Do it.
‘What the hell did Mr Mowat ever see in you? Heir to the throne my arse. You haven’t got the balls to…’ Reuben raised an eyebrow and stared at the gun. Then snorted. ‘Aye, right.’
The semiautomatic was getting heavier with every heartbeat, and every time he tried to swallow, his throat closed up. The silencer’s black cylinder wavered, then drifted up to point at Reuben’s chest. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Genuinely? You think this scares me?’
Urquhart backed away a couple of steps. ‘Guys?’
Reuben laughed. Then squatted down and opened the holdall at his feet. ‘See, the trouble with people like you, McRae, is you’re all gob and no panties. Think a gun makes you a big man? Nah.’
‘I’m not screwing about. Put your hands behind your head.’
‘What makes you a big man, is being a man.’ Reuben pulled a sawn-off shotgun from the bag and stood. ‘Gun’s only a tool.’
Urquhart backed off some more. ‘Come on, let’s not do anything we’re going to regret, right?’
‘Reuben, hands behind your head. Now.’
‘A tool’s only as good as the craftsman who wields it.’ He cracked the shotgun open and slid two cartridges into the breech. ‘Mr Mowat told me that. Wise man, till it came to you.’ Clack, the shotgun was closed again. ‘See, you’re weak, so—’
Logan shot him.
The silencer’s phut didn’t even echo.
Reuben rocked back on his heels, but he didn’t go down. He stared at the spot of red seeping into the leg of his overalls, turning the green material a dark purple. ‘You…’ He glared at Logan. Then the shotgun came up.
Buggering hell.
Logan dived over the wall of the nearest sty, battering down amongst the huge pink bodies as a loud BOOOOOM reverberated back from the corrugated metal walls, followed by a clatter of shot.
Chunks of breezeblock sparked into the air, falling as gritty dust.
The pigs squealed, dirty hooves scrabbling at the straw bedding as they tried to get away. But the sty was barely big enough to turn around in. They barged against Logan, knocking him down, snouts and teeth flashing all around him.
‘GET OUT HERE YOU WEE SHITE!’
BOOOOOM.
Gah…
How could he miss? The guy was huge and all he’d managed to hit was a leg?
Clack, then the hollow rattle of empty shotgun cartridges hitting the concrete floor.
Now.
Logan snapped up to his knees, bringing the gun up two-handed. Phut. Phut.
Only Reuben wasn’t where he was meant to be.
Clack.
For a big guy, he moved incredibly fast. He’d got himself inside one of the other sties, sawn-off shotgun up and ready.
Logan ducked again.
BOOOOOM.
Something stung his cheek, like a wasp.
Up.
Phut.
Reuben grunted as red spread across his left shoulder. BOOOOOM.
The blast clattered against the breezeblocks as Logan dived amongst the pigs again.
‘YOU’RE DEAD, MCRAE, YOU HEAR ME? YOU’RE DEAD AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW IS DEAD!’
Clack. More shotgun cartridges hitting the floor.
Logan stuck his arm above the parapet and pulled the trigger. Not aiming, just hoping. Phut, phut.
‘DEAD!’
He scrambled to his feet, and there was Reuben.
The big man had Urquhart, holding him up by the armpits, arms wrapped around his chest. Urquhart’s head lolled to the side, blood darkening the front of his suit jacket.
Logan brought the gun up. ‘Put him down.’
Reuben still had the shotgun in his hand, only he couldn’t point it without letting go of Urquhart. ‘This is all your fault.’
Couldn’t get a clear shot with Urquhart acting as a human shield.
‘Put – him – down.’
The big man backed towards the far door, dragging Urquhart with him. ‘This isn’t over, McRae.’
‘I’m warning you, Reuben: put – him – down!’
‘This isn’t over by a long way.’
He stepped out through the door, letting in a whirl of snow, slamming it shut behind him.
Logan vaulted from the sty and ran, gun up and ready. Reuben wasn’t getting—
BOOOOOM.
The shotgun blast ripped through the corrugated iron door, grabbed Logan by the chest and hurled him to the concrete floor.
‘Unnngh…’
The smell of fireworks fought against the piggy stench.
