Logan sagged even further. ‘What does “Wallace” mean to you?’
‘And Gromit?’ A pause — and swear to God, you could actually see the hamster wheel inside Tufty’s head spinning until he finally got it. ‘Oh, from the chest freezer. Right. Yeah. Probably not “and Gromit” then. So...’ He wrapped one arm around himself, the other hand tapping at his forehead. Then his eyes widened. ‘Ooh, ooh, I know: William Wallace!’
Well, asking Tufty had always been a long shot. It wasn’t as if he was renowned for his Sherlock-Holmes-style steel-trap intellect, was it? He wasn’t completely thick — the boy was great on sci-fi trivia, so if Star Trek, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Battlestar Galactica came up at a pub quiz, he was your man — but actual police work? Might as well ask a drunken hedgehog to fill out your tax return.
‘Nope: already thought of that. Wallace is a hero to her, the other chest freezers are named after punishments. Betrayals. It doesn’t fit.’
Tufty rolled his eyes. ‘No, listen, Sarge: they captured him at the battle of thingummy and took him down to London, didn’t they? Hanged, drawn, and quartered him.’ Wrinkles appeared on that hollow forehead. ‘Though technically it should be drawn, hanged, and quartered. A lot of people think drawing was taking out your inside bits, but it was really them dragging you through the streets to your place of execution. And if we’re being pedantically technical, it should be drawn, hanged, castrated, disembowelled, and dismembered. Cos they hack you into more than four bits and they’re not of equal size, so—’
‘OK! I get it: Wallace is a hero and a punishment.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘You can stop talking now.’
‘Oh, and after they cut off your gentleman’s relish they burn it in a fire, right in front of you. Then do the same with your intestines: the world’s most horrible barbecue.’ A nod. ‘You should ask Rennie about it. He’s the history buff. I only know this stuff cos it was in a game of Dungeons and Dragons.’ Tufty smiled, eyebrows up. Eager. ‘Have you played?’
‘No, genuinely: stop talking.’
‘Honestly, it’s not just for kids, you should try it!’
Logan covered his face with his hands again. ‘Kill me now.’
‘I’m playing a dwarf called Tuftin Oakenbeard and she’s got this enchanted axe that—’
The canteen door banged open and a uniformed PC bustled in, red-faced and breathless. Lanky, with a prominent nose, like a human ice axe. She had a quick scan of the empty room then hurried over. ‘Inspector McRae!’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Saved.
‘Been trying to get you on your Airwave. And I was up and down them stairs a million times looking for you! I’m absolutely—’
‘Can we skip straight to the message, please?’
‘Oh, right.’ PC Godsend pouted a little, as if she’d been rehearsing her moan and now didn’t have anyone to perform it for. ‘OK, well, there’s been a break-in at that Ravendale Sheltered Living Facility. Someone’s abducted “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead.’
Logan stared at her, then at Tufty.
Tufty’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.
Then they were both on their feet, running for the door.
Bang: out into the stairwell.
Tufty screeched to a halt on the grey terrazzo flooring, arms pinwheeling to keep himself upright. ‘Wait, wait: stabproof!’ He turned and scurried off down the stairs, voice echoing against the concrete. ‘I’ll catch up; don’t go without me!’
A couple of security lights broke through the grey shadows that swamped the Rear Podium, reflected in the windscreens of half a dozen parked patrol cars. And what was left of Logan’s Audi.
Overhead, the sky was already heading towards a bright cheery blue, but down here it was definitely bloody horrible.
His poor car...
Sitting there, exposed in the security light’s merciless glow, it actually looked worse than it had when he’d found it abandoned near Renfield House. More battered and scraped. More falling to bits.
He was still staring at it, mourning, when Tufty lurched up, struggling under the weight of two stabproof vests and a pair of utility belts.
‘Argh... Heavy, heavy, heavy!’
Logan popped the boot and Tufty dumped the lot inside with a grunt.
Then staggered away a couple of paces, wiping at his shiny face. ‘I nicked one off the rack for you too, and a full Belt-O’-Many-Things as well. Don’t tell anyone, but I might have forgot to sign for it, OK?’
‘Promise.’ Logan clunked the boot shut and climbed in behind the wheel.
The inside was dusty with fingerprint powder — making it look even more grey in the dim light — and turning the key set the engine rattling and groaning like a tractor. His lovely Audi was not a well car.
Tufty got in the passenger side, mouth stretched wide and down, eyebrows pinched up in the middle. ‘Oh dear.’
It backfired twice as Logan reversed it out of the space, and again on the way down the ramp onto Queen Street. He frowned: there was something buzzing and squeaking that didn’t buzz or squeak before.
‘Erm, no offence, Sarge, but maybe we should take a pool car instead?’
Logan glowered at him. ‘Oh... shut up.’
A patrol car sat outside Ravendale’s main door, sideways, taking up four parking spaces. Logan pulled up next to it in his groaning growling squeal-and-rattle Audi. Switching off the engine was a bit like a mercy killing.
Soon as he hauled on the handbrake, Tufty was out, scurrying around to the boot, phone clamped to his ear. ‘I know, but according to the Many-Worlds theory, you were already awake in a parallel universe, so it’s not that bad is it?’
He held the phone away from his ear, grimacing as Logan walked around to the boot and popped the lid. Tufty helped himself to one of the stabproof vests — scrrretching a Velcro side panel open. ‘No, Sarge... Yes, Sarge... Sorry, Sarge. But Inspector McRae says—’ His eyes widened and pink rushed up his cheeks as he wriggled into his vest. ‘I’m not telling him that, Sarge!’
Tufty grabbed a utility belt and Logan thunked the boot shut again — headed for reception.
‘No, Sarge...’ Phone pinned between his ear and his epaulettes as he followed, hooking himself into the belt. ‘Yes... OK... It’s not my fault! I’m only—’
Logan grabbed Tufty’s mobile, talking into it as he pushed through the main doors. ‘Listen up: I want a nationwide manhunt organised. Alert every station in the country, ports, airports, bus stations, motorway service stations, and everything in between. Now get your hairy backside out of bed and into DHQ, you useless sack of cat jobbies!’ He handed the phone back. ‘Don’t let Rennie bully you.’
All the colour vanished from Tufty’s cheeks. ‘Yeah... That’s not Sergeant Rennie on the phone, it’s DS Steel.’
Oh sod.
Still, too late now. ‘Tell her to get her arse in gear, then.’
It wasn’t the usual bland grey-and-beige man behind the reception desk — he’d been replaced by an older lady in a brown cardigan and oversized spectacles, fussing over a big lump of a man in a nurse’s uniform. Holding an ice pack to his forehead as he squirmed.
His right arm was in a sling, the fingers poking out the end like mouldy sausages, all purple and swollen. He was working on a pretty stunning pair of black eyes too.
No sign of whoever turned up in the badly parked patrol car.
Logan marched over to the desk and nodded at Nurse Black Eyes. ‘Are you the one who called it in?’