step and a hand in his trousers. 'I'll show her who's a useless tosser.' By the time Steel got back from wherever it was, Rennie had come and gone, leaving a slimy reminder in the bottom of the plastic tub. Not wanting to touch the thing, Logan had told him to put it on the windowsill in the sunshine to keep it warm.
Steel cracked the window open and stood there, staring at the little tub. 'Is this what I think it is?' She picked up the tub and squinted at the contents. 'Could you no' have managed a little more?'
'Look, forget about it. Chuck it in the bin, it's not-'
'No!' She clutched it too her chest. 'No, I'm no' being ungrateful, this is great. It's fine, honestly.' The inspector grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. 'If anyone needs me, tell them to sod off, OK? I've got a baby to make.'
She hurried out. Then bustled back in again, planted a big smoky kiss on Logan's cheek, and said, 'Thank you.'
Logan watched her go, all happy with her counterfeit sperm. He tried to warn her, no one could say he didn't try…
He slumped back to the empty CID office. Screw Professional Standards, they could haul him over the coals tomorrow.
Someone had stuck a Post-it note on his computer screen. Yet another message from Dr Goulding about how he could help with some fictitious case.
Wee Hamish's bottle of thirty-year-old Knockdhu was exactly where Logan had left it, along with the glass he'd used to take Krystka Gorzalkowska's fingerprints when she was in hospital.
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Once you started accepting free booze, what came next?
He took the glass out of the evidence bag, tore the foil cap off the whisky with shaky fingers, and poured himself a stiff measure. It glowed like bottled fire.
Logan toasted Goulding's Post-it. 'Thin end of the wedge.' It went down smooth, hitting his stomach and spreading warm, sweet tendrils through his body, soothing out the tremors. Peat and alcohol making his breath tingle. It was good stuff. He finished the rest of the glass before someone came in and asked for a taste, then went onto the internet and found out how much a bottle of thirty-year-old Knockdhu was actually worth.
'Jesus…' It was a small fortune.
Really should phone Wee Hamish up and say thank you. Only polite. Thanks for the hooringly expensive whisky: anything I can do in return?
Logan looked at the Post-it note. Or he could call Goulding, let the psychologist probe and prod away at his problems like a rotten tooth.
Wee Hamish or Goulding?
Whisky or toothache?
He pulled out his phone and made the call.
III
HER MAJESTY'S PRISON CRAIGINCHES — TWO WEEKS LATER
The exercise yard is busy, even with the thin drizzle drifting down from a grey July sky. The outside world invisible behind high granite walls.
He folds his arms and leans back against the equipment locker, enjoying the fresh air. Five days stuck inside in solitary, just because someone accidentally got their hand trapped in one of the heavy cell doors. Six times.
Not his fault, is it? Not that they could prove anyway. No, he was real fucking careful about that. Two months for aggravated assault is quite enough, thanks.
Two months… God he could murder a joint.
Instead he settles in and watches the game.
It's supposed to be a football match — blues versus reds — but there are too many players, and half the buggers don't have a clue what they're doing. Bunch of Muppets. The score's twenty-three to fifty-two. That's coz no one wants to stay in goal, they all want to be strikers. Morons.
Don't understand the importance of taking one for the team…
He straightens up.
The Russian bloke's here — Russian, Polish, something like that — limping along with a face like a skelpt arse. Two weeks since that cop put a bullet in him, and he's already up and walking. That's one tough bastard.
Russians, eh?
Someone boots the ball out of play. It bounces a couple of times, then comes to rest at the Russian's feet. Should be a throw in, but the halfwits in blue and red all rush to see who can get to it first, hooting like fucking monkeys.
Right on cue.
Colin McLeod saunters across the scrappy grass behind the red team goal, looking dead casual, you know? Closing the gap.
The players hustle around the limping Russian, jockeying for position — 'Come on, pass the fuckin' thing!' / 'Gerroff!' / 'Fuck you!' / 'Hey, it's my turn!' — obscuring Colin from view as he slides the shiv from his sleeve.
Nothing fancy, just a toothbrush, sharpened to a point on the floor of his cell. He rams it into the Russian's back. Three times in the kidneys, and twice in the throat.
The old man doesn't even cry out, just sinks to the ground with blood bubbling out of his mouth. Be dead in a minute. Now who's tough, eh?
Creepy Colin McLeod leans in and passes on the message he's spent the last five days practicing. Sounding it out in his cell every night until it's right.
'Do widzenia, you stupid Russian fuck.'
Goodbye.
And then the crowd yells and shouts its way back to the football pitch, taking Colin with it, leaving the old man's body to twitch and shudder, and finally lie still.
That's what happens when you fuck with Aberdeen.
