Logan shrugged. ‘He said it was OK, didn’t he?’
‘I don’t like it.’ She swung the door open, then stood to the side, face puckered around two big green eyes. Her finger waved an inch from Logan’s nose. ‘I’m warning you: if you upset Mr Mowat...’
A thin, shaky voice came from inside: a mix of public school and Aberdonian brogue, rough as gravel. ‘Chloe, is that Logan?’
The waggling finger poked Logan in the chest, her voice a low growl. ‘Just watch it.’ Then she turned on a smile. It would have been nice to say it transformed her face, but it didn’t. ‘He’s just arrived, Mr Mowat.’
‘Well, don’t just stand there, show him in.’
The room must have been at least thirty foot long. A wall of glass looked out on a garden lurking in the darkness, the occasional bush and tree picked out by coloured spotlights. Wee Hamish Mowat nudged the joystick on the arm of his wheelchair and rolled across the huge Indian rug. His pale skin was mottled with liver spots and looked half a size too big for his skeletal frame, the hair on his head so fine that every inch of scalp was visible through the grey wisps. An IV drip was hooked onto the chair, the plastic tube disappearing into the back of his wrist. It wobbled as he reached out a trembling hand.
Logan took it and shook. It was hot, as if something burned deep beneath the skin. ‘Hamish, how have you been?’
‘Like a buggered dog. You?’
‘Getting there.’
A nod, setting the flaps of skin hanging under his chin rippling. Then he dug a handkerchief from the pocket of his grey cardigan and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Are you on duty, or will you take a wee dram?’ He pointed at a big glass display case, full of bottles. ‘Chloe, be a dear and fetch the Dalmore... No, the other one: the Astrum. Yes, that’s it.’
She thumped it down on the coffee table and gave Logan another glare. ‘It’s late, and you need your sleep, Mr Mowat.’
Wee Hamish smiled at her. ‘Now you run along, and I’ll call if I need you.’
‘But, Mr Mowat, I—’
‘Chloe.’ A glint of the old steel sharpened his voice. ‘I said, run along.’
She nodded. Sniffed at Logan. Then turned and lumbered from the room, thumping the door behind her.
Wee Hamish shook his head. ‘My cousin Tam’s little girl. Well, I say “little”... Her heart’s in the right place.’
Logan took two crystal tumblers from the display case. ‘Not Tam “The Man” Slessor?’
‘I promised I’d look after her when he was done for that container of counterfeit cigarettes.’ Wee Hamish fumbled with the top of the whisky bottle. ‘If you want water, there’s a bottle in the fridge.’
‘So how is Tam the Man doing these days?’
‘Not too good: we buried him a month ago.’ A sigh. ‘Look, can you get the top off this? My fingers...’
Logan did. ‘Do you know anything about the body we found out by Thainstone today?’ He poured out one generous measure and another small enough to drive after. Passed the huge one to Wee Hamish.
‘Thank you.’ He raised the glass, the dark-amber liquid shivering in time with his hand. ‘Here’s tae us.’
Logan clinked his tumbler against Wee Hamish’s. ‘Fa’s like us?’
A sigh. ‘Gie few ... and they’re a’ deid.’ He took a sip. ‘Unidentified male, chained to a stake and, I believe the term is: “necklaced”.’
‘We think it might be drug-related.’
‘Hmm... What do you make of the whisky? Forty years old, nearly a grand and a half a bottle.’ A little smile pulled at the corner of his pale lips. ‘Can’t take it with you.’
Logan took a sip. Rolled it around his mouth until his gums went numb and everything tasted of cloves and nutmeg and burned toffee. ‘Is there another turf war kicking off?’
‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Well, one does, doesn’t one: when time’s running out? What’s going to be my legacy? What am I going to leave behind when I go?’
‘We need this to stop before it gets even worse.’
‘Don’t get me wrong: I’m not ashamed of the things I’ve done, the things I’ve had other people do, but ... I want ... something. Got my lawyers to set up bursaries at Aberdeen University and RGU, helped people become doctors and nurses, sponsored vaccination programmes in the Third World, paid for wells to be drilled, mosquito nets for orphans... But I don’t feel any different.’
He sipped at his drink. Then frowned up at the ceiling. ‘Perhaps I should try a big public works project? Like Ian Wood and his Union Terrace Gardens thing, or the boy Trump and his golf course? Leave the city something to remember me by...’ A grin. ‘Other than the horror stories your colleagues tell.’
‘Do you know who did it? Can you find out? Because as soon as the media get hold of this it’s going to be all over the news and papers.’
