Authors: Stuart MacBride
‘This all of it?’ Logan stood on his tiptoes and peered at the row of boxes arranged on the metal shelving.
‘Next one down too. And the one under that. And we got some more over there.’ The sergeant in charge of the Water Lane evidence store turned and pointed at another rack over by a stack of archive files. ‘That’s everything they brought in from Polmont’s flat.’
The store was a converted Victorian warehouse, a pile of filthy granite hidden away down a narrow alleyway off Mearns Street, just wide enough to get an unmarked Transit van down, if you were careful. Quiet and anonymous. The building’s high windows were nearly opaque with dirt, and barred on the inside.
The room was partitioned up with adjustable shelving units, turned into a maze with the heavy metal cage for drugs and confiscated money lurking at its heart. The shelving groaned under the weight of seized goods and lost property, the wooden floorboards gouged and scuffed. Strip lighting hung from the bare rafters, buzzing and flickering, making Logan’s breath glow white in the cold air.
‘OK…This lot been processed yet?’ Trying not to sound too hopeful.
The sergeant laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound for someone who looked so much like an axe murderer. ‘You’re kidding right? What am I, your mum?’
Logan groaned. There had to be two or three hundred items on the shelves, all of which needed to be catalogued, verified, and checked against the stolen property register. Bloody DI Steel – this was going to take him forever.
Sergeant Axe-Murderer patted him on the back and grinned. ‘Look on the bright side, at least it’s sodding freezing in here.’
‘You can bugger off now, Clive.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Clive gave him one last pat, then wandered off, hands in his pockets, whistling. Git.
Logan pulled the first box from the shelf and dumped it on the floor. It was full of Sony MP3 Walkmans in their original packaging. He dug them out one by one, opening the cases to make sure they contained what they said they did, then wrote everything down in his notebook. Knowing that he’d have to type it all up when he got back to FHQ.
The next box was full of watches, the one after that: digital cameras. Logan sat back on his haunches and stared at the stacks of stuff still sitting waiting for him.
Bugger this.
He dug out his mobile and went hunting through the contacts, then hit the button. It was Sunday, so he’d have to leave a message, but if anyone asked he could honestly say he was doing something.
But a real person answered the phone:
‘Trading Standards, can I help you?’
‘Dildo? It’s Logan. What are you doing in the office?’
‘Fucking overtime. Got a backlog like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘I need a favour from the Shop Cops.’
‘Oh aye…?’
Pause.
‘Still owe me a pint from last time, remember?’
Logan looked up at Polmont’s collection. ‘I think we’ve found a stash of counterfeit goods.’ Not entirely true, but it
could
be. And that made it Trading Standards’ responsibility.
There was a groan.
‘Do me a favour and lose it again. We’re up to our ears in the bloody stuff as it is.’
‘My heart bleeds. We’ve got the lot down at the Water Lane store, get your bum over here and work your magic.’
He was silent for a moment.
‘This you trying to get me to do your bloody paperwork again?’
‘Dildo, I’m hurt.’
‘Yeah, and you didn’t answer the question.’
Sigh.
‘What have you got?’
Logan smiled. ‘MP3 players, hair straighteners, video games, bunch of other stuff. All boxed.’
‘Sod…OK, OK, I’ll come over. But it’s going to have to be Monday: got a bunch of Weights and Measures reports to write up, and I’m bloody well going home tonight
before
my kids are asleep.’
They set a time and Logan hung up. Then stood and stuck two fingers up at the contents of Steve Polmont’s flat, now officially someone else’s problem. Who said he couldn’t be a team player?
Logan parked outside the fourth address on his list and checked the caller display on his phone, just as it rang through to voicemail: Colin Miller – the
Aberdeen Examiner’s
star reporter. Logan gave it a minute, then checked his messages. Four from Steel threatening to castrate him; one from Samantha asking if he fancied taking her out to dinner for a change; one from Beattie – had he done anything about that meeting yet?
Logan frowned. What bloody meeting?
And then it was Colin, asking to be called back.
Logan hit reply and three rings later the reporter’s Glasgow burr rattled his eardrums.
‘Laz, my man, how they dangling?’
He didn’t bother waiting
for a reply.
‘Great. Listen, I’m free the night, fancy hittin’ the town? Grab a bite to eat and some beers?’
