This House of Burning Bones

55

‘Gaaaaaaaaaaaah...’ Logan’s eyes snapped open as a horrible marimba tune bonk-bong-dwiddled out of his mobile. The phone skittered and vibrated away on the bedside cabinet, as if the tune wasn’t irritating enough.

One hand fumbled for the bloody thing, killing the alarm.

Then he sagged back into the mattress, blinking up at the ceiling. Followed by a gargantuan yawn. And a groan.

Oh right — the op.

Cthulhu was snuggled into the gap between his arm and his stomach, her fur warm against the skin as she grunted out little-fuzzy-cat snores.

Logan creaked out of bed, pausing to give Cthulhu a kiss on the head, let another yawn shudder-burp free, then grabbed his dressing gown and slouched away for a pee.

Logan scuffed into the kitchen, pulling a plain grey T-shirt on — tucking it into his jeans and hiding all those puckered ribbons of scar tissue — smothering a yawn. Casting an eye at the kitchen clock as he slumped over to the fridge. Twenty-two minutes to get back to the station and set up some sort of operational briefing.

Tara and Elizabeth sat at the table, watching him. Cup of tea for Tara, ‘Evening, sleepyhead.’

While the Elizabomb tucked into mini-hotdogs-and-beans on toast with a dollop of brown sauce and a glass of milk on the side. Very Heston Blumenthal.

Logan ruffled her hair on the way past.

‘Da-ad!’

A disapproving look from the Tea-Drinking Department. ‘Tell me you’re not going back into work.’

He liberated a slice of plastic cheese. ‘Have to. Got a horrible little racist scumbag arsonist to catch; briefing’s at seven.’ Unwrapping the floppy yellow square. ‘We’re going to swoop in and arrest him at the circus, which is a first for me... I’ve arrested people at abattoirs, and film sets, stone circles, and sex dungeons, but never the circus.’ A bite of buttery, unchallenging comfort.

‘Speaking of which — your protégé, Tufty, called. Apparently the lady at the ticket office thought he was a “cutie”, so he’s got a dozen complimentary tickets for the eight o’clock show tonight.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Which means Lizzasaurus Rex and I will be joining you.’

More cheese. ‘Tufty might be a lot of things, but he is not my “protégé”. He’s...’ Hang on a minute. ‘No — you can’t come! That’s just... no.’

Elizabeth bounced up onto her knees. ‘Oh, come on, Daddy! Can we? Can we, please?’ Playing up the lisp. ‘Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeathe?’

Logan finished off his artificial square of processed dairy product. ‘Definitely not. And it’d be way past your bedtime.’

Tara frowned at him. ‘Don’t see why.’

‘How about because it’s an active murder investigation?’ Unwrapping another slice.

‘Going by how you’re dressed, this is an undercover op, and I do hundreds of those with Trading Standards. Probably way more than you have.’

‘That’s not the—’

‘And what looks less suspicious — you creeping about the circus on your own, like a pervert, or a man with his wife and child?’ She stood and plonked her mug in the sink. ‘Besides, it’ll be nice not having to pretend Dildo’s my husband for a change. I mean, his arse is nice enough, but he’s an awful kisser.’

Kisser?

Logan blinked at her. ‘Wait, what?’

Tara tidied away Elizabeth’s plate. ‘Come on, Lizz-zilla: grab your coat and get your boots on. We’re going undercover!’

‘But—’

She clapped her hands. ‘Move it, people: wheels up in five!’

‘I didn’t agree to any of—’

‘Don’t want to be late for the briefing, do you?’

‘But...’

‘We’ll take The Tank; I’m driving.’

And she was out the door, with Elizabeth skipping along behind — singing:

Leaving Logan alone in the kitchen with his flaccid slice of not-quite cheese.

Logan strode into the open-plan office, bang on seven o’clock, to see what sort of crack team of hotshot officers Chief Superintendent Pine had assembled for him.

Which turned out to be Steel, Tufty, Barrett, Biohazard, Doreen, and Sergeant Bernard ‘Spudgun’ Moore — an unremarkable middle-aged man with mousey hair, a pronounced chin-cleft, and one leg slightly longer than the other.

Suppose some days you just had to work with what you had.

They were all dressed up in the full Police-Scotland-black outfit — with stabproof vests, utility belts, and high-vis waistcoats standing by — playing a spirited game of ‘Fud-or-Fanny’, waiting for the briefing to kick off.

‘OK,’ Biohazard bit his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes, ‘Vladimir Putin.’

Doreen didn’t even hesitate: ‘Fud. Massive, monstrous, murderous...’ She looked up and saw Logan. ‘Guv.’

‘Why are you all in uniform?’

Tufty struck a pose. ‘Chief Superintendent Pine sent out a memo, remember? We must has a reassuring the public.’

Oh, for God’s sake.

‘It’s an undercover operation, you bunch of fermented numpties! How are we supposed to sneak up on Charles MacGarioch with you lot dressed like an episode of The Bill? Go: get changed.’

The six of them scarpered.

‘And no fighting suits: casual clothes only!’

Halfwits.

LVI

The air was thick with flies and their bone-grinding buzzzz...

Natasha stood beside her anchor — now upright again, and back where it was supposed to be — rising up on her tiptoes as she peered out through the window hole.

The JCB had gone from the field, returned to wherever the bastard usually kept it. Off to the right, the door to the other outbuilding still lay wide open, probably airing out now that its resident had... gone.

No music throbbed through the static caravan’s walls.

And there was no sign of the dick himself.

Something went thunk.

A door? Maybe that was a car door? Maybe—

Then the engine started. Followed by the pop-crunch-ping of tyres on a rough track, fading away into the distance until only the flies remained.

Was he gone?

Maybe Detective Sergeant Davis was off to work? With any luck the bastard would be on nightshift and not back till tomorrow morning.

Unless it wasn’t him.

What if someone else lived in the caravan too? Maybe they were the one who’d driven off, and Davis was lurking nearby?

Or maybe this was all a test and he’d just driven down the road a bit, parked up, and right now he was hurrying back on foot to see if she’d try to escape?

Or maybe...

A big lardy bluebottle settled on her arm, feasting on the crust of dirt and sweat.

Maybe it didn’t fucking matter, because the bastard was going to kill her anyway. And would she rather be trapped here, starving away till she was little more than a skeleton, begging for every sip of water, so he could drag her out and bury her alive? Or go out fighting.

Deep breath.

Did you come here to win?

Or did you come here to fuck spiders?

Natasha unscrewed the top off her bottle and drained the final half-mouthful. Then got down on the ground and tipped the galvanised bin over.

The dust was still settling when she struggled upright and shoved at the thing with her filthy feet. Turning and rolling her anchor towards the door.

And yeah: getting the door open wasn’t going to be easy — what with her wrists shackled to this bloody collar. But there was no way in hell she’d get her anchor out through the window hole, so it was this or nothing.

As long as Davis hadn’t padlocked the door shut, of course...

She put her shoulder against one of the door’s wooden struts and pushed. And pushed. Digging her bare feet into the hard-packed dirt... until finally the metal rollers squealed in their brackets and the huge slab of wood moved. Not much, maybe just an inch. But she staggered forward, barging her shoulder into the strut, and shoved again — getting up a bit of momentum.

The thing howled and groaned about two more feet, before the chain on her anchor snapped tight.

Which was a start, but nowhere near enough to get the galvanised bin through.

She rolled it closer, giving herself a bit of slack to manoeuvre with, and heaved again — which was a hell of a lot easier now she had the stone doorway to brace her feet against and the edge of the door to push. The whole thing rumbled and screeched open.

Yes.

Natasha sagged against the ancient wood, breath whooshing against the leather mask, pulse whump-whump-whumping in her ears, sweat glistening in the sunlight, as her head throbbed inside its own personal hot box.

Took a minute for everything to settle down, but soon as she could breathe again, Natasha rolled her anchor into position and out into the courtyard.

After the stifling heat and stench of the outbuilding, it was like stepping into an air-conditioned hotel room. She stood there, elbows raised, so the merest wisp of a breeze could get at her sweaty pits. Bliss...

But not for long, because who knew when the wanker could come back?

Up close, the caravan looked even more decrepit. And so did the barn. And the other outbuilding — the other prison.

Weeds choked the courtyard’s edges, creeping inwards across the dirt-and-gravel surface: nettles, thistles, and tall, jagged docken, bindweed strangling great clumps of it with its garotte-thin tendrils.

Temptation was to do a runner, right now.

Well, a lurching stagger.

Roll this bloody anchor ahead of her, one miserable step at a time, and get the hell out of here. But the only road out was the one DS Davis had driven off to work on. So that would be the way he’d come back too.

What the hell was she supposed to do when he caught her, halfway down the track, moving at a snail’s pace, with her anchor. ‘Ah, yeah, sorry, mate. Just thought I’d take me binful of concrete for a walk.’

And trundling this stupid thing across a field would be hard enough, but getting it over a stone wall or a ditch?

No chance.

To get out of here, she needed rid of her bloody anchor.

Various bits of old building equipment lay about the courtyard: rusty cement mixer; a pallet of slates; another of breeze blocks, with a tatty tarpaulin tied over the top; offcuts of wood; a spare bucket for the JCB; builder’s tonne bag of gravel; one of sharp sand; a wheelbarrow with a flat front wheel, that was halfway to transforming itself into a colander...

Even if it wasn’t virtually rusted through, it’d be no use with her wrists attached to this stupid metal collar. Suppose she could get the heavy bastard, concrete-filled bin up and into the barrow, and the thing didn’t collapse, how was she supposed to push it? Couldn’t even grab both handles.

Nah: what she really needed was a bolt-cutter or a sledgehammer.

And the most likely place to find those was the barn.

She stuck her foot against the bin and shoved.

57

The trees in Westburn Park were in full-green, but that was nothing compared to the riot of colour hiding just behind them.

The circus had taken over both sides of the park, with the big top towering above a slew of small rides and attractions — a red-white-and-blue-striped monarch ruling over its little kingdom, with a trio of long pennants fluttering from the king pole. The larger rides were grouped on the other side of the access road, waltzers and a small rollercoaster, chairoplanes and one of those Viking-longboat-on-a-swinging-pivot things, a haunted house and a whole heap of food stands.

And it was all festooned with flashing lights and copyright-infringing graphics.

A dozen different fairground tunes vied for supremacy, barking over the dings and wibbles that blared at Logan from every side. Because nothing here could be accused of being subtle.

All the rides were absolutely rammed and so was the park. As if half the city had turned up to munch on candyfloss, popcorn, and hotdogs, waiting for their go on ‘THE VOMINATOR!’ and ‘SIR PUKESALOT’S SWIRLING BARFLAND ADVENTURE!’

