The Blood Road

43

The Auctioneer lowers his arms. ‘Before we begin tonight’s sale, we have a bit of housekeeping to do. If you hear a fire alarm, please make your way calmly from the building using either of the exits being pointed out to you now.’

Five swings an arm up at the door Sally came through, Four points at a metal one at the opposite end of the cattle court.

‘Today, we welcome two new members to our congregation: Dragon and Rooster. Big round of applause for Dragon and Rooster!’

The clapping lasts all of three seconds, then peters out. Chicken / Rooster shrugs and shuffles his feet like he’s been nominated for an award.

‘We have one more item of business to attend to before we can begin our auction this evening.’ The Auctioneer turns and waves. ‘Number One?’ Then he picks up the roll of clear plastic sheeting, unfurls it with one smooth movement — about the size of two double duvets joined side to side — and lays it out on the concrete walkway.

A huge man with the number one painted on his dull-blue mask pushes through the door at the far end, propelling someone in front of him. A man, dressed all in black, with his hands secured behind his back and a black bag covering his head and shoulders.

Pig rubs his fingers against his jeans. ‘Ooh, a floorshow...’

Number One shoves the man and he stumbles, tripping over his own feet and tumbling to the straw-covered floor with a muffled cry. Like he’s been gagged.

Number One grabs him by the arm. ‘Get up.’ He hauls the man to his feet and drags him onto the walkway.

Pig rubs at his jeans again. ‘I do love a good floorshow.’

Tufty parked the pool car at the junction and hopped out. Scrambled back inside for his peaked cap, and hopped out again.

The headlights blazed in the darkness, turning the rain into shiny things, making the wet tree trunks glow. He stepped in front of the bonnet and his high-viz fluoresced radioactive yellow. Looked out into the Deep Shadowy Woods of DOOM.

He checked his phone again. Nothing since,

SERGEANT MCRAE:

Tufty shifted from one foot to the other and dialled the Sarge. It rang straight through to voicemail.

‘Hello, this is Inspector McRae. I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave a message after the beep.’

Try to sound calm. ‘Sarge, it’s me... again. Where are you? Just wondering.’

He hung up. Fidgeted in the headlight’s glow — his shadow long and dark before him as he cupped his hands to his mouth in a makeshift loudhailer, breath billowing out. ‘SARGE?’

The engine grumbled. The windscreen wipers whonked. The rain pattered.

Tufty turned and tried again. ‘HELLO?’

OK, this was bad. This was really, really bad.

He hiked as far up the track as the headlights reached. ‘INSPECTOR MCRAE!

COME ON, THIS ISN’T FUNNY!’

Nothing. Not even an echo.

Tufty bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes raking the dark tangle of branches and trunks. Where the hell had the Sarge gone?

Like it or not, it was time to own up and ask for help.

He scrambled down the track and jumped into the pool car, unzipping his jacket as the windows began to fog. Pulled out his phone and selected ‘THE PRINCESS OF DARKNESS!’ from his contacts.

It rang. And rang.

‘Come on, come on, come on...’

Steel’s voice crackled in his ear, breaking up. ‘Where the bl— ...ell have— ...ello?’

‘I can’t find him!’

‘Hello? Tuf— ...odding useless—’

‘He said I had to go after Danielle Smith’s car and I did but I couldn’t find it and I circled round to pick him up and now I can’t find him. He’s not answering his phone or anything!’

Tufty rocked back and forward in his seat.

What if the Sarge died of pneumonia? Or hypothermia? Or fell down a hole and broke his neck?

‘...uck’s sake! This... pointless— ...ear a word.’

And then silence. She’d hung up.

He fidgeted with the steering wheel for a bit. Then climbed out into the rain again. Grabbed the big Maglite torch from the boot and clicked it on — sweeping the beam across the trees either side of the road. Left or right?

Right?

OK.

He took a deep breath and followed the torch’s glow into the dark woods.

He could do this. He could and he would.

Because if he didn’t, Steel was going to kill him.

Roberta scowled at her phone. ‘NO SIGNAL’, as if she couldn’t tell that by the complete and utter lack of being able to talk to Tufty, let alone give him the biblical bollocking he so desperately deserved. ‘Useless lanky wee fudgemonkey.’

Rennie looked over from the driver’s seat. ‘No joy?’

‘Pfff...’ She stuffed her phone in her pocket and scowled out the car window at the dark fields whooshing past in the rain. ‘The idiot’s lost Laz. How do you lose a stupid great big-eared lump of Professional Standards like that?’

Roberta snapped her right hand out, catching Rennie a stinger, right across the arm.

‘Ow!’

‘I should drag the lot of you down the vets and have you all tagged. And neutered as well.’

You could hear the wee sulker sticking his bottom lip out. ‘You decided where we’re going yet?’

Gah...

No point returning to the station — they’d nearly made it as far as Inverurie. And it was no’ as if they could stop at the next petrol station and ask for directions to the nearest auction house specialising in buying and selling abducted wee kids.

She slumped in her seat and gave her armpit a good rummage. Chasing the itch. ‘Given we’ve sod-all idea where the Livestock Mart is and Tufty the Idiot’s let our only lead drive off into the sunset, suppose we’d better go help him find Laz.’

And after all this Logan had better be in real motherfunking trouble. Because if she had to go sodding about in the rain looking for him and he wasn’t in trouble? He bloody well soon would be.

The figure in black tries to pull away as he’s dragged down the walkway towards the Auctioneer. He’s shouting something, but all that makes it out through the gag in his mouth and the bag over his head are muffled grunts.

The Auctioneer leans forwards, forearms resting on the handrail, looking down at them. ‘That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, we have an uninvited guest! And you know what we do to uninvited guests, don’t you?’

Everyone but Sally and Rooster belts it out in unison: ‘Discipline them!’

Rooster tries to join in, but he’s two seconds too late. ‘Discipline them...’ He shuffles his feet. Looks away.

A nod from the Auctioneer. ‘Number One?’

There’s a small pause, then Number One shoves the man onto the plastic sheeting and slams a fist into his kidneys. A muffled cry as knees bend, spine arching, head thrown back in its black fabric bag.

Number One batters an elbow down on the man’s face and he collapses onto the plastic sheet, moaning and writhing, hands fixed behind him as the blows hammer down. Fists first, then feet.

Sally gasps, retreats a couple of steps, but Rabbit grabs her arm.

Rabbit doesn’t look at her, keeps his face turned towards the walkway and his voice at a whisper. ‘Don’t. You show weakness and they’ll turn on you.’

So she stands there and watches as boots slam into the man’s ribs and stomach. On and on and on. Hard and furious and unrelenting. The sound of muted crunching and dull thumps coils out across the cattle court, punctuated by muffled screams and grunts of exertion.

Number One keeps on going, even when the muffled screams fade away — stamping on his victim’s chest and head. Then more kicking and punching: on and on and on and on, long after the poor man is nothing more than a ragdoll made of meat and bone and Number One’s mask is peppered with tiny red dots.

Then, finally, the crunching, thumping noises stop and Number One sags against the railings, puffing and panting. ‘Fin... finished... Pfff...’

And through it all, the Auctioneer doesn’t even bother turning to watch. ‘We discipline them.’

Sally forces herself to breathe.

They killed him. Beat him to death. Right there, in front of everyone. Like it doesn’t even matter.

Number Five climbs up onto the walkway and folds the bloodstained plastic sheeting over the body. Wrapping it up. By the time he’s finished, Number One is upright again and together they drag the package out through the door.

‘There we go.’ The Auctioneer claps his hands, voice cheerful and warm, like a man hasn’t just been murdered right behind him. ‘Now, let’s begin. Our first item in tonight’s catalogue is lot number one: Stephen MacGuire all the way from East Kilbride!’

Number Three appears through the same door, pulling a small fair-haired boy by the arm across the pen. He shoves Stephen and the boy stumbles forwards, then stands there, blinking up at the Animals with his tearstained face full of freckles and an angry claret birthmark.

They move in, making a semicircle with Stephen at the centre, staring at him.

‘Stephen is four, a natural blond, and he likes kittens and chocolate-chip ice cream. He’s never been touched.’

Monkey put his hand up. ‘Can he sing? I like it when they sing.’

‘He has the voice of an angel. Now, who wants to start the bidding? Do I hear “five thousand”?’

Monkey blurts it out. ‘Five thousand!’

Pig shakes his head. ‘Six thousand.’

‘Eight thousand.’

Becca pressed her face against the wall of her crate, peering out through the gaps. A lightbulb hung in the middle of the big metal room, making loads of thick dark shadows. They lurked behind the rusty old tractor and the chunks of metal stuff piled up next to it. Made a stripy pattern on the wall underneath the racks of shovels and rakes and things. Made a jungle of dark bits and light bits between the six crates from the Grey Man’s garage.

Six crates, one open and empty, the rest of them full of little children — looking out through the gaps, like her. Someone was crying — louder now that the Grey Man had taken off their gags and untied their hands so they’d look ‘pretty for the nice people’.

Well, the ‘nice people’ could go poo themselves, because Becca was getting out of here.

She shuffled into the middle of her crate, bunched her legs under her and shoved her back against the lid. The crate rocked, but she was still stuck.

Another go... Thump.

A little boy’s voice came from one of the other crates. ‘Shhh! You’ll get us into trouble!’

Come on Becca: big fierce strong girl!

She squatted down as far as she could and banged her whole self up into the lid, pushing at it with her shoulders till they were all achy and her legs trembled and shook.

No use. The bolty thing was too hard.

She sagged against the crate wall and hugged her teddy. ‘Don’t worry, Orgalorg, we’ll get out of here. We will. I promise.’ Becca kissed him on the head. ‘Don’t cry.’

Orgalorg was probably just tired. And cold — all the crates were near a big slidy door that was open a bit, letting the rain in, making the straw on the floor all damp and soggy.

On the other side of the room, a littler door banged against the metal wall and two of the tits backed in, dragging a big plastic parcel between them. Shuffling backwards with their bums sticking out until they’d pulled the parcel onto another sheet of plastic.

It looked like a dead person. You could see it through the stuff! All red and black and icky.

Becca stared. A real dead person. Right there. In the same room!

The tit with a number five on his face wiped his gloves on his trousers. ‘You got this, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’ The number one tit wrapped the other plastic sheet around the dead person and fixed it all together with a big roll of scritchy sticky tape. Like a really nasty Christmas present.

Then he stood and flexed his fist. Nudged the parcel with his foot. ‘Serves you right.’

He turned and looked at the crates — the light reflecting off his nasty blue mask with a big number one on it — looking at them with those horrid black slits for eyes. The tit marched over to Becca’s crate, undid the bolty thing, and threw the lid open.

She bared her teeth at him and growled like an angry cat.

He reached in with a big gloved hand and grabbed her by the throat. ‘Any more of that and I break your arm, understand?’ He lifted her out of the crate and took a handful of her dungarees, dragging her and Orgalorg towards the door he’d come in through. ‘Come on: smile, Princess. You want to look pretty for the nice people, don’t you?’

No. No she didn’t.

She wanted them all to die.

Andy kept his voice down, face hidden by his Number Seven mask. ‘I don’t like it, Danners. I really, really don’t.’

The space between the cattle court and the machine shed was home to three dirty hatchbacks, an estate car, a couple of big four-by-fours, the Auctioneer’s black Range Rover, and Danielle’s pristine-white Renault Clio, all lurking in the gloom of a low-wattage bulkhead light. And not a single one of them was wearing a number plate.

Suppose it was quite telling — the difference between the workers’ cars, parked back here, out of the way, and the customers’ ones round the front. But then, if you were the kind of person who could afford to splurge tens of thousands on buying a child to molest, why wouldn’t you drive something a bit more fancy?

But round here, everything smelled of engine oil and cow dung.

She popped open the Clio’s boot, lifted the bass board, and gestured Andy closer.

He edged over and peered inside. Hissed some air in through his teeth. ‘Is he dead?’

McRae lay on his side: bound and gagged, still as a headstone.

She shrugged. ‘I barely touched him.’

‘Yeah, Danners, but... he’s police.’

‘He’s Professional Standards.’

‘Oh...’ Andy nodded. ‘True. What we going to do with him?’

‘Could hand him over?’

‘Nah, they’d kill him. Better keep him here and hope no one finds out. Cos if they do...’

The bass board clunked into place again, hiding McRae’s top half. ‘Yeah.’

‘You saw what they did to that journalist: battered him to death.’

As if she hadn’t been standing right there, watching it happen. Stomach full of wasps. Bile churning at the base of her throat. ‘I know, Andy.’

Andy shook his head. ‘Right in front of everyone.’

‘Oh shut up.’ She closed the boot again, hiding the rest of Inspector McRae. ‘We’ll just have to hope no one finds him, then, won’t we?’

‘Well, I think we can all agree that’s an excellent start to the evening!’ The Auctioneer rubs his hands as Number Five drags Stephen MacGuire off. The little boy’s whining cries fade away into the other room as Number One marches in with Becky.

She’s still got Mr Bibble-Bobble with her, hugging him to her chest. The sight of it makes something inside Sally burst, stinging, causing the cattle court to swim as tears run down her cheeks. Hidden by the mask.

‘Lot number two: Rebecca Oliver! Rebecca’s five and, if you’re local, you’ll know there’s been a good furore whipped up in the media about her disappearance. Ooh, exciting!’

Number One shoves her into the semicircle, where she glares at all the animal masks. A defiant set to her chin and shoulders.

‘Rebecca plays the recorder and wants to be a famous footballer when she grows up. Assuming her new owner lets her live that long.’

That draws a couple of chuckles from Tiger and Dog.

Sally stands there, staring at the girl she abducted. Blinking through the tears.

‘Given the media interest, ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to start the bidding at fifteen thousand. Who’ll give me—’

‘I will!’ Rabbit’s first: ‘Fifteen thousand.’

Bull steps forward, circling Becky. ‘Seventeen.’

‘Thank you, Ox. I have seventeen, any advance on seventeen?’

‘Eighteen.’

Becky bares her teeth, snarling it out. ‘My mummy will kill all of you tits!’

‘Well, aren’t you feisty?’ Horse’s voice drips with hunger. ‘I bid twenty!’

44

‘Mmmmmnnnnghph!’ Logan’s eyes snapped open on darkness.

Still alive. Still alive...

Something cottony filled his mouth and a hard rectangle pulled at the skin of his cheeks and lips — holding the cottony thing in. A gag. He wriggled and cramp twisted its way up his arms and across his shoulders.

Gah... Sodding... Oh that hurt.

Then it did the same with his legs.

‘Mmmmmmmnngnggphhh!’ With bells on.

He screwed his eyes shut again. Deep breaths through his nose. Deep breaths. Relax. Let it pass. Let the cramp—

It surged back for another go.

‘Mmmmgn fggggnnn mmmgggsssttmmmmnd!’

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

And at last it passed.

He rested his head against something crinkly that smelled of fresh bin-bags. Reached up with his right elbow and clunked into something solid and hollow sounding. Wood? He gave it another thump, but it wouldn’t move. Legs next: but he couldn’t straighten them more than halfway without his feet bashing into... metal? Sounded like metal anyway.

Rocking back and forth and back and forth set the whole thing bouncing. Not a lot, but enough to know there were springs involved. Big ones, because as soon as he stopped rocking the world settled down again.

Well, there you were then: he was in a car boot. A car boot lined with bin-bags.

Yeah, not a good sign.

And as if that wasn’t bad enough: his ankles were fastened together, wrists too — something thin and hard. Not handcuffs. Not rope. Cable ties?

Today just got better and better.

OK. He could do this.

He took another deep breath and curled up into as small a ball as he could, reaching with both arms at full stretch... down his back, thighs, knees, calves... feet!

And now his hands were at the front of his body instead of behind him.

He sagged against the bin-bags and panted for a bit. Then scrabbled his fingers at whatever it was holding the gag in. Duct tape. Definitely duct tape. Logan found the edge and ripped it off his mouth then dug out the cotton wad and spat. Coughed. Gasped for air.

The world rotated around him once, twice, three times...

He screwed his eyes shut again, slowing his breathing until everything stopped spinning.

OK. Two things down. Three to go. Four, if you counted getting out of the boot.

Next up: whatever it was holding his wrists together.

He raised them to his stinging lips, feeling his way along them. Definitely cable ties. Question was, were they the industrial heavy-duty max-strength ones, or your common-or-garden domestic variety?

Only one way to find out.

He twisted his wrists to the side and gnawed on the ties like a hungry rat. Teeth clicking and clacking as they slipped over the tough plastic.

God, this was going to take forever.

‘Lot number four is an old Livestock Mart favourite: Vernon Booker!’ The Auctioneer sweeps an arm out as Number Five shoves a skinny boy into the circle.

He’s older than the first three children, dressed in nothing but pyjama bottoms, with heavy bags under his sunken eyes. Shoulders hunched, head low, not looking at anyone. Shivering. His bare arms and chest are peppered with tiny circular scars — the skin puckered, pink, and shiny against his pale skin. Like someone’s stubbed a million cigarettes out on him.

‘Back for his fifth auction, eight-year-old Vernon has been fully housebroken. Who’ll start the bidding at three thousand pounds?’

Silence.

‘Three thousand pounds for this compliant, well-trained young man.’

No one moves.

‘Two thousand?’

No one speaks.

‘Well, one thousand then.’

Vernon’s bare feet scuff on the straw-covered floor as he shrinks a bit more with every drop in price.

‘Come on, people, this is a perfectly serviceable boy here! A bit worn, but there’s life in him yet.’

He’s so thin, so terrified...

Sally licks her lips. Maybe she should buy him? It’s only a thousand pounds. She’ll still have more than sixty-two thousand to spend on Aiden, plus the money Horse bid for Becky.

And Vernon’s so small and cowed. So broken.

