Shatter the Bones

‘Already working on it, sir.’

‘And speaking of Superintendent Green…’

Here we go.

Finnie pursed his lips, looking over Logan’s left shoulder. ‘Professional Standards tell me Green’s been throwing his weight around with some sex offenders? That you’re thinking of putting in an official complaint.’

‘I am?’ Logan backed away a step. ‘Sir, I didn’t-’

‘I think it would be wise to put it all in writing, Sergeant.’

‘Actually, sir, I was going to drop-’

‘I think it would be wise to put it all in writing, Sergeant.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir.’

A smile. ‘Now, how are you getting on with your due diligence?’

‘Actually, it-’

‘And the sooner you put it in writing the better.’

Rennie took the phone from his ear and clamped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Sarge? Got a result on the GSM trace. Webster’s in Tillydrone.’

‘Excellent.’ Finnie headed for the door. ‘Tell you what: this time, Sergeant, just for fun, let’s try not to let him escape. OK?’

Oh ha-bloody-ha.

Logan waited till the door shut before pulling the report from the folder: whorls, deltas, points of correlation, right thumb…

That wasn’t right.

He turned the sheet over, then back over again. ‘This is definitely the print off the ransom note?’

Rennie shrugged.

According to the database the thumb didn’t belong to Shuggie Webster, it belonged to someone called Edward Buchan.

Chapter 33

‘Any questions?’ Sweat trickled down Logan’s ribs. The unmarked van was unbelievably warm inside, packed full of firearms-trained officers dressed in the traditional ninja ensemble of black trousers, boots, jackets, bulletproof vests, helmets, goggles, gloves, and scarves.

Rennie stuck his hand up. ‘Are we allowed to shoot him?’

‘No. You’re not.’ Logan pointed a finger, swept it around the muggy van. ‘No shooting anyone, understand? This is going to be a clean operation — we go in, we subdue Edward Buchan, we rescue Trisha Brown, and we go home. Got it?’

Everyone nodded.

‘Good. Teams one and two: in the front. Teams three and four: back door. One and three stay downstairs, two and four take the first floor. Weapons check.’

The harsh click and clack of slides being drawn back and released filled the van’s interior. Logan ejected the magazine of his Heckler amp; Koch MP5, checked that all the rounds he’d signed for were still there, stuck it back in, then did the same with the small chunky Glock.

He looked up. ‘We good to go?’

More nods.

‘Doors.’

The two ninjas sitting at the back popped them open and they all swarmed out into the evening sunlight. Half-five and the sky was delicate sapphire blue, a white slash of cloud following an aeroplane on its way west.

A little kid on a scooter stopped at the end of the pavement, mouth hanging open, watching as the firearms team scurried into position. Edward Buchan’s house was in the middle of a terrace of six two-storey buildings: grey harling on the ground floor, weatherboard cladding above that. The roof and first floor stretched from one end of the tenement to the other, but little passageways punched through between every other building, leading to the back gardens.

Teams Three and Four lumbered up the stairs and disappeared into the passageway: the sound of their heavy boots thumped back a distorted echo. Logan led Team One and Team Two up to the front door, motioning them to flatten out along the wall on either side.

It was less than two minutes’ walk away from where Trisha Brown’s mum lived.

Rennie’s voice sounded in his earpiece. ‘Sarge? You sure we shouldn’t, you know, seal off the street and evacuate everyone?’

Logan glanced back at the kid on the scooter. ‘Element of surprise, remember? Don’t want this turning into a hostage situation.’

He waved a large black-clad figure forward.

PC Caldwell slipped the holdall from her shoulder. ‘Big Red Door Key?’

‘In five.’

‘Ferguson,’ Logan pointed at the constable second in line, ‘have you got the hoolie bar with you this time?’

The constable raised it above his head. ‘Right here, Sarge.’ Wonders would never cease.

Logan clicked the button that transmitted to everyone in all four teams. ‘And we’re live in: five, four-’

PC Caldwell rested the tip of the battering ram against the front door, directly across from the lock. Glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Watch and learn, Greg.’

‘-one. GO!’

BOOM — the Big Red Door Key battered into the UPVC. The whole thing shook and juddered. The second blow landed two thirds of the way up, and this time the top half parted with the doorframe. The third blow was at ankle height and the whole thing crashed open — the hinges hanging broken bent and twisted.

‘We’re in.’

Logan charged through into the hallway, the rest of Team One and Team Two swarming in behind him. ‘POLICE: ARMED OFFICERS! ON THE GROUND NOW!’ Stairs on the left, open door to the right, closed door at the far end through to what was probably the kitchen. No sign of anyone.

The sound of hammering came from the back of the house, then a crash and, ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

Logan burst through the open doorway, PC Caldwell right behind him. Living room: red carpet, two red sofas, yellow walls. Sort of a rhubarb and custard theme.

A man was sitting on the couch in front of the television, with a plate balanced on his lap, cutlery in his hands, staring at them. A baked bean dripped from the chunk of toast on the end of the fork, leaving a little bloodstain on his white T-shirt.

The rumble of boots came from the hallway, as Constables Ferguson and Moore charged up the stairs.

PC Caldwell pointed her submachine gun right between Mr Beans-On-Toast’s eyes. ‘DROP THE KNIFE!’

‘Eek…’ He dropped the knife. It bounced off the edge of his plate and went twirling to the carpet. He swallowed, sending a huge Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his scrawny neck. ‘I… I…’

‘THE FORK TOO!’

Edward Buchan had aged a bit since his mugshot was taken — drink driving in the company Mondeo seven years ago. His dark hair was receding, hints of grey flecking the temples, the stubble on his pointy chin almost white beneath his long nose.

From upstairs came the sound of a scuffle. ‘OW! FUCK…’ Then, ‘ON THE BLOODY FLOOR!’

Buchan glanced up towards the sound. ‘We didn’t-’ Logan hauled him off the couch, the plate of beans bouncing off the floor, sending them everywhere. ‘ON YOUR KNEES, HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!’

He assumed the position, trembling. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God…’

Caldwell grabbed Buchan’s left wrist, twisted it around, slapped the handcuffs on, then did the same with his