Logan strolled through the crowds, keeping a firm grip on Elizabeth’s hand, as she oooooh-ed and ahhhh-ed at all the garish stuff. Tara slipped her arm through his, laughing as a fire-juggling hipster sent a plume of yellow flames fwoooshing into the sky.

Then Doreen’s voice cracked out of Logan’s earpiece: ‘All clear on the Western Front.’

Tara gave his arm a squeeze. ‘Told you it’d be fine.’

‘Won’t be if the Boss finds out you’re here.’

‘Anyone asks: I just happened to have tickets for tonight. Why should I cancel my plans just because Police Scotland wants to play Smiley’s People at the circus?’

Biohazard: ‘Nothing on the south entrance.’

‘I don’t think we’re slick enough to be Smiley’s—’

Somone tapped him on the shoulder and Logan froze.

It was sodding Chief Superintendent Pine, wasn’t it. He’d summoned her by accident and jinxed the whole operation.

He forced a smile and turned...

But it wasn’t Pine, it was Tufty. All dressed down, in jeans and a red ‘WILLY’S BAR DARTS TEAM: THE FLYING POLGARA!’ long-sleeved T. The wee loon must’ve been at the face-painting stall, because he’d turned into a tiger from the neck up. And a disturbingly realistic one, at that.

The Lizz-Ness Monster gazed up at him. ‘Coooool...’

At which point, Tufty struck a pose, hunkering down in front of her as he burst into song:

Finishing with a slightly camp clawing gesture. ‘Rarrrrr.’

Logan winced. ‘You are so blissfully free from the burdens of reality. What the hell were you thinking?’

‘Sneaky cleverness, Sarge.’ Bouncing upright again. ‘See, this way none of Charles MacGarioch’s friends will recognise me and raise the alarm, cos I is a Master of the Disguises!’

‘Master of being an idiot.’

He held up a stack of leaflets. ‘And I did get a big pile of flyers to hand out. The circus is off to Huntly next, and no one pays any attention to people handing out flyers.’ He handed one to Logan, and... got to admit the wee loon had a point.

Even if he was a weapons-grade twit.

There was a little remote extension attached to Logan’s Airwave — cable running from the handset in his inside pocket, all the way down his sleeve. He raised it to his mouth and pressed the button, keeping the thing hidden, as if he were covering a cough. ‘DI Steel?’

Silence from the earpiece.

A frown pulled at Tufty’s tiger face as he wiggled his earpiece too.

Let’s have another go: ‘Roberta... Flipping Steel, report!’

Scrunch, munch, munch, followed by a muffled, ‘Sod off. I’m eating a toffee apple.’

‘Do you want to go back to being Detective Sergeant Non Grata? Because the Logan giveth, and the Logan can taketh away.’

‘Bludgering hell...’ Crunch, crunch, crunch. ‘No sign of target at eastern entrance. Happy now?’ Scrunch. ‘Still say this is a stupid plan. We should take MacGarioch when he’s in the big top: way smaller space to secure than the whole park. Which means less potential for him running away and us looking like clueless twunts.’

Not this again.

‘We’ve only got seven people, OK? We take him soon as he’s takeable. Had enough disasters this week, thank you very much.’

Crunch, crunch, munch. ‘Won’t be saying that when he’s halfway down Craigie Loanings, and we’re still stood here with our pants round our ankles.’

A second little-big cat appeared at Tufty’s shoulder — every bit as short as he was, with oatcake-blonde hair in a ponytail, quirky smile, and a button nose. In a ‘KLINGON BALLET’ T-shirt. She’d clearly been at the same face-painting stand, only instead of a tiger, she’d gone full-on leopard. Made extra weird by a pair of glasses over the top.

The wee loon beamed. ‘Total coincidence: Kate had tickets for tonight too! Wink, wink.’ He threw in an actual wink, as if saying it hadn’t been clear enough. ‘So we is joining forces, cos she is both a police-officer-type person and highly skilled ninja thing. And won’t charge for the overtime.’

Kate grinned. ‘Guv.’

‘Oooooh...’ Elizabeth bounced on her feet, staring at Tufty’s feline bidie-in. ‘That is so cool!’ Grabbing Tara’s hand. ‘Can we, Mum? Can we? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeathe? I want to be a dinosaur! RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAWRRRR!’

Was there something in the water? Or was everyone always this daft?

Crunch, crunch, mumble. ‘And while we’re at it: why can’t everyone just shut their sodding yap till something happens?’

Yeah... There was the distinct possibility that Logan wasn’t entirely in control of the situation any more.

OK. Take charge.

He pointed off into the funfair. ‘Yes. You and Mummy should definitely go do that. Off you go. Daddy has people to arrest.’

‘“Report in!”, “Report in!” It’s nothing more than an ego trip for snudgewadgers and... scrunknips!’

Tara stuck her hand out at Logan. ‘Tickets.’

‘Here you goes.’ Tufty passed two over. ‘When you get to the face-painting tent, tell Courtney I did send you and she’ll give you mates’ rates!’

‘What do you think we’re gonna do, if MacGarioch turns up and it’s not “report in” time? Keep it a frunking secret?’

With a happy wave, Tara and Elizabeth disappeared into the crowd — off to be dinosaurised.

‘It’s no’ as if MacGarioch’s even going to show. I could be home with my swanky new haircut, my wife, a DVD of Colette, and a jar of Nutella right now. Nothing’s happening! It’s all a waste of—’

Barrett: ‘Aaaaaand we’re on the move. Secondary targets are drinking up and exiting the Queen Vic now.’

Logan pressed the call button. ‘Still no sign of MacGarioch?’

‘Negative.’ A schrooooomphing noise crackled in the earpiece, then: ‘Yeah, they’re getting in an Uber... Sounds like they’re headed your way. Will follow on.’

‘Is excitement time!’ Tufty beamed at him, like a disturbing thing from the island of Dr Moreau.

Kate rolled her shoulders, as if gearing up to ninja someone.

And all around, the crowd flowed by, like a slow-moving river.

Biohazard: ‘We’re on, my sticky little friends! That’s Randolph Hay entering the park by the south entrance with a group of people. Repeat: south entrance.’

‘Is Charles MacGarioch with them?’ Come on...

‘Don’t see him. Just a bunch of teenagers and some wee kids.’

Logan headed for the park’s south entrance, not pushing and shoving, moving just fast enough not to draw attention, with Tufty and Kate following in his wake. ‘Everyone hold your positions — he might try sneaking in by another entrance.’ Letting go of the button to gently thump Tufty on the shoulder. ‘Get ready. The bastard doesn’t get away this time.’

The crowds thinned out a bit when they reached the access road that bisected Westburn Park, thickening again on the other side as people queued for the more popular rides. Now where was...?

Ah — over there.

Ralph Hay, with a handful of teens from yesterday’s barbecue and a bunch of weenies. Who all seemed super excited to be here.

No sign of Charles MacGarioch.

He’d be here soon though, right? Performance started in sixteen minutes...

Pfff...

Logan stood in the shadow of the half-arsed ‘Haunted’ House, that made ‘spooky’ sounds on a ninety-second loop while a thrash-metal version of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ battered out, and the barker did her best to whip-up some punters with a bullhorn:

‘Dare you brave what lurks in the darkness? Dare you take the Blood Road to the very gates of Hell... itself?’

Which was a bit over the top, given the haunted house had a ‘YOU HAVE TO BE THIS TALL TO RIDE →’ out front that was slightly shorter than Elizabeth.

And still no Charles MacGarioch.

Biohazard: ‘Incoming.’

Maybe this was it?

Marshall Carter, Alexis Cunningham, and Jericho McQueen wandered up the road, all rosy-cheeked and smiling after their ‘couple of pints’ in Rosemount. Taking in the deafening sights and garish wibbles.

Logan shrunk back against the ride.

The three of them met up with Ralph Hay — all hugs and cheek-kisses and ruffling the weenies’ hair. Who didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture any more than Elizabeth.

Zero evidence of Charles MacGarioch.

Where the hell was he?

Perhaps the legendary loyalty and never-missing-an-orphan-outing had been a bit... exaggerated?

Or maybe the Orphan Club had got together to persuade MacGarioch to sit this one out, because the police were after him?

Or maybe, Logan had just got this whole thing wrong?

It’d hardly be the first time.

Probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

He checked his watch — ten minutes till showtime.

Come on, come on, come on, come on...

Logan pressed the button. ‘He’s going to turn up eventually. Charles MacGarioch never misses these things.’

Hopefully.

LVIII

The rusty sledgehammer clanged down against Natasha’s chain again, skimming off the metal to chudddd into the concrete.

Christ knew how long she’d been banging away with the bloody thing: twenty minutes? An hour? Seven and a half years? And all she had to show for it were a few flattened dents on a couple of links, and some flakes chipped off the solid grey lump in the bucket.

Didn’t help that she couldn’t get a decent swing on the bastard — having to hold it halfway down the shaft in an awkward hand-over-hand grip and do a rapid bow towards her anchor instead. Which made aiming the pockmarked hammer-head almost impossible.

And now her arms burned, and her legs throbbed, and every muscle in her back ached.

After the blazing light of the great outdoors, the barn was heavy with gloom. At least it was cooler than her prison, being a lot bigger, and only having a couple of filthy skylights in the corrugated-asbestos roof.

Its far end was stacked with triangular trusses and prefab stud walls for some sort of build-your-own-house kit, but going by the cobwebs, dust, and layers of mouse droppings, they’d been here for a long, long time.

The next twenty percent was given over to pallets of bricks and stuff that could probably have lived outside, and bags of cement that definitely couldn’t.

And the final thirty percent had been turned into a workshop, with a table saw and a mitre saw and a bandsaw and a bench press and all that kind of malarkey. But when she tried them, nothing happened. Same with the light switches. So, either everything was knackered, or the power was off.

A bunch of hand tools hung on the wall above a long workbench that looked like it’d been cobbled together from old pallets, but they were furry with rust, and none of them were any good at hacking through bloody chains.

The sledgehammer’s metal head spangggged off the links one last time — making not the slightest bit of difference — and Natasha dropped the useless thing, letting it clatter to the concrete floor.

‘Piece of shit!’ Every single word a mix of sandpaper and broken glass as she collapsed back against the workbench, breathing hard. Sweat stinging her eyes. Head pounding away inside this stupid fucking gimp mask.

She hauled in a big shuddering lungful of dusty air and bellowed it out again...

Then sagged all the way down, till her bum rested on the gritty floor.

Slumped sideways.

Keeling over till she was lying on her side at the very end of her chain — mask pressed against the concrete.

Going to die here.

Going to never see her little girl again.

Going to get dragged out and dumped in a shallow grave then buried alive.

