‘Come on Steve, pick up the bloody phone!’ She squinted her face up, cigarette gripped between her front teeth. ‘Finnie’s getting a DI down from Fraserburgh to cover my cases while I’m away. Try and no’ whinge too much when you’re working for him, eh? Make it look like I run a tight ship.’
‘Brilliant. Bring someone else in.’ Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter.
‘Steve, it’s your mum. Where the hell are you? Call me back.’ She snapped her phone shut. ‘Voicemail.’
‘I could’ve run the caseload. I know it all inside out. I’m already doing all the bloody work. Instead of which I’m going to have to hold some Teuchter numpty’s—’
‘Wah, wah, wah. You’re such a bloody moan. Just be thankful I didn’t let them hand everything over to Beattie.’
Small mercies.
Steel stuck the phone back in her jacket. ‘Can’t decide if I’m more pissed off or worried about Steve.’
‘Steve who?’
‘Polmont, my chiz.’
Which explained the, ‘it’s your mum’ bit – keeping it all secretive, in case anyone else heard the message.
Logan frowned. ‘How come you even know his name? Personal info’s meant to stay on the other side of the “sterile corridor”, or whatever rubbish they’re calling it now. Who else knows who he is?’
‘No one.’ She flicked ash out of the window. ‘Just me, Frog-Face Finnie, and now you.’
‘Thought all informant stuff was meant to be handled by the Spook Squad? Why—’
‘Look it just is, OK? And shut up.’ She took an angry sook on her cigarette. ‘This is top, top Secret Squirrel. Understand?’
Logan sighed. ‘I think I can—’
‘I’m no’ joking. This gets out, I swear to God I’ll wear your wee heterosexual arsehole as a foot warmer. He’s a sparky at Malk the Knife’s building site.’
‘He’s the one we were waiting for on Monday? Told you: no one’s going to be daft enough to squeal. What is he, suicidal?’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of… Poor wee bugger could be lying dead in a ditch for all I know.’
‘So go round his house, pay him a visit.’
She sniffed. ‘Don’t have an address.’
‘Then get a GSM trace on his mobile. If it doesn’t move overnight, that’s his house.’ Logan stuck his foot on the clutch, popped the pool car out of gear, and drifted to a halt at the back of a long line of traffic. ‘What about the counterfeit cash? Want to get a warrant organized for the guy who bought the car?’
‘Tonight?’ Steel stared at him. ‘Are you mental? Be after five by the time we get back to the ranch. Get some backshift troglodyte to pick the bugger up. I’m going home.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t make me “La-la-la-la-la” you again.’
‘…celebrations outside the offices of McLennan Homes. Back to you in the studio.’
The picture jumped to a balding anchorman with an unfeasible moustache. ‘Thanks, Tim.’ That familiar, blurry photo of Richard Knox they’d used on the front page of the Aberdeen Examiner appeared on the screen. ‘A convicted rapist took up residence in the Grampian Region today…’
Logan turned the sound down, then cracked the ring pull on another tin of Stella. Cold beer after a hot curry. Singing wafted through from the bathroom, Samantha doing her best to murder a Marilyn Manson cover of a Soft Cell version of a Gloria Jones song.
But it was still better than listening to yet another report about Richard Creepy-Pants Knox setting up home in Aberdeen. The anchorman disappeared from the screen, replaced by a lumpy woman mouthing angry somethings at the camera. Probably complaining about Grampian Police mollycoddling perverts when there were drunken yobs hanging about outside her local community centre.
Logan toasted her with his tin of beer.
Then it was over to the weather. Which apparently was going to be crap for the foreseeable future.
A standard January in the north-east of Scotland, then.
‘What you watching?’
Logan turned to see Samantha standing in the lounge doorway, wearing a pink fluffy bathrobe and a pink towel turban. She even had pink fluffy socks on. ‘You’re looking very goth tonight.’
She stuck her middle finger up at him. ‘Any beer left?’
‘Fridge. And there’s a film coming on at half ten, if you fancy it?’
‘Got an early start tomorrow.’ She plonked herself down on the couch and stole a scoof of his beer. ‘Your mum was on the phone earlier.’
Logan groaned.
‘Relax, I told her you’d died of dysentery.’ Samantha unwrapped the towel from her head, and rubbed at the bright red hair it had been hiding. ‘Oh, and some bloke called Reuben called? Wouldn’t leave a message.’
Fuck… Reuben.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Didn’t say anything at all?’
‘Nada. Your mum wants us to go round for Sunday lunch to discuss, and I quote, “access to her grandchild”.’
What the hell did Reuben want?
Silence.
‘You know, if you get over your fatal bout of the squits?’
And how the hell did he get their home number?
‘Logan?’
‘Hmm?’ He looked up. ‘Sorry, miles away.’
‘Tell you what,’ Samantha undid the tie on the front of her robe, ‘maybe I’ve got something here that’ll bring you back from the dead…’
‘What’s he doing?’
Mandy wrinkled her nose. ‘Praying, I think.’
Harry peered around the doorway at the figure kneeling in front of the broken three-bar electric fire. The whole house smelled of damp and mould. Dark and creepy. Dank and creaky. Harry put his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. ‘He’s a bit … you know? I mean, you saw the papers, right?’
Mandy turned and smiled at him.
