‘Luv a duck! Twenny quid if ye paddle his arse wiv an electric saaaaaandar.’
Guthrie grinned. ‘See? You could wipe out the deficit in a single season.’
‘This is genius, we should call Channel Four.’
Logan leaned back in his seat and left them to it.
Still no sign of Alec Hadden. Assuming, of course that Elaine hadn’t made it all up in the first place. Maybe Chris Browning was one her regulars? Still, why would she lie about being paid to slander him? What was in it for her? Didn’t make any … Hold on.
The front door barely creaked, as a thin man slipped in. Had to be a regular, because no one looked up from their drink. Shoulder-length brown hair, pointy chin. This year’s World Porridge Champion. Alec Hadden.
So Elaine wasn’t lying after all. Wonders would never cease.
Hadden had a quick peer about, then made for the bar. Stood there with his back hunched, in conversation with the bartender. Got himself a pint of Export.
Stoney and Guthrie had extended their brief to take in the United Nations and nipple clamps. Logan leaned forward and hushed them. ‘Alec Hadden. At the bar. Right now.’
Guthrie slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the cuffs. ‘You want to grab him straight away, or let him settle in?’
‘Ah …’ Stoney licked his lips. ‘Might be an idea to get it over with while Kurt’s in the toilet? He sees us slapping the cuffs on someone, it’ll kick off.’
True.
‘OK.’ Logan pushed back his chair. ‘Let’s go see what Mr Hadden has to say for—’
The front door banged open and the whole bar did its Deliverance impersonation again. Silence. Stare.
Then Logan groaned.
Sodding DCI Sodding Steel. She stood in the doorway, wobbling slightly. One eye screwed shut, the other roving the place.
‘Oh great.’
She lurched across to the bar and dug a hand in her pocket. Came out with a handful of change and a few notes. Clacked them down on the bartop. A couple of pound coins rolled off along the front of the taps. ‘Grouse. Make it a … a brace.’ She grabbed onto the wood with one hand, keeping herself upright.
The barman nodded. ‘Double Grouse, coming right up, Chief Inspector.’ Raising his voice on that last bit, just to make sure everyone heard.
Over at the next table, a large woman with a tattoo of seagulls flying around her thick neck rolled her eyes. ‘Not more sodding cops. Like a bloody masonic lodge in here tonight.’
Steel took her drink and wacked it back in one go. ‘Again.’
Then she turned, new drink in hand, and squinted around the room. Wobbled in place. Pointed up at the TV where a bloke in a suit stood before a big display banner with views of Aberdeenshire on it. ‘Shhhhhh …! Turn it up, turn it up.’
The barman sighed, then did.
‘… turnout is eighty-seven point two percent. The total number of votes cast for each answer to the referendum question in this area are as follows. “Yes”: seventy-one thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven. “No”: one hundred and eight thousand, six hundred and six.’
A roaring cheer erupted from the telly.
And when it had died down, ‘I’m not quite finished.’
Laughter.
Steel clenched one fist, the other wrapped around her glass, and bellowed up at the TV. ‘YOU BUNCH OF UTTER BASTARDS!’ Whisky slopped onto the wooden floor.
The barman cranked the sound down again.
Everybody stared at her.
The bathroom door clunked shut again, and there was Kurt Murison, wiping his hands on his jeans. ‘Who’s bastards?’ His voice was unusually high for someone who looked as if they could eat rusty nails.
Stoney closed his eyes and swore. ‘It’s going to kick off, isn’t it?’
Kurt loomed over Steel. ‘Come on then. Who’s bastards?’
She twirled round, more whisky joining the spillage. ‘Aberdeenshire. All of them: bastards.’ She jabbed her free hand at the screen. ‘Look at it! Over sixty percent “No”.’
A shrug. ‘Their prerogative, isn’t it? Democracy and that. Will of the people.’
‘The people are dicks.’ She raised the glass to her mouth and swigged, but there wasn’t a lot left. ‘Oh …’ She clunked it down on the bar. ‘Again.’
‘Got to respect the outcome, don’t matter what side you voted. All still Scotland.’
‘They can respect my sharny arse.’ She rocked a little, then frowned up at him. ‘Here, do I know you?’
