Close to the Bone Read Online Free

the darkness, the occasional bush and tree picked out by coloured spotlights. Wee Hamish Mowat nudged the joystick on the arm of his wheelchair and rolled across the huge Indian rug. His pale skin was mottled with liver spots and looked half a size too big for his skeletal frame, the hair on his head so fine that every inch of scalp was visible through the grey wisps. An IV drip was hooked onto the chair, the plastic tube disappearing into the back of his wrist. It wobbled as he reached out a trembling hand.
    Logan took it and shook. It was hot, as if something burned deep beneath the skin. ‘Hamish, how have you been? ’
    ‘Like a buggered dog. You? ’
    ‘Getting there.’
    A nod, setting the flaps of skin hanging under his chin rippling. Then he dug a handkerchief from the pocket of his grey cardigan and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Are you on duty, or will you take a wee dram? ’ He pointed at a big glass display case, full of bottles. ‘Chloe, be a dear and fetch the Dalmore. . . No, the other one: the Astrum. Yes, that’s it.’
    She thumped it down on the coffee table and gave Logan another glare. ‘It’s late, and you need your sleep, Mr Mowat.’
    Wee Hamish smiled at her. ‘Now you run along, and I’ll call if I need you.’
    ‘But, Mr Mowat, I—’
    ‘Chloe.’ A glint of the old steel sharpened his voice. ‘I said , run along.’
    She nodded. Sniffed at Logan. Then turned and lumbered from the room, thumping the door behind her.
    Wee Hamish shook his head. ‘My cousin Tam’s little girl. Well, I say “little”. . . Her heart’s in the right place.’
    Logan took two crystal tumblers from the display case. ‘Not Tam “The Man” Slessor? ’
    ‘I promised I’d look after her when he was done for that container of counterfeit cigarettes.’ Wee Hamish fumbled with the top of the whisky bottle. ‘If you want water, there’s a bottle in the fridge.’
    ‘So how is Tam the Man doing these days? ’
    ‘Not too good: we buried him a month ago.’ A sigh. ‘Look, can you get the top off this? My fingers. . .’
    Logan did. ‘Do you know anything about the body we found out by Thainstone today? ’ He poured out one generous measure and another small enough to drive after. Passed the huge one to Wee Hamish.
    ‘Thank you.’ He raised the glass, the dark-amber liquid shivering in time with his hand. ‘Here’s tae us.’
    Logan clinked his tumbler against Wee Hamish’s. ‘Fa’s like us? ’
    A sigh. ‘Gie few . . . and they’re a’ deid.’ He took a sip. ‘Unidentified male, chained to a stake and, I believe the term is: “necklaced”.’
    ‘We think it might be drug-related.’
    ‘Hmm. . . What do you make of the whisky? Forty years old, nearly a grand and a half a bottle.’ A little smile pulled at the corner of his pale lips. ‘Can’t take it with you.’
    Logan took a sip. Rolled it around his mouth until his gums went numb and everything tasted of cloves and nutmeg and burned toffee. ‘Is there another turf war kicking off? ’
    ‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Well, one does, doesn’t one: when time’s running out? What’s going to be my legacy? What am I going to leave behind when I go? ’
    ‘We need this to stop before it gets even worse.’
    ‘Don’t get me wrong: I’m not ashamed of the things I’ve done, the things I’ve had other people do, but . . . I want . . . something. Got my lawyers to set up bursaries at Aberdeen University and RGU, helped people become doctors and nurses, sponsored vaccination programmes in the Third World, paid for wells to be drilled, mosquito nets for orphans. . . But I don’t feel any different.’
    He sipped at his drink. Then frowned up at the ceiling. ‘Perhaps I should try a big public works project? Like Ian Wood and his Union Terrace Gardens thing, or the boy Trump and his golf course? Leave the city something to remember me by. . .’ A grin. ‘Other than the horror stories your colleagues