I understand you’re running a competition so one lucky viewer can win a walk-on part in—’
Logan jabbed the remote control’s off button and the picture disappeared into darkness.
In the bedroom, Madness were banging on about finally being old enough to buy condoms. He slouched through to join them, drinking his milky tea between hauling on socks and pants and trousers.
‘. . .and “House of Fun”. Speaking of fun, fancy winning yourself an exclusive VIP tour of the new Witchfire movie being filmed right here in the north-east? Well, stay tuned because you’re in for a treat after David Bowie. “Let’s Dance”!’
Bloody film was like a virus.
He pulled on a white shirt that deserved a much better iron than the one he’d given it, sooking his fingers clean of butter and Marmite before doing up the buttons.
Tie, or no tie? He picked a couple from the wardrobe, then stood there, staring at the sheet of paper taped to the glass.
A blaring rendition of ‘If I Only Had a Brain’ came from his mobile. Logan blinked. Checked his watch. Been standing there like a turnip for five minutes.
Shudder.
He sank onto the bed and worked his feet into his shoes with one hand, answering the phone with the other. ‘What? ’
Rennie sniffed. ‘And good morning to you too.’
For God’s sake. ‘You’re not six.’
‘Fine. We’ve got another battered Oriental male – this one’s from Laos. They beat the crap out of him, then took a hammer to his knees and ankles.’
‘Anything? ’
‘Won’t say a word. According to the ambulance crew, he was off his tits when they brought him in – doped to the eyeballs, reeking of cannabis.’
‘What about the jewellery heist? ’
‘Like juggling mud. Been dragging people out their beds all night – thanks for that, by the way, always nice to be sworn and spat at for a whole shift. Really boosted my morale.’
‘So what you’re saying is: you didn’t get anywhere.’
‘That’s not fair! Not my fault the gang haven’t tried shifting the stuff yet, is it? Maybe they’ve taken it down south, maybe they’re stashing it for a couple of years, or shipping it overseas. How am I supposed to deal with that? ’ Moan, whinge, complain, grumble, whine. On and on and on.
He stuck his phone on the bedside cabinet, let Rennie enjoy his wee petulant moment while he laced up his shoes.
When he picked up the phone again, Rennie was still going.
‘. . .never get any credit. And how come I’m always on nights? It’s not—’
‘Much though I’d love to sit here and listen to you bitch the day away, I’ve got work to get to, so—’
A knock on the caravan’s door, loud and insistent.
‘God’s sake. . .’ Logan put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘JUST A MINUTE!’ Then back to the phone, marching out of the bedroom and across the hall to the front door. ‘Get on to the lab – I want those forensics chased. And don’t let them give you any crap about “three to six weeks”. Tuesday, by the latest.’
‘Would you like a magic flying unicorn while I’m at it? ’
‘No, but I’ll take an egg buttie – on my desk for quarter past seven. And a tea.’ Logan turned the key in the lock. Swung the door open. ‘And don’t think you’re—’
Something exploded in his face, hard, driving pepper and bees through his nose, making the edges of the world scream with yellow fog as he crashed back onto the carpet. Thunk – his head bounced off the plasterboard. One knee caught the edge of the doorframe. ‘Nnnghn. . .’
Everything tasted of hot copper wire.
Something wet on his face.
Blink.
‘Gagh. . .’ Tiny scarlet drops burst out of his mouth, then pattered down onto his cheeks and forehead.
Get up. GET UP NOW.
Ow. . . Fire burned through his head, radiating out from his nose. Screaming at him. Making his ears ring.
A huge bulk blotted out the sunshine streaming in through the door: Reuben. Not in the suit and tie any more. He was wearing a pair of blue overalls, the cuffs frayed and stained dark with oil and dirt, the knees too. A pair of heavy boots on his feet, the leather scuffed away in patches, metal toecaps glistening within.
Oh. Shit.
Logan scrabbled back against the wall.
But Reuben didn’t step inside and kick the living hell out of him. Didn’t stomp on his head and ribs. Didn’t pummel his face to mince. Instead the big man wobbled a bit, clutching the door frame, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes bleary and blinking.
The sharp, smokey stench of stale whisky and sweat came off him in a greasy fug. Chest heaving as he hauled in a breath through his flattened nose. The words came out slurred, riding a little mist of spittle. ‘I know . . . I . . . I know what you . . . you’re doing.’
He rocked back and forward a couple of times, the knuckles on his right hand sticking out like rivets on a steel sheet. ‘You . . . you’re not gonnae . . . get. . . Fuckin’ kill . . . kill you. . .’
Then Reuben’s legs gave up and he slid down the side of the caravan until he was slumped on the top step, shoulders juddering, tears running through the webs of scar tissue, snot glittering through his patchy moustache.
And dangling from the door handle, another knot of little bones.
Bastard. . .
Logan wiped at the drop of scarlet staining the report, leaving a dirty smear through the words. He leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the ceiling, clutching a wodge of paper napkins to his nose.
Detective Sergeant Rennie tutted. ‘Took me ages to type that up, and you’re getting blood all over it.’
Logan’s office was just big enough to fit a couple of filing cabinets, a chipped Formica desk, two whiteboards, a creaky swivel chair, and a visitor’s seat that looked as if it belonged in a skip.
Rennie shifted in it, making the vinyl squeak. He’d gelled his hair up into a blond tuft at the front, his cheeks glowing with sunburn, a curl of skin peeling off the end of his shiny nose. ‘And you didn’t eat your buttie.’ It still sat in the middle of the desk, half unwrapped from its tinfoil shroud. Congealing.
Logan glowered at him. The words came out all bunged up and flat. ‘Do you want to be partnered with Biohazard for the next month? Stuck in small confined spaces with him? Because I can arrange that.’
‘Had to go down the baker’s: canteen’s still closed for the refurb.’ He sniffed. ‘Be cold by now.’
‘Just . . . bugger off.’
The door banged open, rattling the memos pinned to the wall. DCI Steel posed in the doorway. Grinning.
Logan gave her a glower as well. ‘It’s not funny!’
‘Is it no’? ’ Her suit was as unfashionably baggy as her neck; crow’s feet and wrinkles turning her face into a jumble of planes and lines. But it was the hair that really stood out. And up. And in every other direction too. As if she’d brushed it with an angry cat. ‘Looks funny to me.’ She wafted in, bringing a fug of stale-cigarette-stink with her.
Steel gave Rennie a wee slap on the back of the head. ‘Shift it, Tintin.’
He grumbled, then hauled himself out of the visitor’s seat. He pointed at