The room was partitioned up with adjustable shelving units, turned into a maze with the heavy metal cage for drugs and confiscated money lurking at its heart. The shelving groaned under the weight of seized goods and lost property, the wooden floorboards gouged and scuffed. Strip lighting hung from the bare rafters, buzzing and flickering, making Logan’s breath glow white in the cold air.
‘OK…This lot been processed yet?’ Trying not to sound too hopeful.
The sergeant laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched sound for someone who looked so much like an axe murderer. ‘You’re kidding right? What am I, your mum?’
Logan groaned. There had to be two or three hundred items on the shelves, all of which needed to be catalogued, verified, and checked against the stolen property register. Bloody DI Steel – this was going to take him forever.
Sergeant Axe-Murderer patted him on the back and grinned. ‘Look on the bright side, at least it’s sodding freezing in here.’
‘You can bugger off now, Clive.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Clive gave him one last pat, then wandered off, hands in his pockets, whistling. Git.
Logan pulled the first box from the shelf and dumped it on the floor. It was full of Sony MP3 Walkmans in their original packaging. He dug them out one by one, opening the cases to make sure they contained what they said they did, then wrote everything down in his notebook. Knowing that he’d have to type it all up when he got back to FHQ.
The next box was full of watches, the one after that: digital cameras. Logan sat back on his haunches and stared at the stacks of stuff still sitting waiting for him.
Bugger this.
He dug out his mobile and went hunting through the contacts, then hit the button. It was Sunday, so he’d have to leave a message, but if anyone asked he could honestly say he was doing something.
But a real person answered the phone: ‘Trading Standards, can I help you?’
‘Dildo? It’s Logan. What are you doing in the office?’
‘Fucking overtime. Got a backlog like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘I need a favour from the Shop Cops.’
‘Oh aye…?’ Pause. ‘Still owe me a pint from last time, remember?’
Logan looked up at Polmont’s collection. ‘I think we’ve found a stash of counterfeit goods.’ Not entirely true, but it could be. And that made it Trading Standards’ responsibility.
There was a groan. ‘Do me a favour and lose it again. We’re up to our ears in the bloody stuff as it is.’
‘My heart bleeds. We’ve got the lot down at the Water Lane store, get your bum over here and work your magic.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘This you trying to get me to do your bloody paperwork again?’
‘Dildo, I’m hurt.’
‘Yeah, and you didn’t answer the question.’ Sigh. ‘What have you got?’
Logan smiled. ‘MP3 players, hair straighteners, video games, bunch of other stuff. All boxed.’
‘Sod…OK, OK, I’ll come over. But it’s going to have to be Monday: got a bunch of Weights and Measures reports to write up, and I’m bloody well going home tonight before my kids are asleep.’
They set a time and Logan hung up. Then stood and stuck two fingers up at the contents of Steve Polmont’s flat, now officially someone else’s problem. Who said he couldn’t be a team player?
Logan parked outside the fourth address on his list and checked the caller display on his phone, just as it rang through to voicemail: Colin Miller – the Aberdeen Examiner’s star reporter. Logan gave it a minute, then checked his messages. Four from Steel threatening to castrate him; one from Samantha asking if he fancied taking her out to dinner for a change; one from Beattie – had he done anything about that meeting yet?
Logan frowned. What bloody meeting?
And then it was Colin, asking to be called back.
Logan hit reply and three rings later the reporter’s Glasgow burr rattled his eardrums.
‘Laz, my man, how they dangling?’ He didn’t bother waiting for a reply. ‘Great. Listen, I’m free the night, fancy hittin’ the town? Grab a bite to eat and some beers?’
‘Can’t tonight, got a date with a tattooed lady.’
‘Aw, come oan! You got any idea what I had to do to get a free pass? Couple of pints, bit of banter, just like the old days.’
Logan creaked open the car door.
A security light cracked on, bathing the gravel parking area with harsh white light. Twenty past four and the sun was taking its hat off, packing its bags, and sodding off home, leaving the countryside washed in dull pink and cold blue.
‘I’m kinda off the booze for a bit.’