Tears mingled with the sweat.

Be better to kill herself and have done with it. Deny the bastard the satisfaction.

Natasha rolled onto her back and blinked up at the metal joists and asbestos roof.

Couldn’t hang herself — no way to get up there, not with this sodding anchor chained around her neck.

Couldn’t poison herself — no drugs, or water to take them with.

Couldn’t drown herself — which was ironic, because if she did find a creek, or a billabong, the anchor would drag her down and keep her there. Quick and easy.

Could slit her wrists on the rusty bandsaw?

Took a while but eventually her breathing slowed, and the tears stopped. Though that might’ve been dehydration, more than anything.

‘You’re not giving up on me yet.’ Natasha closed her eyes. ‘You’re not!’

59

Five minutes to go.

The park was still jammed, but a whole bunch of people had peeled off for the big top, where Tufty and Kate stood on either side of the entrance, handing out flyers.

Which turned out to be the perfect cover, because no one looked at them twice, not even with the elaborate face paint.

Logan lurked by the ‘Space Killer’ stall — where kids tried to knock a jiggling flying saucer down with ping-pong-ball guns — because it had a clear line of sight to both the big top and the road. So he had a perfect view of Charles MacGarioch not appearing.

A fanfare boomed out across the park, followed by a distorted, echoing voice: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, loons and quines, the eight o’clock performance is about to begin, so have your tickets ready and make your way to the big top!’

Logan pressed the talk button. ‘Anyone?’

Doreen: ‘West entrance — nothing doing.’

Spudgun: ‘Massive steaming bucket of sod-all.’

Biohazard: ‘No sign of him.’

Barrett: ‘Negative. Repeat: no eyes on target at this time.’

Then silence from the earpiece.

And more silence.

Logan sighed. ‘Are you still eating?’

Steel: ‘He’s no’ here and he’s no’ coming. I vote we spudge off out of it and go home. All in favour?’

‘No one’s going home! He’ll be here.’

Maybe.

But given the show was about to start, possibly not.

LX

Natasha closed her eyes and lay there, on the rough concrete floor.

‘Come on, you lazy bitch: get up.’

But she didn’t.

‘Please?’

No.

‘OK: count to ten, then up.’

Ten came and went. Then another ten. And she was halfway through the third before wriggling over onto her side — ready for the undignified struggle to get back on her feet.

Natasha froze, the hair crackling across the back of her neck.

Someone was looking at her.

But it wasn’t DS Davis.

A pair of dark eyes glittered in the gloom beneath the workbench. And now all the hair on her arms crackled too. Even her scalp fizzed inside the mask as Natasha’s stomach clenched and her heart doubled the beat. Jaw clamped shut to keep the scream inside.

A rat. It was a bloody rat. A nasty hairy-bastard rat.

Thick with diseases, dragging that disgusting naked tail behind it, shitting and pissing on everything. Creeping, whiskery, plague-carrying vermin.

She flinched. ‘Fuck off, you rodenty bastard!’

It stared back at her.

‘GO ON! GET OUT OF IT!’

Twitching its slimy pink nose.

Little shit was just waiting for her to croak — cos she must’ve looked pretty crook in this getup — so it could burrow into her flesh and eat her from the inside.

There was a stone, not much smaller than a champagne cork, sitting on the concrete, close enough that Natasha could wrap her toes around the thing and pick it up off the floor. She bent her knee, bringing the rock closer, then snapped her leg out — hurling it away into the space beneath the workbench.

OK, so her aim wasn’t great, but the stone bounced off the ground, then up against the wood, then down again: clatter, bang, clatter. And the noise was enough to make the diseased creepy little bastard scurry away.

‘YEAH, YOU BETTER KEEP RUNNING, RUPERT FUCKIN’ RAT!’

The stone rattled to a halt against something metal, setting whatever-it-was ringing as it spun around a couple of times then wobbled to a halt.

She narrowed her eyes, then shuffled closer to the bench. Till the chain wouldn’t let her go any further.

That metal something was an old Stanley knife, long forgotten and coated in spider webs. You fucking beauty.

The gap beneath the bench had to be a good six, seven inches, and while she couldn’t exactly reach an arm in there, her legs still worked.

Yeah, but where there’s one rat bastard there’s always more — first lesson she learned in the newspaper world. Didn’t help though, did it: she still ended up marrying one.

Natasha gritted her teeth, cos she was having that bloody knife, rats or not.

Deep breath.

She reached her throwing leg into the void. Skiffing the side of her foot along the uneven concrete, through cobwebs and little pebbly lumps of what had to be rat shit, until her big toe brushed against the Stanley knife’s cool metal body. Setting it rocking.

Took four goes, and a lot of delicate manoeuvring, but eventually she got her foot hooked behind the thing and dragged it towards her.

The knife was ancient: the metal gone that kind of furry way that old metal did. And it was probably covered in rat piss. But she writhed and struggled and contorted herself till it was close enough to grab with her shackled hands, then thumbed the button anyway. Shoving the mechanism forward.

The blade didn’t exactly slide out: it grated and stuttered, the edge chipped and flecked with rust. Streaked with the memory of the last thing it cut through, before it was lost.

She could do those wrists now.

But first...

Natasha placed the blade’s tip against the edge of her mask’s mouth hole, wriggling it between the zip’s plastic teeth, twisting the knife so the jagged cutting edge pointed away from her face. Then sawed.

Nothing happened to start with, the thing just juddered back-and-forth and back-and-forth and then a sizzling ripping sound as the knife carved through leather.

She kept going — hacking away at the gimp mask, cutting up one cheek and around the top of her eyebrows. Didn’t matter about the sharp sting of metal slitting heat-swollen flesh, didn’t matter about the blood, as long as she got this bastarding thing off.

She sawed her way down the other side, and a big chunk of mask hinged forward to flap wide open.

What was left still covered her ears, and her chin, and most of her head, but for the first time since she woke up yesterday, her face was free.

Natasha wiped her other hand across it — wet and sticky, the fingers and palm covered in bright scarlet.

A laugh jangled free, followed by another one, and another until she was sitting on the floor, rocking, screeching it out. An angry, hysterical, unhealthy sound.

Eventually it passed, leaving her sagging against the workbench, breathing hard, ribs aching like she’d suffered another kicking.

She got to work with the blade again, sawing downwards from the side of her mouth. Hacking through to the bottom of the mask.

Soon as the knife ripped through the last bit of leather, she dropped it and pulled at the mask with both hands, hauling it off and flinging the bastard away.

The unwell laughter burbled away, just beneath the surface.

OK, so her hands weren’t free, and she was still chained to this bloody anchor, and she’d probably just given herself tetanus, septicaemia, and all manner of rat-borne diseases, but it was a start.

And now she had a weapon.

61

Laughter oozed through the big top’s walls, joined by frequent Ooooohs of amazement and Ahhhhhs of wonder.

Out here, the crowd was thinning out. Probably something to do with the circus not being licensed to sell alcohol — so while the kids headed home to bed, the adults headed off to enjoy Aberdeen’s legendary nightlife. AKA: get wankered.

Logan lurked by the Whack-a-Mole stall, which some enterprising soul had customised, so the playing field was a big Mrs Doyle’s face out of which hairy moles popped up for the player to wallop. Extra points if you could hit the green melanoma.

Twenty minutes into the last performance of the Rumplington Brothers’ Circus of Delights and there was still no sign of Charles MacGarioch. All his mates were inside, enjoying the show, but the racist wee shite had finally missed an official Orphan Outing.

Pfff...

Yeah, but he might still turn up.

But why would he?

Everyone knew the police were after him — it was all over the newspapers, TV, radio, and internet — even if they didn’t know why he was a wanted man. But MacGarioch did.

Maybe the boy wasn’t as thick as he looked?

Perhaps it would be better to stake-out his grandmother’s flat instead? Have her followed. After all, if he couldn’t stay the night at Keira Longmore’s house because his nan would have a fit, how could he justify being away from home for two-and-a-bit whole days? He’d have to get in touch with her somehow, right?

Question was: would the Chief Super approve the manpower and overtime to run another ICSO?

Could divert the team from Seaton Park?

Yeah, but what if he turned up there, soon as they left?

And knowing Logan’s luck...

Steel’s voice groaned in his earpiece. ‘This is a bust.’

Yeah.

Charles MacGarioch was officially a no-show.

Logan pressed the talk button. ‘OK, we’re calling it a night. Tufty’s got tickets, if anyone wants to catch the rest of the show.’

Can’t say they didn’t try.

He wandered over to the big top, where Tufty waited, all on his own.

The wee loon handed him a ticket. ‘Did our best, Sarge.’

‘Don’t think the Boss gives out participation trophies.’

Biohazard emerged from the dwindling crowd, dressed like a middle-aged man who thinks he’s still got it, but clearly hasn’t. He accepted the proffered ticket. ‘Look on the bright side: we’re still getting paid.’

Then it was Doreen and Barrett’s turn — grabbing a ticket from Tufty before slipping in through the entrance.

The world’s daftest tiger hooked a thumb at the big top. ‘Can I...?’

‘Go on then.’

‘Woot!’ And away he scarpered, into the fun and the lights and the—

‘Me and Spudgun are off to the pub. If you promise no’ to be a misery-faced old snudge, you can buy the first round.’

Tempting.

He pressed the button. ‘Better not. Got Tara and Elizabeth here.’

Steel’s voice softened. ‘It happens, OK? Sometimes the buggers show, sometimes the buggers don’t. We pick ourselves up and we have another go.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ A smile. ‘And that’s two quid in the swear jar.’

‘Oh, for...’

Then silence. She’d gone.

Logan stepped through the entrance into a tented foyer festooned with fairy-lights, where a tattooed hipster in a ridiculously tall hat tore Logan’s ticket in half and ushered him through a velvet curtain into the Rumplington Brothers’ Circus of Delights.

A large semicircle of tiered seating surrounded the central ring, broken into six sections of about eighty seats each. And nearly every one was filled.

High above the audience’s heads a trapeze and high wire stretched from one side of the big top to the other, caught in the sweeping beams of spotlights. Down below, clowns worked the crowd, while acrobats tumbled and boinged across the sawdust arena.

Logan moved down the aisle, between two blocks of seats, scanning the faces for Tara and Elizabeth.

Which was a bit more challenging than usual, because of the face-paint. In the end it was easier to spot their clothes than their features — middle tier, on the left. And they’d even saved him a seat.

Logan worked his way over there, excuse-me’d past a handful of people and thumped down beside Tara.

And stared.

