49
Logan closed the front door behind him. The beautiful blue sky was gone, replaced by a layer of featureless grey that hurled little shards of ice at him, stinging his ears and nose, cheeks and fingers. He shuffled into the lee of a police van, trying to get his lighter to work.
Fourth time lucky: it caught and Logan dragged in a lungful of smoke, then spluttered it right back out again. Only his second cigarette today, not bad for twenty past three.
Nearly an hour and three-quarters to go. Have to leave soon, or get caught up in the traffic heading back to town. Rush-hour was bad enough, but the snow would grind everything to a halt. And he
That would be a dreadful shame.
The phone in his pocket rang, the vibration travelling through to his ribs.
‘Bugger off.’
It kept on ringing.
‘Bloody hell…’ He dragged it out with numb fingers and hit connect. ‘This better be bloody important.’
Logan huddled closer to the van, breath steaming out around his head before being whipped away by the wind. ‘You’re bloody right it was.’
‘What? What
There was a long silent pause.
Logan switched his phone to his other hand, dug the numb fingers into his armpit, smoking with his eyes screwed up.
Logan held his cigarette out at arm’s length and let go. The wind snatched it out of his fingers, sending it spiralling away to explode in a shower of orange sparks against the IB Transit van. ‘Fuck off,
Logan hung up.
Richard Knox stands at the window, staring out into the falling snow. He shivers, watching as a car pulls into the driveway.
The house is one of them farm building conversion things: all natural stone, wood floors, and exposed beams. When what you really want is proper insulation, carpets, and central bloody heating.
The huge black Range Rover lumbers to a halt, blocking the other cars in. There’s a pale grey Mercedes, a big black people carrier, and a little Clio.
It was the people carrier they’d used to transport him about — from the Sacro flat to the house where he had to bite the old man. And from there to here. Always blindfolded and gagged, trussed up like a joint of meat, on the floor behind the back set of seats. Well, you wouldn’t want to get your nice Mercedes all dirty by stuffing a registered sex offender in the boot, would you?
The Range Rover’s doors open and a small woman gets out, stands in the snow looking around. Oh God…It’s
Richard shrinks back, hiding behind the curtain, peeking out around the edge.
Her sidekicks climb out, stomp round to the back and open the boot. Then they haul something out onto the ground. It’s a man, big, wearing nothing but a dirty towelling dressing gown that flaps in the wind, hands fastened behind his back, something tartan over his head.
So they got Danby after all…It’s almost enough to make Richard smile.
They drag the DSI to his feet, then towards the front of the house.
Down the hall, Richard can hear the ‘gang’ still arguing about what to do to him.
The doorbell’s harsh artificial
Richard presses his ear against the door. Muffled sounds. A clunk.
Matt says,
A painful grunt. A thump.
And then that Home Counties accent:
Logan’s little Fiat made a grinding, rattling noise.
‘You hear that?’ Butler coaxed them around the roundabout and onto South College Street. ‘That’s the sound of the transmission eating itself.’
There was a bang, and another cloud of grey smoke spiralled out into the dark afternoon. But the car kept on going.
He dug out his phone. Should really call Steel and find out if Susan was OK. Might not have her mobile on though, not in the hospital. And what if it was bad news…?
He called FHQ instead and asked for Constable Guthrie. There was a pause, then,
‘Have you got that info I asked for?’
‘What about him?’
About to get even unluckier.
‘What about the man in the picture: Lowe?’
Butler hooked a left onto Portland Street, bypassing the long queue of traffic waiting at the lights, the Fiat towing a growing pillar of smoke behind it. Even in a dying car they’d made pretty decent time. It wasn’t even four yet.
‘Did you do the property search?’
‘What’s it say?’
