Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories

by Stuart MacBride

  Steel grabbed the wheelhouse wall. ‘Other way, you daft sod!’

  ‘Right...’ The boat surged forwards this time, then around to the left as he twirled the wheel, heading out into the bay. ‘Like riding a bike.’

  The sea churned like a hangover – up and down, left and right, the boat making a wobbly corkscrew path through the concrete-coloured waves. Logan tightened the padded orange lifejacket he’d found in a little locker. The deck was cold and damp beneath his bum as he sat with his back to the railing, holding on with both hands as the tiny Catriona’s Harvest juddered through the storm.

  Steel sat opposite, eyes closed, legs splayed, teeth gritted. ‘Urgh...’

  He narrowed his eyes at her, having to shout over the roar of the engine. ‘You and your bloody Plan B!’

  Standing in the wheelhouse, Badger turned and grinned at them. ‘Course, you’ve got to watch these waters like a hawk. Reefs and rocks everywhere. Normal charts cover about a hundred miles – here you’re lucky if you get twenty. No wonder Jimmy’s son-in-law got into trouble. Got to keep your—’ The whole boat juddered, as if a big underwater fist had slammed into it. ‘Oops.’ And then they were going straight again.

  Steel kept her face screwed tight shut. ‘If we sink I’ll sodding kill you.’

  ‘Not much further.’

  ‘You said that twenty minutes ago!’

  And the sea raged on.

  ‘There! Told you we’d make it.’ Badger clung onto the wheel with one hand, pointing with the other. To the left, Jura rose in hilly bumps of green and brown; to the right the Sound of Jura was a heaving mass of grey water; and straight ahead was the little fishing boat with the red wheelhouse, moored just off Inverlussa beach. Kevin McGregor’s rigid inflatable was tied up alongside, bobbing and dipping.

  Jimmy the Weasel cowered in the back of the fishing boat, arms over his head, staggering as the vessel lurched from one trough to the other. Kevin McGregor clambered over the side, back into the inflatable. Raised his arm, as if he was about to give the Weasel a telling off.

  A hard pop broke across the waves.

  The back of Jimmy’s head puffed out in a cloud of bright red, shining against the dark afternoon, before the wind whipped it away.

  Badger squealed, then ducked down behind the wheel.

  Jimmy’s body rocked with the next wave, then crashed forward onto the deck.

  ‘Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit...’

  Logan hauled out the binoculars and focussed on the bobbing fishing boat. ‘Think he’s dead?’

  ‘Well...’ Steel made a little humming noise. ‘If no’ he’ll save a fortune on hats.’

  Kevin McGregor leaned over the side of his inflatable and did something with the bright-orange buoy.

  Logan cleared his throat. ‘We should board him. Ram the inflatable.’

  Badger peered out from the wheelhouse. ‘He’s got a gun!’

  ‘Don’t be such a Jessie.’ Steel fiddled with her lifejacket. ‘Long as we stay down, we’ll be OK, right?’

  Logan rapped his knuckles against the Catriona’s Harvest’s hull. Might be thick enough to stop a bullet. Probably. Maybe. ‘Erm...’

  The outboard roar of Kevin McGregor’s engine cut through the storm, and the rigid inflatable eased away from Lussa Bay. Going a lot slower than it had leaving Craighouse harbour.

  Badger knelt in the wheelhouse, peeking over the bulwark. ‘Boat’s weighted down... He’s got the two full pods. That’s why he was following Jimmy – the thieving git’s nabbed our drugs!’

  Even towing two-thirds of a ton of underwater heroin, Kevin McGregor’s inflatable was still faster than Catriona’s Harvest. When they finally puttered back into Craighouse harbour, the inflatable was abandoned on the slipway. The rust-flecked blue Transit sat in front of it, the back doors open as Kevin McDonald winched the second pod inside.

  He creaked the doors shut, dragging his left leg. The orange overalls were stained scarlet from knee to ankle.

  Logan scrambled onto the jetty, not bothering to tie the boat up.

  Steel clambered out after him, turned and pointed back into the wheelhouse. ‘You, Badger Boy: stay. If I have to come looking for you, you’ll bloody well know about it.’

  The wind whipped spray off the curling waves, throwing it in Logan’s face as he hurried ashore.

