And his left palm ached, as if someone was grinding a hot needle into the flesh. So the weather was definitely going to get worse. Scar-tissue: the gift that keeps on giving.
‘Well, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. You didn’t have to poke holes in his sunshine theory yesterday. Anyway, if you’re looking for sympathy you’ve dialled the wrong number. While you’re out gallavanting, I’m stuck in here listening to his posturing egotistical monologues.’
Another roundabout. Grove Cemetery on one side, the little caravan park where Samantha kept her huge static Portakabin thing on the other. Not that there was any point in keeping it: she hadn’t been back in months.
Heavy grey clouds blanketed out the sky, thudding ever more water down on the city.
‘And do you know what Finnie said?’
‘Logan, did you just phone me for a moan? Because—’
‘He said we’ve got to keep Green sweet, so he doesn’t bring in all his SOCA tosser mates and take over the investigation.’ Logan put on his best DCI Finnie impersonation – stretching his mouth out and down, like a disappointed frog. ‘“Can you imagine what would happen if Grampian Police had the case taken off them? Would the media write stirring articles about how clever and special we all are? Hmmm?”’ He changed down and followed the huge filthy truck across the bridge and past the sewage treatment plant. ‘And another thing—’
‘I’m going to hang up now, Logan.’
‘—explain to me why I always end up—’
‘Goodbye.’
He frowned at the Airwave handset. ‘Doreen? Doreen, can you hear me?’
The windscreen wipers groaned and clunked.
‘Hello?’
She’d hung up on him. Unbelievable.
He took the Parkway, around Danestone and into the Bridge of Don. According to DI Ingram’s notes, Frank Baker – the floppy-haired neat-freak they’d interviewed on Friday morning, the one who looked like a swimming pool attendant – worked in a fabrication yard in the Bridge of Don Industrial Estate. He was the first sex offender on Green’s list.
Logan put his foot down, trying to get past the truck on the way up the hill, slithering back behind it as a Range Rover coming the other way flashed its lights at him.
And then his phone went – the brief chirrup signifying a text message. He flicked the windscreen wipers onto their highest setting, then pulled the mobile out of his pocket, thumbing the little envelope icon. Holding the phone against the steering wheel, so he could read and drive at the same time.
‘I no where they is – jenny and her mum. If U want 2 C them alive, wee should meat.’
Not exactly the most appealing of messages.
Logan fiddled with the phone’s screen, trying to get the sender’s number up—
A horn blared.
Shite!
He swerved the pool car back into the right lane. The bus driver coming the other way gave him the finger on the way past.
Logan pulled over in the driveway of a little grey house, heart hammering in his chest. Jesus, that was close.
He fiddled with the phone some more, got the caller’s number. It wasn’t one he recognized. He hit reply, and tapped out ‘Where?’ on the screen.
‘Ware R U?’
Fine, if that was the way they wanted to play it. Why should he go traipsing halfway across Aberdeen to meet up with some time-wasting weirdo? He picked out the reply: ‘DANESTONE. THAT TOBY PUB PLACE ON THE PARKWAY. HALF AN HOUR.’
Screw Superintendent Green and his ‘due diligence’.
Half an hour later he was onto his second coffee and first sticky bun. The Buckie Farm was one of those chain pubs where you could get a carvery lunch for a couple of quid. Nice enough, even if it was a little soulless.
Logan checked his watch again, then peered out of the window at the car park. No sign of the mysterious texter. He pulled out his Airwave handset and called Rennie.
‘Hey, Guv. You’ll never guess what that cock Green said—’
‘I need you to do a reverse look-up for me. Mobile telephone …’ He went back to the message on his phone and read the number out. Then waited as Rennie punched it into the computer.
‘Anyway, he was on this big speech about how kidnappers feed off fear, just like terrorists, when—’
‘Have you got a name yet?’
‘… Yeah. It’s a T-Mobile phone registered to Mr Liam Weller, Gordon Terrace, Dyce.’
‘Never heard of him. He on the sex offenders’ register?’