She can save him. Hand him over to the police, or social services. Anonymously, of course. Raymond will know how to do it so they don’t get into trouble.

‘OK, do I hear five hundred?’

But what if she doesn’t have enough left afterwards? What if she needs every penny to get Aiden back and she can’t because she’s spent this money on Vernon?

‘Two fifty? Come on, I’m practically giving him away!’

The breath catches in her throat.

What if Aiden gets sold to one of these horrible perverts and she — can’t — stop — it?

Why, because she feels sorry for this boy? This stranger? What makes him more deserving than her own flesh and blood?

‘Going once, going twice...’ The Auctioneer sighs. Shrugs. ‘Bad luck, Vernon. Never mind, I’m sure you did your best.’ He turns his grey mask to the Animals. ‘This lot is officially withdrawn.’ Then snaps his fingers and points. ‘Number Five? Ex-stock.’

Number Five grabs the boy by the arm and hauls him away.

‘No!’ Vernon looks at them for the first time since he was brought in. Eyes darting from one bestial mask to the next as he’s dragged out. ‘I’ll be good, I promise! I swear I’ll be a good boy!’

He breaks free of Number Five and runs towards the Animals. Throws himself at Rat’s feet, hands clasped together in prayer. ‘Please! I’m a good boy, I’ll do whatever you—’

‘Urgh!’ Rat backs away. ‘Get off me!’

‘Please, I can—’

Number Five backhands him, sending him sprawling across the straw. Then grabs a handful of Vernon’s hair and starts towards the door again.

‘PLEASE! I’M A GOOD BOY! I AM! DON’T LET THEM KILL ME! DON’T—’

Blood sprays from his nose as Number Five smashes a fist into it.

The Animals look away, shuffling their feet as he’s dragged away.

Come on, come on, come on...

The coppery tang of blood overlaid the dark waxy taste of plastic.

Probably be lucky if he had any teeth left at the end of this.

Assuming Danielle didn’t come back halfway through and shoot him.

Logan gnawed and gnawed and—

The cable tie gave with an audible snap.

Ha, ha!

Pins and needles coursed through his fingers as he sagged onto the bin-bags again.

Two more things to do.

He reached down and yanked at the cable tie around his ankles. Hauled. Pulled. Wrenched...

Nope.

OK. So even if he managed to get out of the boot, what was he going to do with his ankles fastened together: make a hop for it?

Maybe there was something in the boot he could use, like an emergency toolkit?

He scrabbled through the black-plastic bags down to the boot’s rough carpet lining, fingers searching... That was probably a roll of duct tape. That was a plastic bag of what felt like more cable ties. That was a roll of bin bags. And that was his peaked cap.

No toolkit.

Sod.

He ran his fingers around the boot again. There was a ridge in the carpet, running from side to side, right through the middle. As if it folded... Of course — the spare wheel and all the bits and bobs needed to change it! And if the carpet folded in the middle, there had to be a handle or something at the edge closest to the bumper.

He found a small gap to put his fingers in and pulled.

The whole front half of the boot’s floor tried to lift up in one solid flap. Only he was lying on top of the thing, so it couldn’t.

Aaaargh!

Kinda weird, the way life turns out — the stuff you end up doing for a living.

The kid was waking up, so Ian dumped him on the floor. No point carrying him if he could walk.

Now, you know, the guys at the golf club would’ve been appalled to see this. Wee boys and girls? Oh heaven forfend you do anything nasty to the tiny ickle angels! Yeah, well, if you wanna go down that road then you might as well go vegetarian. Or worse: vegan, like bloody Sarah with her sulky teenage sighs and passive aggressive bullshit.

Nah, when you strip it all back: human beings? Just animals, weren’t they. No different from cows, or pigs, or chickens, and nobody cried when they got put out their misery, did they?

’Cept the vegetarians.

And Sarah.

Swear to God she only did it to wind him up.

Ian grabbed a handful of Lot Four’s hair — better to think of them as numbers: once you started giving them names, it was a slippery slope — and dragged him through the equipment store. Past the crates with all the other kids in them. And out the door into the rain.

Dirty — bastarding — bloody — wanking — boot!

‘Move, you piece of shit!’

How? How was he supposed to do this? How?

How was this even supposed to be possible?

Thumping back and forward didn’t make any difference. It was impossible to lift the flap when he was lying on top of the bloody thing.

AAAAAAAAAA‌AAARRRRRRGH!

OK: forget the toolkit. Get out of here first and then find a sharp edge to cut the cable tie round his ankles. Scissors, hacksaw, a knife...

Logan shuffled over onto as much of his back as he could and slammed both palms upward into whatever was over the boot.

Thunk.

It barely budged. Had to be thick chipboard? Something like that. Something solid and wedged in tight.

Thunk.

Still nothing. Who the hell had a wooden boot cover?

His hands scrabbled across it... wires and what felt suspiciously like the underside of two speakers. Which explained the wood — it was a heavy-duty DIY speaker board.

He struggled his way over onto his front, tensed his arms, shoved, and slammed his back into it.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Harder!

THUNK.

And it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried, was it?

Ian hunched his shoulders as the rain battered down. Should get some decent lighting installed out here. Something better than a couple of manky wall-mounted jobs with low-wattage bulbs in them. A faint orangey glow wasn’t gonna deter thieves, was it?

All them foreign holidays. Travel’s supposed to broaden the mind, but you try broadening a sulky bloody fourteen-year-old’s mind when she won’t eat bloody pain perdu cos it’s got honey in it and honey’s ‘cruel to bees’.

Cruel to bloody bees!

Ian dragged Lot Four across the concrete, not bothering to go around the puddles.

Got to hand it to him — the kid kept his mouth shut. Not a lot of them could manage that. They’d be whingeing about the cold, or the rain. Or what was gonna happen next.

I mean, they’re only bloody bees.

And you didn’t need a degree in psychology to know what it was really all about. Well, you know what? Wasn’t easy raising a daughter on your own. Wasn’t his fault Kirstie got breast cancer. Wasn’t his fault the chemo didn’t work. Think that was fun for him? Watching her wither and die?

Soon as they were within three yards of the truck, Enfield did his car alarm bit — lunging at the canopy window, barking his great big head off. Teeth flashing in the dim orange glow of them half-arsed wall lights. Good boy.

Why couldn’t Sarah be more like...

Ian stopped. Turned.

There was something up with the white Clio parked three cars down. Rocking on its springs like someone was going at it in the back seat. And this really wasn’t the time, or the place, for vigorous lovemaking.

He let go of Lot Four’s hair. Pointed a finger at the concrete beneath the kid’s bare feet. ‘Stay. You move: I don’t put you out of your misery before I feed you to Enfield.’

Lot Four nodded, scarred arms wrapped around himself for warmth, blood dripping off his chin from the broken nose.

See? Some kids could do what they were told.

Ian walked over to the Clio. Had a good squint inside — no one in the front, no one in the rear, but the boot? Now that was a different matter. The internal cover thing was bumping up and down, shifting as something moved underneath it.

Might be a dog?

Or it might be something else.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the butterfly knife: nice, titanium, really good balance. He flipped it open with a basic horizontal, then a quick fan, into a backhand twirl. The blade shone as it spun in and out.

Oh yeah.

Whatever was in the boot, was about to get a new hole in it.

Ian grabbed the boot release with his other hand.

Clunked it open...

Seriously: who gave a toss about bees?

He yanked the tailgate up.

Logan exploded from the boot, arms outstretched and curled into fists. Both ankles still cable-tied together. Snarling. Barrelling into a someone wearing a mask like Danielle Smith’s, only with a big number five on it instead.

‘Aaargh!’ Number Five staggered, falling backwards, crashing into the wet concrete with Logan on top of him. ‘Get off me you—’

Logan smashed a fist into the guy’s mask.

His head bounced off the concrete.

Then again. And again.

His left hand wrapped around Logan’s throat, squeezing, the thumb digging into his Adam’s apple.

‘Gggnnnphnnnng...’ Logan grabbed Number Five’s head and battered it into the concrete with a dull grating thunk. Pulled it up and battered it down a second time, putting his weight behind it.

Thunk.

The hand around his throat loosened.

Once more for luck.

THUNK.

The mask flipped off, skittering away under the hatchback.

Number Five’s eyelids flickered, as if the wiring inside was faulty. Then they closed and he sagged, strangling arm flopping out across the ground. Mouth open, breath steaming in the rain. An unconscious wee nyaff with forgettable features and a bloody nose.

Logan sat up, pushed himself to his knees, and collapsed sideways against Danielle’s Clio.

Why did...? What...?

He looked down — not at Number Five, but at...

Oh God.

No.

His black police-issue fleece glistened in the dim orange glow of a bulkhead light. The handle of butterfly knife stuck out of the fabric, at a jaunty angle, halfway between his bottom right rib and his hip.

Ox ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ as a tiny girl, dressed like an angel, is led into the cattle court by Number One.

Number One doesn’t drag her, he holds her hand and lets her walk through the straw at her own pace, with her blonde curly hair, flowing white robes, cardboard wings, and a tinfoil halo.

‘I’m sure our next auction lot needs no introduction, but just in case: it’s Ellie Morton!’

The Animals stare as she’s guided into the middle of the semicircle and Rooster bursts into a one-man round of applause that peters out into embarrassed silence when nobody joins in.

‘Ellie’s been the subject of a massive search by police, with articles and news reports published and broadcast all over the world.’ The Auctioneer points at her with a pantomime flourish. ‘Whoever goes home with this little girl will be the envy of everyone here!’

Goat and Dog move in for a closer look, but Ellie backs away from them, scuffing through the straw till she bumps into Sally’s legs.

Ellie lets out a little squeak.

Sally flinches like she’s been burnt and Rabbit catches her arm.

His voice is still too low for anyone else to hear. ‘Steady...’

‘Ellie’s only three and, I think you’ll agree, magnificent. Who’ll start the bidding at twenty thousand pounds?’

Goat nods. ‘Twenty.’

Dog: ‘Twenty-one.’

Snake raised a finger. ‘My client bids twenty-five.’

Logan gritted his teeth and took hold of the knife’s handle. Huffed out three short panting breaths.

Come on.

You can do this.

He pulled and the blade slid free with a wet sucking noise.

Logan clamped his other hand over the wound. Blood oozed out between his fingers.

Didn’t hurt though. That was something. Probably in shock.

He tightened his grip on the knife and sawed through the cable tie around his ankles.

Stood. Staggered against the Clio.

Looked down at Number Five and his stupid unconscious face.

Logan slammed his boot into the guy’s ribs. Hard. ‘A knife!’

Kicked him again.

This isn’t helping.

You need to stop the bleeding, you idiot.

Yes. Right.

He reached into the Clio’s boot, searching the corners with his free hand. It had to be here somewhere... Ha! Duct tape.

Logan ripped off a palm-sized chunk, then unzipped his fleece and eased up the hem of his T-shirt. The dim orange glow turned the blood dark and glistening, like used engine oil. He wiped his sleeve across his side, taking the worst of it off, revealing a tiny black hole in the pale smeared skin. It oozed more oil.

Somehow, seeing it made all the difference. It went from being a numb, slippery thing, to a burning oil-well — the flames ripping through his insides, burning up into his chest and down to his knees.

‘Arrrrgh...’

He gritted his teeth, wiped the blood away again and slapped the strip of duct tape over the top.

Yeah, that wasn’t going to stay there, was it.

He took the roll and wrapped a length of tape all the way around, behind his back, across his front, pulling it tight, then added another layer, keeping the pressure on. A sort of sticky silver tourniquet. But the bloody thing still oozed.

It would have to do.

He tucked his T-shirt in again. Zipped up his fleece. Turned.

A skinny boy stood beside a massive muddy four-by-four, arms wrapped around himself. Shivering. Wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama bottoms. So thin that his ribs stuck out like knuckles on a clenched fist. Hair plastered to his head. Blood running from his squint nose. Shuffling his bare feet in the rain.

So it was true: the Livestock Mart was real.

They were actually selling children.

Logan staggered over and a huge dog went off in the four-by-four, spraying the rear window with saliva as it lunged and barked. What was it with these people and massive weaponised dogs?

He hunkered down in front of the wee boy, trying not to wince. Failing. ‘Are you OK?’

No reply, just a trembling stare.

Up close, his pale skin was covered in small circular scars. Someone had put cigarettes out on him. So many cigarettes that it looked as if he had measles. Poor sod.

‘I’m a police officer. You’re all right. But I need you to...’

What?

Logan swallowed, looked across the rain-puddled concrete at Number Five lying sparked-out in front of the parked cars, between a pair of large agricultural buildings. The gable end of a cottage was visible at one end of the gap. A five-bar metal gate at the other. Eight parked cars — all with their number plates removed. No sign of Sweaty’s ancient Jag, Snake’s Audi, or Tiger’s Hilux.

He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Did his best to sound confident and in charge. To sound as if he wasn’t bleeding to death because someone had stuck a knife in him. ‘Are there any other children here?’

The boy stared at him with big dark eyes.

‘Are there other children like you here?’

A tiny nod, eyes flicking towards the agricultural building on the left. The one with an open door and lights on inside.

Great.

So much for stealing a car and speeding off to the nearest hospital. Now he had to stay here and figure out a way to rescue them. Without getting himself killed.

Well, it wasn’t as if he actually knew how to hotwire an engine anyway.

Gah... Why did everything always have to be so hard?

Come on, Logan. Focus.

First — get the boy to safety. Or as near to it as possible.

He pointed. ‘You see those lights in the distance? I need you to go that way. I need you to keep low, and I need you to run. OK?’

No response.

OK. So it wasn’t ideal, but at least it was a plan.

Logan unzipped his fleece and winced his way out of it. Draped it around the boy’s shoulders. ‘I need you to run till you find another farmhouse, far away from here, and you call the police. Can you do that for me?’

Those big dark eyes stared up at him.

For God’s sake!

Logan patted him on the shoulder, trying really hard not to shout at the silent wee sod. ‘Can you be a good boy and do that for me?’

His bottom lip wobbled. ‘I’m a good boy.’

‘Good. Great.’ He cupped Chatterbox’s face with his hands. ‘Off you go then.’

The boy backed away a couple of steps, Logan’s bloody handprints on his cheeks, gathered the fleece around himself, turned, and ran. Past the end of the house, into the darkness.

Logan gritted his teeth and levered himself upright again, left hand clutching his side as the oil-well burned.

A tiny flash of white in the gloom as the wee boy took one last look... then he was gone.

‘And please don’t get caught.’

45

Number One leads Ellie Morton from the cattle court, holding her hand again, like a perfect gentleman.

‘Wasn’t she adorable?’ The Auctioneer sighs, then performs a booming drumroll on the walkway’s handrail with his gloved hands. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to our most anticipated item of the evening...’ Letting the silence hang. Building the tension. ‘LOT NUMBER SIX!’

He throws his arms in the air and everyone turns to towards the door.

Only nothing happens.

Sally’s throat tightens, like someone’s strangling her. Aiden. Lovely, beautiful, wonderful Aiden. She’s going to see her baby again.

The Auctioneer’s still got his arms up. ‘Lot number six!’

Still nothing.

She places a hand against her chest, blood thumping in her ears, mouth dry, skin tingling. And still Aiden doesn’t appear.

The Auctioneer turns to one of his men, voice tight and clipped. ‘Number Four, will you please go see what’s taking Number Five so long?’

‘Nae probs.’ Number Four limps out through the door, flexing his shoulders as if he’s about to do someone an injury.

‘Sorry about this.’ The Auctioneer runs his fingers along the rail. Clears his throat. ‘Well, while we’re waiting, why don’t we go over the catalogue listing for lot number six?’

Everyone turns to face him, their masked faces expressionless, but their bodies trembling with expectation.

Sally tries very hard not to tremble. Where is he? He’s meant to be here. She went through all that horror just for this moment. She abducted a child for Christ sake. HE HAS TO BE HERE!

‘Our final lot of the evening is the one, the only, Aiden MacAuley!’ The Auctioneer leans closer. ‘Abducted at the age of three, Aiden’s father was brutally murdered, leading to an international manhunt, extensive worldwide press coverage, a bestselling book, and now there’s even talk of a film being made.’ The pause that follows is like a razorblade, slicing its way through Sally’s throat as the Auctioneer raises his arms again. ‘Imagine owning that child.’

Logan limped over to the Clio’s boot, retrieved his peaked cap and jammed it onto his head. At least that would keep some of the rain off. He dug out the packet of cable ties and wipped one around the guy’s wrists, then did the same with his ankles. Slapped a big strip of duct tape across his mouth. Then grabbed him by the armpits and dragged him away across to the agricultural building on the other side. The one the wee boy hadn’t looked at when Logan asked him where the other kids were. The one with no lights on inside.

Every step was like being kicked in the stomach.

Which is what Number Five was going to get as soon as they were out of the rain. Possibly more than one. Heavy, ugly, stabby scumbag that he was.

The door wasn’t locked.

Logan shifted his grip and hauled him over the threshold and into a big metal space — every panting breath echoing around him.

It was some sort of machine shed: two tractors, a JCB digger, and a huge yellow combine harvester loomed in the darkness. The air scented with diesel and rust.

He dumped Number Five behind the combine and gave him another free boot in the ribs. Then hissed his way down and rummaged through the stabby sod’s pockets.

‘Come on, you have to have a phone here somewhere.’

But he didn’t. Nothing but lint, change, and a bunch of used tissues. Not even a wallet with ID.

‘Arrrgh! Bloody, bastarding...’

Deep breaths.

Logan slumped there, breathing, then forced himself to his feet. Wobbled a bit. Put a hand on the combine harvester to steady himself.

The cottage — they’d have a phone. All he had to do was sneak in, call 999 and hope they could trace his location, because he didn’t have a sodding clue where in the hell he was right now. Get the cavalry to descend on the place like a million angry bricks.

