Dying Light by Stuart MacBride

the full Scottish breakfast – eggs, sausage, bacon, beans, black pudding, tattie scones, clootie dumpling, mushrooms and toast, all slathered in tomato sauce – with a couple of beers. Logan perched at the end of the lower bar, eating his breakfast and drinking a pint of Dark Island. So what if it was half nine in the morning? He was supposed to be on holiday. With his girlfriend. Who wasn’t speaking to him, thanks to DI Bloody Steel and her guilt trip. They could have still been in bed, with nothing to do but laze about playing doctors and nurses. Logan scowled, downed the last of his pint and ordered another.
    ‘Bit early to be gettin’ hammered isn’t it?’
    Logan groaned, put down a forkful of beans, and turned to see Colin Miller, the Press and Journal’s golden boy, leaning on the bar next to him. As usual the wee Glaswegian was dressed up to the nines: sharp black suit, silk shirt and tie. He was wide, in a broad-shouldered, muscular kind of way, with a face that took a little getting used to. At least Isobel had tamed down the man’s taste for flashy gold jewellery: instead of the three and a half tons of cufflinks, rings, chains and bracelets he used to wear, Colin was restricted to a single silver band on his left pinkie. Like a misplaced wedding ring. But his watch was still big enough to cover the national debt of a small third-world country. He levered himself up on the next barstool and ordered himself a mochachino latte with extra cinnamon.
    ‘What you doing here anyway?’ Logan asked. ‘Looking for me?’
    ‘Nope, got an appointment: wanted to make sure it was on neutral territory. You know how it goes.’ Miller scanned the bar before taking a drink. ‘So then, Laz, how’ve you been, eh? No’ seen you for ages, man.’
    ‘Not since you gave me duff information on that bloody warehouse, no.’
    Miller shrugged. ‘Aye, well, can’t be right all the time, eh? My source swore blind it was kosher, like.’
    Logan snorted and washed the last of his friedegg down with a mouthful of beer. ‘And who was that, then? No, don’t tell me: journalistic integrity, protecting your sources, none of my fucking business, etcetera.’
    ‘Jesus, man, who rattled your fuckin’ cage? Did I no’ keep your name out the papers, eh? You see one story blamin’ you for what happened?’ When Logan didn’t say anything, Miller just shrugged and took another sip of coffee. ‘And I can tell you who my source was this time: Graham Kennedy. Remember him? One of the squatters got all burned up in the fire the other night? He was the one told me about that warehouse bein’ full of nicked gear, like. No point being anonymous if you’re dead.’
    Logan groaned. He’d forgotten all about Graham Bloody Kennedy – he still hadn’t told DI Insch about him. One more thing he’d screwed up. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me all this on Wednesday?’
    ‘Didnae know you was holdin’ a grudge.’ He paused, coffee halfway to his lips. ‘Oops, gotta dash, that’s my half ten appointment turned up.’ He pointed through the bar, up the stairs to the middle level, where a dangerous-looking man in an expensive charcoal-grey suit was scowling at an OAP in an Aberdeen Football Club bobble hat.
    ‘Who’s the thug?’ asked Logan.
    ‘He’s no’ a thug, Laz, he’s a “corporate investment facilitator” and if he hears you callin’ him a thug, he’ll break your legs. Policeman or no’.’ Miller forced a smile. ‘If you don’t hear from metomorrow, start dredging the harbour.’ He waved, gave a hearty hello, marched up and shook the ‘facilitator’s’ hand, then led him off to a quiet corner. Logan watched them for a while, his breakfast congealing, forgotten on the plate. Miller was smiling a lot, laughing more than was probably necessary. As if he was doing his damnedest not to upset the man in the grey suit. The thug was easily six foot two, short blond hair, square-cut jaw, teeth straight out of a