Free Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories by Stuart MacBride Page B

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