bicycle. A large chest freezer was the only thing in the whole place that looked as if it still worked. 'So what's the story then?' asked Rennie, locking the car.
Logan pointed at Cruickshanks' Repose. 'Husband's been missing since last Wednesday. Poor cow thinks the next-door neighbour's got something to do with it. Doesn't know darling Gavin's been getting his leg over women all around town including a pole-dancer with a habit of disappearing off on holiday at a moment's notice.'
'You think he's just buggered off with her?'
Logan dug the postcard from Secret Service out of his pocket and handed it over. 'What do you think?'
Rennie's eyes roved across Hayley's leather-bikinied body.
'Phwoar, not bad! She can dance on my pole any time she- Hey!' Logan had taken the picture back.
'Come on,' he said, as Rennie pouted, 'we might as well go see the next-door neighbour before we tell the wife her husband's a cheating bastard.'
Pressing the doorbell produced a single, dry clunk, so they had to knock. Eventually a swearing silhouette appeared in the door's rippled glass. 'This better not be you fuckin' boba-job bastards again…' trailing off as the door opened. A crumpled woman in her dressing gown scowled at them.
'Aw, fuck. What is it now?' Her hair was lank with two inches of brown and grey roots showing, hanging around an oval face with puffy bags under the eyes, broken veins spidering across her cheeks and nose. 'I told them at the station: the fuckin' insurance is in the post.'
'We're not here about that, Mrs…?'
Panic flickered across her eyes, swiftly followed by a defiant sneer. 'What you want then?'
'Last Tuesday you were involved in an altercation with Mr Cruickshank from next door.'
'Says who?' She was slowly inching the door shut.
'I want you to tell me about it. Right now. Before I arrest you and drag you down to the station.' Logan flashed her an insincere smile. 'Up to you.'
She closed her eyes and swore. 'OK, OK.' She jammed her hands in her dressing-gown pockets and stomped back into the house, leaving the front door open for them. They followed her through a cluttered hall to the kitchen, where a smeared window looked out on a rectangle of chewed-up grass and dog toys, the borders around the edge a collection of churned mud and weeds. The kitchen was a mess of pizza boxes, clear plastic takeaway containers still swimming with grease, empty tins of lager, dirty washing spilling out of an overflowing laundry basket, and the smell of something festering in the sink.
There was an unopened stack of bills on the table and Logan picked one up. It was addressed to Mrs Clair Pirie, with what looked like Final Reminder just visible through the plastic window. 'Mr Pirie about is he, Clair?'
She snatched the brown envelope from his hands and stuffed it into an already overflowing drawer. 'None of yer damned business. Filthy bastard fucked off years ago.'
'I see.' Logan watched her stab the kettle's 'on' button and pick a teabag from a pile of desiccated brown circles slouching in a saucer. 'Not for us, thanks. So you live here alone?'
'No… aye, I mean yes: alone.' Shifty, shifty, shifty. Logan leant back against the working surface and stared at her in silence as the kettle growled and rumbled to a boil. 'OK, OK,' she said at last. 'Jesus… My boyfriend used to stay here, OK? We was goin' to put him on the council tax next time. But we split up, OK? Satisfied? Bastard walked out on me.' The dried-up husk of a teabag was hurled into a dirty mug, chased with boiling water.
'Tell us about the people next door, Clair.'
'She's an interferin' cow – puttin' up fuckin' posters about other people's fuckin' dogs, cheeky bitch. And he's an arse hole. Bastard's round here complainin' the whole time. Never fuckin' happy.'
'That why you hit him?'
A small smile flickered over her face, before disappearing once more. 'He started it. Comin' round here and swearing a blue fuckin' streak. No fuckin' manners at all.' She wrenched open the fridge, dragged out a carton of milk and slopped some in on top of the teabag. A horrific stench slithered out into the kitchen, mouldy cheese and the unmistakable sickly-sweet smell of meat long past its sell-by date. But Clair didn't seem to notice.
