Stuart MacBride: 45% Hangover

‘Course, they take after their mum. Never met a bigger slag in your life than Morag.’

Next drawer: socks tied in tight little bundles.

‘So Morag’s up the stick with Elaine, and she and Whatsisname get married. Registry office. Couldn’t wear white, could she? Not when half the school’d had a go.’ Aunty Ina took a drag and blew a lungful of smoke at the stained ceiling. ‘Didn’t last. Well, hard to be a dad when you’ve got a paper round, isn’t it?’

Next drawer: baby toys. Rattles, dummies, shaky things in the shape of flowers, a stars-and-moon mobile still in the packaging. A pink fuzzy cat. A tiny romper suit with orange and black stripes like a tiger. He pulled the tiger costume out and held it up. ‘Does Elaine or Jane have a child?’ Because if they did, Social Services were getting a call to rescue it from this rancid hovel.

Aunty Ina stuck the cigarette back in her mouth and shifted her grip on her cat. ‘Naw, that’s Elaine’s. Silly cow thinks she’ll be a wonderful mummy someday. As if. Collects this crap the whole time. Got bags of it in the wardrobe.’

Yeah, because that wasn’t creepy.

‘Anyway,’ Ina rubbed Mr Seville’s tummy, ‘then along comes Shuggie and sweeps Morag off her feet. Come with me, baby, we’ll see the world...’ A sigh. ‘Real looker he was too.’

Last drawer. It was full of carrier bags.

‘Course, she’s full of herself. “Oh, he loves me. Oh, he’ll do anything for me. Oh, we’re so happy.” And six weeks later, she’s got a broken arm, a broken nose, she’s pregnant — again — and Shuggie’s shacked up with some other poor cow.’

Logan tipped the first one out on the bare mattress. An assortment of watches spilled out onto the stained fabric. A few still had the price stickers attached.

‘Eight years later, and she’s overdosed in a squat and I’m lumbered with her bloody kids. Some sister, eh?’

The next bag contained cheap jewellery, the kind sold at the tills in Markies and BHS. All plastic and shiny bits. All still pinned to rectangles of cardboard.

‘Lucky the wee buggers didn’t end up in care.’

Logan looked around the horrible little room Elaine and Jane shared in the horrible little flat, with their horrible little aunt. ‘Yeah, really lucky.’

Bag number three was full of cosmetics from Boots — own-brand stuff, probably snatched off the shelves while no one was looking.

Aunty Ina finished her cigarette and pinged the butt away into the piles of dirty clothes. Then rubbed her ginger baby between the ears. ‘If you find any money, it’s mine. They borrowed it.’

Bag number four was different. It contained a parcel of white powder — about the size of a mealie pudding — wrapped up in layers of clingfilm and secured with strips of parcel tape. ‘Well, well, well.’

Little beads of dark red had dried on the plastic surface, like ladybirds.

‘The lying wee shites!’ Aunty Ina stamped a foot on the bare floorboards, making Mr Seville wriggle in her arms. ‘They told me they didn’t have any gear!’

The patrol car pulled up outside the tower block, lights spinning in the darkness, and sat there.

Logan stepped out from the block’s shadow and rapped on the driver’s window. ‘You sitting there for a reason?’

Constable Haynes smiled up at him, then fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Wanted to make sure it was safe, Guv. I leave Wee Billy here unsupervised for five minutes, might come back to find someone’s nicked his boots and truncheon. He’s only new.’

Her partner, sitting in the passenger seat, blushed — gritting his teeth and saying nothing, like a big boy.

Logan pointed up at Aunty Ina’s flat. ‘Top floor. No lift. Make sure the auld wifie stays put till we get the Procurator Fiscal organised. Soon as you’re there , tell DC Stone he’s wanted back here . And while you’re at it—’ His phone launched into its anonymous ringtone. ‘Hold on.’ He pulled it out and pressed the button. ‘McRae.’

‘Seven morons in Clackmananshire voted “Yes” and “No” on the same ballot paper. You believe that? How thick can they be?’

He closed his eyes. ‘It’s you.’

‘Couldn’t get through on my phone. Had to borrow one. Sodding Glasgow’s seventy-five percent turnout. Seventy-five percent! What sodding use is that? Even Aberdeen managed eighty-two.’

‘Stop calling me with numbers, OK? I — don’t — care. I’m working .’

‘Seventy-five percent. How many thousands of votes is that lost? Eh? You know what I think? I think—’

Logan hung up. Barred that number too.

Haynes pulled her bowler down low on her head, leaving the fringes of her bob showing. ‘Let me guess, Detective Chief Inspector Steel?’

Her partner clambered out of the car, all sticky-out ears and chin. ‘She’s driving everyone mental back at the ranch. Stand still for two minutes and she’ll get you working out percentages and stuff. Nightmare. Like being back at school.’

Logan punched the duty superintendent’s number into his mobile and wandered over to the pool car he and Stoney had arrived in, settling back against the bonnet while it rang.

Then 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 dark 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, trying their luck with members of the opposite sex. 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 printout of Elaine and Jane, both from the police database, looking straight forward with a height chart behind them. He held it 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.’