by J D Kirk
Harris relaxed a little, the lines of confusion lifting from his forehead.
“I mean, did you look mental plastered in blood and waving a spade around? God, aye,” Logan told him. “You did. But looks can be deceiving. Take me, for example.”
Harris looked him up and down, not understanding.
“Ballet dancer,” said Logan over the top of his mug.
Harris exploded into laughter.
“What?” Logan demanded. “What’s so funny?”
“No, you’re not!” the boy giggled. “You’re not a ballet dancer.”
“Aye, I am! What are you saying, like?” Logan retorted, mock-offended.
Sinead came in from the hallway, thumbing the hang-up button on the phone. She looked from the DCI to Harris and back again. “What’s going on?”
“Your brother is casting aspersions on my dancing skills,” Logan told her. “Can you believe the bloody cheek?”
“Ballet dancer!” Harris exclaimed.
Sinead smiled weakly. “Right. I’m really sorry about this, sir.”
Logan waved the apology away. “I helped myself to a cup of tea.”
“No, it’s not fair, sir. We’re up against the clock with…”
She shot Harris a look and stopped herself before she finished the sentence.
“…everything. This is slowing us down.”
“It’s fine. I can multi-task. I texted DI Forde. He’s getting your man… what’s his name? Bamber, brought in. CID are going to give him a going over, see if they can figure out who ‘just some guy’ is. Asked him to have Social Services pop their heads in, too, to check on the wean.”
Sinead nodded. “OK. I’m really sorry, though.” She began jabbing digits on the phone. “I’ll see if I can get Maureen down the road to watch him. I’ve told the school he’s not coming in.”
She looked between them both. “You OK here for a minute?”
“Aye. As long as he doesn’t start having a go at my singing voice next, I’m sure we’ll get on just fine.”
“OK, that’s…” Sinead turned and marched out into the hall. “Hello? Alan? Is Maureen…? Aye. Aye, that’s right. Thanks.”
Logan tipped the rest of his tea down the sink, swirled out the mug, then sat it on the draining board. Harris was watching him when he turned and leaned against the kitchen worktop.
“So. This cat, then,” Logan said.
“Did you bury it?” Harris asked. The question came out of him in a flash, like he’d been holding it back until now.
“I did,” Logan said.
A lie, but a necessary one. The boy never needed to know the animal’s remains were currently stashed in a Bag for Life in the boot of the polis car.
Harris nodded, satisfied. “Good. That’s what you’re meant to do.”
“It is,” Logan agreed.
He took a seat across the table from the boy. “You remember where you found it?”
Harris shifted uncomfortably, like he was resisting the memory.
Then, just when Logan was about to tell him not to worry about it, he nodded.
“Can you tell me where it was?”
Harris nodded again. “You know where the Co-op is?”
“No.”
The fact that someone didn’t know where the Co-op was appeared to momentarily blow the boy’s mind. He sat in silence for a while, his eyes fixed on Logan, an expectant expression on his face like he was waiting for a punchline.
“I’m not from around here,” Logan explained. He brought out his phone and tapped the Maps icon. “Can you show me on this?”
He handed the phone over. “You can move the map around by…”
Logan opted to shut his face when Harris took the phone, pinch-zoomed in, and swiped a finger across the screen.
“Aye, like that,” the DCI said, when the boy handed him the phone back. He’d marked the spot with a little red flag.
How the bloody hell had he done that? Was that a thing you could do? Logan hadn’t had a clue.
“Right. And it was there, was it?”
Harris nodded. “It was beside the road. Just lying there. A car must’ve hit it.”
“Aye. Aye, it must’ve,” said Logan.
Another lie, probably. Forensics would have to confirm.
“Did you see anyone around?” Logan asked.
Harris frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just, like, anyone watching. Or acting strange.”
“There was an old woman,” Harris said. “She shouted at me.”
“Did she? What did she say?”
