Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  Bit of a change from the old place.

  Logan sniffed. The betting shop smelled of lemon air freshener instead of stale cigarettes, and the roof wasn’t the colour of a smoker’s lung. ‘I liked it better when the floor was all sticky.’

  Reuben lumbered up to the counter and slammed one big hand down in front of cashier number three.

  She flinched. Recoiled back in her seat, then took a breath and straightened up and plastered a smile on her face. ‘Welcome to the Turf ’n Track, Aberdeen’s premier venue for—’

  ‘Tell Creepy he’s got visitors.’

  The smile slipped a bit. ‘Creepy …?’

  ‘Colin McLeod. Or his brother the gimp, don’t care. But you get him out here before I start sticking your punters through your fancy TVs, understand?’

  She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. Then leaned over to one side, obviously trying to make it look natural as she reached underneath the counter and jabbed at something. ‘Please, sir, there’s no—’

  ‘Think I can’t see you fingering the panic button?’

  A blush crept across her cheeks, strong enough to bleed through the heavy layers of foundation. ‘It’s my first day. I didn’t … Please don’t hurt me?’

  The door behind the counter marked ‘Staff Only’ opened and a man stepped into the room: broad-shouldered with a puddingy face, a chunk of ear missing one side, a pair of black wraparound shades hiding his eyes. He jerked his chin up. ‘There a problem, Naomi?’

  ‘It’s not my fault, Mr McLeod, he came in and he’s threatening people and it’s my first day and I didn’t—’

  ‘All right. You go for a wee cup of tea. I’ll deal with it.’

  Reuben took a step back and cricked his head to one side. ‘Well, well, well: look who the dogs dragged in.’

  Simon McLeod rolled his shoulders, hands flexing in and out of fists. ‘Reuben. Who let you off your leash?’

  ‘You and me got a problem.’

  Naomi squeezed past her employer and out through the back door.

  Simon McLeod smiled. ‘Think I give a—’

  ‘Oh, you better, ’cos if you don’t—’

  ‘Actually,’ Logan stepped up to the counter, ‘we need to talk about certain … horticultural activities.’

  The wraparound sunglasses turned in Logan’s direction. Simon McLeod’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘I’d show you my warrant card, but there’s not much point, is there?’

  A smile crawled its way across his face. ‘Jessica, Fiona: Let the gentlemen through, then tell the punters we’re shutting for an hour – fire drill. Then make yourselves scarce. Got some business to attend to.’

  Simon McLeod’s office was huge – the desk, coffee table and a pair of leather sofas spread out as if they didn’t want anything to do with one another. Leaving plenty of room to walk between them without bumping into anything.

  The magnolia walls were bare except for a Rottweiler’s head mounted on a wooden plaque behind the desk, its fur patchy and singed. One ear missing, a bit like the office’s owner. The name ‘KILLER’ was picked out in brass beneath it.

  Simon McLeod settled into the chair behind the desk and folded his arms across his chest. ‘So … What? You turn up with one of your bent cops and I’m supposed to be scared?’

  Reuben cracked his knuckles. ‘Had half a brain, you’d be terrified.’

  ‘Really?’ Simon took off his wraparound sunglasses. There was nothing underneath, just deep flesh-coloured dents where the eyes should have been. Even the eyelids were gone, leaving a network of twisted scars. ‘You think anything you could do can scare me?’

  Silence.

  So what now?

  Logan sat on the couch nearest the wall. It creaked and squeaked under him – probably to make sure Simon would know exactly where he was.

  Bloody Wee Hamish Bloody Mowat: I have faith in you, Logan. It’s in the common good, Logan. You don’t want a drug war, do you, Logan?

  How the hell was he supposed to negotiate a peace treaty between rival drug cartels? Buy them tea and biscuits and ask them to play nice? He cleared his throat. ‘This isn’t a shakedown, I’m not a bent cop, and if we can come to an agreement it doesn’t have to go any further.’ Yeah, this was definitely a career high.

  A smile crawled across Simon McLeod’s face. ‘Oh sure, because I’m going to say loads of incriminating things with you in the room. Anything in particular you want me to confess to while you’re here? Kidnapping Shergar? Killing Lord Lucan? You’ve not caught Bible John yet, maybe that was me too? Course, I was only two at the time, but I’ve always been precocious.’

