Logan handed one over and she lit it, drawing in a deep lungful before cracking open her window. ‘You and me,’ she said over the sounds of distant traffic, ‘are now running a separate investigation into these Polish gangsters. Finnie knows nothing about it, and no one else gets to either.’
Logan settled onto the edge of her desk. ‘How the hell did you manage that?’
She shuddered. ‘You don’t want to know. But you sodding well owe me one, understand? Maybe two.’
‘What did you say to him?
She took another drag and grimaced. ‘Next time you go back on the fags, try a man’s brand, eh? These are like smoking my granny’s pubes.’ She picked a thread of tobacco from her lip. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t let Bain fire you: handing out crap cigarettes like these…’
It didn’t stop her smoking them though.
‘What next?’
‘Normally I’d get your e-fits done up as big posters, plaster them all over the place, in the papers … maybe on the telly. This time?’ She smoked and frowned. ‘Never done a low-key manhunt before.’
They spent the next twenty minutes trying to work out how to run the investigation with no resources, no staff, and no backup, and no one finding out about it. ‘It’s just no’ possible,’ said Steel, feet up on her desk as Logan scribbled things on the whiteboard. ‘We need at least one uniform. Who’s going to make the tea?’
‘We could probably get Rennie? He already knows about Rory anyway.’
‘And,’ said Steel, ‘it’ll really annoy Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie if we take his plaything off him, so it’s win-win!’
Logan scowled and wrote a very rude word on the whiteboard.
She sighed. ‘It’s no’ like I didn’t try, OK? Apart from anything else, I’d’ve won a fortune if they’d promoted you.’
‘Beattie. They promoted Beattie. He couldn’t investigate his own arse with toilet paper!’
‘I argued with Bain till I was blue – aye, and so did that frog-faced tit Finnie – but…’ She shrugged.
‘Who caught Gilchrist? Who found Rory Simpson? Who ID’d the guys that blinded Simon McLeod? What about those gonzo porn makers? Who caught them?’ Logan slashed the whiteboard with the tip of the pen, underlining the filthy word over and over again. ‘What’s Beattie ever done? Eh? What’s he—’
‘Enough, OK? I get it: Beattie’s a complete nipple. I agree. But you…’ She looked away. ‘All that shite last year with the Flesher, and the seven-month bad patch, and the whole … attitude thing.’
‘But Beattie—’
‘You’re a good officer, Laz, you really are, but you’ve got a high fuck-up to brilliance ratio. And Bain…’ She stopped. Frowned. Made a face that looked as if she’d just soiled herself. ‘Oh God, what time is it?’
Logan rammed the cap back on the whiteboard marker. ‘Don’t change the subject.’
Steel went scrabbling for her watch. ‘Aaaagh!’
She grabbed her jacket and sprinted for the door, screeched to a halt on the threshold, then grabbed Logan by the sleeve. ‘We’ve got to get back to my place!’
‘What? But—’
‘Rory Simpson: what’s Susan going to say when she gets home and there’s a bloody paedophile in the living room?’
‘It’s not my fault they’re digging up half of Aberdeen!’ Logan followed Steel up the path to her house.
‘Should’ve stuck on the siren like I told you!’
High overhead, a plane left a snail-trail of white across the blue sky. From the nearby houses came the sound of lawn-mowers and the smell of freshly cut grass. And from DI Steel came a long stream of muttered obscenities as she rummaged through her pockets for a key.
‘If he’s lying on the bathroom floor with his nuts ripped off, you’re taking the blame, understand?’
She unlocked the front door and hurried inside, ‘Susan? Susan, I can explain!’
Through the hall, past the living and dining rooms, past the staircase, past the downstairs bathroom, into the kitchen…
Rory Simpson was sitting at the breakfast bar, sharing a pot of tea with DI Steel’s wife. She was still in her work suit, Rory was still in his yellow and pink ensemble, and still camping it up from the look of things.
He threw his arms wide and said, ‘Inspector, darling, so nice to see you again!’
Susan smiled. ‘Explain what?’