Tufty’s mate, Courtney, might have turned the wee loon and his bidie-in into little-big-cats, but Tara had received an elaborate Día de los Muertos face-and-neck paint job, made up of swirls and patterns and leaves and dots, and she looked... stunning. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a full-on kid/velociraptor hybrid — grinning away as a clown whooshed a bucketful of confetti over some poor unsuspecting member of the public.

Tara leaned in, voice raised over the hubbub and laughter. ‘No joy?’

He forced a smile. ‘Worth a go, though.’

Even if it was a sodding disaster, and he’d have some explaining to do tomorrow. And Charles MacGarioch would still be on the run. And the press would be in raptures of self-righteous indignation. And the top brass would be screaming for results. And Soban Yūsuf would be lying in a mortuary drawer, awaiting Isobel’s not-so-tender ministrations...

Wasn’t exactly a great day’s work.

The Ringmaster from the poster strode into the ring, wearing his bright-red faux-military uniform with lots of braiding. Raising his top hat for a bow to the audience. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, I must insist: no flash photography! We cannot risk startling the animals. For who knows what might happen...’

He stepped back with a big flourishing gesture, and the rear curtain opened. Spotlights swooped in as a Lion and Tiger slunk into the ring, followed by a huge lumbering Elephant.

They were part puppet, part marionette, part animatronic, and part costume. Life-sized and lifelike.

The audience Oooooh-ed and Ahhhhhh-ed as the ‘animals’ launched into the kind of routine most circuses could only dream of.

Logan let his gaze wander around the big top, picking out Tufty and Kate, Barrett and Doreen, and Biohazard sitting all on his own. Then across the sea of faces to where Charles MacGarioch’s Orphaned Chums had taken over a chunk of the seating block — second from the far end — with the weenies on the bottom row, then the younger teens, then Jericho and Alexis and Marshall and Ralph. The weenies were agog at the animals, and the teens seemed to be too.

Which was kind of lovely and wholesome, especially after all the horror and suffering.

Looked as if Jericho was cultivating his bad-boy gangsta image by sneaking in some tinnies. And yeah, technically Logan could march over there and give him a hard time about it — what with council bylaws and everything — but there was no need to be a dick, as long as he wasn’t hurting anyone.

And at least Jericho was trying to be discreet.

He popped his empty in a bag, so no littering, then dug out a fresh six-pack of lager: handing one to Alexis, who passed it to Marshall, who passed it to Ralph, who opened it and had a sneaky drink. The next tin stopped at Marshall. Then it was Alexis’s turn.

Finally, Jericho opened one for himself, but instead of drinking it, he put the can down at his feet as everyone burst into applause for the Elephant’s latest trick.

Maybe the lad was a bit stoned, because when the Elephant moved onto the next thing, Jericho opened another can and took a sneaky scoof. Laughing and cheering along with the rest of the crowd, as the Tiger and Lion jumped through hoops of artificial fire.

Oh, to be young and stupid...

By the time the animals had finished their set, the Secret Orphan Drinking Club were all passing their empties back to Jericho, who popped them, one by one, into his bag. Then finished his own tinny. It joined the collection.

A wee pause, then he did something strange.

Jericho reached down to his feet and picked up that extra beer he’d opened. Only instead of drinking it he gave it a wee shake — as if making sure it was empty — then slipped it into his bag with the others.

Hold on a minute.

OK, it was possible he’d downed two tins in the time it took everyone else to drink one, but...

Another six-pack emerged from Jericho’s personal off-licence, and away we go again: one passed all the way along, then a second, and a third, then one for the floor, and one for Jericho.

The sneaky bastard...

Yeah, the tin was placed at Jericho’s feet, but what happened after that was hidden behind the head and shoulders of the teen sitting in front of him on the next row down.

Logan raised the extension to his mouth and pressed the talk button. ‘Anyone still about? I think the fox is in the hen house.’ He leaned over and kissed Tara — trying not to smudge her face-paint. ‘Watch the monster.’

Then shuffled out of his seat, pardon-me-excuse-me-ing along to the steps as the spotlights swirled around to focus on a clown car rattling and banging out from behind the curtain. It was a smaller, pedal-powered version of the one that’d been driving all around town, and before it had even gone half a circuit around the ring a similarly rattle-bang version of a patrol car pedalled out after it — complete with two clowns in high-vis waistcoats and Police Scotland black.

And God knew, Logan had worked with enough of those.

The clown car juddered past a prop speed camera — FLASH — and a ‘high-speed’ chase ensued, complete with lights and sirens.

Tufty: ‘Where is he, Sarge?’

‘Right-hand side of the tent, where they’ve just unrolled a zebra crossing.’

Doreen: ‘Not seeing him, Guv.’

‘That’s because he’s underneath the bleachers.’

Biohazard: ‘On it.’

Off to the left, Biohazard hopped out of his seat and hurried to the end of the row, then disappeared down the side.

Doreen and Barrett, Tufty and Kate scrambled out of their stalls too, all at the same sodding time.

‘Try not to make it too obvious, people!’

Luckily, the clowns were in the middle of staging some sort of road traffic accident: where a granny clown tried to get across the zebra crossing with her tartan shopping trolley, only to shy back at the last minute as a life-size puppet Zebra thundered across it on inline skates. Which meant the whole Orphan Crew were laughing at that, rather than spotting Logan’s merry gang of idiots.

Logan strolled down the steps to ground level, acting all casual as the Zebra made another pass and Granny got a second fright. ‘I need someone on the entrance.’

The clown car filled up on ‘petrol’ and the patrol car filled up on doughnuts, momentarily abandoning their hot-pursuit.

Barrett: ‘Entrance secured.’

And there he was, standing just outside the fairy-lit foyer, pretending to stretch his legs.

The Lion puppet reappeared, also on skates this time, and set off after the Zebra. And after a bit of bumbling and running about, the police piled into their patrol car, pedalling furiously to catch up. Blues-and-twos going.

Tufty and Kate disappeared behind their seating block.

The patrol car almost ran over one of the clown-clowns, leaving him spinning round and around on one leg, so for some inexplicable reason, the clown car wheeched after the patrol car.

Kind of got the feeling logic wasn’t really a priority here.

Logan ducked behind the stands.

A heavy curtain of black fabric concealed whatever structure held the seats up. Which had the added bonus of hiding what was going on out here from anyone in there.

He paused for a moment, letting Tufty, Kate, Doreen, and Biohazard catch up.

Keeping his voice low, just in case. ‘OK, they’re in the second last block of seating. Kate, Biohazard: you take this side. Doreen: you’re in the middle. Tufty: with me.’

A wave of laughter roared through the big top, followed by honking and animal noises and sirens, as the clowns got on with the show. Meaning there was no chance anyone would notice Logan and the wee loon sneaking their way around the back of the stands.

More laughter, and a clatter of applause.

Logan checked Doreen, Biohazard, and Kate were in the right place, then tapped Tufty on the shoulder. Pointing at the heavy fabric blocking off the supports.

Tufty eased the curtain back, exposing a forest of scaffolding poles, with clips and pins and bits wrapped around in yellow-and-black warning tape. The whole structure resting on wooden boards and mud mats — liberally sprinkled with fallen popcorn and spilled peanuts.

Bingo.

A figure lurked near the front of the bleachers, leaning on a post, staring through a gap in the seating and out between someone’s legs, watching the performance.

Charles MacGarioch.

A tin of lager dangled from the fingers of one hand as he laughed along with the crowd.

Right: the bastard wasn’t getting away this time.

Logan eased his way into the scaffold jungle, creeping closer, the seats above his head getting lower with every tier as he advanced on Clueless Charlie.

Tufty snuck in, staying off to one side.

A quick glance left, and there was Doreen, while Kate tiptoed in from the far corner. And just in case, Biohazard guarded the far edge.

Whatever was going on out there, someone must’ve been directing the crowd, because they all stamped their feet and clapped in rhythm. Sending dust and yet more popcorn pattering down onto Logan and his team.

MacGarioch tried to join in with the clapping, but it clearly wasn’t easy while holding a tin of lager. The thing slipped through his fingers, hit the mud mats, and spoofed up a little jet of foam and golden liquid. ‘Shitey wank-fucks...’ Scrambling to retrieve it before too much spilled out.

Then he froze.

Before turning to stare at Biohazard. Then Kate. Then Tufty. And finally: Logan, less than a dozen feet away.

‘Charles Edward MacGarioch, I am arresting you under section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland—’

That tin of lager hurled through the ranks of scaffolding poles, heading straight for Logan’s head. But before it could smash into his face, it hit one of the uprights, crumpling and spewing supermarket own-brand pilsner everywhere.

MacGarioch went left — presumably, because if he’d gone right, he’d have to get past every member of Logan’s team to escape — meaning he reached the edge of the seating block before anyone else. Shoulder-charging the black fabric wall.

Which didn’t do much more than shudder and bounce him back into an upright with a clang.

Logan surged forwards, dodging his way through the metallic-bamboo forest as MacGarioch grabbed handfuls of fabric and yanked, ripping the covering away from its Velcro fastenings.

Then he was away — running towards the ring.

Sod.

Logan ducked out after him, into the aisle between the two seating blocks, skidding on the popcorn-slippy floor. Rushing forwards.

The crowd’s cheers and whoops crashed against him like a rugby scrum.

Out here, things had taken a weird turn: now the Lion was chasing the patrol car, which was chasing the Zebra, which was chasing the clown car, which was chasing the old lady, round and round the ring.

The cars were only pedal powered, but they were still going at a fair clip. The Zebra, Lion, and old lady had no problem keeping up on their skates, though. Swirling faster and faster, lights and sirens going, as the crowd roared.

MacGarioch hurdled the wooden blocks that lined the ring, and came within two inches of being run over by the clown car. He legged it for the curtain at the back.

Logan jumped the kerb, jinked between the patrol car and the Zebra. ‘STOP! POLICE!’

For some reason, the audience seemed to think this was all part of the show, pointing and hooting as Logan gave chase.

Almost at the other side, MacGarioch glanced back over his shoulder, arms and legs still pumping. Not watching where he was going. Straight into the path of the patrol car.

As car crashes went, it was nowhere near as bad as Spencer Findlater’s encounter with a Toyota Hilux, but the impact was still enough to send Charles MacGarioch tumbling over backwards and bring the patrol car to a sudden lurching halt.

Presumably the pedal car had been rigged to fall apart at a later part of the show, because it immediately suffered a rapid unscheduled disassembly. The wings collapsed away from the frame, the headlights pinged out on springs, the doors flew off, and the boot and bonnet both poinged up.

And as they weren’t wearing seatbelts, the police clowns jerked forward in their seats — slamming the passenger’s head into the dashboard while the driver rocked back, still holding the now-detached steering wheel.

The crowd cheered and applauded.

They did it again two seconds later, when the Lion, still going at full pelt and unable to stop at short notice, slammed straight into the open boot.

