Stuart MacBride: 45% Hangover

One bony shoulder came up to her ear, then fell again. ‘Never met him.’

‘Then why say you did?’

‘Money.’ She smiled at Logan, all twisted brown teeth and beige gums. ‘A hundred quid.’

The wall behind the bar was festooned with stolen apostrophes. Some were large and plastic, some small and metal, some neon, others designed to be illuminated by whoever paid for them in the first place, not knowing that some wee sod from Aberdeen was going to wheech up a ladder with a screwdriver in the middle of the night and make off with their punctuation.

The barman took one look at Logan and sighed. Then raised his voice, so the dozen people spread in ones and twos about the place could hear over the telly playing in the corner of the room. ‘Detective Inspector, what can I get you?’

Subtle.

Logan pointed at Elaine Mitchel. ‘You?’

‘Double vodka.’

‘And a tin of Irn-Bru.’

The barman clunked a glass up beneath the optic, twice, then dumped it on the bar. ‘You want a glass with the Irn-Bru?’

And give him something to spit in? ‘No thanks. Tin’s fine.’

It was produced, and Logan paid the man, then led the way across to a table in the corner, away from the speakers. Sitting with his back to the wall, just in case.

He wiped a thumb across the tin’s top, clearing off the sheen of dew, then clicked the ringpull off. ‘A hundred quid’s a lot of money.’

Elaine shrugged, then took a sip. Holding the vodka in her mouth with her eyes closed. Savouring it.

‘Who paid?’

She swallowed. Sighed. ‘A man. Same as usual.’

‘You know who he is?’

Elaine shifted in her seat, looking back at the television with its array of BBC journalists and pundits sitting behind a big curved desk. ‘Any idea how it’s going?’

‘Do you know who paid you? Did you get a name?’

‘We did a postal vote. Just in case, you know? Wanted to make sure it counted.’ Another sip of vodka.

Up on the screen, they were scrolling through the results so far. ‘Western Isles: “No”. 53 % To 47 %. Inverclyde: “No”. 50.1 % To 49.9 %.’

Steel would love that.

‘Elaine. I need a name, or I can’t help you.’

She picked at the table, where someone had carved the initials DG into the wood. ‘Who says I need help? Doing fine, aren’t I?’

‘We were at your aunt’s place tonight. She showed us your room.’

Elaine turned back to the television. ‘Going to be no, isn’t it? Probably just as well.’

‘Want to guess what we found in your chest of drawers? Right at the bottom, with all the shoplifted watches, makeup, and costume jewellery?’

‘What’d happen to all the benefits, eh? Who’s going to pay our dole: BP and Shell? My arse.’

‘We found about a quarter kilo of cocaine, Elaine. About, what, a good ten, twelve grand’s worth?’

‘Then there’s all the supermarkets putting up their prices, and the banks sodding off down south, and the other big companies...’

‘That’s possession with intent.’

‘And they’ll close the border. Be like, a big stretch of barbed wire from Grenta to Berwick-upon-Tweed. Guard towers and spotlights and Alsatians and ghettos...’

‘You’re looking at nine to thirteen years, Elaine.’

She sniffed. Polished off her vodka. ‘Isn’t mine. Found it.’

He sat back. ‘Here we go.’

‘Nope, it’s the God’s. Me and Jane found it, down the Green. Can’t bang us up if it isn’t ours.’

‘You found a quarter kilo of cocaine lying about in the Green?’

‘Na. Yeah.’ The bony shoulders rose and fell. ‘Kinda. This bloke was doing a runner, right? Battering it down Correction Wynd, under the bridge hell-for-leather into the Green. Got a nose like a burst bottle of ketchup, blood all down the front of his shirt. He dumps this padded envelope in a bin and keeps going. Thirty seconds later, these three big bastards hammer after him. Caught him outside Granite Reef and pounded the crap out of him.’

Logan’s eyebrow climbed up his forehead. ‘When was this?’

‘Dunno. Tuesday?’

It was the assault Steel couldn’t be bothered investigating because an Edinburgh drug dealer getting beaten up wasn’t ‘major’ enough. And it explained what the little dark-red spots on the package of coke were. Blood.

‘You see who did it?’

‘Depends. It worth something?’

‘Nine to thirteen years. You help me, I help you.’

She stuck a finger in her empty glass and wiped up the last smears of alcohol. Sooked it clean. ‘You know Alec Hadden: drinks in here sometimes?’

‘He one of them?’

Elaine shook her head. ‘He’s the one gave me and Jane a hundred quid to say that Chris Browning was a regular. Told us to say the guy was into all kinds of filthy stuff, you know? Real pervert scumbag. Likes it rough up the bum and that.’

Logan looked over her shoulder, taking in the assembled slouch of wee-small-hours drinkers. ‘This Alec in tonight?’

She checked. ‘Nah. Doesn’t usually come in till five or six, though. Think he works up the hospital or something, doesn’t get off till then.’ Elaine smiled at him, exposing a lopsided jumble of brown teeth. ‘If we’re waiting, any chance of another voddie?’

Something buzzed in Logan’s pocket. ‘Hold on.’ He pulled it out: text message.

I love Dundee!!!

Yes: 57 %!!! Wee dancers!

I’m never making fun of Dundee ever again.

Dundee! Dundee! Dundee!

That would be Steel, hijacking someone else’s phone again. Well, at least she was happy for a change. The phone vibrated in his fingers.

Well, maybe not never ever, it is Dundee after all.

And again.

Sodding Renfrewshire is No: 53%

Tossers.

How could she type so fast with her thumbs?

He put his phone on the table and Elaine jerked her head towards the bar.

‘So... Vodka?’

‘Nope: station.’

That brown smile died. ‘But—’

‘A quarter kilo of cocaine, remember?’ He stood. ‘You need to make a statement, or you need to go to prison. Your choice. But either way there’s no more vodka in it.’

She slumped right down, until her top half rested on the table. ‘Noooo...’

‘How about this: you help me catch the guys who beat up the drug dealer, and I’ll buy you a whole bottle?’

There was a small pause, then she dragged herself to her feet. ‘Better than nothing.’

There was a knock on the interview room door, then Stoney appeared. ‘Guv?’

His moustache was slightly... lopsided. A scrape on his cheek. What looked like the beginnings of an excellent shiner spreading beneath his right eye.

Logan frowned. ‘Detective Constable Stone enters the room.’

Sitting on the other side of the table, Elaine slumped to one side. ‘Can I go for a pee?’

‘In a minute.’ Logan pointed. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Gah...’ His mouth stretched out and down. ‘Jane Taylor happened. Had to drop her off at the hospital, couldn’t even stand, she was so drunk. Didn’t stop her though.’ He fingered the bruise beneath his eye. ‘Like a blootered Mike Tyson.’

‘Yeah, Janey always did take after her dad.’ Elaine’s feet drummed on the grey floor. ‘Seriously, I’m bursting here.’

What the hell. ‘Interview suspended at four twenty-two. DC Stone, can you escort Miss Mitchel to the bathroom and back again. Ten minutes.’

He backed off a pace. ‘She doesn’t bite, does she?’

That brown smile was back. ‘Not unless you pay extra.’

Logan took a sip from his polystyrene cup on the way back to his office. The coffee from the machine wasn’t great at the best of times, but there was something about drinking it out of expanded hydrocarbon foam that really classed it up. Could always sneak into the MIT office and help himself to their stash. After all, they’d all have gone home for the night.