‘You’re saying he was done by his own enforcer? What kind of—’
‘Think it’d be the first time one partner got greedy and the other one didn’t like it?’
Fair point. But there was no way Agnes Garfield didn’t kill Anthony Chung. Not with the magic circle on the floor, and the pricking knife she used on him, and the one she stabbed Dildo with …
It had to be her.
Didn’t it?
Rowan huddles in the undergrowth on the wrong side of a chainlink fence. Don’t breathe. Don’t move.
The Raptor is gone, pootling away in his little Peugeot, his happy grandchildren in the back eating prawn cocktail crisps.
Why? Why would a Raptor punish witches like that? And not even ask any questions, just beat and pound away to an old song from the sixties. He hammered the Witch’s knees until they looked like bone-flecked mince, then had a sausage in a bun and a cup of tea, laughing with Betty and chatting about going to the Algarve for the school holidays.
And all the while, the Witch lies twitching on the ground behind the Burger and Baps van, bleeding into the dirt.
He barely moves when the ambulance arrives. Not even when the paramedics stand over him in their green jumpsuits, staring and swearing at the mess where his knees should be.
Betty stands to one side, sipping on a mug of something, lying to a police officer. No, she didn’t see anything. No, the man didn’t order anything from her. The first time she knew anything was wrong was when she went to check the gas bottles, and found him lying there. She’s round and small, too small for that deep rumbling voice, malevolent pulses of green and black oozing out of her like sound waves.
Rowan chews the skin around her left pinkie until the salty-copper tang of blood sparks at the end of her tongue.
It was her job to find and save the Witch, and instead he’s forever out of her reach. His soul is forfeit.
She’s failed.
The Transit van growled away, trailing a cloud of diesel exhaust behind it. Logan hauled Dan Fisher off the pavement and into one of the low-tech porters’ chairs reserved for hospital use. Just an oversized dining-room chair with four slightly wonky wheels bolted onto the legs.
Fisher moaned behind the gag, beneath the stained pillowcase.
Logan removed them both.
Underneath, Fisher’s face was pale and greasy. Shock.
A gentle slap on the cheek made him blink, his voice wet and creaky. ‘Please, I don’t know …’
‘You’re at A&E. Dan? Dan, can you hear me?’
The automatic doors into the hospital creaked open, and one of the two uniforms stationed at ARI stuck his head out. ‘Guv? That you? You OK?’
‘I don’t know anything …’
Logan hunkered down beside the chair. ‘Where is he, Dan? Anthony Chung’s partner? Where do they keep the stuff? Where do you pick it up from?’
Fisher blinked at him, both pupils contracted to tiny pinholes in the watery blue iris. ‘It hurts …’
‘I know it does, Dan, but I need you to tell me how to find whoever’s running Anthony Chung’s operation.’
‘I don’t—’
Logan grabbed him by the collar. ‘I saved your life, you little prick! If it wasn’t for me, you’d be working your way through a pig’s digestive system right now. So tell me where I can find him!’
‘Guv?’ The uniform put a hand on Logan’s shoulder. ‘Is everything OK?’
Fisher rocked his head to the side, until he was staring at the PC. ‘I don’t know, I … I just pick the stuff up when I get a text message. Different place every time.’
Logan pulled his face back around. ‘But the same mobile number?’ They could do a GSM trace, find out—
‘No: codeword. “Moderator” … Same codeword, different mobile.’
So much for that.
Logan stood. ‘Better get him inside.’
‘Yes, Guv.’ The uniform grabbed the chair’s handles and wrestled the wheelie-chair through the automatic doors and into A&E.
The doors hissed shut again, leaving Logan’s reflection staring back at him from the glass. Would’ve been nice to head back to FHQ with enough information to break a drug ring … It might have distracted them from the complete cock-up at Ma Stewart’s that morning.
43
Logan peered through the window to the intensive therapy unit. Dildo lay on a hospital bed, flat on his back, face hidden behind an oxygen mask plumbed into the wall.
A uniformed PC sat in a plastic chair outside the ward, head buried in a thick textbook, lips moving as he frowned his way down the page. Overhead lighting sparkled back from a fist-sized bald patch.
