Logan stepped back. ‘When you fall and break your neck I’m going to tell everyone I told you not to do this.’
‘If you like, we can go back to the station, have a threat-assessment meeting, come up with a health-and- safety plan, hire some scaffolding, get someone qualified to erect it, someone else to inspect it, and then-’
‘Just don’t fall off.’
She reached up and grabbed the branch with the nest on it.
The magpie bounced up and down, hurling abuse as Sim pulled herself up and peered into the nest.
‘Anything? ’
‘Some bottle tops, a set of car keys, bit of tinsel, and an earring.’
‘Bones? ’
‘Sorry, Guv.’ She turned and looked down at him. ‘Looks as if. .’ Her eyes went wide. ‘Jeepers!’
There she went again:
Sim wrapped one arm around the branch, and pointed with the other one at the roof of Logan’s caravan. ‘You better see this.’
He frowned up at her. ‘If you’re-’
‘Seriously, Guv: you need to see this.’
Fine. Whatever.
Logan fetched the wheely-bin from the side of the caravan and dragged it over to the front door, climbed onto the top step, then clambered up onto the bin until he was kneeling there. The black plastic wobbled beneath him. Fall off a wheely-bin and kill himself, how great would that be? Bloody stupid idea. .
He grabbed the lip that ran around the caravan roof and pulled himself up to his feet. Then stared down at what was spread out across the gritty roofing felt, mouth hanging open.
Jeepers was right.
14
‘What the hell is wrong with you? ’ DCI Steel threw her hands into the air. ‘
The whole caravan park was cordoned off. Old Mrs Foster and her cockatoo stared out of the kitchen window of number four, mouth a wobbly scarlet slash as a line of SEB techs in white oversuits shuffled slowly past searching the ground for any more bits.
‘Well. .’ Logan waved a hand at his home. Two techs were wriggling their way underneath it with tweezers and evidence bags. ‘It’s a residential caravan, it’s got a flat roof, you can’t see it from the ground.’
‘You’re supposed to be a detective, for God’s sake!’
‘It wasn’t-’
‘How could you live under that and no’ know? ’
Someone tugged on Logan’s sleeve. ‘Guv? ’ PC Sim looked up at him. ‘They say they need to know when your roof was fixed last.’
He stared at her. ‘If you’re suggesting it’s the last guy who fixed it, I think I might have noticed him dying up there and rotting away!’
Steel snorted. ‘Going on recent evidence, I sodding doubt it.’
‘No, Guv, they need to get up there to examine the remains and. . you know. . don’t want to go through the ceiling.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my roof.’
‘Aye, except for the poor dead sod on it.’
He closed his eyes. Counted to ten. Only made it as far as six. ‘Don’t you have something more productive to do? ’
Steel shook her head. ‘Surprisingly enough, the skeleton lying on top of your sodding caravan roof is pretty high on my to-do list. Why can it never be straightforward with you? Why’s it always-’
‘I didn’t bloody put it there, OK? ’ He jabbed a finger at the roof. ‘
‘Guv? ’ PC Sim again. ‘Council’s turned up.’
A scuffed flatbed truck was beeping its way backwards off of Mugiemoss Road into the caravan park. One side of the thing was all dented, rusting scratches clawed their way through the city council logo. A small yellow cherry-picker was tied to the back.
Cheaper and quicker than sodding about with scaffolding.
Five minutes later, the cherry-picker was trundling along the tarmac, driven by a pug-faced man in a set of council overalls and a high-vis vest. A massive black moustache covered his upper lip, drooping down on either side in a permanent hairy scowl.
Steel held up her hand. ‘All right, Sunshine, that’s far enough. We’ll take it from here.’
He stopped the cherry-picker, but didn’t get out. His voice was a hard-core Teuchter drawl. ‘You certified to drive one of these, quine? ’Cos if you’re not, you’re not driving it. Health and safety.’
‘Who’re you calling “quine”? ’ She stuck her chest out. ‘I’m a detective chief bloody inspector, and-’
‘I dinna care if you’re the Queen’s proctologist, no one’s driving this thing without a cert from the council.’ A nod. ‘Health and Safety’d have my arse in a buttie.’
She scowled at him, pulled the fake cigarette from her pocket, clicked it on, stuck it in her mouth, and sooked on it a couple of times. A puff of steam dissipated in the warm summer air. ‘Right, someone get Burt Reynolds here an SOC suit. He’s our new chauffeur.’
‘Aye, aye. .’ Burt Reynolds and his amazing moustache leaned out over the edge of the cherry-picker’s railing, gazing down at the roof of Logan’s caravan. ‘There’s a sight you don’t see every day.’
The cherry-picker’s basket was at least eighteen feet off the ground, high enough to give a good view of the whole roof. It rocked slightly as Steel and Logan moved over to get a better look.
Steel grabbed the handrail. ‘This thing safe? ’
‘Once found a skull when we were digging up a road outside Rhynie. Fat Doug wanted to take it home for an ashtray. He was aye a bit strange.’
The yellow-grey bones were laid out on the flat roof like some sort of art installation: a toothless skull resting above crossed femurs, the bottom jaw on the other side, then the pelvis and sternum, all held within a rough circle made up of ribs and vertebrae. Little piles of soil dotted the roof around it.
Logan pointed. ‘Can’t have been there for long. There’s no moss or anything growing on them.’
‘Ah.’ Burt Reynolds from the council nodded. ‘Maybe it’s Keith Richards? ’
Steel shrugged. ‘If it is, he’s lost weight.’ Then she hit Logan on the arm. ‘Told you it wasn’t Reuben.’
‘How can you possibly-’
‘This is way too frou-frou.’ A sniff. ‘Besides, the lardy sod would’ve gone through the roof like Ann Widdecombe in a brothel.’
The downstream monitoring suite had been given a fresh coat of magnolia since last time, so now it was miserable, pokey, and stank of paint fumes. Logan wedged the door open with one of the plastic chairs. ‘Better? ’
‘What do you think.’ Steel banged the flat of her hand down on top of the small TV screen mounted above the length of grey working surface. ‘Go on, you wee bugger. .’
The picture fizzed and crackled. Then interview room three appeared on screen, slightly distorted by the angle of the camera.
Reuben was sitting on the other side of the table, facing the camera, massive shoulders slumped, his hair all flat on one side and sticking up on the other. Could almost smell the second-hand booze oozing out of every pore, even from here.
If it bothered the man sitting next to him, it didn’t show. Sandy Moir-Farquharson’s suit probably cost more than Logan made in a month. Maybe two. The white shirt immaculate and crisp, the tie perfectly centred. He had a
