Стюарт Макбрайд - 22 Dead Little Bodies and Other Stories

A large, sharp voice battered out of the earpiece. ‘Superintendent Ward.’

‘Sir? DI McRae. Just found a block of what looks like coke in a flat.’

‘You have a search warrant?’

‘Permission from the householder. We were looking for the two women who said they’d seen Chris Browning on the fourth. Their aunt told us we could search the place if we liked.’

‘Hmmm... Let me have a word with the PF. Everyone still in situ?’

‘Left DC Stone with the aunt, sir. Uniform’s just arrived.’

‘Good. Right. I’ll let you know.’

And with any luck, that would be enough to cover Logan and Stoney’s backsides when it got to court. Logan slipped his phone into his pocket, and settled back to wait.

Langstane Place bustled with staggery groups of men and women, calling and whooping to each other. A handful of Temporary Public Urination Stations, AKA: Daleks, had been set up along the road. Big grey plastic things, with four semi-private bays for people to pee in. Not exactly classy, but it was better than them doing it in shop doorways.

Stoney checked his watch. ‘Twenty to.’

Logan sucked on his teeth for a bit. ‘Don’t see them, do you?’

‘I remember when this was nothing but houses and churches. Now look at it.’

‘Showing your age, Stoney. Got to move with the times.’

The place was one long ribbon of nightclubs, all heaving with referendum-night parties. Blootered voters, looking to exercise their democratic right to hump a drunken stranger. Offering to stuff each other’s ballot boxes.

Aunty Ina had named a couple of places where her nieces usually plied their trade on a Thursday night. Regent Quay was one of them, this was the other.

Logan pulled out another copy of Elaine and Jane’s mugshots — both looking half-dead and sallow, with a height chart behind them. He held the printout up for the bouncer outside Sneaky Jimmy’s — a slab of muscle with a number-one buzz cut and tattoos up her neck. ‘You seen either of these women?’

She narrowed her eyes and peered at the sheet. Then turned and waved her companion over. He wasn’t as big as she was, but his scalp looked as if a Rottweiler had been chewing on it, scar tissue showing through the severe haircut.

‘Marky, you seen this pair tonight?’

He bared his teeth and sooked a breath through them. ‘Aye.’ A finger like a sausage poked the paper. ‘This one was minesweeping. Nicking other people’s drinks when they wasn’t looking. This one,’ he poked the other photo, ‘got into a fight in the ladies. Had to throw the pair of them out on their arses.’ He raised an arm, then pulled up his shiny black bomber jacket, exposing a circle of red across his ribs. ‘Cow bit me, and everything.’

Stoney tutted. ‘Better get that looked at, mate. Don’t want to catch anything.’

Logan took the printout back. ‘When was this?’

‘About twenty minutes ago? Something like that?’

And they hadn’t been into any of the other nightclubs, so that really only left one place. Back to the docks.

‘Thanks.’ He turned and his phone launched into ‘If I Only Had a Brain’. That would be Rennie. He followed Stoney back to the pool car and hit the button. ‘McRae.’

A smoky growl sounded in his ear. ‘Are you avoiding me?’

Oh God, not her again .

‘Yes. Take the hint.’

‘Orkney: sixty-seven percent “No”, thirty-three “Yes”. Bloody Shetland’s no better: sixty-four, thirty-six. What are we—’

‘Have you done any work at all tonight?’

There was a pause. ‘Might have done.’

‘Yeah, well I’ve recovered about a quarter kilo of cocaine. Go do something productive for a change.’

‘No point. Shift ends in fifteen. Fancy hitting the pub?’

For goodness sake. He drummed his fingers on the car roof as Stoney unlocked it. ‘I’m on nights , remember? Don’t get off till seven in the morning.’

‘Aye, well, there’ll still be places open. I’m going to hang about and inspire the troops.’

Oh joy.

‘What do you think, Guv — call it a night?’ Stoney stuck his hands in his pockets and drew a foot along the double yellow line on Shore Lane.

Logan pulled his sleeve back and angled his watch so the streetlight’s sickly glow caught the dial. ‘Better give it till four. Make sure everyone’s had time to stagger down here from the nightclubs.’

Besides, with any luck, Steel would have given up by then and sodded off home, leaving everyone in peace.

Shore Lane stretched from Regent Quay to the dual carriageway on the other side, where the occasional lonely taxi drifted by on its way somewhere much nicer than this. A canyon of granite, punctuated by darkened windows and downpipes.

Stoney puffed out a breath — just visible in the night air — then shrugged. ‘Might as well get on with it, I suppose.’ He turned and wandered down the lane, making for the dual carriageway.

Logan headed back to Regent Quay instead. A couple of flats had their lights on, probably sitting up watching the results come in, but mostly it was darkness. On the other side of the harbour wall, the security lights blazed, making the vast orange vessels glow.

The Regents Arms was still open though, one of those harbour pubs with an all-night licence for the shift workers. The sort of place you could get a sausage buttie and a pint of Guinness at six in the morning. The sort of place you could get your head kicked in for looking at someone funny. Even if you were a police officer.

A figure stood outside the door, hunched over, one hand cupped around a cigarette as if someone was going to snatch it off him if he lowered his guard. Cardigan, jeans, slippers, a nose that could prize open tin cans. He nodded as Logan passed, setting a mop of grey hair swinging. ‘Inspector.’

‘Donald.’

More grey buildings, shut up for the night.

The clang, clang, clang of something metal getting battered with a hammer came from the harbour. A people carrier drove past. Somewhere in the distance, someone launched into a mournful and tuneless rendition of ‘My Love is like a Red, Red Rose’.

Logan turned the corner onto Water Lane, for about the ninth time that night.

Halfway down, beneath a broken streetlamp, a couple of figures huddled in the gloom. One tall, one not so much. Little more than silhouettes, caught in the glow of the dual carriageway behind. Then the shorter one sank down to its knees while the taller one leaned back against the wall.

No prizes for guessing what was going on there, then.

Hopefully whoever was on their knees had been paid in advance, because unless the tall guy was a really quick finisher, there wasn’t going to be time to negotiate afterwards.

Logan marched down the cobblestones. Reached into his pocket for his LED torch.

Got within thirty feet, then clicked it on.

A harsh cone of bright white stabbed through the darkness, catching a bald man with his trousers and pants around his ankles, head thrown back; and a skeletal woman kneeling in front of him, head bobbing at his crotch.

Logan took a deep breath. ‘POLICE!’

Mr Tall jerked upright. Spluttering, mouth stretched out like a dying frog. ‘Shite!’ He shoved the woman away, and he was off, lurching and scrambling as fast as he could with his trousers hobbling him.

The woman hit the cobblestones with a crack.

And twenty seconds later, so did Mr Tall — betrayed by his treacherous trousers. He careened into the road with arms and legs flailing. Scrambled to his knees, pulled himself upright, hauled his trousers into a more acceptable position, and ran for it.