Logan stopped in front of him. ‘Anything?’
‘I can’t understand a bloody word of this.’ He held the book up: Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. Nurse Claire strikes again. ‘Apparently I can’t prove the chair I’m sitting on exists, because I only think it exists because my bum tells me it does and I can’t empirically trust my bum to tell the truth …’
‘That what it says?’
‘Far as I can tell, one of the great philosophical minds of the eighteenth century thinks my arse is a liar.’
‘I wouldn’t stand for that, if I were you.’
A short doctor with dark-purple bags under her eyes and a distinct list to the left, limped out of the ITU, let the door swing shut behind her, then leaned back and rested her head against it. Sighed at the ceiling tiles.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Is he …?’
She blinked, her eyes pinching around the edges, as if she’d just stood on something sharp. Then came a brittle smile. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. Can I help you?’
‘Timothy Mair – the stabbing victim, is he …?’
‘Ah, yes. No, he’ll be fine. They stemmed the bleeding, and patched up the hole in his lung. We’re keeping an eye out for secondary infections and oedema, but he’ll be fine.’ She stifled a yawn, then scrubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry. Roll on July …’
‘Thanks.’ He made his way into the depths of the hospital. A pack of gurneys had gathered around the vending machines in the corridor outside. Ready to pounce. Two old men in matching brown plaid dressing gowns shuffled past, wheeling intravenous drips on stands and arguing about whether or not Aberdeen was going to get its backside skelped by Celtic in the cup final.
Logan kept going.
A pregnant woman with her left arm in a cast mashed her thumb against the button for the lifts. He joined her. Waiting till the thing creaked and groaned its way down from the fifth floor. Ding and the doors slid open. Inside, the floor was held together with strips of duct tape – the tape’s silver surface scuffed and holey. They stepped inside.
Halfway up, the woman burst into silent tears.
‘Are you OK?’
She didn’t answer, just kept her face to the wall, until the lift juddered to a halt, then scuffed out and away.
The doors slid closed.
Logan shut his eyes as the lift rose again. It didn’t matter how many photo exhibits they put on, or how many pretty paintings they hung on the corridor walls, Aberdeen Royal Infirmary was always going to be a sprawling concrete maze haunted by the sick and the dying.
Cheery stuff.
He took a deep breath as the doors opened again, and marched out and down the corridor. Head up. Pulling on a smile that hopefully didn’t look that forced.
After all, he’d escaped the place, Samantha would too.
Eventually …
Logan pushed through into the ward.
Samantha sat up in bed as soon as he walked in. Her hair was pillar-box red, the tattoos on her arms standing out against her pale skin. ‘Gah, I’m going mad in here.’
He pulled the visitor’s chair around and sank into it. Didn’t matter if his bum was lying to him or not, he was prepared to take its word for it. ‘You would not believe the day I’ve had.�
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‘Cauliflower cheese again for lunch. How do you make cauliflower cheese beige? It’s not physically possible.’
‘Dildo got stabbed.’
‘I know. But he’s going to be OK, so …’ A shrug. ‘You going to read more Witchfire to me?’
‘Can’t.’ Logan stuck his feet up on the bed. ‘Got a meeting with Professional Standards.’ He checked his watch. ‘Started … ooh, just over an hour ago.’
Silence. Then Samantha folded her arms across her chest. Never a good sign. ‘We need to talk.’
Here we go. ‘Can’t we just—’
‘It’s about time you got your finger out and got the flat refurbished. They finished the roof two years ago. You’re lucky the architect’s still speaking to you.’
‘I just haven’t had time, and—’
‘I’m not going to be in here forever. Might be nice to have a home to go to. Don’t get me wrong – I love my caravan – but … It’s too close to the road, and it’s a really busy roundabout. We’ll need somewhere safer for Cthulhu to live.’
Brilliant: first Jackie, now Samantha. He was not stuck like a bug in amber. ‘It’s not—’
‘Logan, it’s been two years: finger-out time.’
He slumped further down into the chair. ‘OK, OK, I’ll see what I can— Sodding hell.’