  Logan stood and the couch creaked again. He shook his head at Reuben. ‘Told you this was a waste of time. Go home and tell Wee Hamish, Simon McLeod isn’t interested in a peaceful solution.’

  Simon raised an eyebrow, tugging the scar tissue around his hollow eyes into new shapes. ‘Wee Hamish? This isn’t just Reuben acting the dick, throwing his weight around?’

  ‘Who you calling a dick, you blind sack of—’

  ‘Hoy!’ Logan held up a hand. ‘You’re supposed to be facilitating, not making things worse.’

  Reuben’s shoulders went back and he stepped forward, his fists up. Then stopped, took a breath, and settled against the wall again.

  Better.

  Logan pointed at Simon, even though there was no way he could see it. ‘Let’s say, hypothetically, you’ve been going around battering the living hell out of Oriental gentlemen with a claw-hammer. Your brother Colin’s handy with a hammer, isn’t he?’

  Of course he was. Knees a speciality. People crippled while you wait.

  Simon smiled. ‘Those days are behind us, officer. Businessmen of our standing in the community would never get involved in anything like that.’

  ‘Now suppose this was the opening salvo in a drugs war. Wee Hamish wouldn’t like that. He’d think it was bad for Aberdeen. He’d think you should come to an agreement with your rivals that doesn’t end up with any more injuries or deaths.’

  ‘And if we didn’t? Hypothetically.’

  Reuben’s voice was a dark rumble. ‘You end your days as wee dollops of pig shite.’

  The smile slid away from Simon’s face. ‘Well, you can tell Wee Hamish there’s sod all we can do about it: no one knows who the other side is. That’s why we’re … That’s why a local businessman might be interviewing your Oriental gentlemen.’

  ‘You don’t know who the new boys are?’

  ‘Think they’d still be stealing from me if I did?’ A shrug. ‘Supposing I had anything these people wanted to steal. Hypothetically.’

  Reuben folded his arms across his broad chest. ‘Lucky for you I’m here then, ain’t it? Got someone outside who knows.’

  42

  Reuben backed the battered Transit van into the loading bay behind the Turf ’n Track, stopping just shy of the breezeblock loading platform. He hopped down from the driver’s side, lumbered around the back, then hauled open the rear doors.

  Mr Fisher lay on his side, wriggling deeper into the Transit, feet scuffing on the plastic sheet. His whole body trembled, muffled sobs coming from beneath the blood-stained pillowcase.

  Reuben reached inside and dragged him forward again. Hauled him upright. Then slammed a huge fist into his guts. ‘Right, Mr Fisher. Here’s how this works: you tell us everything, and you get off with a kicking. I think you’re not cooperating, I start breaking things. I think you’re lying to me, I carve you up like a chicken and feed you to the pigs one wee bit at a time. They eat everything: hair, skin, bone.’

  He whipped off the pillowcase.

  What the bloody hell was he playing at? Soon as Fisher saw their faces there was no way Reuben would let him live. Stupid fat sod: what was Logan supposed to do, stand back and let it happen?

  Only Mr Fisher couldn’t see a damn thing. Three strips of duct
tape covered his eyes: one horizontal, two vertical, as if they were targets. Another strip covered his mouth. His black hair was long on one side and shaved on the other, a hollow tube stretching out his left earlobe, three silver hoops above it … Anthony Chung’s friend: the one who worked in the bar. The one who tried to fight for Agnes Garfield’s honour, and got kneed in the balls for his pains.

  Reuben grabbed one corner of the gag and ripped it off, taking the stud in Dan Fisher’s bottom lip with it.

  ‘Aaaaagh … Bastard …’ Blood dribbled down his chin.

  Dan Fisher. Friend of Anthony Chung. Anthony who always had the best cannabis.

  At least now it was obvious where he’d got it from.

  Reuben hammered another fist into Fisher’s stomach. Then stood back and waited until he’d stopped retching. ‘Your starter for ten is: who’s stealing weed from the McLeod brothers?’