‘Erm …’ A pause. ‘No. But according to this he reported his phone stolen last week. Anyway, so Green’s giving this big spiel, when in marches Steel and …’
Logan’s phone trembled in his hand, then gave that little chirrup again.
‘Chanhe of plan. Meet me @ Fairview Street were the uni playing feilds. Im wating.’
‘… so Green says, “We can never underestimate the lengths that desperate people will go to.” And Steel says—’
‘Got to go.’ Logan stabbed the disconnect button, paid for his coffee, stuck his sticky bun in his mouth, and hurried out into the rain.
Fairview Street was less than two hundred yards away. Barely worth taking the car … except for the pouring rain. The university playing fields lay on one side of the road – a swathe of dark-green grass, partially hidden by a screen of trees. Fluorescent green leaves, pink-and-white blossom shuddering in the downpour.
The other side was taken up by a sprawling housing development of beige boxes with brown pantile roofs. A line of huge metal pylons marched through the middle, making for the other side of the river, their tops brushing the low grey clouds.
Logan peered out through the windscreen, looking for someone hanging about.
No one.
The road took a ninety degree turn to the right, heading into the housing estate.
Logan pulled the pool car into the kerb and his phone bleeped up another text message.
‘I see U.’
A small grass embankment ran along the side of the road, then a bumpy lane, then a chain-link fence, then the playing fields. A shape, on the other side of the fence, peered out between the trees, waving at him.
Logan killed the engine and climbed out. Rain hammered against his face and ears, soaking straight through his hair. He plipped the locks on the pool car, stuck the keys in his pocket and flexed his aching left hand. Fist. Open. Fist. Open. Bloody thing was getting worse.
He clambered over the grassy hump, crunched across the lane, then waded through soggy, knee-high grass towards—
FUCK.
A huge black dog launched itself at him, gaping mouth snapping and snarling. It crashed against the chain-link; the fence buckled outwards …
Logan backed away a couple of paces.
Jesus that was a big dog.
‘Uzi, fuckin’ cool it.’ The guy holding its lead gave a yank, and the massive Rottweiler stood for a second glaring at Logan, then settled onto its haunches. ‘Sorry ’bout that. He’s only a puppy. Gets excited.’ The man sniffed, wiped a bandaged hand across his squint nose, two fingers and a thumb poking out from the filthy fabric. His eyes were hidden in the shadow of a NYY baseball cap worn under a grey hoodie. A leather jacket on over the top, glistening in the rain.
‘Shuggie?’ Logan took a step forward, and Uzi growled. Might be a better idea to just stay exactly where he was. He dug his aching hand into his pocket. ‘Shuggie Webster?’
‘You gonna give us them drugs back, or what?’
‘Pin back your ears and listen: I’m – not – giving – you – any – drugs. OK? No drugs.’
The big man hung his head, chewed on the ragged tip of a finger. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his wrist, the metal shiny against the grubby bandage. ‘Fuck.’
‘What do you expect; I’m a police officer.’
‘You’ve got to. They’re gonna hurt Trisha again. They beat the shite out her mum, tra
shed the house … And what if they go after her kid?’
‘Come on, Shuggie: it’s over. You’re still under arrest from Thursday. Come down the station, make a statement, and we’ll get whoever’s threatening you off the streets.’
He raised his chin, and Logan finally got a look at his face: a black eye, a crust of blood around both nostrils, a beige sticking plaster across the bridge of his squint nose. ‘I’m no’ fuckin’ daft, OK? What’s gonna happen when you bang me up, eh? Fuckin’ eight-inch chib in the guts. No thank you.’ Shuggie Webster straightened up. ‘How’d you like it: some cunt comes round your crib, threatens your missus? Would you hand yourself in?’
‘Well, I’d—’
‘Would you fuck.’ He turned away from the fence. ‘Come on, Uzi.’
‘You’re still under arrest, Shuggie!’
He stuck up a pair of fingers. There was blood seeping through the bandage.
‘Shuggie!’ Logan pullefd out his pepper-spray and yanked the lid off. There was a hole in the fence, less than a dozen feet away. All he had to do was nip through and make the arrest.
Pepper-spray worked on dogs … didn’t it?
