‘Why the hell do we bother?’ Logan started the car. ‘I’ve just spent the last ten minutes listening to an eighteen-year-old girl called Kylie lying to protect the pimp who battered the living hell out of her.’
‘What, Harry?’ Steel scowled back at the flat. ‘The little bastard…’
Logan pulled away from the kerb, heading back towards the station. ‘She says it was definitely Colin McLeod who hammered Harry’s knees; she watched him do it.’
‘Good. Serves him right.’
‘What do you want to do now?’
Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Go to the pub and drink myself into a happy haze. But I suppose we should report in to our great lord and master, Finnie the Unwashable.’ She dug out her phone and did just that, flicking two fingers in the general direction of Force Headquarters whenever the DCI was speaking. And then she hung up and added a long, wet raspberry. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Frog-Face is unimpressed with our lack of progress.’ She dug about in her trouser pocket, coming out with a handful of loose change and a couple of crumpled notes. ‘How much do I owe the swear box?’
‘Four pound fifty.’
‘Let’s make it an even fiver. Finnie is a complete and utter, total WANKER!’ And then Steel handed over a five pound note that looked as if it’d been lining the bottom of a birdcage for a month. ‘He wants us to rush straight back to the station. So we’re going in the opposite direction: Turf ’n Track, Laz, and don’t spare the horses.’
The betting shop was alive with the sound of greyhounds. They pelted round on the two wall-mounted television screens, all teeth and tongues and flying legs. A pair of baggy old men sat watching the race, passing a half-bottle of Bells whisky back and forth.
Mrs McLeod sparkled away behind the counter – dripping with jewellery – face buried in a copy of the Racing Post. She looked up as the door bleeped, her face souring as she recognized Logan and DI Steel. ‘What the hell do you Muppets want?’
Steel slapped her wallet on the counter. ‘Fifteen quid on Mary Hinge: three thirty at Chepstow.’
‘Why aren’t you out there catching the bastard who blinded my Simon?’
The inspector slumped onto one of the cracked-leatherette barstools in front of the televisions. ‘Where’s Colin?’
‘None of your damn business.’
‘Come on, Agnes, you and I both know he should be here, looking after his dear old mum in her dotage, not out gallivanting with a claw hammer.’
‘Who the hell are you calling “in her dotage”?’
‘Leaving you here to run the shop while he’s off cracking people’s kneecaps, it’s not right is it?’
Mrs McLeod threw her Racing Post across the counter. It smacked into Steel’s chest and fell apart, riders and runners fluttering to the sticky linoleum. ‘Get out.’
The inspector didn’t budge. ‘When he comes back, I want you to tell him it’s over. This stops now. I don’t care if he’s only battering drug-dealing scumbags, I want him to hang up his hammer.’
‘My Colin’s a good—’
‘Oh, give it a rest, Agnes. We’ve just spoken to one of the guys he crippled: Harry Jordan’s prepared to finger him.’ Wink. ‘And I don’t mean in a sexual way.’ She stood and shambled her way to the door. ‘No more kneecaps, Agnes. Understand?’
Mrs McLeod glowered, her pinched face almost white in the artificial light, golden earrings glinting, mouth a hard red line. ‘Get the fuck out my shop!’
Archibald Simpson was packed with off-duty police officers. Quarter past five and nearly the entire day-shift was in there, getting themselves outside the first pint of the evening. Logan pushed his way through the throng to the bar, flashed his warrant card and got a free pint of Stella from the Polish barman.
The hubbub rose, and then someone shouted, ‘As you know…’ Then tried again: ‘SHUT UP!’ Silence settled into the crowded bar. ‘That’s better.’
Logan couldn’t see who was speaking, but it sounded like Detective Chief Superintendent Bain, the baldy head of CID.
‘As you know, we had a great result today, thanks to DI McPherson—’
Everyone cheered.
‘—excellent job. He and his team have dealt a significant blow in the fight against gang violence in Aberdeen.’ Bain raised his glass. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, and Custody Assistants, a toast: DI McPherson, and his team.’
And they all drank to his health, honour, and the large stash of weapons he’d stumbled upon hidden in a caravan in Stoneywood.
‘Right,’ said, DCS Bain, before the noise could start again, ‘there’s three hundred quid left behind the bar. First come, first served!’
Logan sat at their usual table, under the television in the little alcove off the main bar, watching DC Rennie weaving his way through the crowds with a tray of drinks and crisps.
The constable sank into his seat and everyone helped themselves: pint of Stella for Logan, pint of Export for DS Beattie, pint of ice and a bottle of cider for Gary from fingerprints, and a lager for himself. ‘Tell you,’ said Rennie, popping open a packet of prawn cocktail, ‘it was funny as hell. McPherson’s just done this big motivational speech thing – all duty and public trust and stuff – then he turns to walk back to the car, slips, and goes arse over tit all the way down the hill! Right through a dozen gorse bushes and a pile of dog turds big as your house.’ Rennie took a mouthful of lager, chasing it with a handful of crisps, crunching round the words. ‘So he’s lying there, spread-eagled, covered in scratches and jobbies, groaning away to himself, and we’re all up at the top of the hill trying not to piss ourselves laughing.’
More lager disappeared. ‘So I go down there to help him up and what do I see, but this manky looking caravan hidden away in the trees and bushes. “Oh-ho,” I thinks, “this looks a bit fishy.” And when we pop it open, guess what: it’s full of bloody Kalashnikovs!’
Logan still couldn’t believe it. ‘So you’re saying this was all down to you?’
Rennie posed, one hand on his chest, the other flopping about in the air. ‘I am a detecting machine!’
DS Beattie scratched a hand through his beard, sending a dusting of dandruff fluttering down the front of his shirt. ‘Is it just me, or is Aberdeen getting bloody scary? What do they need machine guns for?’
The constable snapped his fingers. ‘Maybe it’s Al-Qaeda? Eh? Maybe I just foiled some huge terrorist plot.’
‘In Stoneywood?’ Another little snowfall drifted from his chin.
‘You want to know what I think?’ said Rennie, scooting forward in his seat, ‘I think—’
A voice cut him off. ‘What happened to all the free drink?’ Samantha, the IB’s pet Goth, stood with a frown and a noxious looking pint of something dark purple. ‘Had to pay for this myself!’ She grabbed the only free chair and helped herself to Rennie’s crisps.
The constable snatched the packet away. ‘Your own fault for being late.’
‘It’s you greedy bastards in CID more like. First sniff of free booze and you drop everything.’
‘I’ll drop everything for you, Sam, especially trousers.’