Steel’s theme tune sounded deep inside his jacket pocket. No prizes for guessing what she wanted. He dragged the thing out, fumbled it, and the mobile went clattering to the floor, spinning under the bed. Darth Vader’s theme tune got louder.
‘God’s sake!’ Logan wriggled out of the seat and peered under the bed. Bloody thing … He got down on his knees, and reached for it. The floor was cool to the touch, the smell of bleach and pine-scented disinfectant strong enough to make him blink. ‘Come on you little sod …’
His fingers wrapped around the thing, just as the music died.
Samantha’s head popped over the opposite edge of the bed, upside down, long scarlet hair sticking up like she’d been electrocuted. ‘What does Her Wrinkliness want?’
He glanced back. ‘She hung up. Probably wants a rant about me skipping out on Napier and his Professional Standards whinge …’ Logan stared.
‘What?’ A hand appeared, brushed across her cheek. ‘Have I got something on my face?’
There, hanging from the network of hydraulic rods and metal struts under the bed, was a knot of three small bones, held together with bright-red ribbon. The same shade as Samantha’s hair.
Agnes Garfield’s calling card.
She’d been there, in Samantha’s room.
‘Bastards …’ He stood.
Samantha frowned at him. ‘What?’
‘Useless bloody halfwit bastards …’ He wrenched open the door, and stuck his head out into the corridor. ‘GET YOUR ARSE IN HERE NOW!’
Back to the room.
She was lying face down on the bed, dangling over the edge, peering underneath. ‘What? What’s going on?’
‘Supposed to be keeping you safe!’
Footsteps clattered out in the corridor, then a huge nurse came battering through the door. Arms like tree trunks, evil-twin goatee beard, little round glasses. ‘What happened? Is everything OK?’
Logan jabbed a finger into the nurse’s chest. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on her! What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?’
‘Sorry?’ The nurse’s forehead creased, fingers curling in and out in front of his chest as if he was playing on a tiny video game handset. ‘OK, I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, or I’m going to have to call security.’
‘THEN CALL THEM! If they’d been doing their bloody jobs this wouldn’t happen. This is supposed to be a secure ward!’
‘This is a secure ward.’
‘Oh, it is, is it?’ Logan grabbed him by the collar and hauled him over to the bed. ‘Look underneath. Go on, LOOK!’
‘OK, OK … Sheesh …’ He dropped down on one knee. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘The bones, you halfwit!’
The nurse reached beneath the bed, fiddled with something, then stood. Agnes Garfield’s talisman lay in the palm of his hand. ‘Is this supposed to be some sort of joke?’
‘A joke?’ Logan snatched the bones and held them up, dangling them on the end of their ribbon. ‘Where did they come from?’
‘The only people who’ve been through here since I got on shift are the nurses, the consultant, and the bloke who fixed the printer. And they’ve all got security badges.’ He folded his massive arms and brought his chin up. ‘So I think you owe me an apology.’
Logan poked him in the chest again. ‘What about the catering staff? The people who came round with lunch? Or did they just magically teleport cauliflower cheese in from the canteen?’
The nurse took a step back. A frown pulling his features inwards, one hand reaching for the call button. ‘Cauliflower cheese …?’ He looked left, then right. ‘Why would they bring food in here? I mean … it’s the coma care ward. Everyone’s on drips and tubes.’
Logan blinked. Turned to stare at the bed again.
Samantha lay flat on her back, arms over the covers. The breathing tube fixed to the hole in her throat hissed slowly in, and out. A feeding tube in her nose. Both eyes taped shut. Her hair was a faded lacklustre red with eighteen inches of brown roots. Skin the colour of yoghurt, tattoos standing out like graffiti on a church wall.
He cleared his throat. ‘Yes … It’s …’
‘Are you feeling OK?’
‘No. Of course.’ Logan ran a hand over his eyes. Samantha was perfectly still, lying in the same position she’d lain in for the last two years. ‘Look: when did they last clean the room? Agnes Garfield must’ve been in since then. We can pull the security-camera footage.’
The nurse shook his head.
‘What?’