‘You’re kidding me!’
‘Antibiotics.’ As good a lie as any.
‘Shite…’
There were no streetlights out here in the sticks. It was a cluster of converted farm buildings between Dyce and the Bridge of Don. Not all of them had been finished, and an old steading sat off to one side, the roof a ribcage of pale pine joists with a tatty-edged chunk of blue plastic sheeting draped over half of it.
At least the wind and sleet had died down. Still bloody freezing though.
‘Then we’ll grab a curry. You can have a Lambrini, or whatever it is you teetotal homosexuals drink these days.’
‘Colin—’
‘We can moan about work – got this new bloke in charge of the news desk, carrot-top bastard thinks I’m “too sensationalist”. Wanker. You can bang on about that tit Beattie, or your lezzer boss.’ Pause. ‘Bet that wee shite Richard Knox is a nightmare to deal with…?’
Logan slammed the car door. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. ‘Subtle, Colin, real subtle.’
‘What? I just—’
‘I’m not giving you info on an ongoing investigation, you know that. Curry and a pint my arse.’
There was silence for a moment, and when Colin spoke again Logan could hear the grin in his voice. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying, right? Tell you what, you tell me all about Knox, and I’ll let you in on Monday’s headline.’
‘Bye Colin.’ Logan hung up. Cheeky bugger.
He pulled out the list he’d downloaded from the Police National Computer – people convicted of robberies involving sledgehammers – and read the summary for number four. Damian Atkinson, AKA: Daniel Francis, AKA: Danny Saunders, AKA: Donny Ferrier. Done for burglary, demanding money with menaces, aggravated assault. And most importantly, for holding up a series of all-night petrol stations with a sledgehammer.
Only two houses in the little development had lights on. The first turned out to be a drunken middle-aged man with a beard and a beer belly. No, he didn’t know any Damian Atkinson, or a Daniel Francis, but Danny Saunders lived over there. He pointed a wobbly finger at a mouldy caravan parked alongside the unfinished farm building.
‘Doin’ it…Doin’ it up hisssself. Yeah?’
Very industrious.
Logan crunched his way across the gravel driveway to the steading. Random construction materials were heaped up on the grass outside: pallets of bricks, boxes of slates, piles of timber. Logan stuck his head through the open door, but it was dark in there. Just the sound of something dripping and the fusty smell of dust and mouse droppings. A pile of tools lurking in the shadows.
Danny Saunders’s caravan wasn’t a big Portakabin-style one like Samantha’s, it was a small two-wheeled model. The kind that always slowed traffic to a funereal crawl on the summer roads, dragged behind a Volvo estate full of unhappy children.
The thing was streaked with dirty green mould, the roof almost black. At some point it had been given a coat of beige paint, but it was blistered and peeling, showing off the rust underneath.
Muted light shone from somewhere in the caravan, so Logan picked his way across the long damp grass and peered in through the side window. It was surprisingly clean inside, the bed stowed away to make room for a Formica table and two bench seat
s.
A man sat at the table, making notes on a thick pile of paperwork, with his back to the window. Hair thinning a bit at the back, stripy grey jumper, a fading blue DIY tattoo on the back of one hand.
Somewhere, a radio was playing – the end of a Paul Weller track drifting into a traffic update featuring the disastrous roadworks on the Haudagain roundabout.
‘You want tea, Danny, love?’ Female, young-ish.
The man glanced deeper into the caravan. ‘Oh aye, ta. You know, we’re still aboot twa grand short for gettin’ the roof finished.’ Definitely a local lad.
‘Well…we’ll just have to give him another call, won’t we?’
‘Do we have to? Can we no’—’
‘We’ve been over this, Danny. Let’s not argue.’
Logan inched his way over to the front door. An upturned milk crate sat just outside, acting as a step. Logan kicked it out of the way, then knocked. Then pulled out his pepper-spray, just in case.
A face appeared at the window, but Logan flattened himself against the grime-streaked aluminium body, keeping out of sight, and knocked again.
Danny: ‘Can’t see anybody…’
Woman: ‘If it’s that pisshead Banks again, tell him to sod off, we’re busy.’
