Logan slammed the hatch shut. Bad enough they had genuine criminals out there without the cells being full of nutjobs getting themselves arrested for the fun of it.
Her voice came through, muffled from the other side. ‘So . . . you want to take a raincheck on those handcuffs? ’
45
Logan stuck his feet up on his desk, a cup of tea in one hand, his paperback copy of Witchfire in the other, while the speakerphone rang and rang and rang.
‘You’ve reached Lorna Chalmers. I can’t come to the phone right now, but you can leave a message after the beep.’
‘It’s half three: where the bloody hell are you? ’ He leaned over and stabbed the red button, hanging up.
No joy from her mobile, and no joy from the number for the flat she was renting on Jasmine Terrace either.
He tried Rennie instead. ‘You heard from Chalmers yet? ’
Rennie’s voice boomed out from the speakers. ‘Course not. Why should her holiness have to come into work like the rest of us plebs? Probably hung-over, kneeling on some dirty old man’s bathroom floor, with her knickers round her ankles, vomiting lobster-and-chips all over the porcelain.’
‘Yes, very funny. Tell me, Detective Sergeant, have you found your missing tramp yet? ’
A pause. ‘Actually . . . it’s a bit complicated. I—’
‘Then you’re in no position to be a smartarse, are you? Get on to Control – I want the nearest patrol car sent round Chalmers’s flat. Unless she’s dying of flu, I want her in here right now.’
‘Gah. . .’ Logan pulled a face, then spat the cold tea back into the mug. He moved it across to the other side of the desk, where it would be out of reach for next time.
He scanned down the page, looking for where he’d left off. Mrs Shepherd was just about to pull out someone’s fingernails. . .
A knock on the door and PC Sim stuck her head in. ‘Guv? Alpha-One-Three’s just been on the blower: no sign of DS Chalmers at her flat.’
He put the book down again. Stared out of the window for a bit.
Sim cleared her throat. ‘Guv? ’
Wasn’t like someone like Chalmers to just fall off the map, was it? An ambitious career-obsessed go-getter like her? No: she was the brown-nosing and hard-work type. The type who wouldn’t take a sick day if her leg fell off.
Not unless she’d done something really stupid. . .
‘Guv, do you need me, or can I—’
‘Get your coat. We’re going round.’
The trees on Jasmine Terrace trembled in the wind, dusty dark-green leaves hissing against each other. Sim stood in a lonely blade of sunlight, one hand holding onto her black bowler as she stared up at Chalmers’s flat.
The other side of the road was a long terrace of traditional granite buildings, but Chalmers’s place was part of a slightly more modern block, set back from the cobbles behind a rectangle of parched grass. Three storeys with a flat roof and Dutch-barn-style upper floor. Four units, with six flats in each. Only a five-minute walk from FHQ.
Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Anything? ’
‘Nope.’ Sim tried the intercom again. Waited for a bit. Then stepped back to watch the top-floor flat. ‘Maybe she’s not in? ’
Maybe. . .
Logan pressed the ‘SERVICES’ button, holding it down until someone got fed up of the noise and buzzed them in.
It was nice inside. Clean. He followed Sim up to the top floor.
The door to flat number five had a sticky label underneath the doorbell: ‘LORNA CHALMERS’.
Sim thumbed it and a grating drrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! sounded on the other side of the door followed by a long high-pitched yowl. She hunkered down, levered the letterbox open, and peered inside. ‘Mail on the doormat. . . Oh, hello, puss. Who’s a pretty boy or girl then? ’
The yowling got louder.
‘Guv? ’
Logan squatted down beside her, sniffing at the letterbox. Something floral and plasticky, a hint of pine that could’ve been disinfectant? At least it didn’t smell as if anything – or anyone – was rotting away in there. ‘Try the neighbours, see if anyone’s got a key.’
As soon as Sim was off knocking on doors, Logan pulled out his phone and called Control. ‘Does DS Chalmers own a car? ’
‘Hud oan. . .’ The nasal Aberdonian accent faded away, replaced by the sound of a rattling keyboard. ‘Aye: it’s a Mini, you want the number plate? ’
Logan jotted it down in his notebook. ‘I want a lookout request on her and her vehicle. And get me a GSM trace on her mobile.’