‘I… We…’
‘It’s all right,’ Rory winked at her, ‘I told Susan all about it.’
‘You did?’
Susan tutted, then filled three mugs from the teapot. ‘I don’t know why you’ve got to be so secretive sometimes. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone we’ve got a key witness in a big London gangland case staying with us, is it?’
‘It … London?’
‘Personally I think Rory’s very brave: informing on the people who gunned down his boyfriend must take a lot of courage.’
Rory simpered for a bit. ‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t say courage, per se, I just want to make sure my Barry didn’t die in vain. We’ve got to stand up to these people Susan, or what’s going to happen to society?’
Steel plastered on a smile. ‘Rory, can I have a word, please. In the hall. Now.’
The old man hopped down from his stool. ‘Certainly. And when I come back, Susan, you just have to give me the recipe for that fabulous carrot cake!’
The inspector dragged him out of the room, leaving Logan behind.
‘So…’ Susan handed him a mug of tea. ‘How have you been? We’ve not seen you since before … well, Poland.’ She placed a hand on his arm. ‘Are you OK?’
Logan pointed at his face, the patchwork of scabs and butterfly stitches, the bruises, the heavy purple bags under his eyes, the stubble. ‘Looks worse than it is.’
‘You’ll stay for dinner?’
‘Thanks, but I can’t.’
‘Nonsense: you’re staying, and that’s final. You look like you haven’t eaten in a week. I’m doing fish pie.’ She frowned. ‘You still eat fish, don’t you?’
‘I really—’
The door flew open and Rory struck a pose. ‘Did you miss me? … Hey!’
Steel shoved past. ‘Alright if Laz stays for his tea? Maybe crash here tonight?’
‘What? No, I can’t, I—’
Susan nodded. ‘It’s already settled.’
‘But I can’t—’
‘Aye you can.’ Steel’s smile wasn’t pretty. And as soon as Susan’s back was turned, she grabbed Logan and pulled him over to the patio doors, her voice lowered to an angry whisper: ‘You’re no’ buggering off and leaving me with Rory Sodding Simpson all night! Any more of his gay stereotype act, and he’s spending the night in the morgue.’
‘Rory’s just trying to be funny, you know what he’s—’
‘I will kill him.’ She stepped back and slapped Logan on the shoulder, raising her voice for, ‘We’ll make up the other spare room, you can sleep there.’
‘But I’ve got plans.’ Which was true – he was going to go home and sit in the dark drinking vodka until he passed out. Same as he’d done every night since getting back from Poland.
‘I don’t care: you’re sodding well staying!’
Rory shuffled off to bed almost immediately after dinner, and as soon as the kitchen door swung shut, Steel was on her feet. ‘OK…’ She coughed, licked her lips, fidgeted. Shared a look with Susan. ‘How about some vodka?’
They abandoned the dishes and headed out to the patio to drink shots of neat vodka. The bottle was fresh from the freezer, covered in a thin film of frost, steaming in the evening air as Steel and Logan sank three shots to Susan’s one.
A citronella candle fizzed and crackled as midges and flies committed suicide in the hot wax.
The inspector filled their glasses up again, proposed a toast, ‘To good friends!’ then threw it back.
‘Actually,’ said Susan, fiddling with her hair, ‘w
e…’ She ground to a halt.
Steel filled Logan’s glass. ‘They won’t let us adopt.’
Logan froze, vodka halfway to his lips. ‘Do we have to—’
‘We can’t get IVF on the NHS,’ she said, ‘and we can’t afford to go private.’
Susan sniffed. ‘Well, we could sell the house.’
‘We’re no’ selling the house!’
‘I’m just saying—’
‘Been in my family for three generations.’
‘Well, there won’t be any more generations if we can’t get pregnant!’
There was an awkward silence.
Steel downed her vodka and poured more for everyone. ‘I ever tell you about the Sperminator, Susan? Goes about smearing his spunk on handrails in shopping centres. All you’d have to do is take your knickers off and slide down every banister in Aberdeen – probably get pregnant somewhere between Markies and John Lewis’s.’ She laughed, trailing off into silence as Susan’s face went pink, tears glinting in her eyes.