  Streetlights made golden spheres in the driving rain. The road was deserted, except for a couple of parked cars and a mob of grumpy seagulls – hunkered down on the guttering of the distillery buildings, watching the world with glittering eyes.

  Logan turned the corner of the village shop and skidded to a halt. Staring. Someone was lying face down on the road between the hotel and the distillery. Arms and legs splayed out in a broken starfish. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses lying just out of reach. Face pale and slack. A slick of dark red oozing downhill towards the sea.

  The other Riley sister was crumpled in front of the distillery shop, the back of her head gone the same way as Jimmy the Weasel’s.

  Maybe that’s why all the gulls were there – waiting for an early dinner?

  No wonder the bloody street was deserted.

  Steel puffed to a halt beside Logan. ‘What? Why have we stopped?’

  He pointed.

  ‘Oh ... arse. Do you think anyone noticed?’

  Logan stared at her. ‘Yes, I think someone might just have noticed a bloody gunfight in the middle of the street, right outside the hotel bar.’

  ‘Susan’s going to kill me...’

  Kevin McGregor hobbled around to the side of the Transit van.

  Logan took a deep breath and stepped onto the road. Pulled out his warrant card and walked towards the van. ‘Police! Put your weapon down and keep your hands where I can see them.’

  McGregor froze, halfway through hauling the driver’s door open. Then turned. ‘Sling your hook, before you get hurt.’

  ‘Come on Kevin, it’s over. You know it’s over.’

  McGregor slammed his hand on the side of the van. Logan flinched. The seagulls stirred. Probably wondering if they’d get police officer for starters.

  ‘I came back from the dead for this. It’s not over till I say so.’ He pointed at DI Steel’s little MX-5. ‘That’s your car, right? Saw you sitting in it, watching the hotel.’

  ‘Kevin McGregor, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murders of James Weasdale, Brigid Riley, and Niamh Riley, you— Oh God!’

  McGregor’s gun barked twice and the MX-5’s front tyres exploded in shreds of black rubber. Then he turned and blew out the tyres of the Rileys’ camper van, and the Toyota pick-up parked opposite. The noise was deafening, the smell of fireworks seeping away into the rain.

  ‘Like I said: it’s not over till I say it is.’ He dragged himself up into the Transit van, heaving his leg over the seat, teeth gritted. Then slammed the door.

  Steel appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘My car... The... He shot my sodding car!’

  Kevin McGregor grinned, gave them a wave, then put the van in gear.

  A moment of utter silence. Then it was as if the whole world bellowed. The Transit van bucked, riding a mushroom of boiling orange flame, the cab expanding – a balloon of rusty blue metal and safety glass. And then the noise: it was like being smacked in the chest with a sledgehammer, followed by a blast of hot air that tore the ground from under Logan’s feet and sent him crashing sideways against DI Steel.

  The van clattered back to the blackened tarmac, bounced, fell onto its side, the rear doors twenty yards away.

  A pall of white dust filled the air above it, drifting in the wind as the seagulls leapt shrieking from the distillery roof. The cloud caught them above the shop. They lurched, swooped, bumped into each other, and the walls, and the slates, then tumbled to the road. Lying on their backs, legs and wings twitching as the Transit van burned. Doped out of their tiny little minds.

  Logan rolled onto his front and levered himself to his knees, ears ringing.

  Steel
coughed, spluttered, groaned. ‘SODDING HELL...’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘THINK I BROKE MY ARSE...’ She dug a finger into her ear and jiggled it about. ‘CAN YOU HEAR THAT?’

  The Transit van’s front bumper clanged back down against the road, lying amongst the stoned seagulls.

  Logan clutched at the ancient red telephone box, pulling himself up on wobbly feet. ‘That’s what happens when you mess with a pair of paramilitary nut-jobs who’ve got a thing for explosives.’

  ‘HELP ME UP.’

  He hauled her to her feet. ‘Stop yelling at me.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  Christ. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU.’

  The door to the hotel bar swung open and a figure in jeans and a hooded top stepped out onto the stone balcony, her caramel-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytail: Susan. She stared at the burning wreckage in the middle of the road, then at the MX-5 with its two blown-out front tyres. Then at DI Steel: standing next to Logan with her legs planted wide apart, one hand holding onto his arm, as if the tarmac was bobbing about on rough seas.