More keyboard noises. ‘Fit’s she done? ’
‘Hopefully, nothing stupid. Now put me on to DS Rennie.’
‘He’s no’ in the office, but give us a mintie. . .’
A bleep, a pause, another bleep, then Rennie was on the line. ‘Hello? Guv? ’
‘Did Chalmers say anything to you last night? ’
A sigh. ‘How come it’s always “Chalmers, this”, “Chalmers, that” with—’
‘Anything about where she was going? Any ideas she had about where Agnes Garfield was? ’
‘You really think she’d tell me? God forbid she’d have to share the glory. Tell you, she’s—’
‘Did she talk about the case at all? ’
Sim bounded back up the stairs, holding a Yale key aloft like the Olympic torch. ‘Old lady in flat three had one. Says she hasn’t seen Chalmers since yesterday morning.’
‘All she ever did was ask questions. All take, take, take, and no—’
Logan took the phone from his ear and slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Open it.’
‘But we don’t have a warrant, and. . .’ Sim scrunched up one side of her face. ‘Ah, got you: yes, I think I can smell gas. Someone inside might be in difficulty!’ She stuck the key in the lock, twisted, then stepped inside.
Back on the phone, Logan followed her. ‘What did she ask about? ’
‘Usual. Kept going on about the Anthony Chung murder. Said we must’ve missed something. As if! Wouldn’t stop nagging me till I gave her the interview transcripts from when we spoke to the house buyers.’
The ones Logan had just read.
‘And it’s not like there’s anything in there – none of them knew Anthony Chung or Agnes Garfield, and they’ve all got alibis. Complete waste of time.’
Logan bent down and picked up the mail from the mat. Mostly fliers from charities, a leaflet from the local Tory candidate – nothing like blinkered optimism – what looked like a council tax bill, and two copies of the Aberdeen Examiner. Yesterday’s and today’s. ‘Maybe the estate agent’s left someone off the list? ’
‘Nah, got the guy who works there to show me the files. Everyone who’s seen that place was on there.’ A sniff. ‘You want me to do anything? ’
‘Yes: find your missing tramp.’ Logan hung up on him and slid the phone back in his pocket.
Sim appeared from the flat’s kitchen, carrying a ginger tabby in her arms. Its stripy tail lashed back and forth as it glowered at him. ‘Poor thing must’ve been starved.’
‘Any sign of a disturbance? ’
She shook her head. ‘Wish my place was this tidy.’ The cat wriggled, legs sticking out at random angles. She let it down and it charged away into another room. ‘Plates washed in the kitchen, bed’s made, all the magazines are lined up on the coffee table.’
Logan followed the cat through to a small double bedroom. It disappeared under the bed. Sim was right: everything was tidy and ordered. Which was quite an achievement, given that Chalmers had only transferred down from Northern Constabulary a couple of weeks ago. Any normal person would still be living out of boxes.
Sim picked up a book from the bedside cabinet – a hardback copy of Witchfire with a red tasselled bookmark about halfway through. She flipped it open. ‘Signed and everything.’ Then she put it down again. ‘Tell you, I had nightmares for weeks after reading that
bit in the tower block.’ A shudder. ‘Baby oil. . .’
‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Apparently he based the three old witches on real people. Think they tried to sue Hunter for putting them in the book, but it all got settled out of court.’
Logan turned slowly on the spot. There was nothing here. Chalmers had just headed off to work like any other day, and never come back. And the only thing she’d definitely done was ask about the people who’d been to see the home where Anthony Chung died. God forbid she’d have to share the glory. . .
Sim tucked her hands into the armholes on her stab-proof vest. ‘So. . .? ’
‘Time to go see a man about a house.’
‘I really don’t understand how we can be of any more assistance.’ Mr Willox fiddled with the buttons on his desk phone, shoogling them from side to side. His grey hair was piled up into a combination comb-over and quiff on top of his wide head, a dark-blue suit and a thick purple tie making him look as if he’d just fallen through a portal from the early eighties.
Logan tapped a finger on the glass desk, leaving a smudge. ‘Agnes Garfield and Anthony Chung got the keys to that property from somewhere.’