‘Can’t tonight, got a date with a tattooed lady.’
‘Aw, come oan! You got any idea what I had to do to get a free pass? Couple of pints, bit of banter, just like the old days.’
Logan creaked open the car door.
A security light cracked on, bathing the gravel parking area with harsh white light. Twenty past four and the sun was taking its hat off, packing its bags, and sodding off home, leaving the countryside washed in dull pink and cold blue.
‘I’m kinda off the booze for a bit.’
‘You’re kidding me!’
‘Antibiotics.’ As good a lie as any.
‘Shite…’
There were no streetlights out here in the sticks. It was a cluster of converted farm buildings between Dyce and the Bridge of Don. Not all of them had been finished, and an old steading sat off to one side, the roof a ribcage of pale pine joists with a tatty-edged chunk of blue plastic sheeting draped over half of it.
At least the wind and sleet had died down. Still bloody freezing though.
‘Then we’ll grab a curry. You can have a Lambrini, or whatever it is you teetotal homosexuals drink these days.’
‘Colin—’
‘We can moan about work – got this new bloke in charge of the news desk, carrot-top bastard thinks I’m “too sensationalist”. Wanker. You can bang on about that tit Beattie, or your lezzer boss.’
Pause.
‘Bet that wee shite Richard Knox is a nightmare to deal with…?’
Logan slammed the car door. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. ‘Subtle, Colin,
real
subtle.’
‘What? I just
—’
‘I’m not giving you info on an ongoing investigation, you know that. Curry and a pint my arse.’
There was silence for a moment, and when Colin spoke
again Logan could hear the grin in his voice.
‘Can’t blame a guy for trying, right? Tell you what, you tell me all about Knox, and I’ll let you in on Monday’s headline.’
‘Bye Colin.’ Logan hung up. Cheeky bugger.
He pulled out the list he’d downloaded from the Police National Computer – people convicted of robberies involving sledgehammers – and read the summary for number four. Damian Atkinson, AKA: Daniel Francis, AKA: Danny Saunders, AKA: Donny Ferrier. Done for burglary, demanding money with menaces, aggravated assault. And most importantly, for holding up a series of all-night petrol stations with a sledgehammer.
Only two houses in the little development had lights on. The first turned out to be a drunken middle-aged man with a beard and a beer belly. No, he didn’t know any Damian Atkinson, or a Daniel Francis, but Danny Saunders lived over there. He pointed a wobbly finger at a mouldy caravan parked alongside the unfinished farm building.
‘Doin’ it…Doin’ it up hisssself. Yeah?’
Very industrious.
Logan crunched his way across the gravel driveway to the steading. Random construction materials were heaped up on the grass outside: pallets of bricks, boxes of slates, piles of timber. Logan stuck his head through the open door, but it was dark in there. Just the sound of something dripping and the fusty smell of dust and mouse droppings. A pile of tools lurking in the shadows.
Danny Saunders’s caravan wasn’t a big Portakabin-style one like Samantha’s, it was a small two-wheeled model. The kind that always slowed traffic to a funereal crawl on the summer roads, dragged behind a Volvo estate full of unhappy children.
The thing was streaked with dirty green mould, the roof almost black. At some point it had been given a coat of beige paint, but it was blistered and peeling, showing off the rust underneath.
Muted light shone from somewhere in the caravan, so
Logan picked his way across the long damp grass and peered in through the side window. It was surprisingly clean inside, the bed stowed away to make room for a Formica table and two bench seats.
A man sat at the table, making notes on a thick pile of paperwork, with his back to the window. Hair thinning a bit at the back, stripy grey jumper, a fading blue DIY tattoo on the back of one hand.
Somewhere, a radio was playing – the end of a Paul Weller track drifting into a traffic update featuring the disastrous roadworks on the Haudagain roundabout.
‘You want tea, Danny, love?’ Female, young-ish.
The man glanced deeper into the caravan. ‘Oh aye, ta. You know, we’re still aboot twa grand short for gettin’ the roof finished.’ Definitely a local lad.
‘Well…we’ll just have to give him another call, won’t we?’
‘Do we have to? Can we no’—’
‘We’ve been over this, Danny. Let’s not argue.’
