He’ll fear what he’s awoken,
And back to earth he goes.
In darkness walks the liar,
We’ll cleanse his house with fire,
Come build the funeral pyre. .”’
She clumped the book shut again. ‘Bet Pam Ayres is shaking in her boots.’
‘You know what teenaged girls are like.’
‘Think you’re going to find her? ’
Logan crossed his arms behind his head and frowned at the ceiling. ‘Depends how things go tonight.’
Jackie stood, letting the towel fall away as she squatted on the floor and dug about in an overnight bag, coming out with a hairdryer. Plugged it in. ‘I need to phone Bill later. See how he got on at the Home Office.’ The hairdryer whooshed and howled.
‘Chances are she’s not going back to the soup kitchen again, not if the place is swarming with CID. . But maybe we’ll turn up someone who’s seen her? Someone who knows where she is? ’
Jackie raised her voice, over the noise. ‘They’re interviewing him for a new position: liaising on terrorism suspects.’
‘I mean, it’s not like she’s just going to waltz into a police station and hand herself in, is it? ’
‘He wants us to move to London. . Only just got Rory settled in primary, how’s he going to feel getting uprooted from all his friends and dumped in some school full of Cockneys and Essex boys? Bloody stupid idea, but then that’s Bill all over.’
‘And the whole thing’s a mess too — Steel’s running about like an angry crocodile, Ding-Dong and Leith are at each other’s throats, and you lot are up here telling us we can’t do our sodding jobs.’
The hairdryer fell silent. Jackie stared at him. ‘You’ve not been listening to a word I’ve said, have you? ’
‘Bill’s getting a new job; you don’t want to move to London. See? ’
‘And we’re not saying you can’t do your jobs, we’re saying there are
‘I know — I came up with it. Assuming Rennie and Ding-Dong don’t screw everything up. .’
The hairdryer started up again. ‘Thought you’d be over this obsessing about work thing by now.’
‘Agnes Garfield is a card-carrying danger to herself and others. The longer she’s out there, the more people she hurts playing Witch-Finder General. It matters.’
A sigh. ‘Fine, go. Leave me here in your fusty caravan. But I’m warning you right now: I’m drinking the rest of the wine. And I have to be up at half six tomorrow, so if you think you’re in for seconds you’d better get your arse back here before midnight. Understand? ’
Logan picked his way through the drizzle, down the long stairs from Union Street to the Green. At the bottom of the first flight a man was huddled in the boarded-up doorway of the sports shop hunched over a sticker-covered guitar, knocking out a reasonable rendition of some country and western tune. The damp woolly hat open in front of him held a couple of coppers and a few fifty-pence pieces. Logan dropped in a couple of pounds and kept on going. Down. And down. And down.
The Green was a lopsided rectangle, buried away in the foundations of the city, lined with tall granite buildings, their grey faces darkened by moisture, lights making glowing orbs in the misty drizzle. Some sort of birthday party was underway in the open-air eating area outside Cafe 52, everyone huddled under a big green patio umbrella as they belted out ‘Happy Birthday To You’, a cake topped with dozens of candles blazing away.
Logan kept going, across the slippery cobblestones, towards the back end of Aberdeen Market — a semicircular lump of seventies concrete, its windows dark, everyone shut up for the night. Down one side, Correction Wynd cut straight under Union Street, a handful of restaurants glowing in the shadow of St Nicholas Kirk. But right ahead, the road disappeared into the gloom.
Seagulls screamed abuse from the slate rooftops far above as he followed East Green into the bowels of the city and out of the rain.
A row of neon squiggles glowed around the entrance to Blofeld’s Secret Underground Lair, casting multicoloured light on a big bald bloke in a white shirt and bow tie, standing all on his own. Looking for someone to bounce as dance music thunked out of the door behind him.
At the end of the road, where it hooked around before climbing back up onto Nether Kirkgate, a mobile catering unit was parked up on the narrow kerb. The thing was a rec-tangular white trailer with a fold-down flap on the front beneath a sign ‘LOLA amp; RUDY’S TASTY TREATS’. Steam curled from the open hatch, and a handful of figures formed an orderly queue in front of it. About a dozen others were gathered in small groups, eating and talking over the growl of a diesel generator. At least three of them were nightshift CID, blending in like lumps of coal in a bowl of porridge.
They weren’t the only ones: a brick outhouse with a crew cut, dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt, stood guard a hundred yards from the catering unit: Mr Muscle from the hotel. The one who spoke like he was giving evidence. Another heavy stood at the far end, hands folded in front of his groin, narrow eyes constantly moving back and forth.
No way Agnes Garfield would come anywhere near the place with that kind of security hanging around.
Logan took two steps towards them, then stopped.
Someone was moving in the shadows, halfway between the nightclub and the soup kitchen, lurking in one of the barrel arches that lined the road. Too dim to make out who. . Logan wandered across the road, nice and casual, hands in his pockets, keeping the figure in the corner of his eye. Then turned and walked slowly and quietly up behind them.
Whoever it was, they were layered up in a padded parka jacket with a hoodie on underneath, tracksuit bottoms. A woolly hat pulled down over their ears. Then they shuffled to the side and the lights spilling out from the nightclub caught the once-white case of a plaster cast — left leg, from the knee all the way down. His foot was encased in a shapeless black leather boot to keep the cast out of the dirt and damp.
So it wasn’t Agnes in disguise, it was Henry Scott, AKA: Scotty Scabs, from the Gilcomston Church steps. The only tramp Rennie needed to complete his set.
Logan stopped creeping. ‘You avoiding someone, Henry? ’
The wee man flinched, spun around, then backed away until he was hard up against the brick wall. ‘He’s deid. .’
‘Did you see her again: Agnes Garfield? The woman who took Roy Forman? ’
Henry blinked at him, eyes gleaming in the darkness. ‘She killed him. He’s deid.’
OK. So much for that. ‘Are you hungry? Why don’t you go get yourself a nice bowl of soup or something? ’
‘What if the witch gets me? I don’t want to be deid. .’
‘She’s not really a witch, Henry, she’s just lost and sick and can’t tell what’s real any more.’
The rubber tips of Henry’s crutches squeaked on the cobblestones. A little sob caught in his throat. ‘She killed him. .’
‘You want me to go get you something to eat? Would you like that, Henry? ’
‘If she catches me, she’ll kill me too. .’
Logan came within an inch of patting him on the shoulder, but Henry flinched away again. ‘OK, it’s OK. . You stay here and keep an eye out, and I’ll go get you some soup.’
Poor sod needed more than soup. Like somewhere safe to sleep, medication, therapy, and a bath.
Logan made for the mobile catering unit, joining the queue. Only five people to go and it’d be his turn.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Guv? ’ Rennie, wearing his leather jacket and a scarlet T-shirt, a paper soup bowl in one hand and a plastic spork in the other. ‘Thought you were going home? ’
A shrug. ‘Any luck? ’
‘Yeah: the chicken and chorizo casserole is bloody lovely. I’m having thirds.’
‘Any luck with
Rennie scooped up a sporkful of butter beans and chunks of sausage. ‘Nope.’ Then stuffed it in and chewed. ‘Spoken to all of the regulars, and the organizers, and the volunteers, and you’ll
