Close to the Bone

something.

Logan hurried down to the pedestrian crossing, then worked his way across both dual carriageways to the Kwik Fit garage on the corner overlooking Mounthooly.

He popped over the low wall, squeezed between two parked cars in the MOT section. . Then froze.

A mud-streaked Transit van sat on the forecourt, right outside the entrance. Rusty dents and scrapes marred the once-white paintwork. Reuben’s van.

Time to turn around and-

A low growling voice, right behind him: ‘Get in the van.’

Shite. .

‘No. Don’t think so.’

A big hairy hand appeared from his left-hand side, it was holding a mobile phone, the screen showing a small photo of Wee Hamish Mowat’s sunken face, below the word ‘CONNECTED’.

OK. . He took the phone. ‘Hamish? ’

‘Ah, Logan, I’m so glad to hear that you’re all right after your close shave this morning. Do you have a minute to talk? ’

Not really. He took a step forward, then turned to face the mountain of muscle and scar tissue — standing there in his grubby blue boilersuit with a face like cracked stone. ‘Someone cut my brake lines.’

A pause. ‘I see. That is an unfortunate development, isn’t it. Very unfortunate indeed. But I need you to put that behind you for a moment and go with Reuben.’

‘Not a chance in hell.’

‘Logan, remember I told you about the cannabis farms and the violence and the uncertainty and concern that breeds? Well, I’m afraid this little business rivalry has come to a bit of a head. And I’d appreciate it if you would help Reuben sort things out.’

‘You have got to be-’

‘I give you my word that Reuben is there to facilitate your role as an officer of the law, nothing more. We all want to see an end to the senseless violence, don’t we? ’

‘Facilitate.’

Reuben grinned at him, the scar tissue on his cheeks pulling it all out of shape.

‘Do I have a choice? ’

‘Of course you do, Logan. Everyone always has a choice.’

Reuben stepped forward, closing the gap until the swollen barrel of his stomach was pressed against him. ‘What do you think? ’

Logan got in the van.

41

The Transit van growled away from the garage, the gear changes a symphony of grinding metal. A smell of stale fat and old garlic filled the cab, overlaid on something sharp and metallic and the sickly pear-drop scent of fresh plastic.

Logan shifted on the sticky seat. ‘How did you know where I’d be? ’

‘None of your business.’ Reuben flexed his shoulders beneath the blue boilersuit. ‘And just for the record: I don’t cut brake lines. When I come for you, McRae, I’ll not be sneaking about under your car with a pair of pliers.’

Probably because the fat sod wouldn’t fit.

‘“When” you come for me? ’

‘You’ll bloody well know about it. You’ll get to see it coming.’

Oh joy.

‘That’s the way it’s going to be, is it? ’

‘You, me, and a chainsaw.’

‘You know what, Reuben? You can. .’ Logan frowned. There was a noise coming from the back of the van. A sort of muffled moaning to go with the creak and rattle of the old Transit.

He turned in his seat and peered into the cavernous interior.

Plastic sheeting covered the floor and walls — held in place with thick strips of grey duct tape. A figure was scrunched up in the far corner, sitting with his back to the van doors, knees up against his chest, cable-ties around his ankles, arms behind his back, an off-white pillowcase over his head. It was stained dark brown around the front.

‘There’s someone in the back of the van. .’

No reply.

‘Reuben: why have you got someone trussed up in the back of your van? ’

A shrug. ‘Everyone’s got to have a hobby.’

Logan dropped his voice to a hissing whisper. ‘I’m a police officer, you bloody idiot — do you really think-’

‘Mr Fisher here’s been a very naughty boy.’

‘I don’t care if he’s mooned the Queen and shagged her corgis, you can’t just-’

‘See, Mr Mowat says I’m not allowed to kill you, or mutilate you, or hack your balls off and make you eat them. Didn’t say anything about you falling down a few times and breaking something though.’ Reuben turned his scarred smile in Logan’s direction, eyes dark and hooded. ‘Now, you gonnae shut the fuck up, or do I pull this van over? ’

‘You know what, I’m sick and tired of your-’ Logan’s phone burst into Steel’s sinister ringtone. He dragged it out. ‘For God’s sake, what now? ’

‘Where the goat-buggering hell are you? Supposed to be in with Professional Standards getting your bum spanked, no’ gallivanting off-’

As if there weren’t bigger things to worry about. If in doubt: lie. ‘No I’m not.’

‘Aye, you are — I told Rennie specifically to tell you, and he- ’

‘Nope, must’ve slipped his mind. Believe it or not, we’ve been a bit busy trying to catch a killer today, so-’

‘Oh no you don’t: you’re the one let her escape in the first place! Now get your arse back here so Professional Standards can spank it.’

‘Can’t. I’m in the middle of something.’

‘Laz, I’m warning you-’

‘Got to go.’ He hung up on her and switched his phone off.

Steel could shout at him later. Assuming he survived whatever the hell this was.

Rowan steps back into the outside catering van’s shadow, the smell of sausages and frying onions thick and dark in the air. The industrial estate sulks on the outskirts of Dyce, a sad collection of corrugated metal buildings with unpronounceable names and chunky logos, ringed in with chainlink fencing. Most aren’t even open: just empty shells with ‘FOR LEASE OR SALE’ signs fastened to the gates.

‘BANGERS AND BAPS’ is painted along the back of the van in big black letters, not that anyone can see it. It’s parked in a lay-by with nothing behind it but trees and weeds.

The Witch wanders across the road, hands in his pockets, chunky headphones sitting on top of his head, lips pursed in a tuneless whistle. Making noise for the sake of it, hauling his jagged aura of red and orange flames behind him. He pauses in front of the van’s menu board and rubs his hands together. Grins. Then pushes the headphones back so they hang around his neck, and goes up to the counter. His accent is half American, half Scottish, his skin the colour of old newspapers. ‘Yeah, can I get a bacon buttie with egg, and a thing of chips? ’

A condemned man’s last meal should be something a bit more special than that, shouldn’t it?