chow mein.’
The seat of his trousers was soaked through and his left hand throbbed — the palm scraped and stinging. He sucked at it, then scowled at the little beads of red that seeped through the skin.
‘You OK?’
‘Fell on my arse.’ Logan took off his trousers and hung them over the radiator.
‘I’ll get the plates.’ She disappeared, calling through from the kitchen. ‘You’ve got a message on the machine, by the way.’
Oh God, please not another one from Wee Hamish Mowat…
He pulled the envelope full of cash out of his jacket pocket and stuffed the crumpled sticky note in with the tens and twenties. There had to be over a grand in there, maybe two.
‘Logan? You want chopsticks?’
‘Yeah, thanks…’ He pressed the button on the answering machine, standing there in his socks, shirt and damp pants as DI Steel’s voice crackled out of the little speakers.
Bugger. She’d still have been in the naughty knicker shop when he’d headed off to tell Alan Gardner his car had been used in a jewellery robbery.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah…just cold and tired.’ He didn’t look around.
He could hear her walk into the room, the clatter of plates on the coffee table, then the warmth of Samantha’s body against his back, her arms wrapping around him, her breath hot on the back of his neck. It was nice. Intimate. Maybe they’d be all right after all.
‘God, you
Logan gave a little shudder and slipped the envelope up the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Baltic out there.’
‘Right.’ She stepped back, pulled up his shirt-tails and slapped him on his grey Markies pants.
‘Ow!’
‘Get your cold bum in the shower, we can always stick the noodles in the microwave.’
The bathroom filled with steam, the shower hissing and gurgling into the white plastic bathtub, the blower grumbling hot air from the dusty unit mounted on the wall. Logan locked the door and settled onto the toilet lid, pulled Reuben’s envelope from his sleeve, and counted the contents. Two thousand, four hundred and sixty pounds, all in used notes. Less than last time, but then Logan hadn’t actually done anything to deserve it…Unless you counted elbowing Reuben in the face.
He smoothed out the crumpled Post-it note — the name and address of the man to speak to if he wanted more cash from the DIY self-service bribery buffet.
Nearly six thousand pounds, when you added in the envelope hidden away in the back of the airing cupboard. Not that much in the great scheme of things. Not compared with being a corrupt bastard.
44
Bloody jocks are useless.
Detective Superintendent Graeme Danby sits on the end of the bed wearing the white fluffy bathrobe that came with his tartan hotel room. Remote in one hand, mobile phone clamped between his ear and shoulder so he can have a good scratch at his sack.
‘Don’t really know, Val, love. All depends on how long it takes to sort things out up here, you know what I’m saying?’
Eleven o’clock. There’s a film starting on Sky, but he can’t concentrate for more than five minutes. So he skims through the channels, always ending up with SKY NEWS and their coverage of Richard Knox’s escape.
Hysterical — in both senses of the word.
Graeme slumps back on the bed, dressing gown falling open. Not like there’s anyone there to complain, is there?
Graeme flicks through the channels: sports, music, documentary about Hitler, American sitcom…then back to the news.
‘You won’t need the top though; don’t want white bits, do you?’
He can hear the smile in her voice.
There’s a knock at the door. Graeme groans.
‘Hold on…’
He stands, ties the robe shut and shuffles into the complementary towelling slippers.
Graeme marches over to the door and undoes the latch. ‘Told you: when I’m finished here.’
Another knock. ‘Mr Danby? Hospitality management, you have a problem with your shower?’
‘Val, it’s not a problem, you know what I’m saying?’ He opens the door. ‘I can always meet you out there, and-’
His head snaps back. Graeme stumbles, pain bursting inside his nose. ‘Fucking…’ Everything tastes of blood. Another thump, hard in his chest, knocking all the air from his lungs.
Detective Superintendent Danby staggers against the bed.
Thump — a stabbing ache in his kidneys.
He grits his teeth and throws a punch, eyes watering too much to aim, just going on instinct.
Misses.
Something hard cracks into the back of his head. The world goes white and crackly, then the carpet rushes up to meet him, slamming into his cheek.
His phone skitters away under the bed, Val’s voice tinny and far away as she makes plans for their trip to New Zealand. His early retirement. Their happy life together.
A boot cracks into his ribs. ‘Get up you fat bastard.’ A Newcastle accent. Oh Jesus, no…Not now. Not when he was so close!
Graeme gets his right arm underneath him and pushes himself to his knees. ‘Fucking bastards…’ The words won’t come out right, his face isn’t working.
He struggles to his feet, rocking back and forth on his heels. The room swirls around him. Blink. He wipes a huge fist across his blurry eyes. ‘Bloody kill…’
A shape swims into focus. Woman. Short. Blonde hair cut in a shoulder-length bob. Jacket, jeans, cowboy boots. A werewolf smile. ‘DSI Danby, so nice to see you again. How’s the wife and kids?’
He staggers back a step. ‘You…?’
She looks to the side. ‘Neil?’
Something slams into Graeme’s head.
Darkness.
They carry him down the service stairs at the back of the building. Can’t use the lifts, cos of the security cameras.
Neil grunts, arms wrapped around Danby’s torso. ‘Christ, he weighs a ton.’
Doesn’t look too great either: his face is all covered in blood, there’s a big lump on the back of his shiny head,
