Ahead of the Game

by JD Kirk

  “I’m sure you could, but do you no’ think their jobs are hard enough without a big-mouthed surly bastard like you coming in and shouting the odds?” Ben countered.

  It was the sort of sentence that only Ben Forde would dare say to him, because only Ben Forde had earned the right to.

  “My advice?” the DI continued. “We get organised here, get on the road sharp in the morning, and set up in the station down in the Fort.”

  “Mitchell doesn’t want you gallivanting around,” Logan reminded him.

  “I won’t be gallivanting anywhere. I can sit on my backside behind a desk just as easily down there as I can up here. Invergarry’s closer to the Fort than it is to here, and one of the few things Sinead and Hamza got from the flatmate before he made a run for it was that the victim was a teacher as Lochaber High School. That’s three hundred yards from the polis station.”

  Logan held up his hands. “Fine. Right, aye, you’ve convinced me. We’ll relocate,” he said. “Get on the phone to Sinead and Hamza. Tell them it’s their call if they stop down there for the night, or come back up then travel down again tomorrow.”

  “Sinead’s not going to like being down there, boss,” Tyler warned.

  “Why not?” Logan asked. Sinead had grown-up in Fort William and generally seemed pleased when they returned to her old stomping grounds.

  “We’ve still got stuff to sort out for the wedding. She’s stressing out about it. You wouldn’t know it in here, but at home, she’s a nightmare,” Tyler said. His eyes darted to the other men in the room. “Please don’t tell her I said that.”

  “Your secret’s safe with us, son,” Logan said. “Shite. Aye. I hadn’t thought of that. We’ll make allowances. Try to get you both back up here as soon as possible. You’ve got Harris to think about, too, of course.”

  “Yeah. He’s generally happy at their auntie’s, but it’s not ideal,” Tyler said. “But, eh, speaking of the wedding, boss, how’s your speech coming along?”

  Logan tapped the side of his head. “All percolating away. Brewing up nicely,” he said, hiding the fact that he’d barely given it any thought whatsoever. “Yours?”

  Tyler crinkled his nose. “Done a few drafts now. All shite, though.”

  “Most wedding speeches are, to be fair,” DI Forde pointed out. “Always the low point of an otherwise nice day out for me. Either they do them before dinner, so you’re left sitting there starving, listening to some bugger droning on and on, or they do them after dinner, so you struggle to stay awake. Waste of bloody time, in my opinion. I’d do away with them completely, if it were up to me.”

  “Shame it’s not up to you,” Tyler said. “I’d happily not bother, but Sinead’s right into the idea.”

  “What, of you standing up in front of everyone you know and making a tit of yourself?” asked Logan. “Can’t imagine why the thought of that might appeal to her…”

  Tyler’s face froze into a dead-eyed rictus. “Cheers for that, boss.”

  “Right, well, talk to her and Hamza,” Logan said. “Makes no difference to me what they do tonight, but someone make sure we can get into one of the hotels this time. Get admin to sort it with the team down the road, so we’re not scrabbling around trying to find somewhere to kip.”

  He dropped his coat onto the chair again, rolled his head around on top of his shoulders, and let out a long, quiet groan.

  “Something the matter, Jack?” asked Ben, noting the DCI’s discomfort.

  “Not yet,” Logan replied. He sighed and shot a look at the Incident Room door. “But I’m about to go and tell Mitchell that we’re taking you out of the office, so no doubt it’s only a matter of a time…”

  Shona Maguire had rushed home, got showered, got dressed, zapped a selection of popcorns in the microwave, put crisps in a big bowl, and brought two cans of Cherry Coke through to the living room when she got the call telling her it was all for nothing.

  “Oh. You’re not coming?” Shona asked, doing an admirable job of masking her disappointment. “Right. Homework is it, or…?”

  “I’m just busy tonight,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  Olivia Maximuke was not a friend. She was far too young to be that, and Shona’s relationship with the girl was infinitely more complicated—to the point where Shona herself had absolutely no idea how to define it. Stockholm Syndrome was almost certainly a factor, although Shona could never quite decide which of them was the one affected by it.

