Stuart MacBride - 45% Hangover

Logan didn’t bother turning around. What was the point? ‘Detective Chief Inspector Steel, I presume.’

She sniffed. ‘Sodding Aberdeen City. How could you?’ The words were a little slurred at the edges. ‘Cowardly bastards.’

Stoney winced. ‘More “No”s?’

‘The sodding BBC have called it. Twenty-six out of thirty-two local authorities so far, and only four voted “Yes”. Four . Two hundred and thirty thousand votes down. No way we can come back from this. It’s over and Scotland bottled it!’ A hand slapped down on Logan’s shoulder. ‘Laz, I think we need to go get very, very drunk.’

Stoney grinned. ‘Funny you should say that, we’re off to— Ow! You kicked me!’

Logan kept his eyes on Steel. ‘We’re away to pick up a suspect.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re a lying wee sod.’ She poked him in the chest and leaned in, enveloping him in second-hand whisky fumes. ‘Where are you off to?’

Guthrie stuck up his hand. ‘The Regents Arms. Going to arrest someone.’

Steel beamed and threw her arms wide. ‘Perfect! I’ll come supervise.’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Logan backed towards the exit. ‘You’re off duty, and you’ve been drinking. You’re supervising nobody.’

‘Fine.’ She dropped her arms and narrowed her eyes. ‘Be like that.’ Then she turned and marched off down the corridor. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Wonderful.

The same auld mannie was standing outside the Regents Arms, smoking another furtive cigarette in his slippers. He nodded as Logan stepped up to the door. ‘Inspector.’

‘Donald.’

Inside, the number of patrons out for a pre-dawn booze-up had swelled to twenty. All nursing drinks. Their sour faces turned to watch as Logan, Stoney, and PC Guthrie marched in. Then slowly drifted back to the TV.

The usual suspects were up there on the screen, pontificating as the ticker crawled along at the bottom of the picture. ‘“No”: 1,402,047 — “Yes” 1,171,708’

Stoney had a quick look around. ‘No sign of Hadden. Maybe he’s been and gone?’

Guthrie pulled up his combat trousers. ‘Might be in the bogs?’

Logan pointed. ‘The pair of you go check.’ Yes, it might look a bit odd, the two of them going in together, but this way they were likely to make it out again alive.

As they marched off, Logan wandered up to the bar. ‘Two tins of Irn-Bru, and one Diet Coke. Don’t need glasses.’

The barman sighed, then turned and took them out of the fridge. Placed them in front of Logan. ‘You vote today?’

‘Yup.’ He pulled out the photo Stoney had downloaded. ‘You seen this guy?’

A pause. Then a raised eyebrow. ‘World porridge champion?’

‘Has he been in?’

‘Don’t remember.’ The barman turned and picked up a tumbler. Pressed it against an optic of Bells. Placed the whisky in front of Logan, along with the tins. ‘That one’s on the house for participating in the democratic process.’ Delivered without a hint of a smile.

OK...

Logan paid for the other drinks and carried the lot over to the same table he’d had last time. Back to the wall. Good view of the rest of the bar and the entrance.

Two minutes later, Stoney and Guthrie emerged from the toilets and joined him.

‘What took you so long?’

Guthrie twisted a finger through an imaginary lock of hair. ‘Doing our makeup and talking about boys.’

Stoney shifted in his seat, having another look around. Then cracked the tab on his Diet Coke. ‘Don’t look now, but six o’clock. That not Kurt Murison?’

‘Where?’ Guthrie turned right around and stared.

Stoney hit him. Dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. ‘I said, don’t look!’

‘How am I supposed to know if it’s him if I don’t look?’

Logan scanned the interior. Six o’clock. Even sitting down the man towered over the table. Broad shoulders. Shaven head. Ears that looked as if they’d been designed for someone a third the size. Huge hands.

He looked up and for a moment their eyes met.

Not romantic.

Logan glanced up at the television instead. Kept his voice low. ‘Yup, that’s Kurt Murison.’

‘Crap.’ Deep breath. ‘What do we do?’

‘Nothing. We sit here and we drink our fizzy juice and we wait for Alec Hadden to turn up.’ He had a sip of Irn-Bru. ‘And if Kurt makes a move, the two of you follow him and arrest him.’

Guthrie pulled a face. ‘You sure? Because I remember what happened the last time someone tried it. DS MacEachran was in traction for six weeks.’

‘DS MacEachran is an idiot.’

‘True.’

They sat. And they waited. And they drank their fizzy juice.

Up on the TV, someone in an ill-fitting suit was going on about the new political landscape and how great it was everyone had come out to play.

Stoney checked his watch. ‘What if Hadden’s a no show?’

‘Then you and Guthrie still get to arrest Kurt Murison.’

‘Oh joy.’

The ticker ran the latest scores again. ‘“Yes”: 54.47 % “No”: 45.53 %’

‘You know what?’ Stoney turned his Diet Coke round in a circle. ‘Maybe it’s for the best? I mean, if we’d got independence, we’d just be swapping one load of shiftless thieving useless bastards for another lot, wouldn’t we?’

Guthrie sniffed. ‘Yeah, but they’d be our shiftless thieving useless bastards.’

Logan polished off the last of his Irn-Bru, ‘And, to be fair, we’re already paying for two lots of them... Uh-oh — we’ve got movement.’

Kurt Murison scraped back his chair and got to his feet. Dear God, he was even bigger standing up. His arms were too big to hang loose at his sides, instead they stood out from his huge chest, as if he was carrying an invisible barrel under each one. He turned and lumbered towards the toilets, leaving a half-empty pint and an open packet of crisps behind. Safe in the knowledge that no one would dare touch them.

Guthrie pushed his tin away. ‘Probably off to coil a Douglas, or, perchance, a Thora.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Stoney rolled his eyes. ‘Tell him, Guv: men do Douglases, women do Thoras. Basic biology, isn’t it?’ He peered over his shoulder. ‘Maybe we should go after him? Catch him with his pants down.’

Logan shook his head. ‘We’re police officers, Detective Constable Stone, not monsters.’

That got him a sigh. ‘You know what I think?’ Stoney dunked a finger off the tabletop. ‘I think Scotland, England, Ireland, and Wales should all get their own parliament, and then once a week they do this big joint videoconference to decide stuff that affects everyone. That way we could fire half the buggers and save ourselves a fortune.’

Guthrie shook his head. ‘Better idea: performance-related beatings for all politicians. Could put it on TV and charge people to phone in with suggestions.’ He had a half-arsed attempt at a Geordie accent. ‘It’s day two in the Westminster house, and the Prime Minister’s trying to weasel his way out of a kick in the nads.’

Stoney mimed picking up the phone, joining in with an OTT Cockney. ‘Cor blimey guvnor, Oi’m gonna bid fifteen quid to see him battered wiv an ’addock !’

‘And here’s the leader of the opposition, still dressed in a rubber gimp suit after making a prick of himself on Monday.’

‘Luv a duck! Twenny quid if ye paddle his arse wiv an electric saaaaaandar .’

Guthrie grinned. ‘See? You could wipe out the deficit in a single season.’

‘This is genius, we should call Channel Four.’

Logan leaned back in his seat and left them to it.

Still no sign of Alec Hadden. Assuming, of course that Elaine hadn’t made it all up in the first place. Maybe Chris Browning was one her regulars? Still, why would she lie about being paid to slander him? What was in it for her? Didn’t make any... Hold on.