Silence.
Logan flipped his phone open. ‘I’ll call for backup.’
‘You’ll bloody no’!’
‘But he’s—’
‘What do you think Finnie’ll do if he finds out we tried to meet up with a chiz without his approval?’
Logan stared at her. ‘You didn’t clear it with him?’
‘Might have slipped my mind.’ She coughed. ‘Now shut up – can’t hear what’s going on.’
‘Oh that’s just…’
Steel hit him again. ‘Three o’clock.’
A large man emerged from the show home: six-two; arms held out from his sides, as if he was carrying a couple of beer barrels; jeans, leather jacket, bald head glistening in the rain. Something dark and muscular trotted along beside him. Pointed nose, lolling pink tongue.
The little crowd of joiners and plumbers backed off, giving him room.
He stopped, stared down at the body quivering in the mud, then up at Reuben. ‘Problem?’ Scottish, but not local.
Wee Hamish’s man pointed one huge sausage finger at the battered figure. ‘This yours?’
‘What if it is?’
‘Had a bit of an accident, didn’t it?’
‘Oh yeah?’
Reuben smiled, showing off the hole where a tooth used to be. ‘Accidentally tried to sell his shit in the wrong part of town.’
The bloke with the dog stripped off his leather jacket and handed it to the nearest bystander. No wonder he couldn’t get his arms near his sides: he was a solid slab of muscle, straining at the fabric of a white T-shirt. He cricked his head from side to side. Flexed his shoulders. ‘Think you, me, and Mauser here need to have a wee chat.’
The dog’s ears pricked up, a rumbling growl coming from its throat.
Reuben undid a couple of buttons on his overalls, down by his huge waistband, held one side open.
‘Can’t see.’ Steel shifted, peering. ‘He getting his cock out?’
‘Why would he be…what’s
Big-and-Bald stared at whatever was in Reuben’s overalls, then nodded. Took a step back. ‘Maybe later.’
‘Wee message for your lord and master.’ Reuben waved a huge hand, taking in the part-built houses. ‘Keep it legitimate and we’ll all get on fine. Disrespect,’ he paused to kick the man lying at his feet, ‘well, that’s gonnae land us
Mr Big-and-Bald folded his huge arms across his chest, saying nothing.
Reuben slammed the Transit’s side door. ‘Fair enough.’ Then he clambered back behind the wheel and cranked the engine. The van’s tyres span in the mud before they finally grabbed traction. He drove off, slowly. Not so much as a jaunty wave.
Logan watched him go, staring after the van like everyone else. And then Big-and-Bald nudged the man lying on the ground with his foot.
‘Get this fucker out of here.’ He turned on his heel and strode off towards the site office, shouting, ‘Mauser, heel!’
The huge black dog raised its snout, sniffed, then turned and loped after its master.
DI Steel took the last gasp from her cigarette and ground the butt out against the nearest chunk of pink Rockwool. ‘Think we’d better go pay baldy a visit, don’t you?’ She stepped out into the rain.
The site office was divided into cubicles by chest-high partitions, each one covered with pinned-up spreadsheets. A large architectural plan covered one wall, ‘Camberwick Green’ in all its proposed glory.
The office was tidy: no mounds of grubby paperwork, no piles of half-read tabloids, no Turner-Prize-winning installations of discarded polystyrene cups. Just laptops, graphics tablets, printers, and something classical playing from a portable stereo. All overlaid with the dirty stench of wet dog.
A kettle sat on a wee table opposite the door, curling steam into the tidy room. Someone was making tea – blue jumper on over a shirt and tie, carefully arranged comb-over, ridiculous little beard, as if he’d drawn around his chin with a magic marker.
He looked up as Logan thumped the door closed behind them.
‘Are you here about the drainage?’
Steel sniffed. ‘I look like a fucking plumber?’
Frown. ‘There’s no need to—’
‘Steve Polmont.’
Big-and-Bald stood up from behind one of the partitions, a hands-free headset stuffed in his ear. ‘There a problem here?’ Up close he reeked of aftershave, a cloying musky smell with chemical overtones.
