my God…’
The scene swirled left, capturing the crowd. Most of them had their phones out, cameras pointing up at John Skinner as he wobbled on the edge.
Bloody vultures. Whatever happened to good Samaritans?
‘There’s someone else up there!’
,
‘Oh my God…’
A seasick lurch and the screen filled with the casino again as Logan inched his way out onto the ledge.
In real life, Logan pointed at the video. ‘I want this taken down.’
‘Oh my God…’
A collective gasp as the green plastic bag from Markies kamikazed down to the cobbles, a bomb of crisps and sandwiches that exploded on impact.
‘Someone has to call the police!’
,
‘Oh my God…’
,
‘This is so cool, it—’
Logan jabbed at the mouse and the image froze. ‘Get it deleted off the internet.’
Guthrie screwed up one side of his face. ‘It’s kinda gone viral, Guv. Copies popping up all over the place.’
‘Then get out there and find me John Skinner’s wife.
Now!
’
‘I see.’ Superintendent Young folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in the visitor’s chair. He’d forgone his usual Police-Scotland-ninja-outfit for a pair of blue jeans and chunky trainers. A red T-shirt with ‘ SKELETON BOB IS MY COPILOT ’ on it under a grey hoodie. As if he was fourteen instead of forty. Forty something. Probably nearer fifty. ‘And is Justin Robson going to pursue this?’
Logan shuffled a mess of paperwork into a stack and popped it in the out-tray. ‘You didn’t have to come in on your day off, Guv. I’m sure we can cope till Monday.’
‘It’s this, or clearing out the garage.’ A shrug. ‘Call me dedicated. So: Robson?’
‘Well, it’s civil, rather than criminal, so he’d have to take her to court. But he’s got her bang to rights for defamation. Posters up all over the area saying he’s a drug dealer? No way she’ll wriggle out of it.’
‘Hmm…’ Young stuck his legs out and crossed his ankles, head back, looking up at the stained ceiling. ‘On the one hand, if he
does
sue her it’ll serve her right. Maybe make her rethink her obsession. On the other hand, it could tip her off the deep end.’
‘Either way she’s going to end up a bigger pain in our backsides.’
‘True.’ A shrug. ‘Anything else you need my help with? This suicide victim’s missing wife thing?’
Logan bared his teeth. ‘Thanks, Guv, but I think you’ve helped enough.’
‘Ah well, if you’re sure.’ Young stood. Stretched. Slumped. ‘Suppose I’d better go clear out the garage. No rest for the saintly.’ He paused, with one hand on the door. ‘I hear you had a run in with Gordy Taylor yesterday?’
‘Wants to drop the charges in exchange for two litres of whisky.’
‘And so we support those brave souls who fight in our name…’ A sigh. ‘Right. Well, drop me a text or something.’ Another pause. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else?’
Logan did his best to smile. ‘Not unless you want to buy a one-bedroom flat?’
Logan licked his top lip. Stared down at his mobile phone. Couldn’t put it off any longer. Well, he could, but it probably wasn’t a great idea. He dug his thumbs into the back panel and slid the cover off. Prised out the battery and replaced the SIM card with a cheapy pay-as-you-go from the supermarket checkout loaded up with a whole fiver’s worth of calls. Clicked everything back into place.
‘Guv?’
When he looked up, Wheezy Doug was standing in the doorway, clutching a manila folder to his chest.
‘Is it quick?’
A nod. Then a cough. Then a gargly clearing of the throat. ‘Got the lookout request extended across all of Police Scotland. And the Media Office want clearance on a press release and poster.’ He dug into the folder and came out with two sheets of paper. ‘You want to OK them?’
Logan gave them a quick once-over, then handed both back. ‘If they can figure out how to spell “Saturday” properly, tell them to run it.’
‘Guv.’ He put the sheets
The scene swirled left, capturing the crowd. Most of them had their phones out, cameras pointing up at John Skinner as he wobbled on the edge.
Bloody vultures. Whatever happened to good Samaritans?
‘There’s someone else up there!’
,
‘Oh my God…’
A seasick lurch and the screen filled with the casino again as Logan inched his way out onto the ledge.
In real life, Logan pointed at the video. ‘I want this taken down.’
‘Oh my God…’
A collective gasp as the green plastic bag from Markies kamikazed down to the cobbles, a bomb of crisps and sandwiches that exploded on impact.
‘Someone has to call the police!’
,
‘Oh my God…’
,
‘This is so cool, it—’
Logan jabbed at the mouse and the image froze. ‘Get it deleted off the internet.’
Guthrie screwed up one side of his face. ‘It’s kinda gone viral, Guv. Copies popping up all over the place.’
‘Then get out there and find me John Skinner’s wife.
Now!
’
‘I see.’ Superintendent Young folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in the visitor’s chair. He’d forgone his usual Police-Scotland-ninja-outfit for a pair of blue jeans and chunky trainers. A red T-shirt with ‘ SKELETON BOB IS MY COPILOT ’ on it under a grey hoodie. As if he was fourteen instead of forty. Forty something. Probably nearer fifty. ‘And is Justin Robson going to pursue this?’
Logan shuffled a mess of paperwork into a stack and popped it in the out-tray. ‘You didn’t have to come in on your day off, Guv. I’m sure we can cope till Monday.’
‘It’s this, or clearing out the garage.’ A shrug. ‘Call me dedicated. So: Robson?’
‘Well, it’s civil, rather than criminal, so he’d have to take her to court. But he’s got her bang to rights for defamation. Posters up all over the area saying he’s a drug dealer? No way she’ll wriggle out of it.’
‘Hmm…’ Young stuck his legs out and crossed his ankles, head back, looking up at the stained ceiling. ‘On the one hand, if he
does
sue her it’ll serve her right. Maybe make her rethink her obsession. On the other hand, it could tip her off the deep end.’
‘Either way she’s going to end up a bigger pain in our backsides.’
‘True.’ A shrug. ‘Anything else you need my help with? This suicide victim’s missing wife thing?’
Logan bared his teeth. ‘Thanks, Guv, but I think you’ve helped enough.’
‘Ah well, if you’re sure.’ Young stood. Stretched. Slumped. ‘Suppose I’d better go clear out the garage. No rest for the saintly.’ He paused, with one hand on the door. ‘I hear you had a run in with Gordy Taylor yesterday?’
‘Wants to drop the charges in exchange for two litres of whisky.’
‘And so we support those brave souls who fight in our name…’ A sigh. ‘Right. Well, drop me a text or something.’ Another pause. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else?’
Logan did his best to smile. ‘Not unless you want to buy a one-bedroom flat?’
Logan licked his top lip. Stared down at his mobile phone. Couldn’t put it off any longer. Well, he could, but it probably wasn’t a great idea. He dug his thumbs into the back panel and slid the cover off. Prised out the battery and replaced the SIM card with a cheapy pay-as-you-go from the supermarket checkout loaded up with a whole fiver’s worth of calls. Clicked everything back into place.
‘Guv?’
When he looked up, Wheezy Doug was standing in the doorway, clutching a manila folder to his chest.
‘Is it quick?’
A nod. Then a cough. Then a gargly clearing of the throat. ‘Got the lookout request extended across all of Police Scotland. And the Media Office want clearance on a press release and poster.’ He dug into the folder and came out with two sheets of paper. ‘You want to OK them?’
Logan gave them a quick once-over, then handed both back. ‘If they can figure out how to spell “Saturday” properly, tell them to run it.’
‘Guv.’ He put the sheets
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