“Ah… oui. A ring, I think. A wedding band, perhaps, but on the other hand.”
Logan nodded. “See?” he said. “Turns out you can be helpful, after all.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Logan stood in the station car park, glowering at the back of the Westerly Wellness minibus as it chugged its way back out west.
A scrabbling of paws on gravel indicated the arrival of Taggart. He pulled desperately on the lead, eyes bulging and tongue flopping around, as he tried to race to greet his master.
“Alright, alright, steady,” Sinead protested. The dog wasn’t strong enough to pull her along, but he was plenty strong enough to throttle himself on his collar, so she picked up the pace and jogged the last few steps.
Logan squatted down to greet the dog, who instantly became a squirming, thrashing tangle of limbs and tail, rolling onto his back, then onto his front, then springing up on his hind legs, before going through the whole routine all over again a second later.
“Aye, I see you, you needy wee bastard,” Logan said, patting various bits of the dog’s torso as they were presented to him. “Calm down.”
“That the son of God away, then, boss?” asked Tyler, strolling over to join them.
“Aye. For now, anyway,” Logan said. “He’s going to come back, though.”
“Classic Jesus,” Tyler remarked, and he smiled like he was quite pleased with himself for the comment.
“Get anything useful from him?” Sinead asked Logan, both of them ignoring Tyler completely.
“Maybe. Not sure yet. He reckoned—”
“Actually, boss, I’m going to stop you there,” Tyler said, taking his life in his hands. Fortunately, he had the perfect reason for cutting the DCI short. “Why don’t you tell us all over lunch at the pub?”
Logan stood up—and up, and up—until he was dwarfing the younger officer, and glaring straight down at him. “Do you know something, Detective Constable?” he intoned. “That might just be the best idea you’ve ever had.”
If the pub lunch wasn’t the best idea Tyler had ever had, it was certainly up there near the top of the list. The Bothy Bar was attached to the front of the Strontian Hotel, with a view that went on forever along Loch Sunart and to the ragged lines of the mountains beyond.
The better view was offered from the restaurant area, but the presence of Taggart meant the detectives were restricted to the bar. There were fewer windows in there, but the crackling log fire more than made up for it.
Besides, the restaurant was too pretty and too light for Logan’s liking. It wasn’t the sort of place he felt comfortable in. Give him the bar, though, with its wood-panelled walls and cardboard beer mats, and he was right at home.
They’d found a table big enough for the five of them that was far enough from anyone else to allow them to talk more or less freely, but close enough to the fire that they still got the benefit. It may have only been September, but the relentless drizzle and the wind whipping along the loch meant the heat from the flames was very welcome.
Although, it quickly became unwelcome for Hamza and Tyler, when the sight of the flames reminded Logan of the bone he had to pick with them.
“Oh, and great job with the caravan, by the way,” he said, slowly clapping hands the size of goalies’ gloves. “Seriously. Really impressive work there.”
“Aye, eh, sorry about that, boss,” Tyler hummed.
“Not our finest moment,” Hamza hawed.
“You can say that again. Every shred of bloody evidence up in flames.”
“We got photos, though,” Tyler said. “Aye, before the fire. And after, actually. And some during because, you know, it was pretty impressive to see it when it was all…” Some internal alarm bell rang when he spotted the look on Logan’s face, and the sentence fell away. “But, eh, aye. Not ideal.”
“What about the guy you saw?” Logan asked them. “The guy you chased?”
“You mean the old boy, boss?” Tyler asked.
Logan’s forehead became a series of parallel letter V’s. “What do you mean ‘old boy’？ How old are we talking?”
Tyler and Hamza swapped glances, neither of them keen to volunteer the information. “I’d, eh, I’d say he was knocking on, sir.”
Logan’s head snapped in Hamza’s direction. “Knocking on? Knocking on what? Sixty? Seventy? Death’s door? What exactly was he knocking on, Detective Sergeant?”
Hamza swallowed. He looked to Tyler for help, but the DC now seemed to be absolutely transfixed by a beer mat and was refusing to meet his eye. “I’d say, about… sixty-five, sir.”