Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

you’re. . .’ Logan closed his mouth. Sagged a little in his seat as the Punto finally made it over the crest of the hill. It wasn’t really fair, was it: passing on the bollocking, just because Steel had had a go at him? ‘Sorry. I know. Just . . . tell me where we are with it.’

      ‘No one’s talking. All the victims say they fell down the stairs and stuff. Even the guy with two broken ankles won’t blab.’

      ‘Still all Chinese? ’

      ‘Latest one’s Korean. Makes it four Oriental males in the last month and a half.’

      ‘Well . . . do what you can.’

      ‘You heading back to the ranch? ’

      ‘Going to see a man about a drugs war.’

      ‘Yeah.’ Another yawn. Then a whoosing gurgle. ‘Oops. I just. . . Emma must’ve . . . em . . . flushed the washing machine? ’

      The young woman in the nurse’s uniform scowled up at him, one hand on the door knob. ‘I don’t like this. It’s late. You shouldn’t be here.’ Her eyebrows met in the middle, drawing a thick dark line through her curdled-porridge face, as if trying to emphasize the razor-straight fringe of her bottle-blonde hair. Small, but wide with it, arms like Popeye on steroids. Hard. Shoulders brushing the tastefully striped wallpaper of the hallway.

      Logan shrugged. ‘He said it was OK, didn’t he? ’

      ‘I don’t like it.’ She swung the door open, then stood to the side, face puckered around two big green eyes. Her finger waved an inch from Logan’s nose. ‘I’m warning you: if you upset Mr Mowat. . .’

      A thin, shaky voice came from inside: a mix of public school and Aberdonian brogue, rough as gravel. ‘Chloe, is that Logan? ’

      The waggling finger poked Logan in the chest, her voice a low growl. ‘Just watch it.’ Then she turned on a smile. It would have been nice to say it transformed her face, but it didn’t. ‘He’s just arrived, Mr Mowat.’

      ‘Well, don’t just stand there, show him in.’

      The room must have been at least thirty foot long. A wall of glass looked out on a garden lurking in the darkness, the occasional bush and tree picked out by coloured spotlights. Wee Hamish Mowat nudged the joystick on the arm of his wheelchair and rolled across the huge Indian rug. His pale skin was mottled with liver spots and looked half a size too big for his skeletal frame, the hair on his head so fine that every inch of scalp was visible through the grey wisps. An IV drip was hooked onto the chair, the plastic tube disappearing into the back of his wrist. It wobbled as he reached out a trembling hand.

      Logan took it and shook. It was hot, as if something burned deep beneath the skin. ‘Hamish, how have you been? ’

      ‘Like a buggered dog. You? ’

      ‘Getting there.’

      A nod, setting the flaps of skin hanging under his chin rippling. Then he dug a handkerchief from the pocket of his grey cardigan and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Are you on duty, or will you take a wee dram? ’ He pointed at a big glass display case, full of bottles. ‘Chloe, be a dear and fetch the Dalmore. . . No, the other one: the Astrum. Yes, that’s it.’

      She thumped it down on the coffee table and gave Logan another glare. ‘It’s late, and you need your sleep, Mr Mowat.’

      Wee Hamish smiled at her. ‘Now you run along, and I’ll call if I need you.’

      ‘But, Mr Mowat, I—’

      ‘Chloe.’ A glint of the old steel sharpened his voice. ‘I said, run along.’

      She nodded. Sniffed at Logan. Then turned and lumbered from the room, thumping the door behind her.

      Wee Hamish shook his head. ‘My cousin Tam’s little girl. Well, I say “little”. . . Her heart’s in the right place.’

      Logan took two crystal tumblers from the display case. ‘Not Tam “The Man” Slessor? ’

      ‘I promised I’d look after her when he was done for that container of counterfeit cigarettes.’ Wee Hamish fumbled with the top of the whisky bottle. ‘If you want water, there’s a bottle in the fridge.’

      ‘So how is Tam the Man doing these days? ’

      ‘Not too good: we buried him a month ago.’ A sigh. ‘Look, can you get the top off this? My fingers. . .’

      Logan did. ‘Do you know anything about the body we found out by Thainstone today? ’ He poured out one generous measure and another small enough to drive after. Passed the huge one to Wee Hamish.

      ‘Thank you.’ He raised the glass, the dark-amber liquid shivering in time with his hand. ‘Here’s tae us.’

      Logan clinked his tumbler against Wee Hamish’s. ‘Fa’s like us? ’

      A sigh. ‘Gie few . . . and they’re a’ deid.’ He took a sip. ‘Unidentified male, chained to a stake and, I believe the term is: “necklaced”.’

      ‘We think it might be drug-related.’

      ‘Hmm. . . What do you make of the whisky? Forty years old, nearly a grand and a half a bottle.’ A little smile pulled at the corner of his pale lips. ‘Can’t take it with you.’

      Logan took a sip. Rolled it around his mouth until his gums went numb and everything tasted of cloves and nutmeg and burned toffee. ‘Is there another turf war kicking off? ’

      ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Well, one does, doesn’t one: when time’s running out? What’s going to be my legacy? What am I going to leave behind when I go? ’

      ‘We need this to stop before it gets even worse.’

      ‘Don’t get me wrong: I’m not ashamed of the things I’ve done, the things I’ve had other people do, but . . . I want . . . something. Got my lawyers to set up bursaries at Aberdeen University and RGU, helped people become doctors and nurses, sponsored vaccination programmes in the Third World, paid for wells to be drilled, mosquito nets for orphans. . . But I don’t feel any different.’

      He sipped at his drink. Then frowned up at the ceiling. ‘Perhaps I should try a big public works project? Like Ian Wood and his Union Terrace Gardens thing, or the boy Trump and his golf course? Leave the city something to remember me by. . .’ A grin. ‘Other than the horror stories your colleagues tell.’

      ‘Do you know who did it? Can you find out? Because as soon as the media get hold of this it’s going to be all over the news and papers.’

      Wee Hamish stared out into the dark expanse of garden. Or perhaps he was staring at his own reflection in the glass. Difficult to tell. ‘To be honest, Logan, I’ve rather let my attention waver on that side of the business. Once upon a time I knew the operation inside out, but . . . well, I get a lot more tired than I used to.’ A shrug, bony shoulders moving beneath the cardigan. ‘Reuben’s been looking after our pharmaceutical arm. Like he’s looking after many things. . .’

      Silence.

      ‘Logan, you know I love Reuben like a son – bless his violent little cotton socks – but he’s a foot soldier, a lieutenant. He’s not a leader.’ Another trembling sip. ‘If I leave him in charge it’ll end in war.’

      ‘I’m not taking over.’ Logan put his glass down on the coffee table.

      ‘I know, I know. But if I can’t trust Reuben to run things, what can I do? You don’t want it, he can’t handle it; do I sell up to Malcolm McLennan instead? ’

      ‘Malk the Knife’s dangerous enough without handing him Aberdeen on a plate too. He’s already got everything south of Dundee.’

      The wheelchair bleeped, then whined back a few feet, before spinning around