45% Hangover [A Logan and Steel novella]

by Stuart MacBride

  Aunty Ina finished her cigarette and pinged the butt away into the piles of dirty clothes. Then rubbed her ginger baby between the ears. ‘If you find any money, it’s mine. They borrowed it.’

  Bag number four was different. It contained a parcel of white powder – about the size of a mealie pudding – wrapped up in layers of clingfilm and secured with strips of parcel tape. ‘Well, well, well.’

  Little beads of dark red had dried on the plastic surface, like ladybirds.

  ‘The lying wee shites!’ Aunty Ina stamped a foot on the bare floorboards, making Mr Seville wriggle in her arms. ‘They told me they didn’t have any gear!’

  The patrol car pulled up outside the tower block, lights spinning in the darkness, and sat there.

  Logan stepped out from the block’s shadow and rapped on the driver’s window. ‘You sitting there for a reason?’

  Constable Haynes smiled up at him, then fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Wanted to make sure it was safe, Guv. I leave Wee Billy here unsupervised for five minutes, might come back to find someone’s nicked his boots and truncheon. He’s only new.’

  Her partner, sitting in the passenger seat, blushed – gritting his teeth and saying nothing, like a big boy.

  Logan pointed up at Aunty Ina’s flat. ‘Top floor. No lift. Make sure the auld wifie stays put till we get the Procurator Fiscal organised. Soon as you’re there, tell DC Stone he’s wanted back here. And while you’re at it—’ His phone launched into its anonymous ringtone. ‘Hold on.’ He pulled it out and pressed the button. ‘McRae.’

  ‘Seven morons in Clackmananshire voted “Yes” and “No” on the same ballot paper. You believe that? How thick can they be?’

  He closed his eyes. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Couldn’t get through on my phone. Had to borrow one. Sodding Glasgow’s seventy-five percent turnout. Seventy-five percent! What sodding use is that? Even Aberdeen managed eighty-two.’

  ‘Stop calling me with numbers, OK? I – don’t – care. I’m working.’

  ‘Seventy-five percent. How many thousands of votes is that lost? Eh? You know what I think? I think—’

  Logan hung up. Barred that number too.

  Haynes pulled her bowler down low on her head, leaving the fringes of her bob showing. ‘Let me guess, Detective Chief Inspector Steel?’

  Her partner clambered out of the car, all sticky-out ears and chin. ‘She’s driving everyone mental back at the ranch. Stand still for two minutes and she’ll get you working out percentages and stuff. Nightmare. Like being back at school.’

  Logan punched the duty superintendent’s number into his mobile and wandered over to the pool car he and Stoney had arrived in, settling back against the bonnet while it rang.

  Then a large, sharp voice battered out of the earpiece. ‘Superintendent Ward.’

  ‘Sir? DI McRae. Just found a block of what looks like coke in a flat.’

  ‘You have a search warrant?’

  ‘Permission from the householder. We were looking for the two women who said they’d seen Chris Browning on the fourth. Their aunt told us we could search the place if we liked.’

  ‘Hmmm … Let me have a word with the PF. Everyone still in situ?’

  ‘Left DC Stone with the aunt, sir. Uniform’s just arrived.’

  ‘Good. Right. I’ll let you know.’

  And with any luck, that would be enough to cover Logan and Stoney’s backsides when it got to court. Logan slipped his phone into his pocket, and settled back to wait.

  Langstane Place bustled with staggery groups of men and women, calling and whooping to each other. A handful of Temporary Public Urination Stations, AKA: Daleks, had been set up along the road. Big dark plastic things, with four semi-private bays for people to pee in. Not exactly classy, but it was better than them doing it in shop doorways.

  Stoney checked his watch. ‘Twenty to.’

  Logan sucked on his teeth for a bit. ‘Don’t see them, do you?’

  ‘I remember when this was nothing but houses and churches. Now look at it.’

  ‘Showing your age, Stoney. Got to move with the times.’

  The place was one long ribbon of nightclubs, all heaving with referendum night parties. Blootered voters, trying their luck with members of the opposite sex. Offering to stuff each other’s ballot boxes.

  Aunty Ina had named a couple of places where her nieces usually plied their trade on a Thursday night. Regent Quay was one of them, this was the other.

