Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8

by Stuart MacBride

  She wasn’t here.

  So much for that idea.

  All that talk of consecrated earth and the power of bones …

  Never listen to daft auld wifies, no matter how good their shortbread is.

  Logan headed back towards the patrol car, leaving Rennie to struggle with the weeds. ‘Get on the phone to the council. I want that grave filled in again before some idiot falls down it and breaks their neck.’

  There was a brief shout, a rustle and a crunch.

  Logan spun around, but there was no sign of Rennie. ‘Oh, for God’s sake! Tell me you didn’t.’

  ‘Ow … Help! It’s got me! Aaaaaaaargh! Run: save yourself!’ Then Rennie popped up in the middle of a stand of willowherb with a grin plastered across his stupid face and tufts of white all over his suit. ‘Got you.’

  No wonder Steel picked on him.

  Rennie pulled the patrol car in to the side of the road, ignoring the zigzag lines for the pedestrian crossing. Causeway End was a lot busier than it had been just before seven that morning, the stream of traffic wheeching itself around Mounthooly roundabout’s bulk moving like a twisting snake of steel and glass.

  Logan popped off his seatbelt. ‘Tell Chalmers I want her in my office soon as I get back to the ranch.’

  Rennie picked another clump of willowherb from the front of his jacket and dropped it in the footwell. Where it promptly stuck to his trousers. ‘Bloody stuff’s like Velcro.’

  ‘And after that, you can check up on how Guthrie’s doing getting hold of Anthony Chung’s arrest record from San Francisco.’

  Another bit of fluff joined the others. ‘Does it really matter? He’s kinda dead, so—’

  ‘Because I say so, that’s why.’ He climbed out, then stuck his head back through the open door. ‘I want the names of everyone he was associated with, and if any of them have come into the country in the last six months.’

  Rennie’s frown turned into a smile. ‘Ah: you think Agnes didn’t kill him after all. It was one of his old gang mates come to settle a score.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot: of course Agnes killed him. I want to know who put her up to it. If Goulding’s profile is right, she needs a dominant personality to tell her what to do.’

  ‘Ah … And it’s not like any of her friends had the stones to go up against Anthony Chung. Even Dan Fisher, with his unrequited crush, wouldn’t dare. And last time he tried, she scrambled his eggs with her knee.’ Rennie huffed a breath onto his fingernails then polished them on his fuzzy lapel. ‘Oh yeah: I do read the case notes, you know. It’s—’

  A horn blared out behind them: a dirty big articulated lorry hissed to a halt six foot from the back of the patrol car, its driver giving them the one-fingered salute.

  Logan slammed the door and stepped back onto the pavement.

  Rennie pulled away and the lorry grumbled after him.

  Chasing down Anthony Chung’s old associates was probably a waste of time, but at least they’d be doing something.

  Logan hurried down to the pedestrian crossing, then worked his way across both dual carriageways to the Kwik Fit garage on the corner overlooking Mounthooly.

  He popped over the low wall, squeezed between two parked cars in the MOT section … Then froze.

  A mud-streaked Transit van sat on the forecourt, right outside the entrance. Rusty dents and scrapes marred the once-white paintwork. Reuben’s van.

  Time to turn around and—

  A low growling voice, right behind him: ‘Get in the van.’

  Shite …

  ‘No. Don’t think so.’

  A big hairy hand appeared from his left-hand side, it was holding a mobile phone, the screen showing a small photo of Wee Hamish Mowat’s sunken face, below the word ‘CONNECTED’.

  OK … He took the phone. ‘Hamish?’

  ‘Ah, Logan, I’m so glad to hear that you’re all right after your close shave this morning. Do you have a minute to talk?’

  Not really. He took a step forward, then turned to face the mountain of muscle and scar tissue – standing there in his grubby blue boilersuit with a face like cracked stone. ‘Someone cut my brake lines.’

  A pause. ‘I see. That is an unfortunate development, isn’t it. Very unfortunate indeed. But I need you to put that behind you for a moment and go with Reuben.’

  ‘Not a chance in hell.’

  ‘Logan, remember I told you about the cannabis farms and the violence and the uncertainty and concern that breeds? Well, I’m afraid this little business rivalry has come to a bit of a head. And I’d appreciate it if you would help Reuben sort things out.’

