Logan nipped across the road, past the council headquarters and along Broad Street. Kept going onto the Gallowgate. Nice and casual. Up the hill, and right into the council car park in front of the squat DVLA building.
Nice and out of the way.
He pulled out his phone and dialled Wee Hamish’s number. Listened to it ring.
And ring.
And ring.
That brittle, gravelly voice: ‘Hello?’
‘Hamish. It’s Logan McRae.’
‘Ah, Logan. Yes. Good. How are you? How’s that young lady of yours?’
‘Still in a coma.’ Strange how it didn’t hurt to say that any more. Perhaps four years was long enough for it to scab over? ‘What can I do for you, Hamish?’
‘Is she getting all the help she needs, do you think?’
Logan wandered across the car park. ‘The doctors and nurses are very good.’
‘Oh I’ve got nothing but admiration for the NHS, believe me. They were very kind to my Juliette those last few months. But … Maybe a private hospital would provide a more individual service? Where there’s not so much pressure to meet performance targets.’
A path ran along the back of the car park, bordered by a wall. Logan leaned on it, looking down the hill to the dual carriageway and the big Morrisons. ‘We got knocked back from Sunny Glen. No places.’ A small laugh clawed its way out of his throat. ‘Not that we can afford it. Anyway, it’s too far away. I couldn’t get all the way up to Banff to visit her every day. What’s the point of that?’
‘Hmm … I hear you’re still trying to sell the flat. Any luck?’
‘Hamish, you said you wanted to talk about Reuben.’
‘Are you in financial difficulties, Logan, because if you are I’d be more than happy to lend—’
‘No. I’m fine. I just … felt like selling the flat, that’s all.’
‘I thought you loved it there. Nice central location. And it’s very convenient for work.’
‘It’s got memories I don’t need.’ Down below, an ambulance skirled its way along the dual carriageway, all lights blazing. ‘Time for a change.’
‘I understand.’ There was a small pause, filled with a hissing noise, as if Wee Hamish was taking a hit from an aqualung. ‘Would you like me to put in a word for you? There are a couple of neurology specialists I know who could help you find a place. Somewhere Samantha can get the individual attention she deserves. Let me see what I can do.’
Logan tightened his grip on the phone. Puffed out a breath. ‘What about you? How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve been thinking about us a lot recently. You, me, and Reuben. When I’m gone, he’ll come after you. You’re too big a threat for him to ignore.’
‘I’m not a threat! I keep telling—’
‘It doesn’t matter if you turn down the mantle or not, Logan. To Reuben you’ll always be a threat.’ Another hisssssssss. ‘Would you like me to kill him for you?’
All the moisture evaporated from Logan’s mouth. ‘What?’
‘It would pain me, of course – he’s been my right-hand man for a long, long time – but sometimes you have to sacrifice a rook to keep the game going.’
‘Now, hold on—’
‘Oh, it won’t be until I’m gone. The least I can do is let him come to the funeral. But after that. Before he’s had time to move against you …’
Logan turned away from the road. Squinted up at the DVLA’s windows. No one looked back at him. Thank God. ‘Hamish, I’m a police officer: I can’t be part of a plot to murder someone! Not even Reuben.’
‘Are you sure? He’s more dangerous than you think.’ This time, the hiss-filled pause stretched out into silence. Then: ‘Well, perhaps that would be best. After all, if you’re taking over the company, the staff will respect you more if you get rid of him yourself.’
‘That’s not what I meant! It—’
‘Don’t leave it too long, Logan. When I die, the clock starts ticking.’
‘You OK, Guv?’ Guthrie lowered his pale eyebrows, making little wrinkles between them.
Logan sank into one of the CID office chairs. ‘I nearly fell off a roof yesterday, my suit smells of drunk tramp, I’m dealing with a tree festooned with dog turds, I can’t sell my flat, and I had an early-morning run-in with Professional Standards. I’ve had better days.’
A smile. ‘Then I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.’
‘Is it midget porn again? Because I’ve told you about that already.’
‘Nope.’ He held up his notebook. ‘One dark-green Honda Jazz, parked on Newburgh Road, Bridge of Don. It’s Emma Skinner’s.’
Logan stood. ‘Well, what are you sitting there for? Get a pool car!’
Newburgh Road was a twisting warren of identikit houses, buried away amongst all the other identikit housing developments on this side of the river. Some residents had added porches, or garages, but the same bland boxy stereotype shone through regardless.
Guthrie pointed through the windscreen at the blocky back end of a dark-green hatchback. ‘Patrol car was out cruising for a pervert – been stealing knickers off washing lines – when the Honda pinged up on the ANPR.’
They parked behind it.
Logan climbed out into the sun and did a slow three-sixty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just more beige architecture, the harling greyed by weather. ‘Any idea which house?’
Guthrie locked up. ‘Thought we’d door-to-door it. Can’t be that far, can it?’
‘Pffff …’ Logan leaned back against a low garden wall and wiped a hand across his forehead. It came away damp. ‘You sure that’s her car?’
Guthrie took out his notebook and checked again. ‘Number plate matches.’
‘Then where the sodding hell is she?’
‘Well, maybe—’
‘Forty minutes! Wandering round like a pair of idiots, knocking on doors.’ The scent of charring meat oozed out from a garden somewhere near, making his stomach growl. ‘Starving now.’
Guthrie gave a big theatrical shrug. ‘I don’t get it. It’s not like it’d be hard to find