  Logan pulled out another printout of Elaine and Jane, both from the police database, looking straight forward with a height chart behind them. He held it up for the bouncer outside Sneaky Jimmy’s – a slab of muscle with a number-one buzz cut and tattoos up her neck. ‘You seen either of these women?’

  She narrowed her eyes and peered at the sheet. Then turned and waved her companion over. He wasn’t as big as she was, but his scalp looked as if a Rottweiler had been chewing on it, scar tissue showing through the severe haircut.

  ‘Marky, you seen this pair tonight?’

  He bared his teeth and sooked a breath through them. ‘Aye.’ A finger like a sausage poked the paper. ‘This one was minesweeping. Nicking other people’s drinks when they wasn’t looking. This one,’ he poked the other photo, ‘got into a fight in the ladies. Had to throw the pair of them out on their arses.’ He raised an arm, then pulled up his shiny black bomber jacket, exposing a circle of red across his ribs. ‘Cow bit me, and everything.’

  Stoney tutted. ‘Better get that looked at, mate. Don’t want to catch anything.’

  Logan took the printout back. ‘When was this?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago? Something like that?’

  And they hadn’t been into any of the other nightclubs, so that really only left one place. Back to the docks.

  ‘Thanks.’ He turned and his phone launched into ‘If I Only Had a Brain’. That would be Rennie. He followed Stoney back to the pool car and hit the button. ‘McRae.’

  A smoky growl sounded in his ear. ‘Are you avoiding me?’

  Oh God, not her again.

  ‘Yes. Take the hint.’

  ‘Orkney: sixty-seven percent “No”, thirty-three “Yes”. Bloody Shetland’s no better: sixty-four, thirty-six. What are we—’

  ‘Have you done any work at all tonight?’

  There was a pause. ‘Might have done.’

  ‘Yeah, well I’ve recovered about a quarter kilo of cocaine. Go do something productive for a change.’

  ‘No point. Shift ends in fifteen. Fancy hitting the pub?’

  For goodness sake. He drummed his fingers on the car roof as Stoney unlocked it. ‘I’m on nights, remember? Don’t get off till seven.’

  ‘Aye, well, there’ll still be places open. I’m going to hang about and inspire the troops.’

  Oh joy.

  5

  ‘What do you think, Guv – call it a night?’ Stoney stuck his hands in his pockets and drew a foot along the double yellow line on Shore Lane.

  Logan pulled his sleeve back and angled his watch so the streetlight’s sickly glow caught the dial. ‘Better give it till four. Make sure everyone’s had time to stagger down here from the nightclubs.’

  Besides, with any luck, Steel would have given up by then and sodded off home, leaving everyone in peace.

  Shore Lane stretched from Regent Quay to the dual carriageway on the other side, where the occasional lonely taxi drifted by on its way somewhere much nicer than this. A canyon of granite, punctuated by darkened windows and downpipes.

  Stoney puffed out a breath – just visible in the night air – then shrugged. ‘Might as well get on with it, I suppose.’ He turned and wandered down the lane, making for the dual carriageway.

  Logan headed back to Regent Quay instead. A couple of flats had their lights on, probably sitting up watching the results come in, but mostly it was darkness. On the other side of the harbour wall, the security lights blazed, making the vast orange vessels glow.

&nbs
p; The Regents Arms was still open though, one of those harbour pubs with an all-night licence for the shift workers. The sort of place you could get a sausage buttie and a pint of Guinness at six in the morning. The sort of place you could get your head kicked in for looking at someone funny. Even if you were a police officer.

  A figure stood outside the door, hunched over, one hand cupped around a cigarette as if someone was going to snatch it off him if he lowered his guard. Cardigan, jeans, slippers, a nose that could prize open tin cans. He nodded as Logan passed, setting a mop of grey hair swinging. ‘Inspector.’

  ‘Donald.’

  And past.

  The clang, clang, clang of something metal getting battered with a hammer came from the harbour. A people carrier drove past. Somewhere in the distance, someone launched into a mournful and tuneless rendition of ‘My Love is like a Red, Red Rose’.

  Logan turned the corner onto Water Lane, for about the ninth time that night.

  Halfway down, beneath a broken streetlamp, a couple of figures huddled in the gloom. One tall, one not so much. Little more than silhouettes, caught in the glow of the dual carriageway behind. Then the shorter one sank down to its knees while the taller one leaned back against the wall.

