Logan stood where he was as the taxi drove past him.
David was in full flood now, face screwed up, back heaving. But his sister stared out of the window, her eyes locked on Logans. Face dead and expressionless.
And then they were gone. Down to the bottom of Marischal Street and left, disappearing onto Regent Quay.
Graham Stirling ruined more than Stephen Bissets life, he screwed up Bissets kids too. Screwed them up so much they might never get past the sight of their father lying on his back in the High Dependency Unit with tubes and wires hooking him up to machines and drips and bags.
Four months and hed barely moved. Hadnt said a word. Just lay there.
A small shiver danced across the back of Logans neck.
Four months as a stump of a man, waiting for death. And Logan couldnt even put the bastard whod done it behind bars.
David Bisset had been right to have a go at him.
He deserved it.
Logans seat rattled as the big diesel engine changed down to climb the hill. Outside the windows, granite tenements shone in the afternoon light. Trees glowed green and gold. Roses made frozen scarlet fireworks in gardens.
He dug into his carrier bag and pulled out the first tin of beer. Still cold from the chiller cabinet. Little beads of condensation prickling on the metal surface. He clicked the tab, took a deep swig. Ground his teeth together and swallowed. Bitter. Which fitted perfectly.
The number 35 was nearly empty. A couple of oldies sat up front near the driver. Neither of them talking him buried in his newspaper, her staring out of the window. Leaving Logan with most of the bus to himself.
Another swig.
Bloody Sandy Moir-Bloody-Farquharson.
What the hell was he supposed to do: let Stephen Bisset die?
He took his peaked cap off the seat next to him and stuffed it in the carrier bag. Followed it up with the epaulettes off his T-shirt. OK, so the sleeves still had POLICE embroidered on them, but rolling them up a couple of turns hid that. Now he was just another skinhead, dressed in black, drinking cheap beer at the back of a bus. Glowering out at the city as the driver took them through Berryden, past Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, through Bucksburn, Dyce, then out into the countryside.
Tin number two died in his hands. He crushed the empty and dumped it in the bag.
Fields and sheep and cattle slid by outside the windows. Green land, blue sky, and happy little fluffy sodding clouds.
Shouldve been raining. Shouldve been hammering it down from a slate-grey sky, wind battering the bus and whipping the trees.
Logans phone went again. Not the Imperial March for a change: unrecognized number.
His thumb hovered over the button. Pressed it. Hello?
Steels voice bellowed into his ear. How could you possibly screw this up? Simple, open-and-shut case. What the hells wrong with you?
It wasnt my-
Do you have any idea what the Big Brass are doing right now? Theyre getting a dirty big stake sharpened, so they can ram it up my backside and roast me on an open fire!
I didnt-
All the man-hours we put into that investigation and its ruined!
Theres still the DNA evidence. Itll-
YOU TOOK STIRLING TO THE BLOODY CRIME SCENE! Silence. She was probably counting to ten. Then she was back, sounding as if shed dropped something heavy on her foot. Hissing Sids screaming cross-contamination. Never mind sending the bastard down, well be lucky if we get out of this without Graham Stirling suing our arses off! Its-
Logan hung up.
Three seconds later, his phone started ringing again. Then the Airwave handset joined in.
He turned them both off. Rammed them deep into his fleece pockets.
Opened another tin of beer.
So much for celebrating.
14
The sound of happy-clappy piano and guitars dragged Logan up from the depths, hurling him into Wednesday morning.
And weve got more smashing hits of the Eighties after the news and weather with Bernie.
He slumped back on the bed, one hand over his eyes while the other fumbled for the alarm-clock radio.
Thanks, Clyde. Merseyside Police confirmed this morning that one of the women killed in the drive-by shooting in Liverpool on Sunday was Mary Ann Nasrallah, an undercover police officer. Well have more on that later this morning. Next, the hunt for missing sex offender Neil Wood enters its second day as-
Logan slapped the radio into silent submission.
Shouldve switched the damn thing off before crashing last night.
Something dark and spiky throbbed behind his eyeballs. It coated the back of his throat with grit and bitterness. Made everything taste of cheap supermarket whisky. Then it sank its teeth into his bladder.
Unnngh
The world was a sharp and queasy place as he lumbered through to the toilet.
Then back to bed again.
To hell with the day.
The padlock tumblers squeak beneath his blue fingertips. The hasp falls to the ground, followed by the lock as he pushes the door wide.
Its hinges creak like a coffin lid and he steps into the foetid darkness.
Stephen? The word comes out in a plume of breath, pale as a ghost. Its OK, youre safe now
No he isnt.
The torchlight swings its yellow septic eye across stacks of poles and saws and chains, logs and a cast-iron stove. Settles on a pile of filthy blankets.
