Page 123 of Better the Devil

Reeve shrugged. There was something about the gesture that deeply infuriated Logan. ‘Oh, you know. I just take an interest in people. Gavin, Sergeant Fleck, he’s worked across regions. Met him at a few things. Nice guy. Sad story, but real nice guy.’

‘Boss?’

Logan and Reeve both turned to find Tyler standing behind them, the collar of his jacket pulled up in anticipation of more rain coming.

‘Spoke to the Scene of Crime team. Palmer’s on the way.’

Both DCIs responded with the same word—‘Great!’—but the intonation was completely different.

‘We’ve got a tent ready,’ Tyler continued. ‘Think there might be a downpour coming, so thought?—’

‘Aye, aye, on you go,’ Logan said. He set off back towards where his car and the other police vehicles were parked. He pointed to a high-sided van, just as yet another passing car slowed to try to see what was happening. ‘And get that moved in closer. Try and block the view of all these nosey bastards.’

‘On it, boss,’ Tyler said, but he didn’t move, or do anything to suggest that this statement was true.

‘Was there something else, Tyler?’

DC Neish buried his hands deeper in his pockets, like they were trying to burrow through the bottom to escape.

‘I, eh, I spoke to Shona, boss. About coming out and doing, you know, her stuff, and that?’

‘Right. Good. And?’

‘She, eh, she asked if you’d be here.’

A cold breeze prickled the back of Logan’s neck. Another car rumbled on by, the driver tapping the brakes to try and get an eyeful.

‘I assume you told her I would be?’

Tyler swallowed. When he spoke, his lips clicked drily. ‘Aye, so… eh…’

‘Spit it out, son.’

‘She asked if maybe, you know, you couldn’t be? Here, I mean. When she came out.’

Tyler waited for an answer for a second or two, before deciding that he probably didn’t want one. He jabbed a thumb back over his shoulder and backed away.

‘I’ll go get that van shifted, boss,’ Tyler said. ‘And, eh, I’ll leave that other thing with you…’

Callum Walker had never gelled wellwithColumbo.

He didn’t like the way the killer was always revealed upfront, right at the start. He didn’t like having it all spoon-fed to him, or knowing that, the moment you clocked William Shatner, or Donald Pleasance, or whoever that episode’s guest star was, all the mystery was gone.

He liked working through it himself. Figuring it out. Putting the pieces together.

Give him aMiss Marpleor aPoirotany day. Christ, aDeath in Paradise, even. He’d take that.

But the last hour of channel surfing hadn’t turned up any of those, and soColumboit was.

Peter Falk had just tapped his forehead and announced there was one more thing he’d forgotten to ask, when Callum’s phone rang. When he saw the name, he almost didn’t answer. It was too late for her shite.

Then again, maybe it was important. Maybe she’d actually have something useful to tell him.

‘Cathy?’ he said.

‘Aye. It’s me,’ she confirmed, and she sounded surprised that he knew, despite the fact they’d gone over this a dozen times before, explaining how mobile phones worked.

‘I know it’s you, Cathy. Your name comes up,’ he said, trying to hammer it home yet again. ‘What’s the matter?’