12

      Logan tumbled another handful of dried penne into the pot of boiling water. The ivory shapes looked like little segments of finger-bone in the light from the extractor fan.

      Through in the lounge, the TV was babbling away to itself, the Channel 4 News covering the latest round of scandals from the Scottish Parliament, as Logan had a bash at making tea for a change.

      A little after half six and there was still no sign of Samantha – probably pulling another green shift – but he was going to bloody well impress her when she finally got in. Baked pasta with some sort of sauce and cheese. A thank you for her promising to rush through the DNA samples she’d scraped from under his nails in the little lab back at FHQ.

      He checked the recipe he’d downloaded, then excavated a dust-covered casserole dish from the cupboard. A home-cooked meal, how hard could it be?

      Chop an onion, fry it in olive oil, chuck in a tin of tomatoes, couple tins of tuna, some mixed herbs. Easy. What was all the fuss about?

      Right now Steel was probably breaking back into Steve Polmont’s flat, acting all surprised at the boxroom full of stolen goods. At least Logan didn’t have to worry about his fingerprints being on anything.

      He checked the recipe again, went to the wine rack for the last bottle of red in the house and glugged in about a glassful.

      Move over Gordon Ramsay.

      Should have taken a bottle of that vodka when he’d had the chance. And the video game. Be nice if the job actually came with some perks for a change.

      He let the sauce simmer for a bit, then helped himself to a glass. Chef’s prerogative. It wasn’t as if he was planning on getting hammered, just having a civilized glass of wine. Then another one. And another.

      Bloody Steel. Lecturing him about his attitude, and his drinking. How many times had she turned up at the station hungover and reeking of stale booze? Not to mention helping herself to evidence from Steve Polmont’s flat.

      Hypocrite.

      Logan chucked everything together in the casserole dish, then covered it in a wodge of grated cheddar. Whacked it in the oven.

      Maybe have another glass of wine to celebrate…

      Not every day you cook a five-star meal, is it?

      Might as well finish the bottle. No point letting it go to waste.

      He clunked back into the flat. ‘Sam? You home?’

      No answer.

      ‘Sam?’

      Logan kicked off his shoes, then dumped the bag from Oddbins down on the kitchen table. Two bottles of Shiraz, and a Sauvignon Blanc. He dug out the corkscrew – got to let the wine breathe, right?

      Maybe try a glass, just to check it’s OK.

      He toasted his reflection in the kitchen window and drank.

      Drank some more.

      Pasta bake smelled good.

      He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Maybe have some crisps to keep him going till Samantha got back.

      Logan topped up his wine again. Raised it to his lips. Then swore as the doorbell went.

      Why could she never remember her damn keys?

      He placed his glass carefully on the working surface, then unlocked the flat’s front door and hurried down the communal stairwell. Unlatched the deadbolt and threw the door open. ‘You’d forget your head if it wasn’t…’

      A large man stood on the pavement outside, scarred face pinched into a disfigured scowl.

      Reuben.

      He hefted his thumb over his shoulder at a black BMW, its hazard lights winking on and off in the cold, crisp evening. ‘Mr Mowat wants to see you.’

      Fuck.

      Logan looked down at his own feet. Black socks with a hole in one toe. ‘I’m kinda in the middle of—’

       ‘Now.’

      Logan blinked, the wine making his teeth itch, the mellow buzz turning into an unpleasant fizzing behind his eyes. ‘But—’

      ‘I’m not telling you again.’

      ‘Can I at least put my shoes on?’

      Skeletal trees hunched over a collection of potholes and cracked tarmac, winding through the darkness. The BMW bumped along the rutted track, the occasional grinding noise from under their feet making Reuben grit his teeth. ‘Fuckin’ thing…’

      Logan looked out at the darkened countryside. Two days ago these fields were bathed in the moon’s glow, now there was just the car’s headlights as they headed down the side road overlooking Malk the Knife’s building site, not far from where Logan and Steel had parked on Monday night. Waiting for Steve Polmont to turn up.

      The BMW’s headlights picked out one of those big, ugly Porsche 4x4 things at the end of the lane, its exhaust spiralling out into the cold night air. Reuben stopped, hauled on the handbrake, then killed the engine and the lights.

      Darkness.

      Reuben turned and glowered at Logan. ‘Listen up: you upset Mr Mowat tonight and I’ll tear your cock off and make you eat it. Understand?’

      ‘Why would—’

      ‘You fucking watch yourself, McRae.’

      ‘God’s sake…’ Wanker. Logan popped open his door and stepped out into the overcast night.

      Bloody freezing. Right through the soles of his holey socks. Bastard could have let him grab his shoes…

      At least it had stopped raining.

      Logan hobbled through the darkness to the Porsche Cayenne, breath trailing along behind him, then clambered into the passenger seat and clunked the door shut. Shivered.

      ‘Ah, Logan, glad you could make it.’ Wee Hamish Mowat sat hunched behind the wheel, gnarled hands held over the vents. His face was caught in the glow of the dashboard lights – that big hooked nose, the deep crevasse wrinkles, eyes sparkling like something sharp and dangerous at the bottom of a toy box. ‘Will you take a wee dram?’

      ‘Er … yeah. Thanks.’

      The warm interior carried the smell of Old Spice, underlaid with something else. Something sour and sickly.

      Wee Hamish pulled a silver hipflask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the lid, then passed it over.

      Logan looked at it. ‘Actually, Mr Mowat—’

      ‘It’s all right, Logan, what I have isn’t catching.’ His voice was a gravelly mix of Aberdonian and public school. Sounding tired. ‘And after everything you’ve … helped me with over the last six months, I think you can call me “Hamish”, don’t you?’

      Logan accepted the flask. Forced a smile. ‘Thank you. Hamish.’

      He wiped the neck and took a swig. Whisky. It started a low fire in his innards, spreading its warmth up through his chest. ‘Good stuff.’

      ‘1974 Ardbeg.’