His whole front screamed in searing agony, like he’d been trampled by a burning elephant.
‘Ow…’
It took three goes to get to his knees.
The front of his cagoule was shredded, the stabproof vest beneath it torn and tattered. Bits of stuffing poked out, exposing the buckled armoured plate.
Every breath was laced with jagged shards of hot copper.
‘Arrrgh.’
He pulled himself up one of the sties and stood there, one hand holding his chest, the other holding the gun.
By the time he lurched out through the punctured door, Reuben’s Land Rover was nowhere to be seen.
43
Logan peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the bathroom floor. Locked the door. Shuddered in the darkness. Then pulled the cord.
The light on the medicine cabinet flickered on, casting a bluish-white glow, pushing back the gloom. It washed the colour from his skin, turning it pale and ghostly. A walking corpse. Shot in the chest.
He stepped closer to the mirror, where the light was brightest.
It had been what, an hour since Reuben tried to blow a hole in him? And the bruising hadn’t come up yet. But when it did, it would be huge. His whole chest was red and swollen, with purple contusions in the middle where the majority of the shot had hit. When he prodded them, it was like rubbing vinegar into a fresh cut. Thank God the blast had to travel through that metal door first, or the stabproof vest wouldn’t have stood a chance. The guys who ran Reuben’s pig farm would’ve been cleaning up his innards for days.
Bee-sting lumps speckled his cheek – six or seven of them, all about the size of a Smarty, each one with a dark dot at the centre, as if he was a teenager again, covered with blackheads. It hurt, but Logan squeezed one of them between his thumbnails until a tiny pellet plopped into the sink, leaving a plume of pink as it sank through the water.
One was barely an inch below his left eye.
Lucky he wasn’t blinded. Lucky the door had been there. Lucky he wasn’t pig food.
Yeah. He was a lucky, lucky guy.
He gritted his teeth and squeezed out the other flecks of shot. Then opened the bathroom cabinet as tiny rosebuds of blood bloomed on his cheeks and chin. A dusty old ceramic bottle of Old Spice was half-buried behind all the moisturizers and exfoliants and cleaners and hand cream. He eased it out and splashed a couple of shakes into his palm – like Henry Cooper used to do on the adverts – rubbed his hands together, then patted at the bleeding holes.
Dear … sodding … Christ, that stung.
Logan closed his eyes hissing breath in and out. In and out. Until it settled to a steady throb. Arrrrgh… That hurt more than being shot.
A brittle laugh burst free, but he stamped on it. Forced it down.
Shuddered.
Almost killed someone tonight. Not by accident. Not in self-defence. On purpose. Premeditated.
And who knew, maybe he had actually killed someone: maybe he’d killed John Urquhart? Maybe Urquhart had caught one of those random unaimed bullets? Or maybe he’d not backed away far enough when Reuben brought the shotgun out?
The bathroom mirror was cold against his forehead.
Idiot.
Why did he have to miss that first shot? This would all be over by now.
Well done, Logan.
Sterling job.
The distorted, bruised, and battered Logan stared back at him from the mirror. ‘Maybe you missed because Reuben was right: you don’t have the balls to kill anyone.’
‘I don’t want them.’ He lathered up with antibacterial handwash, then slathered it onto his face, working it into all the stinging pellet holes. Making them scream. Then shouted them down with a second dose of Old Spice.
Arrrrrgh…
The freezer downstairs produced a packet of petits pois, the drinks cupboard a half-empty litre of Famous Grouse. Logan pressed the former against his burning face and the latter into service as an anaesthetic.
Four ibuprofen and the same again of aspirin hadn’t made a dent in it, but the second dram of whisky worked its magic. Or it might have been the frozen peas numbing his skin. Either way it didn’t ache quite as much.
Of course, Reuben would come after him with a vengeance now. The gun-without-a-firing-pin incident was bad enough, but this? Tonight? He’d be like a rabid dog.
Maybe they’d have a few days while Reuben recuperated from his two bullet holes? Enough time for Logan to call his new lawyer and put his affairs in order.
That or flee the country.