  ‘You have got to be—’

  ‘I give you my word that Reuben is there to facilitate your role as an officer of the law, nothing more. We all want to see an end to the senseless violence, don’t we?’

  ‘Facilitate.’

  Reuben grinned at him, the scar tissue on his cheeks pulling it all out of shape.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Of course you do, Logan. Everyone always has a choice.’

  Reuben stepped forward, closing the gap until the swollen barrel of his stomach was pressed against him. ‘What do you think?’

  Logan got in the van.

  41

  The Transit van growled away from the garage, the gear changes a symphony of grinding metal. A smell of stale fat and old garlic filled the cab, overlaid on something sharp and metallic and the sickly pear-drop scent of fresh plastic.

  Logan shifted on the sticky seat. ‘How did you know where I’d be?’

  ‘None of your business.’ Reuben flexed his shoulders beneath the blue boilersuit. ‘And just for the record: I don’t cut brake lines. When I come for you, McRae, I’ll not be sneaking about under your car with a pair of pliers.’

  Probably because the fat sod wouldn’t fit.

  ‘“When” you come for me?’

  ‘You’ll bloody well know about it. You’ll get to see it coming.’

  Oh joy.

  ‘That’s the way it’s going to be, is it?’

  ‘You, me, and a chainsaw.’

  ‘You know what, Reuben? You can …’ Logan frowned. There was a noise coming from the back of the van. A sort of muffled moaning to go with the creak and rattle of the old Transit.

  He turned in his seat and peered into the cavernous interior.

  Plastic sheeting covered the floor and walls – held in place with thick strips of grey duct tape. A figure was scrunched up in the far corner, sitting with his back to the van doors, knees up against his chest, cable-ties around his ankles, arms behind his back, an off-white pillowcase over his head. It was stained dark brown around the front.

  ‘There’s someone in the back of the van …’

  No reply.

  ‘Reuben: why have you got someone trussed up in the back of your van?’

  A shrug. ‘Everyone’s got to have a hobby.’

  Logan dropped his voice to a hissing whisper. ‘I’m a police officer, you bloody idiot – do you really think—’

  ‘Mr Fisher here’s been a very naughty boy.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s mooned the Queen and shagged her corgis, you can’t just—’

  ‘See, Mr Mowat says I’m not allowed to kill you, or mutilate you, or hack your balls off and make you eat them. Didn’t say anything about you falling down a few times and breaking something though.’ Reuben turned his scarred smile in Logan’s direction, eyes dark and hooded. ‘Now, you gonnae shut the fuck up, or do I pull this van over?’

  ‘You know what, I’m sick and tired of your—’ Logan’s phone burst into Steel’s sinister ringtone. He dragged it out. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’

  ‘Where the goat-buggering hell are you? Supposed to be in with Professional Standards getting your bum spanked, no’ gallivanting off—’

  As if there weren’t bigger things to worry about. If in doubt: lie. ‘No I’m not.’
<
br />   ‘Aye, you are – I told Rennie specifically to tell you, and he—’

  ‘Nope, must’ve slipped his mind. Believe it or not, we’ve been a bit busy trying to catch a killer today, so—’

  ‘Oh no you don’t: you’re the one let her escape in the first place! Now get your arse back here so Professional Standards can spank it.’

  ‘Can’t. I’m in the middle of something.’

  ‘Laz, I’m warning you—’

  ‘Got to go.’ He hung up on her and switched his phone off.

  Steel could shout at him later. Assuming he survived whatever the hell this was.

  Rowan steps back into the outside catering van’s shadow, the smell of sausages and frying onions thick and dark in the air. The industrial estate sulks on the outskirts of Dyce, a sad collection of corrugated metal buildings with unpronounceable names and chunky logos, ringed in with chainlink fencing. Most aren’t even open: just empty shells with ‘FOR LEASE OR SALE’ signs fastened to the gates.

  ‘BANGERS AND BAPS’ is painted along the back of the van in big black letters, not that anyone can see it. It’s parked in a lay-by with nothing behind it but trees and weeds.