  Susan’s eyes narrowed. She stuck her fists on her hips. ‘Roberta Steel, what the bloody hell have you been up to?’

  Read on for an exclusive preview of Close to the Bone

  Like it or not, you’re still alive.

  Saturday

  1

  She holds up the book of matches. Licks her lips. She’s practised the words a dozen times till they’re perfect. ‘Do you have anything to say before I carry out sentence?’

  The man kneeling on the floor of the warehouse stares up at her. He’s trembling, moaning behind the mask hiding his face. ‘Oh God, oh Jesus, oh God, oh Jesus...’ The chains around his wrists and ankles rattle against the metal stake. A waft of accelerant curls through the air from the tyre wedged over his head and shoulders. Black rubber and paraffin.

  ‘Too late for that.’ She smiles. ‘Thomas Leis, you—’

  ‘Please, you don’t have to do this!’

  The smile slips. He’s spoiling it. ‘Thomas Leis, you have been found guilty of witchcraft—’

  ‘I’m not a witch, it’s a mistake!’

  ‘—condemned to burn at the stake until you be dead.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’

  ‘Coward.’ The lights are hot on her back as she strikes the first match, then sets fire to the rest. They hiss and flare, bright and shining. Pure. Glorious.

  ‘PLEASE!’

  ‘Burn. Like you’ll burn in hell.’ She drags the smile back on. ‘It’ll be good practice for you.’ She drops the blazing matchbook onto the tyre and the accelerant catches. Whoosh – blue and yellow flames race around the rubber.

  Thomas Leis screams.

  He jerks against his chains. Thick black smoke wreaths his face, hiding the mask from view as the fire takes hold. He pleads and screams and begs...

  She throws her head back and laughs at the heavens. Spreads her arms wide. Eyes glittering like diamonds.

  The voice of God crackles through the air, making the very world vibrate: ‘And ... cut. Well done, everyone – break for lunch and we’ll go for scene two thirty-six at half one.’

  A round of applause.

  Then a man in a fluorescent-yellow waistcoat rushes into shot with a fire extinguisher. FWOOOSH – the flames disappear in a puff of carbon dioxide as the cameraman backs away, shielding his lens.

  The runner peels off the bright green mask with the yellow crosses on it from the stuntman doubling for Thomas Leis. The stuntman’s grinning, even though he knows they’re going to digitally replace his face in post. Even though he barged over her line.

  God save us from stuntmen who think they’re actors.

  She puts her head on one side and frowns. ‘I don’t know... It felt a bit over the top at the end there. Really hammy. Wouldn’t she’d be more ... you know, suppressed? Maybe even a bit sexual? Can I do it again?’

  2

  ‘I’m on my way. Tell everyone to—’ Something under his foot went crunch. Logan froze on the doorstep, mobile phone clamped to his ear. He slid his shoe to one side and curled his top lip. ‘Not again.’

  Three little bones lay on the concrete slab, tied together with a tatty piece of red ribbon.

  A hissing whisper came from the other end of the phone. ‘Seriously, Guv, Pukey Pete’s having ferrets up here, it’s—’

  ‘I said I’m on my way.’

  Logan stuck the phone against his chest and scowled out at the caravan park in the growing gloom. Bulky static caravans, the size of shipping containers, all painted a uniform institution green. A patrol car idled on the square of tarmac that acted as a turning circle, its blue-and-whites strobing in the warm late-evening air. The driver hunched forward in his seat, peering out through the windscreen at Logan, working his hands back and forth along the steering wheel – as if he was trying to feel it up.

  No sign of the little buggers.

  Logan kicked the broken bones off the step into the straggly ivy growing up the side of his home. Then took a deep breath and bellowed it out: ‘I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, YOU WEE SHITES!’

  Back to the phone.

  ‘I mean, he’s gone off on one before, but no’ like this. He’s—’

  ‘If he’s screwing up the scene, arrest him. If not, just hold his bloody hand till I get there.’ Logan stomped over to the patrol car and threw himself into the passenger seat. Hauled on the belt. ‘Drive.’

  The PC put his foot down.