He lurched away, leaving a bloody handprint behind.

All the breath rushes out of her body as the door opens and Number Four leads Aiden into the room.

Her Aiden.

Oh God, he’s beautiful. Her beautiful baby boy.

The world blurs. She blinks and blinks, but more tears come.

Aiden.

Six and a half now, but still small, with blond ringlets hanging around his beautiful face in delicate curls.

Oh Aiden.

They’ve dressed him up in shorts, white socks, sandals, and a Paddington Bear T-shirt. He doesn’t smile. Or cry. In fact, there’s no expression on his face at all — like he’s been unplugged.

Oh, Aiden, what have they done to you?

Pig groans, both hands clenching and unclenching in front of his groin. Tiger stands up a bit straighter. Rat makes a nervous giggling sound. But everyone stares.

The Auctioneer turns his palms upward and stares at Number Four, who shrugs in reply.

Aiden’s so close now. It doesn’t matter what they’ve done: she can fix it. It doesn’t matter what she’s done: it was worth it. Everything was worth it, to be here and see him again. To save him. To bring him home.

She would’ve killed a thousand Beckys, to hold him in her arms.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin, please remember that Aiden MacAuley has only had one careful loving owner since he was abducted three and a half years ago. And that this is a very reluctant sale, due to ill health.’ The Auctioneer claps his hands together. ‘Now, shall we start the bidding at twenty-five thousand pounds?’

Logan hurpled around the side of the cottage, keeping to the shadows. Not that there was a lot of light about anyway. Rain thrummed against his peaked cap, thumped into his shoulders, dripped off his hands, stole warmth from his bare arms.

What idiot decided it was a good idea to make police uniform a T-shirt? What happened to nice thick sleeves?

He staggered to a halt at the gable end, where a big grey BT box was mounted beneath the guttering. A cable dangled from it, the end cut clean across.

Great.

He turned. A telegraph pole sat a hundred or so yards away, the other end of the cable drooping to the ground.

Because it couldn’t be that easy, could it? No, of course it couldn’t. Nothing ever was.

He lurched around the corner again.

Well, if the cavalry wasn’t coming, he’d have to do it himself, wouldn’t he?

Assuming he didn’t bleed to death first.

Logan limped his way across the grass to the concrete slab between the two buildings. Then snuck over to the open door and peered inside.

It was a space about the size of a really large double garage, walled off from the rest of the shed. An ancient tractor rusted in the corner with a couple of chunks of agricultural equipment stacked up beside it. Racks of tools around the walls, most of which looked as if they’d last seen service digging for victory. But the really interesting things sat in the middle of the straw-strewn floor: six wooden crates, each one with ‘LOT’ and a number spray-painted on the top.

LOT 4 and LOT 6 lay open, but the other four were still bolted shut. Little eyes peered out at him from between the slats.

And they weren’t the only ones in here, either. What looked very much like a body was bundled up in bloodstained plastic sheeting, beneath a rack of antique shovels.

There, but for the grace of battering Number Five’s head off the concrete...

Logan lumbered over and unbolted LOT 1.

A little boy flinched away from him, cowering in the corner of his crate. Blond hair, a dark port-coloured birthmark reaching across his cheek and down one side of his nose. Stephen MacGuire. The wee boy abducted from East Kilbride.

Logan put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh...’ Keeping his voice soft and quiet. ‘It’s OK. I’m a policeman.’ He reached in, took hold of Stephen under the arms and lifted him out. Ow! Ow! Flames raced around Logan’s torso. Put him down. PUT HIM DOWN!

He lowered Stephen to the ground and promptly doubled over, both hands clutching at the hole in his side, eyes screwed shut, teeth gritted so hard his cheeks ached.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

OK. Not doing that again.

Dragging was bad enough, but lifting was horrific.

He straightened up and limped over to LOT 2. Undid the bolt. A little girl topped with an explosion of Irn-Bru-coloured curls glowered up at him, teeth bared. She lunged towards his fingers, mouth open.

He snatched his hand away before she could sink her teeth into it. ‘Yeah, you can definitely get yourself out of there.’

LOT 3 opened to reveal a small girl in pink dungarees with embroidered sunflowers on them. She clambered from her cage and stood there staring at him with her thumb in her mouth.

Logan unbolted LOT 5. Smiled down at the wee girl with the blonde curls and big green eyes. Kept his voice down. ‘Ellie Morton, I presume?’

For some strange reason, she was dressed up in a white smock with wings and a coat-hanger-and-tinsel halo. Ellie climbed out to join her fellow auction lots and the whole bunch of them stood and stared at him as if he was some sort of weird and amazing animal. Well, all except for Bitey McIrn-Bru, glowering away on the edge of the group, clutching a lumpy-looking teddy bear.

He nodded at the open crate with ‘LOT 6’ painted on it. ‘Where’s number six?’

Bitey bared her teeth again. ‘One of the tits took him!’

‘Shhh!’ Logan put a finger to his lips and hissed it out. ‘You have to whisper.’

The little girl in the pink dungarees pointed towards the door at the other end of the equipment shed.

‘Thank you.’ Logan limped over, opened the door a crack, and peered through the gap.

A cattle court, divided in two by a central walkway. Farm machinery on one side, people on the other. One, two, three... about a dozen of them in assorted animal masks, six in numbered masks, and a guy up on the central walkway in a grey one. The Animals were gathered around something, blocking Logan’s view — so probably LOT 6.

A woman’s voice cut through the air. Hard and precise. ‘Thirty-seven thousand.’

Then a different woman. Softer. ‘Thirty-eight thousand.’

Nineteen of them.

And he’d nearly died taking on just one.

Logan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a harsh metallic taste behind.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

Couldn’t leave LOT 6 behind. Could he?

No, of course he couldn’t.

So what: charge in and get himself killed? Then all the kids he’d set free would be rounded up and handed over to whichever paedophile had bid the most for them? Yeah, that sounded like an excellent plan.

Logan eased the door shut again, then winced down in front of Bitey. ‘You’re the bravest one here, aren’t you?’

She nodded.

‘OK. Good. What’s your name? And quietly this time.’

‘Rebecca.’ She held up the bear. ‘This is Orgalorg.’

‘Rebecca. Right: I need you to look after the others, Rebecca, can you do that?’

A frown put wrinkles between her orange eyebrows.

He took off his peaked cap and plonked it on her head. ‘I’m making you and Organthingumy official deputy police officers.’

It was far too big for her, but she frowned up at him from beneath the brim and nodded. ‘Does that mean we can arrest people for being tits?’

Wow. Not so much as a smile. She was serious.

‘Er... Not today, but maybe tomorrow? Today you’re going to help me get these kids to safety.’ He winced his way upright again. ‘Everyone hold hands and follow me.’

Logan stuck his hand out and Rebecca took it, gave him the bear, then jabbed her other hand towards Stephen MacGuire.

He didn’t take it. He leaned over to one side and frowned at the courtyard instead. ‘But it’s raining.’

‘Don’t be a tit or I’ll arrest you.’

He did as he was told. Then Ellie took his other hand and Pink Dungarees took hers. All in one short-ish crocodile.

‘We have to be quick and super quiet, OK?’

They nodded and he led the way out the door and into the rain. Across the concrete, past the parked cars and the big barky dog. Through the gap between the cottage and the machine shed, where the concrete gave way to a small grass verge bordered by a barbed-wire fence.

Logan had a good long look at the farm buildings — no sign that they’d been spotted — then off into the night. Lights flickered in the distance, swimming in and out of view. Farms, houses, it didn’t matter. As long as it wasn’t here.

He gritted his teeth and lifted the wee girl in the pink dungarees over the fence. Hissed out a lungful of broken glass, then did the same with Stephen MacGuire. Had to pause for a couple of deep breaths as fire raged through his stomach. It was Ellie Morton’s turn next, who, let’s be honest, looked utterly ridiculous in her primary-school-nativity angel costume. It had developed a big smear of red by the time he lowered her on the other side of the fence.

He bent double, panting, left hand braced against his knee to keep him upright, right hand pressed against the stab wound to keep everything in.

God...

Come on. Only one more to lift over. Then you can go get yourself killed. At least then the pain would go away.

Right.

He straightened up in time to see Rebecca throw her teddy bear over the barbed wire, then climb the nearest fence post and jump down the other side.

She reclaimed the bear, adjusted her oversized hat and nodded at him.

He pointed over the wire, towards the furthest set of lights in the distance. ‘I want you to run all the way over there. Can you do that?’

They all stared at him. Nobody moved.

‘Look, I’m not abandoning you, I’m... I have to go back and make sure the other little boy or girl is OK. OK?’

Still nothing.

‘Please. Just stick to the shadows and don’t talk to anyone until you get there. If you see someone, hide.’

For God’s sake, why wouldn’t they go?

He winced down in front of Rebecca, smiling at her through the fence as he unbuttoned one of the epaulettes from his T-shirt. ‘You’re an official deputy police officer, remember?’

‘I can arrest people tomorrow.’

‘But today, you get these kids to safety and you call the police and you read them the number on this thing.’ He handed the epaulette between the strands of barbed wire. ‘You read them the number and you tell them “officer down”, OK?’

‘Officer down.’

‘Good girl. Now go. Run.’

Please.

Don’t stand there like a bunch of bloody garden gnomes in the rain.

Run.

Go.

PLEASE.

The tiny girl in the pink dungarees burst into tears.

Rebecca’s scowl deepened, then she stomped over and thrust the teddy bear into her arms. ‘Orgalorg will look after you.’

She blinked up at Rebecca, bottom lip trembling, then gave the bear a big squishy hug.

Rebecca grabbed her hand, then turned and did the same with Stephen’s. ‘Come on, you tits!’ She ran and the others ran with her — Ellie catching up to make the crocodile whole again. By the time they’d reached the drystane dyke they were almost invisible in the dark, only Ellie Morton’s bloodstained angel costume gave their position away.

Then they scrambled over the wall and were gone.

Thank you...

He sagged against the fence post, and breathed — great ragged plumes of fog that drifted away in the rain. In and out. In and out. Until the fire scorching its way through him had faded to glowing embers again.

Cold water trickled down the nape of his neck. Wasn’t a single inch of him that was still dry. Or warm.

He turned, teeth chattering as a wave of cold shivered its way through him. ‘Smart move, Logan. Sending five wee kids off to get help. On their own. In the dark. And the rain. When the place is crawling with paedophiles. Really smart.’

He limped onto the concrete between the buildings again, sticking up two fingers as he passed the barking dog in its four-by-four. ‘Well what was I supposed to do, leave the sixth one behind? No. Of course not. So shut up and leave me alone.’

His feet scuffed through puddles, making for the machine shed. ‘Assuming I don’t bleed to death first.’

Logan hauled open the door and staggered inside. Lurched around the combine harvester to where Number Five lay. Spat. Bared his teeth. ‘Why did you have to have a bloody knife?’

One more kick in the ribs for luck.

Pff...

‘OK, I’m going to need your jacket, your mask, and your hoodie.’

Only there was no way they were coming off with Number Five’s hands cable-tied together. Should have got his clothes off before tying him up. And while we’re picking holes, it might have been better not to leave the packet of cable ties back at the Clio, unless the idea was to let the guy go free.

‘Oh yes, thank you, Captain Hindsight. Very helpful.’

Logan lumbered back to Danielle’s car, stuffed the packet into his pocket, grabbed the duct tape for good luck, and returned to the machine shed. Swearing all the way.

He unfolded the butterfly knife, squatted down and heaved Number Five over onto his side. Sawed through the plastic strip. Stole his gloves. Then struggled him out of his jacket and hoodie, leaving him in a Stereophonics T-shirt.

Good. He could freeze his nipples off for a change.

It took a bit of doing, but Logan got one of the guy’s arms up behind the combine harvester’s bottom step, then out through the gap between the treads. Hauled the other arm up the front and zipped a new cable tie tight around both wrists. Number Five was going nowhere.

And then, just to be petty, he wrapped a strip of duct tape around the guy’s head, making sure it was nice and stuck in his eyebrows and hair. ‘Serves you right.’

The hoodie made Logan’s T-shirt stick to his torso like a clammy claggy hug. The jacket was too tight across the shoulders, but good enough. Now all he needed was the mask.

Back outside.

He inched down and felt under Danielle’s Clio. Had to be somewhere around here... Aha! It was lurking behind the passenger-side rear wheel.

Logan picked it up.

Sod.

The plastic face was cracked down the middle, probably due to all the punching, and the strap was broken on one side so it wouldn’t stay on. Not even duct tape was going to fix that.

Well, it’d have to do.

He limped across the concrete and into the equipment shed.

Someone had filled his boots with lead as well as rainwater — that’s why they were so heavy. Number Five’s jacket must’ve been lined with it too, because the weight of it made his arms droop at his sides. Pushed his shoulders down.

Come on, at least he was warming up a bit. That was something, right?

‘I need a sodding holiday...’

OK, to-do list.

Empty crates: check.

Body wrapped in plastic sheeting: not check.

He stumbled over there, unfolded the butterfly knife again — not easy with gloves on — and slit the plastic from head to chest. A man. Dressed in black. With a black fabric bag covering his face. It probably wasn’t him that put it on, though.

Logan took hold of the bag’s top and pulled it free. Stared down at the battered and bruised head it’d been covering. Was that...?

He got closer. It was. Angela Parks — the journalist from Ellie Morton’s house. The one Russell Morton called a ‘skinny munter cow’. The one desperate to know if the Livestock Mart was real. The one who now looked as if she’d been run over by a minibus. Repeatedly.

‘Great...’

He laid the bag over her face like a veil and hauled himself upright again. ‘Come on, Logan: how do we do this? How do we do this?’

One old tractor. Six empty crates.

‘I know: I’ll ask them nicely to surrender or I’ll bleed on them.’

What else?

‘Need a weapon.’

He held up the butterfly knife. ‘And you’re sod-all use, there’s hundreds of them.’ He folded it shut and stuffed it in his ‘borrowed’ jacket’s pocket. Needed something a bit more heavy-duty than that.

How about the racks of ancient equipment?

Logan hefted a rusty crowbar from a collection of clamps, shovels, and fencing tools. Substantial. Solid. Nearly as long as his arm. ‘Not perfect, but you’ll do.’

He slapped it into the palm of his other hand, smacking it against the leather. ‘And stop talking to yourself. You sound like a mad person.’ Then he pulled up the hoodie’s hood, held the mask over his face, opened the door through to the cattle court and slipped inside.

46

The circle of animal masks had widened. Now, a little boy in shorts, sandals, and a Paddington Bear T-shirt was clearly visible — standing between a woman in a sort of crocodile mask and the woman in the snake mask. The boy looked a bit older than he had in Cold Blood and Dark Ganite, but it was definitely him: Aiden MacAuley.

Up on the walkway, the guy in the grey mask leaned on the handrail. ‘Well, Dragon? The bidding now stands at fifty-three thousand pounds.’

The woman in the sort-of-crocodile mask nodded. ‘Fifty-four thousand.’

Snake put her head on one side. ‘Fifty-five thousand.’

‘Sixty!’

Gasps from the other Animals.

Now, while they were all busy, where was Danielle Smith?

There — the woman in the Number Six mask, standing by a stack of wooden pallets. Logan waved at her.

Grey Mask clapped his hands. ‘We have sixty thousand pounds! Do I hear any advance on sixty thousand pounds?’

Silence.

Logan pointed at Number Six, then at himself, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder towards the equipment shed.

She didn’t move.

Why could nobody do what they were told?

‘Sixty thousand going once. Going—’

Snake nodded. ‘Sixty-two thousand.’

Logan had another go. She’d definitely seen him — she was looking right at him, for God’s sake — so why wouldn’t she... Finally. Number Six gave a small shake of the head, then scuffed across the straw-covered floor towards him.

‘Dragon, Snake bids sixty-two—’

‘Sixty-three thousand, three hundred and seventy-five pounds!’

Come on, come on, hurry up.

Number Six stopped right in front of him. ‘What?’

Logan jerked his thumb at the door again, turned, and walked into the equipment shed.

Grey Mask’s voice echoed through from the cattle court. ‘Snake?’

‘I’d like to contact my client for guidance.’

‘You know that’s not possible.’

Number Six followed Logan into the room and shut the door behind her.

She stood, staring at the open crates. ‘What the—’

And that’s when he cracked her over the head with his crowbar. Not a full-on baseball bat swing, but a firm enough clunk to make her knees buckle and send her crumpling to the floor. And keep her there.

Logan dropped Number Five’s broken mask. ‘Not so funny when someone does it to you, is it?’

He peeled her mask off — yup definitely Danielle Smith. Checked for a pulse — still alive. Gritted his teeth, took a couple of deep breaths, then dragged her behind the crates in the far corner. Stopped for a grimace and some panting as the fires reignited. Braced himself against the wall while the world pulsed and hissed like waves on a stony beach.

Do not pass out. Do NOT pass out...

OK.

Come on. Not finished yet.

The gloves were too thick to work the cable ties, so he stripped them off and struggled one set around her wrists and another around her ankles, the plastic tacky in his sticky red fingers.

A strip of duct tape across her mouth, and she was done.

Meaning Logan could go rummaging through her pockets.

‘Where are you, you little...’ A hard, L-shape weighed down the left side of her leather jacket. Logan slipped the semiautomatic pistol free. ‘Ah, there you are.’

It was an ugly black slab of a thing. Heavy. But it would do.

Now, did she have a phone?

Sod. No, she didn’t. And, like Number Five, no wallet or ID either.

So much for Plan A: call for help. Time for Plan B: the gun.

The magazine slid out into his palm with a quick push of the release. Ten bullets. He pulled the slide back and checked the breech: empty. Right. He slapped the magazine in again and racked a bullet into the chamber. Clicked off the safety.