Hadden inched away down the bar. Putting a bit of space between himself and the coming storm.
Kurt jabbed a thick, meaty finger into Steel’s shoulder. ‘People like you make me sick, with your “Remember Bannockburn” and quotes from sodding Braveheart.’
Guthrie got to his feet and pulled out the CS gas to go with his handcuffs. ‘Here we go.’
Steel poked Kurt back. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I don’t remember Bannockburn, ’cos I wasn’t sodding there. And neither were you. We forgived the Germans for bombing Clydebank flat – that was only seventy-three years ago – and you’re holding a grudge from Thirteen Fourteen!’
Her eyes narrowed, then widened. ‘I know you! Kurt “The Mangler” Murison. You’ve got warrants out on you.’
He flexed his shoulders. Loomed some more. ‘Who’s asking?’
Stoney swore again. Stared at Logan with a pained expression. ‘Tell Sonja I loved her …’ Then he got out his CS gas and stood shoulder to shoulder with Guthrie. Put a bit of steel in his voice. ‘Alright, that’s enough.’
Everyone in the place turned to stare at him.
He cleared his throat. ‘Kurt Murison, I’m detaining you under Section …’
But Kurt didn’t explode. Instead he turned and legged it, battering out through the pub’s double doors.
Guthrie grinned. ‘Yeah, you better run!’
Logan thumped him. ‘Don’t just stand there, you idiot, get after him!’
‘Right.’ And they were off, the pair of them charging after Kurt, CS gas and handcuffs at the ready.
8
Steel grabbed hold of the bar again. Burped. ‘Was it something I said?’
Everyone else went back to their drinks as Logan walked over to the bar. ‘You’re a disaster, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Maybe it’s my perfume?’
Alec Hadden had eased himself closer to the door. Another five feet and he’d be gone.
Logan grabbed a handful of his collar. ‘Oh no you don’t.’
Hadden bit his bottom lip. Didn’t struggle. ‘Sod.’
‘Think you and I need to have a little chat, don’t we, Alec? Maybe you can share your world-beating porridge recipe?’ He dragged the thin man back to the table. Pushed him down in to a seat. ‘You want to make this easy, or difficult? I’m happy either way.’
Thin fingers drifted across the tabletop. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you’ve got me mistaken for—’
‘Chris Browning.’
‘Ah …’ He stared down at his wandering fingers. ‘Right.’
Steel lurched up to the table and thunked three large whiskies down. Rocked in her chair. ‘What we talking about?’
‘Mr Hadden is about to tell me why he paid two prostitutes to lie about Chris Browning being a regular. Weren’t you Mr Hadden?’
Silence.
‘Or would you like to do this down the station?’
He shrugged one shoulder, curling into it until his ear was pinned against his jacket. ‘It was … you know … to counteract the lies?’
‘The lies.’
‘For months, that puffed-up frog-faced git’s been on the telly and the radio and in the papers, giving it doom and gloom, yeah? We’re going to have no jobs. No currency. No defence budget. All the big companies are going to leave us. Won’t be able to pay our benefits, or pensions, or doctors. Got kinda … fed up of it.’ His shrug swapped sides. ‘Thought i
t’d even the scales a bit if everyone thought he liked getting it rough from a pair of hoors.’
Logan stared at him. ‘And that passes for grownup political debate where you come from, does it?’
Steel threw her head back and laughed. A proper full-throated roar that set everything jiggling. ‘You wee dancer.’ Then she slapped Hadden on the back and pushed one of the whiskies in his direction. ‘You earned it.’
He pulled on a lopsided smile. ‘Thanks.’ Then a sigh. ‘Didn’t help though, did it?’
She gave his shoulder a shoogle. ‘Cheer up. Always next time. None of this once-in-a-generation bollocks, we’ve got what …’ She turned and blinked at the TV for a bit. ‘Laz?’
‘Forty-five percent.’
‘See? Forty-five percent. All we need’s for one person in twenty to change their minds, and it’s fifty-fifty!’
The smile grew a bit. ‘Supoose.’
‘Damn right.’ She held up her glass. ‘Slàinte mhath.’
Hadden clinked his drink against hers and they drank.
Logan took the glass off him. ‘So you’re saying you had nothing to do with Chris Browning going missing?’
