The 45% Hangover [A Logan and Steel novella]. Stuart MacBride

God.’ Steel took her feet off the windowsill and turned to face him. ‘You’re one of them, aren’t you?’

      ‘Eh?’ Rennie frowned at Logan. ‘Thought you liked girls, Guv? Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but— Ow!’

      Steel hit him again. ‘No’ one of them, you idiot, one of them: a Better Togetherer.’ She shuddered. ‘And to think I let you get my wife up the stick!’

      Logan closed his eyes and folded forward, wrapped his hands around his face. ‘Will you both, please bugger off?’

      Rennie didn’t. Instead he sat down in the other visitor’s chair. ‘Was great though, wasn’t it? You know, that feeling of coming out of the polling station and thinking, “This is it. We could actually do this.” Right? Wasn’t it great?’

      There was silence.

      ‘Guv?’

      Logan peeled one eye open.

      Steel was sitting bolt upright in her seat, mouth hanging open. Then both eyebrows raised like drawbridges. ‘What time is it?’

      Rennie checked. ‘Quarter to ten.’

      She scrabbled to her feet. ‘Get a car, now!’

       2

      The pool car roared its way up Schoolhill – past the closed shops – lights flashing, siren wailing. It still managed to sound better than Steel’s rendition of ‘Flower of Scotland’, though.

      She sat in the passenger seat, hanging onto the grab handle above the door as Rennie floored it.

      Logan had to make do with his seatbelt, clutching it in both hands as the car flashed across the junction outside the Cowdray Hall, its granite lion watching with a silent snarl and a traffic cone on its head. The streetlight gilded it with a pale-yellow glow. He raised his voice over the wailing skirl. ‘HOW COULD YOU FORGET TO VOTE?’

      ‘IT’S NO’ MY FAULT!’

      ‘REALLY?’

      ‘SHUT UP.’

      Logan’s mobile buzzed in his pocket, the ringtone drowned out by the siren. He pulled the phone out and hit the button. ‘McRae.’

      ‘Guv?’ Stoney sounded as if he was standing at the bottom of a well. ‘Hello? Guv? You there?’

      He leaned forward and poked Rennie in the shoulder. ‘TURN THAT BLOODY THING OFF!’

      But when Rennie reached for the controls, Steel slapped his hand away. ‘DON’T YOU DARE!’

      His Majesty’s Theatre streaked by on the right – a chunk of green glass, followed by fancy granite, light blazing from its windows – then a church that looked like a bank, then the library. Granite. Granite. Granite.

       ‘Guv? Hello?’

      ‘I’LL CALL YOU BACK.’ He hung up as the pool car jinked around the corner onto Skene Street, leaving a squeal of brakes behind. The headlights caught two pensioners, frozen on the central reservation, clutching each other as the car flashed by, dentures bared, eyes wide.

      When Logan looked back, they’d recovered enough to make obscene gestures. ‘STILL DON’T SEE WHY I NEED TO BE HERE.’

      Steel waved a hand. ‘IN CASE I NEED SOMEONE ARRESTED.’

      Naked granite gave way to a shield of trees, their leaves dark and glistening in the streetlights.

      Rennie pouted. ‘I CAN ARREST PEOPLE!’

      ‘COURSE YOU CAN. YOU’RE VERY SPECIAL. YES YOU ARE.’ She turned in her seat and mugged at Logan. ‘ISN’T IT SWEET WHEN THEY THINK THEY’RE REAL POLICE OFFICERS?’

      ‘HOY!’

      The pool car swept out and round a Transit van, then back in again. Slowed briefly for the junction outside the Grammar School, catching the lights at red, and back to full-speed-ahead, tearing up Carden Place. Granite. Granite. Granite.

      She poked a finger at the windscreen. ‘THERE!’

      St Mary’s Episcopal Church loomed on the left of the road. A vast, grand structure with lanced windows and buttresses. No tower. It occupied the triangular wedge between two roads, with expensive-looking cars parked along its kerbs.

      Rennie slammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel left. The back end kicked out for a moment, then they were lunging through the narrow gap between two spiky granite posts and scrunching to a halt on the gravel beyond. He flashed his watch. ‘You’ve got one minute.’

      Steel scrambled out of the car, sprinting across the gravel and in through the door marked ‘Polling Station’.

      ‘Cheeky old bag. I am a real police officer.’

      ‘Sure you are.’ Logan climbed into the warm night. Pulled out his phone and called Stoney back.

      A couple of Yes campaigners stood off to one side, a couple of No on the other. Both sets waving Scottish flags and smiling at him. As if a flash of dodgy teeth and a bit of paper with lies on it was going to make a difference. Both sets marched toward him.

      The Yes lot got there first – a young man with spots and a goatee. ‘Good evening. Can I ask how you’re planning to vote?’

      ‘I’m on the phone.’

      ‘Yes, but it’ll only take a minute, won’t it?’

      His companion stuck her hands in the pockets of her tweed trousers. ‘Going to have to get a shift on.’ She pointed at the door. ‘Polls close at ten.’

       ‘Guv?’

      Mr and Mrs No had appeared. One in a tracksuit, the other in a three-piece suit. Three-Piece turned his smile up an inch. ‘Can we help?’

      ‘I’m – on – the phone.’ Logan turned his back and walked off a couple of paces. ‘Stoney.’

      Tracksuit sniffed. ‘No need to be rude. We’re only trying to help.’

       ‘Yeah, I’ve been on to the dayshift. Got a couple of sightings, but don’t think they’re up to much. One’s in Torquay, one’s in Nairn, and the other’s in Lanzarote.’

      Three-Piece folded his arms. ‘That’s the trouble with Yes people. No manners.’

      ‘Well, Chris Browning didn’t go to Lanzarote. Not without his passport.’

      Mr Spots folded his arms too, saltire flags sticking up like offensive weapons. ‘Wait a minute – what makes you think he’s one of ours?’

      ‘Yeah.’ Mrs Tweed poked Tracksuit in the chest. ‘He was rude to us first.’

      ‘Don’t you poke me!’

       ‘How come I can hear fighting?’

      ‘I’m surrounded by idiots.’ Logan held his phone against his chest. ‘Sod off, the lot of you. I already voted, OK? Go bother someone else.’ Back to Stoney. ‘Get onto the Aberdeen Examiner and find out who fed them the story – I want to speak to their sources. We’ll trawl the docks and see if anyone else saw Chris Browning down there.’

       ‘You going to be back for the briefing?’

      Mr Spots pursed his lips. ‘Can I ask who you voted for?’

      ‘No, you can’t: sod off.’

       ‘Guv?’

      ‘Not you, Stoney, this lot.’

      ‘So you voted No, then?’

      ‘It’s