Wee Hamish stared out into the dark expanse of garden. Or perhaps he was staring at his own reflection in the glass. Difficult to tell. ‘To be honest, Logan, I’ve rather let my attention waver on that side of the business. Once upon a time I knew the operation inside out, but ... well, I get a lot more tired than I used to.’ A shrug, bony shoulders moving beneath the cardigan. ‘Reuben’s been looking after our pharmaceutical arm. Like he’s looking after many things...’
Silence.
‘Logan, you know I love Reuben like a son – bless his violent little cotton socks – but he’s a foot soldier, a lieutenant. He’s not a leader.’ Another trembling sip. ‘If I leave him in charge it’ll end in war.’
‘I’m not taking over.’ Logan put his glass down on the coffee table.
‘I know, I know. But if I can’t trust Reuben to run things, what can I do? You don’t want it, he can’t handle it; do I sell up to Malcolm McLennan instead?’
‘Malk the Knife’s dangerous enough without handing him Aberdeen on a plate too. He’s already got everything south of Dundee.’
The wheelchair bleeped, then whined back a few feet, before spinning around to face Logan. Wee Hamish wasn’t smiling any more, instead a frown made hills and valleys in the pale skin of his forehead. ‘I shall endeavour to find out who is responsible for your burning victim. And don’t worry, if whoever did it is on my team, they’ll be getting a ... disciplinary hearing. This isn’t the kind of legacy I want to leave behind.’
Outside, Logan’s fifth-hand Punto was bathed in the glow of a security light. A huge man leaned back against the bonnet, tree-trunk arms folded over a great barrel of a chest. His three-piece suit looked brand new – the waistcoat straining over that vast belly. Shiny black brogues. Face a patchwork of scar tissue and fat, knitted together with a greying beard. A nose that was barely there any more.
Logan nodded. ‘Reuben.’
No response.
OK... Logan took his keys out. ‘Thought you were more of an overalls and steel toecaps kind of guy.’
Reuben just stared at him. Then slowly hauled himself off the bonnet.
The Punto’s suspension rose about three inches.
Logan drew his shoulders back, brought up his chin. ‘Go on then, out with it.’
But Reuben just turned and lumbered off into the darkness, brogues scrunching on the gravel. Didn’t say a word.
Logan stood there until the huge man disappeared, then slid in behind the wheel. The world was full of bloody weir-does.
The windows of the caravan next door glowed pale yellow in the darkness and Logan climbed out of the Punto, engine ticking and pinging in the silence. On the other side of the River Don, the lights of the big Tesco glittered through the trees.
A noise, behind him...
Logan spun around, hands balling into fists.
Nothing.
Grove Cemetery was a mass of silhouettes, reaching up the hill to the railway line and the dual carriageway at the top. The first three rows of headstones were just visible in the orange streetlight. Beyond their reach everything was black and silent. Just the faint rumble of lat
e-night traffic working its way through the Haudagain roundabout.
‘Hello?’
Stand very still, don’t breathe, listen...
Nope, he was on his own. Which was just as well – no one about to see him acting like something out of a cheap horror movie.
Twit.
Logan found his house key and— Stopped. Another knot of bones hung from the door handle. More bloody chicken bones, wrapped up in a ribbon that was stained a greeny-grey by the sodium glow.
‘Very funny.’ He unhooked the bundle and chucked it into the bushes that separated the tiny caravan park from the riverbank. ‘Little bastards.’
Just because the Grampian Country Chickens factory used to be across the road, didn’t mean people had to be a dick about it.
About the Author
Stuart MacBride is the No.1 bestselling author of the DS Logan McRae series and Birthdays for the Dead.
His novels have won him the CWA’s Dagger in the Library, the Barry Award for Best Debut Novel, and Best Breakthrough Author at the ITV3 Crime Thriller awards.
Stuart’s other works include Halfhead, a near-future thriller, Sawbones, a novella aimed at adult emergent readers, and several short stories.
He lives in the north-east of Scotland with his wife, Fiona, and cat, Grendel.
For more information visit StuartMacBride.com
By Stuart MacBride
The Logan McRae Novels
Cold Granite
Dying Light
Broken Skin
Flesh House
Blind Eye
Dark Blood
Shatter the Bones
Other Works
Birthdays for the Dead
Sawbones – a novella
12 Days of Winter (short stories)
Writing as Stuart B. MacBride
Halfhead
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published as an anthology by HarperCollinsPublishers 2012
DI Steel’s Bad Heir Day first published in the Evening Express 2010
http://www.eveningexpress.co.uk
Stramash first published on JuraWhisky.com 2011
Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2012
Close to the Bone extract © Stuart MacBride 2012
Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Ebook Edition © November 2012 ISBN: 9780007494729
Version 1
FIRST EDITION
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Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories Page 7
