Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 4-6: Flesh House, Blind Eye, Dark Blood - Stuart MacBride - Страница 35

They’d arrived early to get the best spot – down on the beachfront, right up against the crowd barrier. A bitter wind whistled in off the North Sea, making everyone shudder as they waited for the fireworks to start. Colin Miller pulled out a hip flask, took a swig, then offered it to Logan: rusty nail, the mixture of whisky and Drambuie going down like alcoholic central heating.

‘He’s getting a bit fussy,’ said Isobel, wiggling something brightly coloured in front of her son’s pushchair. Sean had been OK in Pizza Hut – smearing cheese and tomato all over himself, the table, and anyone daft enough to pass within reach – but they’d been standing out here in the cold for at least half an hour. Logan was surprised the kid wasn’t screaming the place down by now.

All around them people waved luminous blue lightsaber things – sparklers without the sparkle – taking photos of each other on their mobile phones.

Colin checked his watch. ‘Should’ve started by now, but.’

The display had been set up in the lee of what looked like a Victorian concrete bus shelter, sitting below the level of the road, halfway between the Beach Ballroom and the arcades. On the other side of the barrier, people in luminous yellow jackets were fiddling with a long table of boxes and wires.

‘Maybe no one remembered to bring matches with them?’

‘Aye, or they’ve run out of milk bottles for the rockets.’ Miller passed the flask over again.

Someone tapped Logan on the shoulder, and he turned to find a grinning DC Rennie. ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ said the constable, pulling his girlfriend through the crowd behind him, ‘we were speaking to McInnis: he said he’d told you this was the best spot to watch the show.’ Rennie pointed at the girl beside him. ‘You remember Laura?’

The natural blonde who went like a bunny gave Logan a little wave. ‘Hi.’

Behind her a few more familiar faces from the station worked their way to the front, all looking as if they’d just come from the pub. Rennie wrapped his arm around the love of his life. ‘And you’ll never guess who we ran into …’ He pointed into the mass of lightsabers – a figure bundled up in a black padded jacket and black woolly hat was squeezing through, her face framed with dark curls, her nose and cheeks bright red. PC Jackie Watson.

She took one look at Logan and frowned. ‘What happened to your face?’

He dragged on a smile. ‘Didn’t know you were back in town.’

‘Got in half an hour ago. I phoned?’

‘We—’

Swwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwoooooosh! And the first rocket leapt into the indigo night, exploding in a vast ball of golden sparks that fizzed and crackled.

‘Why didn’t you call back?’

Swwwwwwwwwwwwwooooooooosh! … BANG! More sparks.

‘What?’

‘I said, why didn’t you—’ BOOOOM! ‘—call back?’

‘I’ve been out since—’ CRACKKKLE!

The rockets were going off in a constant stream, turning the air into an iridescent rainbow of colour.

‘Two months and you’ve not called once!’

‘That’s not true. You know that’s not true!’

There was a little circle of embarrassed space forming around them. The press of bodies lessening as everyone made a point of staring at the display above, rather than the argument below.

‘If you didn’t want me to come home, why didn’t you bloody well say so?’ Jackie’s face was lit for a moment in a glitter of gold, her eyes shining bright as daggers.

‘Please, Jackie, let’s not do this here. I—’ BOOOOOM!

‘It’s not my fault I miscarried! It’s not my fucking—’ CRACKKKKKKLE!

Logan grabbed her by the arm, pulling her round so they had their backs to the clump of police officers. ‘That’s got nothing to do with it!’

‘You think it wasn’t hard for me?’ She shook him loose. ‘It was my fucking baby too!’

‘It’s not about the baby, OK? It’s about you!’

She froze, and Logan … Logan wished he could take the words back, but it was too late for that – he’d lit the blue touchpaper and now it was all going to blow up in his face. Jackie stared at him. ‘You don’t love me, do you?’

BOOOOOOOOM!

‘Jackie—’

‘No, come on, let’s hear it. Let’s—’ BANG! ‘—hear you say it.’ She prodded him in the chest with a rock-hard finger. ‘Have the fucking guts to say it!’

A huge rocket exploded, a circle of red and green and silver, lighting up the beach for a second. A snapshot of summer on a cold November night. The crowd ooh-ed and ahhh-ed.

