45% Hangover [A Logan and Steel novella]

by Stuart MacBride

  She checked. ‘Nah. Doesn’t usually come in till five or six, though. Think he works up the hospital or something, doesn’t get off till then.’ Elaine smiled at him, exposing a lopsided jumble of brown teeth. ‘If we’re waiting, any chance of another voddie?’

  Something buzzed in Logan’s pocket. ‘Hold on.’ He pulled it out: text message.

  I love Dundee!!!

  Yes: 57%!!! Wee dancers!

  I’m never making fun of Dundee ever again.

  Dundee! Dundee! Dundee!

  That would be Steel, hijacking someone else’s phone again. Well, at least she was happy for a change. The phone vibrated in his fingers.

  Well, maybe not never ever, it is Dundee after all.

  And again.

  Sodding Renfrewshire is No: 53%

  Tossers.

  How could she type so fast with her thumbs?

  He put his phone on the table and Elaine jerked her head towards the bar.

  ‘So … Vodka?’

  ‘Nope: station.’

  That brown smile died. ‘But—’

  ‘A quarter kilo of cocaine, remember?’ He stood. ‘You need to make a statement, or you need to go to prison. Your choice. But either way there’s no more vodka in it.’

  She slumped right down, until her top half rested on the table. ‘Noooo …’

  ‘How about this: you help me catch the guys who beat up the drug dealer, and I’ll buy you a whole bottle?’

  There was a small pause, then she dragged herself to her feet. ‘Better than nothing.’

  6

  There was a knock on the interview room door, then Stoney appeared. ‘Guv?’

  His moustache was slightly … lopsided. A scrape on his cheek. What looked like the beginnings of an excellent shiner spreading beneath his right eye.

  Logan frowned. ‘Detective Constable Stone enters the room.’

  Sitting on the other side of the table, Elaine slumped to one side. ‘Can I go for a pee?’

  ‘In a minute.’ Logan pointed. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Gah …’ His mouth stretched out and down. ‘Jane Taylor happened. Had to drop her off at the hospital, couldn’t even stand, she was so drunk. Didn’t stop her though.’ He fingered the bruise beneath his eye. ‘Like a blootered Mike Tyson.’

  ‘Yeah, Janey always did take after her dad.’ Elaine’s feet drummed on the grey floor. ‘Seriously, I’m bursting here.’

  What the hell. ‘Interview suspended at four twenty-two. DC Stone, can you escort Miss Mitchel to the bathroom and back again. Ten minutes.’

  He backed off a pace. ‘She doesn’t bite, does she?’

  That brown smile was back. ‘Not unless you pay extra.’

  Logan took a sip from his polystyrene cup on the way back to his office. The coffee from the machine wasn’t great at the best of times, but there was something about drinking it out of expanded hydrocarbon foam that really classed it up. Could always sneak into the MIT office and help himself to their stash. After all, they’d all have gone home for the night.

  He dumped the cup in the nearest bin and made for the stairs. Taking them two at a time up to the next floor. Pushed through the door into the Major Investigation Team’s domain.

  Stopped.

  So much for sneaking a go on their fancy coffee machine in secret.

  Half a dozen plainclothes officers lounged in office chairs, all facing the large flatscreen TV at the front of the room, watching the BBC’s live coverage. The interactive whiteboard was divided up into a grid – percentages and numbers across the top, the name of each Scottish region down the side.

  The office was easily six times bigger than the grubby hovel the CID had been relegated to. Here they had new desks. New chairs. New ceiling tiles. A carpet that didn’t look as if a herd of incontinent sheep had rampaged across it for twenty years. New computers. State-of-the-art tech kit. And right at the back, one of those fancy coffee machines that took wee pod cartridges and produced something that didn’t taste of boiled slurry.

  Steel had pride of place, surrounded by her minions, a bottle of Grant’s Whisky open on the desk beside her, next to a pizza box containing a couple of congealed slices. She took a sip and scowled at him. ‘West Dumbartonshire: fifty-four percent “Yes”, forty-six “No”.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Might as well brass neck it. He wandered over to the coffee machine and plucked a cartridge at random. Stuck it in the machine.

  ‘No’ good enough. Sodding Stirling was sixty percent “No”. Sixty.’

  The machine churned and groaned and chugged.

  Steel pointed at a bloke in a stripy shirt and undone tie. ‘Colin?’

