Dark Blood. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
his bishops. Moving diagonally, back and forth from Edinburgh. Keeping an eye on the souls of his flock. His knights taking care of the opposition.’
‘I see…’
‘Do you?’
Logan wriggled his toes in the warm air of the footwell. ‘It’s no secret Malk the Knife’s pushing in on your territory. We’re getting a huge influx of dodgy goods, forged money. Car theft’s up about three hundred percent. There’s more drugs out there than ever before.’
The old man drank from the flask again, then screwed the cap on and slipped it back into his jacket. ‘You shouldn’t call him “Malk the Knife”, it’s disrespectful.’
Logan opened his mouth, but Wee Hamish held up a crooked finger.
‘Never treat your opponent with disdain, Logan. When you do, you underestimate them. And when you underestimate them, you give them an advantage. Take it from me: it’s a lesson learned from many, many games of chess.’
Pause.
‘OK. Mr McLennan it is.’
Wee Hamish reached over and patted Logan on the shoulder, his hand unnaturally hot, making Logan’s skin prickle through the fabric of his shirt.
‘That’s good.’ The old gangster smiled. ‘I don’t like people trying to take advantage of my city, Logan. It worries me. Especially now.’ He went back to staring out through the windscreen. ‘A city needs a White King. Otherwise, how can it go to war?’
Logan hobbled back across the cold, damp ground and jumped into Reuben’s BMW. The fat man turned and glowered at him. ‘Well?’
Logan shrugged. ‘You could’ve let me put on a pair of bloody shoes. Feet are freezing.’ He fiddled with the climate control buttons. ‘How do you put on the heat?’
Reuben slapped his fingers away. ‘Did I say you could touch my car?’
Logan held his hands up. ‘Fine. Don’t mind me. I’ll just catch pneumonia and die. Perfect.’
The little lane snapped into focus as Wee Hamish’s Porsche headlights came on, then the huge 4x4 backed up, swung around, and squeezed past them, half up on the grass verge.
And then it was gone.
Reuben performed a clunky seven-point-turn, and headed back the way they’d come.
They bumped off the cracked road and onto proper tarmac, roaring back into town at well over the speed limit. The sky had an ominous dark-orange tinge, low clouds reflecting back the streetlights as they drove down the Ellon Road and across the Bridge of Don.
Reuben broke the silence. ‘Glove compartment.’
Logan looked at him. ‘What about it?’
‘Open the fucking thing, you moron.’
Inside, there was an AA card, a Scottish road atlas, and a standard white envelope. The thing was sealed, stuffed full to bursting. Logan pulled it out. ‘What’s this?’
‘Mr Mowat says it’s relevant to your interests.’
Logan eased up one side of the flap, but Reuben smacked his hand.
‘Don’t open that in here! Fuck’s wrong with you?’
Logan hit him back, whisky and wine burning in his stomach. ‘I’m getting pretty bloody sick of you acting like a dick the whole time!’
Reuben jammed on the brakes. ‘Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?’ This time it wasn’t a smack it was a slap, a backhand right across Logan’s cheek, hard enough to bounce him off the headrest. ‘Clean out your lugs, Officer, you never, ever speak like that to me again. Understand?’
Logan leaned forward in his seat, feeling his cheek starting to swell up, the taste of blood in his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue. ‘Fuck…’ Bastard. Fucking fat bastard. Fucking—
‘Better learn to show some respect, McRae, or I’ll—’
Logan slammed his elbow into the bridge of Reuben’s nose. The car lurched forward and stalled as blood poured down Reuben’s face.
Oh … fuck.
Reuben was going to kill him. He was going to drag him out into the middle of nowhere and fucking kill him.
DO SOMETHING!
The big man’s hands came up, but Logan hit him again. Another elbow in the face, splitting his lip. Again. And again. Fast. Furious. Vicious. Not giving the fat bastard time to recover or fight back. Hammering into Reuben’s skull as he tried to cover his bleeding face with his hands. The big man didn’t cry out, didn’t whimper; the dull thunk, thunk, thunk of bone on broken skin and Logan’s grunts the only sound.
A car horn blared from somewhere behind them.
Logan slumped back in his seat. Teeth gritted. Elbow aching as Reuben curled forwards, shuddering, dripping bright-red on the leather upholstery, his breath a harsh bubbling wheeze.
‘I’m a police officer.’ Logan wrenched his seatbelt free. ‘You EVER touch me again, I’ll fucking kill you!’
He hauled the door open and staggered out.
That car horn sounded again, the driver mouthing obscenities through the windscreen. Logan stuck two fingers up at him, stuffed the envelope in his back pocket, and marched away up George Street in his socks.
Fucking Reuben.
He ran a hand across his eyes. His fingers were trembling, heart pounding, feeling sick as the adrenaline rush slowly faded, leaving nothing but the booze behind.
Now what was he supposed to do? No way Reuben would ever let this go. Hitting him once had been bad enough, but panicking and doing it again and again?
God, his elbow was really sore…
The first drop of rain slapped against the back of Logan’s neck, getting heavier as he hobbled along the cold pavement. Brilliant. As if the day needed to get any worse. By the time he was passing the university playing fields, it was chucking it down, a freezing deluge that soaked right through his shirt, socks and trousers.
The Bobbin was just up ahead, lights blazing from its windows, a little knot of smokers huddling in the lee of the porch over the front door. Banished to lung cancer and pleurisy. Logan hobbled inside.
The pub was getting busy – students from the university clustered around low tables, vintage Meatloaf pounding out of the jukebox.
Logan squelched his way to the bar, then closed his eyes and swore. No wallet. Reuben wouldn’t let him go back for his coat.
And Logan hadn’t said a bloody word about it, had he? No, he just got in the car like a good little boy, because Reuben was a big, fat, scary bastard…
Oh, he was so screwed.
He rummaged through his trouser pockets, coming up with a couple of pound coins and some smush. Just enough for a pint of Stella. A young woman with a pierced eyebrow and a ring through her nose stopped reading the job section of the Press and Journal for long enough to serve him. ‘Anythin’ else?’
He took a deep gulp, the cold lager making one of his teeth ache. ‘Got a payphone?’
She frowned. ‘You OK? Your arm’s all, like, bleeding and stuff.’
He looked down – the dark-red stain started at his right elbow, fading to pink at the cuff. Reuben’s blood. Shirt was probably ruined now. ‘Phone?’
She pointed towards the back of the bar. ‘Out of order. Some “funny bastard”,’ she made finger-quotes, ‘superglued the receiver into the cradle last night… Look, you need an ambulance or something?’
‘No.’
That must