'You hear he's gone missing?'
She froze, the dirty mug to her lips. 'Oh aye?'
'Since Wednesday, day after you assaulted him.' Logan watched her eyes and there was definitely something there.
He just didn't know what it was yet. 'Bit of a coincidence, isn't it?'
She shrugged. 'Nothin' to do with me. Probably run off with one of his tarts anyway. Left that soppy cow of a wife.
Just fuckin' abandoned her…' Clair fished the teabag out of the mug with a fork and hurled it into the dirty sink. 'It's what you fuckin' men do, isn't it?'
Back outside in the sunshine Rennie gasped for air. 'Jesus,' he said waving a hand in front of his nose. 'What a stink!
No' surprised her husband left her. Woman's a bloody slob … What?' He looked at Logan who was staring at the front of the house.
'Do me a favour, OK? I want you to get onto Control and have them do a full check: everything they have on Mrs Clair Pirie.'
'Think she's got something to do with Cruickshank going missing?'
'Nope. My money's still on Ibiza, Hayley the pole-dancer and her tiny leather bikini. But she is up to something.'
They went next door to Cruickshanks' Repose. Ailsa appeared, dressed in a blue-and-white-striped apron and rubber gloves, blonde hair tied back. Stunning. Her face went white when she saw Logan standing on her top step. 'Oh, God.' She wrung her yellow-rubber-gloved hands, making them squeak. 'Something's happened!'
Logan tried for a reassuring smile. 'It's OK, Mrs Cruickshank, nothing's happened: we're just here to have a little chat, OK?
Can we come in?'
'Oh, of course. I'm sorry… Would you like some tea? It's no problem.'
She sat them down in a pristine lounge and went to put the kettle on. As soon as he was out of sight, Rennie leaned over and hissed at Logan, 'OOOH! Suits you sir!'
'Would you grow up! The woman's husband's missing.'
'I know, but Jesus, how the hell do you leave that? She's bloody gorgeous! I would! Would you?'
'Shut up – she'll hear you.'
Rennie looked longingly at the kitchen door. 'Tell you: she could keep the rubber gloves on, I'd-'
'Constable – I'm warning you!'
Rennie stared at the carpet. 'Sorry sir. Must be the shock of my nadgers still working after Suzie Bloody McKinnon's kneecap vasectomy.' Logan couldn't help smiling.
Ailsa Cruickshank returned bearing a tray topped with mugs of tea and chocolate biscuits. As Rennie helped himself to a Penguin, she perched herself on the edge of the sofa and fidgeted with a cushion. Logan cleared his throat, not looking forward to what was going to come next. 'Er…' he said, wondering how he was going to tell her that her darling Gavin was probably off having lots of holiday sex with a pole-dancer.
'I was wondering if you've heard from your husband at all?'
She sighed, deflating slightly. 'No. No I haven't.'
'I see…' Go on: tell her. 'Er… when you reported your husband missing, did they ask you about other things not being there: his toothbrush, change of clothes, passport. That kind of thing?'
'You don't think he's… Gavin wouldn't just leave me without saying anything! He wouldn't.'
Logan bit his lip and nodded. 'OK. Well, just in case, do you think we could take a look?'
Ailsa took them upstairs to the master bedroom, unaware of DC Rennie's eyes locked onto her backside as she climbed up in front of them. The house was decorated in soft shades, everything carefully coordinated. The bed linen matched the curtains, carpet and overstuffed cushions lying on a wicker chair in the corner. In fact the only disorderly part of the room was the huge collection of detective novels – all hers, she explained with an apologetic smile, Gavin didn't like to read. She rummaged about in a chest of drawers, digging out a pair of burgundy EU passports. One hers, one Gavin's.
His toothbrush was still in the bathroom. His razor, moisturizer, facial scrub, and hair gel still in the medicine cabinet.