  He nodded, blinked in slow motion, then squinted at the whiteboard. ‘Midlothian fifty-six percent “No”. East Lothian: sixty-two percent “No”. Falkirk: fifty-three percent “No”.’

  Steel waved a hand. ‘Shut up, they’re doing Angus. Come on Angus, do it for Aunty Roberta …’

  Up on the screen, a man with almost no hair above his ears stood behind a podium, in front of an Angus Council display board. ‘… the total number of rejected votes was sixty-six and the reasons for rejection were as follows. Seventeen for voting for both answers—’

  ‘How? How could anyone be that stupid? It’s a yes or no sodding question!’

  ‘The total number of votes cast in relation to each answer to the referendum question, in this area, was as follows …’

  ‘Stop milking it and read the sodding result!’

  ‘“Yes”: thirty-five thousand and forty-four. “No”: forty-five thousand one hundred and ninety-two. That concludes this evening’s count.’

  ‘Nooooooooooo!’ Steel buried her head in her hands. ‘Sodding hell.’

  Logan grabbed his coffee and slipped out before she resurfaced.

  Elaine yawned, showing off those crooked brown teeth again. Most of them boasted a shiny grey chunk of dentist’s jewellery. Then she sagged in her seat. ‘We about done?’

  ‘Just a couple more things.’ Logan turned the ID book around so it faced her. ‘Can you identify the fourth man?’

  She sighed, then jabbed a finger at the page, selecting a hairy man with tiny squinty eyes and a nose that pointed at his left cheek. ‘Him.’

  ‘And you’re certain?’

  ‘Said so, didn’t I?’

  ‘Right.’ Logan copied Captain Hairy’s name into his notebook. ‘For the record, Miss Mitchel has identified Dominic Walker as the fourth assailant. And that’s it?’

  She nodded. ‘Can I sod off now?’

  ‘One more.’ Logan closed the book, then checked his notes. ‘I need an ID for Alec Hadden – the guy who paid you to lie about Chris Browning being one of your regulars.’

  Elaine shrugged one shoulder. ‘Tell you what, Regents Arms is open till nine. How about we go back there and wait till he turns up?’ She licked her lips with a pale, dead-slug tongue. ‘Get a couple of drinks. Get a bit friendlier …?’

  Sitting next to him, Stoney flinched. ‘Gah!’

  Logan frowned at him. ‘You OK?’

  Colour rushed up his cheeks. ‘She’s playing footsy under the table, Guv. Came as a bit of a shock.’

  Took all sorts. ‘Interview suspended at four forty-five so Constable Stone can assist Miss Mitchel with the production of an identikit picture of Alec Hadden.’ Logan switched off the recorder and stood. ‘No funny business.’

  ‘Guv, it wasn’t—’

  ‘Now: none of that. You keep your galloping hormones to yourself.’ He left them to it, pulling out his phone and dialling with his thumb as he made his way back to the office. ‘Guthrie? It’s Logan. My office: I want you to run some PNC checks.’

  ‘Guv.’

  By the time he got there, PC Guthrie was already waiting, like an expectant golden retriever. Logan scribbled down names for each of the four thugs Elaine Mitchel had IDed then added ‘ALEC HADDEN’ at the bottom. ‘Full check on the lot of them. Then get onto the hospit
al and see when they think Jane Taylor’s going to be sober enough to interview.’

  ‘Guv.’ He stood there, clutching the sheet of paper.

  ‘Run along then.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  Logan settled behind his desk and pulled over the phone. Put in a call to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. But no one there had heard of Alec Hadden. Was he sure he’d got the name right? Not really. Ah well, better luck next time.

  Worth a try though.

  He logged back into his computer, getting the paperwork started for a warrant to arrest the guys who’d battered the drug dealer from Edinburgh. Assuming they could get Jane Taylor to corroborate her sister’s IDs, that was. Be hard to convince a sheriff to give them a warrant on the say so of a single addict. Two: yes, one: no.

  There was a knock on the door, and Stoney stuck his head in. The shiner was darkening nicely beneath his eye. ‘Guv?’ He held up a printout. ‘Alec Hadden.’

  Wow.

  ‘That was fast.’

  ‘Used my initiative, Guv, and googled him.’ Stoney put the printout on the desk. It was a photo of a thin man with shoulder-length brown hair and a broad grin, underneath the headline, ‘LOCAL MAN IS WORLD PORRIDGE CHAMPION’.

