“Tell them to become one with somewhere warm for a few minutes. Spain, or something,” Logan suggested.
Sinead frowned. “Sir?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be right out.”
He waited until Sinead had retreated, then turned back to the man across the aisle. “I think it’s best if we continue this conversation tomorrow, Mr Douville. Down at the station.”
“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.”