  The Witch wanders across the road, hands in his pockets, chunky headphones sitting on top of his head, lips pursed in a tuneless whistle. Making noise for the sake of it, hauling his jagged aura of red and orange flames behind him. He pauses in front of the van’s menu board and rubs his hands together. Grins. Then pushes the headphones back so they hang around his neck, and goes up to the counter. His accent is half American, half Scottish, his skin the colour of old newspapers. ‘Yeah, can I get a bacon buttie with egg, and a thing of chips?’

  A condemned man’s last meal should be something a bit more special than that, shouldn’t it?

  Whoever’s running the van is out of sight, but her voice is like the rumble of faraway thunder. ‘You want tea, or a juice, or something?’

  ‘Irn-Bru.’

  He should’ve gone for fillet steak and a bottle of champagne.

  ‘Coming right up.’

  The plan is simple enough: follow him back where he came from, question him, then give him the chance to purify his soul, before delivering it to God. Easy.

  Two minutes later, a little red Peugeot hatchback pulls into the lay-by, diesel engine grumbling and rattling to a halt. A large man with a dusting of grey hair around his pale forehead turns and says something to the pair of children in the back, then climbs out into the warm afternoon, leaving a black and green trail behind him. It barbs and swirls around his long black coat. Jabbing at the earth beneath his feet.

  Rowan shrinks back against the side of the van. A Raptor … This isn’t in the plan. This isn’t in the plan at all.

  He stops at the serving hatch and smiles. ‘Aye, aye, Betty. Fit like the day, then?’

  ‘Can’t complain, Ian. Usual?’

  ‘Aye, and a couple bags of crisps for the wains.’ He turns and waves back at the Peugeot. The children wave back. A young boy and a little girl, her golden hair bobbing about an angelic little face.

  ‘Oh, aren’t they adorable?’

  ‘That’s the joy of grandchildren, you can spoil them rotten and no’ have to worry about the consequences.’ He slips his hand into his coat pocket, pulls out an old-fashioned iPod, and goes thumbing through the menu. ‘You keen on Steppenwolf, Betty?’

  ‘More of a Bruce Springsteen girl, myself.’

  He pops the earbuds in, then puts the iPod back in his long black jacket. Like the wings of a crow. ‘“Born to be Wild” – can’t beat it. Got a good rhythm.’ He smiles at the Witch. ‘How about you?’

  A shrug. ‘Dunno about old music.’ He reaches up and takes a tin from the counter. Clicks the tab on it and downs a deep draught of Irn-Bru.

  Ian takes out a pair of black leather gloves and puts them on. ‘Kinda my theme tune.’ Then he turns and waves at the kids in the car again. Covers his eyes with his gloved hands, then throws them open. ‘Peekaboo!’

  The children giggle and do the same back.

  Betty shuffles about inside the van, making the springs creak. ‘Here you go, loon, one bacon-and-egg buttie, with chips. Sorry you’ve had a wait. Help yourself to sauce and that.’

  The Witch steps forward, reaching for his food, a smile on his face.

  One more go at peekaboo, only this time the children don’t peek, they keep their eyes covered as Ian pulls a hammer from his long black coat and cracks the Witch over the back of the head with it.

  The Witch stumbles, a cry caught in his throat, the tin of Irn-Bru erupting in a fountain of orange as it hits the ground. Then he’s on his knees, holding himself up with one hand on the counter.

  Ian drones out the opening words to ‘Born to be Wild’ then slams the hammer down on the Witch’s wrist.

  A squeal and he falls to the floor, curling up in a ball as Ian slams his boot into his back. Then he wraps his gloved hands into the Witch’s hair and drags him around behind the van.

  ‘What’ve you been told?’

  Rowan peers around the edge of the van, using the big bottles of Calor gas as a blind.

  The Witch is scuffing backwards through the dirt, ruined wrist clutched to his chest, the other hand up – pointing. Teeth bared. ‘I’m warning you, Grandad, you don’t know who you’re—’

  Ian kicks him in the face. ‘It’s Mr Falconer to you, sunshine.’

  He rolls onto his front, bright red spattering from his mouth. ‘Unngh …’

  ‘And I know exactly who I’m messing with: Jake Ran Yingnu. You were supposed to do a job, Mr Ran.’ Ian kicks him again. ‘Did you really think twenty grand’s worth of cannabis could disappear from your farm and no one would bat an eyelid?’ Ian pops out the earbuds and stares down at him, head on one side, a bird of prey watching a wounded rabbit. ‘Well?’