‘Do you have any idea how much it’s going to cost to clean the kitchen in the Abernethy house? And even if they can get all the stains out, who’s going to want to buy a house where someone was tortured to death in the kitchen? It’s not like we can make a feature out of it.’
‘And you’re sure everyone who viewed the place was on the list? ’
He waved a hand at the lever-arch file on the desk. ‘You’ve seen the paperwork. That’s everyone.’
‘So who else had access to the keys? ’
‘Well, I did, obviously; Jennifer on reception; Jake Smith, my partner; our trainee, Duncan Cocker; and a couple of people we use for viewing rural properties when it’s simply not convenient to send someone out from the office.’
Cocker. Cocker. . .
Logan pulled out his notebook and went flipping back through the days until he got to Monday when they were interviewing Anthony Chung’s friends. ‘Duncan Cocker – young, bit vague, sounds as if he just wandered off the set of some awful American teenage rom-com? ’
A sigh. ‘At Willox and Smith we pride ourselves on quality and service. Duncan’s. . . He still has a lot to learn.’
Damn right he did. ‘I need to see him.’
‘Well,’ Willox thumbed through a big desk diary, ‘he’s down to show a couple round a detached cottage with two bedrooms, sun porch, and excellent potential as an equestrian property, in twenty minutes, but you can—’
‘I don’t think you’re really getting the seriousness of this.’
‘We do have a business to run, and—’
‘Get him in here now.’
Willox puffed out his cheeks, ran a hand across his comb-over quiff. ‘I. . .’ Then he leaned forward and pressed one of the shoogled buttons on his desk phone. ‘Jennifer, can you ask Mr Cocker to step into my office please? ’
Duncan Cocker shifted in his seat, licked his lips. Pulled on a twitchy smile. ‘Nah: honest, I got no idea, you know? ’
Logan sat back in Mr Willox’s executive office chair and steepled his fingertips, the top two just under the tip of his nose. Doing his best Superintendent Napier impression. Staring at Duncan Cocker in silence.
‘So, you. . .’ A shrug. ‘It’s all OK, right? ’
More silence.
He started to rise out of his seat, so Logan gave PC Sim the nod and she loomed over him, both hands on his shoulders, pushing him back down. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘But I told you, I don’t know, it’s just, like, one of them coincidences? ’
Sim patted him on the cheek. ‘Tell me, Mr Cocker, do we look thick? ’
Pause. ‘No? ’
‘So why do you think it’s OK to lie to us? ’
‘But I’m totally not lying, and—’
‘Mr Cocker, it’s not polite to call someone thick, is it? ’
‘I didn’t say anyone was thick, it’s like a—’
‘Some people might take a lot of offence at that.’
He stared at Logan, hands up at chest height, as if miming the ‘Please, sir, can I have some more? ’ bit from Oliver Twist. ‘I didn’t tell anyone about me knowing Ton, ’cos I didn’t want to lose my job, and it wasn’t like I had anything to do with it, yeah? ’
Logan smiled at him. ‘You have no idea how much trouble you’re in, do you? ’
‘But. . .’ A breath. Then he looked at the floor. ‘Ton would kill me.’
‘He’d have to join the queue. You see, the people he’s been stealing from aren’t the let-bygones-be-bygones type. They’re more claw-hammer-to-the-knees kind of guys. And as soon as they know you helped Anthony Chung rip them off. . .’ Logan sooked a breath in through his bared teeth. ‘Well, they’re going to be very interested in paying you a visit.’
‘But I never—’
‘Do you like your kneecaps, Duncan? ’
Silence.
He wriggled in his seat, until Sim pinned him down again.
‘The Inspector asked you a question, Mr Cocker.’
‘I’ve. . .’ A cough. ‘I kinda let Ton have the keys to a couple places we’re selling with vacant possession. You know, ones that haven’t shifted for over a year? He does a bit of business there.’
‘Until he ended up staked out and tortured to death in the Abernethy house.’
Cocker squeezed his knees together. ‘Nothing to do with me, I totally swear, I mean totally. I gave Ton the keys, he gave me a shed-load of weed. That’s it.’ He licked his lips and looked up at PC Sim. ‘Er. . . All for personal consumption, yeah? I wasn’t selling it or nothing.’
