Logan didn't tell her there was nearly a foot of toilet paper sticking out of the back of her trousers.
There was no point just sitting there waiting for her, so he wandered outside for a cigarette. A clump of uniforms had gathered on the rear podium, laughing and drinking tea, so Logan went out the front instead, wandering down Queen Street, listening to the rumble of traffic, and the screech of seagulls.
He pulled out his cigarettes, but his fingers were so twitchy the damn things went everywhere. Half a packet, all over the pavement at his feet. No way he was smoking those now.
Stupid bloody habit anyway. Wasn't even as if he enjoyed it.
He carefully winkled the last remaining cigarette from the packet and stuck it in his mouth. Then reached into his jacket pocket for his lighter. He scritched the wheel, but nothing happened. Tried again. Gave the lighter a shake. This time sparks burst from the lighter's tip, tiny explosions, bright and painful, then there was flame.
Logan shivered.
Closed his eyes.
Listened to the thump and swirl of the blood in his veins.
Wrinkled his nose at a sudden, pissy smell.
'Are you no' needin' them then?'
Logan peered out at a dishevelled man: swollen nose, red eyes, bushy black beard; monk-tonsure bald patch; blue parka jacket with half the fur trim missing; trousers that had seen better days and some sort of curry, going by the stains; filthy grey trainers. Robert Danavell, AKA: Dirty Bob.
'What do you want, Bob?'
Karim's favourite tramp gave Logan a gap-toothed smile. 'Yer fags.' He pointed at the fallen cigarettes with a grimy finger. 'You no' needin' them oany mair?'
'Knock yourself out.'
'Ah, cheers min, yer a fine loon.' Dirty Bob creaked his way down to his knees. 'No' like that fat bugger yesterday. Tellin' me I'm stinkin' up his reception. Me! Wie ma best pal lyin' deid in the morgue…'
Logan watched him picking through the gutter. It wasn't much of a life, but at least Dirty Bob knew what mattered to him: drink, fags and the occasional half-eaten fish supper, or discarded kebab — whatever he could forage from the bins.
No life-or-death decisions. No moral or ethical dilemmas. No screaming heebie jeebies, just because some stupid song comes on the radio.
It probably said something about your life when you started envying people like Dirty Bob.
Bob was sitting on the pavement now, one of the windfall cigarettes clamped between his lips, patting round his pockets until he found a little book of matches. Lighting up with a sad little smile on his face. He looked up at Logan. 'Kin yeh spare oany money fer an aul mannie tae have a wee drink tae his best mate's memory?'
'Aul mannie? You're forty-two Bob, not seventy.'
Dirty Bob shrugged. 'Aye, but forty-two's a lot older in tramp years. Lookit poor Richard.' He sniffed and wiped a sleeve across his nose, leaving a clean-ish streak. 'Deid afore his time…'
Half past ten. Some of the pubs down on Regent Quay would have been open for hours, catering for the nightshift crowd and early morning drinkers. Tempting. Logan produced his wallet and dug out a fiver. Then changed his mind and made it a twenty instead. 'Here.'
Dirty Bob eyed it suspiciously. Then grinned and grabbed the note. 'Aye, that'll dae Richard proud.' He grunted his way upright, threw Logan a salute, then turned and hobbled away in his filthy trainers.
Twenty quid wouldn't make a dent in a seasoned alcoholic like Dirty Bob, not in a pub anyway. But it would probably buy a whole load of white spirit.
Logan ran a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble scritch. Maybe Bob had the right idea, burying his troubles in a bottle. Fuck the outside world. Make everything go away…
If nothing else it might get rid of his hangover.
Logan wandered out onto Union Street, across the road, and down Marischal Street towards the docks. The Regents Arms was a dingy little place, the windows covered with a thick layer of black paint, entombing the drinkers in dim, artificial light. After the brightness of a sunny morning it was like stepping into a tomb. A collection of apostrophes hung behind the bar — postcards, photographs, plastic ones stolen from shop signs, all there to make up for the missing one in the pub's name.
The place was almost empty. Two old men sat in the corner by the cigarette machine, nursing their pints. A haggard woman in a very short black skirt was hunched up on a bar stool, wrapped around an empty glass, a cigarette smouldering away in her hand. Skin pale as milk, blue veins visible in the depths of her cleavage. She looked up as Logan took a seat at the other end of the bar and smiled at him. At least she'd remembered to put her teeth in.
