“Unlikely, aye,” Ben agreed. He set down the pen and sat forward. “So, our French psychic is the big headline. We’re going to want to take a closer look at him.”
“You thinking we bring him in for a more formal interview?” Hamza asked.
Ben shook his head. “Not that, no. Not yet,” he said. “I was thinking we might try something a wee bit more sneaky.”
“Undercover? In a magic sex cult?” Constable Dave Davidson switched his phone from one hand to the other, like he couldn’t believe what the ear on that side was telling him. “You want me to go undercover in a magic sex cult?”
The voice of Detective Inspector Ben Forde spoke from the telephone’s handset. “It’s not magic.”
“But it is a sex cult?” Dave asked.
“If you think it’s too dangerous, I’m sure we can find someone else,” Ben said.
“Dangerous? No, I’m not worried about it being dangerous!” Dave said. “I’m in.”
“Are you sure?” Ben asked. “You’ve never done anything like this before.”
“I don’t care. I’m in,” Dave insisted. He realised he might be coming across as a little too enthusiastic, and dialled it down a notch. “If me putting myself at risk like this is what it takes to help crack this case, then I’ll do it. I’ll take my chances.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Dave replied. “Do they have a pool, do you know? It doesn’t matter if they don’t, I was just wondering.”
“No. It’s in tents.”
Dave’s smile almost split his face in two. “Oh, I bet it is! But I can handle it! Is there a pool, though?”
“I mean… everyone stays in tents. Like a campsite.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry, I thought you said…” Dave shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll have to run it by Mitchell, of course,” Ben said. “Are you sure we wouldn’t be taking you away from anything important?”
Dave sat up straighter in his wheelchair and looked around at the banks of monitors that currently displayed footage from the city’s network of CCTV cameras. “Nothing they can’t dingy off onto some other poor bugger.”
“Good. Right. Leave it with me. We’ll be in touch,” Ben said.
They said their goodbyes, and Dave had barely hung up the phone when his fingers flew to the keyboard of his computer. He tabbed to a browser, typed the words, ‘back, sack, and crack waxing Inverness’ into the search bar, then sighed happily as he hit Enter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
While Logan had his reservations about sitting down anywhere in Dinky’s house, Ally Bally had no such qualms. He’d flopped down onto the couch after Tyler had led him into the living room. It was apparently not the first time he’d done this, as while the stacks of paperwork wobbled precariously, not a single sheet fell.
The bottom of the old man’s trousers were hanging in rags from where the dog had ripped at them, but he had otherwise escaped unharmed.
Despite dozens of tiny scratches on his face, a few hundred thousand midge bites, and the fact that he was still stuck inside what was now a seriously dishevelled squirrel costume, Tyler looked pleased with himself when he brought Ally Bally in.
Too pleased with himself, Logan thought. The bastard was up to something.
That was a concern for another time, though. For now, he turned his attention to the old man on the couch.
“You must be Ally Bally.”
At the mention of his name, Ally Bally grinned to reveal more gums than teeth, and launched into a slurred rendition of the nursery rhyme.
“Ally Bally, Ally Bally Bee, sitting on—”
“Aye, we get it,” Logan said, cutting him off. He shot a sideways look at Tyler. “This the guy from the caravan?”
“It is, boss,” Tyler confirmed.
“This?” Logan asked again, gesturing to the drink and drug-addled wreck of a man jammed between the towers of newspapers and magazines. “This is the man who evaded capture?”
“He’s faster than he looks, boss,” Tyler said. He was holding eye contact, Logan noted. Not so much as a blink. “We did our best, given the circumstances, but we were on unfamiliar territory, and—”
“Alright, alright, fine,” Logan said, dismissing the rest of the explanation. He turned back to Ally Bally. “Nippy old bugger then, are you?”