  No prizes for guessing what was going on there, then.

  Hopefully whoever was on their knees had been paid in advance, because unless the tall guy was a really quick finisher, there wasn’t going to be time to negotiate afterwards.

  Logan marched down the cobblestones. Reached into his pocket for his LED torch.

  Got within thirty feet, then clicked it on.

  A harsh cone of bright white stabbed through the darkness, catching a bald man with his trousers and pants around his knees, head thrown back; and a skeletal woman on her knees, head bobbing at his crotch.

  Logan took a deep breath. ‘POLICE!’

  Mr Tall jerked upright. Spluttering, mouth stretched out like a dying frog. ‘Shite!’ He shoved the woman away, and he was off, lurching and scrambling as fast as he could with his trousers hobbling him.

  The woman hit the cobblestones with a crack.

  And twenty seconds later, so did Mr Tall – betrayed by his treacherous trousers. He careened into the road with arms and legs flailing. Scrambled to his knees, pulled himself upright, hauled his trousers into a more acceptable position, and ran for it.

  Logan let him go. Stood over the fallen woman and offered her a hand up.

  She scowled at him. Her cheekbones were razor sharp, her eyes hollow and dark, quick-bitten fingernails and a tremor that made everything shake. ‘You think that was funny?’

  ‘You get the cash upfront?’

  ‘Could’ve killed me.’

  ‘Look on the bright side: you got paid and you don’t have to do the deed.’

  Elaine Mitchel sniffed. Then wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jacket, adding to the silver trails. She turned her head, staring off down the darkened lane after her departed customer. A strangler’s ring of love bites encircled her throat. ‘True.’

  Logan helped her up. ‘Been looking for you all night.’ Then pulled out the missing person poster. ‘You recognise this man?’

  Her eyes flicked towards the poster, then away again. ‘Don’t remember, like.’ Heat radiated from her bony chest, taking with it a smell of stale perfume and sweat.

  Logan shone his torch on the poster, so the picture was nice and clear. ‘Come on, have another look’.

  She did, but only for the briefest of beats. ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘Chris Browning, forty-two, brown hair, glasses, slightly posh Aberdonian accent.’

  She took a step away. ‘Got stuff to do.’

  Logan grabbed her arm. It was barely there – just a length of bone, wrapped in snot-streaked material, burning into his palm. ‘His family’s worried, OK?’

  Elaine looked down at Logan’s hand, then up to his face. ‘You want to touch me, you gotta pay.’

  He let go. ‘Come on, Elaine, no one’s seen him for two weeks. You told Jimmy from the Aberdeen Examiner that you saw Chris Browning on the fourth. You said he was a regular.’

  She stared at her shoes – high heels, the leather all scuffed and stained. ‘Don’t remember. Didn’t talk to no journo.’

  ‘Jimmy named you, Elaine. Gave up his source, just like that.’

  Her thin lips disappeared inside her mouth, creases forming between her eyebrows. ‘Don’t remember.’

  A pair of headlights paused at the entrance to the lane … and then drifted past. Not this time.

  ‘OK. I understand.’ Logan nodded. ‘Elaine Mitchel, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the—’

  ‘No.’ She backed up, until she was against the wall. ‘I don’t …’ She threw her arms out to the sides. ‘Could you not leave us alone?’

  ‘Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure – Scotland – Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment. You—’

  ‘OK! OK.’ A sigh. ‘OK. I never met the man.’ She pointed at the poster. ‘Him.’

  ‘You told Jimmy that Chris Browning was down here every Wednesday, paying for, and I quote, “Disgusting and unusual sex acts”.’

  One bony shoulder came up to her ear, then fell again. ‘Never met him.’

  ‘Then why say you did?’

  ‘Money.’ She smiled at Logan, all twisted brown teeth and beige gums. ‘A hundred quid.’

  The wall behind the bar was festooned with stolen apostrophes. Some were large and plastic, some small and metal, some neon, others designed to be illuminated by whoever paid for them in the first place, not knowing that some wee sod from Aberdeen was going to wheech up a ladder with a screwdriver in the middle of the night and make off with their punctuation.

  The barman took one look at Logan and sighed. Then raised his voice, so the dozen people spread in ones and twos about the place could hear over the telly playing in the corner of the room. ‘Detective Inspector, what can I get you?’