'Hey, sweetheart, you look lonely.'
'Not today, Carol.'
She squinted, then dug about in her handbag for a pair of scratched glasses. 'Aw fuck.' She raised her voice. 'It's the pigs!' The two old men didn't seem to care, so she waved her cigarette at Logan, and a flurry of ash fell across the bar. 'What, you going to arrest me for smoking a fag? Eh? Not got anything better to do?'
He shrugged. 'Carol, I couldn't give a fuck if you want to shoot-up right here. Be my guest.'
A pot-bellied barman poked his head out from the back room. 'What's all the…' He looked at Logan, shifted from foot to foot, then turned on the ageing prostitute. 'You can't smoke in here, it's against the law.'
She looked daggers at Logan, then dropped the cigarette into her empty glass, swirling the thing around until it fizzled out in the residue of dying ice cubes. 'Happy now? Bloody fascists.'
Logan pointed at the taps. 'Pint of Stella, large Grouse.'
The barman stared at him for a moment. 'Yes, Officer.' He poured the pint of lager, then stuck two measures of blended whisky in a tumbler. Paused, then added a third. He put the lot down in front of Logan. 'On the house.'
Logan put his hand out and touched the pint glass, cold beneath his fingertips, beads of condensation running down to soak into a curling beer mat. God he was thirsty… The last time he'd been in here, as soon as they realized he was a policeman, someone had offered to take his head off with a pool cue. And now, all of a sudden, they were handing out free drinks.
'I appreciate the offer,' he pulled out his wallet and put two fivers on the bar, 'but I'd rather pay.' Logan picked up the whisky. It wasn't even eleven yet, on his first morning back at work, and he was about to get hammered.
The glass trembled as he brought it up to his lips.
A police officer, drinking whisky in the morning. Way to go. Way to be a fucking stereotype. Detective Sergeant Cliche.
The shaking was getting worse. He steadied the glass with his other hand.
Closed his eyes.
Tried not to think about fire, and tearing concrete, and blistering paint.
Logan slammed the glass down and bolted for the toilets, barging through the door and into the eye-stinging reek of stale urine. He grabbed the edge of the sink and vomited, spattering the cigarette-burnt porcelain until he was empty. Then stood there, shivering.
He spat, cranked open the cold tap, and washed his mouth out, leaving the water running until all the chunks were gone.
Logan pulled out his phone, found the number he wanted from the memory, and made the call. Goulding's mousey assistant ushered Logan into the psychologist's lair, told him the doctor would be there in a minute, and asked if he'd like a cup of tea.
Milk, three sugars.
It was shudderingly sweet when it arrived, but at least it took away the taste of bile. Besides, it was what you were supposed to drink when you'd had a shock. Hot, sweet tea: that good old-fashioned British spirit of the blitz. Bollocks.
He looked around the office.
This was a stupid idea. Just the latest in a long list of stupid ideas.
Shouldn't even be here.
Logan stuck his empty mug on the glass and chrome coffee table, and stood. Sod this. He didn't need any help. He'd-
The door opened and Dr Goulding bounced into the room. A Liverpudlian Tigger
in an ugly tie. 'Sergeant McRae, Logan, great you could come. Just working on the new profile, could really use your help.' He stuck out his hand. 'How you been?'
Logan coughed. 'I… can't stay too long, you know, operational stuff. Just came to… see how you were getting on.'
'Right, yes, take a pew.' The psychologist marched over to his scribble-covered whiteboard and launched into a presentation on his new Oedipus theories, now that Ricky Gilchrist was out of the picture. Goulding was so enthusiastic, Logan didn't have the heart to tell him it was all wrong. Oedipus was Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko, and had been all along. OK, so Logan had no idea why a thug in the pay of Warsaw gangsters would want to torture and mutilate Polish shopkeepers, but it couldn't be anyone else — it would be too much of a coincidence if it was.
