counterfeit.
‘Perfect.’ Logan smiled and downed the rest of his lukewarm tea. ‘I’ve got to get back to the station, you be OK here?’
‘In the cold? On my own? You ungrateful sod.’
‘And you won’t need a lift back, will you? I mean, you’ll have to get the Shop Cop van down here to cart all this stuff away when you’re finished, right?’
Dildo stared at him. ‘You’re a rotten bastard, McRae, I ever tell you that?’
Logan scooped everything back into their respective evidence bags and hurried off. ‘Thanks, Dildo.’
He weaved his way through the stacks of seized items with Dildo’s parting shot echoing around him.
Logan barged through the door and clunked it shut behind him, finding himself in a little airlock festooned with posters for local bands he’d never heard of, the doormat soggy with melted snow. He stomped his feet, adding to the mush, then pushed through into the pub proper.
The Tilted Wig was once the exclusive drinking hole of lawyers and their assistants from the Sheriff Court across the road, but ever since the High Court had taken over the old Clydesdale Bank building on the corner of Marischal Street and Union Street — next door — the clientele had become a little less exclusive. Now they let anyone in.
Logan brushed the snow off his shoulders and scanned the faces. Just after twelve and one or two were making serious efforts to not see any more of the afternoon if they could possibly help it. Like Angus Black, sitting at a scuffed wooden table, basking in the glow of the one-armed bandit, a pint of heavy, and three empty shot glasses. He polished off a fourth and added it to the graveyard.
‘It didn’t go well then?’ Logan settled into the chair opposite.
Angus looked up, closed his eyes, and swore. ‘Have you not done enough damage?’ He took a bite out of his pint, then went back to staring at the table.
‘Nope.’ Logan dumped the evidence bag with the iPod Nanos in front of him. ‘Recognize these?’
‘Trial’s in six weeks. My brief says I’m looking at fourteen years. You believe that? For a little bit of H? Who’s it hurting?’ He went back to his pint. ‘Like living in Nazi Germany.’
Logan poked the bag. ‘You said you got these from your Edinburgh friends: Gallagher and Yates. They tell you they were all fake?’
Angus swore some more, then let his head sink to the table. ‘Fucking hell…I need a drink.’ He went up to the bar and came back with what looked like three double whiskies in the same glass. ‘I’d get you one, but this is all your sodding fault.’
‘They really screwed you, didn’t they? Fake iPods, counterfeit money — irony is, if they’d given you fake heroin as well, you wouldn’t be looking at a fourteen stretch. Well, not unless you tried to sell it.’
‘Ha-bloody-ha.’ He took a big swallow of whisky, shuddered, then followed it with a mouthful of beer. ‘And I didn’t get the cash from them, thank you very much.’
Logan shifted in his seat. ‘You didn’t?’
‘That bastard who bought the car. Everyone’s always out to bloody screw you…’
‘The bloke who bought your car paid you in counterfeit cash?’ Logan picked up the bag of faux iPods, then put it down again, frowning. ‘Wasn’t a small place out by Westhill, was it? Middleton Family Motors?’
Angus sent more whisky south. ‘None of your business.’
‘It was, wasn’t it?’ Logan grinned. ‘That’s brilliant!’
‘Were you always a complete-’
‘You don’t get it, do you? Middleton paid you in dodgy notes, and
There was a pause, then the colour drained from Angus Black’s face. ‘Fuck.’ He stared at Logan, then banged his head off the table again. ‘Fucking…
‘Want to have another think about turning them in, before they come looking for you?’
30
Logan stuffed Angus Black’s statement back in his pocket as PC Butler pulled up outside Middleton Family Motors. The used car lot was just as crowded as last time, even after Trading Standards had confiscated half a dozen illegal vehicles.
Butler raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not thinking of trading in that crappy car of yours for something here, are you, Sarge? Only this lot looks like a good sneeze and the wheels’ll fall off.’
Logan climbed out. A layer of snow covered the bonnets, boots, and roofs, more thick white flecks drifting down from the gunmetal sky. It was cold enough to make his fingertips throb as he shuffled sideways between ‘BARGAIN OF THE MONTH!!!’ and ‘LOW MILEAGE SUPER-SAVER!!!’, heading towards the main entrance.
The sound of a radio. A tractor grumbling in the distance, getting closer. A whurrrrrring noise somewhere on the forecourt, hidden amongst the vehicles.
Logan paused. ‘Hello? I’d like to buy a car.’
‘With you in just a tick…’ The voice was coming from behind a brown Toyota with a dented wing.
Logan inched his way through the cars, craning his neck to get a better look. A man in grubby blue overalls was squatting by the Toyota’s back wheel, a portable air pump connected to the saggy tyre.
Logan pulled out his notebook and checked the details Angus had given him again. ‘Looking for a Volkswagen Golf, GTI, green if you’ve got it.’
‘You know, I think you’re in luck. I’ve…’ The man looked up and his voice trailed off. ‘Fuck.’ Middleton scrambled to his feet, eyes darting left and right, then he ran for it. Jinking between the jammed-in cars, making for the road.
Logan hurried sideways after him, then jerked to a sudden halt as his jacket pocket caught on a wing mirror. There was a tearing noise.
PC Butler was still over by the pool car, staring open mouthed.
‘Don’t just bloody stand there!’
She charged forward, then skidded, arms pinwheeling. Her head disappeared from view and the word ‘Shite!’ echoed out across the little car lot.
Logan yanked his pocket off of the wing mirror and struggled on.
Middleton had made it to the road and a dull blue MX5 — just like DI Steel’s, only older and with a huge ‘ZOOM ZOOM 4 LESS!!!’ cardboard star wedged between the dashboard and the rearview mirror.
He dug about in his trouser pocket, then clambered in behind the wheel. Threw the sales sign out into the street.
Logan vaulted the bonnet of a Ford Mondeo, heels scraping through the inch-deep layer of snow. He slithered down the other side just in time to hear Middleton cranking over the Mazda’s engine.
It spluttered a couple of times, then roared into life.
Butler had her extendible baton out, limping towards the car.
Logan crunched through a ridge of dirt-brown snow, reaching for the driver’s door, but the tyres screeched, and the MX5 lurched forwards.
The back end shimmied from side to side, the little rear-wheel-drive sports car struggling for grip on the icy road.
PC Butler froze, eyes wide, as the car fishtailed towards her. She dived onto the bonnet of a Volvo estate, lifting her legs high as the Mazda clipped the front bumper. Crunch. Chips of coloured plastic went flying.
And then Middleton was past, accelerating around the corner, the back end kicking out again.
Logan ran out into the road. Swore.
Butler lay spread-eagled on the Volvo bonnet, breath turning the air above her white. ‘Jesus…’
The sound of squealing brakes. Then, BANG.
