Authors: Stuart MacBride
Logan tumbled another handful of dried penne into the pot of boiling water. The ivory shapes looked like little segments of finger-bone in the light from the extractor fan.
Through in the lounge, the TV was babbling away to itself, the
Channel 4 News
covering the latest round of scandals from the Scottish Parliament, as Logan had a bash at making tea for a change.
A little after half six and there was still no sign of Samantha – probably pulling another green shift – but he was going to bloody well impress her when she finally got in. Baked pasta with some sort of sauce and cheese. A thank you for her promising to rush through the DNA samples she’d scraped from under his nails in the little lab back at FHQ.
He checked the recipe he’d downloaded, then excavated a dust-covered casserole dish from the cupboard. A home-cooked meal, how hard could it be?
Chop an onion, fry it in olive oil, chuck in a tin of tomatoes, couple tins of tuna, some mixed herbs. Easy. What was all the fuss about?
Right now Steel was probably breaking back into Steve Polmont’s flat, acting all surprised at the boxroom full of
stolen goods. At least Logan didn’t have to worry about his fingerprints being on anything.
He checked the recipe again, went to the wine rack for the last bottle of red in the house and glugged in about a glassful.
Move over Gordon Ramsay.
Should have taken a bottle of that vodka when he’d had the chance.
And
the video game. Be nice if the job actually came with some perks for a change.
He let the sauce simmer for a bit, then helped himself to a glass. Chef’s prerogative. It wasn’t as if he was planning on getting hammered, just having a civilized glass of wine. Then another one. And another.
Bloody Steel. Lecturing him about
his
attitude, and
his
drinking. How many times had she turned up at the station hungover and reeking of stale booze? Not to mention helping herself to evidence from Steve Polmont’s flat.
Hypocrite.
Logan chucked everything together in the casserole dish, then covered it in a wodge of grated cheddar. Whacked it in the oven.
Maybe have another glass of wine to celebrate…
Not every day you cook a five-star meal, is it?
Might as well finish the bottle. No point letting it go to waste.
He clunked back into the flat. ‘Sam? You home?’
No answer.
‘Sam?’
Logan kicked off his shoes, then dumped the bag from Oddbins down on the kitchen table. Two bottles of Shiraz, and a Sauvignon Blanc. He dug out the corkscrew – got to let the wine breathe, right?
Maybe try a glass, just to check it’s OK.
He toasted his reflection in the kitchen window and drank.
Drank some more.
Pasta bake smelled good.
He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Maybe have some crisps to keep him going till Samantha got back.
Logan topped up his wine again. Raised it to his lips. Then swore as the doorbell went.
Why could she never remember her damn keys?
He placed his glass carefully on the working surface, then unlocked the flat’s front door and hurried down the communal stairwell. Unlatched the deadbolt and threw the door open. ‘You’d forget your head if it wasn’t…’
A large man stood on the pavement outside, scarred face pinched into a disfigured scowl.
Reuben.
He hefted his thumb over his shoulder at a black BMW, its hazard lights winking on and off in the cold, crisp evening. ‘Mr Mowat wants to see you.’
Fuck.
Logan looked down at his own feet. Black socks with a hole in one toe. ‘I’m kinda in the middle of—’
‘Now.’
Logan blinked, the wine making his teeth itch, the mellow buzz turning into an unpleasant fizzing behind his eyes. ‘But—’
‘I’m not telling you again.’
‘Can I at least put my shoes on?’
Skeletal trees hunched over a collection of potholes and cracked tarmac, winding through the darkness. The BMW bumped along the rutted track, the occasional grinding noise from under their feet making Reuben grit his teeth. ‘Fuckin’ thing…’
Logan looked out at the darkened countryside. Two days
ago these fields were bathed in the moon’s glow, now there was just the car’s headlights as they headed down the side road overlooking Malk the Knife’s building site, not far from where Logan and Steel had parked on Monday night. Waiting for Steve Polmont to turn up.
The BMW’s headlights picked out one of those big, ugly Porsche 4x4 things at the end of the lane, its exhaust spiralling out into the cold night air. Reuben stopped, hauled on the handbrake, then killed the engine and the lights.
Darkness.
Reuben turned and glowered at Logan. ‘Listen up: you upset Mr Mowat tonight and I’ll tear your cock off and make you eat it. Understand?’
