He tightened his grip on the holdall. It was a lot heavier than it looked, knives and saws were funny like that. They looked so pretty, and sparkly, but the legacy of blood weighed them down. Made them deceptive. Made them lie ... Wiseman paused for a moment, looking up and down the quiet forecourt, making sure no one was watching, then opened the door and stepped inside. It was time to fuck with life again.
The rain started to peter out somewhere after Newmacher, and by the time Alec was parking outside the Redgarth Inn it had stopped altogether. The view from the pub car park would have been perfect for Halloween: looking out across Oldmeldrum's ever-expanding waistline, lights glittering yellow, orange and white; past fields as dark as coal; the faint glow of Inverurie eight miles away; and beyond that the asymmetric anvil of Bennachie reaching up into the night sky. There was even a gibbous moon, casting a waxy grey light that made greasy shadows between the muck-encrusted four-by-fours. Logan almost expected to see a witch on a broomstick, cackling her way across the moon's pitted face. But his mother was probably miles away. Inside it was fairly busy, the happy murmur of Saturdaynight conversation competing with vintage Rolling Stones on the stereo. Logan squeezed through to the bar and waved down a gangly man with white hair and a smile that made him look as if he was eating a coat hanger sideways. Logan smiled back. 'You haven't seen ...' it felt weird using the inspector's first name:'David Insch around, have you? About six-three, this wide, bald--' The man pointed at an empty barstool and an unattended pint of Guinness. 'Aye, he's sitting there. You gentlemen wanting something to eat? Or is it just a drink this evening?' Logan thought about the Marks and Spencer ready meal sitting at home in the fridge, and asked to see the menu. They'd ordered by the time Insch appeared, stomping in from the cold night, wrapped up in a huge padded overcoat, muttering under his breath. 'No luck?' asked the barman. Insch unbuttoned his coat. 'No answer, no lights on, no car in the drive.' He stopped when he saw Logan and Alec standing drinking at the bar. 'You're late.' Logan was tempted to tell the grumpy fat sod he was lucky they were there at all. Punching someone in the face, or shoving them into a urinal, wasn't exactly motivational. Insch levered himself up on his stool, his massive buttocks enveloping the seat, and took a big bite out of his Guinness. 'Well,' the barman poured a couple of pints for a hovering waitress,'maybe he forgot. You know what he's like these days. Grandson's over from Canada, isn't he?' Insch grumbled and threw back the last of his stout. 'That was last week.' He held up the empty glass. 'Same again, Stuart.' Then he looked at Logan and Alec. 'And whatever they're having.' Which was probably about as close as they were going to get to an apology. They took a table in one of the large bay windows, overlooking the post-witching night. Alec collapsed into his seat. 'I can't believe he didn't show! It was going to be a great piece too ...' The hovering waitress arrived with placemats and cutlery. Insch waited till she'd gone before asking,'Who've they put in charge of--' 'DI Steel.' Logan sipped at his pint. 'Just till you're back.'
