‘Want to go rub it in?’
Outside the barn a crumpled trail of boxed hair tongs, digital radios, and other assorted goods stretched away to the open back doors of the abandoned Transit van. As if Hansel and Gretel had been shoplifting.
Logan followed Steel through the snow to the little cottage. The whole place smelled of curry and the bitter- sweet sweaty tang of cannabis.
Gallagher was in the lounge, handcuffed and sitting in a wooden dining chair at gunpoint – three grim-faced constables all aiming at various portions of his anatomy. He was a chunky lump of muscle with a spade-shaped head, tattoos poking out from the neck of his dark-brown fleece, one eye swollen and already starting to turn purple. ‘I want a fucking lawyer.’ His voice had a surprisingly high-pitched Fife lilt.
‘And I want Helen Mirren to slather me in chocolate and eat me like a Curly Wurly, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.’ Steel slumped into the couch. ‘Who you working for?’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘We know anyway, just want to hear you say it.’ She pulled out her cigarettes and offered the packet around to everyone except Gallagher. ‘Think Malk the Knife’s going to be happy with your wee performance tonight?’
‘Police brutality. You fuckers killed that bloke.’
So much for honour among counterfeiters and drug dealers.
‘“That bloke”?’ Logan crossed over to the wood-burning stove, burning merrily in the fireplace. ‘No way to speak about your friend Norman Yates, is it? According to Lothian and Borders the pair of you have been joined at the hip since you did over that Post Office in Leith.’
Steel nodded. ‘Very romantic.’
Sniff. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’
Steam was starting to rise off of Logan’s trousers. ‘Where’s Andrew Connelly? Big bald bloke with a huge dog? Supposed to be your boss?’
Gallagher stared at him with one blue eye. ‘I only stopped here to ask directions. Never seen any of these guys before in—’
‘Your life, aye, we get it.’ Steel stood. ‘This mercenary wee shite’s no’ going to tell us anything. Get his arse back to the station.’
It took four burly police officers, their van, a tow rope, and a lot of swearing to get Logan’s battered Fiat out of the ditch. It thumped down on the snowy track, and the front bumper fell off, the bonnet flapping open and closed like the car was laughing at him.
‘Fucking hell…’ Logan stared at the buckled mess.
The lead firearms officer patted him on the shoulder, grinning. ‘It was a mercy killing.’
‘Bugger off, Russell.’
Russell waved at the rest of his team. ‘We’ll drag it back to the farm, you can give it a decent burial later.’
Logan hauled open the driver’s door and threw the dented bumper into the back, then stood there, looking down at the keys, still dangling from the ignition. He reached in and gave them a twist.
The Fiat’s starter motor made whining, gurning noises.
‘God, you’re hopeful, aren’t you?’ Russell blew into his hands. ‘Come on, give it up. Ambulance needs—’
The engine spluttered, then gave a painful growl.
‘Bloody hell.’ The firearms officer stepped back, and threw his arms in the air, spotlit by the Fiat’s one remaining headlight. ‘IT’S ALIVE! ALIVE!’
Logan stared at him. ‘You’re a dick, you know that, Russell, don’t you?’
34
Logan pushed through the flat’s front door, into the scent of garlic, herbs and cheese. He banged the snow off his feet, took off his shoes, and padded through into the lounge. His head was pounding – they’d had to tie the resurrected Fiat’s bonnet down with hairy string and nearly a whole roll of silver duct tape, driving it back to town in the rattling growl of a broken exhaust. ‘God what a day…’
Samantha looked up from the couch, then away again. She was wearing her pink fluffy robe again, red-and- black stripy socks sticking out of the end. Her nose was deep pink, eyes too. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Raid out by Balmedie – someone got shot.’
‘I waited for you.’
‘Did you?’ He peeled off his jacket. ‘Were we going…’ He stopped.
Samantha sniffed. ‘I can’t do this any more.’
Pause. ‘Do what?’
‘This.’ She waved a hand, staring at the blank TV screen. ‘Playing the tart. Being the good little woman. Never rocking the boat.’
‘Playing the—’
‘Do you have any idea how difficult this is? Watching you destroy yourself. Trying not to say anything. Living with your constant—’
‘Where the hell’s this coming from?’ Logan dumped his jacket on the back of the couch.
‘When was the last time you came home and said something positive? About anything?’