Here we go.

Logan put on Danielle’s Number Six mask and flipped up his borrowed hood.

Too late to chicken out now.

Deep breath.

He opened the door and stepped into the cattle court.

Snake and Dragon were still facing off, the pair of them looming over Aiden MacAuley. Poor little sod. Paedophiles fighting over him.

Grey Mask had his arms out, preacher style. ‘I’m going to have to press you, Snake. I have sixty-three—’

‘Sixty... five thousand.’

One of the Animals whistled. ‘Bloody hell.’

Logan limped his way along the wall, gun arm tucked behind him.

Dragon turned towards the man on the walkway. ‘I’ve got more money in my account: the twenty-eight thousand that Horse owes me for Rebecca Oliver.’

The Animals shuffled their feet and looked away. Some hissing breaths. A couple shaking their heads. Clearly uncomfortable.

Grey Mask shrugged. ‘Ah... No. Firstly there’s a twenty percent sales commission, and secondly those funds can’t be released until the end of the evening.’

She stomped her foot. ‘This is the end of the bloody evening!’

‘I don’t make the rules, Dragon. I just enforce them.’

Him: Grey Mask. He was the one to take down. Break him and the whole twisted organisation would collapse, begging to be arrested.

Yup.

Logan limped on, towards the walkway.

You keep telling yourself that.

Dragon turned to Snake, voice cracking. ‘Please. Please, let me have Aiden! I have to have him. You don’t know how important it is. Please.’

Snake held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry, but the people I represent were very insistent about his ownership.’ Then in a softer tone, ‘There are plenty of other children out there you could have.’

‘You don’t understand! It’s...’ Looking around for support. Getting none. ‘How about I buy Aiden from you? After this, when they give me the twenty-eight thousand?’

Grey Mask held up a hand. ‘Less sales commission.’

‘That’s...’ Dragon twitched the fingers on one hand. ‘Eighty-six thousand pounds in total!’

Snake shook her head. ‘Eighty-five thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.’

‘Please: you go home with a huge profit and you don’t even have to do anything!’

‘It’s one thing to be beaten, honourably, at auction. It’s another entirely to accept bribes. No. It’s out of the question.’

The plus side to all this haggling was that no one paid any attention to Logan as he scuffed his way through the straw along the edge of the walkway.

Dragon dragged in a ragged breath, her voice choked. ‘Please! You have to!’ She threw back her hood and ripped off her mask. Dropped it to the ground. Followed it up with a blonde curly wig.

Oh... fuck. Dragon was Sally MacAuley.

The other Animals retreated a couple of steps, putting a bit of distance between them and what was clearly an inexcusable breach of the paedophiles’ sacred code of anonymity.

‘He’s my son!’ Sally fell to her knees and held her arms out. Sobbing. ‘Aiden... Aiden it’s me! It’s... it’s Mummy. I’m so... I’m so sorry...’

Aiden stood there, face slack, as if there was nothing behind his eyes.

Grey Mask climbed down from the walkway. ‘Well, well, well...’ Getting closer as Snake slithered off to join the other animals. ‘You know, in all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve only ever once had a family member try to buy their own child back. A fisherman. Didn’t end well for him.’

‘Aiden? Aiden it’s me! Don’t you remember Mummy?’

‘You lied on your application form, Dragon, and that’s a disciplinary offence.’ He stopped, six foot away. ‘We take discretion very seriously at the Livestock Mart. Can’t have you waltzing out of here with Aiden then clyping to the authorities, can we?’

‘Aiden!’ She stretched towards him, all tears and snot.

Grey Mask dipped into a pocket and produced a semiautomatic — completely wrapped in what looked like clingfilm. He gestured at the Animals. ‘You see the things I do for you? You should—’

‘ARMED POLICE!’ Logan stepped out onto the straw, holding Danielle’s gun in one hand and clutching his side with the other. ‘DROP THE WEAPON AND MOVE OVER THERE! AWAY FROM THE OTHERS! SLOWLY!’

‘Gah!’ Grey Mask stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘You see?’ He pointed his gun at Sally MacAuley’s chest. ‘This is what happens when people don’t follow the rules!’

‘Don’t.’ Logan took off his mask, the air cold against his skin. A dribble of sweat itched its way down his cheek. ‘I’m having a really crappy day and I will shoot you.’

‘Even if you do, then what? There are... seventeen of us — not counting this lying bitch — are you going to shoot everyone?’

‘I’ll shoot you.’

Sally was still on her knees in front of Aiden, only a few feet between them, but it might as well have been miles.

Grey Mask turned to face Logan. Stared at him for a while, head on one side. ‘Is that blood I see?’

‘Sally: take Aiden and get out of here.’

She didn’t move.

‘Looks nasty. Let me guess, Number Five introduced you to his knife? He’s very fond of it.’

The world washed in and out again, hissing against the stones.

Logan blinked. Shook his head. ‘Sally: take Aiden!’

She stared at him, bit her bottom lip, then shuffled forward on her knees and wrapped her son in her arms. Buried her face in his neck and breathed him in.

‘Sometime today would be spectacular!’

Grey Mask took a step towards Logan. ‘I think you’ve lost a lot of blood already. Feeling weak? A bit light-headed?’

‘SALLY!’

She flinched. Seemed to remember what the hell was actually going on, and scooped Aiden up, holding him there.

‘How long before you pass out, Officer?’

She wiped a hand across her eyes. ‘Sorry, I—’

‘Sally: focus!’ Logan tightened his grip on the gun. ‘I need you to go out the back door, pick a direction, and run. Get Aiden to safety.’

She just stood there.

‘MOVE!’

Finally.

She half stumbled, half ran through the straw towards the equipment shed door.

Grey Mask raised his voice, watching her go. ‘We’ll find you, Sally MacAuley. We’ll find you and you’ll both be disciplined.’

She shoved through the door, thumping it shut behind her.

And now everyone turned to stare at Logan.

‘Well, well, well, Officer. Alone at last.’

A large woman with the number two on her mask inched closer.

‘Stand still!’ Logan gestured with the gun. ‘Everybody on the floor. Now!’

Grey Mask lowered his weapon. ‘It’s sad really. Kind of pathetic.’

‘I SAID: ON THE BLOODY FLOOR!’

A fat man in a chicken mask lowered himself towards the straw.

‘Don’t.’ A gloved finger. ‘Think about it, Rooster: he’s a police officer. What’s he going to do, shoot unarmed men and women? Really?’

Rooster stood up again. ‘Sorry.’

Danielle’s gun was getting heavier. ‘It’s over. The kids are miles away from here by now. They go home to their families and you... you go to jail.’

‘Their families?’ A laugh. ‘God, you cops are so naïve, aren’t you?’ He pointed at Captain Chicken Mask. ‘Who do you think sold Ellie Morton to Rooster in the first place? Her stepdad. You think she’ll be safer with him?’

Great. The old man with the stinky dog had been right.

‘Face it: you’ve lost.’ He stepped closer. ‘All sales are final, Officer. So we’ll... acquire Aiden again and make his mother pay for bringing you here. Then we’ll recapture the rest of tonight’s stock and deliver them to their rightful owners. No child left behind.’ Another step. ‘But first we’ll take care of you.’

Logan backed up. ‘You said it yourself: I’m a police officer. They’ll hunt you down like...’ He looked at Snake and Horse and Rat and Goat and Monkey and all of the other freaks. ‘Animals.’

‘Really? Because I don’t remember them hunting me down when I forced all those pills and booze into Detective Sergeant Chalmers, then tied a noose around her throat. Don’t remember that at all.’

‘You killed her?’

‘And now it’s your turn.’ Grey Mask snapped his gun up.

Too slow.

Logan’s semiautomatic roared out across the cattle court, echoing around the metal roof and breeze-block walls. Roaring and bouncing and roaring and bouncing until it finally faded away.

Grey Mask stared down at the fresh hole in his hoodie. A dark-red patch spread out across the fabric. He dropped the gun. Looked up at his Animals. ‘I don’t...’ Then crumpled to the ground. ‘Oh Jesus! Aaaaaaaaaargh! AAAAAAAAARGH!’ Curling around his stomach, screaming.

Everyone froze as Logan limped forward and picked up the fallen semiautomatic.

He used both guns to gesture towards the corner of the byre, away from the equipment shed door. ‘All of you, over there where I can see you.’

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

They shuffled through the straw, hands up, someone repeating, ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ over and over to themselves.

If one gun weighed a ton, two weighed about eight times as much. Could barely keep them pointed at the inhabitants of the world’s worst petting zoo and the numbers one to four. And seven. ‘Keep moving.’

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH! OH CHRIST, THAT—’

Logan kicked him. ‘You want me to take your pain away? Because I’ve got a lot more bullets!’

The screams faded to a sobbing whimper instead.

‘Better.’ Logan limped backwards, till the walkway stopped him. ‘Listen up, people: here’s how this is going to work. You’re all going to lie facedown on the ground.’

Nobody moved.

Then Number One stepped forward. ‘You heard the Auctioneer: he’s not going to shoot us.’

Dog shuffled behind Rooster. ‘He shot the Auctioneer!’

‘All we’ve got to do is wait till he passes out and—’

Logan put a bullet in the wall above Number One’s head. The boom reverberated around the shed as Numbers and Animals all scrambled for the ground. ‘Hands on your heads!’

They didn’t need a second telling this time.

‘Anyone who moves gets a free bullet, are we clear?’

No reply.

‘ARE WE CLEAR?’

A ragged chorus of ‘yes’s, partially muffled by them all having their faces buried in the straw.

‘Good.’ He slumped against the wall, sliding down it till his backside hit the deck. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. More stinging his eyes — he wiped it away with his sleeve. Glanced down at the glistening dark stain that reached out across his stomach and down his left leg.

The world did its waves-on-a-beach trick again.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Why was it so cold?

Could kill for a pint of beer as well. Mouth was dry as a litter tray.

Logan rested Danielle’s gun against his knee, propping it up. ‘Now we’re all going to sit here quietly till the police come...’

47

Oh, this was bad. This was very, very, very bad. Stan sneaked a look, keeping his blue mask touching the damp straw, trying not to draw attention. Or a bullet.

Everyone on this side of the cattle court lay on their fronts, the guys working the auction and the perverts as well. Nobody moving. Probably all trying to figure out how the hell they were going to escape before the cops descended.

And the only thing stopping them getting up and just walking out of here was slouched against the walkway, with that big red smear — where he’d slid down the brickwork — glistening behind him. Face pale as suet. The gun limp in his lap.

The one silver lining to this total shitstorm was that the bitch, Dragon, didn’t have any car keys. She’d have to walk to the nearest farm, call it ten minutes away? After that, the cops would be here in what, fifteen, twenty minutes tops? So they had half an hour, max.

One of the kiddy fiddlers, Monkey, raised his head and stared at the copper. ‘Is he...?’

‘You!’ The copper raised the gun in one shaky hand. ‘Get your head down before I blow it off!’

Yeah: they were all completely and utterly screwed.

This was all the Auctioneer’s fault. A journalist and a cop? One turning up would’ve been bad enough, but both? How could security be that lax?

Stan risked another peek.

The copper was still slumped against the concrete, but he’d tilted over to the left a bit. Arms limp at his sides. Eyes closed. Was he even still breathing?

The Auctioneer wasn’t moving either. Good. Served him right.

Someone shifted on Stan’s left: Rabbit. Raising himself up off the straw a couple of inches, mask fixed towards the copper. Then further. And further. And finally he was sitting up, the long white ears wobbling.

Nothing happened. No threat. No gunshot. Nothing.

Rabbit eased himself to his feet and crept towards the main door, pausing to nudge Snake with his foot on the way past. She got up and sneaked out too, followed by Tiger and Ox and Rat and Horse, and soon everyone was tiptoeing their way to freedom.

Stan picked himself up and crept across the cattle court, following Number One through the door and into the night.

Rain misted down, glowing in the farm lights. Making everything look slick and yellow, like it was infected.

They gathered in a clump by the door.

Number Two poked his head back into the cattle court, then out again. ‘I think they’re dead. Do you think they’re dead?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Number One paced away a couple of steps. ‘If they’re not now, they soon will be.’ He pulled a Zippo lighter from his pocket. Flicked the lid open and thumbed the wheel, setting up a wee shower of sparks that turned into a wobbly flame. ‘Going to be DNA and all sorts in there.’

Snake marched over and poked him in the chest. Voice all hoity-toity, and sharp. ‘I want my clients’ money back, this auction has been a farce!’

‘Calm, OK?’ Number Three shook his masked head. ‘Nobody’s getting their money back till we’re out of here.’

‘Excuse me?’ Pig put his hand up. ‘Can I have my car keys, please? I’d really like to go home now.’

Snake squared off with Number One. ‘Do I need to remind you that the people I work for—’

Number One’s left hook caught Snake right across the jaw, sending her sprawling. He stood over her, flexing his fist. ‘You want to hang around counting silver till the police get here? Be my guest. The rest of us are torching this place and leaving.’

Pig put his hand up again. ‘So: car keys?’

‘You want some too?’ Number One shook his fist under Pig’s snout.

‘I wasn’t... Sorry.’ Backing away.

‘Didn’t think so.’ He pointed at Number Two. ‘Two: give everyone their car keys and phones. Three: there’s a can of petrol in the boot of the Range Rover, you and Seven...’ He did a quick three-sixty where he stood. ‘Where’s Seven? SEVEN!’

Rat shuddered. ‘Leaving the sinking ship...’

‘Fine. Three and Four: get the petrol splashed around. I want this place up in flames now!’

Stan checked his watch. How long was that, twenty minutes? ‘We’ve really got to get out of here. The cops’ll be on their way.’

‘Then get your finger out and do as you’re told!’

Stan followed the long line of cars, lurching their way down the track. A dense cluster of tail-lights, glowing red into the distance. Still no sign of flashing blue-and-white coming over the hills to cart them all away. Not yet anyway.

His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror.

Flames danced in the open doorway of the cattle court as the damp straw smouldered, then caught. Spreading. The cottage was burning too — and a damn sight faster than the cattle court — sending gouts of orange and yellow roaring up into the drizzly sky. Illuminating the Auctioneer’s Range Rover and Number Five’s filthy four-by-four with the big dog going mental in the boot.

The line of cars reached the junction, each one turning off in the opposite direction to the last: under strict instructions to do the same thing at every junction they came to — one left, one right — dispersing out into the night, to go home and wait for a text about the money.

To wait for a text and hope the cops didn’t come knocking.

Stan tightened his grip on the steering wheel, the pear-drops-and-vinegar scent of unleaded wafting up from his gloved hands. They wouldn’t come. He was safe. That was the point of all the masks and anonymous texts and never using your real name. Even if the cops did manage to pick someone up, they couldn’t inform on anyone else. The only person who knew who they all were was lying dead on the cattle-court floor, with a bullet in his guts. Burning away right now in their DIY crematorium as the flames got rid of the evidence.

And, yes, it was a shame about the dead police officer, but it was too late to worry about that now.

‘Mmmnnnph...’ Warm. Really lovely and warm. For a change.

The world strobed into life, between his heavy eyelids. Cattle court. Yes. He was in a cattle court on a farm somewhere out in the middle of nowhere.

Tired, though. Really, really tired.

Logan frowned.

The floor smouldered, dancing wisps of steam and smoke swirling around each other as they waltzed towards the metal roof.

Over by the main door a stack of hay and a pile of pallets was surrounded by flames. Then a whoomp as one of the wrapped bales went up.

Oh.

Great.

And all the scumbags in the masks were gone too.

Come on: up. On your feet.

Logan dug his heels into the damp straw underneath him... and toppled sideways, in a slow arc, until he was lying on it.

Closed his eyes.

At least he wasn’t cold any more.

Gah! Roberta stumbled on, torch held out in front of her, the other hand clasping a slightly scabby hanky over her nose and mouth. The air in here was solid with smoke. Bitter, dark, greasy smoke that reeked of burning straw, wood, and plastic.

Her torch barely slid through it, making sod-all difference to the complete lack of visibility. All it did was light up more bloody smoke.

A voice bellowed from somewhere outside. ‘GET OUT OF THERE! IT’S NOT SAFE!’

Aye, right.

She kept going, coughing and hacking. What was the point of giving up fags? Probably inhaled about six months’ worth in the last three minutes.

The vast yellow bulk of a combine harvester loomed out of the smoke, its big rotating spiky bits the only things in focus, the rest of it hiding in the billowing darkness.

She hacked up half a lung and staggered around the side.

‘SERGEANT STEEL, DON’T BE AN IDIOT!’

Blah, blah, blah.

Bit late to stop now, wasn’t it? Habit of a lifetime and all that.

Where the goat-buggering hell was—

‘Aaaargh!’ Something tripped her up and Roberta went sprawling, needles slashing at her palms as she hit the concrete. The torch skittered away, spinning across the ground, getting smaller as its beam lighthoused around and around.

She struggled to her knees and crawled after it. Grabbed the thing. Hacked and rattled the other half-lung up.

Great. She’d dropped her hanky.

‘CAN YOU HEAR ME? GET OUT BEFORE YOU KILL YOURSELF!’

Aye, maybe he had a point.

She raised her other arm, burying her nose and mouth in the bend of her elbow. Swung the torch round to see what she’d tripped over...

Bloody hell.

It was a leg. A human leg. And it was attached to an ugly wee man — all trussed up and unconscious. Cable tied to the combine’s steps. Broken nose. The bottom half of his face stained dark red. A strip of duct tape wrapped about his bonce.

Roberta shuffled over and felt for a pulse...

Yup: still alive. For now.

She swung the torch through the smoke again.

A line of scarlet, about two-hands wide, stretched across the concrete floor. Definitely drag marks. And the smaller red splotches running along the left side of it looked suspiciously like a single handprint, repeated over and over again. And the prints didn’t start or end with the broken-nosed man. They kept going right past him.

