DS Chalmers scribbled something in her pad. Then looked up. ‘And Colombia too. I saw this documentary where the cartels would chain the guy up on an overpass, fill the tyre with petrol and light it. Everyone driving home would see them hanging there, burning, so they knew what would happen if they screwed with …’ She cleared her throat. ‘Why are you all staring at me?’
Isobel shook her head. ‘Anyway, I’ve—’
A car horn blared across the clearing.
She stared at the sky for a moment. Gritted her teeth. Tried again: ‘As I was saying, I’ve—’
Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
‘Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t get five minutes to myself, can I? Not even five minutes.’ She jabbed a finger in the direction of her Porsche four-by-four, took a deep trembling breath, and let rip. ‘SEAN JOSHUA MILLER-MACALLISTER, YOU STOP THAT THIS INSTANT!’
Silence.
A wee face peered over the dashboard, big eyes and dirty blond hair. Then a flashing grin.
Breeeep! Breep! Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
Isobel hauled off her gloves and hurled them onto the ground. ‘You see what happens? Do you? And will Ulrika get deported for it? Of course not: we’ll be lucky if she even gets a slap on the wrist.’ Isobel stomped off towards the car. ‘YOU’RE IN BIG TROUBLE, MISTER!’ Shedding the layers of SOC gear as she went.
DS Chalmers shuffled her feet. ‘Well, that was …?’
‘They caught the au pair nicking things.’ Logan pulled out his phone. ‘And consider yourself lucky – the last person who asked for a time of death? She made them help her take the victim’s temperature. And the thermometer doesn’t go in the front end.’
3
Midges bobbed and weaved in the glow of a SEB spotlight, shining like tiny blood-thirsty diamonds. In the middle distance, Tom Jones had given way to ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’. Logan stuck a finger in his ear and shifted a couple of paces further away from the grumbling diesel generators. ‘What? I can’t hear you.’
On the other end of the phone, DCI Steel got a notch louder. ‘I said, what makes you think it’s drugs?’
‘Might not be, but it looks like an execution. We’ll know more when we get an ID on the body: my money’s on a scheemie drug runner from Manchester or Birmingham.’
‘Sodding hell, that’s all I need: some flash bastard knocking off rival dealers like it’s a performance art.’ Silence. Then a plastic sooking sound. ‘No way I’m carrying the bucket on this one.’
‘Thought that was the point of being in charge of CID?’
‘Sometimes shite flows uphill, Laz, and this one’s got “Assistant Chief Constable’s Oversight” written all over it in black magic marker. Let him deal with the members of the press.’
The SEB tech who’d taken him to see the body shuffled into view, holding one corner of what looked like a crate wrapped in miles of thick blue plastic. It was big enough to take a kneeling man chained to a metal stake. She grimaced at him. ‘Budge over a bit, eh? This is bloody heavy …’
‘And by “members” I mean—’
‘Got to go, the Procurator Fiscal wants a word.’ Which was a lie – she’d left nearly half an hour ago.
‘Oh no you don’t: you’re no’ going nowhere till you tell me where we are with that bloody jewellery heist. You think you get to dump all your other cases just because you’ve got a juicy wee gangland execution on the cards?’
‘Investigations are ongoing, and—’
‘You’ve done sod all, haven’t you?’
‘I’ve been at a bloody murder scene!’
The SEB hauled their blue plastic parcel through the graveyard of burned-out cars, swearing and grunting all the way, feet kicking up a cloud of pale dust from the parched earth.
‘Well, whose fault is that? You’re a DI now: act like it! Park your arse behind your desk and organize things – send some other bugger off to play at the scene.’
Rotten, stinky, wrinkled, bastarding … ‘You’re the one who told me to come out here! I wasn’t even on duty, I was having my tea.’ He pulled the mobile from his ear and glared at it. Concentrate hard enough and her head would explode like an overripe pluke on the other end of the phone. BANG! Brains and wee bits of skull all over the walls.
‘Er … Guv?’ DS Chalmers tapped him on the shoulder, a frown pulling one side of her face down. ‘Are you OK? Only you’ve gone kinda purple …’
Logan gritted his teeth, put the phone back to his ear. ‘You and I are going to have words about this tomorrow.’
