Shuggie dived on top of him … or on top of the upturned table. The bottom edge cracked into Logan’s shin, the upper edge hard across his chest. Shuggie drew back a massive fist and swung.
Logan wrapped his arms around his head, ducking down behind his forearms like a boxer, eyes screwed shut as the punch hammered into his right bicep. Then another one, catching him in the right armpit.
‘Aaaagh, get off, you—’
One more on his right elbow, thumping his head back into the kitchen units.
‘This is all your fault!’ Another punch. ‘I want them fucking drugs back!’
The next one slammed into Logan’s arm again.
Always on the right side – Shuggie was using his left fist, saving his right…
Logan’s head bounced off the units, but this time he dropped his guard and grabbed the bloody bandage, wrapped his fingers around Shuggie’s right hand and squeezed hard.
Chapter 29
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!’ Shuggie’s face went pale.
Logan jerked the hand to the side, digging his nails in.
‘FUCK!’ The big man slapped at Logan’s wrist, scrabbled backwards. Out of reach. ‘FUCK!’ Eyes wide, a string of spittle spiralling down from his open mouth. And then he lurched forward and stomped on the table, sending Logan crashing back to the linoleum.
‘Fuck…’ Shuggie lurched out of the room, clutching his bloody hand to his chest.
Logan could hear him staggering down the hall, bumping into the wall, the crash and tinkle of framed pictures hitting the floor. Then the front door slammed.
So much for everything going easier than last time.
Get up. Get up and charge after him. Tackle him on the stairs and crack the bastard’s head off the concrete walls. Slap the cuffs on. Then kick him in the balls…
Logan slumped back against the soggy lino.
Sod that.
Just lie here a minute. Catch his breath.
His right arm throbbed.
Willy Cunningham’s hairy face appeared above him, one eye already heading from lurid pink to post-box red, the skin around it swelling and darkening. ‘You OK?’
‘No.’ He shoved the table away, and struggled to his feet. Then stood for a minute, holding onto the working surface.
‘Bloody hell…’ Willy turned on the spot, arms held out from his sides. ‘Look at the place. Molly’s going to kill me!’
DI Steel’s gravelly voice came from the hallway. ‘Little help?’
Logan cradled his battered arm, scowling. ‘Where the hell were you?’
A single black-shoed foot appeared in the doorway, about two-feet off the ground, toe pointing upward, followed by a short length of crumpled sock, a flash of bare ankle, then a wrinkled grey trouser leg. ‘Argh.’
He picked his way across the beer-and-milk-slicked linoleum to the door.
She was lying on her back, tangled up in the chair Shuggie had tried to take Logan’s head off with. The battered carton of cream lay beside her, its contents splattered all over her.
Steel wiped her eyes, flicking droplets of thick white against the walls. ‘Sodding hell… Pfffffffp… Ack…’ She stared at her hands, her arms, her chest – all dripping with double cream. Smeared another handful from her cheeks and chin. ‘Now I know what it feels like to star in a porn film…’
Logan hauled her to her feet. ‘You were a lot of bloody good.’ She scowled. ‘He threw a chair at me! What was I supposed to do?’
‘What happened to, “You’ve got to keep an eye on people like Shuggie”, “Can’t bury your head in the sand and expect them to behave”, “That’s just common sense”?’
‘Oh … shut up.’
‘And an orange-and-soda for the big girl’s blouse.’ Big Gary clunked the pint glass down on the coffee table in front of Rennie.
‘I’m driving, OK?’ The constable took a sip.
The Athenaeum was relatively quiet for a Sunday night, meaning they’d managed to bag two of the big saggy sofas, with a view out onto the Castlegate: a couple trying to conceive in the bus stop, some drunken singing, a lone idiot marching up and down with a placard proclaiming ‘JESUS WILL SAVE ALISON AND JENNY IF YOU BELIEVE!’
Logan reached for his pint of Stella, winced, then tried with his left hand instead. His whole right arm was seizing up, probably covered in thick black bruises. Sodding Shuggie Webster…
Big Gary levered his huge arse down into a creaking sofa. Raised his Guinness. ‘To Superintendent Green – our man from SOCA – may his life be long … and plagued with piles.’
Doreen clinked her white wine against Gary’s glass. ‘And verrucas.’