‘Why would—’
‘You fucking watch yourself, McRae.’
‘God’s sake…’ Wanker. Logan popped open his door and stepped out into the overcast night.
Bloody
freezing.
Right through the soles of his holey socks. Bastard could at least have let him grab his shoes…
At least it had stopped raining.
Logan hobbled through the darkness to the Porsche Cayenne, breath trailing along behind him, then clambered into the passenger seat and clunked the door shut. Shivered.
‘Ah, Logan, glad you could make it.’ Wee Hamish Mowat sat hunched behind the wheel, gnarled hands held over the vents. His face was caught in the glow of the dashboard lights – that big hooked nose, the deep crevasse wrinkles, eyes sparkling like something sharp and dangerous at the bottom of a toy box. ‘Will you take a wee dram?’
‘Er…yeah. Thanks.’
The warm interior carried the smell of Old Spice, underlaid with something else. Something sour and sickly.
Wee Hamish pulled a silver hipflask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid, then passed it over.
Logan looked at it. ‘Actually, Mr Mowat—’
‘It’s all right, Logan, what I have isn’t catching.’ His voice was a gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Sounding tired. ‘And after everything you’ve…
helped
me with over the last six months, I think you can call me “Hamish”, don’t you?’
Logan accepted the flask. Forced a smile. ‘Thank you. Hamish.’
He wiped the neck and took a swig. Whisky. It started a low fire in his innards, spreading its warmth up through his chest. ‘Good stuff.’
‘1974 Ardbeg.’ Wee Hamish took the flask back and knocked some back. ‘Can’t take it with you…’
They sat in silence for a moment, just the rumble of the engine and the whine of the air vents. Then Wee Hamish pointed through the windscreen at the building site laid out on the fields below. ‘Four hundred houses, just like that. Planning permission for a hotel. Going to have a swimming pool. All legitimate and above board.’
Logan kept his mouth shut.
‘Course, wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for Donald Trump.’ He took another hit of whisky. ‘What do you think, Logan: for it, or against it?’
‘Er…’
‘Keeping an open mind? Good. Good. Some say it’s a bad thing, that Trump steamrollered local opposition, then went blubbing to the Scottish Parliament when the planning department said he couldn’t have his golf course. Got them to overturn the decision. Others say it’s a good thing – it shows that Aberdeen’s open for business. Welcomes investment. Is looking to the future…’
He stared at the hipflask in his hand. ‘The future’s a funny thing, isn’t it?’
Logan shifted in his seat. ‘We’re pretty sure Malk the Knife’s
development’s just one big money-laundering exercise. He’s using it to get a foothold in the North East…’ He trailed off to a halt. Wee Hamish was staring at him.
‘Do you play chess, Logan?’
‘Er…no. Not really. More of a
Grand Theft Auto
kind of guy.’
‘Shame. We shall have to do something about that.’ He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Mr McLennan is the Black King. He moves his pawns around the board, always pushing forwards. Drugs. Prostitution. Counterfeit merchandise. Then he has his bishops. Moving diagonally, back and forth from Edinburgh. Keeping an eye on the souls of his flock. His knights taking care of the opposition.’
‘I see…’
‘Do you?’
Logan wriggled his toes in the warm air of the footwell. ‘It’s no secret Malk the Knife’s pushing in on your territory. We’re getting a huge influx of dodgy goods, forged money. Car theft’s up about three hundred percent. There’s more drugs out there than ever before.’
The old man drank from the flask again, then screwed the cap on and slipped it back into his jacket. ‘You shouldn’t call him “Malk the Knife”, it’s disrespectful.’
Logan opened his mouth, but Wee Hamish held up a crooked finger.
‘Never treat your opponent with disdain, Logan. When you do, you underestimate them. And when you underestimate them, you give them an advantage. Take it from me: it’s a lesson learned from many, many games of chess.’
Pause.
‘OK. Mr McLennan it is.’
Wee Hamish reached over and patted Logan on the shoulder, his hand unnaturally hot, making Logan’s skin prickle through the fabric of his shirt.
‘That’s good.’ The old gangster smiled. ‘I don’t like people
trying to take advantage of my city, Logan. It worries me. Especially now.’ He went back to staring out through the windscreen. ‘A city needs a White King. Otherwise, how can it go to war?’
