They had touched on little people then—not literally, it wasn’t that inappropriate a workshop—but all Logan could remember was that ‘midgets’ was unacceptable.
Still, as he’d voiced during the training session, shortly before being threatened with eviction, he’d found that the most effective way of dealing with anyone from any sort of minority group was to ‘treat them like a fucking human being,’ and not get bogged down by any of the other stuff.
“Are you Dinky?” he asked.
“What’s that meant to mean?” the man in the doorway asked. “You taking the piss?”
Logan sighed. It was a long, drawn-out thing, designed to highlight the fact that he had no intentions of taking any shit. “Your name. Is it Dinky?”
Dinky appeared a bit disappointed by the lack of reaction, then shrugged and nodded. “Aye. Who’s asking?”
Logan produced his warrant card. “Detective Chief Inspector Jack Logan.”
“What, from the police?” Dinky asked. He looked from Logan to Tyler, who was standing several feet back, warily watching the still perfectly behaved dog. “Are you two both police?”
“We are,” Logan confirmed, returning the ID to his coat pocket.
“Why’s he dressed like a big squirrel?”
“He was worried the dog might attack him,” Logan explained.
Dinky looked from Logan to Tyler and back again. “And… what? He thought dressing as a fucking huge squirrel was going to somehow make that less likely?”
“I’ve given up trying to fathom how his mind works,” Logan said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”
Dinky rubbed his stubby fingers across his chin, then drummed them on his bottom teeth like he was playing the xylophone. “Why?” he asked, after some consideration. “What am I meant to have done?”
“We’re not here to accuse you of anything, sir,” Logan said. “We’re trying to find a friend of yours.”
“I’ve got loads of friends. Just head into town on a Friday or Saturday night and chuck a stone, and you’ll hit a friend of mine,” Dinky said, his chest puffing up with pride. “Except don’t, because I don’t want my pals being pelted with stones.”
“One specific friend,” Logan said. “We believe he goes by the name Ally Bally.”
“Ally Bally?” Dinky stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
“Aye, you have,” Tyler said, chipping in from the back.
“How the fuck would you know?” Dinky spat, lunging his top half forward like he was angling for a fight. “How would you know who I know and who I don’t know? Eh? You big squirrely bastard.”
“I just…” Tyler tore his eyes from the dog just long enough to reply. “I know you know him. He was here a few months back.”
Dinky sniffed and backed down. “Well, he’s not here now. I’ve not seen him in months,” he claimed. “But, if I do ever see him, you’ll be the first to know. Alright? Now, off you fuck. This is private property.”
While Dinky was talking, the dog’s ears had pricked up. It turned its head to the right, and Tyler followed the direction of its gaze. There, fifty yards from the house, a wiry, grey-haired man was legging it through the trees.
“Boss!”
Logan turned and looked in the direction Tyler was now pointing. “Well, what are you bloody standing around here for?” he snapped. “Get after the bastard!”
“Right, boss! On it, boss!” Tyler cried.
An oversized squirrel mascot costume was not the ideal outfit with which to initiate an on-foot pursuit, but Tyler made the best of it. He launched himself across the overgrown garden, dodging the big dauds of dog shite, tried to vault the fence, but tumbled over it and did a clumsy forward roll on the other side.
“On it!” he cried again, then he clambered to his big furry feet, and set off in pursuit.
Back at the house, Logan, Dinky, and Dinky’s now docile dog all watched him go racing after the old man. As they disappeared into the trees, Logan turned and glowered down at the man inside the house.
“Oh,” Dinky said. “You mean that Ally Bally?”
Ben stood by the kettle in the staff canteen, waiting for the water to come to the boil. The magazine that Moira had given him sat on a table for two, face down so he wouldn’t be tempted to read the front-page headlines. That had become their ‘thing’. He wasn’t sure how, exactly, but it had. It didn’t feel right to even skim them without her there.
Not that she’d appreciate him waiting, of course. She’d probably read the magazine cover to cover already, scouring it for some fresh tidbits of misery and misfortune to cackle over.
But, still. He was saving it. It was their thing.
The TV was on in the corner. A uniformed constable sat clutching a plastic tub, eyes glued to the screen as she blew on her spoon and slurped down what smelled like vegetable soup. The news was on, showing the wee lassie who’d gone missing down in the north of England.
She was a pretty wee thing in her photo. Dark skin, big bright eyes, and a smile that was nothing but mischief from ear to ear. What was she? Nine? Ten? He’d heard it mentioned, but hadn’t been paying too much attention.
The case was getting a lot of coverage. Rich parents, Ben guessed. Maybe a small town. Always easier to get the press interested if the parents were wealthy upstanding members of the community. Had she been from a council estate, she’d be lucky to get a half-inch mention in the local paper.
“Terrible this, isn’t it?” the constable volunteered between slurps. “Such a shame.”
“Aye.”
“Parents must be climbing the walls.”
“Must be,” Ben agreed. “Did it say what they do? The parents? For a living, I mean.”
“Doctors, I think. He is, anyway. Specialist of some sort. Not sure about her.”
Ben nodded, his suspicions confirmed. He turned back to the kettle and half-listened to the report as he rummaged around for the tea bags.
The girl—Jameelah— had been nabbed on her way home from school. That was the theory, anyway. Nobody had come forward to say they’d seen her being taken, but her bag had been found on a quiet stretch of leafy suburban road on her usual route home, her phone still inside.
On-screen, the SIO was telling a reporter that they’d ruled out the possibility of her having run away. He was an imposing figure, his face ravaged by some sort of injury that hadn’t healed well. The way he was talking to the journalist reminded Ben a lot of Logan. Like he was just tolerating the interviewer’s existence for the sake of the missing girl.
“That tea not made yet?”
Ben turned from the TV just as Moira made her way across the canteen. She still wasn’t as sprightly as she’d been before the stroke, but she was showing vast improvement. There was a bit of a lean and a hint of a limp, but you had to be looking for it to notice.
The clack of a Tupperware lid being closed signalled the imminent departure of the constable at the table. She hurriedly gathered up her things, regularly shooting glances at Moira like she was trying to keep track of the older woman’s location.
Once she’d collected everything, she sidled for the door, picked up the pace for the final few steps, then went hurrying off.