She scuffed forward on her hand and knees, following the trail...

Then stopped and stared.

A man lay at the end of it, slumped back, arms and legs splayed, grey hoodie stained with blood, face the colour of antique ivory. And behind him, one arm still wrapped around the guy’s chest, was Logan.

That’s why there was the one handprint, over and over again on the concrete floor. Logan must have dragged this guy in here.

She scrambled over, grabbed a fistful of bloody hoodie and hauled him off Logan. ‘No, no, no, no, no...’ Smoke burned its way down into her lungs making her hack and cough and splutter.

‘Logan!’ Roberta took hold of his shoulders. Shook him.

Nothing.

This was no’ the way today was meant to end. ‘IN HERE! HE’S IN HERE!’

Three huge fire engines sat in the gap between the two agricultural buildings, pumping water onto the cattle court. Diesel engines growling. Their lights spun blue and white through the smoke, their warning chevrons fluorescing in the headlights of the ambulances.

Rain hissed on the cattle court’s roof, adding to the massive plumes of steam and rolling smoke.

‘Get off me.’ Roberta slapped Rennie’s hands away as she paced up and down the length of Logan’s ambulance. Coughing — dry and rattling, burning up through her sandpaper throat.

‘You’ve probably got smoke inhalation.’

‘You’ll probably get a shoe-leather hernia if you don’t sod off and leave me alone!’ Another trip up and down the concrete.

‘At least drink some water.’

‘I mean it, Rennie — the whole bastarding shoe!’

They had the ambulance doors shut, muttered voices and barked instructions coming from inside. What the hell was taking them so long?

Tufty lurched over, hands and face smudged a dirty grey-black. He pointed at the closed doors. ‘Any news?’

Moron.

‘Does it sodding look like it?’

Rennie shook his head. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. And I mean a lot.’

‘It’s all my fault...’ Tufty shuffled his feet. Obviously waiting for someone to tell him that it wasn’t. Well tough. He nodded, cleared his throat, and spat out a dark-brown glob. Then pointed at the other ambulance. ‘We’ve got an anonymous I–C-One male suffering from breathing in too much smoke and probably concussion. And another one who’s been shot in the stomach. Paramedics think they’ve got him stabilised. No sign of anyone else.’ He spat again. ‘Well, you know, other than the body wrapped in plastic.’

At that, the other ambulance bleep-bleep-bleeped as it reversed through a gap between the fire engines. Did a three-point turn, and raced away down the driveway — siren on full tilt, all lights blazing. Getting smaller and smaller. Disappearing into the rainy night.

You know what? Sod this.

Roberta stormed up the remaining ambulance’s rear steps and flung the door open.

Logan was laid out on the stretcher trolley. They’d cut off his jacket, his hoodie, and his T-shirt, exposing skin pale as moonlight... at least the bits not covered in blood. A couple of IV lines snaked into one arm, wires hooked his chest up to a monitor.

She banged on the open door. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’

One of the paramedics hurried over to shut it again.

Behind him, the other one stuck defibrillator lines onto Logan’s bloody skin. ‘Charged. Clear!’

The door slammed shut, and they were gone.

48

‘Shh...’ Susan wrapped an arm around Robbie and gave her a squeeze. ‘He’ll be OK, you’ll see.’ Because, let’s face it, Susan hadn’t made it this far through life by not being Princess of the Glass Half-Full People. Queen of the Silver Lining. Empress of Looking on the Bright Side.

The blinds were partially drawn, shutting out the storm, quivering in the air that whistled through the vents. Rain crackled against the window. Machinery bleeped and whirred. The ventilator hissed and squealed with every artificial breath.

And at the centre of it all: Logan. Still and so painfully, painfully pale. Hollows beneath his eyes. Tubes, wires, drips...

Susan gave Robbie another squeeze, then dug out a hanky and wiped away her tears.

Robbie blinked at her, all bloodshot and wobbly. ‘What if he doesn’t—’

‘Roberta Steel, you listen to me: Logan isn’t going anywhere. He wouldn’t dare.’ Susan kissed her on the forehead — still a bit smoky even after three showers. ‘This is nothing more than a tiny setback. I promise.’

‘Three hundred. Charging...’ The defibrillator screen filled with the wobbly yellow scrawl of ventricular fibrillation. A shrill bleep sounded and the shock light turned red. Khadija looked up from the machine. ‘Everyone stand clear!’

The whole team skipped away from the bed, like a lumpen ballet in pale-blue scrubs, and she pressed the button.

The patient stiffened, arms and legs rigid, then sagged back onto the sheets. Pale and naked, with a chunk of stained wadding over his side.

Khadija checked the monitor again: still in ventricular fibrillation. ‘Damn it...’ She thumbed the button up to five hundred joules and glowered at him. ‘You are not breaking my winning streak. Charging!’

The Rolling Stones rocked out of Danielle’s noise-cancelling headphones: ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. Perfect accompaniment to putting up a chunk of stud partitioning.

Danielle positioned the length of CLS in the compound mitre saw and pulled the handle down — timing the blade’s shriek to the music. Then dabbed the cut ends with preservative and carried it over to what was going to be the kitchen wall. Wedged it into place and hammered the bottom edge till it sat flush with its neighbour. Nice and tight.

She grabbed the nail gun and whacked a couple in down there, bracketing them, then did the same at the top and twice more in between for good measure.

Right — next stud.

She turned and...

Ah.

A police Transit and a couple of patrol cars scrunched to a halt on the track in front of her house-to-be. Their doors flew open and about a dozen officers burst out of them, some in uniform, some in plainclothes, and some really big ones in riot gear.

They swarmed up onto the concrete foundations, circling her, batons at the ready.

A goofy-looking one with bleached blond hair and a righteous expression on his stupid pink face strode through the ranks. He pointed a tin of pepper spray at her. ‘YOU! DROP THE WEAPON! HANDS UP!’

She switched Mick off and removed her headphones. Raised an eyebrow at Blondie. ‘Rennie, isn’t it?’

‘DROP THE WEAPON!’

Weapon?

Danielle’s eyes drifted down to the nail gun in her other hand. It’d be a challenge, but she could probably take three or four of them down before the rest got her.

Then again...

She shrugged, lowered the nail gun, and put her hands in the air.

‘Urgh...’ Logan peered out at a strange room that smelled of disinfectant. Small. Blinds closed, thin slivers of sunlight chiselling their way in through the gaps to gouge holes in his eyes.

The air tasted... horrible. Like someone had rubbed a toilet brush around the inside of his mouth.

Everything weighed a ton: arms, legs, head, the starchy sheet and pale-blue crocheted blanket thing covering him.

Machinery whirred, beeped, and snored?

He let his head roll over towards the window. It looked as if the place had been dive-bombed by the Get-Well-Soon Fairy. Mylar balloons, cards, a couple of over-sized teddy bears, grapes... And slumped in a big blue vinyl visitors’ chair, head back and gob open: Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel. Snorting, gurgling, and droning away like bagpipes full of custard.

Logan closed his eyes and let the darkness swallow him again.

The thump, thump, thump of R&B blared out through the open window as Roberta and Tufty stormed up the path to Ellie Morton’s house.

Sun was out. Almost made the street look pretty. But no’ quite.

She clicked her fingers, then pointed. ‘Better give it laldy.’

Tufty did, hammering on the red door with his fist, making the whole thing boom and shake. Even managed to do it so he wasn’t in time with the music, so it was extra irritating.

A voice yelled out from inside. ‘BUGGER OFF!’

Tufty kept hammering.

The same voice again: getting louder. ‘ALL RIGHT, I’M GETTING IT... I SAID I’M GETTING IT, YOU STUPID COW!’

Then the door flew open and Russell Morton blinked out at them, both eyelids working independently of one another. Pupils big and black in a sea of pink. The thick sweaty reek of marijuana rolled off him like fog, accompanied by stale beer and whisky.

He grabbed onto the door frame and wobbled a bit, squinting as the music thump, thump, thumped out behind him. ‘The hell do you want?’

Roberta gave him a big happy smile. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old pal Russell Morton.’ She clapped her hands, as if she was encouraging Naomi to go potty. ‘Guess what, Russy-boy: you’re nicked.’

The magic words seemed to cut through the fog of booze and dope, because those big black eyes went wide and Morton turned to run off into the house.

Tufty leapt inside, grabbed the lanky wee scumbag and wrestled him to the hall carpet. ‘Hold still! HOLD STILL!’ Struggling the cuffs into place.

Roberta pulled out her e-cigarette, inhaled a big cloud of black cherry and puffed it out in a satisfied sigh. ‘Ahh... I enjoyed that.’

‘You still no’ up and about?’ Steel plonked herself down in his high-backed visitor’s chair and swung her feet up onto the bedclothes. ‘Five days slobbing about in bed: that’s malingering, that is.’ Today, her hair looked as if she’d had a fight with a tumble drier. And lost. ‘You’re a proper sight, by the way. Can you no’ have a shave or something?’

Logan shifted beneath his crinkly sheet, voice barely a whisper. ‘Thirsty...’

She tossed a folded newspaper onto his bed. ‘Present for you.’

His hands trembled a bit as he picked it up, the IV line jiggling about on the end of its cannula. ‘TRIBUTES PAID TO DEAD HOMELESS MAN’ sat above a picture of a young bloke with a long brown beard and sunken eyes, singing away outside the Greggs on Union Street — one hand on his chest, the other in the air. ‘Oh no... Sammy Show-Tunes died?’

‘No’ that, you idiot, other side.’

Ah.

Logan turned the paper over. It was that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner, with the headline, ‘EVIL STEPDAD SOLD ELLIE TO PAEDOPHILE RING’ stretched across its front page. A nice big photo of Russell Morton being bundled away in handcuffs.

Aw, diddums. He looked very upset.

A smile pulled at Logan’s cheeks, making the layers of stubble itch.

Steel dug a hand into her armpit and had a good scratch. ‘Don’t say I never do anything nice for you.’

‘Do you want to make it two nice things?’

She pulled in her chin. ‘It’s no’ a bed bath, is it? Cos there’s limits.’

God, there was an image.

‘No: my mobile phone’s got photos on it. One of the paedophiles from the Mart — I got his face and number plate.’

‘Now you’re talking!’ She stuck out her hand. ‘Well, where is it?’

Ah...

‘Look! Look!’ Stephen MacGuire stood on his tiptoes and placed a big squashed box of chocolates on the bed. ‘We got you chocolates, but Ellie sat on them.’

Ellie stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Did not!’

‘Did too!’

The five of them surrounded his hospital bed: Stephen, Ellie, Rebecca, Vernon, and little Lucy Hawkins in her pink dungarees — hugging Rebecca’s teddy bear, with one thumb wedged firmly in her mouth. The only kid not staring at him like he was a two-headed goat in a petting zoo was Vernon. He stood in the corner not making eye contact, a long-sleeve top pulled down over his fingertips to hide the small circular scars that covered his arms. All the kids from the Livestock Mart, except for Aiden MacAuley.

Their parents stood out in the hallway, looking in through the observation window, every one of them teary and smiling.

Good job he’d taken Steel’s advice yesterday and had a shave.

Ellie stomped her foot. ‘Did not!’

‘Did too!’

Rebecca scowled at the pair of them. ‘Shut up, or I’ll arrest you both.’ She pulled out a big folded sheet of paper and slapped it down on top of the chocolates, still wearing her serious face as she frowned at Logan. ‘I drew you a picture.’

‘Thank you.’ He leaned closer to her, dropped his voice to a whisper, and nodded towards Lucy. The teddy bear in her arms was about three hundred percent tattier than it had been out at Boodiehill Farm, one of the ears barely hanging on. ‘What happened to Onion-log? Organ-log?’

‘Orgalorg.’ Rebecca shrugged, matching his whisper. ‘He’s looking after her cos she’s only little and she gets horrid dreams about the Grey Man catching her and feeding her to a big pig monster.’ A wistful look crept across Rebecca’s face as she looked at her tatty bear. ‘She needs him more.’

Logan ruffled Rebecca’s hair. ‘You’re a very brave girl, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Get off me.’ She pushed his hand away. ‘Not a puppy.’

‘Right: let’s see this lovely picture.’ He unfolded the sheet of paper to reveal a felt-pen drawing of two lumpy figures — one bigger than the other — shooting about a dozen bad guys. And it was obvious they were bad guys, because she’d written ‘BAD GUYS!!!’ above them in green with a bunch of arrows pointing at their lumpy pink heads. Many of which had bright red felt-tip gushing out of them. ‘OK...’ Well, that wasn’t disturbing at all.

She stuck one foot on the bedframe, so she could lever herself up — pointing at the felt-pen bloodbath. ‘That’s you and that’s me. They’re all tits.’

He tried for a smile. ‘Thank you, that’s very... nice.’

And, for the first time ever, she smiled back.

Logan shuffled along the institution-green corridor, in his pyjamas and hospital slippers, one hand on the wall, the other wheeling his IV drip on a stand. It was like moving in slow motion — other patients, staff, and visitors wheeching past him at about nine times the speed.

Still, at least it gave him plenty of time to enjoy the paintings, collages, needlework, and murals that adorned the walls. Even if some of them were pretty terrible.

He paused for a breather in front of a series of screen prints: puffins and seagulls in muted shades. His own face reflected back at him: bags under the eyes, hollow cheeks covered with two days’ stubble. Looking bent and broken and about ten years older than he had a week and a bit ago.

Yay...

He shuffled on, past the puffins, past a sort of Fuzzy-Felt-meets-Freddy-Krueger thing, past a huge oil painting of a tattooed woman’s face, and over to the lifts. A walk of about two minutes that had taken quarter of an hour.

Still, at least it was a change of scene.

He pressed the up button and waited. And waited. And waited.

Ding. The lift doors slid open revealing a gloomy metal box, with duct tape holding sections of the floor-covering down. An old man stood in the corner, his back to the lift, one hand over his eyes, a bouquet of flowers dangling from the fingers of the other as he cried.

Logan stepped inside. Selected the floor number from the list of wards printed onto strips of masking tape with permanent marker. Stood there in silence as the lift juddered and groaned its way up through the building.

Ding.

He wheeled his drip stand into another off-green corridor lined with variable artwork.

Better view out the windows though. Looking across the rest of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, down Westburn Road, and off to the North Sea. All of it shining in the afternoon sun.

He shuffled his way to a set of double doors, next to a green button, beneath a sign marked ‘SECURE WARD ~ RING FOR ENTRANCE’. So he did.

Then stood and watched two seagulls fighting over what was probably half a battered mealie pudding, until a nurse appeared and let him in.

‘Thanks. You haven’t seen a police officer kicking about, have you?’

She pointed. ‘Down there, on your left. Can’t miss her — she’s like a black hole for bourbon biscuits.’

Logan put his best slipper forward and followed the directions.

PC Baker was right where she was prophesied to be, sitting on a plastic chair, outside a private room. Short and stocky, with one arm in a bright-pink fibreglass cast. Nose buried in a J.C. Williams book: ‘PC MUNRO AND THE HANGMAN’S LAMENT’ according to the cover. She looked up as he shuffled over. Gave him a pained smile. Stood. ‘Inspector McRae! I didn’t know you were... Should you be up and about? You look like—’

‘Is he awake?’

The smile got even more pained. ‘Yeah, but maybe...’

Logan pushed through into the room anyway.

‘OK, then.’ She followed him inside.

It was a bigger room than his, sunlight streaming in through the open curtains, framing an even better view than the one from the corridor. The whole sweep of Aberdeen beach was on display, a crescent of gold and green, from the links all the way to Footdee and out to the hazy horizon.

Of course, Lee Docherty wasn’t in much of a position to enjoy it. He was slumped in his bed, skin as pale as boiled milk, with drips and tubes and wires connecting him up to machines and various pouches — both ingoing and outgoing. The latter hanging from the bedframe like horrible fruit.

He scowled at Logan, breathing in short jagged gasps. ‘Going to... sue... the arse... off you.’ Each word sounding as if it cost him a slice of his soul. And let’s face it, there couldn’t be much of it left.

‘Good luck with that.’ Logan leaned on the end of the bed, taking the weight off a bit. ‘Lee Jonathan Docherty; forty-five years old; currently residing at three Forest Crescent, Udny Station; form for criminal damage and assault.’

‘No... comment.’

‘You know we’re going to break your nasty wee paedophile ring into tiny pieces, don’t you, Lee? You and the rest of the kiddy fiddlers are all going to jail.’

Docherty’s chin came up an inch. ‘That’s slander. I... am not a... kiddy fiddler!.. My role is... strictly procurement.... inventory management.... and sales.’

‘That’s a shame, because fiddling with kiddies is exactly what we’re going to put you away for. And you know what they do to people like you in prison...?’

A small growl. Then he raised a wobbly hand, the middle finger barely making it upright. ‘No comment.’

‘Then there’s the murders of DS Lorna Chalmers and Angela Parks. And the attempted murder of Sally MacAuley. Oh, and trying to kill me too.’ Logan winked. ‘Let’s not forget that.’

Docherty’s hand fell back onto the covers and he panted for a bit. Then, ‘No... comment.’

‘Or you can make things easier on yourself and help us out? All those guys in the animal masks, do you think they’d take the fall to protect you?’

‘No comment.’

Logan poked one of Docherty’s legs through the blanket. ‘We’ve got one of your crew, Lee. Ian Stratmann, your “Number Five”. He’s looking at a looooong stretch, so what do you think he’s doing right now? Other than trying to grow his eyebrows back.’

More glowering.

‘I’ll give you a clue: it involves an interview room and telling us everything he can about you, your operation, your staff, and your customers.’ A grin. ‘Isn’t that fun?’

