A pause. ‘I see. That is an unfortunate development, isn’t it. Very unfortunate indeed. But I need you to put that behind you for a moment and go with Reuben.’

‘Not a chance in hell.’

‘Logan, remember I told you about the cannabis farms and the violence and the uncertainty and concern that breeds? Well, I’m afraid this little business rivalry has come to a bit of a head. And I’d appreciate it if you would help Reuben sort things out.’

‘You have got to be—’

‘I give you my word that Reuben is there to facilitate your role as an officer of the law, nothing more. We all want to see an end to the senseless violence, don’t we? ’

‘Facilitate.’

Reuben grinned at him, the scar tissue on his cheeks pulling it all out of shape.

‘Do I have a choice? ’

‘Of course you do, Logan. Everyone always has a choice.’

Reuben stepped forward, closing the gap until the swollen barrel of his stomach was pressed against him. ‘What do you think? ’

Logan got in the van.

Chapter 41

41

The Transit van growled away from the garage, the gear changes a symphony of grinding metal. A smell of stale fat and old garlic filled the cab, overlaid on something sharp and metallic and the sickly pear-drop scent of fresh plastic.

Logan shifted on the sticky seat. ‘How did you know where I’d be? ’

‘None of your business.’ Reuben flexed his shoulders beneath the blue boilersuit. ‘And just for the record: I don’t cut brake lines. When I come for you, McRae, I’ll not be sneaking about under your car with a pair of pliers.’

Probably because the fat sod wouldn’t fit.

‘“When” you come for me? ’

‘You’ll bloody well know about it. You’ll get to see it coming.’

Oh joy.

‘That’s the way it’s going to be, is it? ’

‘You, me, and a chainsaw.’

‘You know what, Reuben? You can. . .’ Logan frowned. There was a noise coming from the back of the van. A sort of muffled moaning to go with the creak and rattle of the old Transit.

He turned in his seat and peered into the cavernous interior.

Plastic sheeting covered the floor and walls – held in place with thick strips of grey duct tape. A figure was scrunched up in the far corner, sitting with his back to the van doors, knees up against his chest, cable-ties around his ankles, arms behind his back, an off-white pillowcase over his head. It was stained dark brown around the front.

‘There’s someone in the back of the van. . .’

No reply.

‘Reuben: why have you got someone trussed up in the back of your van? ’

A shrug. ‘Everyone’s got to have a hobby.’

Logan dropped his voice to a hissing whisper. ‘I’m a police officer, you bloody idiot – do you really think—’

‘Mr Fisher here’s been a very naughty boy.’