The driver stumbled out of the car, holding his detachable steering wheel, blinking at the wreckage. His fellow officer stayed in the passenger seat though, with both hands clutching their big red nose as blood streamed down their smiley make-up.

MacGarioch scrambled upright, leaping the patrol car’s open bonnet, just as Logan grabbed at his jacket.

Didn’t get a firm enough grip to stop him, but it screwed up the jump, and instead of landing on his feet, ready to scarper, Charles MacGarioch went tumbling down the other side.

The Zebra, old lady, and clown car trundled to a halt. Then the clowns climbed out of their vehicle, looking every bit as dour-faced and murderous as they had driving around town.

Balling their fists, they advanced on Logan.

Either the crash or the botched leap had caused a bit of damage, because MacGarioch hurpled towards the curtain through to the backstage area, like a sawdust-covered Igor.

Only he never got there, because Kate pounced from the other side, catching him in a flying rugby tackle. And down he went again.

A huge roar of approval swept through the crowd, people getting to their feet and cheering-on the little leopard as she struggled to get the much bigger MacGarioch in an armlock.

Logan skirted the wreckage and hurried over to help.

Jericho McQueen shot to his feet. ‘HEY! LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU LEOPARD-FACED BITCH!’

And with that, the Orphan Army charged, storming down from their seats and into the ring while the weenies ran around with their hands in the air, screeching and grinning and screeching some more.

Logan grabbed MacGarioch’s other arm, before he could land a punch on Kate’s head. Twisting it into a wristlock. ‘Charles MacGarioch, I’m detaining you under—’

Was as far as he got, because a clown battered straight into Logan’s ribs, sending them both thumping to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs and big floppy shoes.

The other clowns piled in, and so did the Lion and the Zebra, and the little old lady. Then Tufty, Biohazard, Doreen, and Barrett. Then it was the Orphans, turning what should’ve been a straightforward arrest into a good old-fashioned circus brawl.

Yeah...

This whole op hadn’t exactly gone to plan.

LXII

What sort of bastard didn’t keep a decent set of tools in his barn?

Of course there were no bolt-cutters, because that would be helpful. And no hacksaws. And no bloody anything that would get this bloody anchor from around her bloody neck.

The bench press might’ve done the trick, if there were any drill bits that would cut metal, and the electricity was on. Which it wasn’t.

Could say the same for the table-and-mitre saws, only they’d be a hell of a lot more dangerous. Probably deadly.

Even a crowbar would be an improvement on what Natasha had — which was absolutely fuck all — could stick it through a link in the chain and twist till it broke. Assuming the link would break. Which, knowing the way this bloody life worked, it probably wouldn’t.

Been through this whole bloody barn and all she had to show for it were blisters and scrapes and two-steps closer to taking the Stanley knife to her own wrists.

So now it was the workbench’s turn — going through each of the drawers, emptying them out, and examining every single last thing. Which wasn’t easy with both wrists manacled to her neck.

And if this didn’t work, there were only two options left: figure out a way to get into the caravan, hauling a galvanised bin full of concrete that weighed twice what she did, or try to make a run for it.

A very slow, awkward, painful run, rolling this sodding anchor along with every step.

Cos there’s no way that could end in disaster.

She pulled out the very last drawer and tipped the contents onto the workbench. Rusty screws, rusty bolts, rusty washers, couple of angle brackets, a rubber mallet the mice had been at, and right at the very back: a screwdriver. It was one of those cheap-looking piece-of-shit ones: flat head, about six inches long, with a yellow-and-black handle. The sort of thing you could pick up for a buck fifty in your local supermarket.

Sod-all use for getting rid of her anchor. But maybe...

She turned the thing around in her right hand, so the blade and shank pointed at her throat. Then worked them into the ring that her left wrist was cuffed to. The one fixed to her metal collar.

Natasha pushed the screwdriver about halfway in, then pressed the handle downwards.

It rotated — pivoting against the ring — then stopped. So she shoved harder, pulling her chin up and back. Just in case.

Bastard didn’t budge.

She wrenched the thing upwards instead, but it clacked to a halt at much the same angle. Only the other way around.

OK. Time to try something a bit more extreme.

Natasha grabbed what was left of her horrible mask and wrapped a chunk of leather around the screwdriver’s blade. Bent her knees, so the screwdriver’s handle rested on top of the workbench.

Please God, you heartless, vicious, cruel bastard, don’t let me impale myself through the bloody throat.

Natasha took a deep breath.

Closed her eyes.

And dropped.

Thunk. Then a muted squeal... and ping: she crashed to the concrete floor, forehead smacking against the workbench’s leg, setting the world ringing like an old-fashioned telephone.

Took a good minute before she could move again, and when she did, the metal cuff was still firmly locked around her wrist... but it wasn’t attached to the collar any more.

Her right hand was free!

The arm it was attached to had turned into a flopping riot of numbness laced with pins-and-needles though, the tendons in her elbow screaming after being bent like that for the last two and a half days. The useless limb dangled at her side, trembling with teeth-grating fizzy pain as she used her still-shackled left hand to feel for a ragged gash in her throat.

Looked like the mask did its job.

Yeah: the screwdriver was a bit bent, but still in one piece. Meaning once her arm came back to life she could have another go, and get the left one free too.

Soon as that happened, she’d finally get a decent grip on the stupid, rusty sledgehammer, batter the chain off her anchor. And get the hell out of there before DS Davis returned...

63

Backstage, the Rumplington Brothers’ Circus of Delights wasn’t quite as magical. Through here, in the space behind the curtain, the walls were wobbly, temporary things, with a tented roof and modular shelving racks for props and the like.

Most of the Zebra and Lion puppets were suspended on frames, next to the Tiger and Elephant. Like art exhibits in a bizarre abattoir. While the wreckage of the patrol car lay piled up in the corner.

The show had started again, and the audience clapped and cheered as the barrel organ pounded out its tunes, and the high-wire troupe went through their routines. But no clowns, because they were all in here.

Police Clown Number One was a large man in slightly smudged make-up and handcuffs. ‘Well, how were we supposed to know you were cops?’

His mate from the passenger seat, sat on a folding chair, head thrown back, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and holding a wodge of paper towels to his bleeding nostrils with the other. Voice a mumbled, bunged-up, growl: ‘Leave it, Gerry.’

The Old Lady Clown was in cuffs as well, looking as if she was brewing-up a walloping shiner for tomorrow.

One of the Clown-Clowns slouched against the wall, vaping. While the other nursed a pair of battered testicles with a bag of frozen peas. Which can’t have been easy in handcuffs.

Doreen, Barrett, and Biohazard — all looking decidedly rumpled — stood guard, while Logan pulled Charles MacGarioch to his feet.

Unlike the clowns, both his hands were cuffed behind his back.

‘What were we supposed to think?’ Gerry scowled. ‘Come charging into the ring, beating up some random bloke!’ His grazed chin jerked upwards. ‘Just cos you right-wing thugs got badges, you think it’s OK to brutalise—’

‘For fuck’s sake, Gerry!’ The Old Lady Clown kicked him in the shin. ‘Stop making it worse!’

‘Ow!’

‘Serves you right.’

Idiots.

Logan escorted MacGarioch out through the back and into a fenced-off area that bordered the park’s three concrete-lined ponds. A bunch of Transit vans and a handful of caravans were crammed in — nowhere near enough to service the whole circus/funfair setup, but enough to keep a presence on site so people wouldn’t nick things.

The Orphan Posse loitered by the ponds, under the watchful eye of Tufty and Kate — who both looked a bit scruffy and slightly tattered, with their feline faces all smeared-and-smirched from the fight.

Alexis was in cuffs, and so was Jericho, wincing as Ralph blotted his swollen eye with damp cloth.

Ralph dumped the cloth in a bucket, and waved at Logan, then strolled over. Nodding at the prisoner du jour. ‘Hey, Charlie.’

Charles MacGarioch smiled back. ‘Hey, Ralph.’

He fell in beside them as Logan marched MacGarioch towards a waiting patrol car. ‘I know it all got a bit “spirited” in there, but they were only trying to defend their friend. And the circus guys thought they were being public spirited. You know, intervening in a fight?’ A shrug. ‘I mean, we’re always told that’s the mark of a healthy society, aren’t we? That good people are ready to intervene when they see an injustice?’

‘They assaulted six police officers in the process of arresting a wanted man. That’s “attempting to defeat the ends of justice”, punishable by imprisonment and a dirty-big fine.’

‘Yes, and I’m sure they’re all really, really sorry. But it wasn’t intentional, really, was it? And if Alexis gets a criminal record they might throw her off her Uni course: what film or TV company’s going to give her a second look then?’

Logan stopped and subjected Ralph Hay to a full-on Paddingtoning.

He just smiled back.

God’s sake...

Logan rolled his eyes, then turned to Tufty. ‘Constable Quirrel.’

‘Sarge?’

‘Miss Cunningham bit you.’

The wee loon grinned. ‘Yeah, but only because she didn’t recognise me with the face paint on. She’s absolutely mortified now.’ Giving his head a swanky wobble. ‘Never bitten a film star before.’

‘Do you want to press charges?’

Tufty curled one side of his face up, then pulled back his sleeve to expose a semicircle of teeth-marks. ‘Nah. I’ll pop some Savlon on it when I get home.’

Fair enough.

Logan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Uncuff her, then. And check with the rest of the team — anyone they don’t want to prosecute gets off with a caution and a stern talking to. Everyone else spends tonight in the cells.’

‘Sarge.’ And away he skipped to spread the good tidings: the Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Fairy.

‘Thanks, man.’ Ralph Hay nodded at Logan. ‘You’re one of the good guys.’ Magnanimous in victory.

‘Ever thought of joining the police? Or the Diplomatic Corps.’

‘Nah.’ His smile widened. ‘Going to be a merchant banker, like my Uncle Pete.’

Strange how quickly you could go off someone.

‘Yes, well...’ Logan tightened his grip on Charles MacGarioch and marched him over to the patrol car.

‘Bye, Charlie. Stay frosty, OK?’

‘Bye, Ralph.’

‘Mind your head.’ Logan squeezed him into the back, did up his seatbelt, then clunked the door shut and got in the other side.

The blue-and-white lights swirled, but because it was only ten minutes since the Great Big-Top Brawl, no one from the press had arrived yet, so there wasn’t a swarm of cameras and microphones to fight their way through — just a handful of arseholes who whipped out their phones to film the patrol car as it rolled down the access road, turned left onto Westburn Road, and slipped silently into the traffic.

MacGarioch turned in his seat, craning his neck to capture every last moment of the circus, funfair, and park. ‘Do you think they’ll let my mates visit me in prison?’