‘Sodding right we will. I’m no’—’
He hung up. Glowered at his phone for a beat, then jabbed the ‘OFF’ button. Leave it on and she’d just call back, again and again, until he finally snapped and murdered someone. Logan took a deep breath and hissed it out through his nose. ‘I swear to God …’
Chalmers held up her notebook, like a small shield. ‘We got chassis numbers off all the cars, and guess what: I found my Range Rover.’ Pause. ‘The Range Rover on the CCTV? The one that ram-raided the off-licence?’
‘What about the Golf?’
‘Reported stolen at half ten this morning. According to Control: the registered keeper says he drove down the Kintore chippy for his tea Friday evening, came back and parked outside his mum’s house, and when he woke up it was gone.’ She checked her notes. ‘The car, not his mum’s house.’
‘Go see him. Tell him sod all, just rattle his cage and see what flies out.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Chalmers wrote something in her notebook, then stashed it away in her jacket. ‘I was right about the Colombian drug cartel thing, by the way. Had a boyfriend who downloaded videos of them hanging there, on fire like they were these … horrible Christmas decorations. He always got really horny after watching them too.’ She wiped her hands down the front of her jacket, then rubbed the fingertips together, as if they were dirty. ‘I broke it off: way too creepy.’
Logan just stared at her.
‘Ah … Too much information from the new girl. Right.’ Chalmers backed away a couple of steps. ‘I’ll go chase up that … yes.’ And she was gone.
‘I know, I know, I’m sorry.’ Logan shifted the mobile from one side to the other, pinning it between his ear and his shoulder as he took the battered Fiat Punto around the Clinterty roundabout, heading back along the dual carriageway towards Aberdeen. ‘You know what she’s like.’
Samantha sighed. ‘Logan McRae, you’re not supposed to let her walk all over you any more. You know that. We talked about this.’
He changed gear and put his foot down. The Punto’s diesel engine coughed and rattled, struggling to haul the car up the hill. ‘I’m going to be a little late.’
‘Pfff … I’ll forgive you this time.’
‘Good. I’ll even—’
‘On one condition: you wash the dishes.’
‘Why’s it always my turn to wash the dishes?’
‘Because you’re too cheap to buy a dishwasher.’ There was a pause. ‘Or a decent car.’
A Toyota iQ wheeched past in the outside lane. One-litre engine, and it was still faster than the bloody Punto.
‘I’m not cheap, I’m just—’
‘“Prudent” is another way of saying “cheap”. Why I put up with you, I have no idea.’ But it sounded as if she was smiling as she said it. ‘Don’t be too late. And stand up for yourself next time!’
‘Promise.’ Logan hung up and fumbled with the buttons until the words ‘DS RENNIE’ appeared on the screen.
Ringing … Ringing … Ringing … Then, ‘Mmmph, nnnng …’ A yawn. A groan. ‘Time is it?’
Logan checked. ‘Just gone ten.’
‘Urgh …’ Scuffing noises. ‘I’m not on till midnight.’
‘Yeah, well I was supposed to be off at five, so I think I’m winning the “Who Gets To Whinge About Their Day” game, don’t you? Jewellery heist.’
‘Hold on …’
A clunk, followed by what sounded like someone pouring a bottle of lemonade into a half-filled bath. ‘Unnnng …’
For God’s sake.
Logan grimaced. ‘You better not be in the toilet!’
A long, suspicious-sounding pause. ‘I’m not in the toilet, I’m … in the kitchen … making a cup of tea.’
Disgusting little sod.
‘I want a list of suspects for that jewellery heist before you clock off, understand? Go round the pawnshops, the resetters, and every other scumbag we’ve ever done for accepting stolen goods.’
‘But it’s the middle of the—’
‘I don’t care if you have to drag them out of their beds: you get me that list. Or better yet, an arrest!’
‘But I’m—’
‘And while we’re at it, what’s happening with those hate crimes?’
‘It’s not … I …’ His voice broke into a full-on whine. ‘What am I supposed to do? I’m on night shift!’
‘Rennie, you’re …’ Logan closed his mouth. Sagged a little in his seat as the Punto finally made it over the crest of the hill. It wasn’t really fair, was it: passing on the bollocking, just because Steel had had a go at him? ‘Sorry. I know. Just … tell me where we are with it.’
