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 an unpleasant fizzing behind his eyes. ‘But—’
‘I’m not telling you again.’
‘Can I at least put my shoes on?’
Skeletal trees hunched over a collection of potholes and cracked tarmac, winding through the darkness. The BMW bumped along the rutted track, the occasional grinding noise from under their feet making Reuben grit his teeth. ‘Fuckin’ thing…’
Logan looked out at the darkened countryside. Two days ago these fields were bathed in the moon’s glow, now there was just the car’s headlights as they headed down the side road overlooking Malk the Knife’s building site, not far from where Logan and Steel had parked on Monday night. Waiting for Steve Polmont to turn up.
The BMW’s headlights picked out one of those big, ugly Porsche 4x4 things at the end of the lane, its exhaust spiralling out into the cold night air. Reuben stopped, hauled on the handbrake, then killed the engine and the lights.
Darkness.
Reuben turned and glowered at Logan. ‘Listen up: you upset Mr Mowat tonight and I’ll tear your cock off and make you eat it. Understand?’
‘Why would—’
‘You fucking watch yourself, McRae.’
‘God’s sake…’ Wanker. Logan popped open his door and stepped out into the overcast night.
Bloody freezing. Right through the soles of his holey socks. Bastard could have let him grab his shoes…
At least it had stopped raining.
Logan hobbled through the darkness to the Porsche Cayenne, breath trailing along behind him, then clambered into the passenger seat and clunked the door shut. Shivered.
‘Ah, Logan, glad you could make it.’ Wee Hamish Mowat sat hunched behind the wheel, gnarled hands held over the vents. His face was caught in the glow of the dashboard lights – that big hooked nose, the deep crevasse wrinkles, eyes sparkling like something sharp and dangerous at the bottom of a toy box. ‘Will you take a wee dram?’
‘Er … yeah. Thanks.’
The warm interior carried the smell of Old Spice, underlaid with something else. Something sour and sickly.
Wee Hamish pulled a silver hipflask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid, then passed it over.
Logan looked at it. ‘Actually, Mr Mowat—’
‘It’s all right, Logan, what I have isn’t catching.’ His voice was a gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Sounding tired. ‘And after everything you’ve … helped me with over the last six months, I think you can call me “Hamish”, don’t you?’
Logan accepted the flask. Forced a smile. ‘Thank you. Hamish.’
He wiped the neck and took a swig. Whisky. It started a low fire in his innards, spreading its warmth up through his chest. ‘Good stuff.’
‘1974 Ardbeg.’ Wee Hamish took the flask back and drank. ‘Can’t take it with you…’
They sat in silence for a moment, just the rumble of the engine and the whine of the air vents. Then Wee Hamish pointed through the windscreen at the building site laid out on the fields below. ‘Four hundred houses, just like that. Planning permission for a hotel. Going to have a swimming pool. All legitimate and above board.’
Logan kept his mouth shut.
‘Course, wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for Donald Trump.’ He took another hit of whisky. ‘What do you think, Logan: for it, or against it?’
‘Er…’
‘Keeping an open mind? Good. Good. Some say it’s a bad thing, that Trump steamrollered local opposition, then went blubbing to the Scottish Parliament when the planning department said he couldn’t have his golf course. Got them to overturn the decision. Others say it’s a good thing – it shows that Aberdeen’s open for business. Welcomes investment. Is looking to the future…’
He stared at the hipflask in his hand. ‘The future’s a funny thing, isn’t it?’
Logan shifted in his seat. ‘We’re pretty sure Malk the Knife’s development’s just one big money-laundering exercise. He’s using it to get a foothold in the North East…’ He trailed off to a halt. Wee Hamish was staring at him.
‘Do you play chess, Logan?’
‘Er … no. Not really. More of a Grand Theft Auto kind of guy.’
‘Shame. We shall have to do something about that.’ He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Mr McLennan is the Black King. He moves his pawns around the board, always pushing forwards. Drugs. Prostitution. Counterfeit merchandise. Then he has his bishops. Moving diagonally, back and forth from Edinburgh. Keeping an eye on the souls of his flock. His knights taking care of the opposition.’
‘I see…’
‘Do you?’
Logan wriggled his toes in the warm air of the footwell. ‘It’s no secret Malk the Knife’s pushing in on your territory. We’re getting a huge influx of dodgy goods, forged money. Car theft’s up about three hundred percent. There’s more drugs out there than ever before.’
The old man drank from the flask again, then screwed the cap on and slipped it back into his jacket. ‘You shouldn’t call him “Malk the Knife”, it’s disrespectful.’
Logan opened his mouth, but Wee Hamish held up a crooked finger.
‘Never treat your opponent with disdain, Logan. When you do, you underestimate them. And when you underestimate