  A long string of spittle wobbled from his bleeding bottom lip. ‘Oh God …’

  Reuben sucked in a breath, then shook his head. ‘Wrong answer.’ A Stanley knife blade clicked out, then snicked through the cable-ties holding Dan Fisher’s ankles together. Then he dragged one foot out until it was just hanging over the Transit’s rear bumper.

  ‘PLEASE! I DON’T—’

  The van rocked as Reuben slammed all his weight down on Fisher’s ankle. A muffled pop. And Fisher’s foot didn’t face the front any more.

  Two seconds later the screaming started. Reuben gave him a count of three, then shut him up with another fist to the guts.

  Logan grabbed his arm – it was solid, like a telegraph pole. ‘That’s enough.’

  ‘Nah, we’re just getting started.’ He grabbed Fisher’s other foot. ‘Try that again, shall we? Same question.’

  Fisher moaned and sobbed, snot shining on his top lip. ‘Please … I just sell it on, I don’t know who—’

  The van rocked again and the other ankle made the same muffled popping noise.

  ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH …’

  Reuben wiped his hands down the front of his boilersuit, then smiled at Logan. ‘Not very bright, is he?’

  ‘God sake …’ Logan pushed past him and climbed up into the back of the van.

  Fisher was back on his side, folding his knees up to his chest then out again – like a broken accordion. Mouth open in a silent scream.

  Logan took hold of his shoulders and pinned him to the plastic sheeting, holding him still. Then leaned in until his mouth was an inch from Fisher’s collection of earrings, and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Listen up, you daft bastard: they’re not kidding. This isn’t the TV, there’s no last-minute rescue coming. They’re going to kill you if you don’t tell them who’s stealing their drugs.’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know …’ A massive shuddering breath.

  ‘You’re going to die, do you get that? And it won’t be quick. This’ll be a happy memory for you by the time they’ve finished!’

  ‘Please … It hurts …’

  ‘That was just the warm-up, wait till he gets into his stride. Now who’s stealing their bloody cannabis?’

  Fisher’s bottom lip trembled. ‘It … Ton. It was Ton. Anthony Chung.’

  Of course it was.

  ‘You were Anthony Chung’s best friend: everyone knows he always had loads of cannabis. You were selling it for him, weren’t you? Passing it out through the bar. Even after he beat the crap out of you?’

  ‘It was … I didn’t have any choice.’ Sweat sparkled on Fisher’s face. ‘Please, please, you’ve got to help me …’

  ‘Who was he working with?’

  Reuben’s voice boomed out from the loading dock behind them. ‘If you’re gonnae bum him, get on with it so I can start on his kneecaps.’

  ‘Will you shut up for two minutes?’ Then back to Fisher. ‘Who was Anthony working with, Dan? Who’s in charge now he’s dead?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t—’

  Logan took hold of Fisher’s pierced ear and twisted.

  ‘Aaaaaagh!’

  ‘Do you want to end up carved into little pieces?’

  The words came out riding on a wave of jagged sobs. ‘I only dealt with Ton! He said … he said he knew someone who worked for these cannabis farms, and he could find out where they were, and all I did was sell it on, I never stole it, I swear on my mother’s grave, I don’t know …’

  Reuben slammed the Transit van’s back doors closed, shutting out the sound of Dan Fisher’s sobs.

  Simon McLeod slipped the wraparound sunglasses back over the holes where his eyes used to be. ‘Come on then: who is it, and where do I find him?’ A little smile escaped, then was quickly killed again. ‘So I can meet up with him and sort this out nice and peaceful, like Wee Hamish wants.’

  Aye, right.

  Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘He’s in the mortuary. He screwed his girlfriend over once too often and she staked him out on a kitchen floor, stabbed him three hundred and sixty-five times, then strangled him.’

  Simon McLeod’s eyebrows lowered a fraction of an inch. ‘Hmm …’

  ‘What?’

  A sniff. ‘Sounds like my kind of girl. But I still want the bastard’s name.’

  ‘So you can go after his family? No chance. They had nothing to do with this. The guy who stole your cannabis got himself tortured to death, and you didn’t have to lift a finger.’ Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Wee Hamish wants you to stop the beatings. Not like they’re doing you any good, is it? All that and you still didn’t find out who was stealing from you.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘That’s what happens when you ask the wrong people the right question. Hypothetically speaking.’