Docherty closed his eyes and sank into his pillows, voice barely audible in the sunny room. ‘No... bastarding... comment.’

‘Thought so.’ Logan turned and shuffled from the room, whistling a happy tune.

Outside the window, the sky was a swathe of dark violet with a thin smear of light blue at the bottom, fringed with gold as twilight turned into night.

Sally MacAuley shifted in the big visitor’s chair, staring down at her hands clasped in her lap. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t come earlier.’

‘It’s OK.’ Logan shook his head. ‘I get out soon anyway. Which is nice. Ten days of hospital food is worse than being stabbed.’

Aiden sat in the other chair, next to his mother. Not fidgeting. Not moving at all. Staring off into space, like a mannequin. Not even interested in the huge collection of kids’ drawings that plastered the room’s walls — everything from Rebecca Oliver’s violent fantasies and Ellie Morton’s vampire mice, to Jasmine and Naomi’s pirates and unicorns and zombies and dinosaurs.

Sally managed a moment’s eye contact, before concentrating on her hands again. ‘I... I wanted to tell you how grateful I am to you for saving Aiden.’

Aiden didn’t even react to the sound of his name.

‘How is he?’

‘He’s fine!’ Sounding brittle, but trying. ‘Aren’t you, Aiden?’

Still nothing.

She shrugged. ‘He’s just a bit... shy now.’ Sally cleared her throat. ‘That man in the grey mask, the Auctioneer, he would’ve killed me, wouldn’t he?’

Of course he would.

‘Best not to think about it.’

A nod. A long, uncomfortable pause. Then, ‘My lawyer says I’ll probably get community service. It was the stress made me do it. I only... borrowed Rebecca because I was so desperate to save Aiden. I wasn’t thinking straight.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘I’m sorry...’

Aiden just sat there.

49

Ten o’clock on a Friday morning and Divisional Headquarters should have been a buzzing hive of police work. Logan limped along the corridor without even the sound of a distant floor polisher for company.

Maybe everyone was out catching criminals for a change?

His crutch was one of those metal poles with a sticky-out handle and a plastic bit that your forearm fitted into. And it made an irritating clunk-scuff, clunk-scuff noise all the way down the grey terrazzo flooring.

Walking through the empty station was like something out of the Twilight Zone. Where the hell had everyone—

‘Logan! What are you doing here? Aren’t you still meant to be in hospital?’

He turned and there was Superintendent Doig, smiling at him, folder under one arm. Logan nodded. ‘Guv.’

‘You look terrible, by the way. And where’s your uniform? Anyone would think you’re auditioning for a Westlife tribute band in that outfit.’

‘I’m not even on duty!’ Logan frowned down at his jeans, shirt, and jacket. ‘And what’s wrong with my clothes? This is a perfectly good shirt, thank you very much.’

‘Listen, while I’ve got you.’ Doig held up his folder. ‘I had a meeting with the Police Investigations and Review Commissioner about you shooting that Lee Docherty scumbag.’

Really?

‘I didn’t have any choice, he was going to—’

‘Shoot you. I know.’ A smile. ‘And he would’ve killed Sally MacAuley too, if you hadn’t intervened. Her statement tallies with your version of events one hundred percent.’ He thumped a hand down on Logan’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘So I’m pleased to tell you that you’re officially off the hook. There’s even talk of a Queen’s Medal!’

‘A medal?’ Wow. An actual Queen’s Medal.

‘Possibly. Maybe.’ Doig glanced left and right, then dropped his voice and leaned in close. ‘You know how these things go. Best not to put too much—’

The Pet Shop Boys’ ‘Go West’ belted out of the Superintendent’s pocket and he hauled out his iPhone. Smiled at the screen, then grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry, got to take this. Good to see you up and about. Don’t forget your uniform next time, though!’ Then he turned and marched away, back straight, chest out, phone clamped to his ear. ‘Andy?... Of course I do, been looking forward to it all day... Ha!.. Put the Tanqueray in the freezer and we’ll celebrate when I get home.’ Doig disappeared through the double doors at the end, launching into a laugh that sort of simmered, then bubbled, then was cut off as the doors closed.

All right for some.

Logan limped over to his temporary office and stopped outside. Took a deep breath. Then let himself in.

Blinked.

Maybe he’d taken more of those painkillers than he’d thought, because not only were Rennie, Steel, and Tufty all in there, they were actually working. There were fresh notes written up on the whiteboard — some of which had been spelled correctly — and a sense of... well, purpose to the place. As if they’d gelled into a team in his absence.

Tufty was hunched over a laptop, frowning at the screen; Steel two-fingered-typing at a computer of her own — a pair of small square glasses perched on the end of her nose for squinting through.

And Rennie was on the phone: ‘Are you sure?... No, run it again... Because you’ve screwed something up, that’s why.’

Logan knocked on the door frame. ‘Don’t tell me DI Vine’s actually managed to mould you lot into an effective unit?’

They all swivelled their office chairs around.

Steel wheeched her glasses off. ‘Laz!’

Tufty beamed. ‘Sarge!’

Rennie mugged a grin and pointed at the phone he had to his ear, mouthing the word ‘Phone’, presumably in case Logan had forgotten what one looked like.

‘Thought you were no’ getting out till Monday!’ She stood. ‘I was going to pick you up.’

‘Only so much grey cauliflower-cheese one man can eat.’ He indicated the room with a sweep of his crutch. ‘Figured I’d pop by and say hello on the way home. See how you all were.’

‘Well, du-uh.’ Rennie rolled his eyes. ‘Because it’s obvious, isn’t it? Someone’s mixed the samples up.’

Tufty bounced in his chair like a wee boy. ‘Perfect timing, Sarge: I has had a genius of supermassive proportions!’ He spun around and hunched over the laptop again, clacking away at the keys. ‘Come see, come see!’

Logan limped over, Steel scuffing along behind.

She poked him. ‘You had us all worried there. Well, this pair of big girls’ blouses were worried. I’m made of sterner stuff.’

Tufty fiddled with the mouse. ‘See I’ve been having hella difficulty getting into DI Bell’s laptop and then my brain went “ping!”’

‘No need to worry: I’m fine. Only got stabbed once this time, barely counts. Might even be getting a medal.’

‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’

‘So,’ Tufty pointed at the screen — the default Windows login page, ‘I’d been trying all these combinations of Aberdeen Football Club dates and stats and stuff like that, but nothing ever worked. Then I “pinged”: he’s been living in Spain, so what if he speaks Spanish?’

Steel poked Logan again. ‘Look... can you... next time someone offers to stab you with a knife, just say no, eh? Susan’s barely eaten since she found out you died again. It’s no’ the same when she loses weight — I like a good handful when I go a-groping.’

‘And then I tried “the Dons” in Spanish: “los dones”, which is technically “the gifts”, but when I typed it in...’ His fingers clacked across the keyboard and the login page was replaced by a picture of Pittodrie Stadium, from the Richard Donald Stand, with a superimposed AFC logo. Subtle.

‘What happened with Danielle Smith?’

Steel shrugged. ‘Had to let her go. No evidence.’

‘No evidence?’ Logan banged his crutch on the carpet tiles. ‘She nearly caved my skull in! Tied me up! I had to escape from the boot of her sodding car!’

‘Aye, but you try proving that.’

‘She stole my phone! The one with the photos on it.’ Logan sagged. ‘I got the fat sod’s number plate...’

Tufty turned around in his seat again. ‘Do you lot want to know what I found or not?’

‘How could there not be any evidence?’

Rennie gave a loud performance groan. ‘All right, all right: I’ll hold.’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece and pulled a face at Logan. ‘You had Steel in tears, you rotten—’

She kicked him.

‘Ow!’

Tufty folded his arms. ‘I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t.’

‘Well, what about DNA? Her boot must’ve been full of it.’

‘DNA’s sod-all use when you douse everything in bleach.’

Logan slapped a hand over his eyes. ‘Oh for God’s sake...’

A sniff from Tufty. ‘I might as well not even be here.’

He sighed. Sagged. ‘All right, Tufty, what have you found?’

The wee sod bounced up and down in his chair again. ‘This!’ He clicked his mouse and a QuickTime window filled the screen. Not professional footage — the lighting was too bad for that, the picture a bit grainy, the colours slightly wonky from a poorly set white balance.

‘It was lurking in the system recycling bin.’

The video showed the inside of a shed, devoid of the usual tins of paint and lawnmowers and shovels and gardening odds and sods. The only things in here were a waist-height shelf along one wall with various cordless DIY tools on it, and a young man tied to a dining room chair. Fully dressed with a gag in his mouth.

Logan moved closer. ‘Isn’t that Fred Marshall?’

A figure appeared at the edge of the frame, too out of focus to be recognisable, but there was no mistaking her voice. Even though the words were a bit slurred and mushy. ‘What’s your name? Say your name.’

Marshall mumbled something behind his gag.

Sally MacAuley stepped into shot and slapped him hard enough to make the whole chair rock. And when he straightened up again, streaks of scarlet dribbled from his nose.

She ripped out the gag. Wobbling slightly. Drunk. ‘State your name for the record.’

He glared at her, blood turning his teeth pink. ‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch! I’m gonna carve you up like a—’

She slapped him again, even harder. Then turned to the shelf while Marshall sagged against the ropes, shaking his head. Drops of red splattering down across his grey sweatshirt.

He sat upright. ‘You think you’re scaring me? You think I’m—’

Sally smashed a hammer into his shoulder — a proper overhead all-her-weight-behind-it swing.

‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAARGH!’

She grabbed his collar, leaning in close: ‘WHERE’S MY SON? WHERE’S AIDEN?’

‘You’re crazy, bitch! You’re crazy!’

Then she grabbed a cordless drill from the shelf. Pressed the button. It vwipped and buzzed. Eager.

‘Gah...’ Logan recoiled from the screen as screaming belted out of the laptop’s speakers.

Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Jesus...’

‘It wasn’t DI Bell...’

Tufty nodded, a big smile on his face. ‘And in case you’re interested: the whole thing lasts forty-three minutes and fifty-two seconds.’ He pointed at the numbers on the bottom right of the screen. ‘I’m betting it gets a lot worse before the end.’

Marshall screamed and sobbed as Sally went in for another go.

‘Where’s my son? Tell me where he is and this can all stop. Just tell me. TELL ME!’

‘I don’t know! I don’t know...’ More sobbing. ‘I never touched him. It wasn’t me! I didn’t—’ Then more screaming.

Rennie licked his lips. ‘Yeah, we might owe the labs a bit of an apology.’

Steel jabbed him with a finger. ‘What did you do?’

‘TELL ME WHAT TO SAY! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT TO SAY!’

‘It wasn’t my—’ Rennie’s eyes bugged and he turned away from the laptop, phone up to his ear again. ‘Professor Ferdinand, how lovely to speak to—... No, I appreciate that... Yes.’

Logan reached forward and clicked pause. Sally MacAuley froze in the act of pulling the drillbit out of from Fred Marshall’s blood-soaked knee. ‘Does anyone else appear on this at any time?’

Tufty shrugged. ‘No idea, I only found it a minute ago. But I can have a look?’ He fiddled with the mouse and the picture lurched into fast forward, the figures blurring.

‘No, Professor, you’re quite right: professional courtesy costs nothing... Yes... I totally and utterly apologise. Unreservedly... I—’ Another groan. ‘No, that’s definitely your right, Professor... Thank you.’ Rennie hung up. Shuddered. Took a deep breath. Then turned, face and ears an uncomfortable shade of hot pink. ‘That was Professor Ferdinand. He says they’ve found Sally MacAuley’s DNA on DI Bell’s body. They only got a match because she had to give a sample when we arrested her for abducting Rebecca Oliver.’ He pulled on a sickly smile. ‘He might get in touch because, somehow, someone at the labs thinks I may have implied that they’re an incompetent bunch of arsemonkeys who couldn’t find yuck on a jobbie... Sorry.’

On the screen, the video whizzed all the way through to the end, freezing at the final frame — Fred Marshall, sagging in the chair, covered in blood, face a ruined mess of flesh and bone. Sally MacAuley standing beside him, weeping.

Tufty shook his head. ‘Looks like it’s a one-woman show. Well, one woman, one victim, but you know what I mean.’

Logan thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Get the car.’

Sally sat at the kitchen table, hands curled around her mug, face turned to the patio doors. She didn’t look around as Logan levered himself into the chair opposite.

Through the patio doors, the garden was a riot of green and orange — the pale fingers of beech leaves falling in one corner. In the other, Aiden was sitting on the playset’s swing. Not playing, not smiling, not laughing: sitting there. Motionless.

Sally wiped at her glistening eyes. ‘It’s like he’s dead.’

Logan put his notebook on the table. ‘It wasn’t kids who burned down the shed, was it? It was you.’

‘It’s like they took him away and killed my baby boy. And all I got back was this lifeless husk.’

‘After you tortured and murdered Fred Marshall, you needed to get rid of all that blood. So you burned it down.’

She bit her bottom lip. ‘He’s my son. But he’s dead.’ Wiped at her face again. ‘All this time I’ve been telling people I know he’s alive... and he’s not.’

‘Only DI Bell found out, didn’t he?’

She tore her eyes from the motionless child outside. ‘He was the only one who ever cared, so I called him up. I told him: “I’ve done something terrible...”’ A bitter laugh rattled free. ‘I only wanted Marshall to confess. To tell me what he’d done with Aiden, but he wouldn’t. And I got angrier and angrier and then...’ Deep breath. ‘And Duncan came round and he was horrified, of course he was, but he understood. He made it all better. Made the body disappear.’

‘Then why did you kill him?’

The wind picked up outside, tumbling fallen leaves across the lawn, setting Aiden swinging — but not much. As if the ghost of his father was trying to push him, but couldn’t quite manage it.

Sally stared into her coffee. ‘Have you ever done something you can’t... undo? That it doesn’t matter how good you try to be from that moment on, you’ve got this horrible dark stain that goes right to your core?’

Of course he had.

‘You stabbed him.’

‘It doesn’t matter if I scrub myself till I bleed. I’ll never be clean again. No wonder Aiden hates me.’

‘Bell heard there was going to be a new slip road going right through the pig farm where he buried Fred Marshall, so he came all the way back from Spain, back from the dead, to dig Fred up and rebury him somewhere he’d never be found. To protect you. And you killed him.’

A small shrug. ‘He’d found out about the plan to buy Aiden from the Livestock Mart. He wanted to go to the police.’ Her bitter laugh got colder and harder. ‘The police. All this time you’ve done nothing! And he wanted to hand the whole thing over to you. Let you ruin it. After everything I’d done to get that invitation.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Rennie put his hand on top of Sally’s head, making sure she didn’t bash it off the roof as she got into the pool car — both hands cuffed in front of her.

The other pool car sat between the horsebox and her four-by-four, blocking it in.

Steel took a long drag on her fake pipe thing, the words coming out in a huge cloud of strawberry steam. ‘So Ding-Dong didn’t kill anyone.’

Logan leaned on his crutch. ‘Except maybe Rod Lawson. Assuming the body we exhumed is actually him.’

‘Hairy Roddy Lawson? Pfff... I’d lay even money on the furry sod overdosing on bargain-basement heroin and supermarket vodka. That boy was a walking corpse at the best of times.’

Rennie buckled Sally in, clunked the door shut, and waved at them, grinning away like an idiot. Because what was the point of being one if you didn’t advertise the fact? One last flourish, then he climbed in behind the wheel, and drove off.

Don’t see what he had to be so happy about. It wasn’t as if anyone got a happy ending out of this one.

Logan limped across to the other pool car. ‘Only thing we can be certain of is that Fred Marshall didn’t kill Kenneth MacAuley. What she did to the poor sod... He would’ve confessed, no way he wouldn’t.’

‘Guvs?’ Tufty appeared around the corner of the woodshed, with Aiden in tow. The wee boy held his hand, but there was no connection to it. Tufty might as well have been pulling a wheelie suitcase behind him. ‘Well, technically Guv and Sarge, but “Guvs” was quicker. Anyway: update from the Children and Families team: they’re sending out a Margaret McCready? Says she knows you?’

‘Fred Marshall’s social worker.’ Logan nodded. ‘Suppose there’s a symmetry in that.’

Tufty squatted down in front of Aiden and smiled. ‘You’re going on an adventure! Isn’t that great?’

Aiden just looked at him.

‘Come on, Laz, get a shift on, eh?’ Steel leaned on the steering wheel, vaping out huge clouds of strawberry steam as Logan winced his way into the passenger seat.

He sat there, panting. Teeth gritted. It wasn’t so much a raging inferno as one of those underground coal fires. Smouldering deep in his innards.

That’s what he got for ignoring his consultant’s advice and discharging himself from hospital.

A deep breath. Then another one. Damping down the embers.

Steel reached across the car and put a hand on his arm. ‘Let’s get you home.’

Not yet.

Logan struggled the seatbelt into its clip. ‘Not till we’ve paid Danielle Smith a visit.’

Steel puffed out her cheeks. Shook her head. ‘You’re an idiot. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yeah.’ A smile. ‘But right now, I’m your superior idiot. So drive.’

50

The pool car bumped into the wee industrial estate in Northfield. It was a lot more picturesque in the sunshine — OK, the Granite Hill transmitter still loomed in the middle distance, but it wasn’t quite so angry Dalek-ish.

Logan pointed past the metal warehouses towards the Portakabins. ‘That one, down the end.’

‘And then we’re taking you home.’ She parked outside the AberRAD offices.

A big sign hung in the window, ‘CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE’.

So much for that.

Steel sniffed. ‘What now, oh great Superior Idiot?’

‘We try her home.’

Fields drifted past the car windows. They’d lost their lakes, and recovered a bit — the swathes of barley not quite so battered and bent, straightening out in the sun.

Steel frowned at him. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Cos I’ve scraped healthier-looking things out of Mr Rumpole’s litter tray.’