Harris shot a look in the direction of the hallway. “I’m not allowed to swear.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” Logan promised.
The boy chewed his lip for a moment, then spat it out. “Put that f’ing thing down. You don’t know where it’s f’ing been,” he said. He glanced furtively in the direction of the hall. “Except she didn’t say f’ing.”
“Right.
“She said ‘fucking.’”
“Gotcha. And what did you say?”
“Nothing. I just ran past her. I was nearly home by then.”
Logan nodded. “Ah, OK. No-one around where you found the cat, though?”
“No. Not that I saw,” said Harris. He wrung his hands and looked up at the DCI. “Are you going to find who killed it?”
“I’m going to do my best,” Logan told him, then they both turned as Sinead entered from the hallway, a child’s jacket held open before her like a Matador’s cape. It was not the same jacket he’d been wearing earlier. Considering that one now resembled a butcher’s apron, Logan reckoned this was probably for the best.
“Right, you. Jacket on. Maureen’s going to watch you for the day.”
Harris hopped up from his chair and inserted an arm into a sleeve.
“And for God’s sake,” Sinead told him. “Don’t mention the cat.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tyler bent and peered in through the driver’s side window of DC Khaled’s car, then up at the ramshackle house a few dozen yards ahead.
The journey up here had taken longer than he’d expected, largely on account of him getting completely lost twice. Quite how he’d managed to get lost on what was, essentially, a single road with no junctions, he wasn’t sure. One thing he did know, though—he’d never mention it to anyone, and especially not to Hamza. The bastard would never let him live it down.
“Ham?” Tyler bellowed in the direction of the house. A flock of birds rose from the trees at the sound of his voice, cawing and squawking their displeasure. “Helloooo?”
He checked his phone. One bar. Just. He tried calling Hamza, but was met by a lengthy silence, then—eventually—the dulcet tones of the voicemail greeting.
“Bollocks.”
The door to the house stood open. Even from that distance, it wasn’t exactly inviting.
Tyler looked across the boarded windows and moss-coated stone of the building’s frontage. “Hamza, you in there, mate?”
He waited for an answer that didn’t come.
“I swear to God, if I come in there and you jump out at me, I’ll kill you,” Tyler warned.
Silence.
Tyler reiterated the “Bollocks,” and then set off in the direction of the door.
Something stopped him a few paces in. A doubt. A niggle. A creeping sensation down his spine that told him something wasn’t right.
Returning to his car, he popped the boot, grabbed the torch and extendable baton that were in there, then closed it again with a clunk.
He flicked the torch’s switch, checking the battery. All good.
Flicking his wrist, Tyler extended the baton to its full length.
“Right, then, Detective Constable Khaled,” he muttered. “Good luck to you if you come jumping out at me now.”
“Thanks, Maureen, I really appreciate this. I owe you one.”
Logan stood back at the car, watching Sinead express her gratitude to the whit
e-haired woman in the doorway for about the third time since Harris had disappeared inside. Maureen, for her part, looked thrilled to have the boy, and had beamed from ear to ear when he’d hugged her briefly on his way into the house.
Still, time was getting on. Logan cleared his throat just loudly enough to catch PC Bell’s attention. She shot a look back over her shoulder, smiled apologetically, then beat a hasty retreat up the path.
“If there’s anything, just call the station. You’ve got the number.”
“He’ll be fine. He’s always fine. Off you go. We’ll give him his dinner.”
“Thank you!”
“Christ, are you rehearsing for your Oscars speech?” Logan asked, holding the gate open. “You’re grateful. She gets it.”
Sinead gave the old woman a wave, and mouthed another silent, ‘Thanks!’
“It’s short notice. I don’t like dumping him on her at short notice.”
“Dumping him on her? Did you see her face? I think you just made her day.”
He held out the car keys. “Not sure your nerves’ll handle me driving.”
“Aye, they’ve had enough for one day, I think,” Sinead agreed. She took the keys. “Sorry again, sir.”
