Logan swung back round to the bar. ‘Come on Pete, I just want to talk to Angus. Nothing serious, just a quick word.’
The big man stuck the glass in front of Logan, foam dripping down the side. ‘I mean, Daz is OK, you know, for a registered sex offender, but…’ He shrugged.
‘Got anything for a headache?’
Pete stuck his hand under the bartop and came out with a small blue packet, placed it next to the glass.
Logan reached for his wallet, but Pete gave him a broad smile.
‘Nah, on the house,
And in the mirror behind the bar, Logan saw a man framed in the open doorway to the gents freeze — eyes wide — then disappear back into the toilets. Angus Black.
Logan took a sip, then knocked back a couple of Pete’s paracetamol. ‘Bog windows still got bars on them?’
Another shrug.
Logan picked up a beer mat and stuck it on top of his pint glass. Then turned and wandered across the sticky linoleum to the sign marked ‘BUCKS’. Stopped for a moment outside. Then pushed the door open.
25
The toilet door creaked open on a dark room.
Blink. Bzzzzzzzz. Blink.
The fluorescent lamp never got past the start-up phase, sending out little flashes of dim light.
Bzzzzzzzz. Blink. Blink. Bzzzzzzzz.
A short, stainless steel trough ran along one wall, the tiles beneath them shiny with poor targeting. Two graffiti-scrawled cubicles, one with the door missing. Toilet seat was gone too, and there was no way you’d want to expose your bare bum to whatever lurked in the bowl.
The drip, drip, drip of water in the cistern above the urinal made a dark heartbeat in the gloom.
Blink. Bzzzzzzzz. Blink.
Logan stepped into the eye-biting nip of old urine and let the door swing shut behind him. ‘Jesus, Pete, when did you last
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Bzzzzzzzz. Blink. Bzzzzzzzz.
It was like standing in the middle of a horror movie.
‘Come on, Angus, I know you’re in here.’
Pale orange light oozed in through dirty windows, slowly bringing the shapes back into focus. The door to the second cubicle was closed. Not wanting to touch anything, Logan raised his foot and gave it a shove.
Locked.
Blink. Bzzzzzzzz. Blink. Blink.
‘Daz?’ He tapped the graffiti-covered chipboard with the toe of his shoe. ‘That better not be you in there having a wank…’
Silence.
Logan pulled back his foot and gave the door a kick, springing the lock. The boom reverberated around the narrow, stinking room. Someone gave a little yelp.
Whoever it was, they’d managed to get their top half out of the narrow window above the toilet, one foot on the cistern, the other waving about in the air, backside wiggling, rucksack stuck in the small opening.
‘Angus?’
The thrashing stopped. Then started again, feet swinging about madly.
Logan crossed his arms and only just stopped himself from settling against the cubicle wall. ‘It’s OK, take your time.’
The legs went limp. Then started up again.
‘Should have taken the backpack off
A muffled, ‘Fuck…’ One last kick, then everything sagged. ‘I’m stuck.’
‘Really?’
‘Er…How about we cut a deal?’
‘Sorry Angus, it’s against Grampian Police policy to negotiate with people’s backsides. What’s in the rucksack?’
Pause. ‘Stuff?’
‘You put Danny Saunders in touch with two loan sharks.’
‘Er…I…I’m getting snowed on.’
‘Pair of blokes called Gallagher and Yates.’
Another bout of wriggling. ‘I’m catching my death out here!’
‘Good. Now tell me about Gallagher and Yates.’
‘This is police brutality…Can I at least come in out the snow?’
‘No. Talk.’
‘Fucking CID.’ Sigh. ‘They’re new boys, OK? Pair of big bastards up from Edinburgh looking for
‘Who do they work for?’
‘I…Look, I’m losing all sensation in my arms here.’
‘Come on, Angus: are these guys freelance, or part of someone’s crew?’
‘I don’t-’
‘Where can I find them?’
Silence.
Fine. Be like that.
Logan grabbed both of Angus’s ankles and pulled.
‘FUCK!’ He came clattering back into the cubicle, hands grabbing at the window frame. A skinny wee man with a face that was all nose and no chin. His legs scrabbled, but Logan wouldn’t let go.
‘Where do I find them, Angus?’
‘Aaagh, I’m-’ And then he fell, bashing his face on the top of the cistern. One hand hauling the toilet roll dispenser off the wall.
Logan let go of Angus’s legs and the man tumbled to the cubicle floor, groaning, swearing.
‘Aw…
Logan hauled the rucksack off him, before it got covered in whatever was all over the floor. ‘You want to stay here, rolling about in it, or you want to go back to the bar?’
They took their drinks into the snug, a tiny room at the back of the bar, just big enough for two bench seats, a small table, and some dark-red wallpaper. It was like sitting in a blood clot.
Angus sniffed at his jacket sleeve, grimaced, then scoofed down a mouthful of dark brown beer. ‘Covered in pish…’ The left side of his forehead was already swelling up, a thin smear of blood oozing out onto his pale face.
Logan squeezed into the seat opposite and handed him a damp bar towel with a couple of ice cubes folded in the middle. ‘Try this.’
Angus dabbed at his smelly sleeve.
‘It’s for your head, you idiot.’
‘Oh…’ He pressed it against his lump. Winced. Squinted. Took another mouthful of beer. ‘I should sue.’
‘For what? You were breaking and entering.’
‘I wasn’t
‘Why don’t we take a wee peek in your rucksack?’ Logan flipped open the plastic toggles, then upended the