‘How are you finding working for DI Vine?’

‘I’m serious, Laz. From his litter tray.’

‘Everyone seems to have really gelled as a team.’

A snort. ‘Aye, because that’s all down to Johnny “the Vampire” Vine. Man’s got the people skills of a drunk pit bull.’ She slowed for the limits at Drumoak, the fields giving way to bungalows and teeny semidetached houses. ‘See, the key to dealing with motherfunkers like Vine is: you’ve got to keep them busy. Load them down with stuff to review and meetings to attend. Leaving you free to get on with the job.’

Logan nodded. ‘Wish I’d known that when I was working for you.’

‘Wouldn’t work on me.’ She turned into a housing estate of cut-and-paste bungalows. ‘I’m no’ a motherfunker. I’m spanktastic.’

‘You keep telling yourself that.’

She took a left, then another right, past a row of homes that looked as if they’d been modelled on bird boxes. ‘I’m a damn sight more spanktastic than you.’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’

Steel smiled across the car at him. ‘Have to admit, I’ve kinda missed this.’

He smiled back. ‘Big softy.’

Danielle Smith’s building plot sat at the end of the bird boxes, sealed away behind its border wall of temporary fencing. It looked as if she had company — two other cars had joined her white Clio on the driveway.

Steel parked across the entrance, blocking them in. ‘Try no’ to get stabbed this time, OK?’

‘Do my best.’ He clambered from the car, grabbed his crutch from the rear footwell, and limped up the driveway.

Danielle had been busy — the ground floor was laid out in stud partitioning, most of it wrapped in dark-blue builder’s paper. No sign of anyone, but the smell of hot coals and barbecuing meat wafted towards him in stomach-rumbling coils of smoky goodness.

Logan hobbled up the makeshift wooden ramp and in through a gap in the woodwork.

Danielle, Raymond Hacker, and Andy Harris occupied a large skeletal room in the far corner. It was a proper suntrap, sheltered from the wind, and the two men lounged in their shirt sleeves and folding picnic chairs, drinking bottled beer from a large plastic cooler. Danielle wore a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt, showing off a red floral tattoo that covered most of one forearm, grilling sausages on a kettle barbecue. Tongs in one hand, what looked like a G-and-T in the other.

She looked over her shoulder at Logan and Steel. Groaned. ‘What is it with cops and sausages? I swear you lot have a special built-in radar.’

Steel puffed out a cloud of strawberry vape. ‘Well would you look at that — the whole gang of tossers is here!’

Hacker curled his lip. ‘Oh grow up. You were a pain in the arse when I was a DS and you’re twice as bad now.’

‘Aye.’ Andy Harris grinned. ‘Only we don’t have to put up with it no more!’ He and Hacker clinked their bottles together in a toast. As if this was all some sort of joke. As if nothing had happened.

Really?

Logan hurpled through the maze of stud partitions towards Danielle. ‘You attacked me. You threatened me with an illegal firearm. You tied me up and stuck me in your bloody boot!’

Andy Harris’s grin got wider. ‘Some people would pay good money for that.’

She turned, tongs in hand. ‘You attacked me from behind, tied me up, and left me to burn to death! If Andy hadn’t found me, I’d be a Bacon Frazzle by now.’

‘So you admit being there?’

Danielle glowered. ‘You nearly ruined everything, you moron!’

Hacker sat forward, voice low and warning. ‘Danners...’

‘No, you know what? Time for some home truths.’ She jabbed the tongs at Logan. ‘You have any idea how long we spent getting in with those guys? Two years! Working weddings and events and charity dinners and concerts till they trusted us enough to do the Livestock Mart!’ She grabbed a sausage with her tongs and waved it at him. ‘And you swan in like a halfwit and come this close to screwing it all up.’ She slammed the sausage down again. ‘Should be ashamed of yourselves.’

Logan stared. ‘You were there to...?’

‘TO RESCUE AIDEN, YOU MORON!’ Face red, little flecks of spittle glowing in the sunlight.

Andy Harris shook his head. ‘Much good it did us. Never saw a penny of the reward.’ He thumped Hacker on the arm. ‘And has she answered any of your calls? No. Not a word. Didn’t even return your savings.’

‘That’s not fair. She’s—’

‘Oh grow up, Ray!’ Danielle hurled the tongs into the cool box. ‘All that lovey-dovey stuff was just so you’d help find her son. Soon as she got him home: nothing. She used us.’

Andy saluted her with his beer. ‘A sad truth, but a truth nonetheless. The female of the species, etc.’

Steel licked her lips, nostrils flaring as she sniffed. ‘Any chance of a sausage?’

‘See? Told you. It’s like built-in radar. And they’re vegetarian.’

‘Oh...’ Steel shrugged. ‘Ah well, I’m prepared to risk it.’

Logan frowned. ‘Hold on: you said it took years getting in with “them”. I thought you told us you joined that agency to get dirt on Fred Marshall? He worked for the same...’ Oh, bloody hell. Logan screwed his eyes closed. Idiot. ‘It’s Whytedug Facilitation whatnots, isn’t it? They’re the ones who organise the Livestock Mart!’

There was a low whistle. ‘Got to hand it to you, Danners: you said he was slow on the uptake.’

Logan stared at Danielle. ‘Why didn’t you report it?’

‘Because you lot wouldn’t have done anything without evidence. And now, thanks to us, you’ve got some.’

‘And you’ll testify to all this in court?’

‘To put a whole bunch of paedos away?’ She took a sip from her gin and tonic. Smiled. ‘You try stopping me.’

‘Good.’ Logan stuck his hand out. ‘Now give me back my phone.’

‘All I’m saying is it’d no’ kill us to stop off for twenty minutes and get some lunch.’

A burger van, parked by the side of the road, went by on the right.

‘I’m no’ talking about a three-course sit-down with wine and petit sodding fours. A baked tattie, a double bacon cheeseburger. Hell, even a Styrofoam thing of lukewarm stovies would be better than nothing!’

Logan checked his phone again. The battery was still showing a red line. ‘Are you sure this charger works?’

‘And before you say anything: no, two vegetarian sausages in a gluten-free bap doesn’t count.’ She shuddered. ‘Who in their right mind barbecues vegetarian sausages? No wonder she got kicked off the force.’

He pulled the plug from the pool car’s cigarette lighter and jammed it in again.

Maybe all that rain had buggered the wiring? Tufty could fix that, couldn’t he? Or rip the data off the memory card and onto a laptop? Something.

Steel pulled into the Whytedug car park. ‘You’re a slave driver, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Oh stop wheengeing.’

‘You’re no’ even meant to be on duty.’

‘Look, I’ll... buy you a fish supper afterwards, OK? Now can we go do this?’

She climbed out and waited for him. ‘A proper fish supper.’ Following him as he limped across the tarmac. ‘And I want onion rings too, as compensation for my emotional distress.’

A police Transit growled into the car park, stopping right outside the front doors.

Logan paused on the way past and knocked on the passenger window.

It buzzed down and he leaned on the sill. ‘Are we all set?’

Sergeant Mitchell grinned and offered him a printout. ‘You want us to go first and Big-Red-Door-Key it?’

‘No, let’s go for the Pop-Up Surprise. I want to be there when it happens.’

‘You’re the boss, Boss.’

Logan slipped the warrant into his pocket then hobbled through the doors and up the stairs into the reception area.

Jerry Whyte’s assistant stepped out from behind his desk with a broad smile, shark’s-fin haircut perfectly lacquered. ‘Inspector McRae, how lovely to see you! I read all about your adventures in the paper last week.’ He put a hand against his Breton-topped chest. ‘What an ordeal! I’m so glad...’

Logan limped straight past him to the doors.

‘No, hold on, I have to buzz you in or—’

‘“Or” what?’ Steel poked a finger in his chest, blocking his way. ‘That a threat, sunshine?’

Logan shoved the doors open and lumbered inside.

Jerry Whyte was on her leather couch, phone to her ear, bare feet up on the coffee table. Haggis the terrier draped across her lap — snoring as she stroked his yellowy fur. ‘No, you tell the ambassador it’s nothing but a tiny setback. My people...’ She looked up. Pulled on an annoyed smile. ‘Sorry, Claus, I have to go... No, something’s come up. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about.’ A throaty laugh. ‘Yes... OK, bye.’

She put the phone down as Mr Sharksfin finally managed to work his way past Steel.

‘I’m sorry, Jerry, they barged in!’

A shrug. ‘It’s OK, Harvey. Why don’t you get us some coffee? Flat whites all round? Great.’

He slipped from the room, leaving the three of them alone.

Haggis woke up, stretched. Gazed around the room with rheum-crusted eyes.

She ruffled the fur between his ears. ‘Now, Inspector, what can I do for you this lovely October morning?’

‘We’re here to—’

‘Before we begin,’ she lowered Haggis to the carpet and stood, ‘first I want to say a huge thank you for bringing Ellie Morton home safe and sound. And not just her, but all those other children too!’ Whyte launched into a one-woman round of applause. ‘Absolutely astonishing. I saw it on the news. Stirring stuff. Well done!’

Haggis shuffled his way over and had a good sniff at Logan’s trousers.

She held up a hand. ‘And I know: I promised you guys a case of Glenlivet. Don’t worry, I’m a woman of my word. And we’ve got to think about the reward money. Yes, it was meant to be for “information leading to”, but I think it’s only fair to let you guys nominate a charity for that. OK? OK. Great.’ She raised her voice at the open office door. ‘Harvey? Get my chequebook!’

Whyte settled into the couch again, arms draped along the back. Winked at Logan. ‘Don’t mention it. Happy to help.’

Steel looked at him, raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on then.’

‘Actually, Miss Whyte, we’ve got a present for you.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out Sergeant Mitchell’s sheet of paper. ‘Jerry Whyte, I have a warrant here to search these premises and seize all electronic items for forensic analysis.’ He made a rising gesture. ‘Up we get.’

She stood, frowning. ‘But this is some sort of mistake, right?’

‘Jerry Whyte: I am arresting you under Section One of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016 for organising events where children are bought and sold for the purposes of sexual exploitation.’

Her face hardened. ‘Harvey? HARVEY, GET MY LAWYER HERE! GET HIM HERE NOW!’

Deep breath: ‘The reason for your arrest is that I suspect you have committed an offence and I believe that keeping you in custody is necessary and proportionate for the purposes of bringing you before a court or otherwise dealing with you in accordance with the law. Do you understand?’

‘HARVEY!’

‘You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be noted and may be used in evidence. Do you understand?’

Haggis stopped sniffing Logan’s trousers and started barking at him instead.

Steel stuck two fingers in her mouth and belted out a deafening whistle. ‘In your own time, boys!’

The ‘boys’ — Sergeant Mitchell and his team — trooped into the room, each one the size of a Rwandan silverback, dressed in combat trousers and big bovver boots.

Haggis squared up to them, barking and growling.

‘I do require you to give me your name, date of birth, place of birth, nationality, and address.’ Logan pulled out his handcuffs. ‘You have the right to have a solicitor informed of your arrest and to have access to a solicitor.’

‘This is not happening.’ Jerry Whyte backed up, till she was stopped by her desk.

‘These rights will be explained to you further on arrival at a police station.’

‘HARVEY!’

Logan shifted in his chair. Didn’t matter how much he wriggled, nothing made it ache any less. He wiped his greasy fingers on another napkin. No point getting it all over DI Bell’s laptop.

He moved the mouse till the pointer hovered over the video of Sally MacAuley torturing Fred Marshall. Clicked it open again.

The shed. Marshall tied to a chair. Gag in his mouth.

Sally, sounding drunk: ‘What’s your name? Say your name.’

Marshall mumbling something behind his gag.

She slapped him, ripped out the gag. ‘State your name for the record.’ As if she was taking a deposition. As if this would have ever been admissible in court.

‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch! I’m gonna carve you up like—’

Logan switched the video off before the screaming started. Slumped a bit further, rubbed his face with his hands.

Still no sign of anyone.

Should’ve headed home after arresting Jerry Whyte. It wasn’t as if Whyte was going to confess, was it? Nope: it’d be an expensive lawyer, followed by about two hours of ‘no comment’ and, if they were extremely lucky, remanded without bail.

Yes, but there was no point going home till Steel and Rennie returned with Rooster, AKA: Lionel Beaconsfield. The greasy, child-molesting lump would absolutely brick himself when they dragged him in. That would be worth a watch.

Till then. Pfff...

He had a look in DI Bell’s documents folder. All of which seemed to be in Spanish. So someone else would have to go through that.

How about the pictures?

The directory was full of folders, the folders full of happy family snaps. Bell and his new wife and their wee boy, grinning away in the Mediterranean sunshine. At a market. At the beach. In the mountains. Eating ice cream. A first birthday party. A romantic candlelit dinner for two...

And now he was dead. Because he tried to save Sally MacAuley from herself.

Logan swivelled his seat. ‘Tufty, has anyone delivered the death message to...’

Ah. Right. He was the only one here. ‘Talking to yourself again, Logan. Told you: it’s not a good sign.’

He frowned at the laptop.

‘I wonder...’

It only took a couple of seconds to track down the Skype logo and click on it. The sign-in box popped up, the username ‘CARLOSPRIETO1903’ already loaded up as the account name. Logan clicked on ‘NEXT’ for the password screen.

What was it Tufty had come up with: ‘The Dons’ in Spanish?

Logan tried, ‘los dones’ but that threw an error.

How about with capitals? ‘LOS DONES’ — still no.

‘OK, all one word...’

Aha! The computer made its weird backwards-sigh noise and up came Skype, with all of Bell’s contacts listed on the left.

He clicked on the ‘RECENT’ tab.

Top of the list was ‘TERESA CASCAJO LUCIANA’. The avatar next the her name was the same happy woman from the family snaps. But second from the top was ‘ROSE SAVAGE’.

Clicking on her name brought up a big list of interactions — the most recent being a call on Thursday, the day before they found Bell’s body, lasting forty-nine minutes and eighteen seconds.

The office door bumped open and Tufty reversed in, carrying a tray with teas and biscuits on it. He clunked a mug down in front of Logan. ‘Got an update on the Sally MacAuley interview. She’s now denying she had anything to do with stabbing DI Bell. Says he was like that when he turned up at her door, and she tried to help him.’

She lied to them. Sergeant Rose Savage, lied.

Tufty wiggled a packet of Jammie Dodgers at him. ‘You want a biscuit?’

The rotten, dirty, scheming—

‘Are you OK, Sarge?’

Logan curled his hands into fists. ‘I want you to go find Sergeant Rose Savage and I want you to bring her here. Right now.’

51

Sergeant Savage sat on the other side of the table, dressed in her civvies, hair hanging down around her shoulders. Arms crossed. Big Gary hulked next to her in all his porky glory — chest, shoulders, and belly straining his Police Scotland T-shirt to near bursting point. The sergeant’s epaulettes on his shoulders looked tiny in comparison. And, for once, he wasn’t smiling.

Tufty had his notepad out, the little red light on the recording apparatus winking away next to him. Pen wriggling as he wrote down Logan’s question.

Savage shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s over, OK?’ Logan shifted in his seat, but the burning embers wouldn’t settle. They wanted to ignite.

She turned to Big Gary. ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’

‘Don’t look at me.’

Logan tapped the tabletop. ‘When I spoke to you at the Mastrick station, you told me you hadn’t seen DI Duncan Bell since you identified his body two years ago. Would you like to amend that statement?’

Her expression didn’t change. ‘I haven’t seen him.’

‘Well, that is odd. Constable Quirrel?’

Tufty produced his phone and poked at the screen.

The Skype ringtone binged and booped out from Savage’s pocket.

Logan pointed. ‘It’s OK, you can go ahead and answer that.’

She did. ‘Hello?’

Her voice crackled from Tufty’s phone. ‘Hello?’

Big Gary shook his head, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘So she’s on Skype. There a point to this?’

‘I wanted to make sure that the Skype address we had was actually yours, Sergeant Savage. Would you like to know where we found it?’

‘You’re my Federation rep, Gary, do I have to put up with this, or can I leave?’

A huge rolling shrug. ‘Wouldn’t advise it at this stage.’

‘We found your address on DI Bell’s laptop. You spent forty-nine minutes and eighteen seconds on Skype with him on Thursday evening.’

Tufty checked his notes. ‘Call started at twenty-five past seven and ended at eight fourteen.’

She stared. ‘I don’t...’

‘So,’ Logan spread his hands out on the tabletop, ‘I’m going to ask you again: would you like to change your statement?’

‘Bloody...’ She took a deep breath. ‘So, the thing is—’

‘Before you launch into another lie, Sergeant, bear in mind we’ll find out the truth anyway. And it’ll look a lot better for you if you cooperate.’

She covered her face with her hands and screamed at the tabletop. Then sagged. Sat back. Let her hands fall. And stared at Logan. ‘Ding-Dong wasn’t a bad cop, he just...’ She shook her head. ‘The MacAuley woman had him wrapped so tight he was about to pop. He was talking about leaving Barbara for her. Thought she was this noble warrior queen...’

The only sounds were Tufty’s pen scratching at his notepad and the distant-thunder growl of Big Gary’s stomach.

‘So he’s all guilty that we can’t get anything to stick on Fred Marshall and he goes round there and he blubs the whole thing out to her. What we knew, what we suspected. And two days later he gets this call from her — she’s drunk and she’s sorry and she needs his help. And what does Ding-Dong find when he rushes over there like a lovesick spaniel?’

Tufty glanced up from his pad. ‘Fred Marshall?’

‘Frederick Albert Marshall, looking like something out of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. So Ding-Dong takes care of it. Buries the body on some pig farm he knows about, where it’ll never be found. To protect her.’

Logan sat forward. ‘What about Rod Lawson?’

