‘Inspector?’ Logan waded through the snow in the ditch and peered over the wall into the field beyond. Steel was lying flat on her back with the cigarette sticking straight up out of her mouth, smoke trailing away into the sky. ‘Inspector? You OK?’
She didn’t get up, just raised a hand. ‘Either I’m having one of them sympathetic pregnancies and my water’s just broke, or I’ve peed myself a little.’
Steel slumped back against the barn wall and ran a hand over her face. ‘He going to be OK?’
‘He’s a lucky sod – shotgun wasn’t close enough, so the vest took most of it. Got some pellets in his arms and chin, but other than that, yeah.’ Which was more than could be said for Norman Yates.
‘The other one?’
‘Depends how quickly the ambulance gets here. Did you see the state of my bloody car?’
‘What did I tell them? No getting shot, no shooting anyone. Why does no
‘Not like they had any choice, is it? They identified themselves; he opened fire; they took him out.’
‘Get this bloody thing off me!’ She hopped on one foot. ‘And what sort of moron takes a shotgun to a firearms team anyway?’
Logan hauled the box off, then took a look around the barn: shelves on all four walls, stacked with cartons and containers; pallets on the floor, keeping more stuff off the compacted dirt. There was a whole section devoted to Grant’s Vodka. He tore a case open, pulled out a bottle and read the label. ‘Counterfeit.’
‘Bollocks.’
Logan handed it over. ‘See anything suspicious?’
Frown. ‘That’s not how you spell “Distillers”.’
‘Oh…’ She’d got there a lot faster than he had. ‘I’m guessing most of this is dodgy, if not all of it.’
‘Yes, well done Sherlock, I think I might have worked that one out on my own.’ She cracked open another box. ‘Fancy some knock-off Calvin Klein’s Obsession?’
‘No.’
Steel stuck the carton back in the box. ‘Well, one thing’s for certain, Malk the Knife’s no’ going to be too pleased with Mr Gallagher when he finds out he’s lost a whole shipment of dodgy goods. Poor baby.’ She grinned. ‘Want to go rub it in?’
Outside the barn a crumpled trail of boxed hair tongs, digital radios, and other assorted goods stretched away to the open back doors of the abandoned Transit van. As if Hansel and Gretel had been shoplifting.
Logan followed Steel through the snow to the little cottage. The whole place smelled of curry and the bitter-sweet sweaty tang of cannabis.
Gallagher was in the lounge, handcuffed and sitting in a wooden dining chair at gunpoint – three grim-faced constables all aiming at various portions of his anatomy. He was a chunky lump of muscle with a spade-shaped head, tattoos poking out from the neck of his dark-brown fleece, one eye swollen and already starting to turn purple. ‘I want a fucking lawyer.’ His voice had a surprisingly high-pitched Fife lilt.
‘And I want Helen Mirren to slather me in chocolate and eat me like a Curly Wurly, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.’ Steel slumped into the couch. ‘Who you working for?’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘We know anyway, just want to hear you say it.’ She pulled out her cigarettes and offered the packet around to everyone except Gallagher. ‘Think Malk the Knife’s going to be happy with your wee performance tonight?’
‘Police brutality. You fuckers killed that bloke.’
So much for honour among counterfeiters and drug dealers.
‘“That bloke”?’ Logan crossed over to the wood-burning stove, burning merrily in the fireplace. ‘No way to speak about your friend Norman Yates, is it? According to Lothian and Borders the pair of you have been joined at the hip since you did over that Post Office in Leith.’
Steel nodded. ‘Very romantic.’
Sniff. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’
Steam was starting to rise off of Logan’s trousers. ‘Where’s Andrew Connelly? Big bald bloke with a huge dog? Supposed to be your boss?’
Gallagher stared at him with one blue eye. ‘I only stopped here to ask directions. Never seen any of these guys before in—’
‘Your life, aye, we get it.’ Steel stood. ‘This mercenary wee shite’s no’ going to tell us anything. Get his arse back to the station.’
It took four burly police officers, their van, a tow rope, and a lot of swearing to get Logan’s battered Fiat out of the ditch. It thumped down on the snowy track, and the front bumper fell off, the bonnet flapping open and closed like the car was laughing at him.
‘Fucking hell…’ Logan stared at the buckled mess.
The lead firearms officer patted him on the shoulder, grinning. ‘It was a mercy killing.’
‘Bugger off, Russell.’
Russell waved at the rest of his team. ‘We’ll drag it back to the farm, you can give it a decent burial later.’
Logan hauled open the driver’s door and threw the dented bumper into the back, then stood there, looking down at the keys, still dangling from the ignition. He reached in and gave them a twist.
