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…
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
‘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,
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…
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.
