Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8: Shatter the Bones, Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride
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He dug his fingers into his pocket and pulled the Vauxhall’s keys out. ‘Take them!’
Shuggie snatched them out of his hand.
‘Now call the bloody dog off!’
Shuggie turned and limped back towards the fence.
Logan tore his eyes away from the dog’s teeth, and watched him squeeze through the hole in the chainlink. He crossed the rutted track, climbed the grass verge, and onto Fairview Street.
The dog tilted its head to the side, nose all creased and wrinkled, black rubbery lips pulled back from those butcher-knife teeth.
Logan blinked the rain out of his eyes. ‘Please …’
The Vauxhall’s headlights snapped through the gloom, the roar of the engine audible for a second, before another peal of thunder drowned it out.
Another bark, front paws digging into Logan’s chest.
Hailstones battered down, stinging his hands and face, knocking blossom from the tree above, showering them with slow-motion pink.
Then the sound of a car door creaking open. ‘UZI! UZI!’
The huge dog froze, head swinging around to face the car, both ears pricked.
‘UZI! GET OVER HERE YOU DAFT BASTARD!’
It had one last snarl at Logan, then scraped its back paws through the muddy grass, before loping off.
Oh thank God …
Logan lay flat on his back, arms covering his head as he heard the Vauxhall’s door clunk shut again, then the engine faded away into the downpour as Shuggie drove off in Logan’s pool car.
How the hell was he going to explain this one?
‘About bloody time.’ Logan thumped his mug of coffee down as DC Rennie ambled in through the pub’s front door, paused just inside, looked around, then waved.
Idiot.
Logan pressed send on his phone – ‘SHUGGIE, I’M FUCKING WARNING YOU: BRING MY BLOODY CAR BACK!’
‘Morning, Sarge. Been swimming?’ Rennie’s pearl-white grin flashed out from his fake tan.
Logan stuffed his phone back in his pocket. ‘Are you really that desperate for a boot up the arse?’
‘OK … Not in a great mood then.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Got the car out front. You want a lift back to the station, or—’
‘Where is it?’
Frown. ‘Er … Out front. By the disabled spaces.’
Logan scrunched his eyes shut. Gritted his teeth. ‘Not your car, my bastarding car!’
A shuffle of feet. ‘You weren’t serious about that, were you?’
A young woman appeared at the table, clutching a pot of coffee. She smiled a train-track smile, light sparkling off her braces. ‘Would you like some more ice? Or a refill or something?’
Logan forced a smile. ‘No, I’m fine, just on our way.’ He reached down and unwrapped the soggy tea-towel from his left ankle. A few chunks of half-melted ice fell to the carpet. The skin was angry pink and swollen, four parallel dark-red lines burning and stinging where Uzi’s teeth had ripped through his trouser leg and slashed across the ankle. At least it wasn’t bleeding any more.
He handed the towel over. ‘Thanks.’
Rennie watched until she disappeared through the door marked, ‘STAFF ONLY’. He ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. ‘Nice arse.’
‘I told you to run a bloody GPS trace!’
‘I thought you were joking. I mean, you know, why would you want a trace on your own car? How can you not know where your car is?’
‘Surrounded by idiots …’ Logan limped out of the front door, shoes squelching with every step, Rennie scurrying along behind.
‘What happened to your leg?’
It wasn’t difficult to spot the constable’s CID pool car outside the pub – it was the manky Vauxhall with the dashboard overflowing with burger wrappers and empty crisp packets. Hailstones battered off the dirty paintwork, making a little drift of white across the windscreen wipers.
Inside it smelled much the same as every other CID vehicle – that mix of stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and something going mouldy under one of the seats.
Rennie got in behind the wheel. ‘Where to?’
‘Make the sodding call.’
There was a brief pause, then the constable pulled out his Airwave handset and punched in the number for Control. ‘Yeah, Jimmy, I need a GPS trace on Charlie Delta Seven? … Er … no. He’s not answering his mobile … Or his Airwave.’ Rennie glanced over at Logan, clocked the glower, and faced front again. ‘Look just do us a GPS trace, OK? … What?’ The constable sat up straight in his seat. ‘No: Jimmy, don’t you bloody dare put him—’ A cough. ‘Chief Inspector Finnie, yeah, I was just … DS McRae? Er …’ Rennie stared at Logan, eyes bugging, mouth making a squiggly line across his face.
Logan mouthed, ‘No!’ waved both hands, palm out, shaking his head.
‘Hold on …’ Rennie held the handset out. ‘It’s for you.’
Bastard.
Logan took the Airwave. ‘Sir?’
‘Tell me, Detective Sergeant, did I accidentally give you the day off and forget all about it?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Then perhaps you’d like to explain why you’re not currently interviewing Frank Baker like I told you?’
Logan peered out through the hail-flecked windscreen. How the hell did Finnie know he wasn’t—
‘Superintendent Green tells me he’s been waiting for you to appear for the last fifteen minutes.’
‘He’s what? Look it’s bad enough we’ve—’
‘It would be nice, Sergeant, if for once I thought I could actually depend on a member of my team to act like a professional. I don’t care if you think it’s a waste of time or not – get round there, interview Baker, and try not to behave like a petulant bloody child!’
And then there was silence.
Logan held out the handset and read the little grey-and-black LCD screen: ‘CALL TERMINATED’
Perfect.
Just. Bloody. Perfect.
Logan rapped his knuckles on the car’s passenger window.
Superintendent Green looked up from the laptop he was poking away at, and stared at Logan for a moment, then a smile crawled across the lower half of his face, going nowhere near his eyes. Bzzzzzz – the window slid down a couple of inches. ‘Been on our holidays, have we, Sergeant?’
Warm air curled out into the cold morning. The hail had died off, replaced by a frigid drizzle.
Logan forced a smile of his own. ‘Pursuing other avenues of enquiry, sir.’
‘Yes …’ Green turned to the uniformed constable sitting in the driver’s seat. ‘Wait for me.’ He snapped the laptop closed and slipped it into an oversized leather satchel. Stepped out into the horrible morning. Looked Logan up and down. Raised an eyebrow. ‘Is your suit meant to look like that?’
Logan glanced at his left trouser leg. The fabric was torn and