Goulding got to the end of his presentation, paused as if he was expecting applause, then settled into the couch's matching black leather armchair. 'I spoke to the Procurator Fiscal this morning: we're releasing Gilchrist on licence, Friday. I've asked for a supervision order, make sure he attends outpatient counselling, but…' Shrug. 'Of course, that's not really why you came here, is it?'
'What? Of course it-'
'There's nothing wrong with asking for help, Logan. Especially after everything you've been through.'
'I don't need help. I'm fine.'
The psychologist sat back, made a little wigwam out of his fingers, tilted his head to one side, then said, 'You don't trust me. That's OK, I understand, a lot of people are scared of therapy-'
'I'm not scared, and I don't need-'
'-they're not comfortable opening up to someone they don't know. It's not easy to take that first step, so why don't we meet half way?' Goulding inched his chair closer to Logan. 'You'll admit that you're having trouble sleeping?'
No point denying it: he looked like crap and he knew it. 'So?'
'I'm going to prescribe you a mild sedative to help you sleep. It's OK, nothing to worry about, just Zopliclone. Take one pill, two hours before you go to bed, and steer clear of booze. They won't knock you out, but they will help you get some rest. You'll feel a lot better.'
'I don't want sleeping pills.'
'And I'll give you some breathing exercises to help with any anxiety, or mood swings.' Goulding reached over to his desk and picked up a BlackBerry, tapping at the screen. 'We should set up a regular appointment… How's Thursday mornings for you?'
'Are you deaf? I said no!'
Goulding popped the top back on his pen. 'Logan, we both know that if you weren't ready for this, you wouldn't have come here.' The psychologist gave a big, theatrical shrug. 'Of course, if you're happy the way you are? Feeling the way you do?' Lunch was a microwaved mushroom risotto that tasted like rice pudding with sliced slugs in it. A factory-produced ready-meal manufactured by someone with a serious grudge against the world. Logan pushed sticky grains of rice around the plastic carton, not even bothering to tip the congealed sludge out onto a plate. It would just mean more washing up anyway.
The flat was a tip, a mess of paint pots and brushes, dust sheets and bits of unidentifiable DIY crap. He'd cleared a spot in the kitchen, just enough room for his microwaved yuck and the pills he'd got from the chemist's on the way home.
Logan stared at the packet of sleeping tablets. Read the list of possible side effects: confusion, hallucinations, memory loss, breathing problems. Might not be so bad. Take the whole lot at once and wash them down with the bottle of vodka he'd picked up from the supermarket…
He got up and dropped his lunch in the bin.
Then got the vodka out of the freezer.
57
'Where the hell have you been? And before you say anything, "hell" doesn't count, remember?' DI Steel had appeared at Logan's side like the shopkeeper from Mr Ben. One minute: nothing. The next: there she was in the CID office, standing right next to him. As if by magic. She wrinkled her nose. 'Why do you smell like an auld wifie's drawers?'
Logan crunched his way through another menthol sweet. 'I've got a cold.' He blew his nose for added effect. 'IB were looking for you. They say your Sperminator boy's got full-blown AIDS, so probably best if Susan keeps her panties on. You know… for sliding down banisters.'
Steel poked him in the shoulder, leaning in to engulf him in a haze of Chanel № 5. 'You been drinking?'
He shrugged. 'Got a lot of paperwork to do.'
'You have, haven't you? You're pished as a-'
BOOM, the door flew open and Finnie marched in, flanked by DS Pirie on one side and PC Karim on the other. Finnie paused dramatically, then flung a hand in Steel's direction. 'Ah, Inspector, how kind of you to join us.'
She hauled her trousers up and scowled. 'I've been busy.'
'Oh, have you? Tell you what, do you think you could possibly spare fifteen minutes from your hectic social schedule to attend the strategy meeting I invited you to?'
'Are you-'
'The meeting about trying to avert a drugs war? Or is that not important enough for someone of your calibre to bother with?'
Her chin came up, dragging her droopy neck with it. 'Five minutes.'
Finnie gave a small bow. 'I know we'll all be thrilled to see you.' And then he turned to Logan. 'I'm glad to see you're back, Sergeant. Hopefully it won't be too long before you're fit for proper duties.' Then he turned and marched off, calling over his shoulder, 'Five minutes, Inspector.'
