'If you touch me, I'll scream.' 'Oh for God's sake: I'm a police officer. Now go see if your friend's OK.' Wiseman was curled up on the muddy grass, clutching one arm to his chest - probably broken. His nose certainly was. The butcher's face was a spider's web of tiny cuts, little flecks of glass sticking out of his bald head. He screamed in pain as Logan forced him face down and cuffed his hands behind his back. 'Kenneth Wiseman, I'm arresting you for driving without due care and attention ... And some other stuff we'll charge you with when we get you back to the bloody station. On your feet.' It took three goes to get Wiseman upright. He might have been built like a rugby fullback, but he didn't put up a fight, just limped and swore and grimaced and cried as Logan dragged him back to the crashed Range Rover. Where the woman who'd just beaten up Scotland's most notorious serial killer was bent over her companion, holding her hand and talking softly. 'How is she?' The rider lying spread-eagled on the grass raised a shaky thumb. 'I think her leg's broken. Lucky to be alive, that bloody idiot screaming round the corner in--' 'We'd better get her an ambulance ...' Logan fumbled through his pockets with one hand - looking for his phone - as he pushed Wiseman back against the inspector's ruined car. The butcher wobbled a bit, then slid down the door panel till he was sitting on the ground looking dazed. Then threw up in his own lap. Logan jumped back, trying to escape the rancid splatter. 'Oh you dirty f ...' There was something in the Range Rover's boot, partially covered by a dog-hair-encrusted tartan blanket. A pale, white hand poked out from beneath it. 'No ...' He ran round to the back and fought with the boot release. Locked. 'Damn it!' Logan grabbed a chunk of rock from the ground and swung it at the rear windscreen. The glass buckled, but didn't break. Again - sending a network of cracks racing across the surface. Again - and the lump of stone punched a grapefruit-sized hole, sending little glittering cubes of glass all over the Range Rover's huge boot. Logan stuck his hand in and fumbled for the catch to lower the tailgate, then jerked the boot lid up and clambered inside. 'Oh God ... Sophie ...' Insch's youngest was lying on her side, partially covered by the tartan dog blanket, hands cabletied behind her back, legs tied at the ankle, silver duct-tape wrapped round her head, covering her mouth. Blood caking her nose. Face pale and waxy. 'Sophie!' Logan ripped the tape off and put his ear to her mouth. She wasn't breathing. He stuck two fingers against her throat, feeling for a pulse ... it was there, but there wasn't much of it. 'Don't you die on me, Sophie!' He flipped her over onto her back and started breathing for her. In - out - in - out - in - out. A voice sounded behind him: Faulds,'What the hell do you think you're doing leaving Wiseman unsupervised out here? He ... oh shit.'
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