‘Bye Colin.’ Logan hung up. Cheeky bugger.
He pulled out the list he’d downloaded from the Police National Computer — people convicted of robberies involving sledgehammers — and read the summary for number four. Damian Atkinson, AKA: Daniel Francis, AKA: Danny Saunders, AKA: Donny Ferrier. Done for burglary, demanding money with menaces, aggravated assault. And most importantly, for holding up a series of all-night petrol stations with a sledgehammer.
Only two houses in the little development had lights on. The first turned out to be a drunken middle-aged man with a beard and a beer belly. No, he didn’t know any Damian Atkinson, or a Daniel Francis, but Danny Saunders lived over there. He pointed a wobbly finger at a mouldy caravan parked alongside the unfinished farm building.
‘Doin’ it…Doin’ it up hisssself. Yeah?’
Very industrious.
Logan crunched his way across the gravel driveway to the steading. Random construction materials were heaped up on the grass outside: pallets of bricks, boxes of slates, piles of timber. Logan stuck his head through the open door, but it was dark in there. Just the sound of something dripping and the fusty smell of dust and mouse droppings. A pile of tools lurking in the shadows.
Danny Saunders’s caravan wasn’t a big Portakabin-style one like Samantha’s, it was a small two-wheeled model. The kind that always slowed traffic to a funereal crawl on the summer roads, dragged behind a Volvo estate full of unhappy children.
The thing was streaked with dirty green mould, the roof almost black. At some point it had been given a coat of beige paint, but it was blistered and peeling, showing off the rust underneath.
Muted light shone from somewhere in the caravan, so Logan picked his way across the long damp grass and peered in through the side window. It was surprisingly clean inside, the bed stowed away to make room for a Formica table and two bench seats.
A man sat at the table, making notes on a thick pile of paperwork, with his back to the window. Hair thinning a bit at the back, stripy grey jumper, a fading blue DIY tattoo on the back of one hand.
Somewhere, a radio was playing — the end of a Paul Weller track drifting into a traffic update featuring the disastrous roadworks on the Haudagain roundabout.
‘You want tea, Danny, love?’ Female, young-ish.
The man glanced deeper into the caravan. ‘Oh aye, ta. You know, we’re still aboot twa grand short for gettin’ the roof finished.’ Definitely a local lad.
‘Well…we’ll just have to give him another call, won’t we?’
‘Do we have to? Can we no’-’
‘We’ve been over this, Danny. Let’s not argue.’
Logan inched his way over to the front door. An upturned milk crate sat just outside, acting as a step. Logan kicked it out of the way, then knocked. Then pulled out his pepper-spray, just in case.
A face appeared at the window, but Logan flattened himself against the grime-streaked aluminium body, keeping out of sight, and knocked again.
Danny: ‘Can’t see anybody…’
Woman: ‘If it’s that pisshead Banks again, tell him to sod off, we’re busy.’
Danny: ‘You know he can hear you, don’t you?’
Woman: ‘Just answer the door.’
There was a clunk and the door swung outwards. ‘Ray, dees a favour and…’ Danny — thirty-two-ish, handlebar moustache and soul-patch, cheery cheeks, and spiky hair. He frowned. ‘Can I help you?’
Logan smiled up at him. ‘Damian Atkinson? AKA: Danny Saunders, AKA: Daniel-’
The caravan door slammed shut. Danny shouted, ‘Fuck! It’s the cops!’ then the door battered open again. He charged out, his foot going for where the milk crate step
Oops.
He went sprawling, face first into the cold wet grass.
Thunk.
‘Aya, bastard…’
That was the thing about people like Danny, AKA: Daniel, AKA: Damian, AKA Donny — the more aliases they had, the thicker they were. Really successful crooks never needed more than one name, because they never got caught.
Danny struggled up till he was sitting on his bum, framed in the pale rectangle of light from the caravan’s open door, clutching his left wrist to his chest. Dark-red blood oozed into his moustache from a lopsided nose.
‘Come on then.’ Logan pulled out his handcuffs. ‘On your feet.’
‘You broke my wrist…’
‘I never even touched you.’ Logan took a step forwards. ‘Now you can either get up and be handcuffed, or-’
Loud noise, ringing in his ears. Circles of yellow and black. The pain hit just before the ground did — harsh and throbbing at the back of his head. And then he was lying on the ground, something sharp and jagged clawing at his cheek.
Someone shouting, ‘Run, Danny! Run!’
Fuck…
Logan struggled to his knees, the world whooshing in his ears, head pounding, scalp stinging, stomach churning. Not going to be sick, not going to be…yes he was. All over the grass and his own left hand. A hot splash of bitter, sour-smelling yuck.
‘I said,
‘But he’ll-’
‘I’ll take care of him…’
Oh shit. That didn’t sound good.
He looked up. She couldn’t have been much older than eighteen, bleached blonde hair showing an inch of brown at the roots, big red ‘Should-Have-Gone-To-Specsavers’ glasses, huge pregnant belly, chunky face, teeth bared, a heavy castiron frying pan clutched in both hands. She raised it over her head and brought it crashing down onto Logan’s head.
Or she would have if he hadn’t ducked. It slammed into his right arm instead, pain shooting up from his bruised elbow.
‘I’m a bloody police officer!’
‘Leave us the fuck alone!’
She grunted and dragged the frying pan round for another go. Logan scrabbled backwards through the wet grass, but she followed him. Swung. Missed.
Her left foot came down in the warm puddle of sick, and her leg shot out from under her, sending her crashing down on her backside. ‘Urgh! There’s puke everywhere!’
Logan staggered to his feet, lurched to the side, wobbled a bit.
Pepper-spray, where was the bloody pepper-spray?
He tried to steady himself, one hand on the manky caravan.
Where the hell was the god-damned bastarding-
There. Lying in the puddle of vomit.
Logan bent down and grabbed it. The world did a somersault, then the hokey-cokey. He staggered back, clutching the damp, black canister in his hand.
She was getting to her feet, face creased up, teeth bared, swearing…
Logan was sick all over her.
There was a pause, and then she started screaming. ‘Agggh! It’s in my fucking mouth!’
He fumbled with the cap on the little black canister. Damn thing wouldn’t come off…But it didn’t look as if he’d be needing it any more. She’d dropped the frying pan, now she was bracing herself against the caravan, spitting and gagging. Then spattering the filthy paintwork with whatever it was she’d had for lunch.
Logan put a hand to the back of his head, waves of pain rippling out from his battered elbow as he bent his
