Stuart MacBride: Ash Henderson 2-book Crime Thriller Collection. Stuart MacBride

tumbler being spun back and forth – then a clunk, and then more muttering.

      When Mike turned back he was holding a wad of notes and a small purple velvet box. He counted out two thousand five hundred pounds in twenties on the countertop, then placed the little box carefully on top of it. ‘With my compliments.’

      I parked Ethan’s Merc in the ‘Residents Only’ section. Be a shame to sell it. Been years since I’d driven something that wasn’t falling apart … But needs must.

      I popped the boot and hauled out the three heavy black plastic bin-bags. My fingers ached as I carried them to the building’s entrance. Before the development boom in Logansferry it was a warehouse for machine parts. Now it was luxury apartments with onsite shopping.

      Through the double doors and out of the rain. The atrium was big enough to boast its own patch of manicured woodland, yellow-brick trails winding across it, surrounded by empty shopping units with dusty ‘To Let!’ signs in the windows. Half the apartments were still up for sale too: ‘FREE CARPETS AND WHITE GOODS!’, ‘£20,200 OFF YOUR NEW HOMe!’, ‘PART EXCHANGE AVAILABLE!’

      My phone rang. I let it.

      Dumped the bin-bags on the floor of the lift, then pressed the button for the fourth floor.

      No reply, so I rang the bell again. Checked my watch: coming up to twenty past ten. She’d be awake by now, surely. A muffled rattle and a clunk.

      ‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice, slightly high-pitched, trembling.

      ‘Kimberly? It’s Ash.’

      Pause. Some mumbling.

      ‘Go away.’

      ‘No.’

      Another pause. More mumbling.

      ‘She doesn’t want to see you.’

      ‘Kimberly, stop dicking about and open the door, OK? I’m having a crappy day already, I don’t need this.’

      A clunk, then the door swung open, and there was Susanne in a pink fluffy dressing gown, one hand on her hip, the other waving a finger in my face. ‘You’ve got a lot of bloody nerve!’ She was wearing sunglasses, a stain of purple and blue spreading out from behind the dark lenses. Another bruise on her chin, lips swollen and cracked on one side.

      I dropped my bin-bags. ‘What happened?’

      ‘What happened? You happened.’ The finger stopped wagging and started poking. ‘You and your bloody debts!’

      I stared at her. ‘Who was it?’

      ‘I don’t know. Some ugly little troll and his big ginger sidekick. They said I had to give you a message.’

      ‘Did the wee one sound like he’d swallowed a dictionary?’ Joseph and Francis. ‘I’ll bloody kill him.’

      Susanne hauled open the front of her dressing gown. Bruises covered most of her stomach, disappearing into her fleecy pyjama bottoms and crop top. ‘How am I supposed to dance like this?’

      I curled my hands into fists. ‘What was the message?’

      She howched and spat in my face, then slammed the door in it too. Her voice boomed from inside. ‘And you’re fucking dumped!’

      ‘And you’re sure we can’t put you in a new car today?’ The salesman pulled on a shark’s tooth smile. It went with the shiny grey suit.

      ‘Positive.’ I pocketed the envelope with the cash in it and walked off the car lot, taking my heavy bin-bags with me.

      Rhona leaned back against the bonnet of her Vauxhall, waiting for me. ‘You want to throw those in the boot?’

      She popped it open and I dumped the bags inside.

      ‘Let me guess – body parts?’

      ‘Sodden clothes. Everything else in the house is ruined.’

      ‘Ooh.’ She clunked the boot shut again. ‘Susanne not wash them for you?’

      ‘We’re not … No.’

      Rhona sucked her teeth for a moment, then got in behind the wheel. ‘Meh, you were always too good for her. That mean you’ve got nowhere to crash tonight?’

      Well, there was no way I’d be going back home. ‘Yeah.’

      She started the engine as I climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Then you’re staying at mine. I’ve got the spare room, and we can chuck your stuff through the washing machine. You like cats, right?’

      My phone went again – DCI Weber.

      ‘Where are you?’

      ‘Out and about. You?’

      ‘In the office, where you should be. The ACC’s giving some sort of motivational speech at half past and I want you here.’

      K&B Motors disappeared in the rear-view mirror. ‘I don’t need motivated.’

      ‘Tough. We’ve lost another girl.’

       26

      I’d expected a motivational speech to be a bit less of a rant. The Assistant Chief Constable paced up and down at the front of the crowded briefing room – a thin man with a hunched-over walk, wearing dress-uniform black. ‘And while we’re on the subject of unprofessional conduct, I clearly need to spell this out again: you will not