They wis smugglin’ it over from Eastern Europe inside prossies. You know: the old plastic-bag-up-the-fanny routine. Do it when they’re on the blob and the sniffer dogs don’t smell it. An’ even if they do smell somethin’ everyone’s too fuckin’ embarrassed to say anything.’ He took another sip of his wine. ‘And you’d be surprised how much crack cocaine you can stuff up a Lithuanian tart’s minge. Fuckin’ heaps of the stuff.’
‘What’s this got to do with Geordie?’
‘I’m comin’ to that. So anyways, I’m doin’ my Clark Kent routine: diggin’ up the dirt, really fuckin’ great stories. I mean I’m gettin’ nominated for awards left right and centre. Investigative Journalist of the Year, book deals, the whole works. Only I find out who’s runnin’ the scam, don’t I? I come up with a name. The big man in charge of flyin’ all these tarts, packed full of drugs, into the country.’
‘Let me guess: Malcolm McLennan.’
‘These two great big fuckers grabbed me on Sauchiehall Street. In broad daylight, but! Bundles me into a big black car. I am politely requested to drop the story like a radioactive tattie. If I’m fond of my fingers. And my legs.’
‘And did you?’
‘Course I fuckin’ did!’ Miller emptied half his wine glass in a single gulp. ‘No bastard’s hackin’ off my fingers with a butcher’s knife.’ He shivered. ‘Malk the Knife put the word about and next thing I know I’m out of a job. No paper in the central belt’d touch me with a bargepole.’ He sighed. ‘So here I am. Don’t get me wrong: it’s no’ that bad a place to wind up. Good job, lots of front page inches, nice car, flat, met a nice woman. . . Money’s no’ what I’m used to, but still. . . An’ I’m still alive.’
Logan settled back in his seat and examined the man sitting opposite him: the tailored suit, the gold baubles, the silk tie, even on a pissing-down Saturday in Aberdeen.
‘So that’s why I’ve not seen anything in the papers about Geordie’s body turning up in the harbour with no knees? You’re scared to publish anything in case Malk the Knife finds out about it?’
‘I go putting his business on the front page again and it’s goodbye to all ten little piggies.’ The reporter waved his fingers at Logan, the rings sparkling in the pub’s overhead lights. ‘No, I’m keepin’ my mouth shut on this one.’
‘Then why are you talking to me?’
Miller shrugged. ‘Just ‘cos I’m a journalist, it don’t mean I’m an amoral, parasitic wanker. I mean it’s no’ like I’m a lawyer or anything. I got a social conscience. I’m givin’ you information so you can catch the killer. I’m keepin’ my head down so it doesn’t cost me my fingers. Come time for court you’re on your own: I’m off to the Dordogne. Two weeks of French wine and haute cuisine. I’m no’ tellin’ any bugger anythin’.’
‘You know who did it, don’t you?’
The reporter finished off his wine and smiled lopsidedly. ‘No. But if I find out you’ll be the first to know. No’ that I’m lookin’ any longer. Got safer fish to fry.’
‘Like what?’
But Miller just smiled. ‘You’ll read about it soon enough. Anyway, gotta dash.’ He stood and shrugged his way into his thick black overcoat. ‘I’ve got a meetin’ with this bloke from the Telegraph. Lookin’ for a four-page spread in tomorrow’s Sunday supplement. “In Search Of The Dead: Catching The Aberdeen Child-Killer.” Very classy.’
Danestone had started out as farmland, like most of the outer regions of Aberdeen, but it had held out against the developers longer than the rest. So, by the time its green fields fell beneath the bulldozer, the mantra was build ’em quick and build ’em close together. The traditional grey granite blocks and gunmetal roof slates were nowhere to be seen: here it was all oatmeal harling and pantiles, winding cul-de-sacs and dead-end roads. Just like every other anonymous suburb.
But unlike the middle of Aberdeen, where the tenements and tall granite buildings cut the daylight down by an hour, the sun shone in abundance, the whole development sitting on a south-facing hill along the banks of the River Don. The only drawback was the proximity of the chicken factory, paper mills and sewage treatment plant. But you couldn’t have everything. As long as the wind didn’t blow from the west you were fine.
The wind wasn’t blowing from the west today. It was howling in from the east, straight off the North Sea, and full of icy horizontal rain.
Shivering, Logan wound the car window back up again. He’d parked a little down the road from a compact two-up two-down, the small garden looking half-dead in the battering rain. They’d been there for an hour, him and a bald DC in a parka jacket and there was still no sign of their target.
‘So where is he then?’ asked the DC, wriggling deeper into his insulated coat. All he’d done since they’d left the station was bitch about the weather. About the fact they were working on a Saturday. That it was raining. That it was cold. That he was hungry. That the rain was making his bladder twitchy.
Logan tried not to sigh. If Nicholson didn’t turn up soon there was going to be another murder in the papers tomorrow. ‘WHINGING POLICE BASTARD THROTTLED WITH OWN GENITALS IN PARKED CAR!’ He was just deciding whether it should be an OBE or a knighthood he’d get for killing the moaning wee sod when a familiar, battered, rust-encrusted, green Volvo growled its way past. The driver mounted the kerb in his enthusiasm to park, before scrambling about in the back seat of the car for something.
‘Show time.’ Logan opened his door and hurried out into the freezing rain. Grumbling, the DC followed.
They got to the Volvo just as Nicholson clambered out, clutching a pair of plastic bags. His face went white when he saw Logan.
‘Afternoon, Mr Nicholson.’ Logan forced a smile, even though there was icy water streaming down his neck, soaking into his shirt collar. ‘Mind if we look in the bags?’
‘Bags?’ The rain glittered on Duncan Nicholson’s shaven head, running off him like nervous sweat. He shoved the bags behind his back. ‘What bags?’
The unhappy DC stepped forward and growled from within his parka’s fur-lined hood. ‘I’ll give you what fucking bags!’
‘Oh these!’ They were produced again. ‘Shopping. Been to Tesco, haven’t I? Something for lunch. Now if you’ll excuse me—’
Logan didn’t move. ‘They’re Asda carrier bags, Mr Nicholson. Not Tesco’s.’
Nicholson looked from Logan to the grumpy DC. ‘I . . . I . . . er . . . recycling. I recycle my plastic bags. Gotta do our bit for the environment.’
The DC took another step. ‘I’ll fucking do for your environment—’
‘That’s enough, Constable,’ said Logan. ‘I’m sure Mr Nicholson is as keen as we are to get out of the rain. Shall we go inside, Mr Nicholson? Mind, it’s nice and dry down at the station. We could give you a lift.’
Two minutes later they were sitting in a small green kitchen, listening to the kettle boil. It was a nice enough house on the inside, if you didn’t mind concussing your cat. The walls were covered with patterned wallpaper, borders and friezes, expensive olive carpeting, big, framed, mass-produced oil paintings.
