gunshot wounds, so Ehrlichmann has his own doctors. He does not want the policja involved.'
'You're sure it was Ehrlichmann?'
'I am sure.'
'And your handler?'
'Disappeared.'
Logan sagged in his chair and took a mouthful of whisky, not really tasting anything but cordite and concrete dust. 'Every night. I dream about that bloody apartment and that bloody explosion every bloody night.'
She reached across the table and took his hand. 'I know.' The clock on the cooker was broken or something: wouldn't stay in focus for more than a couple of seconds. Logan squinted one eye shut and tried again. Seven o'clock and they'd just about killed the bottle of Highland Park. He lurched back out into the garden with a couple of packets of things. You know: crunchy things. Salt and vinegar, stuff like that.
He bumped into the table and let the packets fall from his hands. 'Help yourself.'
Wiktorja did, fumbling with a yellow bag, and then there were prawn cocktail Skips all over the place. 'Oops.' She levered herself up and wobbled back and forth a bit.
Probably a bit drunk. She'd had quite a lot to drink.
Logan took one step forward, and leant on the garden wall, only the damn thing wasn't where it was supposed to be, and he sort of staggered a little.
Wiktorja laughed at him. 'You are pijany.'
'No I'm not.'
'Yes you are. You are pijany. Drunk.'
'I'm not pijany, you're pijany.'
Wiktorja held up her good arm, posing like the Statue of Liberty. 'OK, I am pijany.' She picked up one of the little shell-like disks and stuck it on the end of her tongue. Then stepped in close. 'We are both pijany.'
Logan grinned. 'I'm not pijany, I'm an idiot.'
'No, you are not an idiot.' Her face softened. And then she was kissing him; prawn cocktail tongues on a sun-soaked Thursday evening.
Upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms they struggled out of their clothes, Logan helping Wiktorja with the buttons and zippers she couldn't get at because of her arm being in a sling. They collapsed onto the bed, wrapped around each other. Kissing, groping, fondling. She'd been telling the truth — not a real blonde after all…
And then it all went wrong.
Logan let go and rolled over onto his back. 'I can't do this.'
She lurched up until she was looming over him, breasts brushing the scars on his torso. 'You do not like me any more?'
'I do. I just… I can't do this.' He let out a little grunt as she grabbed him somewhere private.
'This bit says you can.'
Dead puppies. Warts. DI Steel in a thong. The last image had the desired effect, and Wiktorja said, 'Oh… Not any more.'
'I like you, I really do, but we're pijany. And I'm seeing someone.'
'You are? Cholera.' She sat back on her haunches. 'Is she prettier than me?' Then she punched him in the thigh. 'How can you be seeing someone?'
'It's complicated and-'
The long, sonorous biiiiiing-bonnnng of the doorbell saved him. Logan scrambled out of bed and into his trousers, in too much of a hurry to bother about socks or pants. 'I'd better get that.'
'Wait, but we have not-'
He shut the bedroom door behind him, pulling on his shirt as he thumped down the stairs, barefoot.
Biiiiiing-bonnnng…
'Coming.' He was all buttoned up and tucking his shirt into his trousers as he reached the front door.
Biiiiiing-bonnnng…
'I said I'm coming! God's sake…' Logan could see the distorted shape of whoever it was through the rippled glass on one side of the door. He unlatched the chain — having to concentrate to make his drunken fingers work — then undid the deadbolt.
The door opened.
A mountain of muscle stood on the top step: six foot tall and almost as wide, arms like tree trunks, angular features, receding mullet. Kravchenko's right-hand man.
Logan got as far as, 'Oh f-' before the fist slammed into his stomach. He crumpled, all the breath rushing out of him in one painful wheeze, and then his legs gave way and he crashed onto the black-and-white tiles.
Mr Mullet stepped inside, grabbed Logan by the ankles and dragged him further back into the hall. Then went back and closed the door.
Logan tried to roll over, tried to get up, but he could barely move.
Shout. Warn Wiktorja. DO SOMETHING!
Mr Mullet flicked the deadbolt into place.
Logan dragged in a rattling breath. Oh GOD that hurt.
The huge Polish man squatted down over Logan's chest. Grabbed a handful of hair, drew back a massive fist. 'Dobranoc policyjna suko.'
Darkness.
62
Sharp stabbing pain. Logan groaned, coughed, opened his eyes. Then really wished he hadn't.
He was in some sort of warehouse. Golden sunlight streamed through a series of small windows twenty feet above his head, a row of partially dismantled metal shelves casting shadows across the dirty concrete floor.
He was lying on his side, arms behind his back, shoulders aching along with everything else. Handcuffs, or cable-ties around his wrists, the same around his ankles.
Fuck. Not good. Not good at all.
His stomach ached, and his head felt as if something was trying to claw its way free. A rabid hangover fighting with a punch in the face. His mouth tasted of blood, and one of his teeth was loose.
Sodding hell.
Logan coughed again, the movement sending another wave of fire through his scarred stomach. He hissed in pain…
'Ah, you are awake. This is good.' Foreign accent, heavily laced with Eastern Europe. 'Turn him around, Grigor.'
Mr Mullet appeared, grabbed Logan by the collar, hauled him around through ninety degrees, then dropped him back to the floor again. And there he was: Vadim Mikhailovitch Kravchenko, looking almost exactly as he had in Rory Simpson's e-fit.
Only this time he was smiling. 'So glad you can join us, Detective Sergeant. I begin to worry Grigor hit you too hard. He is still have grudge from when you pepper-spray him.' He looked up for a second. 'Grigor, please to fetch our other guests.'
Another grunt and Grigor marched into view, then out through a side door. There was a sudden flash of blue sky and green weeds before the door swung shut again.
'Now,' said Kravchenko, squatting down in front of Logan, 'Detective Sergeant, you are man of honour, yes?'
Logan coughed again, then spat out a mouthful of blood — aiming for the old bastard, but getting nowhere near.
The Russian smiled. 'A man of fire as well. I like that.' He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolling the fabric up to his elbows. 'You know who I am, yes?'
'You won't get away with it.'
Laughter. 'Do people really say this? Like in bad movie, is big cliche.' He pulled something from his pocket. It