  ‘World porridge champion. La-dee-dah.’

  ‘Bet he keeps the trophy where everyone can see it too. Looks the type, doesn’t he?’

  ‘OK. He’s supposed to be at the Regents Arms sometime after five. Probably better keep it low key – last thing we need’s a brawl kicking off in there.’

  Stoney grimaced. ‘You sure we can’t call in the Riot Brigade? Regents Arms isn’t exactly cop-friendly.’

  ‘Low key does not mean shields, battering rams, and crash helmets. We’ll go with you, me, and Wheezy Doug … What?’

  ‘Wheezy’s got court tomorrow. Went home at midnight, remember?’

  ‘OK, when Guthrie’s done with the PNC checks, tell him to change into civvies. We’re going down the pub.’

  7

  ‘Dear God, it’s Action Man!’ Stoney rocked back on his heels as PC Guthrie appeared in the corridor.

  He’d changed out of his police-ninja black into a pair of cargo pants, green jumper with patches on the elbows and shoulders, and finished the ensemble off with a pair of big black boots. ‘What?’

  ‘Go on, do the kung fu grip thing.’

  Logan hit Stoney. ‘Don’t mock the afflicted. Everyone ready?’

  All three of them produced their handcuffs, and wee CS gas canisters. Then Guthrie dug into one of his many trouser pockets and came out with a canister of Bite Back. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Good boy.’ Logan put his cuffs away. ‘Right, let’s do it. We can … What?’

  Stoney was staring over his shoulder. ‘Guv?’

  Then a smoky voice of doom grated out behind. ‘Gah! It’s all ruined.’

  Logan didn’t bother turning around. What was the point? ‘Detective Chief Inspector Steel, I presume.’

  She sniffed. ‘Sodding Aberdeen City. How could you?’ The words were a little slurred at the edges. ‘Cowardly bastards.’

  Stoney winced. ‘More “No”s?’

  ‘The sodding BBC have called it. Twenty-six out of thirty-two local authorities so far, and only four voted “Yes”. Four. Two hundred and thirty thousand votes down. No way we can come back from this. It’s over and Scotland bottled it!’ A hand slapped down on Logan’s shoulder. ‘Laz, I think we need to go get very, very drunk.’

  Stoney grinned. ‘Funny you should say that, we’re off to— Ow! You kicked me!’

  Logan kept his eyes on Steel. ‘We’re away to pick up a suspect.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re a lying wee sod.’ She poked him in the chest and leaned in, enveloping him in second-hand whisky fumes. ‘Where are you off to?’

  Guthrie stuck up his hand. ‘The Regents Arms. Going to arrest someone.’

  Steel beamed and threw her arms wide. ‘Perfect! I’ll come supervise.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Logan backed towards the exit. ‘You’re off duty, and you’ve been drinking. You’re supervising nobody.’

  ‘Fine.’ She dropped her arms and narrowed her eyes. ‘Be like that.’ Then she turned and marched off down the corridor. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Wonderful.

  The same auld mannie was standing outside the Regents Arms, smoking another furtive cigarette in his slippers. He nodded as Logan stepped up to the door. ‘Inspector.’

  ‘Donald.’

  Inside, the number of patrons out for a pre-dawn booze-up had swelled to twenty. All nursing drinks. Their sour faces turned to watch as Logan, Stoney, and PC Guthrie marched in. Then slowly drifted back to the TV.

  The usual suspects were up there on the screen, pontificating as the ticker crawled along at the bottom of the picture. ‘“No”: 1,402,047 – “Yes” 1,171,708’

  Stoney had a quick look around. ‘No sign of Hadden. Maybe he’s been and gone?’

  Guthrie pulled up his combat trousers. ‘Might be in the bogs?’

  Logan pointed. ‘The pair of you go check.’ Yes, it might look a bit odd, the two of them going in together, but this way they were likely to make it out again alive.

  As they marched off, Logan wandered up to the bar. ‘Two tins of Irn-Bru, and one Diet Coke. Don’t need glasses.’

  The barman sighed, then turned and took them out of the fridge. Placed them in front of Logan. ‘You vote today?’

  ‘Yup.’ He pulled out the photo Stoney had downloaded. ‘You seen this guy?’

  A pause. Then a raised eyebrow. ‘World porridge champion?’