  “Sorry, you didn’t go to any special effort, did you?” Olivia asked.

  Shona didn’t look directly at the table of goodies, but managed to see it from the corner of her eye, regardless.

  “What? No,” she scoffed. “No. Nothing like that. I’m just… You’re OK, aren’t you?”

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Just… For the last few months, you’ve been…” The rest of the sentence trailed off into a sigh. “Just, remember I’m here if you need to talk to me. About anything.”

  “Thanks. I know. But there’s nothing,” Olivia insisted. “I’m just busy tonight. I can do tomorrow night, though, if you’re free?”

  “Tomorrow should be fine,” Shona said. “As long as nobody dies in mysterious circumstances, my diary should be clear.”

  “Great!” Olivia said, and she sounded genuinely pleased. “Same time?”

  “Same time,” Shona agreed. “Take care.”

  She hung up the phone, stared at it in concern for a few seconds, then set it back onto the base. Only then did she turn and regard the table of food spread out before her.

  “Ah, bugger it,” she whispered, then she picked up a bowl of popcorn, flopped onto the couch, and reached for the remote.

  Detective Superintendent Mitchell was packing up for the day when Logan entered her office. She made a show of checking her watch, instructed him in no uncertain terms not to bother sitting down, then asked him what he wanted and suggested that he, “Be succinct.”

  “We’re going to relocate down to Fort William in the morning,” he told her.

  “Again? Do you own shares in the hospitality trade down there or something?” Mitchell asked. “Excuse me.”

  She motioned for him to move, and Logan stepped aside, allowing her access to the peg where she’d hung her coat. It was a puffy purple number with a faux fur hood and a suggestion of silver sparkles in the fabric. It didn’t fit the professional image the DSup had worked hard to cultivate at all.

  “Present from my partner,” Mitchell said, clocking Logan’s expression. “She thinks it suits me. Personally, I think it’s an abomination, but we pick our battles, don’t we?”

  She pulled the jacket on, then made a hand motion that told Logan to get a move on.

  “Right. Aye. We’ve got a key witness in hospital down there. Broken leg.”

  “Is this the one the constable hit?” Mitchell asked. “That’s going to be a right headache, let me tell you.”

  “That’s him,” Logan confirmed. “Victim was a teacher at Lochaber High School, too, so we also thought—”

  “Fine. Yes. All makes sense,” Mitchell said, patting her pockets for her keys.

  “Dave’s got a couple of physio appointments in the next couple of days, so he’ll join us when he’s done. We’ll get someone local to log evidence until then.”

  “Fine, yes, fine. And DI Forde will be staying here, of course.”

  “What? Actually, I thought—”

  “There’s a stack of ‘welcome back’ paperwork with his name on it that he’ll be starting first thing tomorrow,” Mitchell said. “As time permits, he can assist from up here. Until such times as I’m confident he’s fully fit, he won’t be working from anywhere but this building. Is that clear?”

  “Well—”

  “Is it clear or isn’t it, Jack?”

  “I mean, aye, but—”

  Mitchell’s nod was so curt it served as a full-stop on the entire conversation.

  “Good. Then, I’ll
bid you goodnight, Jack. Good luck down the road. Keep me informed. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but the press is already sniffing around this one, so try not to make too much mess.”

  Before Logan could reply, she made a shooing motion, ushered him out of the office, then locked the door behind them.

  “Goodnight again, Jack,” she said, setting off along the corridor.

  “Night, ma’am,” Logan replied. “Oh, and for what it’s worth, I think you’re right, by the way.”

  The Detective Superintendent stopped and turned. “About?”

  “The jacket,” Logan said. He shook his head and flinched, just enough for her to notice. “It doesn’t suit you at all.”

  “How did it go?” asked Ben, when Logan returned to the Incident Room. “She alright with me joining you on your road trip?” His smile faded, just a fraction. “Or am I a liability?”