Logan hobbled back across the cold, damp ground and jumped into Reuben’s BMW. The fat man turned and glowered at him. ‘Well?’
Logan shrugged. ‘You could’ve let me put on a pair of bloody shoes. Feet are freezing.’ He fiddled with the climate control buttons. ‘How do you put on the heat?’
Reuben slapped his fingers away. ‘Did I say you could touch my car?’
Logan held his hands up. ‘Fine. Don’t mind me. I’ll just catch pneumonia and die. Perfect.’
The little lane snapped into focus as Wee Hamish’s Porsche headlights came on, then the huge 4x4 backed up, swung around, and squeezed past them, half up on the grass verge.
And then it was gone.
Reuben performed a clunky seven-point-turn, and headed back the way they’d come.
They bumped off the cracked road and onto proper tarmac, roaring back into town at well over the speed limit. The sky had an ominous dark-orange tinge, low clouds reflecting back the streetlights as they drove down the Ellon Road and across the Bridge of Don.
Reuben broke the silence. ‘Glove compartment.’
Logan looked at him. ‘What about it?’
‘Open the fucking thing, you moron.’
Inside, there was an AA card, a Scottish road atlas, and a standard white envelope. The thing was sealed, stuffed full to bursting. Logan pulled it out. ‘What’s this?’
‘Mr Mowat says it’s relevant to your interests.’
Logan eased up one side of the flap, but Reuben smacked his hand.
‘Don’t open that in here! Fuck’s wrong with you?’
Logan hit him back, whisky and wine burning in his stomach. ‘I’m getting pretty bloody sick of you acting like a dick the whole time!’
Reuben jammed on the breaks. ‘Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?’ This time it wasn’t a smack it was a slap, a backhand right across Logan’s cheek, hard enough to bounce him off the headrest. ‘Clean out your lugs,
Officer,
you never, ever speak like that to me again. Understand?’
Logan leaned forward in his seat, feeling his cheek starting to swell up, the taste of blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. ‘Fuck…’ Bastard. Fucking fat bastard. Fucking—
‘Better learn to show some respect, McRae, or I’ll—’
Logan slammed his elbow into the bridge of Reuben’s nose. The car lurched forward and stalled as blood poured down Reuben’s face.
Oh…
fuck.
Reuben was going to kill him. He was going to drag him out into the middle of nowhere and fucking kill him.
DO SOMETHING!
The big man’s hands came up, but Logan hit him again. Another elbow in the face, splitting his lip. Again. And again. Fast. Furious. Vicious. Not giving the fat bastard time to recover or fight back. Hammering into Reuben’s skull as he tried to cover his bleeding face with his hands. The big man didn’t cry out, didn’t whimper; the dull thunk, thunk, thunk of bone on broken skin and Logan’s grunts the only sound.
A car horn blared from somewhere behind them.
Logan slumped back in his seat. Teeth gritted. Elbow aching as Reuben curled forwards, shuddering, dripping bright-red on the leather upholstery, his breath a harsh bubbling wheeze.
‘I’m a
police
officer.’ Logan wrenched his seatbelt free. ‘You EVER touch me again, I’ll fucking kill you!’
He hauled the door open and staggered out.
That car horn sounded again, the driver mouthing
obscenities through the windscreen. Logan stuck two fingers up at him, stuffed the envelope in his back pocket, and marched away up George Street in his socks.
Fucking Reuben.
He ran a hand across his eyes. His fingers were trembling, heart pounding, feeling sick as the adrenaline rush slowly faded, leaving nothing but the booze behind.
Now what was he supposed to do? No way Reuben would ever let this go. Hitting him
once
had been bad enough, but panicking and doing it again and again?
God, his elbow was really sore…
The first drop of rain slapped against the back of Logan’s neck, getting heavier as he hobbled along the cold pavement. Brilliant. As if the day needed to get any worse. By the time he was passing the university playing fields, it was chucking it down, a freezing deluge that soaked right through his shirt, socks and trousers.
The Bobbin was just up ahead, lights blazing from its windows, a little knot of smokers huddling in the lee of the porch over the front door. Banished to lung cancer and pleurisy. Logan hobbled inside.
The pub was getting busy – students from the university clustered around low tables, vintage Meatloaf pounding out of the jukebox.
Logan squelched his way to the bar, then closed his eyes and swore. No wallet. Reuben wouldn’t let him go back for his coat.