‘I have to tidy up.’ She snatched up the plates, clattering them together, not saying a word, then marched back into the house and slammed the patio doors.
Logan helped himself to more vodka, then pulled out his cigarettes, the lighter sparking in the fading light.
*
Steel slumped back in her chair. Closed her eyes. And swore. ‘Great, isn’t it? That’s what I have to live with.’
He didn’t say anything, just poured them both another glass. Threw it back. Already working on a nice numb haze.
‘You know…’ Steel took a sudden interest in the shed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘We could … ahem … threesome. I mean, it’s what all you men fantasize about isn’t it?’
Logan spluttered, vodka exploding from his nostrils, making his eyes water. ‘I… With…’
Steel threw a coaster at him. ‘Oh thanks. That’s very sodding flattering, that is!’
‘It’s just—’
‘It was Susan’s idea, OK?’ She stood, chair legs grating on the tiles. ‘Me? I WOULDN’T TOUCH YOU WITH A FUCKING CATTLE-PROD!’ And then Logan was all alone.
54
Fire – blaring through the walls and the floor, curling across the ceiling in violent yellow sheets. Heat. Pain. A sound like the world tearing apart—
A crash of breaking glass.
Logan jerked awake. Heart pounding. Eyes wide in the darkness. Everything was soggy. Oh fuck … he’d wet himself.
No, it was just sweat. He folded his arms across his face and muffled a scream. Then slumped back in his chair and stared up at the dark orange sky, waiting for his heartbeat to go from thrash-metal to slow waltz.
Every – bloody – night.
He tried to stand, but his legs weren’t working properly. Finally, he managed to haul himself upright, leaning heavily on the table to stay that way, something scrunching beneath his shoes. It was the vodka bottle, spread in glittering shards all over the patio tiles. Good thing it’d been empty.
He blinked. Swallowed. Peered at his watch until it came into focus. 03:45. Probably still a bit drunk. But not feeling too bad. Thirsty. A bit achy after falling asleep in a wrought-iron garden chair, but other than that he was … he was…
That’s when the nausea kicked in.
Logan staggered across the garden, in through the patio doors, the kitchen going by in a blur as he lurched out the other side and into the hall.
He was going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be…
A thin sliver of light seeped out under the downstairs bathroom door, but Logan didn’t care. He wrenched the door open.
And stopped dead.
Rory was in there, bent nearly double over the bathroom sink. Trousers around his ankles. Pounding away. And then he froze: one hand wrapped around his erection, the other clutching a thick catalogue. Children’s clothes. Little girls running around, grinning for the camera. ‘It’s … it’s not what you think…’
Logan stepped inside and closed the bathroom door.
55
‘… further protests expected this morning as part of the ongoing budget crisis at Aberdeen City Council. Here’s our business correspondent Craig Connel…’
‘Do you want another cup of tea?’ Susan sat on the opposite side of the breakfast bar, and handed Logan a floral plate with a slice of hot buttered toast on it. She watched him nibbling on a corner. ‘Are you feeling OK?’
Logan shrugged. Paused. ‘Think I’ve got a cold coming on.’
At least Susan didn’t pick him up on the lie.
The man on the radio babbled on about ‘strike action’, and ‘disruption to public services’.
Logan crunched toast and wallowed in his hangover. DI Steel had been long gone by the time he’d crawled out of the spare bed and into the shower. Right now, the clock on the microwave said 07:30 – half an hour after he was supposed to report for duty – but Rennie still hadn’t turned up to watch Rory. And it wasn’t as if Logan could leave a wanted paedophile to his own devices.
‘I…’ Susan put her mug down. ‘I’m sorry about last night. It’s just… We… Well, we’re sort of going through a bit of a bad patch.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s OK.’
‘I don’t know what else to do. She won’t sell the house. Stupid isn’t it? House like this: should have children running through it.’ Susan wiped a hand across her eyes, smudging the mascara. ‘It’s so unfair.’
Logan took her hand as the radio news came to an end. ‘She really loves you.’