  The Witch pushes himself up … then collapses forward again, forehead resting on the blood-stained earth, bum in the air, as if he’s praying to Mecca. ‘I didn’t steal it! It wasn’t me!’

  ‘Think the McLeod brothers give a toss about that? That weed was in your care, you were responsible for it. And you let someone just waltz in and nick it in the middle of the night?’ He backs up a couple of steps, then takes a run up and slams a boot into the Witch’s ribs, hard enough to flip him over. ‘How’d they find the place? How’d they get past the alarms? Who told them?’

  ‘AAAAAAAGH …’ Coughing. Wheezing. The Witch wraps his good arm around his chest, his teeth bloody tombstones in a scarlet mouth. ‘It wasn’t me, I swear, I didn’t—’

  ‘Place was meant to be secure. The McLeods trusted you.’

  Tears roll down the Witch’s cheeks, making clear trails in the dust. ‘I didn’t tell anyone! I did what I was supposed to do. IT WASN’T ME!’

  Ian hunkers down beside him, the hammer’s scuffed metal head resting on the dirt. ‘You know what? I believe you. Wasn’t your fault. You’d have to be sodding mental to screw with the McLeods like that, wouldn’t you? And if you did, you wouldn’t stick around afterwards: you’d be on the first flight out of here. Get as far away as you could before they came after you.’

  The Witch’s shoulders judder as sobs crack free from his bloody lips. ‘I didn’t … it wasn’t me … I would … would never—’

  ‘But it doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? If Simon and Colin let you off with this, the next thing you know everyone thinks they’ve gone soft. Don’t want that, do you?’

  ‘Please …’

  ‘Course you don’t.’ Ian sticks his earbuds back in, then frowns. ‘Pfff … Missed the best bits.’ He produces the iPod and pokes at it.

  ‘Please, I’ll … anything … anything you want, it’s … it’s yours …’ The Witch pushes himself back along the dirty ground. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong!’

  ‘Here we go.’ Ian puts the iPod away again. Closes his eyes for a moment, nodding in time to the music. Th
en raises the hammer above his head and swings it down, right into the side of the Witch’s knee. There’s a wet cracking sound. A scream. Then he does it again. And again. Grabbing hold of the Witch’s belt so he can’t scramble away. Keeping the beat with his hammer as he sings along.

  A metronome of blood and fear.

  Born to be Wild.

  Rowan watches until there’s nothing left of the Witch’s knees but pulp and shards of bone, then slips away.

  Reuben pulled into the parking space right in front of a glossy edifice of yellow sandstone and emerald-green glass. Posters in the window encouraged people to bet on when the first goal would be scored against Celtic in the Scottish Cup Final on Saturday at Hampden Park, or who’d get red-carded, or injured, with photos of cheery actors holding wads of notes and glasses of champagne. From the look of things, being burned down was the best thing that had happened to the Turf ’n Track in years.

  He hauled up the creaky handbrake, then turned to the poor sod in the back. ‘You sit tight, Mr Fisher. My mate Terry’s going to be right here watching you. Doesn’t say much, but he’s a nightmare with a Stanley knife.’ Then the big man hopped out into the overcast afternoon. Looked back in at Logan. ‘You: out.’

  It wasn’t as if he had much of an option …

  He followed Reuben’s broad back towards the Turf ’n Track’s front door. ‘Terry?’

  ‘If the wee knob knows he’s all alone in there, he’ll get restless. Might kick up a fuss, bang on the sides of the van, try to get himself a wee bit of help. Terry’ll be good company for him: make sure he does the right thing.’

  The Turf ’n Track’s door opened with a bleep, announcing their arrival into a clean, sparkling room with one wall of floor-to-ceiling flatscreen TVs. Another wall was covered in pages from the Racing Post, listing all the meetings, runners and riders. And all the way across the front: a long counter manned by three attractive young blonde women in green-and-yellow uniforms cut just low enough to show a bit of cleavage. All of them wearing enough slap to sink a Debenhams makeup counter.

  Three men in suits sat at a breakfast bar thing in the middle of the room, watching the races, eating paninis, and sipping bottles of Corona with lime wedged in the neck.