Читать книгу Logan McRae - Stuart MacBride - Страница 21

A large Jiffy bag, torn open at one end, sat on the desk. And not just any old desk, this was the one used for on-camera interviews. The one with a grainy out-of-date photo of Aberdeen in the background – the ugly warty lump of St Nicholas House still clearly visible in the shot, even though it’d been torn down years ago.

The tiny studio was barely bigger than a single bedroom, with ancient audiovisual equipment piled up against the walls, filling the space behind the remote-operated camera where it couldn’t be seen. Lights hung from a ceiling rig, all of them angled to point at the Jiffy bag, making it glow against the grey Formica. A sickly shade of yellow-orange.

Logan had a squint at the address label, laser printed onto a plain white sticky square:

Professor N Wilson,

C/O The Muriel Kirk Show

BBC Scotland

Beechgrove Terrace

Aberdeen AB15 5ZT

Muriel Kirk adjusted the sunglasses perched on top of her greying hair and bounced from foot to foot, as if she was about to climb into the ring and punch someone. A visual reinforced by the trainers, joggy bottoms, and ‘I RAN THE MELDRUM MARATHON!’ T-shirt. Not an ounce of fat on her.

Her producer was a saggy man with a receding hairline, grey beard, and blue cardigan – even in this heat. Sweat shone on his top lip as he fiddled with his cardie pockets.

King popped an extra-strong mint, crunching as he stared at the package. ‘And no one else has touched this?’

Mr Cardigan shook his head. ‘It came in the morning post, but it was addressed to Muriel and she’s not on air till one, so—’