add insult to injury, a small red hatchback wheeched past on the road, right through a puddle that sent a wall of water crashing over the stumpy man. He stood there, arms out, dripping, staring after the disappearing car.
‘Logan?’ Samantha pulled his face back to hers. ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘If that auld mannie’s any sort of proper Brocher, he’s going to hunt them down and shove that umbrella up their backsides. Then open it.’
‘Logan, I’m serious.’
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. ‘I’m doing my best.’
‘I know you are. But if you leave it to someone else to switch me off on Friday, I swear on God’s Holy Banjo I’ll rise from the grave and kick your pasty—’
‘Sarge?’
Logan blinked. Cleared his throat. ‘Calamity.’
‘That’s Lumpy Patrick been processed. Says he doesn’t want a lawyer, which is a first. With any luck we can burst him and get back to Banff before half three.’ She looked left, then right, checking no one was eavesdropping. ‘Or, if you’re still strapped for cash, we could spin it out a bit for the overtime?’
A deep breath hissed its way out. ‘Right. Yes. No. Let’s get home.’
‘You OK, Sarge?’
He forced a smile. ‘Vending machine’s out of chocolate.’
Little creases appeared between her eyebrows. ‘You sure you’re OK? Was one hell of a fall. We could get the duty doctor in?’
‘It’s fine. Never better. Now, did—’ His phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ from Star Wars, dark and ominous. He closed his eyes. Scrunched his face up. ‘Great.’ Then sighed and pulled his mobile out. Nodded at Calamity. ‘Stick Lumpy in Interview Two – and make sure the window’s open. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ As soon as she left the room, he pressed the button. ‘What?’
A pause. Then Steel’s voice grated out of the earpiece, like smoked gravel. ‘That any way to talk to a Detective Chief Inspector, you cheeky wee sod?’ She snorted. ‘And what the hell were you thinking, turning up a body in the middle of nowhere, in the mud and the rain? Shoes are like squelchy buckets of yuck now.’
‘Is there a point to this call, or did you just ring up to moan? Only I’m off shift in ten, and I’ve got a suspect to interview. So…?’
‘Oh aye? And what’s your suspect saying to it? You got a line on my victim you’re no’ sharing with me?’
‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’
‘Oh don’t be such a girl, Laz.’ There was a sooking noise. Then a sigh. ‘Called to do you a favour. Our beloved Chief Superintendent Napier – the Ginger Ninja, the Nosy Nosferatu, the Copper-Top Catastrophe, the Duracell Devil himself – is on the prowl. So watch your back… Hold on.’ A muffled conversation happened in the background, the words too far away to hear properly.
Samantha raised her eyebrows. Pointed at the phone. Made the universal hand gesture for onanism. ‘Oh, and I want a proper send off. Black coffin, red silk lining, all my bits and bobs, OK? Full battle-paint. And that leather corset. Not going to meet the worms dressed like someone’s mum.’
‘Anything else, your ladyship?’
‘Yes. Cheer up, for God’s sake. You’ve got a face like a skelped backside.’
And Steel was back. ‘Swear I’m going to swing for that idiot Rennie before the day’s out.’ She made a little growling noise, then sniffed. ‘Right, where were we? Yes: Napier. Slimy git retires in a couple of months, and he wants to go out with a bang. That means stitching some poor sod up. And you know he’s always had a hard-on for you and me. Let’s not hand him a threesome, eh?’
Now there was an image. ‘Don’t care. Let him dig, I’m clean.’
Well, kind of…
Ish…
If you didn’t count the whole flat-selling fiasco. Which Napier most certainly would if he ever found out about it. Logan ran a hand across his face. He wouldn’t find out. Never.
There was no way he could.
Could he?
‘Laz, you still there?’
Logan cleared his throat. ‘It’ll be fine.’ Or it would all go horribly wrong. ‘Right, got to go: suspect waiting. Give Jasmine and Naomi my love, OK?’ He hung up before she could answer.
Then switched his phone off, just in case.
Even with the window open, Interview Room Two stank. The cause sat on the low bench on the other side of the small white table. Fidgeting.
Lumpy Patrick’s arms stuck out from the sleeves of his T-shirt like dirty pipe cleaners. They were little more than bone, the muscles knotted bungee cords, stretched taut and thrumming. Skin peppered with dark pocked scars where the needles had tracked time and time again. His hands had taken on a brown-grey tinge, a mixture of dirt and … more dirt. Ragged black crescents for fingernails. Sunken cheeks and eyes the colour of Tabasco – fringed with clumps of yellow. And when he spoke, the smell of a thousand backed-up toilets spewed into the room. ‘I want you to let us off on the shoplifting.’
Logan pulled as far back into his seat as possible. Breathing through the side of his mouth. ‘And why would we do something silly like that?’
‘Cos it’s just bacon and cheese, yeah? Not like it’s anything major.’
He picked up a clear evidence bag and held it in front of Lumpy’s face. ‘For the tape, I am now showing Mr Hay the two wrappers of heroin found in his pocket when he was arrested.’ Logan put them back down again. ‘And before you deny it: we know they’re heroin, because we tested them.’
‘Ah…’ A nod sent greasy wisps of hair rocking. ‘Well, supposing I told you where you could, like, get a whole lot more of that stuff? Yeah, right?’ His pale tongue crawled out between his chapped lips, glistening. Then Lumpy leaned forward, enveloping Logan in his stench. ‘Way I hear it, Ma Campbell’s got herself a shipment coming up from Weegietown. Yeah?’ He held his filthy hands up, about two feet apart. ‘Big shipment. You like that?’
Calamity leaned back against the wall by the open window. ‘Who’s the delivery for?’
‘Oh no. We do us a deal first, yeah? I tell you stuff, we forget all about the shoplifting and that. Deal?’
‘Depends on whether you’re telling us the truth or not.’ Logan pulled out his pen and pointed it across the table. ‘Who’s it for?’
The smile that bloomed on Lumpy’s face was like watching something rot, it exposed a set of grey gums almost devoid of teeth. ‘You know Ricky Welsh?’
That got him a groan from Calamity. ‘Oh God. Not Ricky and Laura…’
‘Yeah. Big shipment coming in from Glasgow. All them Weegie drugs.’
Logan tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘Not meaning to be funny, Lumpy, but are you seriously sitting there clyping on Ricky and Laura Welsh? After what happened to Abby Ritchie?’
When Lumpy shrugged, his whole body slumped to the side, until the ends of his hair made little oily marks on the table. ‘Me civic duty, isn’t it? Can’t have Weegie imports ruining it for local businessmen. Not right.’
Yeah, because Lumpy Patrick was a fine upstanding member of the Banff and Macduff Chamber of Commerce.
Logan