“In Strontian? That is not convenient for me, Monsieur. Uh, Detective Chief Inspector, I mean.”
“Oh, is it not?” Logan asked, the pitch of his voice climbing. “Oh, well, I’m very sorry. Far be it for me to inconvenience a busy man like yourself. I had no idea, I’m terribly sorry.”
André’s brow furrowed. “You are being sarcastic, oui?”
“How did you guess?” Logan asked. “One o’clock. At the station in Strontian.” He stood up, though the low roof forced him to crouch. “Do not make me drive back out here to get you. For both our bloody sakes.”
DI Forde sat at one of the mismatched desks in the makeshift Incident Room, talking into the handset of the bulky Airwave radio unit.
“Aye. Sounds like you’ve had a fun night right enough, Jack,” he said. “But here, I’ll let them explain themselves.”
He looked across both facing desks at the two men sitting opposite. Hamza and Tyler looked mostly shrunken and cowed, with the exception of Tyler’s face, much of which was several sizes larger than normal.
The DS and the DC both elbowed each other, each trying to get the other to do the talking.
“Hello? Still there?” Logan asked via the speaker, then his voice grew quieter as he turned away. “I think it’s dropped the signal,” he said, presumably to Sinead.
“No, we’re here, Jack,” Ben said, then he extended the handset again.
Hamza drew in a breath, exhaled, then took the offered radio. “Alright, sir? It’s Hamza,” he announced.
“Aye. I’m familiar with your voice, son,” Logan said. “What’s happened? What’s the big disaster?”
Hamza swallowed. “Well, we were… Tyler and I… The two of us. We were going over the caravan, like you said.”
“And?”
“And we were gathering up evidence. And then we spotted a briefcase,” Hamza continued. “It was hidden under the couch, or sofa bed, or whatever.”
“So far so good,” Logan said. “What was in it?”
“The briefcase?” Hamza shifted his gaze sideways to Tyler. The DC was leaning back in his chair, like he was worried the radio might detonate in Hamza’s hand. “We, um, we don’t know, sir.”
“Why not? Couldn’t you get it open?”
“We, um, we didn’t get a chance, sir.”
“How come?”
“Someone… someone turned up at the caravan. A man.”
They could practically hear the DCI’s ears pricking up over the airwaves. “And?”
“And he ran, sir. So, we gave chase.”
“And you caught him,” Logan prompted. “Tell me you caught him.”
Hamza cleared his throat. Then, to be on the safe side, he cleared it again. Across the table, Ben sat with his arms folded, saying nothing.
“We, eh… No, sir. He got away.”
“Jesus…” Logan groaned.
“That’s not the half of it, Jack,” Ben chipped in, then he nodded at Hamza, urging him to go on.
“What else?” Logan demanded.
“Well, um, you see, sir, while we were away… While we were giving chase…”
Logan’s voice suddenly sounded clearer and closer. He’d just brought the radio nearer to his mouth, but both the DS and the DC couldn’t help but glance around to check that he wasn’t standing in the room beside them.
“Someone set the caravan on fire, sir,” Hamza said, just blurting it all out in one big breath.
There was silence from the other end of the line. A deep, dark, drawn-out sort of silence.
Hamza’s gaze flitted to the other detectives. Had he heard? Had the radio lost signal at just that moment? Was he going to have to say it all again?
“On fire?” Logan intoned, just before Hamza opened his mouth again. “What do you mean on fire? Explain ‘on fire’ to me, Detective Sergeant. How on fire?”
“Very on fire, sir,” Hamza said. “Like… I’d say completely on fire.”
“But you got the evidence out,” Logan prompted. “That’s what you’re going to say next, isn’t it, son? You got the evidence out.”
“Well, it’s… I’d love to…” Hamza looked down at the desktop, composing himself, then rallied. “Sadly not, sir. We felt that giving chase was the priority, so the evidence was still in the caravan.”
“The caravan that was on fire?” Logan asked. “The caravan that I’m guessing burned down?”
“Uh… aye, sir. Uniform and a couple of local fire volunteers are dealing with it now,” Hamza said. “As soon as we get the all-clear, we’re going to go and see what we can recover.”
“And how much paper do you think you’re likely to ‘recover’ from the burned-out wreckage, do you think? How much of one of the most notoriously flammable substances on Earth do you think you’ll be able to salvage?”
“Um… Probably not much, sir,” Hamza admitted.
“No. I agree. Probably not much. Probably not much at all.” His voice became fainter as he lowered the radio and muttered something that wasn’t meant for their ears.
The next voice that emerged from the speaker was Sinead’s.
“Uh, hi. The boss is, um… taking a moment,” she said as, in the background, they all heard a brief outburst of colourful language. “Can you guys do us a favour? We don’t want to drive back on that road tonight, only to have to do it again tomorrow to meet that MSP.”
“You’re not coming back?” asked Tyler. “But I got uth a double room at a B&B.”
There was a pause before Sinead replied. “What’s wrong with your voice?”
“Got thtung in the fathe by a load of nettleth,” Tyler explained.
They all heard Logan’s voice in the background again. “Wait, what did he say?”
“He got stung in the face by a load of nettles,” Sinead said.
There was another moment of silence, and then a snort. “Christ, that might be worth driving back to see,” Logan said, then the thought of the road brought him to his senses. “Actually, no. No, not even that’s worth that drive.”
“Will you see if you can find us somewhere? We’re still at the lighthouse,” Sinead said. “Doesn’t have to be fancy, but it needs to take dogs.”
“And the closer, the better,” Logan added.
“I’ll get right on that, bothh,” Tyler said, mangling the word ‘boss’ beyond all recognition. He was as eager as ever to win the DCI’s approval, and even more so given tonight’s cock-up. “I won’t let you down.”
They didn’t recognise the house in the dark. They’d only glimpsed it in passing the first time around, and it wasn’t until the elderly woman yanked open the door, revealing herself in a faded full-length nightdress, that Logan realised whose house Tyler had sent them to.
“Bleedin’ Nora!” spat Kathryn Chegwin, looking them both up and down. “If I knew it was the filth, I never would’ve taken that fucking booking.”
Logan groaned. “Jesus Christ, Tyler,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, “You have got to be bloody kidding me.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN