‘Sweaty,’ says Blondie, panting. ‘Sweaty Sock: Jock. Honestly, how ignorant are you?’
And then her boot cracks into his ribs again.
Tony watches Julie kick the living shit out of the stick-thin junkie. Doesn’t know when to leave well alone, that one.
He’s not moving any more. Not on his own, only when Julie slams her foot into his ribs. A twitch. Reflex.
She bends double, hands on knees, back rising and falling, breath whoomphing out in big steamy clouds. She points at the body on the pavement. ‘Check his…check his pockets…’ Puff, pant, puff, pant.
Neil frisks the guy. ‘Eight wrappers, couple ounces of blow, and about…’ He rifles his fingers through a small bundle of notes. ‘Hundred, hundred and twenty quid?’
Julie sticks her hand out. ‘Give me a wrapper.’
She stands up straight, unfolds the little tinfoil package, peers at the contents, then marches over and thrusts it through the open car window. ‘Tony?’
Sigh.
He takes the wrapper. Looks like it could be anything: flour, icing sugar, rat poison. Tony licks the end of his pinkie, sticks it in the powder, then sticks it in his gob and rubs the stuff along his gums.
‘Fucksake…’
It fizzes up, bitter and frothy. Tony spits out the driver’s window, leaving a seagull-stain that bubbles and drips down the black paintwork. Howchs, spits again. He’s got that familiar teeth-numbing buzz, but it’s barely there.
Another gob spatters into the snowy tarmac. ‘Fucking bicarbonate…’
Julie sticks the boot in a couple more times.
‘You water down this shit yourself, or did it come prefucked?’
The junkie doesn’t –
Thump.
Thump.
‘Last chance, Sweaty.’
But Tony’s stopped listening. He’s got that old familiar feeling. Might start with froth and spitting, but it ends up like a warm hand cupped round your balls. Probably won’t last long, it’s been cut so much, so Tony checks Julie and Neil are still busy with Junkie-Boy, before scarfing the last of the wrapper.
He licks the tinfoil clean. Doesn’t mind that it froths up on his tongue. Just gets it into the bloodstream all the quicker, doesn’t it?
Tony settles back in his seat, grips the steering wheel. Belches. Lets it all wash over him, as Julie and Neil get to work on the guy’s arms and legs.
Well, every job has its perks.
27
DI Steel slouched through the door to her office, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a bacon buttie in the other, tomato sauce making a jaunty little goatee on her chin. She froze, staring at the weedy, pointy-nosed bloke digging away at her window lock with a Swiss Army Knife.
‘What the sodding hell do you think you’re doing?’
Angus Black looked up and shrugged. ‘Breaking and exiting.’ The side of his face was a swollen, angry bruise where he’d bounced off the toilet cistern in Dodgy Pete’s.
Logan leant back against the filing cabinet. ‘Call it an early Valentine’s present.’
Angus gave one last grunt, and the window sprang open, letting in a rush of cold air. Snow drifted down in the space between the buildings, big fat flakes that clung to the brickwork and piled up on the window ledge. Five to seven on a dark and freezing Monday morning, and for once Logan actually felt human. No hangover. No feeling queasy. His head didn’t even hurt. Well, as long as nothing touched either of the lumps. Maybe laying off the booze wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Angus creaked the window open and closed a couple of times. ‘Told you. Now, we had a deal…?’
Logan produced a packet of Benson and Hedges.
‘Ace.’ Angus helped himself to one, then frisked through his pockets. ‘Got a light?’
‘Oh no you bloody don’t!’ Steel dumped her coffee on the desk and snatched the packet off Logan. ‘If anyone’s having the first fag in this office, it’s me.’
She lipped one out of the pack, pulled a Zippo from her pocket and sparked it up. The sweet tang of raw petrol was drowned out by the curling smoke. The inspector sighed, eased herself gently into her office chair, and stuck her feet on the desk. ‘Ahhhhhhhhh, Bisto.’ She slumped there, with the cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘Laz, make sure the door’s locked, yeah?’
Angus shuffled his feet. ‘Come on, I’m
Steel took a long drag, aimed smoke at the ceiling tiles, then tossed the pack over. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Ta…’ He fired one up, making post-coital noises. ‘Long night in a cell when you’ve got no smokes.’
‘Shouldn’t be a nasty wee drug-dealing turd-burglar then, should you?’
Logan locked the door. ‘Tell the inspector what you told me.’
Angus blew a lazy stream of smoke out into the snow. ‘What’s it worth?’
Steel frowned at Logan. ‘What’s what worth?’
‘Mr Black here wants paid to tell us where he got his drugs from.’
‘Get bent, we’re no’—’
‘I’m saying sod all otherwise. These bastards’ll kill me if they find out – you gotta make it worth the risk.’
Logan pulled out his notebook and flipped back a couple of pages. ‘Dog shit.’