‘The cleaners mop the floors, empty the bins, wipe down the surfaces, stuff like that. They don’t sod about with all the hydraulic bits and bobs under the bed unless they’re doing a deep clean, or, you know, something’s happened.’ A shrug. ‘Could’ve been there for weeks.’
Three witch’s finger bones, dangling away beneath Samantha’s bed. Working their dark magic. Keeping him from finding Agnes Garfield.
Right.
Logan took a deep breath. Stared at the floor. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Yes, well …’ The nurse nodded. ‘I suppose, if I’m honest. If it was my girlfriend – if she was stuck in here, in a coma for a couple of years – I’d probably be squirrelly about it too.’
44
‘I see …’ Superintendent Napier steepled his fingers and peered over them at Logan. His hair glowed like the top of a Duracell battery, his long thin nose twitching as he smiled. ‘And you feel this was sufficient reason to ignore our appointment?’
The Professional Standards office was quiet, just the buzz-click of an oscillating fan stirring the motes of dust drifting through a shaft of sunlight. The other two desks were clean and tidy, their owners disappearing as soon as Logan turned up. Leaving him alone with the Ginger Whinger.
‘I was acting on information received at short notice. What did you want me to do, ignore evidence of a serious crime?’
‘What I want, Acting Detective Inspector McRae, is for you to turn up when summoned at the appointed time. Not an hour and thirty-four minutes late.’ He patted the ends of each pair of fingers in turn, forward then backwards, slow and methodical. ‘And you’re certain we’ll find cannabis farms at these locations?’
A little sacrificial offering to confuse the issue.
‘As I can be.’
Unless, of course, Wee Hamish Mowat, or his green-haired minion were lying to him.
‘I see …’ There was a pause, while Napier stared at Logan like a pathologist examining a dead body. ‘And I understand you took the time to pop past Aberdeen Roya
l Infirmary.’
‘I discovered one Daniel Fisher on my way to my appointment with you, someone had just shattered both his ankles. I escorted him to hospital, where he informed me Anthony Chung had been responsible for stealing cannabis from the McLeod brothers and set himself up as an independent wholesaler. Then I went to check on Dil— On Timothy Mair’s condition. His doctor says he’s got a punctured lung, but he should make a full recovery.’ Logan nodded at the sheet of paper, sitting in the middle of Napier’s desk. ‘It’s all in my report.’
‘Ah yes, our unfortunate Trading Standards Officer. Funny you should mention that …’
Logan paused in the corridor outside his office, fingertips resting on the handle. There were voices inside, muffled by the closed door, but still recognizable.
Rennie: ‘No, really, I’ve got—’
Steel: ‘Pin your lugs back, ’cos I’m no’ saying this twice. You’ve got to make your mark in this world. You’ve got to drag your arse across the carpet of life like a dog with worms.’
Worms?
Rennie: ‘Yeah … I know it’s a lovely thought, but—’
Steel: ‘Stand back, point at all them streaks and say, “That was me!” You see what I’m saying?’
Rennie: ‘Erm …?’
Nice though it would be to leave them to it, Logan dragged the door open.
Steel stood behind the desk, fake cigarette jutting out between her teeth. She had her hands clamped around Rennie’s shoulders, kneading them like badly behaved bread. He sat in Logan’s chair, eyes pinched, eyebrows up, hands flinching with every taloned squeeze. Mouthing the words, ‘Help me.’
Logan dumped his report on that morning’s fiasco in the middle of his desk. ‘Sorry to interrupt your foreplay, but some of us have work to do.’ He pointed at Rennie. ‘You: bugger off and do something productive for a change.’
A pained smile broke across Rennie’s face. ‘Oh, thank God …’ He scrambled out of the seat and bolted from the room, leaving the door swinging in his wake.
Logan pushed it shut. ‘Worms?’
Steel had a quick dig at her underwire. ‘You wanted me to mentor him: I’m mentoring him.’
‘There’s a difference between mentoring someone and traumatizing them.’ Logan sank into the vacated chair and grabbed the first interview transcript from the pile in his inbox: DI Leith’s meetings with the homebuyers who’d been to view the house where Anthony Chung had turned up tortured and dead.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 79
