tried again, one eye squinted shut. ‘Bloody handwriting’s appalling.’
Logan looked over her shoulder. ‘Get your eyes tested.’
‘I don’t need glasses.’
‘If you say so.’
To be fair, Steve Polmont’s writing was appalling. The letters all ran together with lots of crossings out and scribbled annotations. ‘Listen to this: “G and Y went on the rampage today – found out someone’s been helping themselves to the shipments. Saw A give J a kicking for it. Have to lay off for a while.” It’s dated Sunday.’
‘What else?’
‘Something about a telephone conversation…’ The writing grew increasingly erratic, until it was little more than a collection of random scribbles. ‘Must’ve been drinking while he wrote it.’
Steel slapped Logan on the arm. ‘Told you I didn’t need glasses. Who’s “G and Y”?’
‘No idea. “A” might be Andy? The big bald bloke?’ Logan tried, and failed, to turn the page with his bagged hands. ‘Little help?’
‘What did your last slave die of?’ She was rummaging through another box, pulling out bundles of computer games, still wrapped in shiny plastic. ‘Fancy the new Resident Evil?’
‘That would be unethical.’
‘You’re quite right, Sergeant, what was I thinking?’ She stood and slipped a copy into his jacket pocket, then stuck a couple more in her handbag. ‘Let’s face it, if Polmont’s nicked them off Malk the Knife, Malky’s no’ exactly going to come round the station asking for his gear back, is he? This stuff’ll sit in evidence for six months then get turfed into the police auction. Or chucked through an industrial wood chipper. It’s win-win.’ She snapped her bag shut. ‘Right, back to the station. We’ll get a warrant, then come back and find this stuff officially.’
Logan stood for a moment, looking at all the bottles of vodka, wondering if he shouldn’t take a couple into custody while he was at it.
‘You coming?’
‘Oh … yes.’ He struggled with his jacket pocket, pulling the video game out with his slippery hands, and dumped it back in the box. ‘Already got that one.’
Steel rolled her eyes. ‘You are such a goody two-shoes.’
She really had no idea.
Logan tumbled another handful of dried penne into the pot of boiling water. The ivory shapes looked like little segments of finger-bone in the light from the extractor fan.
Through in the lounge, the TV was babbling away to itself, the Channel 4 News covering the latest round of scandals from the Scottish Parliament, as Logan had a bash at making tea for a change.
A little after half six and there was still no sign of Samantha – probably pulling another green shift – but he was going to bloody well impress her when she finally got in. Baked pasta with some sort of sauce and cheese. A thank you for her promising to rush through the DNA samples she’d scraped from under his nails in the little lab back at FHQ.
He checked the recipe he’d downloaded, then excavated a dust-covered casserole dish from the cupboard. A home-cooked meal, how hard could it be?
Chop an onion, fry it in olive oil, chuck in a tin of tomatoes, couple tins of tuna, some mixed herbs. Easy. What was all the fuss about?
Right now Steel was probably breaking back into Steve Polmont’s flat, acting all surprised at the boxroom full of stolen goods. At least Logan didn’t have to worry about his fingerprints being on anything.
He checked the recipe again, went to the wine rack for the last bottle of red in the house and glugged in about a glassful.
Move over Gordon Ramsay.
Should have taken a bottle of that vodka when he’d had the chance. And the video game. Be nice if the job actually came with some perks for a change.
He let the sauce simmer for a bit, then helped himself to a glass. Chef’s prerogative. It wasn’t as if he was planning on getting hammered, just having a civilized glass of wine. Then another one. And another.
Bloody Steel. Lecturing him about his attitude, and his drinking. How many times had she turned up at the station hungover and reeking of stale booze? Not to mention helping herself to evidence from Steve Polmont’s flat.
Hypocrite.
Logan chucked everything together in the casserole dish, then covered it in a wodge of grated cheddar. Whacked it in the oven.
Maybe have another glass of wine to celebrate…
Not every day you cook a five-star meal, is it?
Might as well finish the bottle. No point letting it go to waste.
He clunked back into the flat. ‘Sam? You home?’
No answer.
‘Sam?’
Logan kicked off his shoes, then dumped the bag from Oddbins down on the kitchen table. Two bottles of Shiraz, and a Sauvignon Blanc. He dug out the corkscrew – got to let the wine breathe, right?
Maybe try a glass, just to check it’s OK.
He toasted his reflection in the kitchen window and drank.
Drank some more.
Pasta bake smelled good.
He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Maybe have some crisps to keep him going till Samantha got back.
Logan topped up his wine again. Raised it to his lips. Then swore as the doorbell went.
Why could she never remember her damn keys?
He placed his glass carefully on the working surface, then unlocked the flat’s front door and hurried down the communal stairwell. Unlatched the deadbolt and threw the door open. ‘You’d forget your head if it wasn’t…’
A large man stood on the pavement outside, scarred face pinched into a disfigured scowl.
Reuben.
He hefted his thumb over his shoulder at a black BMW, its hazard lights winking on and off in the cold, crisp evening. ‘Mr Mowat wants to see you.’
Fuck.
Logan looked down at his own feet. Black socks with a hole in one toe. ‘I’m kinda in the middle of—’
‘Now.’
Logan blinked, the wine making his teeth itch, the mellow buzz turning into
