right-hand man for a long, long time – but sometimes you have to sacrifice a rook to keep the game going.’
‘Now, hold on—’
‘Oh, it won’t be until I’m gone. The least I can do is let him come to the funeral. But after that. Before he’s had time to move against you…’
Logan turned away from the road. Squinted up at the DVLA’s windows. No one looked back at him. Thank God. ‘Hamish, I’m a police officer: I can’t be part of a plot to
murder
someone! Not even Reuben.’
‘Are you sure? He’s more dangerous than you think.’
This time, the hiss-filled pause stretched out into silence. Then:
‘Well, perhaps that would be best. After all, if you’re taking over the company, the staff will respect you more if you get rid of him yourself.’
‘That’s not what I meant! It—’
‘Don’t leave it too long, Logan. When I die, the clock starts ticking.’
‘You OK, Guv?’ Guthrie lowered his pale eyebrows, making little wrinkles between them.
Logan sank into one of the CID office chairs. ‘I nearly fell off a roof yesterday, my suit smells of drunk tramp, I’m dealing with a tree festooned with dog turds, I can’t sell my flat, and I had an early-morning run-in with Professional Standards. I’ve had better days.’
A smile. ‘Then I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.’
‘Is it midget porn again? Because I’ve told you about that already.’
‘Nope.’ He held up his notebook. ‘One dark-green Honda Jazz, parked on Newburgh Road, Bridge of Don. It’s Emma Skinner’s.’
Logan stood. ‘Well, what are you sitting there for? Get a pool car!’
Newburgh Road was a twisting warren of identikit houses, buried away amongst all the other identikit housing developments on this side of the river. Some residents had added porches, or garages, but the same bland boxy stereotype shone through regardless.
Guthrie pointed through the windscreen at the blocky back end of a dark-green hatchback. ‘Patrol car was out cruising for a pervert – been stealing knickers off washing lines – when the Honda pinged up on the ANPR.’
They parked behind it.
Logan climbed out into the sun and did a slow three-sixty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just more beige architecture, the harling greyed by weather. ‘Any idea which house?’
Guthrie locked up. ‘Thought we’d door-to-door it. Can’t be that far, can it?’
‘Pffff…’ Logan leaned back against a low garden wall and wiped a hand across his forehead. It came away damp. ‘You
sure
that’s her car?’
Guthrie took out his notebook and checked again. ‘Number plate matches.’
‘Then where the sodding hell is she?’
‘Well, maybe—’
‘Forty minutes! Wandering round like a pair of idiots, knocking on doors.’ The scent of charring meat oozed out from a garden somewhere near, making his stomach growl. ‘Starving now.’
Guthrie gave a big theatrical shrug. ‘I don’t get it. It’s not like it’d be hard to find a parking space here, is it? You’d dump your car right outside the person you’re visiting, right?’
‘Unless you weren’t supposed to be here. Didn’t want people to see your car…’ Logan pushed off the wall. ‘We keep looking.’
‘OK, thanks anyway.’
As soon as the auld mannie in the faded ‘ BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR ’ T-shirt had closed the door, Logan stepped into the shade of a box hedge.
He ran a hand across the nape of his neck and wiped it dry on his trousers. Checked his watch. That was an hour they’d been at it now. Slogging their way along the road in the baking sun. Knocking on doors. Asking questions. Showing people the photo of Emma Skinner that Guthrie had found on Facebook. A selfie of Emma and her two kids, grinning away like lunatics, the background blocked out by the three of them. She had her blonde hair pulled back from her face, a half-inch of brown roots showing. A silver ring in her left nostril. An easy smile. Two small children with chocolate smudges
‘Now, hold on—’
‘Oh, it won’t be until I’m gone. The least I can do is let him come to the funeral. But after that. Before he’s had time to move against you…’
Logan turned away from the road. Squinted up at the DVLA’s windows. No one looked back at him. Thank God. ‘Hamish, I’m a police officer: I can’t be part of a plot to
murder
someone! Not even Reuben.’
‘Are you sure? He’s more dangerous than you think.’
This time, the hiss-filled pause stretched out into silence. Then:
‘Well, perhaps that would be best. After all, if you’re taking over the company, the staff will respect you more if you get rid of him yourself.’
‘That’s not what I meant! It—’
‘Don’t leave it too long, Logan. When I die, the clock starts ticking.’
‘You OK, Guv?’ Guthrie lowered his pale eyebrows, making little wrinkles between them.
Logan sank into one of the CID office chairs. ‘I nearly fell off a roof yesterday, my suit smells of drunk tramp, I’m dealing with a tree festooned with dog turds, I can’t sell my flat, and I had an early-morning run-in with Professional Standards. I’ve had better days.’
A smile. ‘Then I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.’
‘Is it midget porn again? Because I’ve told you about that already.’
‘Nope.’ He held up his notebook. ‘One dark-green Honda Jazz, parked on Newburgh Road, Bridge of Don. It’s Emma Skinner’s.’
Logan stood. ‘Well, what are you sitting there for? Get a pool car!’
Newburgh Road was a twisting warren of identikit houses, buried away amongst all the other identikit housing developments on this side of the river. Some residents had added porches, or garages, but the same bland boxy stereotype shone through regardless.
Guthrie pointed through the windscreen at the blocky back end of a dark-green hatchback. ‘Patrol car was out cruising for a pervert – been stealing knickers off washing lines – when the Honda pinged up on the ANPR.’
They parked behind it.
Logan climbed out into the sun and did a slow three-sixty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just more beige architecture, the harling greyed by weather. ‘Any idea which house?’
Guthrie locked up. ‘Thought we’d door-to-door it. Can’t be that far, can it?’
‘Pffff…’ Logan leaned back against a low garden wall and wiped a hand across his forehead. It came away damp. ‘You
sure
that’s her car?’
Guthrie took out his notebook and checked again. ‘Number plate matches.’
‘Then where the sodding hell is she?’
‘Well, maybe—’
‘Forty minutes! Wandering round like a pair of idiots, knocking on doors.’ The scent of charring meat oozed out from a garden somewhere near, making his stomach growl. ‘Starving now.’
Guthrie gave a big theatrical shrug. ‘I don’t get it. It’s not like it’d be hard to find a parking space here, is it? You’d dump your car right outside the person you’re visiting, right?’
‘Unless you weren’t supposed to be here. Didn’t want people to see your car…’ Logan pushed off the wall. ‘We keep looking.’
‘OK, thanks anyway.’
As soon as the auld mannie in the faded ‘ BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR ’ T-shirt had closed the door, Logan stepped into the shade of a box hedge.
He ran a hand across the nape of his neck and wiped it dry on his trousers. Checked his watch. That was an hour they’d been at it now. Slogging their way along the road in the baking sun. Knocking on doors. Asking questions. Showing people the photo of Emma Skinner that Guthrie had found on Facebook. A selfie of Emma and her two kids, grinning away like lunatics, the background blocked out by the three of them. She had her blonde hair pulled back from her face, a half-inch of brown roots showing. A silver ring in her left nostril. An easy smile. Two small children with chocolate smudges
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