A groan came from the kitchen doorway, followed by something out of a George Romero film. It was Steel, wearing a fluffy grey dressing gown, with penguin pyjama bottoms sticking out beneath, arms sticking out in front, and her hair sticking out in every other direction. Only she didn’t try to eat Logan’s brains; she shuffled over to the sink and turned the cold tap on full. Then dunked her head under it.
He topped his glass up, and screwed the cap back on the bottle.
She was still trying to drown herself in the sink.
Logan took a sip, rolling the whisky around his mouth, numbing it from the inside.
And finally Steel emerged from beneath the cascade of cold water looking almost completely unlike a shampoo advert. Instead of flinging her hair back in a glorious golden arc, she slumped against the sink, water running down her face and dripping onto her grey fuzzy dressing gown and the floor. Like a cat who’d just been fished out of the toilet bowl. ‘Pfff…’
He toasted her with his glass.
She wiped her face on a sleeve and squinted. ‘What?’
‘Didn’t say a thing.’
‘Got a head like a… Like a…’ Her shoulders sagged even further. ‘No, can’t be arsed.’
Logan stood and pulled another glass from the cupboard. Filled it from the dispenser built into the fridge. Held it out. ‘Here.’
She took it with both hands and gulped it down. ‘More.’
He refilled it and she guzzled that one too. And the next.
Then Steel settled into a chair on the other side of the kitchen table. Her eyes seemed to have difficulty both focusing on the same spot, and something was wrong with her mouth – all the words were soft and mushy, as if she was pushing them through a sieve. ‘I think I might’ve died in my sleep.’
‘Whose fault is that?’
‘Why did you let me drink so much whisky? It’s like there’s a ceilidh in my skull and only fat people in hobnail boots got invited.’ Another mouthful of water. ‘They’re doing an Orcadian Strip the Willow.’ Her top lip curled as she sniffed. ‘And why does it smell like an auld mannie’s pants in here?’
Logan lowered the bag of petits pois. ‘Cut myself shaving.’
She shook her head, then grabbed onto the table. Blinking. ‘Gah. Stop the world…’ A deep breath, then she relinquished her grip. ‘I – am definitely – not – going – to be – sick.’
‘You’re still drunk, aren’t you?’
‘No. Maybe. Kind of.’ Steel burped, then grimaced and shuddered. Had another mouthful of water. ‘I’m sorry about Samantha. She was a total Hottie McSexyPants. And I’m no’ just saying that! See if I wasn’t married and she hadn’t been in a coma?’
‘Go back to bed.’
‘Can’t. When I lie down the walls chase each other round the room.’ She drained the last drops from her glass. ‘More.’
Logan filled it. ‘Think I might give it up. Move somewhere warm and far away.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘I mean, what’s the point? We spend ninety percent of our time dealing with five percent of the people. Barely scratch the surface.’ He knocked back a mouthful of Grouse, sucked air in through his teeth. ‘I’m not a very good police officer.’
‘If you move, how you going to watch Jasmine and wee Naomi grow up?’
‘Not very good at all.’
‘Don’t whinge, Laz. I hate it when you whinge.’ She sniffed. ‘Makes you sound like Rennie.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And we do make a difference.’ She put down her water and picked up his whisky, raised it to her lips. The colour drained from her cheeks and she put it down again. ‘Nope.’
‘Don’t think Detective Superintendent Harper really wants a big brother.’
‘Look at all the scumbags we put away every year. You got those people-traffickers last year. And that guy who was beating up auld wifies for their pension money.’
‘Don’t think my brother Eamon wants one either.’
‘Wah, wah, wah.’ She finished her water, stuck it back on the table with another burp. ‘We got anything to eat?’
He pointed at the fridge. ‘Sausage rolls, mini Kievs, and some of those tiny quiches. They’re a bit pocket-fluffy, but Susan cleaned the worst of it off.’
‘Done.’ She slumped over to the bread bin and extracted a Glasgow roll. Then raided the fridge. ‘And you want to make a difference? Make one. Don’t sit there moaning about it.’ The roll got split open and buttered on both sides. ‘Don’t see me with my thumb in my gob moaning on about scumbags I can’t put away, do you?’ Four sausage rolls went on the bun, followed by a couple of the Kievs. ‘No, because Roberta Steel doesn’t take “no comment” for an answer.’ Everything got slathered in tomato sauce, then she took a big bite, talking as she chewed, ‘You get a problem, you find a solution, Laz. That’s what the big girls do.’
