killed the bathroom light, hobbled back down the hall, eased the lounge door open and peered inside. Samantha was on the couch, stripy-socked feet sticking out from beneath the spare duvet.
Logan shut the door as quietly as he could then slouched through to the kitchen for a pint or two of water, trying to sabotage the coming hangover.
The sink was still full of his clothes, so he dragged everything out and stuffed them in the washing machine. Then remembered the envelope full of cash in the trouser pocket.
It was all damp and wrinkly, but the contents seemed to have survived OK. All three thousand, seven hundred and sixty pounds of it.
Could have used it to pay for the taxi, instead of standing out in the rain like an idiot waiting for Samantha. Should’ve used it. Stupid not to. What did it really matter anyway? Just because it came from Wee Hamish Mowat.
Six months now he’d been doing … favours for Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord. Nothing illegal – he wasn’t getting people off with murder, tampering with evidence, or tipping Wee Hamish off when there was a raid on the way – just acting on information. Arresting rival drug dealers, shutting down someone else’s brothel, a dog fighting ring in Ellon. Taking other players’ pawns off the chess board. Pawns who needed locking up anyway.
And not once had Wee Hamish felt the need to hand over envelopes stuffed with cash. To buy him.
£3,760.
‘Fuck…’ Logan let his head thunk against the kitchen cabinet.
Eighteen months ago he’d been the golden boy of Grampian Police and now look at him: everyone down the station thought he was a foul-tempered, alcoholic tosser; he’d just battered a mob enforcer half to death in the middle of King Street; and Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord thought he should be on the payroll. Woo hoo. Way to go. Fan-fucking-tastic.
A new personal low.
Logan stacked all the notes together into one pile, wrapped it up in kitchen paper, then crept out into the hallway and hid the lot in the airing cupboard, behind the hot water tank.
It wasn’t perfect, but it’d do till he figured something else out.
The black Range Rover winds its way slowly north. Newcastle to Edinburgh is the worst bit: the A1’s a fucking disgrace, isn’t it? 121 miles of twisty tarmac with the occasional crawler lane and tiny patches of dual carriageway. Get stuck behind a caravan on this thing and you’re screwed, like.
Not that it’s a problem at twenty to five on a Saturday morning. Wipers going at a steady creak, keeping the snow confined to the edges of the windscreen. Winter wonderland in Newcastle when they left. Six inches in places.
They’re making good time, even though Tony’s taking it easy – iPod hooked into the huge car’s stereo, dribbling out that jazz stuff Julie likes so much. It’s not too bad, once you get used to it.
She’s asleep in the passenger seat, and Neil’s curled up in the back with a coat draped over him like a blanket, mouth open, snoring in time with the bloke playing the saxophone. It’s funny how even the most violent, dangerous bastards can look like little kids when they’re asleep.
The sat-nav says 102 miles to Aberdeen.
Tony keeps the needle at a steady sixty-five. No speeding. Nothing that would draw attention to them. Playing it cool. Heading north through the snow.
Bringing a whole shit-heap of trouble with him.
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