into his mouth. 'Mmmph, mmmph, mmm?' Logan turned away from the window. 'You've got juice all down your chin, and I can't understand a word.' Alec chewed, swallowed, then went in for another forkload. 'I said, 'do you want to see the press conference?'' 'Not really.' 'No?' Alec tapped a couple of buttons on his bizarrely coloured editing keyboard and Faulds' face was replaced by a crowded room full of journalists. DI Insch, one of the media officers, and Aberdeen's very own Chief Constable were sitting at the front of the room, fielding questions like, 'Why was Ken Wiseman ever released?','How many people has the Flesher killed?','Why didn't Grampian Police make a stronger case against Wiseman in 1990?' and that perennial favourite,'Will there be a public enquiry?' The camera panned to focus on DI Insch's big pink head. He did not look happy. Alec pointed at the screen with his fork. 'Look at the expression on his face. Enough to give you nightmares.' 'Welcome to my world.' 'He always been a grumpy fat bastard?' Alec scraped out the last of the noodles, then upended the plastic container into his mouth, sooking out the juice. 'I'm not answering that on the grounds he'd have my balls if he found out.' 'Is it just me,' said Alec,'or does Insch have a thing for bollocks? Every time he threatens anyone it involves their testicles.' The cameraman dropped his empty Pot Noodle carton in the bin. 'Just between you and me, I think he might be a little repressed.' 'Yeah, you tell him that. I'm sure he'll love to hear it.' 'Spoke to my Executive Producer this morning: they're upping my budget. Couple of extra camera crew, more editing time. Think we might even get David Jason to do the voiceover.' 'You must be so proud.' Alec sighed. 'You're a right ray of bloody sunshine today.' 'So would you be - I've got to go tell Insch we've no idea where Ken Wiseman is.'
There were times when living in Fittie was a pain in the backside. Yes it was all quaint and historical - a tiny seventeenth-century fishing village at the mouth of Aberdeen harbour, the little granite homes arranged around three small squares, facing inwards. Huddling together for warmth. A little slice of history, surrounded by warehouses and mud tanks on two sides, the harbour on the third, and the North Sea on the fourth. Beautiful ... But not being able to park anywhere near the front door was an absolute sod. Grumbling, Heather lowered her bulging plastic bags to the cobbled street and tried to rub some feeling back into her hands. She should get herself a bike, one of those little-old-lady ones with the basket on the front. Then she could just cycle up to the supermarket and kill two birds with one stone: get the shopping done, and get rid of some of this bloody baby fat. If you were still allowed to call it baby fat three years after giving birth. She rummaged around inside one of the bags and came out with a bar of Dairy Milk, taking a big bite out of the chocolate and chewing unhappily. Get a bike and go to Weight Watchers. Maybe that would stop her bloody mother banging on about how fat she looked every time the old bag came to visit. Heather picked up the shopping again. Tonight she was going to treat herself to a bottle of wine and sod the antidepressants. Maybe there'd even be something good on the telly? A loud shout sounded somewhere back along the beach, and she sighed. Stupid kids getting into stupid fights over who had the stupidest car. Out Bouley bashing: racing up and down the Beach Boulevard at all hours, in the