Danny: ‘You know he can hear you, don’t you?’
Woman: ‘Just answer the door.’
There was a clunk and the door swung outwards. ‘Ray, dees a favour and…’ Danny – thirty-two-ish, handlebar moustache and soul-patch, cheery cheeks, and spiky hair. He frowned. ‘Can I help you?’
Logan smiled up at him. ‘Damian Atkinson? AKA: Danny Saunders, AKA: Daniel—’
The caravan door slammed shut. Danny shouted, ‘Fuck! It’s the cops!’ then the door battered open again. He charged out, his foot going for where the milk crate step should have been.
Oops.
He went sprawling, face first into the cold wet grass.
Thunk.
‘Aya, bastard…’
That was the thing about people like Danny, AKA: Daniel, AKA: Damian, AKA Donny – the more aliases they had, the thicker they were. Really successful crooks never needed more than one name, because they never got caught.
Danny struggled up till he was sitting on his bum, framed in the pale rectangle of light from the caravan’s open door, clutching his left wrist to his chest. Dark-red blood oozed into his moustache from a lopsided nose.
‘Come on then.’ Logan pulled out his handcuffs. ‘On your feet.’
‘You broke my wrist…’
‘I never even touched you.’ Logan took a step forwards. ‘Now you can either get up and be handcuffed, or—’
Loud noise, ringing in his ears. Circles of yellow and black. The pain hit just before the ground did – harsh and throbbing at the back of his head. And then he was lying on the ground, something sharp and jagged clawing at his cheek.
Someone shouting, ‘Run, Danny! Run!’
Fuck…
Logan struggled to his knees, the world whooshing in his ears, head pounding, scalp stinging, stomach churning. Not going to be sick, not going to be…yes he was. All over the grass and his own left hand. A hot splash of bitter, sour-smelling yuck.
‘I said, run!’
‘But he’ll—’
‘I’ll take care of him…’
Oh shit. That didn’t sound good.
He looked up. She couldn’t have been much older than eighteen, bleached blonde hair showing an inch of brown at the roots, big red ‘Should-Have-Gone-To-Specsavers’ glasses, huge pregnant belly, chunky face, teeth bared, a heavy castiron frying pan clutched in both hands. She raised it over her head and brought it crashing down onto Logan’s head.
Or she would have if he hadn’t ducked. It slammed into his right arm instead, pain shooting up from his bruised elbow.
‘I’m a bloody police officer!’
‘Leave us the fuck alone!’
She grunted and dragged the frying pan round for another go. Logan scrabbled backwards through the wet grass, but she followed him. Swung. Missed.
Her left foot came down in the warm puddle of sick, and her leg shot out from under her, sending her crashing down on her backside. ‘Urgh! There’s puke everywhere!’
Logan staggered to his feet, lurched to the side, wobbled a bit.
Pepper-spray, where was the bloody pepper-spray?
He tried to steady himself, one hand on the manky caravan.
Where the hell was the god-damned bastarding—
There. Lying in the puddle of vomit.
Logan bent down and grabbed it. The world did a somersault, then the hokey-cokey. He staggered back, clutching the damp, black canister in his hand.
She was getting to her feet, face creased up, teeth bared, swearing…
Logan was sick all over her.
There was a pause, and then she started screaming. ‘Agggh! It’s in my fucking mouth!’
He fumbled with the cap on the little black canister. Damn thing wouldn’t come off…But it didn’t look as if he’d be needing it any more. She’d dropped the frying pan, now she was bracing herself against the caravan, spitting and gagging. Then spattering the filthy paintwork with whatever it was she’d had for lunch.
Logan put a hand to the back of his head, waves of pain rippling out from his battered elbow as he bent his arm. His fingertips came away dark and sticky. ‘You,’ he turned to the vomiting woman, ‘are fucking nicked.’
He took a step, then froze as Danny came hurtling around the side of the steading clutching a sledgehammer in his one good hand.
‘Bastard!’ Danny swung the thing at Logan’s head. Missed. The sledgehammer crashed into the caravan wall, tearing straight through the aluminium, buckling the doorframe.