Logan tossed his notepad onto the desk, then followed it with a biro. ‘Addresses.’
He made a little whimpering noise.
Bit his lip.
Then picked up the pen and scribbled down half a dozen of them. ‘You got to promise not to tell Mr Willox, yeah? I mean, you know, it’s my job and he might . . . with the keys and everything? ’
Logan pointed at the notebook. ‘Sign it at the bottom. And date it.’
Cocker did. ‘And it don’t have to go any further, right? The other cop swore it’d be OK – you don’t have to drag me into it. She promised.’
Logan took his notebook back. ‘Other cop? ’
‘You know, yesterday? The woman with the curly hair and the boobs? She totally promised.’
He sat forward. ‘When yesterday? ’
‘Afternoon. . . About half three, maybe four? I gave her the addresses, and that was it.’
The leads she was chasing down. The ones she said were dead-ends when she came through to volunteer for soup-kitchen duty.
Cocker cleared his throat. ‘So, I can go now, right? Got to show a couple round a house. . .’
46
‘A right sodding disaster.’ On the other end of the phone, Steel sounded as if she was chewing on a mouthful of wasps.
Logan leaned against the roof of his rusty Fiat, notebook open in front of him. ‘You’re the one gave the job to Ding-Dong.’
‘Two injured officers. Armed standoff. Hostages. Bloody press everywhere. . .’
‘What did I tell you? ’
‘Hostages! How can he screw up raiding a wee cannabis farm? Now it’s all Waco comes to Blackburn.’
‘Should’ve let me do it then, shouldn’t you? Now pay attention – I need you to get armed response units round to six houses. Have you got a pen? ’
‘Leith managed to raid his without anyone getting shot. . .’ She paused. ‘This isn’t more cannabis farms, is it? Because we got in enough trouble last time.’
Good question. ‘No idea. Anthony Chung got keys to a bunch of properties from a friend who works for an estate agent’s. Most of them are out in the sticks. That’s why we could never find out where he and Agnes w
ere staying – they just moved from house to house.’
‘Six addresses? You want me to get six addresses raided? What part of “Shotgun Hostage Drama in Suburban Cul-de-sac” did you no’ understand? ’
‘And you better get the SEB to go over them too, see if we can find anything else linking Agnes Garfield to—’
‘Pin back your lugs: I – don’t – have – the – men. Got a sodding crisis going on here. If it’s no’ life or death, it’ll have to wait.’
‘They might have DS Chalmers.’
Silence.
‘Hello? Can you hear—’
‘You better be joking, Laz.’
‘She got the list yesterday afternoon and didn’t tell anyone. For all we know, Agnes has her staked out on someone’s floor right now.’
A barrage of foul language erupted from the earpiece. Then more wasp-chewing. ‘Fine, I’ll magic firearms teams up out of nowhere. Get them going round the properties. You happy now? ’
Ecstatic.
He gave her the addresses, then she slammed the phone down on him. Like it was his fault Chalmers was a glory-hungry overachiever.
Sim appeared on the other side of the car, her Airwave handset blinking away on her shoulder. ‘Guv? Got Control on the line. They say there’s an NPR hit on Chalmers’s Mini going north on the Inverurie road at half nine last night.’
‘Do they have her going back again? ’
‘Hold on. . .’ Sim clicked the button on her handset and repeated the question. Then shook her head. ‘She might have taken one of the back roads? ’
Chalmers would still have come down King Street, or West North Street, or the beach Esplanade to get home, and the Number Plate Recognition system would have picked her up. And, more importantly, she would’ve fed her cat.
‘What about the GSM trace? ’
Sim checked. ‘They say her mobile’s not switched on.’
Logan drummed his fingers on the car roof. Heading north on the Inverurie road. That meant they wanted addresses on the list to the north-west of the city. . . And only three fit the bill.
‘Guv? ’
‘Get in.’
They’d just have to do without a firearms team.
The Fiat bumped and ground its way down a dirt track, lined on either side with barbed-wire fences and thick knots of brambles, the ridge of grass in the middle scraping along the bottom of the car every time Sim hit a pothole. And as the track was pretty much all pothole, Logan had to stick his finger in his other ear to hear Rennie at all.
Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8) Page 42