‘God, no. No, all I did was slip a couple of quid to Elaine and Jane. Told them to phone the Examiner and say Browning liked it rough and kinky. Honest. Ask them. And that wasn’t till after he went missing.’
Logan just stared at him.
‘Honest. I mean I know it was childish and that, but I wanted … It didn’t seem fair they were always trying to scare people and … it … the “Yes” campaign needed … I …’ Pink spread across his cheeks. ‘Sorry.’
‘You do know defamation is against the law, Mr Hadden?’
‘Meh, it’s civil, no’ criminal.’ Steel pushed Logan’s free, untouched, thank-you-for-participating whisky across the table to Hadden. ‘Our wee friend here wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, was he? Just wobble the balance our way a bit.’
‘Please. I’m really, really sorry.’
‘There you go: he’s sorry.’ She knocked back her Famous Grouse. ‘Didn’t even work in the end.’
Their shoulders dipped.
Up on the TV screen, they called the Fife results. “No”: 55.05%, “Yes”: 44.95%.
Only one more local authority to declare and that was it.
Hadden gulped down the free whisky. Huffed out a breath. ‘Look, can I … I don’t know … buy you a drink or something? As an apology.’
Steel beamed. ‘Course you can!’
Logan shook his head. ‘Going to need you to come back to the station and make a statement.’
‘Don’t you listen to him, Haddy. You go get your Aunty Roberta a nice double Macallan and we’ll say no more about it.’
‘Thank you.’ Hadden got up and went to the bar.
Logan watched him go. ‘You do know he’ll try to do a runner, don’t you?’
But he didn’t. He bought three whiskies and he brought them back to the table. Shared them out. ‘I’m really, really sorry. I am. It was just … I dunno, stupid.’
Steel helped herself to a double and wheeched it down. ‘Ahh … Nice.’ She pointed at Logan’s. ‘You’re on duty, right?’ Then helped herself to that one as well.
‘Whoops …’ Steel’s legs didn’t seem to be working any more. Probably due to the fact that they’d be knee-deep in whisky on the inside. ‘M’fine …’ Her smile spread and faded and spread and faded, as if it was out of focus. ‘Cldn’t be brrrrr.’
Half six in the morning and the bar crowd had thinned out again. Now, only the hardcore remained – clinging to their drinks in much the same way that Steel was clinging to the table. ‘Whhhsssssssski.’
Hadden nodded towards the bar. ‘Should I …?’
‘No chance.’ Logan stood. ‘Whatever hangover she’s got in the morning will be punishment enough.’
Steel peered up at him. ‘Wanmorrrr.’
‘Don’t care. You’re going home.’
‘Awwwww …’
He dug his hands into her armpits, but it was like trying to pick up a pile of loose socks. Every time he got one bit upright, another bit collapsed.
Hadden hurried round to the other side. ‘Let me give you a hand.’
Between them they wrestled her to her feet. Then caught her before she hit the ground. Turned and frogmarched her out through the front doors and onto Regent Quay.
The first hints of dawn curled pale blue at the corners of the sky, doing nothing to overpower the docks’ spotlights. Half six, and Aberdeen was waking up. The sound of traffic picking up on the dual carriageway.
Hadden shifted his grip on Steel’s other arm. ‘Where to?’
Closest place would be Logan’s flat, but if she was going to puke she could sodding well do it somewhere else. Station, or her house? Hmm …
‘Back to the station.’ She could owe him one. And this way her wife wouldn’t be left wading through a lake of pizza-and-whisky vomit.
‘You got a car?’
‘Nope. Walked.’
High overhead, a seagull screamed.
‘Going to take a while then.’ Hadden frowned. ‘We could take my car? Got vinyl seat covers, in case she … You know.’
And Steel ‘you know’-ing was very likely indeed. Plus, the sooner he could make her someone else’s problem the better. ‘Yeah, that’d be good, thanks.’
Hadden led the way with the left-hand side of Steel, while Logan followed with the right. She just dangled in the middle, making burbling noises.
‘I’m really sorry about Chris Browning—’
‘It’s OK. Enough. I get it.’ Logan puffed out a breath. ‘You screwed up.’
