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. Then 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.
Bit of a change from the old place.
Logan sniffed. The betting shop smelled of lemon air freshener instead of stale cigarettes, and the roof wasn’t the colour of a smoker’s lung. ‘I liked it better when the floor was all sticky.’
Reuben lumbered up to the counter and slammed one big hand down in front of cashier number three.
She flinched. Recoiled back in her seat, then took a breath and straightened up and plastered a smile on her face. ‘Welcome to the Turf ’n Track, Aberdeen’s premier venue for—’
‘Tell Creepy he’s got visitors.’
The smile slipped a bit. ‘Creepy. . .? ’
‘Colin McLeod. Or his brother the gimp, don’t care. But you get him out here before I start sticking your punters through your fancy TVs, understand? ’
She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. Then leaned over to one side, obviously trying to make it look natural as she reached underneath the counter and jabbed at something. ‘Please, sir, there’s no—’
‘Think I can’t see you fingering the panic button? ’
A blush crept across her cheeks, strong enough to bleed through the heavy layers of foundation. ‘It’s my first day. I didn’t. . . Please don’t hurt me? ’
The door behind the counter marked ‘Staff Only’ opened and a man stepped into the room: broad-shouldered with a puddingy face, a chunk of ear missing one side, a pair of black wraparound shades hiding his eyes. He jerked his chin up. ‘There a problem, Naomi? ’
‘It’s not my fault, Mr McLeod, he came in and he’s threatening people and it’s my first day and I didn’t—’
‘All right. You go for a wee cup of tea. I’ll deal with it.’
Reuben took a step back and cricked his head to one side. ‘Well, well, well: look who the dogs dragged in.’
Simon McLeod rolled his shoulders, hands flexing in and out of fists. ‘Reuben. Who let you off your leash? ’
‘You and me got a problem.’
Naomi squeezed past her employer and out through the back door.
Simon McLeod smiled. ‘Think I give a—’
‘Oh, you better, ’cos if you don’t—’
‘Actually,’ Logan stepped up to the counter, ‘we need to talk about certain . . . horticultural activities.’
The wraparound sunglasses turned in Logan’s direction. Simon McLeod’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. ‘Who’s that? ’
‘I’d show you my warrant card, but there’s not much point, is there? ’
A smile crawled its way across his face. ‘Jessica, Fiona: Let the gentlemen through, then tell the punters we’re shutting for an hour – fire drill. Then make yourselves scarce. Got some business to attend to.’
Simon McLeod’s office was huge – the desk, coffee table and a pair of leather sofas spread out as if they didn’t want anything to do with one another. Leaving plenty of room to walk between them without bumping into anything.
The magnolia walls were bare except for a Rottweiler’s head mounted on a wooden plaque behind the desk, its fur patchy and singed. One ear missing, a bit like the office’s owner. The name ‘KILLER’ was picked out in brass beneath it.
Simon McLeod settled into the chair behind the desk and folded his arms across his chest. ‘So. . . What? You turn up with one of your bent cops and I’m supposed to be scared? ’
Reuben cracked his knuckles. ‘Had half a brain, you’d be terrified.’
‘Really? ’ Simon took off his wraparound sunglasses. There was nothing underneath, just deep flesh-coloured dents where the eyes should have been. Eve
n the eyelids were gone, leaving a network of twisted scars. ‘You think anything you could do can scare me? ’
Silence.
So what now?
Logan sat on the couch nearest the wall. It creaked and squeaked under him – probably to make sure Simon would know exactly where he was.
Bloody Wee Hamish Bloody Mowat: I have faith in you, Logan. It’s in the common good, Logan. You don’t want a drug war, do you, Logan?
How the hell was he supposed to negotiate a peace treaty between rival drug cartels? Buy them tea and biscuits and ask them to play nice? He cleared his throat. ‘This isn’t a shakedown, I’m not a bent cop, and if we can come to an agreement it doesn’t have to go any further.’ Yeah, this was definitely a career high.
A smile crawled across Simon McLeod’s face. ‘Oh sure, because I’m going to say loads of incriminating things with you in the room. Anything in particular you want me to confess to while you’re here? Kidnapping Shergar? Killing Lord Lucan? You’ve not caught Bible John yet, maybe that was me too? Course, I was only two at the time, but I’ve always been precocious.’