He watched the muscles bunch and roll beneath the Rottweiler’s shiny black hide.
Swallowed.
OK, it was all about appearing confident and in control of the situation.
Logan marched through the soggy grass to the hole in the fence, ducked through, and hurried after Shuggie. ‘I’m not telling you again: you’re under arrest.’
Confident and in control.
Shuggie stopped where he was. Turned. ‘Get fucked. Told you: I’m no’ goin’ nowhere.’
‘I’m serious, Shuggie. You’re coming with me.’
‘Oh aye?’ He smiled, showing a gap where a tooth used to be. Then he let go of the lead. ‘Uzi – BACON!’
The dog looked up at him, then followed the fine of the pointing finger to Logan. Bared his teeth.
‘Oh … bugger …’ Pepper-spray. He had the pepper-spray! Perfectly safe. Confident and in control. Confident and—
The dog lurched forward.
Sod ‘confident and in control’, Logan turned and ran.
Barking behind him, snarling, the sound of huge paws splashing through puddles.
Closer.
Make for the fence, get back through the hole and … No way in hell he could outrun a Rottweiler. He glanced over his shoulder.
Right behind him, mouth open, red and slavering, like the jaws of hell …
FUCK!
Logan jinked right, and Uzi flashed past, tried to turn – powerful back legs skidding across the waterlogged grass, sending up a wall of spray.
Jesus, the bloody thing was the size of a bear.
Tree! Logan jumped for the nearest one, wrapped his arms around a branch, hauled himself up. Or tried to. A sudden jerk back, knives slashing across his ankle, then a ripping sound as his trouser leg gave way. ‘AAAAAghhh …’
The ground slammed into his back, ripping the breath from his lungs; and then the huge dog was on top of him, teeth flashing inches from Logan’s face.
Fuck – he’d dropped the pepper-spray.
Shuggie’s voice cut through the snarls. ‘UZI – hold!’
A low growl.
The dog’s weight pushed Logan into the sodden grass, soaking through his jacket and shirt, cold and wet and oh God he was going to die …
Thunder boomed out across the slate-grey sky, but the Rottweiler didn’t even flinch, just stood there with his front paws on Logan’s chest, snarling, teeth bared. Its breath stank of rotting meat and bitter onion, drool spattering against Logan’s cheeks and forehead, slimy and warm compared to the rain.
A shape loomed in his peripheral vision. Shuggie, standing over the snarling dog, cradling the bandaged hand against his chest. ‘Hold real fuckin’ still, or he’ll rip your throat out.’
Logan flicked his eyes to the side and back again. The dog barked, teeth glinting, speckling his face with drool. ‘Gah … Call him off!’
‘Gonnae give us my drugs back now? Before them Yardie bastards hack my hands off with a machete?’
‘I’m … I can’t. I’m a police officer … I can’t. Now call the dog off!’
Sniff. ‘Nah, he can have you.’
Uzi barked again.
A drop of spittle landed in Logan’s eye. He flinched, blinked. ‘Fuck’s sake, Shuggie – I can’t!’ Voice high pitched and trembling.
The only sound was the rain, drumming down all around them.
‘Give us your car keys.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Uzi …’
Another roar of thunder, closer, almost overhead. The massive Rottweiler roared back. Teeth flashing in the thickening rain.
Oh Christing fuck …
Logan squealed.
‘Now give us your keys.’
He dug his fingers into his pocket and pulled the Vauxhall’s keys out. ‘Take them!’
Shuggie snatched them out of his hand.
‘Now call the bloody dog off!’
Shuggie turned and limped back towards the fence.
Logan tore his eyes away from the dog’s teeth, and watched him squeeze through the hole in the chainlink. He crossed the rutted track, climbed the grass verge, and onto Fairview Street.
The dog tilted its head to the side, nose all creased and wrinkled, black rubbery lips pulled back from those butcher-knife teeth.
Logan blinked the rain out of his eyes. ‘Please …’
The Vauxhall’s headlights snapped through the gloom, the roar of the engine audible for a second, before another peal of thunder drowned it out.
Another bark, front paws digging into Logan’s chest.
