Green froze, half-turned back to the screen. ‘What?’
‘You have to set the time manually every time you change the battery.’ He pointed at the little digital readout. ‘Eleven thirty-two: the media briefing didn’t even start till eleven. And what about the newspaper?’
‘It’s today’s, so I don’t—’
‘The Edinburgh Evening Post headline was about the toe not being Jenny’s. How did they manage to write the article, print the newspaper, get it up to Aberdeen, and sell it in a shop, all in under thirty-two minutes? The paper doesn’t even go to press till mid-day. I checked.’
‘Ah …’ Green nodded. ‘I see. Well, that’s a very valid point.’ He turned back to face the screen. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘Anyway,’ Logan pointed at the graffiti-covered room, projected on the back wall, ‘just wanted to grab a copy of the video, if there’s one going spare?’
There’s one here.’ Doreen dug a CD in a clear plastic case from a folder on the desk beside her, then handed it over. Whispering. ‘You’ve made him look like a complete idiot.’ She gave Logan’s hand a squeeze. ‘Thanks.’
It was raining, pea-sized drops of lukewarm water that turned the pavement dark grey.
There was no point going out the front – the crowd was back in force, even with the horrible weather, huddling under thrumming umbrellas, being outraged for all the camera crews. The Lodge Walk entrance was just as bad, full of journos sheltering from the downpour while they waited to pounce on anyone leaving FHQ. So Logan hid the laptop bag under his jacket, trying to keep the thing dry as he hurried down the ramp from the Rear Podium and nipped through the little bit at the back of the Arts Centre.
Tonight the billboard sign outside the newsagent on King Street read, ‘EVENING EXPRESS: JENNY’S TORTURE – CAN WE RAISE ENOUGH TO SAVE HER?’ the white paper insert going nearly transparent as it soaked up the rain.
The other side had, ‘ABERDEEN EXAMINER: TOE TERROR OF BRAVE JENNY – KIDNAPPERS PROVE IT’S NO HOAX’. He stopped off and bought a copy of both, then hurried down Marischal Street.
It was getting colder, the rain leaching the heat from the city. His breath steamed around his head as he unlocked the building’s front door and dripped up the stairs to the flat.
‘You in?’
Samantha’s voice came from the lounge. ‘Hurry up, it’s just about to start.’
Oh joy.
Logan draped his jacket over a chair in the kitchen, moved the chair in front of the hot oven, grabbed a cold tin of Stella from the fridge, and made it back to the lounge in time to catch the opening titles.
Alison and Jenny McGregorBRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR! – TRIBUTE SPECIALWith Special Guests …
He sank into the sofa next to Samantha. ‘Chucking it down out there.’
‘You’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?’
Logan fought with his soggy laces, then kicked his shoes off. ‘Lasagne in?’
She raised her tin of lager. ‘Bottoms up.’
Cheering burst from the television speakers as the camera swooped in over an excited audience to a big black triangular stage, polished to a mirror sheen, surrounded by hoops of red, green, and blue neon. Above the stage, three screens flashed from a red skull and crossbones to a green tick, the words, ‘MARTINE’, ‘CHRIS’, and ‘SOPHIE’ picked out in glowing white Perspex beneath them.
Logan pulled off his damp socks as the camera came to rest on two youngish looking blokes in black suits and black ties. ‘Who the hell are they?’
‘One on the left used to present Blue Peter, one on the right does a comedy thing on Channel Four.’
‘So what, they’re some kind of bargain basement “Ant and Dec”?’
‘Shhhhhh … They’re doing the intro.’
It was a bizarre concept – a TV talent show doing a tribute to two of its contestants, by getting celebrities to come on and do cover versions of the cover versions Alison and Jenny McGregor did in order to get on the show and become the kind of celebrity that got asked to do tribute shows …
The first couple of acts were OK. But after every one the camera would zoom in on the row of judges for their comments.
Logan took another slurp of Stella. ‘What’s the point? Not like they can say anything nasty, is it?’
And then a familiar figure bounded onto the stage. Gordon Maguire, head of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions, dressed in the same Reservoir Dogs get-up as not-Ant-and-Dec. He waited for the applause to die down. ‘Thanks, guys. This has been one hell of a rollercoaster. First we thought Jenny was dead. Then the police told us they‘d made a mistake, and she was still alive after all!’
A cheer went up.
‘And then, we all saw that horrible video this afternoon.’
That didn’t get a cheer.
The record producer nodded. ‘I know, I know. They told us we had fourteen days to raise enough money to save Jenny and Alison’s lives … well we’ve only got four days left. I want to remind everyone that the charity single is on iTunes, Amazon, and Britains NextBigStar.com , or you can buy it at HMV. All proceeds are going to pay the ransom …’
Samantha shifted on the couch, a little line puckering the skin between her neatly-trimmed eyebrows. ‘He’s a greasy little shite, isn’t he?’
‘Hmmm …’ Logan crumpled the empty tin.
‘Oh, I saw the Reverend today. He’s got a new dog collar – black leather with silver studs. I quite fancy one if you’re feeling flush.’
On screen, Maguire finished his rousing speech to a standing ovation. Then there were comments of support from the judges. And then Lily Allen doing the McGregors’ version of Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
‘And viewers, tonight you can vote for which of our celebrities will perform Wind Beneath My Wings at the end of the show.’
‘Yes, and don’t forget: every phone call you make contributes towards the Alison and Jenny Freedom Fund …’
Samantha turned the volume up. ‘He wants to know if you’re using the lotion.’
‘What is this, Silence of the Lambs?’
‘You have to use the lotion. Do you want it to get infected?’
‘I’m using the lotion.’ Logan stood. ‘You want another beer?’
She raised her tin. ‘Check on the lasagne when you’re there?’
It looked like pretty much every ready-meal vegetarian lasagne he’d ever seen, bubbling away in its little oven-proof plastic tray. Smelled good, though. He pulled another two tins from the fridge.
The Alison and Jenny Freedom Fund – who the hell came up with that one? Made them sound like terrorists …
He popped open the cupboard above the fridge, hunting for crisps. Then groaned: his mobile was ringing, deep in the pocket of his steaming jacket. Logan shifted the chair and went rummaging until he found it. The number was withheld.
Sod it then. They could wait till he was on duty.
Unless it was something important.
Maybe Superintendent Green was calling to say he was sorry for being such a cock. That he didn’t realize what a deductive genius Logan was. That he wished he hadn’t picked Doreen to be his babysitter.
Not