![The 45% Hangover [A Logan and Steel novella] - Stuart MacBride](/cover_342892.jpg "The 45% Hangover [A Logan and Steel novella] - Stuart MacBride")
‘Nah. It’s like a Dress-Slutty Party for amnesiacs round here tonight. No one’s seen him.’
‘Well we know two people saw him. Has to be others.’
‘Early days though, Guv. Maybe Elaine Mitchel and Jane Taylor don’t come out till the clubs shut?’
Logan curled his lip and wandered back onto Regent Quay, with its warehouses, fences, and massive supply vessels, caught in the glare of security lighting. ‘Don’t fancy hanging about here till the back of three. Get onto Control – I want home addresses.’
‘Guv.’
Till then, might as well complete the circuit and try Water Lane again.
Two steps in and Logan’s phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ from Star Wars. That would be Steel.
He pulled the phone out. ‘What?’
‘Too close to call, you believe that?’
‘What is?’
‘The referendum, you moron. They’re showing all the ballot boxes arriving at the counting stations. Exit polls are too close to call.’
‘Glad to hear you’re working hard.’
‘Don’t be a dick. This is important.’
‘Well, while you’re sitting on your bum, watching TV, and eating pizza, I’m out searching the docks for witnesses. So if it’s nothing urgent and police-related, feel free to be a pain in someone else’s backside for a change.’ He hung up and wandered further into the alley.
‘This it?’ Logan stood in the street and looked up. The tower block loomed in the darkness – twelve storeys of concrete and graffiti, a few lights shining from the upper floors. Wind whipped a broken newspaper against the chainlink fence, punishing it for its headline, ‘A Dirty Campaign Of Fear And Lies?’
Stoney checked his notebook. ‘Want to guess what floor?’
A groan. ‘Top.’
‘Yup.’
There was an intercom next to the double doors, half the metal cover missing, wires poking out. Didn’t matter anyway – the door creaked open when Stoney nudged it with his foot. Then he flinched, nose crumped up on one side. ‘Lovely. Eau De Toilette. Incontinence, pour homme.’
Deep breaths.
They marched inside. A faded cardboard sign was duct taped to the lift’s dented doors. ‘Out Of Order’.
Damn right it was.
They took the stairs. Dark stains clustered at every landing, the nipping reek of ammonia strong enough to make Logan’s eyes water. Go faster and be out of it quicker, but then there would be puffing and panting and breathing more of it in …
When finally they arrived on the twelfth floor, Stoney was a coughing, wheezing lump. Dragging air in. And Logan wasn’t much better. By rights, the top floors should’ve been less stinky, shouldn’t they? People would pee on their way downstairs, or on their way back to their flats. No one headed upstairs to pee, did they?
Stoney wafted a hand in front of his face. ‘God’s sake, stairwell must run like Niagara Falls on a Saturday night.’ He coughed a couple of times, then spat. Wiped his mouth. ‘That’s it at the end.’
Flat four still had its number attached to the red-painted door. The word ‘HOORS!’ was sprayed across the wood in three-foot tall letters. If it was advertising, it wasn’t working. After slogging all the way up here, who’d have the energy to do anything?
Logan knocked.
Waited.
Knocked again.
Had a third go.
Finally, a voice on the other side, thin and muffled. ‘Go away, or I’ll call the police! I know who your mothers are!’
OK …
‘I can save you the trouble – it is the police.’
Silence.
Stoney puffed out his cheeks. ‘Can we not sod about here, madam? It’s a long way to climb and it stinks of pish.’
The door cracked open an inch and a slice of pale skin appeared in the gap. The eye was grey, the iris circled in white. Chamois-leather creases across the cheek. ‘How do I know you’re policemen?’
Logan showed her his warrant card, then Stoney did the same. She peered myopically at them, then grunted and closed the door again. Unlatched the chain. A pink cardigan slumped over a thin, hunched frame. Pink scalp showing through thin yellowy hair. She turned and led the pair of them through a stripped-bare hallway into the living room.
No carpet. No underlay. A tatty brown couch against one wall, a pile of dirty washing against the other. And in-between, a panoramic window that looked out across Aberdeen. A sky of ink, the streetlights glowing firefly ribbons. It would have been breathtaking, if the climb and sudden smell of cat hadn’t already taken care of that.
An overflowing litter tray bulged in the corner, like a heaped display of miniature black puddings.
A large ginger cat sat in the middle of the couch, bright orange with a shining white bib and paws, as if he’d been painted with marmalade and Tipp-Ex. How the cat managed to stay so clean in this manky hole was anyone’s guess. It raised its nose and sniffed at the scruffy pair of police officers, somehow implying that Logan and Stoney were the ones responsible for the horrible smell.
The woman sat down next to her cat and stroked its back, getting a deep rumbling purr in return. ‘Whatever they told you, I didn’t do it.’ She kissed the cat’s head. ‘Did I, Mr Seville? No, Mummy didn’t do nothing.’
Stoney took out his notebook. ‘Didn’t do what?’
She sniffed and looked out of the window. ‘They shout horrible things at me when I get my messages. I’m not well. They could kill me. One of the wee shites tried to kick Mr Seville! What kind of person does that? Should be locked up.’
Logan went to lean back against the wall, then caught himself and stood up straight again before anything could stain. ‘Elaine Mitchel and Jane Taylor. They live here?’
Hard to believe that anyone lived here.
‘I’m an old woman. I deserve better than this.’
A rat deserved better than this.
‘Are they in?’
A shrug. ‘They come and go, I’m not their mother.’ She pulled up the sleeve of her cardigan for a scratch, and there they were: the tell-tale bruises and scabs of a long-term intravenous drug user. ‘Were supposed to get me some cider and ciggies.’ She scratched. Licked her lips. Scratched again. ‘You got any ciggies?’
Stoney