  “You’re a liability all right, but then you always bloody have been,” Logan told him. “Aye, she’s fine with it. Took a bit of convincing, but she saw sense in the end.”

  “Magic, Jack. Well done!”

  Ben seemed to grow an inch or two before Logan’s eyes, and maybe shed a few years, too. Logan took a moment to memorise the look of relief on the DI’s face, and the way the happy lines crinkled around his eyes.

  It would be something to hold onto during the weapons-grade bollocking he’d just set himself up for.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Logan’s house was a two-bedroom semi-detached on one of the new estates, with a brick driveway, an environmentally-friendly heating system, and a sense of smug superiority that had, so far, prevented it from feeling like home.

  It was early days, of course. The walls were all still the same uniform Magnolia that the developers had applied. The carpets in the main rooms were all matching shades of dark brown, and the wood-effect vinyl flooring that covered the floor in the hall, kitchen, and downstairs bathroom remained boringly blemish-free.

  It was a nice house. And therein lay the problem.

  It felt too nice for him to live in. It was a family home, meant for a couple and a young child or two. A dog, maybe, or a rabbit in a hutch in the garden out the back. It was a house that longed for fun and chaos, bedtime stories and stolen kisses. It was a blank canvas, waiting for life, and love, and laughter to be imprinted on it.

  What it had ended up with was a bitter, middle-aged man with a list of regrets and an insomnia problem. That was why he was sitting in the dining room drinking a glass of milk in the middle of the night, and munching his way through a packet of wafer-thin ham that had technically gone out of date three hours earlier.

  And yes, he had a dining room now. Only a small one, but still. He hadn’t had a dining room in a very long time. Not since he’d shared a house with Vanessa and Maddie.

  Because that’s all he’d been doing in the end. Sharing a house.

  He folded a piece of ham into a triangle, shoved it in his mouth, then went into the messages on his phone. There had been no notifications, but sometimes he missed them. Sometimes, he’d discover an unopened message from days before that he’d somehow managed to overlook, and there was a chance that…

  No. Nothing.

  He checked for missed calls.

  None of those, either.

  Maddie had taken herself off Facebook after… everything that had happened. Logan went to the site and searched her name, in case she was back on.

  She wasn’t.

  Or, if she was, she was doing a solid job of hiding from him.

  “Married, eh?” he said out loud.

  The house didn’t answer. It just sat there, quietly judging him and no doubt resenting its lot in life. It could have been coorying in a couple of sleeping kiddies right now. Or maybe spying on a hushed under-the-covers fumble by two tired parents stealing a moment together.

  “Aye, well, life doesn’t always work out the way we might hope,” he announced, then he raised his glass of milk in toast, knocked it back, and sighed. “I’m talking to a fucking house,” he muttered.

  He ate another piece of ham, chewed it slowly and thoughtfully, then searched Maddie’s name in Google. He was about to hit send, then added ‘wedding photographs’ to the search, before thumbing the button marked ‘Go’.

  Her name was the third result down, below two adverts for wedding photography services. Her new husband’s name was there, too.

  Anderson Crawford.

  Logan tutted. “Was there a first name shortage the day he was born?” he muttered. He hovered his finger above the link, but didn’t press it. Not yet. Not right away. “Parents probably a right pair of arseholes. Tweed-wearing, Burberry-wellied bastards.” He lifted his gaze to address the house. “You mark my bloody words.”

  The house, for its part, said nothing.

  Logan could almost see him now, this ‘Anderson Crawford’. This so-called son-in-law. He’d have one of those faces, wouldn’t he? Smug. Self-satisfied. Big teeth, probably. The parents would be from the fox-hunting set, and that lot tended to have that look about them.

  Blue-blood, dyed-in-the-wool Tories, they’d be, too. Which was fine. Each to their own. Who was he to judge?

  But they’d be the type that was right up in your face with it, complaining about people on benefits having big tellies, or about them wasting their money on such lavish luxuries as internet access and McDonald’s, while they kicked back in their private yacht eating bloody caviar and smoked salmon.

