road.
Logan hurried sideways after him, then jerked to a sudden halt as his jacket pocket caught on a wing mirror. There was a tearing noise.
PC Butler was still over by the pool car, staring open mouthed.
‘Don’t just bloody stand there!’
She charged forward, then skidded, arms pinwheeling. Her head disappeared from view and the word ‘Shite!’ echoed out across the little car lot.
Logan yanked his pocket off of the wing mirror and struggled on.
Middleton had made it to the road and a dull blue MX5 – just like DI Steel’s, only older and with a huge ‘ZOOM ZOOM 4 LESS!!!’ cardboard star wedged between the dashboard and the rearview mirror.
He dug about in his trouser pocket, then clambered in behind the wheel. Threw the sales sign out into the street.
Logan vaulted the bonnet of a Ford Mondeo, heels scraping through the inch-deep layer of snow. He slithered down the other side just in time to hear Middleton cranking over the Mazda’s engine.
It spluttered a couple of times, then roared into life.
Butler had her extendible baton out, limping towards the car.
Logan crunched through a ridge of dirt-brown snow, reaching for the driver’s door, but the tyres screeched, and the MX5 lurched forwards.
The back end shimmied from side to side, the little rear-wheel-drive sports car struggling for grip on the icy road.
PC Butler froze, eyes wide, as the car fishtailed towards her. She dived onto the bonnet of a Volvo estate, lifting her legs high as the Mazda clipped the front bumper. Crunch. Chips of coloured plastic went flying.
And then Middleton was past, accelerating around the corner, the back end kicking out again.
Logan ran out into the road. Swore.
Butler lay spread-eagled on the Volvo bonnet, breath turning the air above her white. ‘Jesus…’
The sound of squealing brakes. Then, BANG.
A horn, blaring.
Logan hurried over to PC Butler and helped her to her feet. ‘You OK?’
‘God, that was close…’
He lurched around the corner – Butler limping along behind him – and froze. The little sports car was wedged in at forty-five degrees between the grass verge and a drystane dyke; front end crumpled; the folding soft-top torn off, exposing its soft chewy centre. A huge tractor idled in the middle of the road, massive, mud-covered wheels sitting on the sports car’s missing roof.
The farmer clambered down from the cab, and stood, swearing at the deep scrape along the side of his tractor.
Middleton was slumped over the Mazda’s steering wheel. Dark-red seeped out onto the white deflated sack of his burst airbag.
PC Butler looked up from the Airwave handset pinned to her shoulder. ‘Control says the ambulance should be here in five or ten.’
Logan nodded and added milk to all three mugs of tea, then lumped four sugars into the one on the end. As was traditional.
Kevin Middleton pulled the dripping towel off his face. ‘Told you, I don’t
Logan handed him the hot, sweet tea. ‘You want more snow in the towel?’
‘I just want to go home.’ He sipped. Grimaced. ‘How much sugar did you put in this?’
‘Tell me about Angus Black.’
There was a pause. ‘Never heard of him.’ Middleton pressed the towel gently back against his face.
‘He’s the one who sold you the green Golf GTI sitting on your junkyard forecourt.’
‘So what? I buy lots of cars.’
Logan pulled out Angus Black’s statement. ‘He says you gave him six and a half grand for the car, in cash?’
‘Might’ve done.’
‘It was counterfeit, wasn’t it?’
Middleton huddled over his tea. ‘When’s that ambulance getting here?’
‘You went back to Douglas Walker’s house, didn’t you? You went back for more counterfeit money. What did you do, threaten him? Beat him up again?’
‘Think I might have that internal bleeding…’
‘Good.’ Butler scowled at him. ‘Nearly killed me with that bloody car.’
‘Wasn’t my fault: road was slippy.’ He took another sip of tea. ‘And I didn’t have anything to do with any dodgy notes.’
