three-sixty.
Fraserburgh was quiet: no sound but the far-off burr of the occasional vehicle cruising some distant street. Not cold, but not exactly warm either. The roads washed in anaemic sodium light.
When did the call to the Duty Inspector come through? Couldn’t have been much more than half three. So whoever it was going round nicking cash machines, they were either getting bolder, or stupider. Or maybe they simply had a schedule to keep?
Four cash machines in three days. If there wasn’t a Major Investigation Team set loose on the case already, there would be by tomorrow morning. Earnest-faced plainclothes officers stomping about the countryside with their hobnail boots and fighting suits. Getting on everyone’s nerves and lording it over the poor sods in uniform who’d have to clear up the mess they left behind.
Divisional policing, that’s where all the cool kids were …
10
The countryside swept past, dark and blurred, the road ahead picked out by the patrol car’s headlights. Glinting back from the cats’ eyes. A pulsing off-and-on glow as Logan tore down the dotted white line.
A sea of stars stretched from horizon to horizon. The water an expanse of slate grey to the left, bordered by cliffs. The distant glimmer of house lights.
Logan battered to the end of ‘Started Out With Nothin’’, drove in silence for a minute, then launched into ‘Living Is a Problem Because Everything Dies’. Making up half of the words as he went along.
Sooner the Big Car was back with its working radio, the better. Honestly, it—
His Airwave gave the point-to-point quadruple bleep.
‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’
‘Go ahead, Deano.’
‘Got a couple of guys in Gardenstown who think they saw Charles Anderson, Sunday last. Said he was off his face with the drink and spewing his hoop over the side of his boat.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Been talking in the pub earlier about going up to Papa Bank or Foula Waters, hunting haddies.’
Better than nothing.
Logan tapped his fingertips against the stubbly hair above his ear. ‘So, maybe he’s not missing at all. Maybe he’s gone fishing?’
‘Still should be answering his radio, unless the power’s gone. Could be adrift, middle of the North Sea?’
‘Pretty certain the radio has to have batteries. Health and Safety.’
‘True.’
Round the next bend, and the bright lights of Macduff twinkled in the distance. ‘Tell Tufty to get the kettle on. I’ll be home in five.’
More dark fields. More cloudy silhouettes of trees. Then ‘W ELCOME TO MACDUFF’. Someone had hung a white sheet, with ‘H APPY 40 TH B IRTHDAY C AZ !!!!!’ splodged across it in black paint, under the limits sign. A couple of gaily coloured balloons were
Logan sucked in a breath. ‘Better watch that kind of rebellious talk. There is no Grampian Police, there is only Police Scotland. All bow to our conquering overlords.’
‘Ah, screw them. What they going to do, fire me?’
There wasn’t much to see at Broch Braw Buys at five to midnight on a Monday night.
It was wedged between the Coral betting shop and a chip shop. Both closed for the evening. The Kenya Bar and Lounge on the corner had its door shut, the metal gate locked over the top. The sound of hoovering rattled out from somewhere inside.
Logan closed the pool car’s door and crunched his way through little cubes of broken glass.
They’d obviously used the same tactics to get into the place and steal its cash machine, because the shop’s front window was now boarded up with chipboard. Someone had stapled a poster right in the middle of the raw wood: ‘£1,000.00 REWARD F OR A NY I NFORMATION L EADING T O THE BASTARD’S W HO D ID T HIS G ETTING T HEIR LEGS BROKEN!!!’
Logan reached out and tore it down. While a nice sentiment, it wasn’t exactly legal. And besides, that misplaced apostrophe grated.
He stood on the pavement and did a slow three-sixty.
Fraserburgh was quiet: no sound but the far-off burr of the occasional vehicle cruising some distant street. Not cold, but not exactly warm either. The roads washed in anaemic sodium light.
When did the call to the Duty Inspector come through? Couldn’t have been much more than half three. So whoever it was going round nicking cash machines, they were either getting bolder, or stupider. Or maybe they simply had a schedule to keep?
Four cash machines in three days. If there wasn’t a Major Investigation Team set loose on the case already, there would be by tomorrow morning. Earnest-faced plainclothes officers stomping about the countryside with their hobnail boots and fighting suits. Getting on everyone’s nerves and lording it over the poor sods in uniform who’d have to clear up the mess they left behind.
Divisional policing, that’s where all the cool kids were …
10
The countryside swept past, dark and blurred, the road ahead picked out by the patrol car’s headlights. Glinting back from the cats’ eyes. A pulsing off-and-on glow as Logan tore down the dotted white line.
A sea of stars stretched from horizon to horizon. The water an expanse of slate grey to the left, bordered by cliffs. The distant glimmer of house lights.
Logan battered to the end of ‘Started Out With Nothin’’, drove in silence for a minute, then launched into ‘Living Is a Problem Because Everything Dies’. Making up half of the words as he went along.
Sooner the Big Car was back with its working radio, the better. Honestly, it—
His Airwave gave the point-to-point quadruple bleep.
‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’
‘Go ahead, Deano.’
‘Got a couple of guys in Gardenstown who think they saw Charles Anderson, Sunday last. Said he was off his face with the drink and spewing his hoop over the side of his boat.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Been talking in the pub earlier about going up to Papa Bank or Foula Waters, hunting haddies.’
Better than nothing.
Logan tapped his fingertips against the stubbly hair above his ear. ‘So, maybe he’s not missing at all. Maybe he’s gone fishing?’
‘Still should be answering his radio, unless the power’s gone. Could be adrift, middle of the North Sea?’
‘Pretty certain the radio has to have batteries. Health and Safety.’
‘True.’
Round the next bend, and the bright lights of Macduff twinkled in the distance. ‘Tell Tufty to get the kettle on. I’ll be home in five.’
More dark fields. More cloudy silhouettes of trees. Then ‘W ELCOME TO MACDUFF’. Someone had hung a white sheet, with ‘H APPY 40 TH B IRTHDAY C AZ !!!!!’ splodged across it in black paint, under the limits sign. A couple of gaily coloured balloons were
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