Logan frowned at him. ‘Why’d you do it, Charlie?’

The big top disappeared behind the trees, then the edges of the fair vanished, and finally even the trees faded into the distance.

A sigh, then Charles MacGarioch faced front again. ‘Dunno.’ One shoulder came up. ‘Needed the money. Keira and me are gonna open a B&B in Ireland. Property’s never cheap, is it. Then there’s your overheads: food and laundry and soap and towels and wee packets of shortbread and teeny pots of jam and tea-and-coffee-making facilities in every room.’

Wow.

Looked as if Ralph Hay had been right about Charlie not winning Celebrity Mastermind anytime soon. OK, so he wasn’t exactly Lenny from Of Mice And Men, but he was no Professor Moriarty either.

‘Yeah,’ Logan nodded, humouring him, ‘all those little expenses soon add...’ Swivelling around to stare across the car. ‘Hold on: you “needed the money”? What money?’

‘Spencer says I’m meant to go “no comment” till I get a lawyer.’

‘What money, Charlie?’

His brow creased as the wheels inside groaned and squeaked their way around. Until finally: ‘No comment.’

Damn.

Still, it’d been worth a go.

LXIV

A loud SPANNNNGGGGG rang out as Natasha swung the sledgehammer — double-handed and overhead, now both hands were free — into her chain where it poked out of the concrete.

The links didn’t give way. The anchor didn’t split open and disgorge the bloody thing, because apparently Detective Sergeant Davis had made sure the bastard ran all the way down to the bottom of the shitting bucket.

So far, she’d managed to make a dent in the concrete, but only about the size of a small melon. Digging the slivers out with the bent screwdriver every dozen blows or so. Other than that: nothing had changed, except her legs wobbled more and more, her arms ached, every breath rasped its way down her burnt-gravel throat, and a monster-sized headache rampaged through her skull. Howling at her every time the stupid sledgehammer hit.

SPANNNNGGGGG...

She staggered backwards a couple of paces. Clunked the sledgehammer’s head down on the barn floor, then sank to her haunches. Then onto her bum. Folding forwards till her thumping forehead rested against the hammer’s warm wooden handle.

Maybe it was time to accept this wasn’t working.

Try to find some way into the caravan instead.

Might be a phone in there?

Maybe the key to the bloody padlock at the back of her stainless-steel collar?

Or a hacksaw...

Because she’d been at this for Christ knew how long, and DS Davis wasn’t going to stay at work for ever.

And soon as he got home, she was well and truly fucked.

65

It was a different PCSO behind the desk this time — a neep-faced middle-aged man with a side parting and glasses, squinting away at his clipboard, looking like the kind of person who’d kept a Tamagotchi alive since 1997.

Somewhere deep in the cells, an elderly man launched into a filthy ballad about a nun borrowing Satan’s bicycle.

Logan stifled a yawn.

The PCSO turned the page. ‘Give us a minute; been mopping up vomit since half seven...’ Then a nod. ‘Here we go: duty solicitor’s in with a Keira Longmore now, so you’re in luck. Took us eight hours to find one yesterday.’ The clipboard went back on the desk. ‘He can see your boy next. Want us to give you a bell when he’s ready?’

‘Thanks.’ Scrubbing some life back into his face. ‘Right...’ Logan pushed through into the stairwell, with its painted breeze blocks and miserable motivational posters, footsteps echoing back from the concrete floor as he slogged his way upstairs.

He’d almost reached the first landing before his mobile launched into ‘Space Oddity’. Slumping against the wall, he checked the screen before answering. ‘WELCOME TO TUFTYVILLE!’ glowed up at him.

But Logan pressed the button anyway. ‘What’s gone wrong now?’

‘Sarge? Just wanted you to know that everyone’s gone free, so we does has ring-side tickets for any time the circus is in town! Which is coolio. But the press turned up with their cameras and microphones and shouty questions, which is definitely not coolio. But then word got round that you’re doing a media briefing soon, and they all did scurry away — whoosh! So is coolio again.’

Another yawn juddered free, and Logan let it rip, ending with a sigh and a sag. ‘Tell everyone: back to the shop, write up your reports, and sign out for the night.’

You could almost hear the wee loon doing his happy dance. ‘We has done good today and did catch the bad guy. That am being the most coolio of all!’

Had to admit, he had a point.

‘Yeah: I suppose you’re not that bad a sidekick. Now sod off; I’ve got crap to finish before I go home.’ Logan hung up and sagged a little more.

Down in the custody suite, the fabled nun performed a very unwise sexual act with a penguin and a bicycle pump — all belted out in a wobbly baritone.

Then Logan’s phone joined in with a ding-buzz on the chorus.

SWEENY:

He let his head thunk back against the breeze blocks. ‘Come on, Logan, only five more years till you can retire...’

LXVI

Using the screwdriver as an icepick to chip away at the concrete was every bit as laborious and frustrating as battering it with the sledgehammer. Only slightly less exhausting. And even less efficient.

But all this buggering about, in the broiling heat, sweating, and struggling, and worrying, and not having anything to drink for... two days? Three? With nothing but a small bottle of spat-in water, made the whole world thrummmm...

Dehydration.

That would be why her head hurt so much, while her arms had turned into two blocks of solid lead, her legs to overcooked spaghetti, and her tongue was made of burning parchment.

And this shit wasn’t helping.

Natasha straightened up — back howling in protest — groaned out a gritty wheeze, and dumped the screwdriver on the workbench. Flexing her aching hand.

How long were the shifts police officers did? Eight hours? Or was it twelve, like offshore workers? Either way: the longer she wanked about with this bloody anchor, the sooner Detective Sergeant Davis would rock-up home, bringing his hate and his rage and his digger keys with him.

Time to go.

But she wasn’t leaving the barn empty handed.

The Stanley knife sat on the workbench, next to the bent screwdriver. She forced the blade back in. Then...

Well, she could hardly stick it in her pocket, could she.

And she’d need both hands free to roll the anchor — which had to be easier and quicker than shoving the thing with one foot.

And her pants had been chosen for their might-get-luckiness, rather than their ability to securely hold DIY equipment.

Which left her bra.

The furry metal was horrible against her skin — like tinfoil on a filling — but Natasha wedged the Stanley knife into the side of her left cup. Shoving it down till the elasticated lace had a good grip on the rough casing.

Not ideal, but it was that or leave her only weapon behind.

She gritted her teeth and heaved the galvanised bin over onto its side again. It hit the floor with a bang, and a chunk of concrete the size of a bowling ball clattered free — coming to rest by the table saw.

Ripper.

She peered inside, but the chain was still firmly held in place. Because no way she could be that lucky today.

Just had to hope there were keys to the padlock at the back of her neck waiting for her in the caravan. Assuming she could get into the bastard.

Natasha bent down and rolled the bin towards the barn doors.

What about the wheelbarrow? Maybe she could make a sort of ramp out of all these bits of wood lying about the place? Then all she’d have to do is load her bucket into the barrow — and now she had both hands free, there was nothing stopping her grabbing the handles — and wheel the fucker up the ramp and in through the caravan door.

Assuming she could wrestle a bin full of concrete into the wheelbarrow in the first place, and the rusty bottom didn’t just fall out of the thing, and it would still move with a flat tyre...

Natasha rolled her anchor out through the barn doors and into the courtyard again.

The sky had grown a purple tinge while she was inside, fighting with the sledgehammer, the shadows lengthening and turning blue as the sun drifted down towards the treetops. Even the bluebottles had stilled, anticipating night.

She shoved the bucket over to the static caravan.

Up close, there was a strange... meaty smell.

Her stomach clenched.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.

Yeah, but it was this, or try to shoot through.

Natasha reached for the door handle.

Just as her fingers touched the pitted metal, the sound of a car engine swelled in the distance, getting louder as it approached, accompanied by the rattling percussion of tyres on a rough track.

She was too late.

And Davis was back.

67

Journalists packed the conference room, cameras and phones at the ready. Staring at the podium and its Police Scotland backdrop with hungry eyes. As if someone was about to be sacrificed on the table in front of them to appease the Ancient Media Gods...

Logan marched his tired arse down the side of the room and into the little nest of whiteboards and flipcharts, where Chief Superintendent Pine and PC Sweeny were waiting for him.

Well, Sweeny was waiting, Pine was on her phone again.

The Media Liaison Officer closed his eyes and shuddered out a long breath. Knees bending, one hand propping him up against the wall. ‘Oh thank Christ for that...’

Pine stuck a finger in her spare ear, swivelling around to face the corner for a modicum of privacy. ‘I know that, First Minister, this is why we’re devoting every available resource to finding Mrs Agapova... No, I realise it’s—’ Her shoulders tightened. ‘Yes, First Minister... Thank you, First Minister.’ She stuck her phone in her pocket and sagged. ‘Bloody politicians.’

‘Hey, Sarge.’

Logan turned, and there was Tufty, beaming up at him. ‘Why are you—’

‘Is everyone ready?’ Sweeny pressed a printout into Logan’s hands. ‘Finally: some good news to Feed The Beast. Make sure you stick to your prepared statements, OK?’

Pine frowned at hers. ‘How did you get these ready so quick?’

‘Trick of the trade, Boss.’ His swanky swagger wilted beneath Pine’s glare. ‘Sorry. They covered it in the Media Liaison Officer Training Course: “Always prepare a best-case-scenario briefing as something to work towards.” That way, if things actually do go well, you’re ready for it.’

Which wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence in A Division.

Logan peered around the edge of a flipchart. The chatter was fading away as the last sixty seconds ticked down. ‘Think they’re all here about Charles MacGarioch?’

‘Don’t care,’ Sweeny brushed a knob of fluff off his black T-shirt, ‘as long as we come out of this smelling like roses, rather than what they’re grown in, it’s a win.’ Frown. ‘But if anyone asks you about anything that isn’t on the briefing notes, do not engage. Especially about Natasha Agapova. Last thing we need is them turning our moment of triumph into a big bag of festering shite.’ He checked his watch. ‘OK: it’s showtime. Let’s give these bastards a briefing they’ll never forget!’ Then strode out into the room and up onto the platform.

Going by the glare Pine directed at Sweeny’s back, she hadn’t enjoyed that bit about ‘festering shite’.

Logan nodded at her private corner. ‘Operation “Find Natasha Agapova” not going well?’

‘Bloody thing isn’t going at all. Our only suspect is lying in the mortuary, Forensics have found precisely zilch, ANPR is useless, nothing on CCTV, and no one saw or heard anything. Other than that? Everything’s just sodding great.’ Pine pulled her shoulders back and marched out after Sweeny.

Tufty patted Logan on the back. ‘Break a leg, Sarge.’

