He stands there, both hands cupping his balls.
Bruce, Ellen, Matt, and Evans are down the other end, by the fridge, but the only ones who’ll look at him are Ellen and the old man. The other two’s eyes keep slipping away to the floor.
Julie smiles at them. ‘Here’s the deal: we’re going to sell Knox’s scrawny, trembling backside to some
No one says anything. Well, she’s got that gun, hasn’t she?
Richard sniffs. A tear falls to the tiles at his feet.
Ellen bends down, scoops up the quilt Granny Murray made and flings it at him. ‘Here, you can take your shit with you.’
Richard grabs it, bottom lip trembling, breathing in the smell of the old lady and her house. If they’re going to sell him to Cunningham or Smithy he’d be better off out in the garden with a bullet in his brain. At least that way it’d be quick.
He wraps himself in the quilt. And then Ellen snatches something off the working surface – a tatty Asda carrier bag. ‘All of it.’
Richard catches the bible before it hits him, clutches the crackly plastic to his chest, closes his eyes and thanks God.
Evans steps forward and dumps the old suitcase on the kitchen floor. ‘I didn’t want it to end like this, but you deserve whatever’s coming to you, Knox. I hope you rot in hell.’
Then Neil and Tony march Richard down the corridor, and back out into the snow. They plip open the locks on the big Range Rover, haul the boot open, and shove him inside. They’re back two minutes later with Danby, the bathrobe flapping open in the eddying snow.
After the warmth of the shower, Richard’s hands and feet throb with the cold. Probably got frostbite, or hypothermia, or something like that.
Tony throws the battered leather suitcase in on top of them. ‘Don’t go getting sexy with your roommate, OK?’ And then he slams the boot shut.
Danby still has that tartan thing over his head. His skin’s cold, pale, and pebbled, like a supermarket chicken; his hands cable-tied behind his back. They haven’t bothered to do that to Richard. Don’t think he’ll put up a fight. Don’t care if he sees their faces either. Because they know he won’t live long enough to tell anyone.
And he knows they’re right.
Richard sniffs, wiping a tear away with his sore hand.
The doors clunk open, then closed again. A big petrol roar as the engine fires up, and something cheery burbles from the radio, then fades out so a DJ can say,
Richard lies down on the plastic boot liner and wiggles in close behind Danby, pressing chest to back, legs to legs, then wraps an arm around his chest, holding him close. Sharing what little body warmth he has as the car lurches away into the snow.
Logan scrambled down from the Land Rover. Its blue-and-whites barely dented the blizzard, headlights reaching no more than a dozen feet in front of the bumpers.
The house was isolated, a long rectangle of freshly pointed granite with a slate roof. Old-fashioned six-pane windows – that probably cost a fortune to reproduce in double-glazed wood-effect UPVC – glowing pale gold.
He staggered over to the door, clasping his collar around his throat with one hand and tried the doorbell. Then hammered on the door as well. Too cold for dicking about.
PC Butler slithered to a halt beside him. She was dressed in the full Grampian Police outdoor-ninja ensemble: black trousers, black boots, black fleece poking out from under a black waterproof, fluorescent-yellow high-vis waistcoat with ‘POLICE’ across the back, and a black peaked cap jammed on her head. She’d even managed to scrounge up a pair of gloves from somewhere.
‘You want me to try round the back, Sarge?’
Logan nodded, then hammered on the door again as Butler disappeared from view.
It took nearly two minutes for someone to open the door, by which time Logan couldn’t feel his feet.
A woman stood in the doorway: short, heavy-set, bleary eyed. It was
Logan hauled his warrant card out of his pocket. ‘Police.’
She looked at it, then looked at him. Then sighed. ‘Best come in.’
They were in the lounge. Three men sitting around a roaring gas fire, two in matching armchairs, one on the couch, an open bottle of Lagavulin on the coffee table between them. The peaty whisky smelled like disinfectant in the silent room.
One was the pale man from the crowd photographs – Bruce Lowe, the home owner. One was tall with grey hair and a red handprint on his cheek. And the third was Jimmy Evans.
Logan stared at him. ‘Thought you were on your way down to Sunderland.’
The old man shrugged and took a sip of whisky. ‘Surprise.’
‘So, let me guess,’ Logan turned to the third man, ‘that makes you the son?’
‘Matt Evans.’ He drained his glass, then reached forwards and topped it up again. The bottle trembled in his hand. ‘Knox raped my uncle.’
