Sinead was aware that she was a Detective Constable of police, and that this woman had no authority over her whatsoever. And yet, she found herself scooping up a spoonful of porridge, and gingerly tasting it with the tip of her tongue.
“Bernie happened, didn’t he? Him and his bleedin’ protests,” the old woman continued. “Right bleedin’ nuisance he made of himself. Shouting, and bawling, and talking a load of old shit.”
“Your man—André—he said that Bernie didn’t affect business,” Logan said. “He told me it was as strong as ever.”
Kathryn sniffed. “Well, I’m not one to call anyone a fucking liar, but he’s a fucking liar if that’s what he told you, and you can take that to the bank. Bernie’s been a right pain in his arse, and no mistake. And now he’s dead, I hear.”
“Where did you hear that?” Logan asked.
Kathryn sniffed. “So, it’s true then, is it? You never know around here. They’re exaggerating bastards, the lot of them. Someone hears you fart at Corran Ferry, and you’ve shat yourself by Achnalea.”
“We haven’t formally identified the body yet,” Logan said. “But we have reason to believe it could be Bernie, yes.”
“Well, I’m not one to point fingers, but I know which way I’d be pointing them if I was,” Kathryn said. “Right across the bleedin’ road, and that’s a fact.”
“You think André could have killed Bernie?” Logan asked.
“That’s not for me to say,” Kathryn said. “But I wouldn’t put it past the bugger. Like I say, Bernie’s been a right pain in his backside. These last few months especially. If I was him, I’d be dancing a fucking jig now that someone’s done the bugger in. And I’ll tell you this much for free, if I was you, I’d be having serious words with him.”
Before Logan could push her any further, there came a clatter from the kitchen, which was followed a moment later by a burst of excited barking.
Despite her age, Kathryn demonstrated a remarkable turn of speed as she pushed back her chair and jumped to her feet. “My bleedin’ sausages!” she cried, then she threw open the door to the kitchen and went racing through.
“What do you mean your sausages?” Logan called after her. “I thought they were for the dog?”
He heard a scraping and looked down to find his bowl, which had been almost empty, now practically full once again.
“Come on, sir,” Sinead said, smirking as she set her now-empty plate down in front of her again. “Better eat up, or we’ll never get out of here.”
DI Ben Forde stood in front of the cobbled-together Big Board, holding his breath as he attached a Post-it note to the top left corner with the same care and attention he’d shown back in his days on the bomb squad.
When the note was attached, he held both hands an inch or two away, ready to grab the board should the whole thing collapse. Once he was sure it was holding steady, he finally exhaled and stepped back.
He turned with the air of someone who’d just pulled off the single most impressive move in the history of Jenga or Buckaroo, then nodded to the trio of officers assembled before him.
“Right then,” he said, pointing to the single note on the board. “The victim. Bernie. What do we know?”
He, Hamza, and Tyler all turned to PC Suzi Tanaka, who’d been asked to join the meeting. They’d chosen her of the two available local constables because she seemed to be a bit more switched on than her male counterpart, PC Chris Miller.
Also, Constable Miller’s looks made the younger officers feel seriously inadequate, so they’d nudged Ben towards approaching PC Tanaka.
“What, is that...? Are you asking me?”
“We are,” Ben said.
Constable Tanaka cleared her throat, got to her feet, then opened her mouth to speak. “So…” she began, before a thought struck her. “Do I have to stand up?”
“Only if you want to,” Ben told her.
She gave this some further consideration, then sat down again.
“So, Bernie is a well-known local figure,” she said. She sounded a little robotic, like she was reading off a cue card.
Ben nodded encouragingly, while Hamza sat with his pen hovering above the notebook he had balanced on his knee.
“Go on,” Ben said.
“Um…” PC Tanaka’s gaze shifted left and right, like she was looking for the next card. “He’s… male. Mid-forties to early sixties, I’d say.”
“That’s quite a wide range,” the DI pointed out.
“Yeah, he’s hard to pinpoint. Got one of those faces.”
“Last name?” Tyler prompted, trying to help her out. He recognised that look of growing panic. God knew, he’d felt it himself often enough when put on the spot like this.
“Last name. Last name,” the constable mumbled. She shrugged. “We just knew him as Bernie the Beacon. Because of, you know, the newsletter thing.”
“You don’t know his last name?” Hamza said.
“No. Never asked.”
Ben frowned. “But I thought there were complaints about him from the health centre, or whatever it is?”
“Westerly Wellness.”
“Aye. I thought he’d been spoken to. In an official capacity, I mean.”
“Well, I mean… that depends on your definition of ‘official capacity,’ I suppose,” Suzi replied. “We had a word in his ear. Told him to stop playing silly buggers.”
“And you didn’t take his name?”
“No.”
“Or his age?”
“No.”
“Or his address?”
“Well, he lives in a tent, doesn’t he?” the constable said. She looked around at the shocked faces. Even Tyler, who’d been fully willing her to succeed, was apparently fighting the urge to cringe. “What you’ve got to understand is that things are a bit different out here. It’s a small community. You can’t just go wading in. It’s a balancing act. You try to keep everyone happy, and not rock the boat too much.”
Hamza looked down at his notebook, and the still completely blank page. “So, we don’t know anything about him?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Constable Tanaka retorted. “We know he believed in space lizards, or whatever it was. We know he didn’t get on with… well, most people, really, but he had a particular dislike for politicians, health practitioners, and anyone from an ethnic minority background.”
“He was racist?” Hamza asked.
“Oh, very much so. Very much racist. I’d go so far as to say he was extremely racist. Not in a screaming in your face sort of way, more in a general, low-level sort of contempt. He was not a big fan of mine, for obvious reasons. First time he saw me, he said I was worse than the Nazis in the Second World War. Aye, not the Japanese of the time in general, me specifically.”
“And what did you say to that?” Ben asked.
The PC took a moment to recall her exact words. “Something like, ‘Away an’ bile yer heid, ye mad auld bastard,’” she said, her accent becoming a guttural Glaswegian rasp. “Which, I have to say, fairly caught him off guard.”
“I can imagine, aye,” Ben said, chuckling.
“Most people round here won’t necessarily know that about him, of course, seeing as most of them are, well, white. I doubt they’ll have seen that side. But he was.”