Stuart MacBride - 45% Hangover

He dumped the cup in the nearest bin and made for the stairs. Taking them two at a time up to the next floor. Pushed through the door into the Major Investigation Team’s domain.

Stopped.

So much for sneaking a go on their fancy coffee machine in secret.

Half a dozen plainclothes officers lounged in office chairs, all facing the large flatscreen TV at the front of the room, watching the BBC’s live coverage. The interactive whiteboard was divided up into a grid — percentages and numbers across the top, the name of each Scottish region down the side.

The office was easily six times bigger than the grubby hovel the CID had been relegated to. Here they had new desks. New chairs. New ceiling tiles. A carpet that didn’t look as if a herd of incontinent sheep had rampaged across it for twenty years. New computers. State-of-the-art tech kit. And right at the back, one of those fancy coffee machines that took wee pod cartridges and produced something that didn’t taste of boiled slurry.

Steel had pride of place, surrounded by her minions, a bottle of Grant’s Whisky open on the desk beside her, next to a pizza box containing a couple of congealed slices. She took a sip and scowled at him. ‘West Dumbartonshire: fifty-four percent “Yes”, forty-six “No”.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Might as well brass neck it. He wandered over to the coffee machine and plucked a cartridge at random. Stuck it in the machine.

‘No’ good enough. Sodding Stirling was sixty percent “No”. Sixty .’

The machine churned and groaned and chugged.

Steel pointed at a bloke in a stripy shirt and undone tie. ‘Colin?’

He nodded, blinked in slow motion, then squinted at the whiteboard. ‘Midlothian fifty-six percent “No”. East Lothian: sixty-two percent “No”. Falkirk: fifty-three percent “No”.’

Steel waved a hand. ‘Shut up, they’re doing Angus. Come on Angus, do it for Aunty Roberta...’

Up on the screen, a man with almost no hair above his ears stood behind a podium, in front of an Angus Council display board. ‘... the total number of rejected votes was sixty-six and the reasons for rejection were as follows. Seventeen for voting for both answers—’

‘How? How could anyone be that stupid? It’s a yes or no sodding question!’

‘The total number of votes cast in relation to each answer to the referendum question, in this area, was as follows...’

‘Stop milking it and read the sodding result!’

‘“Yes”: thirty-five thousand and forty-four. “No”: forty-five thousand one hundred and ninety-two. That concludes this evening’s count.’

‘Nooooooooooo!’ Steel buried her head in her hands. ‘Sodding hell.’

Logan grabbed his coffee and slipped out before she resurfaced.

Elaine yawned, showing off those crooked brown teeth again. Most of them boasted a shiny grey chunk of dentist’s jewellery. Then she sagged in her seat. ‘We about done?’

‘Just a couple more things.’ Logan turned the ID book around so it faced her. ‘Can you identify the fourth man?’

She sighed, then jabbed a finger at the page, selecting a hairy man with tiny squinty eyes and a nose that pointed at his left cheek. ‘Him.’

‘And you’re certain?’

‘Said so, didn’t I?’

‘Right.’ Logan copied Captain Hairy’s name into his notebook. ‘For the record, Miss Mitchel has identified Dominic Walker as the fourth assailant. And that’s it?’

She nodded. ‘Can I sod off now?’

‘One more.’ Logan closed the book, then checked his notes. ‘I need an ID for Alec Hadden — the guy who paid you to lie about Chris Browning being one of your regulars.’

Elaine shrugged one shoulder. ‘Tell you what, Regents Arms is open till nine. How about we go back there and wait till he turns up?’ She licked her lips with a pale, dead-slug tongue. ‘Get a couple of drinks. Get a bit friendlier...?’

Sitting next to him, Stoney flinched. ‘Gah!’

Logan frowned at him. ‘You OK?’

Colour rushed up his cheeks. ‘She’s playing footsy under the table, Guv. Came as a bit of a shock.’

Took all sorts. ‘Interview suspended at four forty-five so Constable Stone can assist Miss Mitchel with the production of an identikit picture of Alec Hadden.’ Logan switched off the recorder and stood. ‘No funny business.’

‘Guv, it wasn’t—’

‘Now: none of that. You keep your galloping hormones to yourself.’ He left them to it, pulling out his phone and dialling with his thumb as he made his way back to the office. ‘Guthrie? It’s Logan. My office: I want you to run some PNC checks.’

‘Guv.’

By the time he got there, PC Guthrie was already waiting, like an expectant golden retriever. Logan scribbled down names for each of the four thugs Elaine Mitchel had IDed then added ‘Alec Hadden’ at the bottom. ‘Full check on the lot of them. Then get onto the hospital and see when they think Jane Taylor’s going to be sober enough to interview.’

‘Guv.’ He stood there, clutching the sheet of paper.

‘Run along then.’

‘Oh, right.’

Logan settled behind his desk and pulled over the phone. Put in a call to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. But no one there had heard of Alec Hadden. Was he sure he’d got the name right? Not really. Ah well, better luck next time.

Worth a try though.

He logged back into his computer, getting the paperwork started for a warrant to arrest the guys who’d battered the drug dealer from Edinburgh. Assuming they could get Jane Taylor to corroborate her sister’s IDs, that was. Be hard to convince a sheriff to give them a warrant on the say so of a single addict. Two: yes, one: no.

There was a knock on the door, and Stoney stuck his head in. The shiner was darkening nicely beneath his eye. ‘Guv?’ He held up a printout. ‘Alec Hadden.’

Wow.

‘That was fast.’

‘Used my initiative, Guv, and googled him.’ Stoney put the printout on the desk. It was a photo of a thin man with shoulder-length brown hair and a broad grin, underneath the headline, ‘Local Man Is World Porridge Champion’.

‘ World porridge champion. La-dee-dah.’

‘Bet he keeps the trophy where everyone can see it too. Looks the type, doesn’t he?’

‘OK. He’s supposed to be at the Regents Arms sometime after five. Probably better keep it low key — last thing we need’s a brawl kicking off in there.’

Stoney grimaced. ‘You sure we can’t call in the Riot Brigade? Regents Arms isn’t exactly cop-friendly.’

‘Low key does not mean shields, battering rams, and crash helmets. We’ll go with you, me, and Wheezy Doug... What?’

‘Wheezy’s got court tomorrow. Went home at midnight, remember?’

‘OK, when Guthrie’s done with the PNC checks, tell him to change into civvies. We’re going down the pub.’

‘Dear God, it’s Action Man!’ Stoney rocked back on his heels as PC Guthrie appeared in the corridor.

He’d changed out of his police-ninja black into a pair of cargo pants, green jumper with patches on the elbows and shoulders, and finished the ensemble off with a pair of big black boots. ‘What?’

‘Go on, do the kung fu grip thing.’

Logan hit Stoney. ‘Don’t mock the afflicted. Everyone ready?’

All three of them produced their handcuffs, and wee CS gas canisters. Then Guthrie dug into one of his many trouser pockets and came out with a canister of Bite Back. ‘Just in case.’

‘Good boy.’ Logan put his cuffs away. ‘Right, let’s do it. We can... What?’

Stoney was staring over his shoulder. ‘Guv?’

Then a smoky voice of doom grated out behind. ‘Gah! It’s all ruined .’