‘No one’s talking. All the victims say they fell down the stairs and stuff. Even the guy with two broken ankles won’t blab.’
‘Still all Chinese?’
‘Latest one’s Korean. Makes it four Oriental males in the last month and a half.’
‘Well … do what you can.’
‘You heading back to the ranch?’
‘Going to see a man about a drugs war.’
‘Yeah.’ Another yawn. Then a whoosing gurgle. ‘Oops. I just … Emma must’ve … em … flushed the washing machine?’
The young woman in the nurse’s uniform scowled up at him, one hand on the door knob. ‘I don’t like this. It’s late. You shouldn’t be here.’ Her eyebrows met in the middle, drawing a thick dark line through her curdled-porridge face, as if trying to emphasize the razor-straight fringe of her bottle-blonde hair. Small, but wide with it, arms like Popeye on steroids. Hard. Shoulders brushing the tastefully striped wallpaper of the hallway.
Logan shrugged. ‘He said it was OK, didn’t he?’
‘I don’t like it.’ She swung the door open, then stood to the side, face puckered around two big green eyes. Her finger waved an inch from Logan’s nose. ‘I’m warning you: if you upset Mr Mowat …’
A thin, shaky voice came from inside: a mix of public school and Aberdonian brogue, rough as gravel. ‘Chloe, is that Logan?’
The waggling finger poked Logan in the chest, her voice a low growl. ‘Just watch it.’ Then she turned on a smile. It would have been nice to say it transformed her face, but it didn’t. ‘He’s just arrived, Mr Mowat.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there, show him in.’
The room must have been at least thirty foot long. A wall of glass looked out on a garden lurking in the darkness, the occasional bush and tree picked out by coloured spotlights. Wee Hamish Mowat nudged the joystick on the arm of his wheelchair and rolled across the huge Indian rug. His pale skin was mottled with liver spots and looked half a size too big for his skeletal frame, the hair on his head so fine that every inch of scalp was visible through the grey wisps. An IV drip was hooked onto the chair, the plastic tube disappearing into the back of his wrist. It wobbled as he reached out a trembling hand.
Logan took it and shook. It was hot, as if something burned deep beneath the skin. ‘Hamish, how have you been?’
‘Like a buggered dog. You?’
‘Getting there.’
A nod, setting the flaps of skin hanging under his chin rippling. Then he dug a handkerchief from the pocket of his grey cardigan and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Are you on duty, or will you take a wee dram?’ He pointed at a big glass display case, full of bottles. ‘Chloe, be a dear and fetch the Dalmore … No, the other one: the Astrum. Yes, that’s it.’
She thumped it down on the coffee table and gave Logan another glare. ‘It’s late, and you need your sleep, Mr Mowat.’
Wee Hamish smiled at her. ‘Now you run along, and I’ll call if I need you.’
‘But, Mr Mowat, I—’
‘Chloe.’ A glint of the old steel sharpened his voice. ‘I said, run along.’
She nodded. Sniffed at Logan. Then turned and lumbered from the room, thumping the door behind her.
Wee Hamish shook his head. ‘My cousin Tam’s little girl. Well, I say “little” … Her heart’s in the right place.’
Logan took two crystal tumblers from the display case. ‘Not Tam “The Man” Slessor?’
‘I promised I’d look after her when he was done for that container of counterfeit cigarettes.’ Wee Hamish fumbled with the top of the whisky bottle. ‘If you want water, there’s a bottle in the fridge.’
‘So how is Tam the Man doing these days?’
‘Not too good: we buried him a month ago.’ A sigh. ‘Look, can you get the top off this? My fingers …’
Logan did. ‘Do you know anything about the body we found out by Thainstone today?’ He poured out one generous measure and another small enough to drive after. Passed the huge one to Wee Hamish.
‘Thank you.’ He raised the glass, the dark-amber liquid shivering in time with his hand. ‘Here’s tae us.’
Logan clinked his tumbler against Wee Hamish’s. ‘Fa’s like us?’
A sigh. ‘Gie few … and they’re a’ deid.’ He took a sip. ‘Unidentified male, chained to a stake and, I believe the term is: “necklaced”.’