‘Why are you here again?’

‘I has a lovenest and a bidie-in to support, so the overtime comes in handy. Plus Kate and me totally helped with the arresting, so I does has some basking-in-the-reflected-glory to do.’

Twit.

Logan rolled his eyes, shook his head, then joined Pine and Sweeny onstage.

And the crowd went wild...

LXVIII

Fuck!

The bastard was back, and she was still shackled to this stupid bloody anchor. If she’d made a run for it, she might’ve reached a nearby farm by now. Called for help...

Probably not, though.

The car’s engine growled closer.

Instead, she’d have left a flattened path through the weeds and grass that even a blind corpse could follow. And out in the open like that, in the middle of a field, she’d be shit out of options.

Whereas here, she had four.

Number One: Make a run for it now. Which was stupid. She wouldn’t get more than a few hundred feet before he caught up with her. Then it would be JCB time.

Number Two: Get back to the outbuilding and make like she never left. Wait for the bastard to drink himself to sleep again, like last time, and then leg it. Assuming Davis didn’t just try to kill her, soon as he got home.

Number Three: FIGHT. Kill the bastard.

Yeah, like she could have a fair go, shackled to a galvanised metal bin full of concrete.

And Number Four: Hide.

One and Three were nonstarters.

Number Two was risky. She could hold her wrists up to the collar, so it looked like they were still shackled there, but all he had to do was look at the bloody mess she’d made of the concrete in her bin, and he’d know exactly what she’d been up to.

Which left hiding.

But where? Where was she going to hide, that he couldn’t find her in two minutes flat? In the barn? Under the static caravan?

No chance. The thing was surrounded by weeds, which the anchor would flatten — so exactly the same problem as scarpering across the field...

Of course, there was a fifth option: stand here, dithering about like a proper whacker, and wait for him to beat the shit out of her again, then get the JCB fired up for a bit of gravedigging.

‘Shite...’ The word barely made it past her dry, cracked lips.

Number Two it was, then.

But make it bloody quick.

Natasha shoved the anchor, rolling the bastard fast as it would go, across the courtyard and in through the door to her stinking manky prison.

Was like running into an oven, after the relative cool of the barn.

Soon as she got the thing over the threshold, she hauled at the door — setting those stupid bloody rollers squealing like a ruptured pig.

Please let the bastard still be parking.

Please let his windows be up.

Please let him be playing his horrible music, full volume, so he couldn’t hear any of that...

One last yank and the door clunked into place.

She bowled her anchor back into the middle of the room and heaved it upright again. The concrete inside was ruined — not enough to let go of the bloody chain, but more than enough to get her killed.

So...?

Sit on it.

That was fuckin’ genius!

Her arse would hide the damage.

Natasha clambered onto the bin. Not exactly comfy, but better than the alternative. Then sat there, listening.

Outside, the engine noise died. A car door creaked open, then thunked shut.

Please don’t let him have heard any of that.

Footsteps crunched across the dirt outside.

Please, please, please, please, please...

She sat up straight.

Deep breath.

You can do this.

The bluebottles must’ve been disturbed by her charging back in here, because the greasy bloated bodies lumbered into the sticky air again. Circling and buzzzzzzzing.

And now that she was sitting still, the bastards began to settle on her salt-stained arms and legs.

One landed on her cheek.

She brushed it away with a swipe of the hand. A good old-fashioned ‘Australian salute’, as they used to say, back in the—

Oh fuck...

She could hold her hands in place and pretend they were still cuffed there all she liked, but Detective Sergeant Davis might just notice SHE WASN’T WEARING HIS PRECIOUS FUCKING GIMP MASK!

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit...

She should’ve run after all.

69

Whoever invented paperwork could sod right off.

Logan poked away at his keyboard, working his way through the interminable screeds of crap needed to justify every cock-up, mini-triumph, assorted shenanigan, and utter wanking disaster he’d overseen since starting work this morning.

Trying not to stare at the wall clock every two minutes.

The stacks of file folders he’d inherited still littered his desk, but even more of the things had arrived — clogging up his in-tray too. Because in Police Scotland you could never have enough buggering paperwork.

He finished off the report on Charles MacGarioch’s arrest, hit ‘SEND’ and slumped back in his chair.

Rubbed at his face.

Groaned.

Looked around at the assorted piles and piles and piles of other people’s crap.

Groaned again.

Then heaved the files from his in-tray onto his desk, opening each in turn to have a quick squint at the covering pages inside.

Right at the top was Forensic’s preliminary report on Andrew Shaw’s Peugeot, which didn’t need an entire sheet of A4 — four words would’ve done it: ‘bugger, and indeed, all’. No blood or DNA matching Natasha Agapova, so far.

Suppose there was still hope, but you could pretty much guarantee they’d used the accomplice’s car in the abduction.

The next one down contained Doreen’s summary pages for all the review meetings he’d lumbered her with. But those could wait till tomorrow.

Number Three was a twenty-four-page memo about overtime payments and how to properly account for manpower-spend in relation to operational-budget-overruns and calculate the variance from key-performance-indicator baselines.

That could definitely wait.

Then there were a bunch of DCI Porter’s cases, and a handful of DCI McCulloch’s for good measure. Because the lucky bastards were off with the plague, leaving their crap for the living to wade through.

And right at the bottom: Biohazard’s door-to-door-and-PNC-check extravaganza. Which, surprise-surprise, turned out to be a complete waste of sodding—

‘What are you still doing here?’

Logan looked up, and there was Chief Superintendent Pine, with yet more paperwork tucked under her arm. ‘Boss.’ He waved a hand at the assorted piles. ‘Catching up while we’re waiting on Keira Longmore to finish with the duty solicitor, so Charles MacGarioch can have a go. And then we can finally interview him.’

Pine perched a buttock on his desk and helped herself to one of his files. ‘Are we sure it’s wise to let them share a solicitor, given the risk of collusion?’ Opening the folder to skim the contents.

‘What choice do we have?... Which is now the official motto of A Division.’ A yawn crackled free. ‘Right now, our pool of duty solicitors contains exactly one person. And we have to share her with Tayside.’ He slumped in his chair. ‘It wasn’t your fault, you know: the media briefing. The buggers had their knives out and sharpened long before we got there.’

She kept on reading. ‘Aren’t I the one who’s meant to give the motivational speeches?’

‘OK, so Natasha Agapova was abducted in the wee small hours of Tuesday morning, but we only found out...’ he checked the wall clock again, ‘twenty-two and a half hours ago! And we’ve already identified one suspect and solved over a dozen outstanding rapes. In what screwed-up alternative universe is that “floundering”?’

‘The one that sells newspapers.’

Because that was so much more important than the truth these days.

‘You get anywhere with Nick Wilson?’

A puzzled look. ‘Nick...?’

‘Second-last person to see Natasha Agapova alive? Captain Sleazy of the Good Ship SexYacht?’

‘Oh.’ Her brows furrowed. ‘Erm... DS MacDonald’s speaking to him. Or has spoken. Or at least, he better have.’ She cricked her neck. ‘Haven’t checked my messages yet.’ Then grimaced. ‘Feel like I’ve spent the whole sodding day fielding questions and doing interviews. Urgh...’ pulling her mouth out and down, like an unhappy bulldog. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy swapping places and running A Division for a bit, do you?’

‘Not even vaguely, Boss.’

A sigh. ‘Yeah. Me too.’ She dumped the file back in his in-tray. ‘OK — leave the duty-solicitor thing with me. I’ll see if I can’t pull a few levers with the local Society of Advocates. Buggers owe me a few favours anyway.’ Then hopped down off Logan’s desk. ‘Go home.’

‘But Charles MacGarioch—’

‘Isn’t going anywhere. That’s why we put him in a nice warm cell.’ She pointed at the door. ‘Home: go.’

Yeah, he wasn’t going to argue with that one.

‘Thanks, Boss.’

‘But for goodness’ sake, properly dressed tomorrow. Detective Chief Inspectors are expected to set an example.’

Again?

He looked down at his outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. ‘We were on an undercover op!’

‘I know that. When you’re back in uniform,’ she tapped her epaulettes, then held up a trio of fingers, ‘three pips, not two.’ Then marched off. ‘And tomorrow we do some spectacular detective work, rescue Natasha Agapova, get lauded in the press, a couple of shiny medals, keys to the city, and a slap-up dinner with champagne and chips.’

Aye, right...

Soon as she’d gone, Logan sagged for a couple of breaths, then stood. Powered down his computer. And sodded off home for the night.

All this pain and suffering and death and horror would still be here in the morning...

LXX

The sky darkened through the ragged window hole, purpling like the bruises spreading across Natasha’s ribcage.

And still no sign of Detective Sergeant Davis.

Not that she was looking forward to the bastard coming home, but the waiting was torture. Knowing the horror would sweep into the outbuilding with him.

So, she sat on the dirt floor — head throbbing, hands trembling, throat like the bush two days after a fire — with her back against the anchor, forehead resting on her folded arms, propped up on her raised knees. Eyes closed as DS Davis’s music barked out of the static caravan, loud enough to make her fillings rattle.

Maybe something had happened?

Maybe that was why he hadn’t turned up yet?

Maybe he’d had a bad day at work?

Or maybe he knew what she’d been up to, and making her wait was all part of the punishment.

She should’ve broken into that bloody caravan, smell or no smell. Then at least she could’ve got a drink of water.

Bet Davis had a fridge in there, with ice, and maybe a chilled bottle of Pinot Gris...

God, she was such a bloody galah.

And now she—

The music got louder and clearer for a moment, then the clunk of a closing door and it went back to angry muffled noises again, pounding along with the beat.

Oh God.

The waiting was over; it was horror time...

Natasha struggled to her feet, going up on her tiptoes to park her bum on top of the bucket. Concealing the damaged concrete as the heavy wooden door squealed. She jerked her wrists up to her throat, holding them there like they were still cuffed in place — hands over her face to hide the missing mask. Peering out between her fingers. Trying to work up a little spit in her mouth.

Can’t talk your way out of anything if you can’t speak.

The door thudded wide open and the light from Davis’s head torch clawed across the broken walls, searching for her.

Then he lurched into the room, bringing with him the bitter smoky stench of second-hand whisky. The bottle was clutched in one hand, but the other held something else. Something that rustled as his shoulder scuffed against the wall, because his legs didn’t seem to be working all that well tonight.

Booze smeared his words into each other: ‘Where’s my favourite girl?’

Oh Christ, not this.

Nah, she’d rather die than have his disgusting body on top of her.

‘My favourite, dirty girl.’

Wasn’t easy, but she croaked out a bit of defiance. ‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘Hey, look: you’re famous!’ He hurled his rustling handful at her head.