‘I know, it’s just… We want this so badly.’ She stared at him, her eyes pink and needy. It was the same look he’d seen a thousand times before, usually from emaciated junkies, sitting on the opposite side of the interview table, desperate for their next fix.
He let go of her hand.
The DJ said something about a concert at the Music Hall that evening, and then he stuck a record on: Walking on Sunshine, by Katrina and the Waves.
Dizzy. Mouth full of bees. Heart pounding. Nausea.
Logan staggered back from the breakfast bar, the stool clattering down against the floor. ‘Don’t feel so good…’ He turned and sprinted for the downstairs bathroom, locking himself in, wrapping his arms around the porcelain until tea and toast exploded from his throat. Vomiting and shivering until there was nothing left but bile.
God, how much did he drink last night?
He lay on the bathroom floor, waiting for the tremors to pass.
Must’ve been something wrong with that vodka.
He closed his eyes, resting his cheek on the cool tiles. Definitely the vodka…
The whole room shakes, chunks of concrete smashing against the bath, making it ring like a bell. The smell of burning rubbish and blistering paint. Singed hair. The deafening roar that went on and on and on and—
*
He jumped, bashing his forehead on the underside of the toilet bowl. Then rolled over onto his back, clutching his throbbing head and swearing.
There was a voice in the hall. ‘Logan? Logan are you all right?’
He lay there, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m fine.’
Susan paused. ‘I’ve got to go to work … will you be OK?’
He gritted his teeth. ‘Never better.’
‘… OK, if you’re sure.’
Logan knocked on the bedroom door. Waited. Then tried again. ‘Rory?’
It’d taken nearly quarter of an hour for the trembling and tears to subside. Fifteen minutes of lying on the bathroom floor feeling like an idiot.
‘Rory? You awake?’
The response was muffled. ‘Leave me alone.’
Logan opened the door and stepped into a cocoon of pink fluffiness. Everything was pink: walls, ceiling, bedding, wardrobe, curtains, desk, comfy chair. Even the carpet was pink. It was kind of creepy: like being inside someone, but not in a good way. The on
ly thing not pink was a faded poster of the Bay City Rollers, cheesy pop-star grins with big, seventies hair and tartan trim.
Rory Simpson was a lump beneath the duvet, not a single portion of his anatomy sticking out into the land of pink.
Logan sat on the end of the bed. ‘Brought you a cup of tea.’
More silence.
‘Look, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have done that.’
‘You hit me.’
‘I know, I’m sorry it was—’
‘You’re just like all the rest of them.’
‘You were wanking over a catalogue of little girls!’
Rory’s head poked out from under the duvet. His left eye was swollen almost shut, skin the colour of ripe aubergine. Another bruise sat on the right side of his face, giving his head a lopsided look, as if it hadn’t been put on properly. ‘I can’t help it, OK? I’m sorry, but I can’t.’ He sniffed, and turned his head into the pillow. ‘This is what I am.’
‘You want breakfast?’
‘Think you cracked one of my teeth.’
‘Rory, I said I’m sorry.’
‘Go away.’ The older man buried his head beneath the pink duvet again. Retreating into his shell. ‘Please … just leave me alone.’
It was half past eight before Rennie turned up – dropped off at DI Steel’s front door by a petite brunette in an open-topped Jaguar. The driver gave the constable a long, slow kiss, then he hopped out and round to the boot, emerging with the same holdall he’d been dragging behind him yesterday. He waved and the car pulled away, the driver blowing him another kiss as she disappeared.
Rennie stood there with a soppy smile on his face for a moment, then hefted the lumpy holdall over his shoulder. Turned, and spotted Logan leaning against the front door, smoking a cigarette and drinking tea.
‘Morning.’
Logan sucked the last gasp from his cigarette, then pinged it away into the street. ‘That your mum then?’
Rennie stuck two fingers up at him. ‘You you look like crap, by the way.’
‘You’re late.’
‘Yeah, well, blame Steel.’ He clumped up the garden path. ‘She’s in a right grump this morning. What did you do to her?’
‘Nothing.’
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