DI Steel said something that cost her three pounds fifty. Twenty minutes later, she was in her office, grinding her teeth and smoking one of Logan's cigarettes. 'Pompous, sarcastic… flipping… sod.'
Logan stood at the window, watching the sunshine glinting off cars and buses out on Broad Street. The lunchtime vodka buzz was beginning to fade, leaving him tired and headachy. Thirsty too.
'You know,' said Steel, flicking ash onto the stained carpet, 'I hope to God you're right, and that rubber-faced-fffff… That he's bent. I really do. Be a sodding pleasure to help him fall down some stairs.'
'You want something from the canteen? Tea, coffee?'
'And you: coming to work pished, what the hell were you thinking?'
'You ever dealt with Wee Hamish Mowat?'
She sniffed, then hauled her feet up onto her desk. 'We've been after the wrinkly old git for as long as I can remember.'
'So how come there's nothing in the files?'
'Because we've no' caught him for anything. Ever. And we're no' allowed to keep rumour and innuendo on file, coz of the bloody Data Protection Act.' She held up a hand and counted the points off on nicotine-stained fingers. 'We know he's behind half the crap goes down in Aberdeen, but we can't prove it. No one'll stand up against him in court, and anyone daft enough to try is never seen again. He's got that pig farm out by Rhynie — we've no' found a single body. We've got sod-all on him.'
'Oh…'
'Everyone thinks Aberdeen was crime-free before the oil money hit, just a peaceful wee city of shiny streets and happy people. Rubbish: Wee Hamish's grandad was into protection and loan-sharking when Queen Victoria was on the throne. They called him "Big Hamish". His son, "Hamish Junior", expanded into smuggling and prostitution.'
She stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and had a scratch at her armpit. 'Anyway, when his dad dies, Wee Hamish inherits two generations worth of criminal empire. Then the oil comes and suddenly everyone's flush with cash. Wee Hamish goes global. And we can't bloody touch him.'
'Surely after all this time someone would've caught him for something.'
'Nah: Bain's been after Wee Hamish Mowat for as long as I can remember. The guy who ran CID before him was at it for fifteen years. And the guy before him, and the guy before him too. There's this bottle of thirty-year-old Knockdhu sitting up in the Chief Constable's office for whoever gets Mowat. Closest anyone's come was Basher Brooks in 1975: Post Office job. Only witness vanished and the Fiscal dropped the case. No evidence.'
Logan knew what that meant: 'Pig farm.'
'Aye, pig farm.' She
blew a long stream of smoke across the desk. 'Now bugger off home before anyone notices you're three sheets to the sodding wind!'
Logan shrugged and hauled himself upright. He stifled a yawn, then scrubbed his hands across his face. 'You want me to come round tonight?'
'After yesterday's performance? No I sodding don't.'
No skin off Logan's nose. He grabbed his jacket and made for the door. There was half a bottle of vodka waiting for him back at the flat.
Steel shouted after him: 'Oy! If you do get anything on Wee Hamish, I want in on it. Might even split the whisky with you.'
58
Someone said, 'Wake up!'
Logan broke free from the bed, arms and legs thrashing the duvet aside, then thump, he was lying in a heap on the floor. His own bedroom. His own flat. Not a pile of rubble in Poland.
'Jesus, you're drenched…' Samantha sank down on the floor next to him and ran a hand down his chest, sending beads of sweat trickling away through the assault course of scars.
He dragged in a shuddering breath. 'Fuck…'
'You were screaming.'
'Oh God…'
She let her finger drift further down, tracing the little knots of scar tissue. Echoes of the knife.
Logan grabbed her hand. 'Don't, OK? Please, just… don't.'
Samantha's voice was small in the darkness. 'I'm not a freak.'
Here we go.
Logan groaned. 'Can we not do this now?'
'I thought you'd understand… when I… when I let you feel my scars.' There was a long pause, and he felt her stand then settle on the edge of the mattress. 'I started when I was twelve — cutting myself. Never anywhere anyone would see, but… Don't know why; just seemed to make sense at the time.'
Logan looked at her, bathed in the faint green glow of the clock radio. A little after three in the morning.
Samantha sniffed, tying her fingers in knots. 'Wasn't like my parents were beating me or anything, it just… I don't know. They left these shiny marks on my skin. Do you know what I mean?'
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