couldn't hear the phone ringing over the racket of Mrs Strichen attacking her son, but she scooted down anyway, pinning the phone to the floor with her ear, her gagged mouth over the mouthpiece.
'Emergency Services. Which service do you require?'
She did her best to answer, but all that came out was a series of muffled grunts.
'I'm sorry, can you repeat that?'
Sweating, Jackie Watson tried again.
'This is an emergency number.' Friendliness had vanished from the voice on the other end of the phone. 'It is an offence to make prank phone calls!'
All Jackie could do was grunt again.
'That's it. I'm going to report this!'
No! No! They had to trace the number and send help!
The line went dead.
Furious, she dropped the phone and wriggled forward once more, grabbing the handset to dial 999 again.
The thud, when it came, was soft and wet.
She snatched her eyes away from the phone and into the lounge. Mrs Strichen was staggering toward the couch, her face white as the snow outside. Behind her stood Martin, the iron in his hand, his expression strangely calm and serene. His mother stumbled, grabbing onto the overstuffed cushions for support and Martin stepped up behind her and brought the iron down in a sweeping arc. It connected with the back of her skull and she went down like a sack of potatoes.
Watson felt her gorge rise. Shivering, she mashed her thumb on the keys again.
Mrs Strichen's quivering hand flailed at the back of the couch. Her son held the iron at chest height, his other hand stretching out the electrical cord. Something like a smile twisted the corners of his mouth as he bent down and wrapped the cable around his mother's neck. Her foot thumped against the carpet as he squeezed the life out of her.
Gritting her teeth, WPC Watson grabbed the phone and wriggled back towards the kitchen. She was crying openly now, impotence and self-pity mingling with the terror of seeing another human being murdered. And knowing that she was going to be next.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she closed her eyes and tried to remember DS McRae's mobile number. Behind her, through the open kitchen door, she could hear Mrs Strichen's foot ever more faintly pounding against the floor.
Jackie's thumbs traced Logan's number on the phone's keypad and she did the same drop-and-wriggle routine she'd tried on the Emergency Services. Come on, come on! Pick up!
Click.
'Logan.'
She screamed, the rag in her mouth smothering the noise until all that came out was a squeak.
'Hello? Who is this?'
No! Not again! He had to hear her!
'Miller? Is that you?'
She screamed again, obscenities this time, cursing him for being so bloody stupid.
Martin Strichen's shadow fell across the kitchen. He still had the iron in one hand, thick red splashes coating the polished metal surface. Greasy, curled hairs stuck to the clots.
Her eyes darted from the iron to Martin's face. Scarlet freckles covered the right-hand side of his broad, pockmarked features. He looked down at her with sorrow, then picked up the phone, held it to his ear and listened for a second to Logan demanding to know who was calling his mobile. Then, calmly, he pressed the red button and ended the call.
The scissors came from the top drawer, under the kettle, their blades glinting in the cold overhead light. He smiled down at Jackie.
Snip, snip, snip.
'Time to do it properly…' Logan stared at the phone in his hand and cursed. As if he didn't have enough to worry about without prank phone calls! He punched the button that brought up the last number that had called. It was local, but he didn't recognize it. Scowling, he hit 'call back' and listened as the phone automatically bleeped and beeped its way through the number that had called him, returning the favour.
It rang and rang and rang. No answer. Right, he decided, there were two ways to skin a cat. He scribbled the number down and called Control, asking them to put an address to the telephone number. It took the man on the other end of the phone almost five minutes, but he finally came back with: 'Mrs Agnes Stricken, 25 Howesbank Avenue, Aberdeen…'
Logan didn't wait for the postcode, just shouted, 'Fuck!' and floored the accelerator. The car slithered snakelike out onto the road. 'Listen to me,' he told Control, whipping the rusty Vauxhall through the snow and ice, 'DI Insch has two cars in Middlefield. I want them at that address now!' By the time Logan got there, the two cars were already slewed across the road outside the front of number 25. The wind was dying away and fat flakes drifted down from the dirty orange sky. The air tasted of pepper.
Loganslammed on the brakes and the car skidded on the snow-covered tarmac and only came to a halt when it bounced off the kerb. He scrambled out of the car, slipping and sliding his way up the stairs and into the house Martin Strichen shared with his mother.
Mrs Strichen was in the lounge, lying on her front, the back of her head caved in, thick red lines circling her throat. The sound of angry voices came from the small kitchen and Logan burst through to see two uniformed policemen, one bending over a crumpled figure on the floor, the other on his radio: 'Repeat we have an officer down!'
Logan's eyes darted around the cramped room, coming to rest on a pile of fabric in the corner next to the bin.
A third uniform exploded into the room, breathing hard. 'We've been all over the house: no sign of anyone.'
Logan prodded the pile of cloth. It had been a pair of black trousers at one time. And there, underneath it were the remains of a black jumper and a white blouse. The kind with loops on the shoulders, specially designed to incorporate police epaulettes. He looked over his shoulder as the fourth of DI Insch's watchdogs screeched to a halt in the hall, behind his partner. 'Where is she?'
'There's no one in the house, sir.'
'Damn it!' Logan jumped to his feet. 'You and you-' he pointed at the two latecomers, who'd been searching the house, '-out front! He's got WPC Watson. Search every street, every open door, everything you can find!'
They stood for a moment, looking down at the crumpled figure of PC Simon Rennie on the kitchen floor.
'Move it!' Logan yelled.
They scrambled away.
'How is he?' he asked, stepping over the body and opening the back door, letting a wall of cold air collapse into the room.
'Taken a nasty blow to the back of the head. He's breathin' but he's no lookin' too good.'
Logan nodded. 'Stay with him.' He jabbed a finger at the last PC. 'You, come with me!'
In the back garden the snow was up to their knees. It had drifted against the walls of the building, ramping up to just under the windows, but there was an easily discernible path leading away into the darkness.
'Damn it.'
Gritting his teeth, Logan waded into the snow.
38
It wasn't much more than a shack. A concrete lean-to off the quarry road. This was where he had played as a child. No, not played. Hidden. Hidden from his father. Hidden from the world.
The granite-grey bowl of the quarry wall was only visible as a shadow through the drifting snow. They had cut straight into the rock, making a cliff, then turned their attention on the deposit underground, leaving behind a deep,