  Subtle.

  Logan pointed at Elaine Mitchel. ‘You?’

  ‘Double vodka.’

  ‘And a tin of Irn-Bru.’

  The barman clunked a glass up beneath the optic, twice, then dumped it on the bar. ‘You want a glass with the Irn-Bru?’

  And give him something to spit in? ‘No thanks. Tin’s fine.’

  It was produced, and Logan paid the man, then led the way across to a table in the corner, away from the speakers. Sitting with his back to the wall, just in case.

  He wiped a thumb across the tin’s top, clearing off the sheen of dew, then clicked the ringpull off. ‘A hundred quid’s a lot of money.’

  Elaine shrugged, then took a sip. Holding the vodka in her mouth with her eyes closed. Savouring it.

  ‘Who paid?’

  She swallowed. Sighed. ‘A man. Same as usual.’

  ‘You know who he is?’

  Elaine shifted in her seat, looking back at the television with its array of BBC journalists and pundits sitting behind a big curved desk. ‘Any idea how it’s going?’

  ‘Do you know who paid you? Did you get a name?’

  ‘We did a postal vote. Just in case, you know? Wanted to make sure it counted.’ Another sip of vodka.

  Up on the screen, they were scrolling through the results so far. ‘WESTERN ISLES: “NO”. 53% TO 47%. INVERCLYDE: “NO”. 50.1% TO 49.9%.’

  Steel would love that.

  ‘Elaine. I need a name, or I can’t help you.’

  She picked at the table, where someone had carved the initials DG into the wood. ‘Who says I need help? Doing fine, aren’t I?’

  ‘We were at your aunt’s place tonight. She showed us your room.’

  Elaine turned back to the television. ‘Going to be no, isn’t it? Probably just as well.’

  ‘Want to guess what we found in your chest of drawers? Right at the bottom, with all the shoplifted watches, makeup, and costume jewellery?’

  ‘Wha
t’d happen to all the benefits, eh? Who’s going to pay our dole: BP and Shell? My arse.’

  ‘We found about a quarter kilo of cocaine, Elaine. About, what, a good ten, twelve grand’s worth?’

  ‘Then there’s all the supermarkets putting up their prices, and the banks sodding off down south, and the other big companies …’

  ‘That’s possession with intent.’

  ‘And they’ll close the border. Be like, a big stretch of barbed wire from Grenta to Berwick-upon-Tweed. Guard towers and spotlights and Alsatians and ghettos …’

  ‘You’re looking at nine to thirteen years, Elaine.’

  She sniffed. Polished off her vodka. ‘Isn’t mine. Found it.’

  He sat back. ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Nope, it’s the God’s. Me and Jane found it, down the Green. Can’t bang us up if it isn’t ours.’

  ‘You found a quarter kilo of cocaine lying about in the Green?’

  ‘Na. Yeah.’ The bony shoulders rose and fell. ‘Kinda. This bloke was doing a runner, right? Battering it down Correction Wynd, under the bridge hell-for-leather into the Green. Got a nose like a burst bottle of ketchup, blood all down the front of his shirt. He dumps this padded envelope in a bin and keeps going. Thirty seconds later, these three big bastards hammer after him. Caught him outside Granite Reef and pounded the crap out of him.’

  Logan’s eyebrow climbed up his forehead. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Dunno. Tuesday?’

  It was the assault Steel couldn’t be bothered investigating because an Edinburgh drug dealer getting beaten up wasn’t ‘major’ enough. And it explained what the little dark-red spots on the package of coke were. Blood.

  ‘You see who did it?’

  ‘Depends. It worth something?’

  ‘Nine to thirteen years. You help me, I help you.’

  She stuck a finger in her empty glass and wiped up the last smears of alcohol. Sooked it clean. ‘You know Alec Hadden: drinks in here sometimes?’

  ‘He one of them?’

  Elaine shook her head. ‘He’s the one gave me and Jane a hundred quid to say that Chris Browning was a regular. Told us to say the guy was into all kinds of filthy stuff, you know? Real pervert scumbag. Likes it rough up the bum and that.’

  Logan looked over her shoulder, taking in the assembled slouch of wee-small-hours drinkers. ‘This Alec in tonight?’