Partners in Crime: Two Logan and Steel Short Stories by Stuart MacBride Page B
Authors: Stuart MacBride
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missing person. Honestly, you’re worse than Susan. Nag, nag, nag. Go get a car, we’ll pay Mrs ... Gifford? Guildford?’
‘Griffith.’
‘Right. Get a car and we’ll pay Mrs
Griffith
a visit.’ Steel thumped back in her chair, face all pinched, jaw moving like she was chewing on something bitter. ‘Maybe stop off for a few messages on the way.’
Allan sat in the driver’s seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gritting his teeth every time someone blared their horn at him. They’d made it as far as the Trinity Centre before Steel had slammed her hand on the dashboard and told him to pull in for a minute. That was half an hour ago.
The car’s hazard lights blinked and clicked, digging orange knives into his forehead.
A loud BREEEEEEEEEP! sounded behind him, then again. And again. Then a bus grumbled past, sending up a spray of grey-brown slush to spatter against the pool car’s windows. A couple of the passengers gave him the two-finger-salute on the way past.
Like traffic on Union Street wasn’t bad enough at the best of times. A thick rind of dirty white was piled up at the edge of the kerb, the road covered in a mix of compacted snow, ice and filthy water. Pedestrians slithered by on the pavement, bundled up in thick coats, scarves and woolly hats, fresh snow coating their shoulders like frozen dandruff. Every now and then someone would stop and stare into the car, as if it was
his
fault he was stuck here, holding up the rotten traffic.
Soon as Steel got back he was going to give her a piece of his mind. Put her in her place. Let her know this wasn’t acceptable. He hadn’t joined the force just so she could go on shopping expeditions.
Clunk. The passenger door swung open and an avalanche of plastic bags clattered into his lap.
Steel clambered in, pulled the door shut, and shuddered. ‘Oooh, bleeding heck: brass monkeys out there.’ She frowned. ‘How come you’ve no’ got the heating on?’
Allan glowered at her. ‘With all due respect,
Inspector
, you—’
‘Don’t be a prawn, or you’ll no’ get your present.’
‘Present?’ That was more like it. He turned the key in the ignition and cranked up the heater. ‘Is it good?’
‘Course it’s good. Has your aunty Roberta ever let you down?’ She dug into one of the plastic bags and came out with something bright red with white furry bits. ‘Here.’
He turned it over in his hands, the smile dying on his lips. ‘Oh...’ It was one of those cheap Santa hats they flogged in the Christmas market on Belmont Street.
‘Well, put it on then.’
‘It’s ... not ... with the uniform and everything...’
Steel poked his black stab-proof vest with a red-painted fingernail. ‘Put – it – on.’
Brilliant. Allan hauled the hat on over his head, the bobble on the end dangling against his cheek. Like he was being tea-bagged by a Muppet.
She peered at him for a bit. ‘It’s missing something.’ Then she leaned over and grabbed him by the lapel, hauling him towards her.
Oh God, she wasn’t going to kiss him, was she? But there wasn’t so much as a sprig of mistletoe in the car. It wasn’t fair! You couldn’t just go about kissing people – you had to give them fair warning about stuff like that. It was sexual harassment!
Run. Get out of the car and run. RUN!
She grabbed the bobble on the end of his Santa hat and something inside went ‘click’. Little coloured lights winked on and off inside the fur. Like it wasn’t undignified enough in the first place.
Then again, given the alternative...
Steel nodded. ‘Much better.’
A deafening HONNNNNNNNNNK! belted through the air behind them and a massive eighteen-wheeler loomed in the rear-view mirror, lights flashing.
She peered over her shoulder. ‘Well, don’t just sit there: you’re holding up traffic.’
Mrs Griffith scrubbed a soggy hanky under her plump red nose, getting rid of the twin lines of silver. She sat on the couch in an over-warm living room,
‘Griffith.’
‘Right. Get a car and we’ll pay Mrs
Griffith
a visit.’ Steel thumped back in her chair, face all pinched, jaw moving like she was chewing on something bitter. ‘Maybe stop off for a few messages on the way.’
Allan sat in the driver’s seat, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, gritting his teeth every time someone blared their horn at him. They’d made it as far as the Trinity Centre before Steel had slammed her hand on the dashboard and told him to pull in for a minute. That was half an hour ago.
The car’s hazard lights blinked and clicked, digging orange knives into his forehead.
A loud BREEEEEEEEEP! sounded behind him, then again. And again. Then a bus grumbled past, sending up a spray of grey-brown slush to spatter against the pool car’s windows. A couple of the passengers gave him the two-finger-salute on the way past.
Like traffic on Union Street wasn’t bad enough at the best of times. A thick rind of dirty white was piled up at the edge of the kerb, the road covered in a mix of compacted snow, ice and filthy water. Pedestrians slithered by on the pavement, bundled up in thick coats, scarves and woolly hats, fresh snow coating their shoulders like frozen dandruff. Every now and then someone would stop and stare into the car, as if it was
his
fault he was stuck here, holding up the rotten traffic.
Soon as Steel got back he was going to give her a piece of his mind. Put her in her place. Let her know this wasn’t acceptable. He hadn’t joined the force just so she could go on shopping expeditions.
Clunk. The passenger door swung open and an avalanche of plastic bags clattered into his lap.
Steel clambered in, pulled the door shut, and shuddered. ‘Oooh, bleeding heck: brass monkeys out there.’ She frowned. ‘How come you’ve no’ got the heating on?’
Allan glowered at her. ‘With all due respect,
Inspector
, you—’
‘Don’t be a prawn, or you’ll no’ get your present.’
‘Present?’ That was more like it. He turned the key in the ignition and cranked up the heater. ‘Is it good?’
‘Course it’s good. Has your aunty Roberta ever let you down?’ She dug into one of the plastic bags and came out with something bright red with white furry bits. ‘Here.’
He turned it over in his hands, the smile dying on his lips. ‘Oh...’ It was one of those cheap Santa hats they flogged in the Christmas market on Belmont Street.
‘Well, put it on then.’
‘It’s ... not ... with the uniform and everything...’
Steel poked his black stab-proof vest with a red-painted fingernail. ‘Put – it – on.’
Brilliant. Allan hauled the hat on over his head, the bobble on the end dangling against his cheek. Like he was being tea-bagged by a Muppet.
She peered at him for a bit. ‘It’s missing something.’ Then she leaned over and grabbed him by the lapel, hauling him towards her.
Oh God, she wasn’t going to kiss him, was she? But there wasn’t so much as a sprig of mistletoe in the car. It wasn’t fair! You couldn’t just go about kissing people – you had to give them fair warning about stuff like that. It was sexual harassment!
Run. Get out of the car and run. RUN!
She grabbed the bobble on the end of his Santa hat and something inside went ‘click’. Little coloured lights winked on and off inside the fur. Like it wasn’t undignified enough in the first place.
Then again, given the alternative...
Steel nodded. ‘Much better.’
A deafening HONNNNNNNNNNK! belted through the air behind them and a massive eighteen-wheeler loomed in the rear-view mirror, lights flashing.
She peered over her shoulder. ‘Well, don’t just sit there: you’re holding up traffic.’
Mrs Griffith scrubbed a soggy hanky under her plump red nose, getting rid of the twin lines of silver. She sat on the couch in an over-warm living room,
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