‘I know, but—’
‘She was right, it’s a civil law matter, not criminal. If Chris Browning wants to sue you for defamation when he turns up, that’s his business. Hold your hand up and settle out of court. It’ll cost you a lot less than paying for his lawyers and yours.’
A little smile. ‘Thanks.’
They half-walked-half-carried Steel along the road, then left into James Street – another claustrophobic little alleyway that connected Regent Quay to the dual carriageway. Alec Hadden’s rusty Volvo sat at the end, with most of its rear end sticking out over the double yellows.
Logan leaned Steel against the car’s back door. ‘Right, you’d better give me the keys.’ He held his hand out to Hadden. ‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Yes. Right. Of course.’ He took out the keys, complete with little tartan fob, and passed them over. ‘That’s what I meant.’
‘Good.’ Logan plipped the locks open, and they wrestled her into the backseat.
‘Erm …’ Hadden pointed. ‘Think we should put her in the recovery positon or something? Just in case?’
He had a point.
Logan rearranged her arms and legs, till it was as close as he could get given the space. She could barf away to her heart’s content and not choke on the chunks. The footwell was going to end up in a hell of a mess, though. ‘OK, let’s get—’
Something hard battered into the back of his head, sending him sprawling, filling his skull with the sound of burning and the smell of broken glass …
A voice in the distance. ‘Sorry.’
Then another thump and everything went—
9
Steel slumped back against the pillow and groaned. ‘How could you do it? To me?’
‘How could I?’ Logan reached over and poked her in the shoulder. ‘What about you?’
‘Don’t you even dare.’ She clacked her lips open and closed a couple of times, then shuddered. ‘Tastes like a badger threw up in my mouth …’
He looked around the room: embossed wallpaper painted a vile shade of pale pink. Polished floorboards with a knotted rug. Dresser in the corner with a mirror above it. Flatpack wardrobe. One window, and a door. And, of course, the bed. All shiny and brass with a barred headboard and footboard, little sceptre things on the corner posts. ‘Where are we?’
&
nbsp; She puffed out her cheeks. ‘Susan’s going to kill me when she finds out.’
The view through the window was nothing but blue sky and clouds.
‘What happened to our clothes?’
‘I mean, bad enough cheating on her, but with a man? With you?’
‘Will you shut up and focus? We didn’t do this – Alec Bloody Hadden did.’ Logan reached up with his spare hand and ran his fingers across the back of his skull. Winced as a hundred needles tore through his scalp. There was a lump back there that felt the size of a hardboiled egg, the hair spiky and stiff. Probably dried blood. ‘Ow …’
She scowled at him. ‘Who the hell is Alec Hadden?’
‘He was the scumbag buying you whisky last night.’
The expression on her face didn’t change.
‘The Regents Arms? Remember? You staggered in half-cut and tried to pick a fight with Kurt Murison?’
Steel curled her top lip. ‘Kurt “The Mangler” Murison? God, I must have been drunk.’
‘Had to carry you to the car. Then sodding Alec Hadden battered me over the back of the head.’ And when Logan got his hands on him, he’d repay the favour with a stiff boot in the testicles. Hadden was going to come down with a bad case of resisting arrest. There was a second bump, beside the first. More needles. ‘Ow …’
‘Well stop poking at it then!’ She raised her head from the pillow and grimaced. ‘Look at it: pink! No’ even a nice pink – Barbie pink. Who paints a bedroom Barbie pink? What are they, six?’ A sniff. ‘Where’s my clothes?’
‘How would I know?’ He nodded to himself. ‘Right, we need to get out of here.’
‘Really? Gosh, whatever made you think of that? You must be some sort of genius!’
‘Shut up and think. How do we get out of the cuffs?’
‘Don’t look at me. Only time I’ve ever been handcuffed to a bed there’s been spanking and safewords.’
‘Yeah, thanks. That’s a lot of help.’ Logan stared at the end of the bed, where their feet poked out from under the duvet. His right ankle was shackled to the bars, but Steel’s weren’t. ‘Why didn’t he cuff your legs too?’
She pulled her feet in, hiding them. ‘Got a verruca. Maybe he’s squeamish?’
‘That, or you’re too short and your legs don’t reach.’
45% Hangover [A Logan and Steel novella] Page 5
