Warm red trickled out between Logan’s palm and the chipboard.
The weight shifted on his back.
‘We going to do your right hand next? Or shall we just stick a couple through your forehead?’
Logan whipped his head to the side, eyes raking the floor for something to…
Connelly leaned down and grinned in his face. ‘No fuckin’ way, big man. Nice try though—’
Something dirty-pink slammed into Connelly’s bald head. He lurched forwards and the feet hit him again, both together, heel-first, cracking his nose. Then again, bouncing his head off the flooring.
It was Knox, writhing on the blood-streaked plastic sheeting, driving his feet down on Connelly’s head again, both legs still duct-taped together at the ankles. Face screwed up, hissing behind the gag.
One more time and that was it – he collapsed back against the plastic sheeting, sobbing. But Andrew Connelly wasn’t moving any more.
The kitchen door nearly exploded off its hinges, the handle making a deep gouge in the plasterboard wall.
PC Butler lurched in, left trouser leg torn and tattered, blood oozing down her shin, little flecks of red all over her face, waving her extendible baton. ‘POLICE! Nobody fucking move!’
She stood there, wobbling for a moment, frowning at the scene. ‘What did I miss?’
53
Logan dry swallowed another couple of ibuprofen, chased them down with an amoxicillin, gagged, then washed everything away with a mouthful of lukewarm tea.
His hand throbbed, all wrapped up in white bandages and feeling like it was twice the size. Could barely move his fingers. Lucky both nails missed the tendons, or he’d have been buggered – that was the technical term the surgeon had used.
Two days later and it still hurt like hell.
PC Guthrie slouched through into the Wee Hoose, waved a brief hello, then settled onto Biohazard Bob’s desk. ‘You got a minute?’
Logan checked the clock, it was surrounded by Post-it notes with arrows and ‘BEER O’CLOCK?’ scribbled on them.
‘You can have three. Got Goulding coming in, we’re off to see Knox at half past.’
‘Finnie tells me you’re the man for the graveyard flasher case?’
Logan closed his eyes, slumped in his seat, head dangling over the backrest, arms hanging by his sides. ‘What
‘He got his knob out again this morning – showed it to a nice young lady who used to kickbox for Scotland. She beat the living crap out of him.’
‘He downstairs?’
Guthrie nodded. ‘His black eye’s even better than yours.’
‘Stick him in an interview room and leave him to sweat for a while. You can do a bit of looming if you like?’
‘Yes, Guv.’
Soon as the door clunked shut, Doreen swivelled her chair around. ‘You know, you should really go home with that hand. You don’t
‘Course he does.’ DS Mark MacDonald grinned. ‘Our lad here can’t leave in case they decide to give Beardy Beattie’s job to you, me, or Bob. It’s OK, Laz, we’d be kind to you, wouldn’t we?’
‘I’m just saying it’s not right to be in work with a serious injury like that…’
Logan gathered up his files in his good hand and excused himself. Pausing on the way down the corridor to sneak a look into Beattie’s office. They’d already taken the name plate down, and now it was just the idiot himself, hunched over a file box, tidying away his personal effects so the next occupant could move in.
It was a miracle they hadn’t just fired his useless beardy backside.
Logan even managed to whistle a happy tune on his way down to reception.
The meeting with Knox was pretty straightforward. The ratfaced Geordie was in a private room at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, with a plainclothes officer from the Offender Management Unit stationed outside – just in case.
Logan settled back against the wall, letting Dr Goulding take the single seat.
Knox’s belongings were piled on the wide windowsill, the battered leather suitcase on the bottom, his granny’s quilt folded on top of that. The man himself lay in the bed, beneath the institution-grey covers, family bible clutched to his chest.
‘So you see, Richard.’ Goulding reached forward and patted Knox on the arm – the one that wasn’t swathed in bandages. ‘While they admit faking the attack on Jimmy Evans, they’re still denying they had anything to do with the Sacro team.’
Knox nodded. His face looked even worse than usual – covered in a dark web of purple, green and yellow bruises.
‘But, the police have found fibres and DNA from Bruce Lowe, Ellen Hill,