He stared down into his whisky. ‘I’m in trouble.’
‘See when Jack Wallace intimidated his way out of a rape charge, did I go whingeing away with my tail between my knees? Bet your sharny arse I didn’t. I did something about it.’ She thumped down into the seat opposite again and jabbed the table with a finger, leaving a smear of tomato sauce behind. ‘And yeah, maybe I should’ve slipped someone a hundred to break every bone in his body instead. Got them to chuck him in the harbour to sink. But that’d be wrong, right?’
‘I think Reuben’s going to…’ Logan frowned. ‘Wait, you should have done that?’
‘The important thing is, he’s no’ on the loose attacking women any more. Wee shite’s where he belongs.’
‘What did you do?’
She waved a hand at him, and took another bite. ‘Come off it, like you’ve never bent the rules to get the right result. Course you have.’
‘I…’ More than she’d ever know.
‘Exactly.’ She drained her water. ‘You should’ve seen Wallace when we told him there wasn’t enough evidence to prosecute. Strutting about like there was a rooster up his backside. “Look at me, I won. And I’m going to do it again, because you’re all too thick to stop me.” Aye, well who’s thick now?’ She popped the final chunk of funeral-leftovers butty in her mouth and stood. Stuck the kettle on. ‘You want tea?’
‘You fitted him up.’
‘Course, could’ve done him for pretty much anything, but kiddy porn’s a classic, isn’t it? You get done for being a paedo, that’s with you for the rest of your life; that stain doesn’t wash off. Nah, he’s got to live with it till the day he dies. Now he knows how the women he attacked feel.’ She rattled a couple of mugs onto the worktop. ‘And with any luck some nice obliging nonce will shank the wee bastard in prison and take him out of the food chain for good.’
L
ogan stared at the back of her head as she fiddled about with teabags and spoons. ‘Where did you get the images?’
‘Oh, you’d no’ believe the things you can confiscate if you know the wrong people.’
Oh God.
Logan buried his face in the bag of frozen peas. ‘You fitted him up.’
‘Got loads of those photos left too, you know: if you ever need someone off to the jail?’
‘That’s not “bending the rules”! That’s snapping the damn things in half, then setting them on fire, then peeing on the smouldering ashes.’ Gah. He threw the petits pois down on the countertop. ‘How many times have you done it? How many people have you sent to prison on faked evidence?’
Steel dug out the steaming teabags and hurled them into the sink. ‘We hold a position of trust, Laz. It’s no’ about following the rules or ticking the boxes on this or that procedure, it’s about justice. Proper justice for the poor sods out there getting brutalized and attacked and raped and killed.’
He threw his arms out, as if blocking the way. ‘We’ve got rules for a reason! You can’t—’
‘Justice! And yeah: so I fitted Wallace up, so what? He bloody well deserved it.’
‘Napier was right.’
‘Napier’s a dick.’ She slopped milk into the mugs, then thumped one down in front of Logan hard enough to send a beige wave slopping over the side. ‘And he’s got sod all on me.’
‘The created dates on the images show they were all copied onto his machine in two batches.’
‘Doesn’t prove anything. If Napier had evidence he wouldn’t need you crawling about like a cut-price Columbo.’
‘God’s sake.’ He sat back.
She sat forward. ‘OK, so it was wrong. You happy now? I – was – wrong. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Jack Wallace raped Claudia Boroditsky, he raped Rosalyn Cooper. She killed herself because of him. It’s what he does.’ Steel poked the table again. ‘You want people like that running about when Jasmine’s growing up? Stalking her in nightclubs? Following her home?’
‘It’s not—’
‘But it’s OK. Don’t you see?’ A smile bloomed across Steel’s face. ‘You’re on the investigation. You can make sure Napier gets sod all, and if anything does come up, you lose it. And you make sure it stays lost.’
In the Cold Dark Ground Page 39