  The sun was a scarlet smear across the horizon, filling the patch of rough ground with blood and shadow. Trees loomed around the periphery, their branches filled with clacks and caws as the rooks settled in for the night.

  Grey and black hulks dotted the clearing: burned-out cars, their paint stripped away, seats a sagging framework of rusty wire, the tyres turned into gritty vitrified puddles.

  A cordon of blue-and-white ‘Police’ tape was strung between the vehicles, making a twenty-foot no-man’s-land around the Scenes Examination Branch’s inner cordon of ‘CRIME SCENE’ yellow-and-black. Three SEB technicians knelt in the dirt, poking at something, their white Tyvek oversuits glowing pink in the twilight.

  Logan wrinkled his nose. The rancid stench of vomit fought against the greasy scent of burned meat and rendered fat. Like a barbecue with food poisoning. ‘Where’s the pathologist?’

  One of the techs – a shortarse with fogged-up safety goggles – finished scraping something dark and sticky into an evidence bag, then pointed her gloved finger at the other side of the ‘CRIME SCENE’ tape. There was another figure in the full Smurf outfit, hunched over a bucket, making retching noises, his back convulsing with every stomach-wrenching heave.

  The short tech peeled her facemask off, exposing a circle of shiny pink skin and a thin-lipped mouth. ‘Poor wee bugger. Can’t blame him, really. Nearly lost a white-pudding supper myself.’ She puffed out a breath, hauled at the elasticated hood of her suit. ‘Christ it’s hot in here...’

  ‘You call for backup?’

  A nod. ‘The Ice Queen’s en route as we speak.’ The tech pinged her facemask back into place. ‘You want to take a sneak peek? We’ve got as much as we’re going to before they move the body.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  She peeled off her gloves and snapped on a fresh pair. ‘What, and spoil the thrill of finding out for yourself?’ Then she set off across an elevated walkway – metallic stepping stones, like upturned tea trays on tiny legs, keeping their blue plastic booties from contaminating the scene. It led away between a couple of burned-out hatchbacks, disappearing behind the blackened skeletal remains of a Renault Clio. A dark curl of smoke twisted up into the sky on the other side.

  Logan adjusted his safety goggles, zipped up his oversuit, and zwip-zwopped after her. The walkway clanged beneath his feet. The rancid barbecue smell got worse. And then they were there.

  Christ...

  His stomach lurched two steps to
the right, then crashed back again. He swallowed, hard. Blinked. Cleared his throat. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Not much: victim’s male, we think.’ Another shrug. ‘He’s been chained to what looks like a section of that modular metal shelving stuff – the kind you get in your garage? Been hammered into the ground like a stake.’

  The victim was kneeling on the hard-packed earth, his legs tucked under his bum. His bright-orange overalls were stained around the legs and waist, blackened across his chest and flecked with little glittering tears of vitrified rubber. Someone had forced his head and right arm through the middle of a tyre – so it sat across his body like a sash – then set fire to it. It was still burning: a small tongue of greasy flame licked up the side of the rubber.

  The SEB tech groaned. ‘Bloody hell...’ She hauled a fire extinguisher from a blue plastic crate, pointed the nozzle, and squeezed the handle. A whoosh of white hid the poor bastard’s face from view for a moment, but when the CO2 cleared he appeared again in all his tortured glory.

  His skin was swollen and blistered, scorched crimson; the eyes cooked to an opaque white; teeth bared, yellowed and cracked. Hair gone. Patches of skull and cheekbone poking through charred flesh...

  Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick.

  Logan cleared his throat. Looked out over the graveyard of burned-out cars. Deep breaths. The long corrugated metal roof of Thainstone Mart was just visible between the trees in the distance, what sounded like Tom Jones belting out ‘It’s not Unusual’ at a disco or corporate bash, dancing and boozing it up into the wee small hours. And when they were gone some poor sod would be up all night, clearing up all the spent party poppers and empty bottles before the next livestock auction.

  The SEB tech thumped the fire extinguisher back into the crate. ‘It’s the rubber in the tyre – once it gets up to temperature it’s almost impossible to stop the damn thing from catching again.’

  ‘Get it off him.’

  ‘The tyre?’ She gave a wee spluttering laugh. ‘Before the Ice Queen gets here?’