Steel joined in. ‘Impotence.’
Logan: ‘Anal leakage.’
Rennie: ‘Premature ejaculation!’
Steel hit him. ‘How can he have premature ejaculation if he’s impotent, you tit?’
‘Ow! Just means if he ever does get it up, it’s going to be sod all use to him.’
Big Gary nodded. ‘The loon’s got a point.’
‘Meh.’ Steel tried her whisky, following it down with a big glug of IPA. ‘Right, before we all get irredeemably blootered, how do we find Alison and Jenny McGregor?’
Doreen groaned, let her head fall back until she was staring at the ceiling. ‘I’ve been doing this all bloody day!’
‘Tell that to a wee girl who’s no’ got her little toes any more.’
Rennie popped open a packet of cheese and onion. ‘What about the forensic thing? I mean, they don’t leave a single trace – that’s not normal, is it?’
‘And?’
Shrug. ‘Maybe we should, you know, be looking at police officers? Or the IB? Maybe someone retired, or fired, or something?’
Doreen nodded. ‘Would make sense. They’d have motive for making the rest of us look like idiots.’
Steel’s mouth fell open, eyes wide. She snapped her fingers. ‘That’s brilliant! Rennie, you’re a genius!’
The constable sat up straight. ‘Well, sometimes it’s—’
‘Why did no one think of that earlier? A whole squad of highly experienced officers, and no one thought to look at the forensics angle. You’re some sort of deductive god!’
Rennie’s shoulders sagged a bit. ‘What?’
‘We certainly haven’t had a team looking into that for the last week and a bit!’
‘Oh…’
Steel hit him again. ‘Twit.’
Logan helped himself to one of Rennie’s crisps. ‘What about the students in her psychology class?’
Steel sucked her teeth for a moment. ‘…McPherson’s looking into it, I think. Well, him or Evans. Don’t see a bunch of spotty layabouts managing to pull this off though, do you? They’d have to get up in the morning. Be too busy analysing each other’s bumholes.’
‘No, I’m going home.’ Logan stood. His shins bumped the low table, setting the graveyard of empty glasses clinking against each other. ‘Samantha’s waiting.’
The pub had got busier, the noise level rising with the alcohol consumption.
A group of middle-aged women, dressed in clothes far too young for them, were singing ‘Happy Birthday to You’ for about the sixth time, complete with shrieks of laughter. Rennie had been sent over to complain, and returned with a paper plate heaped with slices of chocolate cake and a cheek smeared with bright-red lipstick.
‘Aw, go on.’ The constable waggled his third pint of Tennent’s at Logan. ‘One more for the road!’
‘Thought you were driving?’
Rennie shook his head. ‘Emma says she’ll come get me.’ Grin. ‘Isn’t she great?’
Doreen tipped the last of the white wine into her glass, and sagged. ‘Everyone’s got someone to go home to, but me…’
DS Bob Marshall appeared through the throng, carrying a fresh pint of something dark. ‘You can come home with us, if you like, Doors? You me and Deborah can re-enact the Swinging Sixties.’ He gave her a big leering wink.
‘Urgh…�
�� Doreen shuddered. ‘I think I just threw up a little.’
‘Charming.’ He dragged a seat over. Paused, wrinkled his top lip and sniffed. ‘Why can I smell cheese?’
Logan pulled on his stained jacket. ‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving.’
Bob hump-shuffled his chair closer to the table. ‘Surprised I can smell anything at all: Stinky Tam was like… Actually, you don’t want to know. But Jesus, what a stench. Found him in the bushes at the side of the road, all bloated and leaky and bits falling off. Pretty sure the rats had been at him too.’
Doreen scowled. ‘You were right, we didn’t want to know.’
‘How can someone drop dead in the middle of the city, and no bastard notices, eh?’ A slurp of beer. ‘I’d’ve been here ages ago, but those GED bastards dragged me off to some poor sod who’d topped himself. General Enquiries Division my arse – Gormless Evil Dickheads more like.’ Another slurp. ‘Anyway, so come on then: who’s the bird with Steel?’
‘With the dark hair?’ Big Gary peered over Doreen’s head towards the bar.
Logan turned and did the same. DI Steel was just visible through the throng, her hand on the small of some woman’s back. Curly dark hair shot through with grey; jeans and a tight silk shirt; glasses perched on the top of her head; party hat set at a jaunty angle.