  “We don’t mind helping those down on their luck,” they’d say, in their grating, braying voices. “But they’ve got to help themselves, too. We can’t bail out everyone, now, can we!”

  “No, maybe not,” Logan would reply. “But we bailed out the fucking banks you work in, quick smart. Didn’t hear you complaining when you got your big bonus, did we?”

  Because they worked in banking. The whole bloody family.

  He assumed.

  There was a force field over his phone screen, holding his finger at bay. He poked at it a couple of times, and came close to making contact with the blue-highlighted search result link, but didn’t quite connect all the way.

  He looked up. The house was judging him. He could feel it.

  “Fine. Right. Fine,” he announced, then he punctured the force field, tapped the link, and steeled himself against the inevitable burning rage the very sight of Mr Anderson Crawford would ignite deep within him.

  He was younger than Logan had been expecting. About Maddie’s age. He’d pictured him older.

  There were no big teeth or horsey smiles in the pictures. No air of superiority. In every picture, he just looked… smitten. Like he couldn’t believe his bloody luck to be standing next to his new bride.

  Logan hadn’t looked at Maddie yet. No more than a fleeting glance, anyway. There’d be time for that, but it needed a build-up.

  The wedding wasn’t big, going by the pictures. Nothing extravagant. A dozen guests, none of them in tweed, none of them carting around big bags of money and looking pleased with themselves.

  Just a relatively small group of people, all looking happy. Together.

  If anyone looked smug, it was Vanessa. Of course, he was probably imprinting that on her. In truth, she just looked pleased, and—in some of the later pictures—ever so slightly drunk.

  Logan put the phone down, stood up, and paced a full circuit of the table before returning to his seat. He ate a piece of ham, wiped his hands on his bare legs, then picked up his phone again.

  He couldn’t put it off any longer.

  When he looked at her—when he finally saw her—wrapped in an unfussy white dress, hair and makeup done fancy without being over the top, his heart ached. Not in a metaphorical sense. This was physical. A rabbit-punch of pain, square in the chest, that drew a grunt and a grimace, and a sharp intake of breath.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, although if pressed he wouldn’t have been quite able to explain why. He drummed his fingers on the side of his milk glass and
scrolled to the next photo.

  Vanessa was right. She looked happy. Truly, madly, blissfully happy. There wasn’t a photo where she wasn’t smiling, where her eyes weren’t sparkling, where her whole face wasn’t lit-up. Alive.

  She radiated joy in every picture. Everyone did, but her more so than the rest. She looked so happy, in fact, so utterly carefree, that he barely recognised the woman in the photos as the girl he’d once known.

  Logan fished in the packet for more ham, but found it empty.

  He looked around at a house meant for the love and laughter of a family.

  “Ah, fuck it,” he said, clicking off his phone.

  And on that note, he went to bed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ben practically skipped up the path from his front door, a holdall in one hand, a coat draped over his other arm. He dumped both in the back, then clambered into the front seat of Logan’s BMW, closed the door, clicked on his seatbelt, then slapped both hands on his thighs.

  “Right, we’re all set!” he chirped, all smiles and shiny teeth. There was a wee daud of toilet paper fixed to his chin with a spot of red, but otherwise, he looked in good shape.

  Which was more than could be said for Logan.

  “Christ, what’s wrong with you? Are you ill?” Ben asked, his smile falling away somewhat.

  “Just tired,” Logan explained. He yawned, as if to help his case. “Didn’t get much sleep.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Because you look like Patient Zero in some sort of zombie virus pandemic,” Ben continued. “No offence.”

  “How am I meant to no’ take offence to that?” Logan asked. He folded down his sun visor, checked himself in the mirror, then grunted and closed it over again. “No, fair enough. You’re bang-on.”

  Ben studied him closely. Not that he really needed to. They’d known each other long enough to recognise the signs in each other with little more than a glance.