Halfway there, it turned into three rolled-up newspapers that bounced off her raised arms, one bursting open on its way to the ground, the sheets fluttering as it sloughed apart.

Davis’s head torch swivelled down, pinning it to the floor.

‘NEWSPAPER OWNER ABDUCTED BY SICK WEIRDO’

Natasha’s face smiled back at her from the Aberdeen Examiner’s front page. A stupid PR shot, taken years ago at some trade dinner thing she never wanted to go to.

Davis lurched over and nudged the other two with his foot, unfurling them.

It was a copy of the Evening Express and the Glasgow Times. One had gone for, ‘WAS MEDIA MOGUL KIDNAPPED BY TERRORISTS?’ the other, ‘EX-HUSBAND’S EMOTIONAL PLEA: “BRING BACK MY NATASHA”’. Because there wasn’t a single story Adrian couldn’t make about himself.

Davis took a swig of whisky. ‘Course the pictures don’t do you justice. Don’t capture how ugly you are inside. How twisted and hateful and ugly.’ The head torch’s beam swept across the three front pages, then up Natasha’s battered body to her face.

And stopped.

Could almost hear the bastard’s mouth fall open. ‘What... But... Where’s your mask?’ Air hissed in through his nostrils, to be bellowed out again: ‘WHERE’S YOUR FUCKING MASK, BITCH?’

Time to tell the most important lie of her life.

Because if it didn’t work, it would be her last.

She kept her wrists at her throat, but turned her fingers into claws. Doing her best to snarl, even if it came out thin and papery instead. ‘I tore it off. I ripped it to shreds and fed it to the rats.’

With slow, deliberate movements, DS Davis hunkered down and placed his bottle on the floor, by the door. Safe and out of the way. Then stood — taking a lurching step to the side, like the ground had shifted unexpectedly beneath his feet. Straightened himself up... And lunged forward, lashing out with a stinging slap that crashed into Natasha’s right cheek and hurled her off the anchor, into the dust and eviscerated newspapers.

‘HAVE YOU GOT ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THAT COST? YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH!’

He grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her around to face him. Not that she could see anything, with his head torch blazing in her eyes, but the hate and booze radiating off the bastard could’ve lit Melbourne for a year.

Something else glowed with rage, and the hard cold fur of old metal.

Davis coiled a fist. ‘I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!’

But before he could let it fly, Natasha’s right hand slashed out and up, thumb shoving the button on the Stanley knife forward. Not really aiming, just going for anything she could hit.

The jagged blade dug through the bastard’s filthy T-shirt, ripping its way up his chest to sever ‘BLODHØST’ from ‘DØDSULV’, then out again — soaring free until it slashed into his jaw and across the bastard’s cheek.

He shrieked.

Letting go of her, Davis scrabbled backwards, tripping and falling flat on his back, arms flailing.

A sharp glass clink and rattle as the whisky bottle went flying.

Natasha growled and leapt — as far as the chain would let her — grabbing his leg with her free hand and stabbing the rusty blade into the inside of his thigh over and over again as he screamed and howled.

With any luck she’d sever the bastard’s femoral artery.

Blood soaked through Davis’s jeans, making the fabric slippery, but she tightened her grip and dragged him closer. Going artery hunting with the Stanley knife again.

‘GET OFF ME! GET OFF ME!’

The knife bit into his other leg, inches from his groin, but it’d be infinitely more satisfying to castrate the bastard before he died. So the next stab halved the distance.

Davis thrashed and screeched, bawling like a smacked child, writhing hard enough to tear the Stanley knife from her blood-slicked grip and send it clattering off into the darkness.

Fuck.

Unarmed now, she clenched her fist and slammed it right into Davis’s balls.

Whoomp — the air and the fight went right out of him with a strangulated whimper. He curled around his battered testicles, moaning.

Strange, you’d think the lacerated thighs would be worse, but that was men and their balls for you.

She ripped the torch from his head and went through his pockets.

Yes!

That foul little dog’s paw was in his back pocket, the collection of shiny metal keys dangling from the leg end. The tiny one he’d used to unlock her mouth was still there, as were a bunch of others.

One of these bastards had to be for the padlock at the back of her collar, keeping her shackled to this galvanised bin full of bloody concrete.

Leaving him to groan and whimper, she spun the collar around her neck, till the padlock was at the front. A big brass Yale job. And there was only one Yale key dangling from Fido’s paw.

Please. After all this...

She skittered the key into the lock and twisted. The click of the mechanism as it swung open was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Soon as she pulled the lock out of her collar, the whole thing clattered to the ground, chain and all.

She was free.

She was finally free!

Now where’s the knife, so she can finish the job?

The torch beam swept across the dirty floor and the newspapers and the fallen rocks and big chunks of stone, but the Stanley knife had disappeared.

WHERE THE FUCK WAS HER STANLEY KNIFE?

Davis stopped whining — swapping the self-pitying snivel for a puce-faced hissing rage. Blue jeans turned a deep, glistening shade of claret from waist to shin as he cupped his poor little balls.

Try childbirth, then see what real pain—

His foot lashed out, catching Natasha’s left knee, making something inside pop as red-hot wires lanced through the joint, twisting and coiling, searing straight out the other side.

Natasha roared as the leg gave way, and she staggered back against her anchor, setting it rocking.

‘KILL YOU!’ He struggled to his feet. Teeth bared. Spittle frothing out with every Pitbull breath, one hand pressed against his torn, bleeding face. ‘I’LL BLOODY KILL YOU!’

And you just knew the bastard meant every word.

And he was much bigger than she was.

And standing between her and the open door.

Natasha pulled the head torch on over her matted curls, and scrambled through the window hole. Grunting every time her throbbing knee took any weight, the joint yowling as she tumbled out onto the gravel. She landed with a whump on her back, hard enough to leave her gasping for air.

Lying amongst the weeds, blinking up at the stars and the swirling dots of midges, drawn by the head-torch glow.

Heavy metal thummm-thummm-thummmed at the caravan’s walls. Angry and jarring. Like her knee.

The bastard had broken something inside it. Or torn the ligaments, or dislocated her kneecap, or something.

And he’d do the same to the rest of her, then dump her in a deep pit and bury her, if she didn’t move.

Right.

Now.

Natasha fought her way to her feet, and limped towards the caravan. Cos there had to be a phone in there, right? At least, the bastard would have a mobile and even if it was locked, she could still make emergency calls. And once inside, she could barricade the door and wait for the bastard to bleed to death. Or pass out. Or she could grab a kitchen knife and finish the—

‘BITCH!’

Detective Sergeant Davis hobbled into the courtyard, bloodied legs stiff as a rocking horse. Arms up and out for balance. Glaring at her in the head torch’s glow as bright red dripped from his torn face and slashed chest.

Even when her dad was drinking, he didn’t look so full of rage.

Natasha staggered the last few steps and grabbed the caravan door handle. But it wouldn’t even turn.

Locked.

What kind of bastard locked the door when he was only going twenty paces?

Keys — where were the keys?

Must’ve dropped them on the way out the window.

‘FUCKING KILL YOU!’ Getting closer.

How was she supposed to run away when she could barely walk?

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

She abandoned the caravan and limped towards the barn instead, with Davis lumbering along behind her — snarling like a rabid dingo.

The barn door yawned open, with nothing but darkness on the other side. Natasha stumbled through it, the head torch’s beam raking the dead machinery and floor. Then lurched around to slam the door in Davis’s face.

But he was too close, jamming his foot into the gap before it could fully shut. ‘YOU’RE GOING TO SUFFER, BITCH!’ Shoulder pressed against the wood. Shoving. ‘I’M GOING TO SKIN YOU ALIVE!’ He reared up then slammed forwards, making the door boom and creak. ‘I’LL MAKE A NEW MASK OUT YOUR FUCKING HIDE!’

Natasha pushed back: good leg braced against the rough concrete floor.

‘BITCH!’ One last crash and the door flew open, knocking her off her feet, sending her tumbling across the concrete as DS Davis lurched into the barn. ‘Going to make you scream!’

She scrambled backwards, until her shoulders bumped into the workbench.

He hobbled closer, leaving a trail of blood on the dusty floor. ‘Tell you what: why don’t I give you the same chance you gave those poor migrants? That would be fair, right?’

‘Please — I have money, I have—’

‘NOTHING!’ Spittle flying, glowing in the torchlight. ‘Fast asleep in their beds while some right-wing racist monster SET FIRE TO THEIR HOME!’

She raised her chin. ‘You’re the monster.’

‘Maybe.’ Davis loomed over her. ‘But if I am, it’s because that’s what you made me.’ Grabbing Natasha by the arms he yanked her to her feet, grinning, eyes wide and pinprick sharp. Pressing himself against her. ‘I’m the hurricane.’

He wrapped a fist into her hair, holding her head tight as the other fist curled... then slammed into her face. Snapping her head back.

The world exploded in jagged shades of orange and purple as a choir of arsonists set her skull ablaze.

A second blow turned everything silent and still and dark for a moment, before it all rushed back in a deafening wave.

She probably wouldn’t wake up from a third...

And that’s when Natasha’s searching hand clamped onto the yellow-and-black handle of that crappy buck-fifty screwdriver.

She gripped it tight.

Then rammed the blade and shank right into Davis’s side. Thnk.

His mouth fell open, fist drooping.

She pulled the screwdriver free — shkk — and drove it in again. Thnk. Shkk. And again. Thnk.

He let go of her hair and staggered back a step. Shkk.

This time, the screwdriver stabbed deep into his belly. Thnk.

Davis blinked at her.

Natasha tightened her grip on the handle and twisted.

With a normal screwdriver that probably wouldn’t do much, but the buck-fifty’s shank was all bent from getting her wrists unshackled, so instead of just swivelling around, the blade would be grinding its way through his innards. Causing all sorts of horrible damage.

Good.

Davis swayed back on his good leg, but the other one wouldn’t take his weight any more and down he went with a crashing thump.

Left hand clutching his stomach, he tried to claw and push himself away from her, the screwdriver still sticking out of his midriff. Blood-soaked jeans leaving a thick scarlet smear across the concrete floor. Wet and gleaming in the head torch’s glow as yet more blood pulsed out of his punctured guts.

The barn swirled around Natasha’s head and her working knee gave way, dumping her on her backside against the workbench again. Leaving her swaying. Holding onto the floor to keep herself from falling off as everything danced and spun.

Davis got as far as the table saw.

He was still struggling to escape, but his good leg just slipped on the blood-slicked floor and he didn’t seem to have the strength in his arms any more. So eventually he stopped even trying and... sagged.

Natasha closed her eyes as the waltzing world picked up pace, twirling and reeling. Arms and legs and head and every single breath getting heavier, until everything went...