Steel leaned in and said something. The woman laughed, setting an impressive set of bosoms jiggling.
Logan edged his way out from the table and made for the door. Stopped. Then turned and waded through the crowd to the bar. He tapped Steel on the shoulder. ‘That’s me away.’
She turned, her eyes narrowing for a moment. ‘Good for you.’ Then back to whispering something in her new friend’s ear.
The woman threw her head back and gave another cleavage-wobbling laugh. ‘Oh, Honey, you are priceless.’ American accent.
Logan forced a smile and grabbed hold of Steel’s arm. ‘Excuse us a minute.’ He pulled her away to the nearest alcove. ‘What are you doing?’
Steel shook herself free. ‘Fuck does it look like I’m doing? I’m talking to—’
‘You’re married, remember?’
The inspector’s mouth became a hard thin line. ‘Since when is it any of your bloody business what—’
‘You really need me to answer that?’
Pink flushed up her cheeks. Then she looked away. ‘I’m just having a bit of fun, OK? It’s no’ like I’m going to shag her or anything.’ Steel stuck both hands against her forehead, pulling the wrinkles away. Sighed. ‘Susan says she’s still no’ ready. Been nearly a year. A year, and she’s still won’t… I’m only fucking human, Laz.’
‘Just… Just don’t do something you’re going to regret.’
‘Aye.’ She patted him on the arm. ‘Thanks.’
Logan stepped out into the bustle of Union Street: the rumble of buses, the wailing screech of seagulls, that idiot with the ‘JESUS!’ sign singing some sort of hymn in a broken falsetto. The streets were still wet from the last downpour, shining in the evening light.
He sidestepped a teenager with a cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth, a mobile phone clamped to her ear, and a wee kid strapped into a buggy.
‘Yeah… Yeah, I know, but he’s a total wanker, so what can you do?’ Click-clacking on too-high heels.
Logan glanced back through the Athenaeum’s windows, and there was DI Steel, back at the bar, with her arm around the buxom party girl.
Christ’s sake…
You know what: he wasn’t her mother. If she wanted to screw everything up, she was on her own.
‘You’re a big baby, there’s nothing to see.’ Samantha settled back on the couch.
‘You sure?’ Logan peered at his right arm… ‘There, that’s a bruise.’
‘That’s dirt.’ She clapped her hands, once. ‘Come on then, let’s see the other one.’
He slipped the shirt all the way off and turned around. The little square of wadding was frayed, the surgical sticky tape peeling and dirty around the edges. ‘Should it not stay—’
‘Can’t believe you’re still wearing that.’ She bounced off the couch, grabbed the wadding and tore it off.
A sudden sting of ripped out hair. ‘Ow!’
‘There.’ She nodded. ‘Looks good – told you the Reverend was an artist. You happy with it?’
‘Steel says they’re investigating the IB, in case any of you lot kidnapped Alison and Jenny?’
‘It suits you. Very minimalist.’
‘Can’t see it myself. Criminal masterminds? Half your team couldn’t tie their shoelaces without adult supervision.’
‘Let it breathe a bit: the redness will go down quicker. And for your information, we could run rings round you CID carpet-shaggers.’
He sat on the arm of the sofa. ‘Did you know Alison McGregor was a horror when she was young?’
‘Well … duh. Everyone knows. Then she met Doddy, and he swept her off her feet and she got pregnant, and vowed to put her life back on track for her husband and her little girl. Très romantic.’
‘Found a big pile of love letters when we searched her house on Friday.’ Logan picked at a tuft of thread, sticking up from one of the sofa’s seams. ‘Does it bother you?’
‘What?’
‘That I’ve … well, I’ve never written you any?’
‘Oh dear Jesus, no. I read the bloody things when Bruce brought them back to the lab last week.’
‘You read them?’
‘Who do you think put them back in the bottom drawer? Someone had to check her mail for threats, or secret lovers.’ She clasped her hands to her chest. ‘“Oh how the embers of my heart burn with the heat of a million suns!” Pffff… “Million suns.” I’d have more respect for the man if he’d said he burned with the heat of a summer’s day in Banchory. Or a bag of chips.’ Samantha tilted her head on one side, and stared at him. ‘If you ever write something like that at me, I’m going to kick you in the nuts and leave. Understand?’
‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t planning—’
‘Anyway,’ she pointed at his arm, ‘that means a hell of a lot more to me than some cheesy moon-in-June bollocks.’
She unfastened the thick leather belt from her jeans, popped the top button, unzipped the zip, then pulled her T-shirt up. ‘So…’ There was a little patch of wadding, not much bigger than a beer mat, stuck to her stomach, just beside her bellybutton. She peeled the sticky tape off. ‘What do you think?’
It was the number twenty-three, reversed out of a circle made up of squiggles. The ink was black, the skin slightly swollen, angry red fading to pasty-Scottish-white. It sat not far from the topmost spines of the tribal spider thing that reached all the way down to her knee; equidistant from a teddy bear with an axe in its chest, and a sort of bramble-twined rose.
‘Twenty-three?’
‘Yup. Call it a reply to the love note on your arm. See,’ she pointed at the squiggles, ‘now I’ve got twenty-three little scars. Just like you.’
Logan put a hand against his own stomach. Squinched up one side of his face. ‘Thanks … I think.’
She pulled her T-shirt back down again. ‘You don’t like it.’
‘No, it’s not that… I…’ He frowned. ‘I just … can’t decide if it’s a really sweet gesture, or a little creepy.’
Samantha grinned. ‘Can’t a girl be both?’
‘Dunno, she’s no’ looking that good.’
‘Course she’s not – she’s got a fever, you idiot.’
Hot. Far too hot. Jenny forces her eyes open. Cold. And Hot. And the light stabs her head like a sharpened pencil. The room starts to twirl. Dirty ceiling, scribbled-on walls, a bare light bulb that swims across a dirty sky…
So thirsty.
‘Well? What the hell are we supposed to do?’
The monsters are in the corner, all crinkly and white. Like ghosts made of paper.
‘So, do we call a doctor, or what?’
Her lips crack and burn. ‘Mummy…
’
‘Don’t be a dick, Tom.’
‘Who’re you calling a dick, Sylvester?’
‘Mummy…?’ Her head thumps and whumps.
‘It’s OK, darling, Mummy’s here. Shhh…’
A cool hand strokes Jenny’s forehead. ‘Thirsty.’
‘Use your heads.’ This monster isn’t like the other ones. He has pointy horns and a red swishy tail. And when he steps on the floorboards little circles of fire sprout into life. ‘How the fuck are we supposed to explain this to a doctor? “Oh, you know those two off the telly who’ve been kidnapped? Well, guess what we found…”’
‘Where’s bloody Colin when you need him?’
Mummy raises her voice. ‘She needs water.’
The monsters stop arguing. ‘Yeah, right. Sylvester, get her a bottle or something…’
‘He’s not answering his phone. Why isn’t he answering his bloody phone? I said he was fucking unreliable, didn’t I, David? Didn’t I say he was a big fat fucking liability?’
‘Here, it’s pretty cold. You maybe shouldn’t let her drink it all at once, or she’ll puke.’
Mummy’s face ripples into view. Her eyes are pink, so is her nose. She sniffs, wipes a drip away with the back of her hand. ‘Here, sweetie, try and take little sips…’
The hard plastic shape presses against Jenny’s lips and she gulps. Cold, wet, soothing – spreading out inside her. A frozen octopus reaching all the way from her elbows to her knees.
‘We got to do something, what if she dies?’
‘She’s not going to fucking die.’ DAVID leaves a trail of fiery feet across the floor. ‘Here: the useless tosser’s left his medical bag. She just needs more antibiotics or something.’
The water goes away. Jenny reaches for it, but her hands wobble and flap. Two balloons filled with sausages…
‘Shhh… It’ll be OK, sweetie, it’ll be OK. Mummy promises.’
‘Found some Fluc… Fluc-lox-acillin,’ sounding it out, ‘that’s right, isn’t it?’
‘How much do we give her?’
‘I dunno. Can you overdose on antibiotics?’
‘God’s sake, Tom.’ DAVID sighs, his shoulders hunching. ‘You’ve got an iPhone, Google it.’
‘Right… OK. Yeah. Here we go – got it. Flucloxacillin… How much does she weigh?’
Shatter the Bones Page 20