Hailstones battered down, stinging his hands and face, knocking blossom from the tree above, showering them with slow-motion pink.
Then the sound of a car door creaking open. ‘UZI! UZI!’
The huge dog froze, head swinging around to face the car, both ears pricked.
‘UZI! GET OVER HERE YOU DAFT BASTARD!’
It had one last snarl at Logan, then scraped its back paws through the muddy grass, before loping off.
Oh thank God …
Logan lay flat on his back, arms covering his head as he heard the Vauxhall’s door clunk shut again, then the engine faded away into the downpour as Shuggie drove off in Logan’s pool car.
How the hell was he going to explain this one?
24
‘About bloody time.’ Logan thumped his mug of coffee down as DC Rennie ambled in through the pub’s front door, paused just inside, looked around, then waved.
Idiot.
Logan pressed send on his phone – ‘SHUGGIE, I’M FUCKING WARNING YOU: BRING MY BLOODY CAR BACK!’
‘Morning, Sarge. Been swimming?’ Rennie’s pearl-white grin flashed out from his fake tan.
Logan stuffed his phone back in his pocket. ‘Are you really that desperate for a boot up the arse?’
‘OK … Not in a great mood then.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Got the car out front. You want a lift back to the station, or—’
‘Where is it?’
Frown. ‘Er … Out front. By the disabled spaces.’
Logan scrunched his eyes shut. Gritted his teeth. ‘Not your car, my bastarding car!’
A shuffle of feet. ‘You weren’t serious about that, were you?’
A young woman appeared at the table, clutching a pot of coffee. She smiled a train-track smile, light sparkling off her braces. ‘Would you like some more ice? Or a refill or something?’
Logan forced a smile. ‘No, I’m fine, just on our way.’ He reached down and unwrapped the soggy tea-towel from his left ankle. A few chunks of half-melted ice fell to the carpet. The skin was angry pink and swollen, four parallel dark-red lines burning and stinging where Uzi’s teeth had ripped through his trouser leg and slashed across the ankle. At least it
wasn’t bleeding any more.
He handed the towel over. ‘Thanks.’
Rennie watched until she disappeared through the door marked, ‘STAFF ONLY’. He ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. ‘Nice arse.’
‘I told you to run a bloody GPS trace!’
‘I thought you were joking. I mean, you know, why would you want a trace on your own car? How can you not know where your car is?’
‘Surrounded by idiots …’ Logan limped out of the front door, shoes squelching with every step, Rennie scurrying along behind.
‘What happened to your leg?’
It wasn’t difficult to spot the constable’s CID pool car outside the pub – it was the manky Vauxhall with the dashboard overflowing with burger wrappers and empty crisp packets. Hailstones battered off the dirty paintwork, making a little drift of white across the windscreen wipers.
Inside it smelled much the same as every other CID vehicle – that mix of stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and something going mouldy under one of the seats.
Rennie got in behind the wheel. ‘Where to?’
‘Make the sodding call.’
There was a brief pause, then the constable pulled out his Airwave handset and punched in the number for Control. ‘Yeah, Jimmy, I need a GPS trace on Charlie Delta Seven? … Er … no. He’s not answering his mobile … Or his Airwave.’ Rennie glanced over at Logan, clocked the glower, and faced front again. ‘Look just do us a GPS trace, OK? … What?’ The constable sat up straight in his seat. ‘No: Jimmy, don’t you bloody dare put him—’ A cough. ‘Chief Inspector Finnie, yeah, I was just … DS McRae? Er …’ Rennie stared at Logan, eyes bugging, mouth making a squiggly line across his face.
Logan mouthed, ‘No!’ waved both hands, palm out, shaking his head.
‘Hold on …’ Rennie held the handset out. ‘It’s for you.’
Bastard.
Logan took the Airwave. ‘Sir?’
‘Tell me, Detective Sergeant, did I accidentally give you the day off and forget all about it?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Then perhaps you’d like to explain why you’re not currently interviewing Frank Baker like I told you?’
Logan peered out through the hail-flecked windscreen. How the hell did Finnie know he wasn’t—
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 16