‘’Cos you’ve got to give it all back to me. Everything you’ve got.’
‘No chance.’ Logan slammed the hatch shut. ‘No, you
Logan opened the hatch again. ‘You got six bricks of heroin and a suitcase full of mephedrone on
‘They’re gonna fuck him over if we can’t get the money…’ She stepped closer to the hatch, sour breath washing over Logan. ‘What if they come after me and Ricky again? He’s only a wee kid.’
‘Here’s the deal: you give up your suppliers, Shuggie turns himself in and coughs to the drugs charges, and I’ll get you and your little boy into protective custody.’
Trisha looked away for a moment. And when she came back she was pouting. She licked a finger, then stuck her hand up inside her halter-top and rubbed at shrunken breast. ‘How about you let us have the gear and you get
Logan shrank back from the hatch. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘Bet a big guy like you could make me come and come and come. Mmmmmm… Oh yeah. I’d be a dirty bitch for-’
Logan slammed the hatch shut, before Trisha wasn’t the only one smelling of sick.
‘…so you see, it wasnae my fault, was it? Fucker came at me in the shower wi’ a fuckin’ hard-on, what was I supposed ta dae? Bend ower and spread ma arse cheeks? Fuck that.’
Davey Robertson squared his shoulders inside the threadbare suit jacket. Grey-stubbled chin coming up. ‘Poof bastard was askin’ for it.’
Logan stifled a yawn. God it was hot. Even with the window open, the hotel room was like a microwave. He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Can we just stick to the-’
‘And anither thing, fit wye do you think I’ve got nithin’ better ta dae than ponce about in here wi’ you lot? Saturday mornin’: should be gettin’ ready for the match.’
‘Alison and Jenny McGregor, Mr Robertson. Did you-’
‘I seen her man oan the telly, after that rag-head cock-pirate blew him up. Fuckin’ disgrace. IEDs… Every retard’s makin’ bombs out of washin’ up liquid and Blu-Tack these days. What’s the point of spendin’ millions on tanks when you can blow holes in the fuckers with crap you find under your sink? Should nuke all them Muslim bastards and have done with it.’
Logan slammed his palm down on the arm of the chair. ‘Did you, or did you not know Alison and Jenny McGregor?’
Robertson’s chin came up again. ‘I’m no’ a young mannie, loon, but I could still kick yer arse from here tae Rhynie and back.’
Logan rubbed at the palm of his hand — both scars stung and throbbed like cuts laced with Tabasco. He gritted his teeth. ‘Just answer the question, Mr Robertson, and we can all get out of here.’
‘Seen the pair of them at that civic thing the cooncil hud for those visiting French bastards. Even got tae say, “fit like” tae the pair of them. Ken this: Alison wis nice tae everyone. No’ like these stuck-up cows you see on the telly. Hud the common touch like.’
Logan nodded. ‘And what did you talk about?’
Davey Robertson grinned. ‘Asked me back tae her place for a tin of Special and a blow-job.’
Silence.
‘What the fuck d’you think we talked aboot? The weather, her bein’ oan the TV, my lumbago. The usual.’
‘Not much better than yesterday. You?’ Logan squeezed himself a cup of coffee from the pump-dispenser thermos in the hotel meeting room. The rest of the team were slumped around the tables, speaking in low voices while DI Steel grumbled her way through the interview notes DI Bell’s team had filled in yesterday evening. Trying to find out if any were worth watching on video.
DS Doreen Taylor pulled a face. ‘A nice young man offered to “bang the living shit” out of me.’ She’d abandoned her usual twinset-and-pearls for a pair of jeans and a fuchsia hoodie with ‘ANGEL’ picked out in sequins across the back. Like someone’s mum trying to convince herself she was still down with the cool kids. ‘I swear, after a morning questioning rapists and other assorted sexual degenerates, DI Steel’s lifestyle is becoming a lot more appealing. You men are disgusting.’
Steel didn’t look up from her paperwork. ‘I heard that.’
‘No one connected to any hospitals or vets’?’
‘One dentist done for molesting his sister’s little girl, but he’s not allowed to practice any more.’ Doreen took a sip of coffee. ‘Have you spoken to Mark recently?’
Logan grimaced. ‘
Another sip. ‘The first fortnight, I went home and cried my eyes out — every night. Dealing with Finnie was the worst. You think he’s bad when you’re a DS? Wait until it’s your turn in September.’
‘Yeah, I got the same motivational speech from Mark.’
A bee buzz-bumped against the widow, braining itself, retreating in dazed loops, then smacking its head into the glass again. So at least they weren’t the only ones.
Logan’s phone went off in his pocket. ‘McRae.’
‘Doc, what can-’
‘It-’
There was a long pause.
‘Doc?’
Logan stuck the phone against his chest. ‘Who’s got the remote?’
Shrugs. Then Rennie stuck up a hand. ‘Found it.’
‘BBC One.’
The flatscreen TV mounted on the far war bloomed into life. Some sort of kids’ programme. A click. And the picture switched to the media briefing room — DCI Finnie, DCS Bain, that prick Green from SOCA, and the Media Liaison Officer — all sitting behind a desk topped with microphones.
The news ticker along the bottom of the screen read, ‘BREAKING NEWS: TESTS SHOW SEVERED TOE DOES NOT BELONG TO JENNY MCGREGOR.’
Steel scrambled up from her seat, interview reports going everywhere. ‘Shite…’
On the screen DCS Bain gritted his teeth.
‘What the hell happened?’
A weedy-looking reporter with frizzy brown hair stuck up her hand.
Doc Fraser:
‘Oh, buggering hell.’
Rennie waved the remote at the screen. ‘But this is good, isn’t it? Means Jenny’s not dead — she’s still alive.’
