Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 32

Ken Wiseman was not a happy man. Hadn’t been for many, many years. It wasn’t his fault: life conspired to fuck him over at every available opportunity. Good things would happen to other people, but nothing good ever happened to him. Because life was a bastard and it hated him.

Some days it was all he could do to fuck it right back.

Everything had been OK for a while. Calm. Back to normal … and then it all started to unravel again. Just like it had last time. Taking a human being apart … the chunks of meat … the spiral into darkness.

He tightened his grip on the holdall. It was a lot heavier than it looked, knives and saws were funny like that. They looked so pretty, and sparkly, but the legacy of blood weighed them down. Made them deceptive. Made them lie …

Wiseman paused for a moment, looking up and down the quiet forecourt, making sure no one was watching, then opened the door and stepped inside.

It was time to fuck with life again.

The rain started to peter out somewhere after Newmachar, and by the time Alec was parking outside the Redgarth Inn it had stopped altogether. The view from the pub car park would have been perfect for Halloween: looking out across Oldmeldrum’s ever-expanding waistline, lights glittering yellow, orange and white; past fields as dark as coal; the faint glow of Inverurie eight miles away; and beyond that the asymmetric anvil of Bennachie reaching up into the night sky. There was even a gibbous moon, casting a waxy grey light that made greasy shadows between the muck-encrusted four-by-fours. Logan almost expected to see a witch on a broomstick, cackling her way across the moon’s pitted face. But his mother was probably miles away.

Inside it was fairly busy, the happy murmur of Saturday-night conversation competing with vintage Rolling Stones on the stereo. Logan squeezed through to the bar and waved down a gangly man with white hair and a smile that made him look as if he was eating a coat hanger sideways. Logan smiled back. ‘You haven’t seen …’ it felt weird using the inspector’s first name: ‘David Insch around, have you? About six-three, this wide, bald—’

The man pointed at an empty barstool and an unattended pint of Guinness. ‘Aye, he’s sitting there. You gentlemen wanting something to eat? Or is it just a drink this evening?’

Logan thought about the Marks and Spencer ready meal sitting at home in the fridge, and asked to see the menu. They’d ordered by the time Insch appeared, stomping in from the cold night, wrapped up in a huge padded overcoat, muttering under his breath.

‘No luck?’ asked the barman.

Insch unbuttoned his coat. ‘No answer, no lights on, no car in the drive.’ He stopped when he saw Logan and Alec standing drinking at the bar. ‘You’re late.’

Logan was tempted to tell the grumpy fat sod he was lucky they were there at all. Punching someone in the face, or shoving them into a urinal, wasn’t exactly motivational.

Insch levered himself up on his stool, his massive buttocks enveloping the seat, and took a big bite out of his Guinness.

‘Well,’ the barman poured a couple of pints for a hovering waitress, ‘maybe he forgot. You know what he’s like these days. Grandson’s over from Canada, isn’t he?’

Insch grumbled and threw back the last of his stout. ‘That was last week.’ He held up the empty glass. ‘Same again, Stuart.’ Then he looked at Logan and Alec. ‘And whatever they’re having.’ Which was probably about as close as they were going to get to an apology.

They took a table in one of the large bay windows, overlooking the post-witching night. Alec collapsed into his seat. ‘I can’t believe he didn’t show! It was going to be a great piece too …’

The hovering waitress arrived with placemats and cutlery.

Insch waited till she’d gone before asking, ‘Who’ve they put in charge of—’

‘DI Steel.’ Logan sipped at his pint. ‘Just till you’re back.’

‘Wonderful. So when Wiseman turns up she’ll take all the credit.’

‘Maybe Wiseman will lie low till you’re back on duty? It’s not as if he’s in any hurry, is it?’

‘Yes, and maybe he’ll kill a couple more people while he waits. Wouldn’t that be nice?’

Logan blushed. ‘I was only saying.’

Alec pulled a brand-new HDTV camera from its carry case and set it on the table so he could hook up the receivers for a pair of radio mikes. ‘Just because Brooks hasn’t turned up, doesn’t mean the night’s a washout.’ He unpacked two small clip-on microphones and handed one each to Logan and Insch. ‘Noise levels aren’t bad in here: the pair of you can go over developments in the case.’ He switched the camera on, fiddled with the settings, then pointed it at them. ‘And, action!’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘That means you have to start doing something.’

Logan groaned. ‘Bugger off, Alec, eh?’

The cameraman stared at them. ‘After all that shite this afternoon, you two owe me.’

‘It wasn’t shite,’ said Insch with the faintest trace of a smile, ‘it was pish.’ Then he cleared his throat and asked Logan what was happening at the address they’d got from Angus Robertson.

‘Nothing.’

Alec made ‘more detail’ hand gestures until Logan, reluctantly, started talking again. ‘The building’s pretty much derelict. Used to be a halfway house in the seventies, but there was a scandal … look we already know all this.’

‘Yes,’ said Alec, never taking the camera off them, ‘but the viewers don’t.’

Sigh. ‘There was a scandal: two of the “guests” took turns raping their social worker. The investigation turned up some questionable practices, financial irregularities, unsanitary conditions and dodgy wiring. So they shut it down … Aren’t people going to notice I’ve been bashed in the face?’

Alec gritted his teeth. ‘This is going to be difficult enough to edit as it is!’

‘Anyway, I’ve seen the photos – the place is a tip. Half the windows are gone, weeds growing in the lounge, cold, damp. He’d have to be bloody desperate to go back there.’

‘He’s desperate. Question is: what’s he up to? He’s got to know we’ll pick him up soon as he arranges his fifteen minutes of fame with the BBC …’ Insch polished off his second pint. ‘What would you do? You’ve only got a few days of freedom left, then you’re going back to prison for the rest of your life.’

But Logan had already answered that one, back when Faulds asked the same question at the Leith house. ‘What would I do?’ He stood: it was time for more beer. ‘Revenge.’

The answering machine was lying in wait for Logan when he finally got back to the flat, its little red light winking away, malevolent and devious. He hit the button, still feeling all bunged up and sore, even after two pints of Stella and a nip of Glen Garioch. ‘You have three messages. Message one: Laz? You awake? C’moan man, pick up …’ Pause. ‘You’re no’ in. OK, tomorrow – down the beach, fireworks, half five outside the Inversnecky.’ There was a noise in the background and Colin said, ‘I’m no’ tellin’ him to wear a jumper. I’m no’ his bloody mother …’ Beeeeeeep

‘Message two: Logan, it’s your mother—’

He peeled off his coat, only half listening as she rabbited on about his little brother’s upcoming wedding.

‘—so make sure you remember. And would it kill you to wear a kilt this time? Honestly, Barbara’s son—’

Logan hit delete.

Beeeeeeep

‘Message three: Hey you … it’s me …’ Jackie, sounding drunk again. He settled onto the end of the settee and stared at the dead fireplace. ‘You miss me? I’m … I’m probably a bit thingied … with the vodka … but I miss you, OK? Turnip Head? I miss you. I’m got a … a…’ What sounded like a burp crackled out of the answering machine’s speaker. ‘Oops. I’m got some time off. You wanna … you know … with sex and stuff…’ A garbled voice in the background said something about another round. ‘Gotta go, OK? I—’ Beeeeeeep ‘End of messages.’

Logan erased the lot, did his teeth and went to bed.