‘We think it might be drug-related.’
‘Hmm … What do you make of the whisky? Forty years old, nearly a grand and a half a bottle.’ A little smile pulled at the corner of his pale lips. ‘Can’t take it with you.’
Logan took a sip. Rolled it around his mouth until his gums went numb and everything tasted of cloves and nutmeg and burned toffee. ‘Is there another turf war kicking off?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Well, one does, doesn’t one: when time’s running out? What’s going to be my legacy? What am I going to leave behind when I go?’
‘We need this to stop before it gets even worse.’
‘Don’t get me wrong: I’m not ashamed of the things I’ve done, the things I’ve had other people do, but … I want … something. Got my lawyers to set up bursaries at Aberdeen University and RGU, helped people become doctors and nurses, sponsored vaccination programmes in the Third World, paid for wells to be drilled, mosquito nets for orphans … But I don’t feel any different.’
He sipped at his drink. Then frowned up at the ceiling. ‘Perhaps I should try a big public works project? Like Ian Wood and his Union Terrace Gardens thing, or the boy Trump and his golf course? Leave the city something to remember me by …’ A grin. ‘Other than the horror stories your colleagues tell.’
‘Do you know who did it? Can you find out? Because as soon as the media get hold of this it’s going to be all over the news and papers.’
Wee Hamish stared out into the dark expanse of garden. Or perhaps he was staring at his own reflection in the glass. Difficult to tell. ‘To be honest, Logan, I’ve rather let my attention waver on that side of the business. Once upon a time I knew the operation inside out, but … well, I get a lot more tired than I used to.’ A shrug, bony shoulders moving beneath the cardigan. ‘Reuben’s been looking after our pharmaceutical arm. Like he’s looking after many things …’
Silence.
‘Logan, you know I love Reuben like a son – bless his violent little cotton socks – but he’s a foot soldier, a lieutenant. He’s not a leader.’ Another trembling sip. ‘If I leave him in charge it’ll end in war.’
‘I’m not taking over.’ Logan put his glass down on the coffee table.
‘I know, I know. But if I can’t trust Reuben to run things, what can I do? You
don’t want it, he can’t handle it; do I sell up to Malcolm McLennan instead?’
‘Malk the Knife’s dangerous enough without handing him Aberdeen on a plate too. He’s already got everything south of Dundee.’
The wheelchair bleeped, then whined back a few feet, before spinning around to face Logan. Wee Hamish wasn’t smiling any more, instead a frown made hills and valleys in the pale skin of his forehead. ‘I shall endeavour to find out who is responsible for your burning victim. And don’t worry, if whoever did it is on my team, they’ll be getting a … disciplin-ary hearing. This isn’t the kind of legacy I want to leave behind.’
Outside, Logan’s fifth-hand Punto was bathed in the glow of a security light. A huge man leaned back against the bonnet, tree-trunk arms folded over a great barrel of a chest. His three-piece suit looked brand new – the waistcoat straining over that vast belly. Shiny black brogues. Face a patchwork of scar tissue and fat, knitted together with a greying beard. A nose that was barely there any more.
Logan nodded. ‘Reuben.’
No response.
OK … Logan took his keys out. ‘Thought you were more of an overalls and steel toecaps kind of guy.’
Reuben just stared at him. Then slowly hauled himself off the bonnet.
The Punto’s suspension rose about three inches.
Logan drew his shoulders back, brought up his chin. ‘Go on then, out with it.’
But Reuben just turned and lumbered off into the darkness, brogues scrunching on the gravel. Didn’t say a word.
Logan stood there until the huge man disappeared, then slid in behind the wheel. The world was full of bloody weirdoes.
The windows of the caravan next door glowed pale yellow in the darkness and Logan climbed out of the Punto, engine ticking and pinging in the silence. On the other side of the River Don, the lights of the big Tesco glittered through the trees.
A noise, behind him …
Logan spun around, hands balling into fists.
Nothing.
Grove Cemetery was a mass of silhouettes, reaching up the hill to the railway line and the dual carriageway at the top. The first three rows of headstones were just visible in the orange streetlight. Beyond their reach everything was black and silent. Just the faint rumble of late-night traffic working its way through the Haudagain roundabout.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 41