Dark Blood. Stuart MacBride

was singing upstairs: a surprisingly tuneful rendition of ‘Let Me Entertain You’, complete with ‘Wakka waaaaa, weeeeeeee-wahhh…’ guitar solos. Steel nodded and Logan took the lead, up the bare wooden stairs and onto the chipboard landing.

      The singer was hunched on top of a folding ladder in what was probably going to be a bedroom, wearing a padded orange boilersuit with that same crappy Robert Burns illustration on the back, tightening the chuck-less bit on a cordless drill. A brief pause for the chorus, then he stuck the huge drill bit against the nearest upright and screeched through it.

      Out on the landing, Logan did a quick scan of the other rooms. With no walls it didn’t take long. They were alone.

      He waved Steel forward.

      She marched into the room, drew back her foot, and kicked the ladder. The whole thing shuddered and the singing became a frightened yell. The drill clattered to the chipboard floor and the electrician grabbed at the bare roof joists, swearing as the ladder thumped from side to side. Then he got it stable, looked over his shoulder, teeth bared. ‘Are you fucking mental? Jesus…’

      His face was a map of old acne scars, nose a pink-veined golf ball. He hauled out his earphones. ‘If you bastards are here about the—’

      ‘Shut the fuck up.’ Steel jabbed a finger at him. ‘Looking for a sparky.’

      His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t do homers.’

      ‘Steve Polmont.’

      ‘Not seen him.’

      Logan stooped and picked the drill up off the sawdust-covered floor. ‘You McRabbie?’

      ‘Why?’

      Steel grinned up at him. ‘We represent a certain gentleman Mr Polmont has a … business arrangement with.’

      ‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Scabby McRabbie sighed. ‘Dogs or horses?’

      ‘Where is he?’

      McRabbie held his hand out. ‘Buggered off and left us in the shite, didn’t he?’

      Logan kept the drill just out of reach.

      Sigh. ‘He was a dick, OK? Barely sober, aye and that’s when he bothered to turn up. Wouldn’t trust him to change his socks, never mind a plug.’ McRabbie swung his arm around at the semi-skeletal house. ‘Spent half the day rewiring the shite job he did in the first place. Supposed to be on a team bonus, and—’

      ‘When’d you last see him?’ Steel dragged out her fags and sparked one up, then moved the burning lighter towards the nearest clump of Rockwool. ‘Be a shame if something happened…’

      ‘It’s flame retardant.’ McRabbie stuck out his hand again, and Logan passed him the drill.

      ‘Ta.’ He made the hole he’d been drilling slightly bigger, then rested the drill on its large battery pack and hauled a thick bundle of orange cables through the upright. ‘Used to be you could get away with a couple extra sockets in the living room, now every other bastard wants their whole house done with Cat-Six.’

      Logan watched the electrician pick a single strand out of the bundle and mark it with a blue plastic tag, then loop it over a ceiling joist. ‘Where is he?’

      ‘Fuck knows. Haven’t seen him since … what, Monday? Probably lying drunk in a gutter, or dead in a fucking ditch. Long as the useless bastard don’t come back, I don’t care.’

      McRabbie picked up the drill again. ‘You know they make me buy my own kit now? Two-five, one-five, fucking boxes, fronts, light switches, you name it: got to claim it back on expenses. That’s Steve Bloody Polmont’s fault.’

      The drill screeched through another upright, sending a shower of sawdust flying. Then McRabbie thumped it back down on the top step of the ladder. ‘You know what…’ He dug a fiver out of his overalls and chucked it at Logan. ‘Here: you catch up with the wanker, you give him a kick in the nads from me!’

      Logan picked the note off the floor and pocketed it. ‘Deal.’

      Steel stomped down the stairs, with Logan bringing up the rear. Up in the bedroom the singing started again, accompanied by the whine of the drill.

      She stopped at the front door, looking out into the rain. ‘Well, that was a waste of sodding time.’

      ‘Look on the bright side, at least we know he was here Monday.’

      ‘Fat lot of good it does us.’ She took a long draw on her cigarette, pinching her mouth into a chicken’s-bum pout. ‘Bloody Polmont.’

      ‘Well, maybe—’

      Steel slapped a hand against his chest. ‘Shh…’ She pointed out through the open door, where a small crowd was gathering around a dented white Transit van. The driver’s door creaked open and a huge man in dirty blue overalls stepped out into the rain. ‘Here, isn’t that Wee Hamish’s right-hand thug?’

      Reuben.

      He was big in all directions – massive fists clenched either side of his straining stomach. His face was twisted with scar tissue, a patchy beard making little islands of dark fur on the swell of his cheeks. Freddy Kruger meets the Michelin Man.

      Logan took a step back, making sure he couldn’t be seen. ‘What the hell’s he doing here?’

      Reuben lumbered round to the van’s side door, clunked the handle and hauled it open. Then reached inside and dragged a body out onto the muddy road. The body twitched, tried to roll over. One of its legs bent in three different directions, all at the same time. Face covered in blood. Hands curled up like deformed claws.

      Reuben just stood there.

      Silence.

      Logan flipped his phone open. ‘I’ll call for backup.’

      ‘You’ll bloody no’!’

      ‘But he’s—’

      ‘What do you think Finnie’ll do if he finds out we tried to meet up with a chiz without his approval?’

      Logan stared at her. ‘You didn’t clear it with him?’

      ‘Might have slipped my mind.’ She coughed. ‘Now shut up – can’t hear what’s going on.’

      ‘Oh that’s just…’

      Steel hit him again. ‘Three o’clock.’

      A large man emerged from the show home: six-two; arms held out from his sides, as if he was carrying a couple of beer barrels; jeans, leather jacket, bald head glistening in the rain. Something dark and muscular trotted along beside him. Pointed nose, lolling pink tongue.

      The little crowd of joiners and plumbers backed off, giving him room.

      He stopped, stared down at the body quivering in the mud, then up at Reuben. ‘Problem?’ Scottish, but not local.

      Wee Hamish’s man pointed one huge sausage finger at the battered figure. ‘This yours?’

      ‘What if it is?’

      ‘Had a bit of an accident, didn’t it?’

      ‘Oh yeah?’

      Reuben smiled, showing off the hole where a tooth used to be. ‘Accidentally tried to sell his shit in the wrong part of town.’

      The bloke with the dog stripped off his leather jacket and handed it to the nearest bystander. No wonder he couldn’t get his arms near his sides: he was a solid slab of muscle, straining at the fabric of a white T-shirt. He cricked his head from side to side. Flexed his shoulders. ‘Think you, me, and Mauser here need to have a wee chat.’

      The dog’s ears pricked up, a rumbling growl coming from its throat.

      Reuben undid a couple of buttons on his overalls, down by his huge waistband, held