He nudges Julie and points across the road. Neil’s marching down the hotel steps and out onto the pavement. The big man looks left, then right, then left again — like a good little boy — then hurries across to the car and clambers in the back seat.
‘Bloody freezing out there, like.’ He shuffles forward. ‘Turn the blowers up.’
‘Yeah…No. I gotta go, OK? Bye, Darling.’ And Julie hangs up. Doesn’t turn around. ‘What’s the score on the doors?’
Neil grins. ‘You were right: we
She nods. ‘Told you.’
‘He’s staying in room Three Twenty-Two.’
‘You sure?’
‘Followed him down the corridor, like. Watched him go into his room — it’s a king-sized double, if it helps?’
Julie turns in her seat and smiles at him. ‘You did good, Babe.’
‘Checked out the back too. There’s a loading dock we can jimmy open and a couple of CCTV cameras. But the cables run along the wall, so you can cut them without the daft sods seeing nowt.’
Tony pops another antacid. ‘You want to take him tonight?’
She pauses, head on one side, chewing the inside of her cheek. ‘Think we’d better call the boss first, don’t you?’
Neil nods. ‘Then grab something to eat?’
Tony burps and winces. ‘Not bloody curry again.’
Then Neil asks the
‘What about him?’
‘Well…shouldn’t we be doing something? Getting ready, like?’
‘All in good time, Babe.’ She draws a smiley face on the inside of her window with a fingertip. ‘All in good time.’
19
Logan sat bolt upright on the couch, blinking, head reeling. The lights were all on, the TV grumbling away to itself in the corner. ‘Urgh…’
Steve Polmont’s journals were scattered across the lounge carpet, one open on the coffee table, the tatty pages marked with the occasional bright yellow Post-it note, where Logan had found something at least partially legible.
Blink. He checked the time on the DVD player. Quarter to midnight.
Yawn.
‘Sam? You home?’ Logan scrubbed his face with his hands. The message on the answering machine said she was pulling yet another green shift — saving up for a new tattoo.
And then the doorbell went again.
‘Bloody hell, Sam…’ He peeled himself upright, then lurched to the front door, shivering and feeling like crap. Hadn’t even been drinking, just came home, microwaved some vegetarian lasagne, and sat down with Polmont’s journals and a rerun of
Cold leached through Logan’s socks as he padded down the stairs to the communal front door. The bell went again, an irritating dringing buzz. ‘All right, all right.’ He undid the latch. ‘Why can you never remember your damn-’
Reuben.
The big man’s face was a mass of bruises, radiating out from a nose covered in gauze and white bandage. His eyes were swollen, shrouded in blue and purple. The left one didn’t have any white left, it was a sea of scarlet, with the iris floating in the middle. An angry olive in a bloody Mary. Butterfly stitches on his forehead.
Logan tried to slam the door shut, but Reuben had his foot jammed in the opening. It didn’t budge.
Run. Turn around right now and run like hell up the stairs. Maybe he’d get into the flat before Reuben caught him and beat him to death.
Logan took a step backwards.
The big man held up a package. It was about the size of a laptop, only thicker, wrapped in cheery yellow paper tied up with a blue ribbon, the ends all curly and worked into a bow.
‘Compliments of Mr Mowat.’ Voice all bunged up.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Look, Reuben, I-’
‘I have to apologize for my lack of respect yesterday. I was out of order.’ Reuben stood stock still, delivering his message in a nasal monotone.
‘It was a…Look, I’m sorry, OK? I just snapped. I didn’t mean to-’
‘Can I tell Mr Mowat you accept my apology?’
‘Yes, of course. I shouldn’t have-’
Something slammed into Logan’s stomach. Pain tore through him, radiating out like a wave of fire. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a rasping wheeze as his knees gave way and he fell to the hallway floor.
Jesus,
Reuben flexed a huge hand, open, then closed again. ‘You’re fucking lucky Mr Mowat likes you, McRae, or you and me’d be taking a wee trip out somewhere quiet, with a welding torch.’
He bent down, looming over Logan. ‘Understand this, you’re nothing more than a wee piece of shite to me. Mr Mowat’s no’ a well man. See if he dies? You and me are going to have another talk.’
Reuben tossed the rectangular package at Logan. A sharp edge clunked against his head, making hot stars flash across the dark sky.
‘Enjoy your fucking present.’
‘Logan? Why are you sitting here in the dark?’ Click, and the kitchen light blossomed slowly to life, the energy efficient bulb flickering to a dull-white glow. Sam stood with one hand on the switch, eyebrows knitted together. ‘Are you OK?’
Logan looked up from the table, clutching a bag of defrosting peas to the top of his head. One hand wrapped around his stomach. ‘Not really.’
She peeled the bag of peas away from his head and peered at the skin. ‘God, that’s some bump!’
‘Walked into a door.’
Samantha frowned. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Tea.’ He pointed at the mug on the table, sitting next to Wee Hamish Mowat’s present.
She pressed the bag back against his head. ‘You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. Like Muppet Central out there…’ The fridge broke into a droning burr as she stood, peering in at the contents. ‘We got any white wine left, or did you finish it?’
‘I’ve been on orange juice and bloody lemonade all night, give me a break, OK?’
She turned. ‘I just asked if there was any wine left.’
Pause.
‘Sorry. I’ve…Not been the best of days.’
‘Been a lot of those recently.’ She clunked the fridge shut. ‘You want some more tea?’
‘Any chance of a hot water bottle?’
She filled the kettle, set it to boil, then disappeared from the room, coming back a couple of minutes later wearing her pink fluffy bathrobe and matching socks. Samantha thunked a roadkill-shaped Winnie The Pooh on the kitchen worktop, and unVelcroed his head. Unscrewed the plug and poured Pooh down the sink. Then filled him up from the steaming kettle.