  ‘Has he been in?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’ The barman turned and picked up a tumbler. Pressed it against an optic of Bells. Placed the whisky in front of Logan, along with the tins. ‘That one’s on the house for participating in the democratic process.’ Delivered without a hint of a smile.

  OK …

  Logan paid for the other drinks and carried the lot over to the same table he’d had last time. Back to the wall. Good view of the rest of the bar and the entrance.

  Two minutes later, Stoney and Guthrie emerged from the toilets and joined him.

  ‘What took you so long?’

  Guthrie twisted a finger through an imaginary lock of hair. ‘Doing our makeup and talking about boys.’

  Stoney shifted in his seat, having another look around. Then cracked the tab on his Diet Coke. ‘Don’t look now, but six o’clock. That not Kurt Murison?’

  ‘Where?’ Guthrie turned right around and stared.

  Stoney hit him. Dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. ‘I said, don’t look!’

  ‘How am I supposed to know if it’s him if I don’t look?’

  Logan scanned the interior. Six o’clock. Even sitting down the man towered over the table. Broad shoulders. Shaven head. Ears that looked as if they’d been designed for someone a third the size. Huge hands.

  He looked up and for a moment their eyes met.

  Not romantic.

  Logan glanced up at the television instead. Kept his voice low. ‘Yup, that’s Kurt Murison.’

  ‘Crap.’ Deep breath. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Nothing. We sit here and we drink our fizzy juice and we wait for Alec Hadden to turn up.’ He had a sip of Irn-Bru. ‘And if Kurt makes a move, the two of you follow him and arrest him.’

  Guthrie pulled a face. ‘You sure? Because I remember what happened the last time someone tried it. DS MacEachran was in traction for six weeks.’

  ‘DS MacEachran is an idiot.’

  ‘True.’

  They sat. And they waited. And they drank their fizzy juice.

  Up on the TV, someone in an ill-fitting suit was going on about the new political landscape and how great it was everyone had come out to play.

  Stoney checked his watch. ‘What if Hadden’s a no show?’

  ‘Then you and Guthrie still get to arrest Kurt Murison.’

  ‘Oh joy.�
��

  The ticker ran the latest scores again. ‘“YES”: 54.47% “NO”: 45.53%’

  ‘You know what?’ Stoney turned his Diet Coke round in a circle. ‘Maybe it’s for the best? I mean, if we’d got independence, we’d just be swapping one load of shiftless thieving useless bastards for another lot, wouldn’t we?’

  Guthrie sniffed. ‘Yeah, but they’d be our shiftless thieving useless bastards.’

  Logan polished off the last of his Irn-Bru, ‘And, to be fair, we’re already paying for two lots of them … Uh-oh – we’ve got movement.’

  Kurt Murison scraped back his chair and got to his feet. Dear God, he was even bigger standing up. His arms were too big to hang loose at his sides, instead they stood out from his huge chest, as if he was carrying an invisible barrel under each one. He turned and lumbered towards the toilets, leaving a half-empty pint and an open packet of crisps behind. Safe in the knowledge that no one would dare touch them.

  Guthrie pushed his tin away. ‘Probably off to coil a Douglas, or, perchance, a Thora.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Stoney rolled his eyes. ‘Tell him, Guv: men do Douglases, women do Thoras. Basic biology, isn’t it?’ He peered over his shoulder. ‘Maybe we should go after him? Catch him with his pants down.’

  Logan shook his head. ‘We’re police officers, Detective Constable Stone, not monsters.’

  That got him a sigh. ‘You know what I think?’ Stoney dunked a finger off the tabletop. ‘I think Scotland, England, Ireland, and Wales should all get their own parliament, and then once a week they do this big joint videoconference to decide stuff that affects everyone. That way we could fire half the buggers and save ourselves a fortune.’

  Guthrie shook his head. ‘Better idea: performance-related beatings for all politicians. Could put it on TV and charge people to phone in with suggestions.’ He had a half-arsed attempt at a Geordie accent. ‘It’s day two in the Westminster house, and the Prime Minister’s trying to weasel his way out of a kick in the nads.’

  Stoney mimed picking up the phone, joining in with an OTT Cockney. ‘Cor blimey guvnor, Oi’m gonna bid fifteen quid to see him battered wiv an ’addock!’

  ‘And here’s the leader of the opposition, still dressed in a rubber gimp suit after making a prick of himself on Monday.’