Must be nice to be that divorced from reality.
Logan dipped into the box again. A handful of serial-killer thriller paperbacks with cheesy predictable titles on a ‘DARK DEADLY DEATH BLOOD DEATHLY DYING’ theme. ‘While I’ve got you: you’ll need a Senior Investigating Officer for the Chalmers suicide. Because she was a police officer?’
‘Are you volunteering?’
‘No. But what about DS Rennie?’
‘As SIO?’ A laugh barked out of the phone. ‘I’d rather put drunken hyenas in charge of my granddaughter’s third birthday party.’
‘Yes, but he’s done the training course; he’s worked on several murders; he’s not got himself suspended, demoted, or fired; and it’s an open-and-shut suicide. Not even Beardie Beattie could screw this one up.’
‘Hmmmm…’
Rennie made a massive detour around a puddle, trolley juddering and rattling away as if it was having a seizure. The idiot was grinning like this was the most fun he’d had in ages.
Maybe Hardie was right? Maybe making Rennie SIO was asking for—
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but OK. On the strict condition that he goes nowhere near the media and you supervise him the whole time. And I mean the whole time.’
Rennie arrived with his wobbly trolley. He pointed at the contents and waggled his eyebrows.
‘Do we have a deal?’
Oh God… He was going to regret this, wasn’t he?
‘Fine. If that’s what it takes.’ Logan pointed at Rennie, mouthing the words in silence: ‘You owe me!’ Then back to the phone. ‘Got to go. Good luck with the press conference.’
‘We’ll need it.’ And Hardie was gone.
Logan put his phone away.
Rennie frowned. ‘Owe you for what?’
‘You’re now officially SIO on Lorna Chalmers’ suicide.’
His eyes bugged and a wonky grin lopsided itself across his face. ‘Woohoo!’ He even did a little dance between the puddles, finishing with a half-arsed pirouette. Pointing at his purchases again. ‘And to celebrate: one pack of spicy rotisserie chicken thighs, hot. One four-pack of white rolls. One squeezy bottle of mayonnaise. One bag of mixed salad. Bottle of Coke, bottle of Irn-Bru. Six jammy doughnuts for a pound. Luncheon is served.’
The pool car’s engine pinged and ticked as it cooled, the bonnet dulled by a thin film of drizzle. From here the view was … interesting: looking down, past a couple of fields to the massive concrete lumps of the new bridge over the River Don. The fabled Aberdeen Western Peripheral Route, rising from the earthworks slow and solid. A dark slash across the countryside, trapped beneath the dove-grey blanket of cloud. About forty years after they should have started building the damn thing. Back when the area was awash with oil money. Before the industry tanked.
Ah well, better late than never.
Rennie passed in front of the car again, pacing round it in the rain. Idiot.
The windows were getting foggy, so Logan wound his one down, letting in the distant roar of construction equipment and passing traffic.
Rennie did another lap. ‘No, I’m not kidding, they made me SIO!’ A pause, then his voice went all deadpan. ‘Oh: ha, ha, ha. No, it doesn’t stand for “Seriously Idiotic Onanist”. Thank you, Sarah Millican.’
Logan poked away at his phone again:
Did DS Chalmers say anything to you about any leads she was following about Ellie Morton’s disappearance?
SEND.
‘Senior Investigating Officer, Emma! They made me Senior Investigating Officer on the Lorna Chalmers case. … Yeah, it is a pretty big deal.’
Ding.
HORRIBLE STEEL:
Nice try. I’m still not clyping on her. Or speaking to you.
‘I guess they finally recognised all the great work I’ve been doing. … Oh yeah.’
Logan frowned and picked out a reply:
She’s DEAD, Roberta. Whatever secrets she had aren’t hers to keep any more.
SEND.
‘Who’s your daddy?… Damn right I am.’
No reply from Steel.
Probably sulking. Or sodded off for a vape.
Some things never changed.
‘OK, yeah. … Love you, Fluffkins. … OK, bye. … Bye. … Bye, bye.’ Rennie blew a half-dozen kisses, then hung up. Turned to see Logan staring at him. ‘What?’
‘You’ve got a mayonnaise moustache.’ Logan took another bite of chicken-thigh buttie – savoury and salty and spicy and creamy. Talking with his mouth full. ‘And that’s not a euphemism.’
‘Ta.’ Rennie wiped his face with a napkin, scrumpled it up and tossed it over his shoulder into the back of the car. ‘So far we’ve had a suicide, a collapsed coffin, a baying mob of reporters, and I’ve got my first SIO gig.’ He performed a little bum-wriggling dance in the driver’s seat. ‘Best day at work for ages.’
‘When we get back to the Big Top, write up your report on Chalmers’ suicide and submit it to the Procurator Fiscal. Then I want you to go through the boxes in the boot. See if you can find any of DI Bell’s old notebooks in there. Maybe we’ll get lucky for a change?’
Rennie peered across the car at the bag on Logan’s lap. ‘You wanting that bit of skin?’
‘Nope.’
He grabbed the slab of chicken skin and wolfed it down. ‘How come you always call him “DI Bell” now instead of “Ding-Dong”? Always used to call him “Ding-Dong”.’
‘Because you shouldn’t use friendly nicknames for police officers who kill people.’
‘Ah. Point.’
Outside, a crane lowered another chunk of grey onto the massive Lego set crossing the river. A handful of sheep skirted the chunk of flooded grass at the bottom of the field. The sound of chewing and slurping filled the car.
Rennie had another scoof of Coke. ‘Yeah, but maybe he didn’t mean to kill whoever it was we buried? Maybe it was, like, a fight to the death!’
‘Then why use the body to fake your own suicide?’
‘Convenience? Wasn’t like anyone else was using it.’ Another mouthful, bits of salad falling into his lap.
‘And the person who attacked him coincidentally happened to be a good enough match for height and weight that everyone would be fooled?’
‘Another point.’ Rennie polished off his buttie and sooked his fingers clean. Checked his watch. ‘Oops, nearly missed it!’ He clicked on the car radio, stabbing the buttons until ‘NORTHSOUND 1’ appeared on the dial and a horrifically upbeat pop song belted out of the speakers.
Logan turned it down a bit. ‘My money’s still on Fred Marshall.’
Rennie dipped into the doughnut bag. ‘Nah, can’t be. I read his file: Marshall was six-two and built like a whippet. Ding… DI Bell was five-ten tops and built like a grizzly bear. No way you’d get them mixed up. Not even after a fire.’
The song on the radio faded out, replaced by a teuchter accent so thick it had to be fake.