Logan inched his way over to the front door. An upturned milk crate sat just outside, acting as a step. Logan kicked it out of the way, then knocked. Then pulled out his pepper-spray, just in case.
A face appeared at the window, but Logan flattened himself against the grime-streaked aluminium body, keeping out of sight, and knocked again.
Danny: ‘Can’t see anybody…’
Woman: ‘If it’s that pisshead Banks again, tell him to sod off, we’re busy.’
Danny: ‘You know he can hear you, don’t you?’
Woman: ‘Just answer the door.’
There was a clunk and the door swung outwards. ‘Ray, dees a favour and…’ Danny – thirty-two-ish, handlebar moustache and soul-patch, cheery cheeks, and spiky hair. He frowned. ‘Can I help you?’
Logan smiled up at him. ‘Damian Atkinson? AKA: Danny Saunders, AKA: Daniel—’
The caravan door slammed shut. Danny shouted, ‘Fuck! It’s the cops!’ then the door battered open again. He charged out, his foot going for where the milk crate step
should
have been.
Oops.
He went sprawling, face first into the cold wet grass.
Thunk.
‘Aya, bastard…’
That was the thing about people like Danny, AKA: Daniel, AKA: Damian, AKA Donny – the more aliases they had, the thicker they were. Really successful crooks never needed more than one name, because they never got caught.
Danny struggled up till he was sitting on his bum, framed in the pale rectangle of light from the caravan’s open door, clutching his left wrist to his chest. Dark-red blood oozed into his moustache from a lopsided nose.
‘Come on then.’ Logan pulled out his handcuffs. ‘On your feet.’
‘You broke my wrist…’
‘I never even touched you.’ Logan took a step forwards. ‘Now you can either get up and be handcuffed, or—’
Loud noise, ringing in his ears. Circles of yellow and black. The pain hit just before the ground did – harsh and throbbing at the back of his head. And then he was lying on the ground, something sharp and jagged clawing at his cheek.
Someone shouting, ‘Run, Danny! Run!’
Fuck…
Logan struggled to his knees, the world whooshing in his ears, head pounding, scalp stinging, stomach churning. Not going to be sick, not going to be…yes he was. All over the grass and his own left hand. A hot splash of bitter, sour-smelling yuck.
‘I said,
run
!’
‘But he’ll—’
‘I’ll take care of him…’
Oh shit. That didn’t sound good.
He looked up. She couldn’t have been much older than eighteen, bleached blonde hair showing an inch of brown at the roots, big red ‘Should-Have-Gone-To-Specsavers’ glasses, huge pregnant belly, chunky face, teeth bared, a heavy castiron frying pan clutched in both hands. She raised it over her head and brought it crashing down onto Logan’s head.
Or she would have if he hadn’t ducked. It slammed into his right arm instead, pain shooting up from his bruised elbow.
‘I’m a bloody police officer!’
‘Leave us the fuck alone!’
She grunted and dragged the frying pan round for another go. Logan scrabbled backwards through the wet grass, but she followed him. Swung. Missed.
Her left foot came down in the warm puddle of sick, and her leg shot out from under her, sending her crashing down on her backside. ‘Urgh! There’s puke everywhere!’
Logan staggered to his feet, lurched to the side, wobbled a bit.
Pepper-spray, where was the bloody pepper-spray?
He tried to steady himself, one hand on the manky caravan.
Where the hell was the god-damned bastarding—
There. Lying in the puddle of vomit.
Logan bent down and grabbed it. The world did a somersault, then the hokey-cokey. He staggered back, clutching the damp, black canister in his hand.
She was getting to her feet, face creased up, teeth bared, swearing…
Logan was sick all over her.
There was a pause, and then she started screaming. ‘Agggh! It’s in my fucking mouth!’
He fumbled with the cap on the little black canister. Damn thing wouldn’t come off…But it didn’t look as if he’d be
needing it any more. She’d dropped the frying pan, now she was bracing herself against the caravan, spitting and gagging. Then spattering the filthy paintwork with whatever it was she’d had for lunch.
Logan put a hand to the back of his head, waves of pain rippling out from his battered elbow as he bent his arm. His fingertips came away dark and sticky. ‘You,’ he turned to the vomiting woman, ‘are fucking nicked.’
He took a step, then froze as Danny came hurtling around the side of the steading clutching a sledgehammer in his one good hand.