Logan scrambled away as Danny tried to haul the sledgehammer’s thick steel head out of the hole he’d made.
Pepper-spray. Why couldn’t he get the lid off the bloody pepper-spray? What the hell was the point of even having pepper-spray if you couldn’t get the sodding lid off?
There was a squeal of metal – Danny had finally managed to rip the sledgehammer free.
Time to go.
Logan stumbled to an unsteady run, making for the car. Getting the hell away from that bloody hammer.
It whistled past his left shoulder and Danny swore as it clunked into something.
‘Aya, fuckin’ Jesus…’ Pause. ‘Fuck.’ Hissed breath. ‘Ow…My FUCKIN’ FOOT!’
Logan kept going.
The next swing clattered into the steading wall, sending hot yellow sparks flying.
‘Stand fuckin’ still…Ow, ow, ow…’
The security light blared out across the cold gravel as Logan struggled around the corner. He made it as far as his crappy brown Fiat, then turned to see Danny limping after him, grunting through gritted teeth every time his left foot touched the ground, breath streaming out behind him in a white cloud.
Logan struggled with the cap again. Bastarding thing still wouldn’t budge.
He stuck it between his teeth and twisted – the plastic tasted bitter and biley.
‘Aaaaaaaagh!’ Danny dragged the sledgehammer up and round, swinging one-handed, putting all his weight behind it.
Logan flinched back and the hammer caught the edge of his coat, slamming it through the passenger window in a hard crash of fractured glass. Little cubes of shining diamond sprayed out across the vinyl seats.
He spat the canister’s lid out and pointed the pepper-spray right between Danny’s eyes. ‘Drop it!’
‘Fit did you dee to Stacy, you bast—’
Logan pressed the trigger.
There was a brief moment of stunned silence, then Danny started screaming, fell to the gravel driveway, both hands over his face, legs kicking out in random directions. Leaving the sledgehammer sticking out of Logan’s passenger window like a jaunty wooden erection.
They sat at the caravan table, Log
an on one side, Danny Saunders slumped on the other. The windows were all fogged up from the kettle being boiled, emptied, filled, and boiled again, the steam permeating the small space, even thought there was a brand-new hole in the wall and the door wouldn’t close properly any more.
The cloying, bitter stench of sick hung thick in the muggy air.
‘You feeling any better?’ The woman – Stacy – peeled the soggy tea towel off Danny’s face. His skin was almost scarlet, eyes scrunched shut, tears dribbling down his cheeks, snot oozing out of his nose. He raised a hand to his eyes.
Logan grabbed his sleeve. ‘Told you not to rub it. You’ll only make it worse.’
‘Hurts…’
Got to love pepper-spray.
Stacy scowled. One side of her hair was sticking out in random directions, little things stuck in the blonde mess. Whatever perfume she used, it wasn’t up to hiding Eau de Vomi. ‘Look what you’ve done.’
Logan scowled back, keeping the bag of frozen peas pressed against the back of his skull. ‘You tried to bash my head in with a frying pan, and he tried to take it off with a bloody sledgehammer. Remember?’
She turned and stomped back to the fridge, pulled a carton of whole fat milk out, and sploshed some into the tea towel. ‘It was an accident.’
‘How? Exactly?’
Silence.
‘Gave you the peas, didn’t I?’ She put the milk back in the fridge, then draped the wet towel over Danny’s face again. ‘You sure this’ll help?’
‘Positive.’
Stacy wrinkled her nose, pulling a chunk of regurgitated something from her hair. ‘Urgh…’ The kettle whistled to the boil. She took it off the gas and poured it straight into a steaming bucket, then checked the temperature with her little finger. ‘I wanted a caravan with a shower, but no, that would’ve been too expensive…’
She peeled off her jumper then the T-shirt underneath, revealing a none-too-sensible bra and her stretch-mark-rippled pregnant bulge. She sniffed at the stained T-shirt, grimaced, then dumped it in the corner with the spattered jumper. Logan didn’t watch her washing her puke-matted hair in the bucket.
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