Dark Blood

43

Logan picked his way down Marischal Street, a plastic bag from a nice little Chinese carryout on King Street swinging from one hand. The council hadn’t bothered to grit this bit and the pavement was a treacherous mixture of snow and ice. Which would’ve been bad enough, but the road made a steep descent from Union Street all the way down to the docks, turning the whole thing into a toboggan run.

The wind wasn’t helping any either, hammering icy nails into his face, making his skin throb and ache with cold.

He slithered to a halt outside the building’s front door and fumbled in his pocket for the keys. Could barely see the lock in the gloom…He shifted sideways, letting the streetlight’s yellow glow fall on the scarred wood.

The key skittered around the lock, before finally going in. And then the light disappeared.

‘God’s sake…’ Bulb had probably blown again. The seagulls liked to eat the rubber sealant, letting the water in, because they were rotten evil bastarding things…

Not seagulls. The light hadn’t gone out, it’d been eclipsed by a huge shadow.

‘Been waiting fucking ages for you.’

Oh shit. Reuben.

Logan span around, feet slipping on the ice, staggered, bounced off the damp granite wall and fell on his backside.

Pain jagged across the base of his spine.

The plastic bag made a dull thud as it bounced off the pavement beside him, egg foo yung and prawn crackers going everywhere.

Ow…

He looked up to find Wee Hamish Mowat’s right-hand man standing over him, that scarred fat face twisted into a grin. ‘Classic. Didn’t even have to lay a finger on you.’ In the dim light, the bruises were almost black, the plaster across the bridge of Reuben’s nose a pale grey strip against the swollen skin.

The big man reached inside his thick padded jacket and Logan flinched. Gun? Knife?

Reuben sighed. ‘Moron.’ He pulled out an envelope and threw it in Logan’s face.

It bounced, and fell into his lap.

‘Open it.’

Logan peeled back the self-adhesive flap. More money. ‘I can’t-’

‘Mr Mowat says if you want any more, you go see this man.’ He pulled out a sticky note and slapped it onto Logan’s forehead. Then stood there, grinning as the snow battered down all around them.

Logan pulled the note from his head and scowled at it — ‘JAMES CLAY’ and an address in the Bridge of Don.

One of Reuben’s massive hands clamped down on the top of Logan’s head. ‘See you around.’ He shoved, sending Logan sprawling on his back.

Logan tensed, waiting for the kicking to start. But it didn’t. Instead he heard a car door slam, then the tractor-rattle of a diesel engine starting up. A car driving slowly away.

He sat up, watching the dented BMW pause at the bottom of the road, then turn right onto Trinity Quay and disappear into the night.

‘What happened to you?’ Samantha looked up from her spot on the sofa, electric fire blazing, a cup of tea steaming away on the coffee table, some sort of costume drama on the telly, and a book open in her lap.

Logan dumped the plastic bag next to her mug, then struggled out of his jacket. ‘Going to have to share the chow mein.’

The seat of his trousers was soaked through and his left hand throbbed — the palm scraped and stinging. He sucked at it, then scowled at the little beads of red that seeped through the skin.

‘You OK?’

‘Fell on my arse.’ Logan took off his trousers and hung them over the radiator.

‘I’ll get the plates.’ She disappeared, calling through from the kitchen. ‘You’ve got a message on the machine, by the way.’

Oh God, please not another one from Wee Hamish Mowat…

He pulled the envelope full of cash out of his jacket pocket and stuffed the crumpled sticky note in with the tens and twenties. There had to be over a grand in there, maybe two.

‘Logan? You want chopsticks?’

‘Yeah, thanks…’ He pressed the button on the answering machine, standing there in his socks, shirt and damp pants as DI Steel’s voice crackled out of the little speakers.

‘You rotten bastard, I had to walk back to the station!’

Bugger. She’d still have been in the naughty knicker shop when he’d headed off to tell Alan Gardner his car had been used in a jewellery robbery.

‘Was bloody soaked through by the time I got back; had to interview that bastard van driver dripping wet. If I die of pneumonia, you’re sodding for it!’ There was more, none of it flattering or polite. Logan hit delete.

‘You all right?’

‘Yeah…just cold and tired.’ He didn’t look around.

He could hear her walk into the room, the clatter of plates on the coffee table, then the warmth of Samantha’s body against his back, her arms wrapping around him, her breath hot on the back of his neck. It was nice. Intimate. Maybe they’d be all right after all.

‘God, you are freezing, aren’t you?’

Logan gave a little shudder and slipped the envelope up the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Baltic out there.’

‘Right.’ She stepped back, pulled up his shirt-tails and slapped him on his grey Markies pants.

‘Ow!’

‘Get your cold bum in the shower, we can always stick the noodles in the microwave.’

The bathroom filled with steam, the shower hissing and gurgling into the white plastic bathtub, the blower grumbling hot air from the dusty unit mounted on the wall. Logan locked the door and settled onto the toilet lid, pulled Reuben’s envelope from his sleeve, and counted the contents. Two thousand, four hundred and sixty pounds, all in used notes. Less than last time, but then Logan hadn’t actually done anything to deserve it…Unless you counted elbowing Reuben in the face.

He smoothed out the crumpled Post-it note — the name and address of the man to speak to if he wanted more cash from the DIY self-service bribery buffet.

Nearly six thousand pounds, when you added in the envelope hidden away in the back of the airing cupboard. Not that much in the great scheme of things. Not compared with being a corrupt bastard.