‘I don’t have to prove-’
‘Go a week without getting hammered every night.’
‘Just…’ He closed his eyes. Counted to three. ‘Can we not do this, please? I’ve had a really,
‘Oh, you’ve had a bad day? Well you know what, mine was just fucking great. I got to spend eight hours scraping a thirteen-year-old girl’s internal organs off the underside of an articulated lorry.’
Silence.
Logan put the top back on the vodka bottle. ‘I’m sorry.’
She settled back against the sink. ‘Go a week.’
A week. No problem. Could do that easy. ‘OK.’
He waited until she disappeared off to the bathroom to do her teeth, then opened the bottle again.
Logan surfaced with a gasp, the duvet wrapped around his chest like a fist. Jesus…
He struggled free and sat on the edge of the bed, shivering in the light of the clock radio. 04:21. Another happy night full of sand and severed heads. Only this time it had been Samantha buried out in the dunes.
He turned and looked at her side of the bed. Empty again.
Brilliant.
Logan dragged himself through to the bathroom for a sulphurous pee. He stood there for a minute, trying to decide if he wanted to be sick or not. Mouth dry. Still a bit drunk…
He coughed, retched a little, then bent over and howched a purple and black splatter into the sink. Red wine and saliva, looking like a tumour on the white porcelain. Logan washed it away with the cold tap, before splashing some water on his face. His cheek had taken on an angry purple-and-yellow tinge where Reuben had hit him — top lip swollen, split and stinging. Could barely bend his right arm.
Why did everything
He knocked back a couple of paracetamol, then dumped the empty blister pack in the little stainless steel bin with all the blood-soaked toilet paper.
He killed the bathroom light, hobbled back down the hall, eased the lounge door open and peered inside. Samantha was on the couch, stripy-socked feet sticking out from beneath the spare duvet.
Logan shut the door as quietly as he could then slouched through to the kitchen for a pint or two of water, trying to sabotage the coming hangover.
The sink was still full of his clothes, so he dragged everything out and stuffed them in the washing machine. Then remembered the envelope full of cash in the trouser pocket.
It was all damp and wrinkly, but the contents seemed to have survived OK. All three thousand, seven hundred and sixty pounds of it.
Could have used it to pay for the taxi, instead of standing out in the rain like an idiot waiting for Samantha. Should’ve used it. Stupid not to. What did it really matter anyway? Just because it came from Wee Hamish Mowat.
Six months now he’d been doing…
And not once had Wee Hamish felt the need to hand over envelopes stuffed with cash. To
?3,760.
‘Fuck…’ Logan let his head thunk against the kitchen cabinet.
Eighteen months ago he’d been the golden boy of Grampian Police and now look at him: everyone down the station thought he was a foul-tempered, alcoholic tosser; he’d just battered a mob enforcer half to death in the middle of King Street; and Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord thought he should be on the payroll. Woo hoo. Way to go. Fan-fucking-tastic.
A new personal low.
Logan stacked all the notes together into one pile, wrapped it up in kitchen paper, then crept out into the hallway and hid the lot in the airing cupboard, behind the hot water tank.
It wasn’t perfect, but it’d do till he figured something else out.
The black Range Rover winds its way slowly north. Newcastle to Edinburgh is the worst bit: the A1’s a fucking disgrace, isn’t it? 121 miles of twisty tarmac with the occasional crawler lane and tiny patches of dual carriageway. Get stuck behind a caravan on this thing and you’re screwed, like.
Not that it’s a problem at twenty to five on a Saturday morning. Wipers going at a steady creak, keeping the snow confined to the edges of the windscreen. Winter wonderland in Newcastle when they left. Six inches in places.
They’re making good time, even though Tony’s taking it easy — iPod hooked into the huge car’s stereo, dribbling out that jazz stuff Julie likes so much. It’s not too bad, once you get used to it.
She’s asleep in the passenger seat, and Neil’s curled up in the back with a coat draped over him like a blanket, mouth open, snoring in time with the bloke playing the saxophone. It’s funny how even the most violent, dangerous bastards can look like little kids when they’re asleep.
The sat-nav says 102 miles to Aberdeen.
Tony keeps the needle at a steady sixty-five. No speeding. Nothing that would draw attention to them. Playing it cool. Heading north through the snow.
Bringing a whole shit-heap of trouble with him.
14
‘Lying
‘Jesus, Richard, calm down!’ A large woman — one of Knox’s minders from Sacro — was crouching behind the sofa, popping her head up over the dusty fabric, then ducking down again as a shire horse turned into porcelain shrapnel.
‘They’ve no right!’
Logan froze on the threshold, head pounding. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’
Knox snatched a Scotty dog from the mantelpiece and drew his arm back to send it flying. Logan stepped forward and grabbed it off of him.
‘All right, that’s enough!’
Knox span around, eyes wide and shiny. Lips twitching across his gritted teeth. ‘Give it back!’
‘Constable Guthrie?’
Guthrie bumbled into the living room, clutching greasy paper bags from the baker’s they’d stopped at on the way over here, a wodge of flaky pastry in his other hand. ‘What?’
‘Lying…’ Knox’s eyes darted left, then right, then he snatched up a fishing teddy bear and sent that flying instead. ‘BASTARDS!’
The constable dumped his baked goods on the ancient couch and grabbed Knox’s arm, twisting it up behind his back, then slamming him into the wall. ‘Behave yourself!’
Knox struggled, screaming abuse. Guthrie glanced over at Logan, and got the nod. He pulled Knox back a couple of feet, then rammed him forwards again. Making the photos above the mantelpiece rattle.
‘Aaagh…get off us!’
‘You want another one?’
Knox didn’t reply, but he did keep wriggling, so Guthrie introduced him to the wallpaper again.
