Stuart MacBride - 45% Hangover

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.’

‘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.’

And past.

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 knees, head thrown back; and a skeletal woman on her knees, 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.

Logan let him go. Stood over the fallen woman and offered her a hand up.

She scowled at him. Her cheekbones were razor sharp, her eyes hollow and dark, quick-bitten fingernails and a tremor that made everything shake. ‘You think that was funny ?’

‘You get the cash upfront?’

‘Could’ve killed me.’

‘Look on the bright side: you got paid and you don’t have to do the deed.’

Elaine Mitchel sniffed. Then wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jacket, adding to the silver trails. She turned her head, staring off down the darkened lane after her departed customer. A strangler’s ring of love bites encircled her throat. ‘True.’

Logan helped her up. ‘Been looking for you all night.’ Then pulled out the missing person poster. ‘You recognise this man?’

Her eyes flicked towards the poster, then away again. ‘Don’t remember, like.’ Heat radiated from her bony chest, taking with it a smell of stale perfume and sweat.

Logan shone his torch on the poster, so the picture was nice and clear. ‘Come on, have another look’.

She did, but only for the briefest of beats. ‘Don’t remember.’

‘Chris Browning, forty-two, brown hair, glasses, slightly posh Aberdonian accent.’

She took a step away. ‘Got stuff to do.’

Logan grabbed her arm. It was barely there — just a length of bone, wrapped in snot-streaked material, burning into his palm. ‘His family’s worried, OK?’

Elaine looked down at Logan’s hand, then up to his face. ‘You want to touch me, you gotta pay.’

He let go. ‘Come on, Elaine, no one’s seen him for two weeks. You told Jimmy from the Aberdeen Examiner that you saw Chris Browning on the fourth. You said he was a regular.’

She stared at her shoes — high heels, the leather all scuffed and stained. ‘Don’t remember. Didn’t talk to no journo.’

‘Jimmy named you, Elaine. Gave up his source, just like that.’

Her thin lips disappeared inside her mouth, creases forming between her eyebrows. ‘Don’t remember.’

A pair of headlights paused at the entrance to the lane... and then drifted past. Not this time.

‘OK. I understand.’ Logan nodded. ‘Elaine Mitchel, I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the—’

‘No.’ She backed up, until she was against the wall. ‘I don’t...’ She threw her arms out to the sides. ‘Could you not leave us alone?’

‘Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure — Scotland — Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment. You—’

‘OK! OK.’ A sigh. ‘OK. I never met the man.’ She pointed at the poster. ‘Him.’

‘You told Jimmy that Chris Browning was down here every Wednesday, paying for, and I quote, “Disgusting and unusual sex acts”.’