up at the Joyriders’ Graveyard. Make our lives a hell of a lot easier. .’
Bennachie humped on the horizon, the mountain rising up between the trees. Not much to look at from a distance, the Mither Tap looking like an abandoned breast: nipple pointing at the sky.
Silence. Just the sound of the engine, and the tyres growling on the tarmac at eighty miles per hour.
Logan glanced across the car. DS Chalmers was looking back at him, one eyebrow raised — as if she’d just asked a question.
He cleared his throat. ‘In what way? ’
‘Well. . can’t they see that it’s interfering with the actual job? Surely that’s more important than saving a few quid? ’
Ah. He went back to the window. Trees and fields and cows and sheep. ‘Austerity measures. We’ve all got to do our bit. All pulling together, in the same boat, etc. Pick your cliche.’ The sun was warm through the glass. Soporific. He closed his eyes for a minute, just to let them rest. Switch off the lights on the ants’ hoedown. ‘Think yourself lucky — you only have to moan about it. Some of us have to implement this crap.’
A spaniel loped along the pavement, unaccompanied, sniffing each and every lamppost before cocking a leg and leaving its calling card. Logan looked up from the manila folder’s contents and peered out at a line-up of identikit houses. ‘You sure this is the right street? ’
‘No.’ Chalmers turned the wheel and they drifted onto another road lined with yet more pale-cream buildings with the occasional patch of sandstone cladding thrown in for fun. White PVC windows, lockblock drives, satellite dishes, and a tiny garage where a front room should have been. All topped with fresh brown pantiles. Detached homes built so close together you’d be lucky if you could walk between them without your shoulders brushing either side. ‘Place is like a maze. .’
She did a three-point turn and headed back the way they’d come. A wee boy on a yellow bike with tassels on the handlebars cycled slowly by, excavating the inside of his nose as if it held buried treasure.
‘Has to be around here somewhere. .’
According to the Police National Computer, Guy Ferguson was the lucky recipient of umpteen warnings, and three stints of community service. Everything from shoplifting in John Lewis when he was twelve, to drunk and disorderly when he was fourteen. Then there was a string of vehicle offences — theft from opening lockfast places, unlawful removal, vandalism, driving without insurance. . One count of breaking into the corner shop and making off with the till. Almost went to prison eighteen months ago when he was caught helping himself to the contents of ladies’ handbags in the Kintore Arms.
And that was the last thing on his record. Either Guy had cleaned up his act, or he’d finally figured out how not to get caught.
‘God’s sake. Everything round here’s Castleview: Castleview Place, Castleview Avenue, Castleview Crescent. Where’s the castle? Can you see one? ’
Logan flicked back to the mugshot at the front of the file. ‘Developers are like politicians — never believe anything they say.’
In the photo, Guy looked as if he’d just been dragged through an Alsatian, backwards. His left cheek was a patchwork of bruises, his eye swollen almost shut, split lip and swollen jaw. Apparently some bloke objected to Guy stealing things from his wife’s handbag. An earlier pic showed a plain young man with doormat eyebrows, acne- flecked cheeks, and a moustache that barely qualified as enthusiastic bumfluff.
Very gangsta.
Chalmers pointed through the window. ‘Here we go.’ She pulled up in front of yet another barely detached sandstone-clad box, blocking the Audi and Renault parked on the driveway. Then wiped her hands on the steering wheel, leaving a shiny film behind. ‘Guv, about the death message. .’
‘Let me guess, you’re not keen? ’ Logan slipped the printouts back into the file. ‘Our victim had form for stealing cars and breaking into places to rob them. Sound familiar? ’
‘The jewellery job.’
‘Car was stolen a couple of streets away from here, used in a robbery, then dumped and burned just past Thainstone Mart. Next to Guy Ferguson’s body.’
Chalmers left another layer of palm sweat on the steering wheel. ‘They do the job, then his mates turn on him after they’ve divvied up the loot. Maybe he was holding out on them? ’
‘Could be.’ Logan climbed out into the warm afternoon. ‘What about the registered keeper? ’
‘Straight up, far as I can tell: no record in the PNC. Pretty hacked off to lose the car too, was a present from his dad.’ She straightened her wrinkly suit, then marched up to the front door and rang the bell.
A minute later, it was opened by a wee girl in a bright yellow dress with bears on it, head a mess of black curls. She looked up at DS Chalmers with big blue eyes, then stuck her thumb in her mouth.
A voice came from somewhere inside: a man. ‘Who is it, Bella? ’
The thumb came out with a soft pop. ‘My name’s Bella and I’m five and I’m getting a pony for my birthday.’
Chalmers hunkered down until she was roughly at eye-level. ‘Hello, Bella, my name’s Lorna. Can you tell your mummy and daddy the police are here and they need to speak to them? ’
A nod sent her curls bobbing, then she turned and shouted back into the house. ‘It’s the pigs!’ Before squealing her way down the corridor, arms waving above her head. ‘You’ll never take me alive, Copper!’
Chalmers cleared her throat. ‘Well that was. . nice.’
A man poked his head out into the corridor. Pulled a face. Then sauntered towards them: jeans, flannel shirt, the top of his head poking through a crown of greying frizz. He wiped his hands on a tea towel. ‘Sorry about that — someone let her watch
Logan stepped forward. ‘Mr Ferguson? ’
The smile slipped a little. ‘Yes? ’
‘Can we come in please, Mr Ferguson? We need to talk.’
The living room was bright and airy, the sounds of music and laughter coming through from the dining- kitchen. Mr Ferguson sat on the edge of the couch, his wife perched beside him. She fidgeted with the hem of her orange cardigan, working it back and forth between her fingers, pulling little tufts of fluff from the wool.
She looked over her shoulder at the open door. Slipped a fleck of orange fuzz into her mouth and chewed on it.
The wee girl who’d swore they’d
Mrs Ferguson pulled another tuft of orange fluff. She stared off over Logan’s shoulder, not making eye contact. ‘What’s he done now? ’
Her husband sighed. ‘Why do you always have to do that? ’
‘I’m not doing anything, I’m being realistic. Of course Guy’s done something, why else are
‘Sheila, he’s-’
‘That boy could cause a fight in a cemetery.’
Mr Ferguson laid a hand on her knee. Smiled at Logan again. ‘Guy’s a good kid, he just. . he’s easily led.’
Logan licked his lips. Cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news. .’
Mrs Ferguson’s mouth fell open, eyes wide. Then she stood, walked over to the door and closed it, shutting out the sounds of laughter. ‘I see.’
‘Oh God. .’ Her husband rocked back and forward in his seat. ‘Oh God, no. .’
She blinked, wiped the heel of her hand across her eye, then brought her chin up. ‘We only saw him this morning. He was supposed to be getting out on Wednesday.’
‘Oh God, Guy. .’ Mr Ferguson dropped his chin onto his chest and sobbed, fingers digging into the soft cushions of the couch. ‘Oh God. .’
Logan glanced at Chalmers, then back at Mrs Ferguson. ‘You saw him this morning? ’
‘At the hospital. They said he was going to be all right. Just keeping him in for observation.’ She settled onto the arm of the couch and wrapped an arm around her husband’s heaving shoulders. ‘Was it. . did he suffer? ’
‘He was in hospital? ’ Oh, shite.
‘They were fooling around and he got petrol all over his hands. How can someone die from burned hands? ’ A
