Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘ And now here’s Russell with the weather. ’

‘ Thanks, Steve. Well, it’s going to be an unsettled couple of days- ’

The doorbell rang out its long mournful chime.

He reached for the handle, paused. The pickaxe handle waited patiently, propped up in the corner. He took it and peered through the spyhole.

Jackie scowled back at him, her features distorted by the lens.

He opened the door. ‘You already had the last word.’

Her eyes went from his face to the pickaxe handle. ‘Didn’t think you were so sensitive.’ Then she hoiked a thumb over her shoulder at a green-haired lanky young man leaning back against Logan’s Fiat. One of Wee Hamish Mowat’s boys, with a courier’s satchel slung over one shoulder. ‘You got a visitor.’

The young man grinned at him as Jackie roared off in her Audi. ‘Bit on the side, eh? McRae, you old hound you.’ Acne scars pocked his cheeks, disappearing into a set of wiry sideburns. Eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Shoulder-length lime green hair swept back from his forehead. ‘Though, how you manage to pull the chicks drivin’ this manky piece of crap. .? ’ He rapped his knuckles on the Punto’s bonnet.

The bloody magpies had been at the car again, spattering it with grey-and-white droppings, wedging twigs into the windscreen wipers. Logan hefted the pickaxe handle onto his shoulder. ‘What do you want, Jamie? ’

‘No’ to be up at this soddin’ hour. Brutal, man.’ He nodded at the caravan. ‘You gonnae invite me in? ’

‘How’s your friend Reuben? ’

‘Yeah. ..’ Jamie stuck the tip of his pale-yellow tongue out between his teeth. ‘I heard you and him had a thing. What can I say? The Rubester’s a passionate man.’ He pulled his sunglasses down to the end of his nose and winked a bloodshot eye. ‘But just so you know: if there’s a change of management and that, I’d have no problems workin’ with the new administration. Just between us.’

‘What — do — you — want? ’

Jamie dipped into the satchel and came out with a large brown envelope. ‘Been lookin’ into your battered Chinkies for Mr Mowat. Sod-all clue who the other side are, but the ones doing the hammerin’ are definitively the McLeod brothers.’

No surprise there.

Jamie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m just sayin’, you know, if the time comes, you can rely on us. The Reubinator’s great and all that, but it’s like doing Strictly Come Dancin’ through a minefield some days.’

‘I’m not taking over, and I’m not killing Reuben.’

‘Ahhh. . Right. Just a wee coma or a bit of brain damage. Gotcha. Anyway, Mr Mowat says he’s keen on this batterin’ cannabis thing being over soon as. Word is Creepy and Simon McLeod are going after anyone they think’s in on it — and they’re all about the “cripple first, ask questions later”.’

‘No coma. No brain damage.’

Jamie shrugged. ‘We’ll talk later. Meantime,’ he waggled the envelope at Logan, ‘got a couple addresses for the McLeod’s cannabis farms: Blackburn and Westhill. Might wanna get your boys to take a squint? ’

Logan didn’t move. ‘Seriously? Handing over a brown envelope, in a public place? You got someone lurking in the bushes taking pictures? ’

He sighed, pushed his glasses back into place again. ‘Man, you are cynical.’ He slipped the envelope under one of the Fiat’s windscreen wipers, sending a little avalanche of twigs and grass tumbling onto the bonnet. ‘No skin off my nose, man. But if you’re no’ going to sort it out. .’ Jamie bared his teeth and sooked air through them. ‘Gonnae get messy.’

‘Always does.’

‘Later, OK? ’ He backed away, grinning. ‘And I meant what I said about Reuben.’

‘ . .talk of industrial action across the whole Scottish Police Services Authority. We spoke to Grampian Police Assistant Chief Constable Denis Irvin. . ’

Logan turned the radio down a bit, shifted his phone from one ear to the other, and changed down into third as Mounthooly roundabout loomed into view. A vast hump of grass and trees, easily big enough for a full-sized football pitch, like an island in the stream of traffic. ‘Look, how difficult can it be? Just get a copy of Anthony Chung’s criminal record from San Francisco.’

On the other end of the phone, PC Guthrie groaned. ‘ You know what getting anything out of the Yanks is like. ’

‘ . .inconceivable they’d do anything as counterproductive and ill-judged as strike. . ’

‘Someone’s got to have a liaison officer with the US Justice Department: try the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.’

‘ They’re even worse than the bloody Americans. ’

True.

‘ . .assure the people of the north-east that Grampian Police won’t let this impact on public safety or pursuing criminals to justice. . ’

A taxi’s brake lights flared at the entrance to the roundabout, it juddered to a halt, just missing getting obliterated by an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with offshore drilling pipes. Idiot should’ve been watching where he was going. Logan drifted over into the outside lane. ‘If they give you any lip, tell them there’s a suggestion he’s connected to a terrorist organization.’

‘ He is? ’

‘No, but it’ll get their finger out of their bumholes.’

‘ . .other news, to celebrate national sandwich week, one group of Ellon school pupils aim to create the world’s longest chip buttie. . ’

The junction was coming up. Logan put his foot on the brake. ‘Just make sure you say it’s “unconfirmed sources”. .’ The car wasn’t slowing down.

He did it again. Still nothing.

One more time, jamming his foot to the floor.

The rattling Fiat Punto just kept on going.

‘ . .weather’s going to remain overcast, but we could see some heavy rain later in the day. . ’

Handbrake! Logan yanked it on and the rear wheels locked, screeching across the road surface, heading right out onto the roundabout in a stinking cloud of hot rubber. Teeth gritted, eyes screwed to narrowed slits, arms straight out in front, hands wrapped tightly enough around the steering wheel to turn his knuckles bone-white. Right into the path of a dozen vehicles.

‘STOP YOU RUSTY PIECE OF CRAP!’

A people carrier slammed on its brakes as he slid to a halt right in front of it. Its horn blared an angry tattoo into the early morning air, the driver’s face dark pink as she screamed obscenities behind the windscreen.

‘ . .just to rub it in: here’s the Eurythmics with “Here Comes the Rain Again”. ’

Logan closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Everything inside him sagged, as if someone had pulled the plug out. Not crushed to death in a mangled ball of rusty metal after all.

More horns joined the people carrier’s angry song.

He sat up straight, blinked, then wound down his window.

Exhaust fumes and burning rubber never smelled so sweet.

The people-carrier’s driver was still swearing at him through the glass, veins standing out in her neck like angry snakes.

He held up a hand and turned the engine over again, stuck the Punto in reverse and slowly dragged it backwards onto Causeway End. Pumping his foot on the brake pedal did sod all, so he used the handbrake again.

Christ, that was close. .

‘Tada. .’ Dr Graham whipped the cloth away, exposing a clay head: large nose, high cheekbones, jowls, a small mouth set between two deep crevices. She placed it on Steel’s desk. ‘Of course, I had to use a bit of artistic licence on the wrinkles, but all in all I’m pretty happy with it.’