Dying Light. Stuart MacBrideЧитать онлайн книгу.
Logan stood alone in the kitchen. Swearing.
The Black Friars was a real-ale pub at the top of Marischal Street, all dark wooden floorboards and beams, split over three levels, following the downward slope of the road. Weekday mornings were usually pretty quiet, just the occasional pensioner washing down the full Scottish breakfast – eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, black pudding, tattie scones, clootie dumpling, mushrooms and toast, all slathered in tomato sauce – with a couple of beers. Logan perched at the end of the lower bar, eating his breakfast and drinking a pint of Dark Island. So what if it was half nine in the morning? He was supposed to be on holiday. With his girlfriend. Who wasn’t speaking to him, thanks to DI Bloody Steel and her guilt trip. They could have still been in bed, with nothing to do but laze about playing doctors and nurses. Logan scowled, downed the last of his pint and ordered another.
‘Bit early to be gettin’ hammered isn’t it?’
Logan groaned, put down a forkful of beans, and turned to see Colin Miller, the Press and Journal’s golden boy, leaning on the bar next to him. As usual the wee Glaswegian was dressed up to the nines: sharp black suit, silk shirt and tie. He was wide, in a broad-shouldered, muscular kind of way, with a face that took a little getting used to. At least Isobel had tamed down the man’s taste for flashy gold jewellery: instead of the three and a half tons of cufflinks, rings, chains and bracelets he used to wear, Colin was restricted to a single silver band on his left pinkie. Like a misplaced wedding ring. But his watch was still big enough to cover the national debt of a small third-world country. He levered himself up on the next barstool and ordered himself a mochachino latte with extra cinnamon.
‘What you doing here anyway?’ Logan asked. ‘Looking for me?’
‘Nope, got an appointment: wanted to make sure it was on neutral territory. You know how it goes.’ Miller scanned the bar before taking a drink. ‘So then, Laz, how’ve you been, eh? No’ seen you for ages, man.’
‘Not since you gave me duff information on that bloody warehouse, no.’
Miller shrugged. ‘Aye, well, can’t be right all the time, eh? My source swore blind it was kosher, like.’
Logan snorted and washed the last of his fried egg down with a mouthful of beer. ‘And who was that, then? No, don’t tell me: journalistic integrity, protecting your sources, none of my fucking business, etcetera.’
‘Jesus, man, who rattled your fuckin’ cage? Did I no’ keep your name out the papers, eh? You see one story blamin’ you for what happened?’ When Logan didn’t say anything, Miller just shrugged and took another sip of coffee. ‘And I can tell you who my source was this time: Graham Kennedy. Remember him? One of the squatters got all burned up in the fire the other night? He was the one told me about that warehouse bein’ full of nicked gear, like. No point being anonymous if you’re dead.’
Logan groaned. He’d forgotten all about Graham Bloody Kennedy – he still hadn’t told DI Insch about him. One more thing he’d screwed up. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me all this on Wednesday?’
‘Didnae know you was holdin’ a grudge.’ He paused, coffee halfway to his lips. ‘Oops, gotta dash, that’s my half ten appointment turned up.’ He pointed through the bar, up the stairs to the middle level, where a dangerous-looking man in an expensive charcoal-grey suit was scowling at an OAP in an Aberdeen Football Club bobble hat.
‘Who’s the thug?’ asked Logan.
‘He’s no’ a thug, Laz, he’s a “corporate investment facilitator” and if he hears you callin’ him a thug, he’ll break your legs. Policeman or no’.’ Miller forced a smile. ‘If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, start dredging the harbour.’ He waved, gave a hearty hello, marched up and shook the ‘facilitator’s’ hand, then led him off to a quiet corner. Logan watched them for a while, his breakfast congealing, forgotten on the plate. Miller was smiling a lot, laughing more than was probably necessary. As if he was doing his damnedest not to upset the man in the grey suit. The thug was easily six foot two, short blond hair, square-cut jaw, teeth straight out of a toothpaste commercial. Five minutes later the man handed over a large brown A4 envelope and Miller smiled ingratiatingly, but handled it like it was a dirty nappy. The conversation seemed to be winding to a close, so Logan got up from his seat and wandered over to the specials board, placing himself between their table and the exit, ‘accidentally’ bumping into the man as he finished shaking Miller’s hand and made to leave. The reporter’s eyes went wide with alarm as he watched Logan apologize profusely, call the facilitator ‘mate’ half a dozen times and offer to buy him a drink. The response was a curt: ‘Fuck off.’ Not shouted. Not emphasized, just quiet, cold and very, very clear. Logan backed away, hands up. Those two words were enough to tell him the guy wasn’t from around here. An Edinburgh lad, up on a jolly. The man straightened out his suit, scowled in Logan’s direction and left.
Miller stood on tiptoes, watching the grey-suited figure hurry across the road in the rain and jump into the passenger seat of a massive silver Mercedes. Logan didn’t get a good look at the driver – moustache, shoulder-length black hair, suit – before the door slammed shut and the car pulled away. As soon as it disappeared from view Miller ran a hand over his forehead and demanded to know what the fuckin’ hell Logan thought he was playing at? ‘Did I no’ tell you the man would break your fuckin’ legs? Are you lookin’ to get me disfingered?’
Logan smiled. ‘You mean disfigured—’
‘I know what I bloody well mean!’ Miller pulled up a barstool and ordered a large Macallan whisky, throwing it back in one.
‘So,’ said Logan, ‘you going to tell me what that was all about?’
‘Am I fuck. You want to piss in someone’s soup? Piss in your own. Mine tastes bad enough as it is.’
Logan watched the reporter storm off, Cuban heels stomping up the stairs two at a time, before turning back to the bar to finish his pint and pay for his half-eaten breakfast.
Quarter past eleven and he was loitering without intent in front of Force Headquarters. He’d tried to speak to DI Insch about Graham Kennedy, but the inspector wasn’t in – according to the admin officer he was off buying a big box of Sherbert Dib-Dabs from the cash and carry in Altens. Would Logan like to leave a message? No, he bloody would not. If there was any credit to be had for identifying Graham Kennedy, Logan wanted it. In person. So he slouched about in front instead, waiting for DI Steel. The daylight was pre-autumn amber, turning the grey granite to glittering gold. Up above the clouds were a rolling mass of dark purple and white. The air smelled of rain.
Sure enough, the first light drops started as DI Steel’s car purred into the main car park. Cursing and swearing, she struggled with the soft-top, shouting at Logan to get his finger out and help. They got the roof up just before the heavens opened. Logan sat in the passenger seat, looking around. ‘Very swish,’ he said, as the inspector revved the engine and pulled out onto Queen Street.
‘Best mid-life crisis I ever had, buying this thing: it’s a bloody babe-magnet…’ She flicked on the windscreen wipers, squinting at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You been on the piss?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Keeping an eye on a friend in the pub. Shifty wee bugger’s up to something.’
‘Oh aye? Anyone I know?’
He paused for a long moment, before simply saying, ‘No.’ They cruised up Union Street in silence, the growl of the engine and the drumming of rain on the car’s soft roof the only noise. Steel was obviously desperate for Logan to tell her more, but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. After all, it was her fault Jackie had stormed out this morning.
The rain sparked off the windscreen, catching the golden sunlight as the traffic crawled past pavements packed with pedestrians. A few were hurrying along under umbrellas, but most of them just marched down the street, resigned to getting wet. Live in the North-east of Scotland for long enough and you stop noticing the rain. Up at the far end of Union Street a rainbow had formed against