  ‘No more beatings.’

  A cloud of pale-blue exhaust growled out of the Transit’s exhaust.

  ‘Imagine there’s a businessman who’s invested a large sum of money to set up a number of indoor growing facilities and bringing over the specialists to manage them. Now imagine someone else comes along and steals from those farms. And that some of the businessman’s key … horticultural staff are missing. If you were that businessman, wouldn’t you think the gardeners were involved? Wouldn’t you encourage them to keep their farms more secure?’

  The Transit lurched forward a couple of feet, then stopped, engine still running.

  ‘You weren’t crippling the opposition, you were punishing your own people for being stolen from?’

  ‘Call it a claw-hammer incentive scheme. Like the one your wee friend in there’s going to join soon as he gets out of hospital. Well, unless Reuben feeds him to the pigs first.’

  Logan turned. ‘No one’s getting fed to the pigs! And they’re not getting their kneecaps pulped either. Fisher’s done: his only contact was the guy who got killed, he doesn’t know anything else. He gets a free pass.’

  ‘No one steals from me.’

  ‘He gets – a free – pass.’

  The Transit van’s horn blared.

  ‘I’m serious, Simon. I find out something’s happened to him, or the dead guy’s family, and I come after you and your brother. And I ask Wee Hamish to do the same.’

  A large hand thumped down on Logan’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Trust me when I say: if you ever threaten me or mine again, I’ll have you skinned alive. Understand? For Wee Hamish’s sake, I’ll leave the boy. But see if I get to the man in charge before you do? All bets are off.’

  The Transit van rocked as Reuben ground his way through the gears. He pinned his mobile between his little round ear and his huge rounded shoulder. ‘Yeah … No, don’t think so … Hold on.’ He held the phone out to Logan. ‘Mr Mowat wants a word.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Logan, I hear it went well. Did you sort everything out with the McLeods?’

  ‘Simon says he wants to make peace, but you know what will happen if he gets his hands on whoever’s running the rival operation.’

>   ‘They’re primitive people, Logan. They believe in Old Testament vengeance. But Reuben tells me you know who’s stealing the McLeods’ cannabis?’

  ‘I know who was stealing it. He’s dead.’

  Reuben stuck his foot down and the Transit lumbered across the lights on Westburn Drive. ‘Lucky. Means Creepy can’t get hold of him.’

  ‘He was tortured to death by his girlfriend.’

  ‘Really? Now that is fascinating. And you’re sure it was his girlfriend?’

  The lumpy concrete bulk of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary loomed above the surrounding buildings.

  ‘Who else would it be?’

  ‘Ask Reuben.’ A pause. ‘Now, would you do me a favour and put me on speakerphone?’

  Logan frowned at the mobile’s shiny interface, then pressed the bit on the screen that looked like a loudhailer.

  Wee Hamish’s voice crackled out of the speaker, only just audible over the Transit’s diesel drone. ‘You know, it does my old heart proud to see the pair of you working together. Logan and Reuben: a team, looking after my city. It gives me a lot of comfort to know it’ll be in good hands when I’m gone. Thank you both.’ Then Wee Hamish hung up.

  Logan passed the phone back. ‘He said to ask you who else would’ve tortured Anthony Chung to death.’

  ‘Did he now …’ Reuben took them right onto Westburn Road – next stop Accident and Emergency.

  ‘What happened to making Wee Hamish proud?’

  A grunt. ‘Think you’re getting off that lightly? You and me: we’re not finished by a long shot.’

  Brilliant. So much for bonding over a job well done. Well, half done. Kind of.

  Maybe Samantha was right? Maybe the only way Reuben was ever going to go away and leave him alone was at the bottom of a shallow grave? Or banged up for a twenty stint in Barlinnie? Slightly more difficult to arrange, but at least no one would have to die. Who hadn’t died already …

  ‘Who tortured Anthony Chung?’

  A smile twisted its way through Reuben’s scars. ‘Word is, the new kids on the block got themselves an enforcer who’s a card-carrying psycho. Gets off on maximum pain.’