is he…?… Aye.'
Down by the water, someone was waving their torch back and forth, trying to attract their attention.
They'd found Rory Simpson.
64
What he really wanted to do was to climb inside a bottle of ice-cold vodka and stay there. Instead he was sitting on his own in his ratty brown Fiat; parked on Commercial Quay in the shadows with the lights off, listening to the buzz and chatter of a typical Aberdeen nightshift.
'Aye, this is Alpha One Niner, we've been roon the Trinity Centre and there's naybiddy here. Must've been a hoax…' — 'Just picked up three teenagers drunk and disorderly on Holburn Street…' — 'Roger that Control, on our way tae Seafield Road noo…' — '… can I get a PNC check on a blue Renault Clio, registration number Sierra Wilko Zero Seven…'
You had to hand it to the head of CID, the only people who knew about Operation Creel were the officers involved — all handpicked by Bain. Complete radio silence as they waited for the Buckie Ballad to chug into port.
ETA 01:50.
Aberdeen Harbour was huge: two man-made inlets of greasy water and a chunk of the River Dee, all lined with warehouses and massive tanks of chemicals and fuel. Commercial Quay was right in the middle and this section of it, down by the fish market, was almost empty — just a handful of parked cars and a vast pile of lumber bound for Finland.
The small grey Royal Navy training craft was the only thing tied up here tonight, the nearest ship a vast offshore supply vessel on the opposite side of Albert Basin.
Nice and quiet. Nice and dark. Nice and secluded.
Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, caught the edge of his bandaged hand and winced. Four stitches, a tetanus shot, and a small packet of low-grade painkillers. Little more than paracetamol, as if that was going to do any good.
Quarter to one — an hour and a bit to go.
He wiped his good hand across his eyes.
What the hell was he going to do? When Kravchenko found out his boatload of weapons had been seized, he'd blind Wiktorja. If she wasn't already dead. Raped, strangled, and dumped in a lay-by. All because Logan screwed everything up.
'Control from Alpha Three Niner, we've got a fatal RTA on South Anderson Drive…' — '… can you attend a domestic in Hazlehead?' — '… peeing in a shop doorway…' — '… fight outside that new nightclub on Windmill Brae…'
The passenger door opened and DI Steel groaned her way into the seat. 'Bain's going mental.'
Logan kept his eyes on the windscreen. 'How's Rory?'
'Fucked. And don't tell me that's fifty pence I owe the swear tin, because I don't care. There's nothing they can do, just keep him sedated and doped to the eyeballs… Well… you know what I mean. Poor sod crawled sixty feet, through a hole in the fence and out onto the river bank. Lucky he passed out before he fell in and drowned.' Sigh. 'Course, maybe that was the idea?' She wriggled in her seat. 'Got any fags on you?'
There were only three left in the packet; he gave Steel one and she lit up, blowing a cloud of smoke out of the open door and into the night. Logan joined her.
'Apparently,' she said, 'we're going to be the subject of a 'rigorous Professional Standards investigation'. And you know what that means.'
She puffed away in silence for a minute. 'What's the time?'
Logan told her and she groaned.
'Tell you, this better no' be a wash-out tonight. We don't come up with a boatload of guns, we're screwed.'
'I'm going to stretch my legs, you want anything?'
'Tea, bacon buttie, and a sodding miracle.' He found a little bakers on Market Street that was still open, flogging artery-clogging delights to the harbour night shift. Logan bought two cheese and onion pasties for himself and a buttie for Steel, then headed back across the road to the harbour, clutching a warm carrier bag and a pair of polystyrene cups. He was almost back to the car when something in his pocket started ringing.
Probably Steel wanting to know where her tea was. He stuck the carrier bag on the ground and dragged the phone out. 'I'm coming, OK? Give us a bloody chance.'
'Detective Sergeant, you are not still tied up, I am thinking.' Not Steel: Kravchenko.
Logan nearly dropped the polystyrene cups.
'You are still there, yes?'
'Yes.'
'Is good. Detective Sergeant, I have the delivery of something come to Aberdeen, and I want to make sure is safe. Policja can be so… suspicious. Is right word? 'Suspicious'?'
'I want to talk to Wiktorja.'
'She is safe. Grigor is not touch her yet.'
'I — want — to — talk — to — her.'
There was a pause, then a discussion in rapid Polish, and then a woman's voice came on the line. 'Logan?'
Thank God. 'Are you all right?'
'Logan, prosze: please, I am scared. I am so scared.'
'It's OK, it's going to be OK. I'm going to take care of everything…' How the hell was he going to do that? 'They're not going to hurt you, it's-'
'No?' Kravchenko was back again, he sounded dis appointed. 'If you think this, what is incentive for you? Grigor: break something.'
A muffled scream came from the other end of the phone.
'There. Now you have incentive, yes?'
Logan stared at the phone, he could hear Wiktorja moaning in the background. 'What did you do?'
'Is my delivery to be safe, Detective Sergeant?'
'WHAT DID YOU DO?'
'Senior Constable Jaroszewicz has two arms. Do you like to hear the other one?'
Logan closed his eyes and listened to her crying.
What was he supposed to do: let them get away with flooding Aberdeen with automatic weapons? Then it wouldn't just be Wiktorja getting hurt, it'd be God knew how many people. Indiscriminate drug war. Machine guns in Mastrick. Handguns on Holburn Street. Bullets in Bon Accord Square.
'Grigor, perhaps you break the other-'
'No! It's not safe. They know about the boat: the Buckie Ballad. There's a team waiting for it.'
There was some Polish swearing, and then the sound of a muffled conversation.
'Hello?'
Logan checked his watch — 01:03 — they were probably trying to contact the fishing boat, get it to turn around and sod off back out to the middle of the North Sea until they could find somewhere safe to land the guns.
'Are you still there?'
Silence.
'Hello?'
The Airwave handset in Logan's pocket crackled then a disembodied voice said, 'Harbour Authority say they've got the Buckie Ballad on the radio…' There was a pause, and then: 'Aye, they're cancelling their berth. Not going to be back till Wednesday at the earliest'
Steel: 'That's no' sodding funny!'