Dont do it.
But his hand reaches out anyway. What choice does it have?
He grips the barbed-wire fabric and pulls.
Stephen?
The body lies on its side, curled up on a wooden pallet thats stained crimson and black. The gaps between the slats are dark and hollow, like the gaping mouth. Gums torn and ragged where the teeth had been ripped out. Fingers bent and twisted, as if someone had taken a hammer to them. Thick strips of silver duct tape wrapped over the eyes. Dried blood caked around the empty groin and filthy buttocks. More blood across the swollen chest. Chains around the wrists and ankles, heavy and rusted.
Hes dead. He has to be dead.
A fist of gravel catches in Logans throat. He swallows it. Forces it down into his chest, sharp and hard and cold. Im sorry.
And then that ruined blind head turns and screams
The toilet bowl was cool against Logans cheek. Breath slowing. The pounding in his temples settled to a galley-slave beat, battering the drums in time with his heart.
Sitting on the bathroom floor, Logan howched and spat out streamers of bile-yellow spittle. Groaned.
Pulled himself upright.
The man in the mirror looked like an extra from The Walking Dead.
He rinsed out his mouth. Washed his face. Dried it. Couldnt look at it any more.
His stomach gurgled and he froze, one hand pressing against the scars that criss-crossed his abdomen. Then it settled.
Never drinking cheap own-brand whisky ever again.
Ever.
Especially not half a bottle of it.
He slumped back to the bedroom. Stood, looking down at the crumpled, sweat-soaked sheets.
Yeah, sod going back to bed.
Sun streamed through the window, turning the air into golden syrup, flecked with glowing dust motes. The wards quiet was punctuated by the hum and hiss of ventilators. The wub-wub-wub of a far-off floor polisher. The squeak of comfortable shoes on blue terrazzo flooring.
Logan knocked on the doorframe. Shop?
Louise looked up from a clipboard. Smiled. Logan. Isnt it a lovely day? Her pixie-cut was about twenty years too young for her, bleached blonde, the fringe gelled into a jagged curl above a pair of heavy dark eyebrows. White linen shirt, boot-cut jeans, black trainers. She picked up a large manila envelope from her desk, then pointed over his shoulder. Shall we grab a cuppa?
Louise picked her way out onto the balcony, clipboard tucked under her arm, carrying a tray in both hands. One teapot, one cafetiere, two cups, and a plate of tiny triangular sandwiches. She lowered the tray onto the table. Sorry that took so long.
Sunny Glen was living up to its name. The timber walls shone in the sunshine, the glass-and-chrome balustrade glinting. Logan had picked the table on the upper terrace, in the shade, with a view down the valley and out to sea. A neon-orange supply vessel ploughed its way towards the horizon, leaving a wake of shimmering white.
And, more importantly, the upper terrace overlooked the lower one.
Down there, a handful of wheelchairs were arrayed across the tiled floor. Some of the residents wearing hats, others baseball caps, a couple bare-headed.
Louise poured tea into Logans cup. Nodded at the manila envelope. All signed and sealed?
He pushed the thing across the small table towards her. Now what?
Now we give it to the lawyers, they give it to the Sheriff, he declares Samantha incapable, and youre appointed her financial and welfare guardian. Should only take a couple of weeks.
Logan shifted in his seat. Shes not incapable, shes ill, its not the same thing.
I know, but it has to be done. She hasnt got anyone else. If her mum and dad were still alive A shrug. Then Louise smiled. Nodded towards the lower terrace. Shes looking well, isnt she?
Samanthas wheelchair sat over by the railing, her back turned to them. Her hair was almost solid brown now, just a tiny fringe of its former colour holding on at the tips. Red, faded to a dirty pinky-grey. Arms curled against her chest. Knees together. Head tilted on one side. As if some great fist had taken hold of her and squeezed till she was twisted out of shape. Far enough away that she couldnt hear them talking about her.
So, about this chest infection ?
A shrug. You know what its like. Shes less susceptible to them now shes sitting up more of the time. But its always the same with brain injuries. Chest infections, urinary infections. At least her temperature controls a lot better: she hasnt had a storm in months.
The tea was hot but underbrewed. Thin and anaemic. A pale shadow of what it should have been.
Louise pressed the plunger on her cafetiere. Samanthas made remarkable progress since she got here. In fact, if she keeps this up, I think we should aim for a cranioplasty in August or September. Get them to patch the hole in her skull with a metal plate.
A metal plate.
Well, assuming the intracranial pressure remains within safe limits But theres no reason to suppose it wont. And shell look a lot more like her normal self without that big dip in her head. Louise poured the coffee. Sipped. She smiled yesterday.
He sat up straight. What?