“Not at all. It was… enlightening,” Logan said, pulling open the passenger door.
“You’re good with him. Harris, I mean. Have you got kids?”
Logan hesitated, the door open. “Aye. A daughter. Older, though. Not a kick in the arse off your age.”
“Oh? What does she do?”
“Eh… I don’t know. Not too sure, actually.”
Sinead swore at herself inside her head.
“Oh. Right,” she said, then she pulled open her door and got into the driver’s seat. She spent a few moments adjusting the position of it, then pulled on her belt.
“By the way, thanks,” she said, as Logan clambered in beside her. “You know, for burying the cat. You didn’t need to do that.”
“The cat. Aye,” Logan said. He clipped in his own belt, then shot her a sideways look. “About that…”
Moira Corson turned from the reception desk as Logan and Sinead came in through one of the front office’s side doors. There was a soft thud as the DCI deposited a Marks & Spencer Bag for Life on the desk beside her.
“For me?” she asked, peering down at it. “What is it?”
“It’s a cat,” Logan told her.
Moira’s face remained largely impassive. “I don’t want a cat.”
“Well, you certainly won’t want this one,” Logan said.
Moira leaned forward to look into the bag. Logan motioned for her not to. “I wouldn’t. I need a postmortem done on it ASAP.”
“A postmortem?” said Moira. “On a cat?”
“Aye. On a cat. On this particular cat.”
Sighing, Moira reached for her notepad. “What do you need to know? Cause of death?”
Logan shook his head. There was a bag of Mint Imperials open on Moira’s desk. He helped himself to one, drawing a furious glare from the receptionist.
“I already know how it died. It was whanged on the head with a spade.”
Moira flicked her gaze down into the opening at the top of the bag. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’m the one who whanged it,” Logan told her. “I need to know if the other injuries were accidental or deliberately inflicted. Can you get that processed for me?”
Moira’s face said ‘no,’ but her words said otherwise. “Fine. Yes. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” said Logan. He took another mint, then held it back over his shoulder for Sinead. “Sweetie?”
“I’m alright, thanks,” said Sinead. It was one thing for Logan to get on Moira’s bad side. He could clear off back to Glasgow when the case was over and done with. Sinead, on the other hand, was stuck with the old bat.
“Suit yourself,” said Logan, popping the mint in his mouth. He gave the receptionist a nod. “Give us a shout when they come back with something.”
Moira’s response was ejected through gritted teeth. “Will do, Detective Chief Inspector.”
Logan led Sinead through the back into the corridor that led to the Incident Room. As they walked, he prodded experimentally at the stitches on his forehead. Pain stabbed through him, making him hiss.
“You shouldn’t fiddle with it, sir.”
“I’m not ‘fiddling with it. I’m assessing the damage.”
“You’re fiddling with it. You’ll start it bleeding,” Sinead told him.
“Fine. There. I’m not touching it,” Logan told her, pushing open the door to the Incident Room. “Happy now?”
He strode in, ready to start barking orders, then stopped when he saw DI Forde hurriedly pulling on his coat.
“Ben? Everything alright?” Logan asked, but he knew the answer to that already. If the urgency of Ben’s movements hadn’t told him, then the look of shock on DS McQuarrie’s face certainly had. “What’s happened?”
“Tyler’s just been on the phone. He’s in a panic. Hasn’t had a signal until now.”
“And?”
“It’s Hamza,” Ben said. “Tyler’s got him in the car. Didn’t trust the ambulance to be able to find the place.”
“Ambulance? What are you talking about?” Logan asked. “What ambulance?”
DI Forde glowered at Logan. And, although the DCI had a substantial height and weight advantage, in that moment he was sure that Ben could’ve leathered seven bells out of him.
“Hamza’s been attacked, Jack,” Ben said. He shook his head, his face ash-grey. “And it’s not looking good.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The silence in the Incident Room was palpable. It hung in the air, casting a cloud over everyone and everything.