‘Ah.’ She bit her lip. Frowned at the tabletop. ‘Ding-Dong was consumed with guilt. After all: if he’d kept his big mouth shut she wouldn’t have killed Fred Marshall. He bottles it up for weeks and weeks, but he’s getting worse, you know? Calls me in the middle of the night and he’s talking about ending it all.’ Savage huffed out a breath. ‘Eight days later he’s following up a lead on a batch of heroin that’s been cut with scouring powder, and there’s Rod Lawson — lying on his back in this manky squat, all on his own, dead as a breeze block. Hadn’t been dead for long — rigor mortis not even set in yet — but it’s too late to save him. So Ding-Dong decides to fake his own death using Rod Lawson’s body, then slips away to start a new life in Spain.’

‘And DI Bell did this all on his own, did he?’

The car lurches and bumps into the clearing, its headlights catching a manky old caravan. Rusty, and forgotten. Which is what makes this the ideal spot.

Ding-Dong’s Volkswagen Passat is already sitting there, parked opposite, the engine running.

Rose pulls up next to it.

He’s behind the Passat’s wheel, wiping the heel of his hand across his eyes. As if now was the time to start getting squeamish. Nope. Too late for that.

She hauls on the handbrake, gets out, and walks over to the Passat. Opens the driver’s door. ‘Ready?’

Ding-Dong just nods. Probably doesn’t trust himself to speak without blubbing.

Typical.

‘Leave your wallet and the suicide notes on the passenger seat.’

He bites his bottom lip and does what he’s told.

‘Come on, Guv: best get it over and done with.’ She snaps on a double pair of blue nitrile gloves and leads him around to the boot of her car. Well, not her car. The car she ‘borrowed’ from outside Rod Lawson’s house. The one that’s going straight to the dismantlers, soon as they’re done here.

Rose pops the boot open and frowns down at the star of the show: Rod Lawson, groaning and grunting away. Ugly, hairy sod that he is, all dressed up in Ding-Dong’s Tuesday best. Hands cuffed behind his back, high-viz limb restraints securing his knees together. Well: no point taking any risks, is there?

‘Grab his legs.’

Ding-Dong doesn’t move.

‘I’m not doing this all myself. It’s your arse I’m saving here!’

Finally, he nods, and together they wrestle Lawson out of the boot, across the litter-strewn clearing, and into the caravan.

The car’s headlights ooze through the grimy windows. Not enough light to read by, but enough for what they need. Inside, the caravan’s filthy: most of the units twisted and broken, graffiti and stains on the walls, the door torn off the chemical toilet. The burnt stubs of roaches and scraps of scorched tinfoil make it pretty clear what this place has been used for.

Rose kicks an empty two-litre of supermarket-brand cider out of the way, sending it skittering and booming its hollow plastic song under the table, where it bounces off the pile of firewood stacked there.

Between them, they get Lawson propped up on the table. He wobbles a bit, but he stays there. It’s OK: doesn’t have to be for long.

She marches over to the car, grabs two of the green plastic petrol cans from the Passat’s boot, then makes another trip for two more.

Ding-Dong still hasn’t moved — standing there with his bottom lip trembling. Staring at Lawson.

Rose gives him a shove. ‘Get the shotgun.’ And finally, he stumbles out.

Poor old Hairy Roddy Lawson. The Sandilands Sasquatch. Wobbling away on a manky table, in a manky caravan, parked in a manky clearing. The huge egg growing on his left temple is all red around the edges — not yet darkened into a proper bruise.

‘I got...’ Ding-Dong climbs into the caravan, clutching the shotgun against his chest in his ungloved hands. He clears his throat and tries again: ‘It’s...’ He fidgets with the gun, staring at it, avoiding the drug dealer in the room. ‘It was my dad’s.’

Why do men have to be such babies?

Rose arranges the petrol cans around the caravan. No point opening them yet — want the thing to burn, not explode.

Ding-Dong is still standing there.

‘Sooner the better, Guv.’

A thick greasy tear fights its way over the bags under his eyes, rolls down his cheek and into his beard. ‘I can’t.’

Babies, the lot of them.

‘Fine. We’ll go arrest Sally MacAuley for murder instead. That what you want?’

‘I never...’ full-on sobbing now, ‘I never wanted... any... of this!’

She sighs. Puts her hand out. ‘God’s sake, give it here.’

The shotgun is cold and heavy in her hands as she swings it around and pulls the trigger. No hesitation. No sodding about.

BOOOOOOOOM! It makes the whole caravan vibrate as most of Rod Lawson’s head disappears. Like popping a water balloon full of tomato soup. The air reeks of butchers’ shops and fireworks, a high-pitched whistling screech in her ears.

Ding-Dong’s mouth falls open. Eyes wide. Tears pouring down his cheeks.

She shoves him towards the door. ‘Come on, out. Get out of here, now!’

Have to admit, without the head, Lawson looks a lot more like Ding-Dong. The clothes help, of course. Now: time for the finishing touches. She uncuffs his hands, opens the ziplock bag of jewellery and dresses him up in Ding-Dong’s rings, watch, and bracelet. Double checks everything is where it should be as bits of skull and teeth and scalp and brains drip down the rear window.

Done.

She has one last look at him. Shrugs. ‘Nothing personal.’

Then Rose unscrews the caps from all the petrol cans, tips three of them over, and hurries outside with the fourth — leaving a trail of unleaded behind her. As soon as she’s at a safe distance, she stops. Takes out a book of matches, cups her hand to shield one as she lights it, then holds it to the puddle at her feet.

Blue and yellow flames race towards the caravan, leap the steps and WHOOMP! The skylight and windows blow out, spinning away into the darkness. Then the fire takes hold and Rod Lawson’s funeral pyre pops and crackles as flesh and plastic and fibreboard go up.

She tosses the empty petrol can in through the door. Turns.

Ding-Dong is on his knees, arms wrapped around his head, sobbing.

Poor old sod. And all because he couldn’t say no to Sally MacAuley...

Rose walks over and pats his shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s get you on that boat.’

The recording light blinked as Sergeant Savage frowned. ‘I only found out what Ding-Dong had done when he Skyped me on Thursday. Completely out of the blue. He didn’t mention anything about an accomplice, but... I don’t know. Maybe? Be impossible to prove, though. After all this time.’

Logan stared at her. ‘Really.’

‘I genuinely thought he was dead. When I identified his remains, I thought that was him on the mortuary slab.’ She sighed. Shook her head. Pity poor me. ‘I was going to come forward, after he called, but it’s all been such a shock...’

Of course it had. And it was about to get much worse.

Logan pulled a sheet of paper from his folder and placed it on the table. ‘If you hadn’t heard from him, then why is there a big list of calls between your Skype account and his over the last two years?’

She pursed her lips and sat back in her chair. Crossed her arms again. ‘I think I’m going to want to speak to my lawyer before I answer any more questions.’

‘What a surprise.’

Tufty followed Logan out into the corridor and clunked the interview room door shut behind him. ‘What do you think? Do you think she was in on it? I think she was in on it.’

Logan grunted, turned, and limped off down the corridor, his crutch making its irritating clunk-scuff, clunk-scuff noise all the way to the stairwell.

Tufty strolled along beside him. ‘Bet she’s guilty as a hedgehog in a condom factory.’

‘I don’t care. I’m tired, I’m sore, and I’m going home.’

52

Steel’s MX-5 scrunched up onto Logan’s driveway with a completely unnecessary roar. Roof down, stereo thumping out Frightened Rabbit’s ‘The Modern Leper’. Very cheerful.

He unfastened his seatbelt. ‘I could’ve made my own way home, you know.’

‘Aye, right.’ She got out and produced her e-cigarette. Puffed herself a watermelon-scented fog bank. ‘Anyway, got sod-all to do till your mate Beaconsfield’s brief turns up. Fiver says I can get him to roll on Russell Morton and Jerry Whyte.’ She jerked her chin at Logan. ‘You needing a hand?’

‘No.’ Bloody MX-Bloody-5. Why couldn’t they have made the thing easier to get in and out of for people suffering from a massive stab wound? Of course, if she’d left the roof on, he could’ve used it to lever himself up, but nooo...

He struggled out, using his crutch and the car door for leverage. Stood there, grimacing as fire burned its way across his stomach and up into his lungs.

She walked around the car and put a hand on his arm. ‘You sure you don’t want me to come in? Make you a cup of hot sweet tea, or something?’

‘Go away. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She puffed a lungful of watermelon at him. ‘You know, me being nice to you is a limited-time offer?’

‘Go! Give Susan an inappropriate hug from me.’ He turned and limped towards the house.

‘OK. But I’m going nowhere till you’ve made it inside without collapsing or dying.’

He hobbled up the step, unlocked the front door, and scruffed inside. Turned and made shooing gestures until she rolled her eyes, climbed into her car, and vroomed off in a buckshot-spray of flying gravel and a blast of music.

‘Oh thank God for that.’

He thumped the door shut and leaned against it as the fires raged.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Aaaargh... Maybe checking out of the hospital three days early wasn’t such a good idea after all? Grey cauliflower cheese or not.

He straightened up. ‘Cthulhu? Where’s Daddy’s girl? Where’s you, Cthulhu?’

No reply.

Logan limped through into the living room. Still no cat.

She wasn’t in the kitchen either. But there was a massive pile of dirty pots and dishes in the sink. None of which were his. ‘Great...’

Well, they could wait.

Right now it was time for a couple of antipsychotics and a whole heap of industrial-strength painkillers.

He hobbled out into the hall, and ditched his coat on the end of the stairs. Kicked off his shoes. ‘Where are you, you daft cat?’

The stairs were a bit of a challenge, so he got both feet onto one before starting on the next. Paused two thirds of the way up for a breather. Then one last push from base camp to the landing.

‘Cthulhu?’

So much for the big welcome home. Oh, I missed you, Daddy.

He stopped by the bathroom for pills and a pee, then clumped his way along the landing floorboards. Clunk-scuff, clunk-scuff. Unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand on the way.

‘Westlife tribute band’ indeed. Superintendent Doig was a cheeky sod.

The bandages around his stomach were pristine white, except for the faint yellow stain over the hole Number Five made. Still: could’ve been worse — Lee Docherty had an exit wound to deal with as well. And hopefully it really hurt.

Finally — the bedroom.

He opened the door and froze.

Sunlight streamed in through the windows. A solid bar of it lay across the bed, catching Tara’s hair and making it glow like Lucozade. She was spreadeagled on top of the duvet, fully clothed in joggy bottoms and a tartan T-shirt, one leg hanging over the edge of the bed. Mouth open, making snuffling snorey noises.

At least that solved the mystery of the missing cat — Cthulhu was curled up on her chest. A fuzzy yawn and Cthulhu stood, back arched as she launched into her stretching routine, tail fuzzy as a feather duster.

‘Well, it wasn’t my fault I had to stay in hospital for a week, was it? Somebody stabbed me. Again.’

She padded over and he rubbed her ears, smiling as she closed her eyes and leaned into it, purring.

‘Oh ha, ha. “That’s just careless.” You’re a laugh riot, aren’t you?’

More purring.

Tara screwed up her face, making little smacking noises with her mouth. Then peered up at him, blinking. Scrubbed at her eyes. ‘Whtimisit?’

‘Thought you were in Birmingham on a course?’

‘Urgh.’ She yawned. Shuddered. ‘Time off for good behaviour.’

He peeled off his shirt, undid his trousers, and collapsed onto the bed. Winced. ‘Ow...’

‘And before you complain, I was going to tidy up before you got home tomorrow.’ Tara rolled over and draped an arm across him. ‘You’re—’

‘Ow! Get off, get off!’ God, it was like being thumped with a crowbar.

She squinted at him. ‘And if this is your idea of foreplay, it leaves a lot to be desired too.’

Ahhh...

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’

‘Positive.’ Logan settled in amongst the bubbles, mug of tea in one hand, the other making lazy ripples bob through the water. Warm. Comforting. Wet. ‘My surgeon says I’m allowed baths.’

‘Hmm...’ Tara sat on the toilet lid, with a large glass of red wine. She held the shiraz out. ‘I don’t mind sharing, you know.’

‘Can’t: pills.’

Cthulhu hopped up onto the bath surround and sat there, watching him, head on one side, prooping and meeping.

Logan groaned. ‘All right, all right, quit nagging. I’m doing it.’ He turned to Tara. ‘Thanks for looking after the furry monster here for me. It was a massive help and I really, really appreciate it.’

‘That’s the only reason you gave me a key, isn’t it? So I’d look after your cat if you got stabbed and hospitalised.’

‘Yeah... something like that.’ He rested his head against the tiles and closed his eyes.

‘So, did it all turn out well in the end?’

Good question.

‘Well, Sally MacAuley got her son back for a whole ten days — he’s in care now and she’s off to prison. DI Bell ruined his life for her and got killed for it. We still don’t know who all the paedophiles in the animal masks were. A journalist got kicked to death. And I’m lying here with yet another stab wound to join the collection. So, on the whole? Not really.’

She dipped a couple of fingers in the water. ‘God, you’re cheery, aren’t you?’

‘There’s one consolation: Mrs Irene Marshall isn’t too happy about Crowbar Craig Simpson trying to pin Kenneth MacAuley’s murder on her beloved dead husband. So she’s been telling DI Fraser all sorts of interesting stories about what Crowbar’s been up to since he moved in with her: extortion, drugs, punishment beatings, that smash-and-grab at Finnies in July... You know what they say: “Heav’n has no rage, like love to hatred turn’d, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.”’

‘Hark at you with the poetry.’

‘And while we’re doing him for all that, it’ll give us plenty of time to prove he was the one who murdered Kenneth MacAuley and abducted Aiden. He’ll get at least twenty years.’

Tara raised her glass. ‘Then here’s to Craig Simpson spending the rest of his life in prison.’

Logan clinked his mug against it and smiled. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Marky scuffed his way down B wing.

The sound of what could almost pass for singing boomed out across the Second Flat as the newly formed HMP Grampian Male Voice Choir committed attempted murder on an acapella version of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

He stopped outside Crowbar Craig Simpson’s cell. Peered in through the open door.

A small room, identical to all the others in this place: one corner walled off for the tiny en suite shower and toilet, a narrow desk with a kettle and a cheap TV on it, a barred window looking out to sea, walls covered in film posters and photos of a curly-haired woman with big glasses, a toddler, and an ugly dog. The inoffensive scent of lemon floor polish...

Crowbar was on his bunk, dressed in the standard prison-issue navy jogging bottoms and blue sweatshirt, one hand behind his head, the other mangling a paperback — the spine bent so far back it was broken.

Now that made Marky’s gums itch. There were killers in here, people who’d strangled their wives, or battered a drug rival to death with a sledgehammer, or drowned their own brother, or slit a stranger’s throat because they supported the wrong football team.

But to do that to a book?

Marky knocked on the door frame and Crowbar tore his eyes from PC Munro and the Cheesemaker’s Curse for all of two seconds, before returning to his tortured paperback.

‘What do you want, Marky?’

See, that was the trouble with your criminal element today: no respect. Someone like Crowbar looked at someone like Marky and all they saw was a little old man, his joggy bottoms and polo shirt faded almost grey after years of washing in the prison laundry. White hair going a bit thin on top. Arthritis-swollen hands. A back that would never be straight again.

Marky shuffled inside. ‘You busy?’

‘What’s it look like?’ Lying there with his stupid handlebar moustache and, what was it they called it these days, a ‘soul patch’? A barbed-wire tattoo around your throat didn’t make you a hard man. Not in here.

Didn’t even have the decency to put his book down when someone visited him.

Very rude.

Marky made a come-hither gesture and Ripcord and Charlie Bing slipped into the cell. Huge men, but they could move like ballet dancers when they wanted to. Charlie Bing: almost totally covered in DIY tattoos. Ripcord: face like the back end of an articulated lorry. Both wrapped in the kind of muscles you only got by spending eight-to-life in a prison gym.

The cell wasn’t big to start with, but now it was positively claustrophobic.

Marky put his hands in his pockets. ‘No need to be like that, Crowbar, not when I’ve got a present for you.’

Crowbar turned the page. ‘Not interested.’

He still hadn’t looked up from his book. How could anyone be so completely self-absorbed and unaware?

‘That’s a shame.’ Marky nodded at Ripcord and the big man eased the door closed without so much as a single squeak, muting the choir’s crimes. Another nod.

Ripcord and Charlie Bing lunged forward, silent as cats, pinning the disrespectful sod to the bed — one of Ripcord’s huge hands clamped down over Crowbar’s mouth.

His eyes went wide, tearing across the three of them. Then the struggling started: bucking and writhing, accompanied by what were probably meant to be threats. It was difficult to tell with Ripcord’s hand in the way.

But it was nice to see Crowbar paying attention at last.

Marky gave him a smile. ‘Sally MacAuley wants you to have this.’

It was a lovely piece of cell-made craft — a half-razor-blade embedded in a toothbrush. And you could tell it was quality, because the guy who’d made it had melted the plastic in the toothbrush’s head first, so the blade would stay in there nice and tight. Had to admire craftsmanship like that.

Unfortunately, Crowbar didn’t seem too keen: he went absolutely berserk on the bed. But Ripcord and Charlie Bing held firm.

‘Don’t be ungrateful, Crowbar, she’s spent a lot of money on your present. The least you can do is try and enjoy it.’ Marky held the blade against the skin beneath Crowbar’s left eye. ‘And I know you’ll be worried, but we’ve got plenty of time. At least a couple of hours till they fix the CCTV. Be lights out before they find what’s left of you. And the choir will drown out any screams, so we won’t even disturb anyone.’ He let his smile spread, showing off as much of his dentures as he could. ‘That’s nice, isn’t it?’

Marky eased the blade upwards, pulling a trickle of blood from Crowbar’s eyelid.

‘Now, this might nip a bit...’