Free Hard Landing by Stephen Leather Page B

here.’
    ‘The more the merrier,’ said Macdonald. ‘Where are the showers?’
    ‘Along the landing on the right,’ said Harris.
    Macdonald thanked him and walked away. He could sense Harris watching him, but he didn’t look round.
    The teenagers scattered, like sheep from a barking dog. ‘Nice moves,’ said one, but he averted his eyes when Macdonald looked at him.
    ‘Serves the black bastards right,’ whispered another.
    There were three showerheads, each with a chrome push button set into the wall. Two black men were showering, their hair frothy with shampoo. Macdonald nodded when they looked at him. He took off his laceless trainers. When he turned to hang up his clothes and towel he heard them whisper, then laugh. He was looking forward to ditching the forensic suit. He unzipped it, slipped it off, then hung it on the hook next to his clothes. It was only when he stepped under the free showerhead and pressed the chrome button that he realised he didn’t have any soap.
    The water kicked out, lukewarm at first but then steaming hot. Macdonald closed his eyes and let the water play over his face and down his body.
    ‘You okay there, man?’ one man called.
    ‘I’m fine,’ said Macdonald, and opened his eyes.
    ‘Just got in?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Macdonald.
    The man next to him held out a tube of shower gel. Macdonald hesitated, then took it and thanked him. He squeezed a few drops into his palm, then handed it back.
    ‘Anything you need, I’m your man,’ said the guy with the shower gel. ‘Name’s Digger.’
    Macdonald thanked him again.
    ‘Dope if you need it. H. Whatever burns your candle.’
    ‘I’m a man of simple needs, Digger. Plus I’ve got bugger-all in my account at the moment.’
    ‘Think of me as a credit union,’ said Digger. He was well over six feet tall with close-cropped hair and a barrel chest. He ran two shovel-sized hands over his head, then stepped out of the water and wrapped a towel round his waist. ‘You can borrow from me, arrange to have me paid back on the outside.’
    Macdonald’s water cut out and he pushed the button to restart it. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.
    Digger jerked a thumb at the second black guy. ‘He’s Needles. You don’t see me on the wing, you can talk to him.’
    ‘Will do,’ said Macdonald. He turned to let the hot water play over his back. It felt good to wash away two days’ sweat and grime.
    Digger stood in front of Macdonald, hands on hips, jaw up so that he was looking at Macdonald down his broad nose. ‘And your name would be . . .?’
    Macdonald pulled a face. ‘I’m not telling anyone,’ he said.
    Digger chuckled. ‘Raging against the machine, huh?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    Digger held out a massive fist. Macdonald clenched his own right hand and tapped his fist against Digger’s. The black man’s was almost twice the size of his own. Digger was well muscled and had the confident swagger of a man who’d never lost a fight. ‘Don’t forget to wash behind your ears, yeah?’ He chuckled.
    Digger and Needles dried themselves off. They changed into their clothes – pale blue Nike sweatshirts and Versace jeans – and left Macdonald alone in the shower room. Digger flashed him a clenched fist as he left. Macdonald just hoped they weren’t related to the two guys he’d kicked the shit out of. He stretched out his arms, leaned against the wall, and hung his head so that the water cascaded down his face. The rushing water blocked out the noise from the wing and he could have been anywhere. A health club. His own bathroom next to his bedroom, where his son was curled up in bed next to his wife. Standing in the shower with his eyes closed, it was easy to imagine he was only feet from his family. The water cut out and he thumped the button with his fist.
    ‘Shower room’s closing,’ said a voice.
    Macdonald opened his eyes. An officer was standing at the entrance. He was in his late twenties with a shirt collar