Logan stood facing the Big Board. Or, more accurately, not facing the rest of the team. The CID guys had been brought in, and even Jinkies was hanging around near the back of the room, back straight, buttons polished.
The others—Ben, Caitlyn, and Tyler—stood in a huddle near Hamza’s desk, as if drawing comfort from it. Sinead hung back from the others, trying not to look as awkward and self-conscious as she felt.
It was DI Forde who eventually spoke. The words came slowly and tentatively, like he was taking his time to choose just the right ones.
“It wasn’t your fault, Jack,” he said. “You weren’t to know.”
“Bollocks it wasn’t,” Tyler spat. His pale blue shirt had been purpled by blood, and all the nooks and crannies of his hands were caked with the stuff.
“DC Neish!” Ben snapped.
“Well, you said it yourself. Ham shouldn’t have been up there on his own,” Tyler continued. “He should never have gone up there without support.”
“That’s enough, Tyler,” Ben warned. “I won’t tell you again.”
Up front, Logan turned to face them all. “He’s right. Leave him, Ben. He’s right. This should never have happened. I didn’t think it could be connected to the live case. I thought it was historic. Not…”
He sighed and looked up at the ceiling tiles, gathering his thoughts.
“I made a bad call. Hamza never should’ve been up there on his own.” He looked across their faces. “I’m sorry.”
At the back of the room, Jinkies cleared his throat. “Can I ask? What’s DC Khaled’s condition?”
“They’re airlifting him to Glasgow Royal, sir,” DI Forde explained. “Haven’t got the facilities here. His condition’s critical, but they’ve got him stable enough to move to ICU down the road.”
“Family?” Jinkies asked.
“Wife and a little one, sir,” Tyler said. The words were meant for Logan as much as for the Chief Inspector.
“Bugger.” Pickering stood up. “I’ll arrange transport for them. Blue light them down there, if needs be.”
“Thank you, Hugh,” said Logan.
“Least we can do,” said Jinkies, more than a little reproachfully. He gave a nod to the r
oom. “Good luck.”
The door squeaked as he left to get the transportation sorted.
“There are two ways we can play this,” said Logan. “We can all, myself included, stand around here blaming me for this. Or, we can catch this bastard, get Connor home, and make him pay for what he did to Hamza. What’s it to be?”
“There’s not even a question there, Jack,” said DI Forde. He looked to the rest of the team. “Is there?”
Everyone was in agreement, although some more enthusiastically than others. Logan gave a clap of his hands. The bang they made was a starting pistol designed to propel everyone into motion.
Caitlyn and Ben returned to their desks. The CID boys sat up straighter. Constable Bell, who wasn’t entirely sure what she was supposed to be doing, took out her notebook. She wasn’t sure why she took out her notebook, exactly—it was a brand new one, with only a few scribbled remarks from the discussion with Bamber earlier on the first page—but it was better that than just standing there doing nothing at all.
“I think the boy was there.”
Tyler’s words stopped everyone in their tracks.
“What?” Logan asked.
“I’m not sure. Hamza was going in and out,” Tyler said. His eyes were glassy as he replayed the memory in his head. “I think he said he saw Connor. In the house.”
Logan leaned against the edge of the desk. “Connor? He saw Connor? Alive?”
“Alive, I think. Pretty sure he was trying to save him when he… You know.”
“Jesus,” Logan muttered. He turned to Ben. “Have we organised—”
“Tyler called it in on the way down the road,” said Ben, interrupting. “Got uniforms sealing the place off. Crime scene boys are already there, combing over everything.”
“And?”
“Nothing. If Connor was there, he’s not now.”
“Right. Aye. Suppose it was too much to hope for,” Logan said. He nodded at Tyler. “Good work, son.”
DC Neish flashed a sarcastic smile. “Gee. Thanks, boss.”
“Tyler…” Ben warned.