cables.
Steel gave a yawn and a stretch. ‘Did I miss anything?’
Soon as Beattie was packed up, they all followed Dildo back down the stairs to Reception and handed in their visitor’s passes.
‘OK.’ Dildo clapped his hands. ‘We’ll be in touch about the-’
‘Wait a minute…’ Beattie thrust his laptop bag into Logan’s hands. ‘Forgot my jacket.’ Then he turned around and hurried towards the lifts.
Logan watched him mashing the up button. ‘Should we tell him?’
‘Should we buggery.’ Dildo stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘With any luck he’ll get stuck in the basement all night and be eaten by the rats.’
They made for the front door. Outside, thick white flakes of snow drifted down from a dark-orange sky, shining as they passed within reach of the street lights, glowing red behind the cars and buses, settling on the shoulders of people tromping their way home.
‘Right.’ Susanna turned and shook Steel’s hand. ‘Anything comes up on the counterfeit notes, please let me know. I’ll see if I can get someone from our end to look into Walker: you’d be surprised what a sudden tax inspection can turn up.’
Steel still hadn’t let go of Susanna’s hand. ‘Why don’t I walk you to your car? We can swap contact info…?’
Susanna pulled a wee collapsible umbrella from her bag and clacked it up, then picked her way daintily out into the snow, with the inspector close beside her. Three steps out of the door, the woman from HMRC slipped. Steel grabbed her. They both laughed. Then disappeared around the corner.
Dildo smiled. ‘Got to admire her for trying, but Susanna’s
‘Steel’s
‘And no offence, but Beattie?’
‘Tell me about it. Look, hold off on doing anything, OK? I might have some good news for you in a couple of…’
He trailed off as the lift doors pinged open and Beattie stepped out, still without his jacket, frowned, turned around twice, then stepped back into the lift and pressed a button.
‘They made
33
Logan’s manky little Fiat grumbled to a halt, the engine making Death Watch Beetle ticking noises as it cooled. The warrant hadn’t been that difficult to arrange, but by the time they’d done the risk assessment and the briefing, and organized a firearms team, it was gone half seven.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel tapped two fingers against the black-plastic-bag window. ‘This supposed to be stylish, is it?’
‘You want to walk home?’
They’d parked on a little side road, north of Balmedie, where they’d have a decent view of proceedings. The address Angus Black had given them for Gallagher and Yates turned out to be a smallholding surrounded by miles of nothing. The cottage sat in the darkness, its windows glowing with amber light; a couple of tumbledown outbuildings lay off to one side, spilled granite blocks slowly disappearing under the falling snow; a large barn with a dark-red door. No sign of the unmarked van the eight-man firearms team had turned up in.
‘Why can I no’ see anything?’ Steel shoogled closer to the windscreen, the hot orange glow of her cigarette reflected in the pitted glass.
Logan pointed at a pair of black shapes moving slowly along the line of a drystane dyke. ‘There.’
Steel hauled out her Airwave handset and hit the button. ‘What’s taking so long?’
‘Boo hoo. Just get your arses in gear. Haven’t got all bloody night.’
Then there was a muttered,
‘I heard that!’
And the connection went dead.
Logan cupped his hands and blew into them. ‘Whatever happened to all that crap you told me about being a team player?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you turning up to Beattie’s meeting and not letting me tell him about Gallagher and Yates.’
She stuck a cigarette between her teeth and lit it, blowing out a mouthful of smoke that oozed across the windscreen. ‘Beattie’s a moron.’
Unbelievable. ‘How come when
Steel smacked the back of her hand against his chest. ‘Shhhhh!’
‘No. It’s one bloody rule for-’
She hit him again. ‘Down there, you twit.’ She pointed through the snow at the main road, where a large Transit van was turning onto the farm track, bouncing and rolling along the icy, rutted surface. Steel fumbled with the handset again. ‘All teams, hold position. We’ve got visitors…’
‘I don’t care if you’re up to your tits in shark-infested tampons: keep your gob shut and your arse where it is!’
The big van jounced in through the gates, did a tortuous three-point-turn then reversed towards the door of the barn, brake lights flaring red through the falling snow and cloud of diesel exhaust.
Steel flicked ash into the footwell. ‘What do you think: doing a midnight flit?’
The driver hopped down from the cab, then crunched his way over to the cottage, leaving the engine running.
Logan turned the key in the ignition and the Fiat whined and groaned into life.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Being proactive…’ He inched the car along the side road with the headlights off, navigating by the faint reflected glow of the snow. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Driver’s back out…got two mates with him…going round the back of the van…’
A whin bush grated along the side of the Fiat, scratching at Logan’s window.
‘They’ve opened the doors on the cattle barn…light’s on…Shite, can’t see anything — could you no’ get the bloody window fixed properly?’ She thumbed the button on the Airwave handset again. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Donald, you make me come down there and I’ll jam my boot right up-’
Logan had finally turned out onto the main road, the Fiat’s front wheels skittering from side to side, scrabbling for purchase.
‘Get into position.’
Bloody brakes weren’t working. Logan stomped his foot hard to the floor, and the car slithered to a halt, overshooting the end of the farm track. A bit of blind reversing, and the thing was pointing the right way again. He eased into the road.
‘Fuck…’ A ditch ran along one side, the verge invisible as the wind picked up, throwing snow against the windscreen.