Logan stood and the couch creaked again. He shook his head at Reuben. ‘Told you this was a waste of time. Go home and tell Wee Hamish, Simon McLeod isn’t interested in a peaceful solution.’
Simon raised an eyebrow, tugging the scar tissue around his hollow eyes into new shapes. ‘Wee Hamish? This isn’t just Reuben acting the dick, throwing his weight around? ’
‘Who you calling a dick, you blind sack of—’
‘Hoy!’ Logan held up a hand. ‘You’re supposed to be facilitating, not making things worse.’
Reuben’s shoulders went back and he stepped forward, his fists up. Then stopped, took a breath, and settled against the wall again.
Better.
Logan pointed at Simon, even though there was no way he could see it. ‘Let’s say, hypothetically, you’ve been going around battering the living hell out of Oriental gentlemen with a claw-hammer. Your brother Colin’s handy with a hammer, isn’t he? ’
Of course he was. Knees a speciality. People crippled while you wait.
Simon smiled. ‘Those days are behind us, officer. Businessmen of our standing in the community would never get involved in anything like that.’
‘Now suppose this was the opening salvo in a drugs war. Wee Hamish wouldn’t like that. He’d think it was bad for Aberdeen. He’d think you should come to an agreement with your rivals that doesn’t end up with any more injuries or deaths.’
‘And if we didn’t? Hypothetically.’
Reuben’s voice was a dark rumble. ‘You end your days as wee dollops of pig shite.’
The smile slid away from Simon’s face. ‘Well, you can tell Wee Hamish there’s sod all we can do about it: no one knows who the other side is. That’s why we’re. . . That’s why a local businessman might be interviewing your Oriental gentlemen.’
‘You don’t know who the new boys are? ’
‘Think they’d still be stealing from me if I did? ’ A shrug. ‘Supposing I had anything these people wanted to steal. Hypothetically.’
Reuben folded his arms across his broad chest. ‘Lucky for you I’m here then, ain’t it? Got someone outside who knows.’
42
Reuben backed the battered Transit van into the loading bay behind the Turf ’n Track, stopping just shy of the breezeblock loading platform. He hopped down from the driver’s side, lumbered around the back, then hauled open the rear doors.
Mr Fisher lay on his side, wriggling deeper into the Transit, feet scuffing on the plastic sheet. His whole body trembled, muffled sobs coming from beneath the blood-stained pillowcase.
Reuben reached inside and dragged him forward again. Hauled him upright. Then slammed a huge fist into his guts. ‘Right, Mr Fisher. Here’s how this works: you tell us everything, and you get off with a kicking. I think you’re not cooperating, I start breaking things. I think you’re lying to me, I carve you up like a chicken and feed you to the pigs one wee bit at a time. They eat everything: hair, skin, bone.’
He whipped off the pillowcase.
What the bloody hell was he playing at? Soon as Fisher saw their faces there was no way Reuben would let him live. Stupid fat sod: what was Logan supposed to do, stand back and let it happen?
Only Mr Fisher couldn’t see a damn thing. Three strips of duct tape covered his eyes: one horizontal, two vertical, as if they were targets. Another strip covered his mouth. His black hair was long on one side and shaved on the other, a hollow tube stretching out his left earlobe, three silver hoops above it. . . Anthony Chung’s friend: the one who worked in the bar. The one who tried to fight for Agnes Garfield’s honour, and got kneed in the balls for his pains.
Reuben grabbed one corner of the gag and ripped it off, taking the stud in Dan Fisher’s bottom lip with it.
‘Aaaaagh. . . Bastard. . .’ Blood dribbled down his chin.
Dan Fisher. Friend of Anthony Chung. Anthony who always had the best cannabis.
At least now it was obvious where he’d got it from.
Reuben hammered another fist into Fisher’s stomach. Then stood back and waited until he’d stopped retching. ‘Your starter for ten is: who’s stealing weed from the McLeod brothers? ’
A long string of spittle wobbled from his bleeding bottom lip. ‘Oh God. . .’
