Forty minutes later, Logan stood in the makeshift Incident Room, taking it all in. It had changed quite a bit since he’d had his little chat with Herbert.
Space-wise, there wasn’t much taking in required. The room was about a quarter of the size of the Incident Room in Fort William station, which in turn, was significantly smaller than the one in Inverness.
Two mismatched desks—one a flat-packed laminate thing, the other made of scuffed black metal—stood against the wall across from the door, facing one another. A long extension socket trailed from a plug on the opposite side of the room so those using the desks could plug their laptops in, and Sinead was in the process of taping the cable down so nobody tripped over it.
There was a single chair, which Ben had already claimed, despite the fact that it was a hard plastic thing with no wheels, and a few inches too short to make sitting at either desk in any way comfortable.
Various bags and boxes had been shoved into a corner, then an attempt had been made to hide them with a piece of bright blue tarp that only served to draw attention to them.
Perhaps most notable of all was the six-foot-tall squirrel that stood propped in the corner on Logan’s right, and which had caused him to eject a hissed, “Jesus!” when he’d first entered the room and clapped eyes on the bloody thing.
After the initial moment of fist-clenching alarm, Logan had recognised the outfit as ‘Dinny the Drink-Driving Squirrel’—the mascot of a public awareness campaign that had been run across Scotland eight or nine years ago.
Logan had never quite understood the need to have a talking cartoon squirrel fronting the TV adverts and rocking up at gala days. Very few eight-year-olds drank to excess, and fewer still took to the roads afterwards, so quite why the campaign seemed targeted at them, he had no idea.
“Is this…? What’s this?” Logan asked, taking in the whole of the room. This involved moving his eye just a fraction of a millimetre in each direction. “Is this it? This can’t be it.”
“This is it,” Ben confirmed.
“This can’t be it,” Logan insisted, but Ben once again confirmed that it was.
“Sinead managed to find us a Big Board, sir,” Hamza said, indicating the rectangle of cork that now sat precariously balanced on a three-legged wooden artist’s easel.
“Is that what that is?” Logan asked. “Could she no’ have maybe found us a window at the same time?”
“We’ve been in worst places, Jack,” said Ben.
“Aye,” Logan conceded. “But no’ on purpose. Speaking of worst places, mind you, where’s Tyler? I’ve got a caravan I want him to check out.”
The mention of Tyler’s name brought an explosion of movement from the corner of the room, as Dinny the Drink-Driving Squirrel suddenly came to life, raised his arms above his head, and let out a decidedly Tyler-sounding roar.
He lurched forwards, arms still flailing, then the weight of the outfit caught him off guard, and Logan stepped aside as Dinny went stumbling across the room.
Tyler ejected a muffled, “Shite!” as he tripped on the extension cable, lost his balance, then landed face down on the tarp, partially collapsing the boxes beneath it.
Silence hung over the room for several seconds, then Logan sighed and turned back to the others. “So, aye, if you happen to see DC Neish anywhere, tell him I’ve got a job for him, will you?”
“Will do, Jack,” Ben said. “I’m sure he’ll turn up in the fullness of time.”
There was a knock at the door behind him, and Constable Tanaka poked her head into the room. “Just so you know, sir, that MSP we discussed? He’s at home at the moment.”
“Good. Thanks for checking up on that,” Logan said.
“I’ve written down his address,” the constable said. She handed over a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it, then looked down at the mascot lying sprawled on the floor. “What happened to Dinny?”
“Help!” came a muffled voice from inside the fallen squirrel. “I can’t get out.”
“Hm? Oh. He’s back on the bevvy. Sad state of affairs,” Logan said, then he tapped the piece of paper she’d handed him. “Glenuig. That far from here?”
“Not really. It’s this side of Roshven,” the constable replied. Then, when Logan continued to stare blankly, she clarified. “About forty-five minutes’ drive.”
“I know where it is, sir,” Sinead said, looking up from where she was reapplying the tape that had been ripped up by Dinny’s giant squirrel feet.
“Good. Then get your coat,” Logan told her. “You and I are going to pay this fine upstanding politician a wee visit.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was just over twenty miles from the station in Strontian to the croft where the MSP lived. On a normal road—one that didn’t wind like a pile of dropped string—the journey would’ve taken half an hour, tops. On this narrow, twisting, pot-holed monstrosity, though, it was going to take substantially longer.
For a number of reasons, Logan was relieved he hadn’t brought Tyler. Not only was DC Neish an annoying bastard, but he had a hair-trigger stomach that would’ve ejected most of its contents at the first downhill S-bend.
Besides, it was going to take him ages to get out of that squirrel costume, and as amusing as that would be to watch, Logan didn’t have that sort of time to waste.
Not that there was any great urgency, of course. The Golden Hour—that period immediately after a murder had been committed when the chances of making an arrest were at their highest—had passed days, maybe weeks ago. Statistically, their chances of making a collar on this one were slim.
The victim—if, indeed, he was a victim of anything other than his own stupidity—was a bit of an unknown quantity. Constable Tanaka didn’t know his last name, and had her doubts that anyone else would, either. She also didn’t know where he’d come from, or what had brought him to the area in the first place.
If what she’d said was right, and he’d made himself a pain in the arse to the local population in general, then—given the likely lack of forensic evidence—pinning down the killer was going to be a tall order.
The one positive with a case like this was that media interest was likely to be low. At least, it was likely to be low unless they got wind that a vaguely prominent political figure might be tied to it in some way, at which point it would become a circus.
That was why they were driving out to see the MSP now, so they could dismiss any involvement before the press had a chance to hear about it.
It was approaching dinner time, and Logan realised he hadn’t eaten anything since that ice cream at Nardini’s, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d tried to text Maddie to apologise for having to run off, but his phone remained steadfastly signal free, and every attempt ended with a big red message failed error.
The sun was on a downward trajectory, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, and silhouetting the handful of grey clouds into dark bottomless voids.