tied to the posts, sagging like a miserable clown’s testes.
Logan took a quick detour down Moray Street, with its blocky grey buildings. Then stopped at the bottom – the junction with High Shore. Two choices. Right: back to the station, or left: towards the Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool?
The dashboard clock glowed ‘00:30’ at him.
Wasn’t as if he could contribute anything. Much more likely he’d get roped into doing something that could probably be accomplished by half a dozen traffic cones.
Right it was. Past the quaint wee houses, following the curving road, their dormer windows staring out across the sea as it hissed against the pebble beach.
Bleep.
‘Anyone in the vicinity of Rosehearty? We’ve got a report of an assault ongoing outside the traveller camp …’
Pause. Two. Three …
Then someone caved.
‘Sergeant Smith to Control, on my way. Tell McMahon and Barrow to get their fingers out and join me there.’
Past the aquarium – closed for refurbishment. A caravan sat in front of the temporary mesh fence encircling the oversized barnacle-shaped building, surrounded by orange traffic cones. A scruffy scarecrow in a filthy tracksuit sat on the caravan’s top step, smoking. Hand cupped around the cigarette, trying to hide its light from snipers.
As if anyone would waste a bullet on Sammy Wilson.
Logan pulled into the entrance, drifting slowly past the big red buoy that decorated the middle of the car park.
His Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps again, and DCI Steel’s voice growled out into the car.
‘How come you’ve no’ called me back yet?’
‘I’m busy.’ Logan slowed. Poked the button marked ‘LEFT ALLEY’ and a spotlight lanced out and caught Sammy Wilson full in the face.
All bones and angles and taut sallow skin. Flecked with stubble, dirt and bruises.
Sammy shrank back against the caravan, one arm up, covering his eyes.
Logan wound down the window. ‘Evening, Sammy.’
A wince. Then a sniff. And Sammy Wilson peered out from behind his grim sleeve. ‘Not doing nothing.’
‘Sure you’re not.’
‘Hoy! You still there?’
‘No. This is a recording. Leave a message after the beep.’ He let go of the talk button and pointed at the temporary fencing with its warning notices. ‘You’re not planning on doing something I’d disapprove of, are you, Sammy? Bit of breaking and entering, maybe? Wheeching bits of kit off the building site?’
‘Nah, I’d never. Nope. Not me. Not a thief and that.’
Logan stared at him.
He shrugged one shoulder. Stared down at his feet. ‘Suppose I could sod off.’
‘Probably for the best. Don’t want someone getting the wrong idea.’
He hauled himself to his feet and scuffed away up Market Street, leaving a coil of cigarette smoke behind.
‘You can be a right dick, you know that, don’t you?’
Steel cleared her throat.
‘Anyway, it’s no’ like I’m asking for much: a wee hand to talk to your local sex offenders, that’s all.’
‘I’m not the one being a dick.’ He put the car in gear again, heading down Laing Street and along the front. ‘You’ve got the biggest team in the division. Use it.’
‘You want the murdering pervert who did this to get away? That what you want?’
To the left, a hodgepodge of old-fashioned Scottish buildings faced out over the railing to the harbour walls and the still, grey mass of the North Sea. Some of them wore grey harling, some dressed granite, some painted white.
‘Shift finishes in half an hour.’
‘You’re no’ telling me that sodding off home for a Pot Noodle and a spot of onanism is more important than catching a wee girl’s murderer, are you?’
‘
And
I’m in court tomorrow.’
Past the Macduff Arms, all shuttered and quiet.
‘Oh, don’t be such a big Jessie. It’s just a couple of sex offenders. No’ like we’ll be that long at it.’
The Bayview Hotel had some sort of wedding reception going on – a knot of wobbly blokes in kilts smoking
Logan took a quick detour down Moray Street, with its blocky grey buildings. Then stopped at the bottom – the junction with High Shore. Two choices. Right: back to the station, or left: towards the Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool?
The dashboard clock glowed ‘00:30’ at him.
Wasn’t as if he could contribute anything. Much more likely he’d get roped into doing something that could probably be accomplished by half a dozen traffic cones.
Right it was. Past the quaint wee houses, following the curving road, their dormer windows staring out across the sea as it hissed against the pebble beach.
Bleep.
‘Anyone in the vicinity of Rosehearty? We’ve got a report of an assault ongoing outside the traveller camp …’
Pause. Two. Three …
Then someone caved.
‘Sergeant Smith to Control, on my way. Tell McMahon and Barrow to get their fingers out and join me there.’
Past the aquarium – closed for refurbishment. A caravan sat in front of the temporary mesh fence encircling the oversized barnacle-shaped building, surrounded by orange traffic cones. A scruffy scarecrow in a filthy tracksuit sat on the caravan’s top step, smoking. Hand cupped around the cigarette, trying to hide its light from snipers.
As if anyone would waste a bullet on Sammy Wilson.
Logan pulled into the entrance, drifting slowly past the big red buoy that decorated the middle of the car park.
His Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps again, and DCI Steel’s voice growled out into the car.
‘How come you’ve no’ called me back yet?’
‘I’m busy.’ Logan slowed. Poked the button marked ‘LEFT ALLEY’ and a spotlight lanced out and caught Sammy Wilson full in the face.
All bones and angles and taut sallow skin. Flecked with stubble, dirt and bruises.
Sammy shrank back against the caravan, one arm up, covering his eyes.
Logan wound down the window. ‘Evening, Sammy.’
A wince. Then a sniff. And Sammy Wilson peered out from behind his grim sleeve. ‘Not doing nothing.’
‘Sure you’re not.’
‘Hoy! You still there?’
‘No. This is a recording. Leave a message after the beep.’ He let go of the talk button and pointed at the temporary fencing with its warning notices. ‘You’re not planning on doing something I’d disapprove of, are you, Sammy? Bit of breaking and entering, maybe? Wheeching bits of kit off the building site?’
‘Nah, I’d never. Nope. Not me. Not a thief and that.’
Logan stared at him.
He shrugged one shoulder. Stared down at his feet. ‘Suppose I could sod off.’
‘Probably for the best. Don’t want someone getting the wrong idea.’
He hauled himself to his feet and scuffed away up Market Street, leaving a coil of cigarette smoke behind.
‘You can be a right dick, you know that, don’t you?’
Steel cleared her throat.
‘Anyway, it’s no’ like I’m asking for much: a wee hand to talk to your local sex offenders, that’s all.’
‘I’m not the one being a dick.’ He put the car in gear again, heading down Laing Street and along the front. ‘You’ve got the biggest team in the division. Use it.’
‘You want the murdering pervert who did this to get away? That what you want?’
To the left, a hodgepodge of old-fashioned Scottish buildings faced out over the railing to the harbour walls and the still, grey mass of the North Sea. Some of them wore grey harling, some dressed granite, some painted white.
‘Shift finishes in half an hour.’
‘You’re no’ telling me that sodding off home for a Pot Noodle and a spot of onanism is more important than catching a wee girl’s murderer, are you?’
‘
And
I’m in court tomorrow.’
Past the Macduff Arms, all shuttered and quiet.
‘Oh, don’t be such a big Jessie. It’s just a couple of sex offenders. No’ like we’ll be that long at it.’
The Bayview Hotel had some sort of wedding reception going on – a knot of wobbly blokes in kilts smoking
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