‘We wis taking care of my wee loon’s spiritual upbringing. Nowhere near Henderson’s.’
Logan smiled. ‘I never said anything about Henderson’s.’
Stacy squirted more shampoo into her hand. ‘Nice try,
Bugger.
24
Bloody snow.
Logan sat on the upturned milk crate outside the steamed-up caravan and watched the first tiny flakes drifting down from a dark black sky.
He shivered and took another drag on his cigarette, then hissed the smoke out through his teeth. The bag of frozen peas was starting to go all soggy and limp. Logan knew how it felt. He pulled it away from his aching head and probed the lump underneath with his fingertips. Winced. Put the bag back.
All he’d wanted was one little success to prove everyone wrong. Was that really too much to ask for? Just one measly case closed, out of the dozens littering the whiteboard in the CID office. And all he’d ended up with was a bash over the head, a broken car window, and a smashed mobile phone.
He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and stared at the glowing orange tip. No point in putting it off any longer. Logan pinged the butt away into the darkness. ‘Right…’
‘Made you a tea.’
He looked up to see Stacy standing over him, clutching a steaming mug. She’d changed into a baggy hooded top that didn’t reek of vomit. She held the mug out. ‘I didn’t spit in it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
What the hell.
‘Thanks.’ Logan took an experimental sip. Hot. Milk, three sugars. ‘How’s he doing?’
Stacy wrapped her arms around herself. Shuffled her feet. Looked off into the middle distance. ‘Sorry about belting you one.’
‘Me too.’ Logan hauled himself up, handed her the bag of defrosting peas, then pulled out his handcuffs. ‘Time to go.’
Stacy’s mouth fell open. ‘But…We…I thought we’d—’
‘You assaulted a police officer with a frying pan. He did it with a sledgehammer. We’ve been over this.’
‘That’s not fair!’
‘Stacy…’ Logan stopped. ‘What’s your full name?’
‘Get stuffed.’
‘Fine, we’ll add “giving false details” to the list of charges.’
‘You can’t do that!’
‘Listen, Stacy, right now I’m looking at a buggered phone, a broken car window, and a fucking big lump on the back of my head, OK? You’re under arrest.’
She threw a finger at the ragged-edged hole by the caravan door. ‘What about our bloody wall?’
‘Your boyfriend did it, not me.’
She stomped her foot. ‘But I’m
‘I didn’t do that either.’
Stacy glared down at him for a moment, then dropped her eyes again. ‘We…Maybe we could come to some sort of understanding?’ Twirling her fingers through the ends of her damp hair. ‘You know, as we didn’t have anything to do with that jewellers got knocked over?’
‘Soon as Danny knew I was CID he tried to do a runner, and you tried to cave my head in.’ Logan took another mouthful of hot sweet tea. ‘Doesn’t matter if you raided Henderson’s or not, you’ve been up to something: we’ll find out what down the station. Now, I want your full name and address.’
‘It was…’ She coughed. The snow was getting heavier, beginning to settle on her bleached hair. ‘We had to borrow some money for the roof on the steading. The people…well, they’re not regulated by the FSA, if you know what I mean?’
‘I’ll get your last name when we process you anyway. Might as well save the extra six months on your sentence.’
‘Danny’s a bit behind on his payments, OK? These guys don’t come round and repossess your telly, they repossess your kneecaps.’
Logan looked up at Stacy. Standing there in the snow, with the security light behind her, she had a glowing halo of little sparkly flecks, like an angel who’d forgotten to use a condom. ‘Names.’
‘OK, OK. Jesus…Stacy Gardner. You happy now?’ She folded her arms over her swollen belly, muttering, ‘Fascist Nazi bastard.’
‘Oh…Right. I…ahem…don’t really know.’
‘Fine.’ Logan stood. ‘Stacy Gardner, I’m arresting you for assaulting a police officer—’
‘I don’t know, OK? Danny sorted it all out.’
After being outside in the snow, the caravan was cosy and steamy, the gas heater hissing away to itself. Logan tried to shut the door behind him, struggling to get it into the buckled frame. Danny was hunched over the little kitchen sink, face down in the soapy water.
Stacy pulled off her thick-rimmed glasses and wiped them on the hem of her hoodie. Then slapped her fiancé on the back. ‘Danny, tell him about the blokes you got the money off.’
He rose from the basin, dripping wet, his red face covered with soapy bubbles. His eyes were still scrunched up, all pink and swollen, but he did a swift scan around the room before saying anything. ‘You ken whit these guys are like, I can’t—’
She hit him again. ‘Do you
‘But they’ll—’
‘Your pregnant girlfriend, in handcuffs?’
‘Stacy, love, we—’
‘Sharing a cell with some junkie lesbian scumbag?’
‘But—’