Reuben sucked in a breath, then shook his head. ‘Wrong answer.’ A Stanley knife blade clicked out, then snicked through the cable-ties holding Dan Fisher’s ankles together. Then he dragged one foot out until it was just hanging over the Transit’s rear bumper.
‘PLEASE! I DON’T—’
The van rocked as Reuben slammed all his weight down on Fisher’s ankle. A muffled pop. And Fisher’s foot didn’t face the front any more.
Two seconds later the screaming started. Reuben gave him a count of three, then shut him up with another fist to the guts.
Logan grabbed his arm – it was solid, like a telegraph pole. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Nah, we’re just getting started.’ He grabbed Fisher’s other foot. ‘Try that again, shall we? Same question.’
Fisher moaned and sobbed, snot shining on his top lip. ‘Please. . . I just sell it on, I don’t know who—’
The van rocked again and the other ankle made the same muffled popping noise.
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH. . .’
Reuben wiped his hands down the front of his boilersuit, then smiled at Logan. ‘Not very bright, is he? ’
‘God sake. . .’ Logan pushed past him and climbed up into the back of the van.
Fisher was back on his side, folding his knees up to his chest then out again – like a broken accordion. Mouth open in a silent scream.
Logan took hold of his shoulders and pinned him to the plastic sheeting, holding him still. Then leaned in until his mouth was an inch from Fisher’s collection of earrings, and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Listen up, you daft bastard: they’re not kidding. This isn’t the TV, there’s no last-minute rescue coming. They’re going to kill you if you don’t tell them who’s stealing their drugs.’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. . .’ A massive shuddering breath.
‘You’re going to die, do you get that? And it won’t be quick. This’ll be a happy memory for you by the time they’ve finished!’
‘Please. . . It hurts. . .’
‘That was just the warm-up, wait till he gets into his stride. Now who’s stealing their bloody cannabis? ’
Fisher’s bottom lip trembled. ‘It . . . Ton. It was Ton. Anthony Chung.’
Of course it was.
‘You were Anthony Chung’s best friend: everyone knows he always had loads of cannabis. You were selling it for him, weren’t you? Passing it out through the bar. Even after he beat the crap out of you? ’
‘It was. . . I didn’t have any choice.’ Sweat sparkled on Fisher’s face. ‘Please, please, you’
ve got to help me. . .’
‘Who was he working with? ’
Reuben’s voice boomed out from the loading dock behind them. ‘If you’re gonnae bum him, get on with it so I can start on his kneecaps.’
‘Will you shut up for two minutes? ’ Then back to Fisher. ‘Who was Anthony working with, Dan? Who’s in charge now he’s dead? ’
‘I don’t know, I don’t—’
Logan took hold of Fisher’s pierced ear and twisted.
‘Aaaaaagh!’
‘Do you want to end up carved into little pieces? ’
The words came out riding on a wave of jagged sobs. ‘I only dealt with Ton! He said . . . he said he knew someone who worked for these cannabis farms, and he could find out where they were, and all I did was sell it on, I never stole it, I swear on my mother’s grave, I don’t know. . .’
Reuben slammed the Transit van’s back doors closed, shutting out the sound of Dan Fisher’s sobs.
Simon McLeod slipped the wraparound sunglasses back over the holes where his eyes used to be. ‘Come on then: who is it, and where do I find him? ’ A little smile escaped, then was quickly killed again. ‘So I can meet up with him and sort this out nice and peaceful, like Wee Hamish wants.’
Aye, right.
Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘He’s in the mortuary. He screwed his girlfriend over once too often and she staked him out on a kitchen floor, stabbed him three hundred and sixty-five times, then strangled him.’
Simon McLeod’s eyebrows lowered a fraction of an inch. ‘Hmm. . .’
‘What? ’
A sniff. ‘Sounds like my kind of girl. But I still want the bastard’s name.’
‘So you can go after his family? No chance. They had nothing to do with this. The guy who stole your cannabis got himself tortured to death, and you didn’t have to lift a finger.’ Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Wee Hamish wants you to stop the beatings. Not like they’re doing you any good, is it? All that and you still didn’t find out who was stealing from you.’
Simon shrugged. ‘That’s what happens when you ask the wrong people the right question. Hypothetically speaking.’
Close to the Bone (Special Edition) (Logan McRae, Book 8) Page 39
