She cracked the seal on the vodka and took a swig. 'And Mrs McLeod says, 'No you haven't. But you will.' and the big bloke grabs Kylie and starts smacking her around.' Tracey's voice was getting quieter and quieter. Another swig. 'Like she's not still hurting from when Harry knocked her about, you know, for the wheelchair joke? So I wades in, and they take it out on me instead…' She stared at the bottle in her hands. 'Used to work with our stepdad too.'
'And Mrs McLeod was there the whole time?'
'She was the one said they'd be back if we didn't tell the police it was someone else who battered Harry.' Tracey knocked back another mouthful. 'But it wasn't, you know? Creepy did it, I saw him do it.'
Logan slipped his notebook back in his pocket. 'Then all you have to do is come down to the station with me. We'll get it all typed up properly, you can sign it, then I'll get something sorted with Witness Protection. OK?'
The lounge door creaked open and in came DS Pirie with three steaming mugs. 'Milk was off, so you've got some sort of soya crap instead.' He clumped the mugs on the windowsill, sending a slop of weak coffee over the edges and onto the dusty paintwork.
Logan took one. There was lipstick on the rim, and a thin brown line to mark a previous high tide. He put it back down again. 'No offence, but I think I'll wait till we get back to the ranch. How about you, Tracey? You want to get Kylie and we can head off?'
She looked up at Pirie, then back at the floor again. 'I don't want to come back here. You know? After.'
'Pack whatever you need. We're in no rush.' Pirie perched himself on the edge of the broken sofa, hands in his pockets, face turned to the window. Outside, a couple of small children were running about on the communal drying green, screeching happily. 'So,' said Pirie, 'you got them to talk.'
Logan shrugged. 'Yeah, well…'
'Thought you were supposed to be a complete fuck-up?'
'Thanks.'
Pirie cleared his throat, paused. 'I…' Another pause. 'Finnie's going to cream his pants when he finds out.'
The sounds of muffled conversation came from the hallway — Kylie and her sister picking through the debris of their flat for anything worth salvaging.
Logan watched as one of the small children outside, looking over his shoulder at the kid chasing him, ran right into a metal clothes pole. CLANGGGGG… He went flat on his back, then started to wail. 'Why's Finnie so obsessed with the McLeods?'
'What, other than all the unsolved armed robberies, punishment beatings, drugs, loan-sharking, prostitution, tobacco smuggling…? You name it they're up to their ears in it.'
'What about Wee Hamish Mowat?'
'Ah… Yes.' Pirie ran a hand through his curly orange hair.
'Let's just say that it's complicated.'
'You mean Finnie's dirty?'
'What? No…' He drifted off into silence for a moment. 'The thing you got to remember about Wee Hamish is that he's a bit like background radiation. You can live with it for generations, then suddenly all your teeth fall out.' He cleared his throat again. 'Look, I'm sorry if I was a dick earlier, OK? I've been… This sodding caravan full of guns: I'm getting nowhere. And I just…' Pirie sighed, shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets. 'Well, you know.'
Out on the communal green, the screaming child's mother had arrived, all hugs and kisses. If anything the kid's bawling got even louder.
Pirie prodded the remains of the shattered coffee table with his toe. 'You heard about the DI's position coming up?'
'Gray's going off on the stress.'
'Yes, well,' said Pirie, 'I was odds-on favourite… Don't suppose it matters now. Finnie's going to put you forward, isn't he?'
'No idea.'
'Be mad if he didn't.' What was left of the coffee table collapsed. A handful of DVDs and dog-eared dirty magazines slithered onto the carpet. 'Sod it…' He bent down and picked up a copy of Naughty Nuns 2: Hardcore Devotions. 'Suppose we'll all have to start being nice to you. Just in case.'
Logan smiled. 'Wouldn't hurt.' Ten minutes later they were out in sunshine again, Pirie helping Tracey and her sister pack their stuff into the CID pool car while Logan listened to DI Steel whinging on the other end of his mobile.
'Hope you're happy,' she was saying, sounding out of breath. 'I had to take that idiot Beattie…' There was some rustling, then she told someone, 'Well, ring the damn thing then!'
Logan heard the sound of a doorbell in the background. 'Where are you?'
'Where do you think? Got a warrant for Gary the Cameraman's rapist chums. Did you get an address for Kostchey International Whatevers?'
'Not yet.'
There was a pause.
'Right, first thing tomorrow we'll- Hoy! You! Stop right there!' Some rustling, and then the inspector's voice was all over the place. 'Come… back… here… you… little… shite!' Puffing, panting, then what sounded like the ocean crashing repeatedly against a stony shore.
She'd probably stuffed her phone in her pocket.
Logan listened for another minute, but the only thing he could hear was the SWOOOSSHH, PWSHHHH of fabric on the mobile's microphone. He hung up. If it was important she'd call back.
36
Quarter past six and Logan was just starting the report on their visit to Harry Jordan's train-wreck brothel. It wasn't the interview that had taken the time — that was the easy bit — it was haggling with the Witness Protection people. Then filling in all their bloody forms. But finally Tracey and her sister had been picked up by an extremely plainclothes officer in a dented Citroen Picasso.
Both stick-thin junkies had given Logan a big hug before they left.
And now, the paperwork beckoned.
Two pages into it, DS Pirie stuck his head round the CID room door and grinned. 'You're going to want to come downstairs and see this.' The back doors boomed open, and a pair of uniformed officers dragged an old lady out of the back of a police van. Mrs McLeod's housekeeper: hands cuffed behind her back, face red and swollen from a good dose of pepper-spray, kicking and screaming.
'YOU FUCKING PIG BASTARDS, I'LL FUCKING KILL THE WHOLE FUCKING LOT OF YOU!'
Pirie waved her goodbye as she was hauled down the corridor. 'Isn't she sweet? When they kicked the door in, she went for someone with a kitchen knife.'
Next out of the van was Mrs McLeod herself. She was dressed in her black and white silk and cashmere ensemble again, jewellery glittering as she stepped down from the van and into the station's fluorescent lighting.
Finnie came strolling in behind her. 'Ah yes, Agnes, you'll love it here. The rooms are a bit snug, but the views are terrific.' He did a little skip-step, then winked at her, 'Make sure you tip the bell-boy, OK? They might put bogies in your tea otherwise.'
She paused for a second, looked him up and down, then spat. 'My Tony was worth ten of you!'
Finnie wiped the glop of spittle from his leather jacket with a paper handkerchief. 'Thanks, Agnes, but we'll get a DNA sample after they've done your fingerprints.' Then to the pair of constables escorting her: 'Show Mrs McLeod to the penthouse suite, gentlemen.'
They went to move her, but she dug her heels in. 'I can walk myself!' She dusted herself down, then let them lead her away.
'Ahhh…' DCI Finnie leant back against the wall — eyes closed, head thrown back — as they disappeared