A heartbeat of silence.

‘I don’t love you.’

Jackie slammed her fist into his face.

From up here the fireworks were beautiful – perfect spheres of fire that hung in the night sky, before fading away into darkness. Ken Wiseman took another mouthful of beer then crushed the empty can in his leather-gloved hand.

The flat was virtually empty, just a couple of cardboard boxes full of junk, a carpet that stank of dust and cats. Kitchen worktops that would never be clean again. An abandoned flat on the fifteenth floor of a tower block on Castlehill, with a panoramic view of the beach, its firework display, and the end of DCI Brooks’s life.

Another flickering silver ball, then two seconds later the BOOM of its explosion.

Wiseman pulled a fresh tin of beer from the carrier bag on the kitchen worktop. ‘You want a scoof?’ He waggled it at the man lying on the lounge floor – hands and feet bound with black plastic cable-ties. ‘No?’ Wiseman smiled. ‘How about one of these, then?’ He took a running kick at the man’s stomach, hitting him hard enough to lift the fucker off the floor, sending him rolling onto his back, groaning behind the strip of silver duct-tape.

Wiseman squatted next to him as the flat was momentarily lit by another firework. ‘I should carve you up, you old fuck. Carve you into little bits.’ He pulled one of his knives out and held the blade against the old man’s cheek, just hard enough to break the skin. ‘You’d be surprised how little difference there is between us and the animals. We all come apart the same way …’

Another mouthful of beer. ‘Fifteen years you took from me Brooks. Fifteen fucking years in that shitehole prison with fucking rapists and paedophiles. You see this?’ He pointed at the scar that ran diagonally across his face. ‘They jumped me in the showers. Fuckers held me down and pulled a sharpened spoon through my face. Dragged it across the bone. Slow and deliberate.’ He shuddered and drank again. ‘Fucking rapists telling me I’m sick. Thinking they’re better than me. That they’ve got the fucking right!’

Wiseman stood and slammed another boot into Brooks’s stomach. ‘“Gonnae peel yer face!” “Gonnae skin yer fuckin’ heid!” They would’ve too, guard hadn’t come.’

Flash – one, one thousand – two, one thousand – BOOM! Crackle …

‘My, my, my. Will you look at the time?’ He grabbed a handful of the old man’s jacket and heaved him up. ‘You’ve got an appointment.’

The corridor outside the flat was deserted, just as Wiseman knew it would be. No one to see him drag Brooks into the stairwell and up three flights of stairs to the roof. The fire door was locked, but not alarmed. It didn’t take much to kick it open.

Wind whipped across the concrete roof, and suddenly Brooks seemed to realize what was going to happen. He started struggling.

‘Bit fucking late for that, don’t you think?’ Wiseman hauled the old man to the chest-high wall that ran round the edge. ‘You remember what you said the night you arrested me? No?’ He ripped the gag from Brooks’ mouth, taking a big clump of moustache with it.

‘Aaaaaaagh … God damn, fucking, bastard—’

Wiseman bounced the old git’s head off the wall.

‘You told me you knew people. That I wouldn’t last a month in prison. That the only way I’d get out would be in a body-bag.’

‘You …’ Brooks coughed, a smear of blood on his lips. ‘You sick f—’

Wiseman punched him in the stomach and the old man collapsed to the ground. ‘Those going to be your last words are they?’ He pulled the boning knife out again and sliced through the thin plastic strips holding Brooks’ wrists together. Then did the same with the ankles.

‘Ffffff …’ The old bastard tried to get to his feet, but his legs didn’t seem to be working.

‘Here.’ Wiseman took a handful of shirt at the back of Brooks’ neck, then grabbed the old bastard’s belt and hauled him up. ‘Let me help you …’

Right over the wall and into thin air.

A huge ball of red, green and silver lit up the night sky.

For a moment the old man seemed to float, and then gravity got her claws into him. Brooks screamed: arms and legs pinwheeling as his body got smaller and smaller and smaller … all the way down to the concrete car park, eighteen floors below.

He hit the ground like a meat piñata, flying debris setting off car alarms.

Wiseman peered over the edge at the smear of red, lit by the flashing orange indicators of wailing motorcars. Then he went back downstairs to the flat, picked up his empty beer cans, locked the door, and headed off into the night.