He hung up. Glowered at his phone for a beat, then jabbed the OFF button. Leave it on and shed 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 mums house, and when he woke up it was gone. She checked her notes. The car, not his mums 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. Ill go chase up that. . yes. And she was gone.
I know, I know, Im 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 shes like.
Samantha sighed. Logan McRae, youre 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 Puntos diesel engine coughed and rattled, struggling to haul the car up the hill. Im going to be a little late.
Pfff. . Ill forgive you this time.
Good. Ill even-
On one condition: you wash the dishes.
Whys it always my turn to wash the dishes?
Because youre 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.
Im not cheap, Im 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. Dont 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. Im not on till midnight.
Yeah, well I was supposed to be off at five, so I think Im winning the Who Gets To Whinge About Their Day game, dont 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 Gods sake.
Logan grimaced. You better not be in the toilet!
A long, suspicious-sounding pause. Im not in the toilet, Im. . 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 weve ever done for accepting stolen goods.
But its the middle of the-
I dont care if you have to drag them out of their beds: you get me that list. Or better yet, an arrest!
But Im-
And while were at it, whats happening with those hate crimes?
Its not. . I. . His voice broke into a full-on whine. What am I supposed to do? Im on night shift!
Rennie, youre. . Logan closed his mouth. Sagged a little in his seat as the Punto finally made it over the crest of the hill. It wasnt 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 ones talking. All the victims say they fell down the stairs and stuff. Even the guy with two broken ankles wont blab.
Still all Chinese?
Latest ones 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 mustve. . em. . flushed the washing machine?
The young woman in the nurses uniform scowled up at him, one hand on the door knob. I dont like this. Its late. You shouldnt 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, didnt he?
I dont 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 Logans nose. Im 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 didnt. Hes just arrived, Mr Mowat.
Well, dont 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, thats it.
She thumped it down on the coffee table and gave Logan another glare. Its late, and you need your sleep, Mr Mowat.
Wee Hamish smiled at her. Now you run along, and Ill 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 Tams little girl. Well, I say little. . Her hearts in the right place.
Logan took two crystal tumblers from the display case. Not Tam The Man Slessor?
I promised Id 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, theres 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. Heres tae us.
Logan clinked his tumbler against Wee Hamishs. Fas like us?
A sigh. Gie few. . and theyre 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. Cant 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?
Ive been thinking about it a lot. Well, one does, doesnt one: when times running out? Whats 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.
Dont get me wrong: Im not ashamed of the things Ive done, the things Ive 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 dont 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 its 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, Ive 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. Reubens been looking after our pharmaceutical arm. Like hes looking after many things. .
Silence.
Logan, you know I love Reuben like a son bless his violent little cotton socks but hes a foot soldier, a lieutenant. Hes not a leader. Another trembling sip. If I leave him in charge itll end in war.
Im not taking over. Logan put his glass down on the coffee table.
I know, I know. But if I cant trust Reuben to run things, what can I do? You dont want it, he cant handle it; do I sell up to Malcolm McLennan instead?