by J D Kirk
“Dylan? Who’s…?” he began. “What are you…? What do you…?”
Then his expression became something else. Realisation. Acceptance, maybe.
His eyes went wide. The rest of his face went slack.
He gave a half-hearted snort. The ground rumbled, louder this time.
Logan worked out, too late, what it was.
“Shit, shit, no!” he bellowed, powering up the incline.
“Dylan,” Fisher said, rolling the word around inside his mouth.
And then he stepped backwards beyond Logan’s reach, fell onto the train tracks on the other side of the incline, directly into the path of the 11:41 to Glasgow.
And was lost to the oncoming thunder.
DCI Jack Logan and DI Ben Forde sat in the front seats of Logan’s Ford Focus, watching Duncan and Catriona Reid take their boy home. The family stopped at the gate, as Logan had advised, to let the press photographers fire off a few hundred snaps in the space of three seconds, and to utter a few rehearsed soundbites.
“We’re just grateful to have him home.”
“We thank the police and the community for all their hard work.”
“I’m going to have ice cream!”
That done, Constable Sinead Bell escorted the family up the path, while four other uniformed officers moved in to encourage the press to be on their way.
“You did good, Jack,” Ben said.
Logan didn’t respond. Not at first. He kept his eyes fixed ahead as a few spots of rain flecked the windscreen. The sky was once more heavy and fat with dark clouds, and they were doing more to chase off the media vultures than the polis.
“Storm’s coming,” said Logan, looking up.
“There’s always a new storm on its way up here,” Ben told him. He shrugged. “We get through them. They all pass, sooner or later.”
They watched Sinead and the Reids disappear inside the house. The liaison was going to hang around for the rest of the day to offer them any immediate support they might need. Connor had been checked over at the hospital, but he was going to need a lot of help going forward. Professional help.
Logan hadn’t been able to stress that to the family enough.
“Christ. We should probably let Ed Walker go,” Logan said, his eyes going to the house next door to the Reids.
“God. Aye. I’d forgotten we still had him,” Ben said. “What about your head?”
Logan reached up and felt the sharp ends of the sutures with the tips of his fingers. “It’s fine.”
“He tried to ruin your youthful good looks.”
Logan chuckled drily. “Take more than a clout to the head to mess up this mush.”
“No charges, then?” Ben asked.
“No charges.”
They sat in silence a while longer. The press were all getting into their cars and vans. One by one, they were pulling away, leaving the Reids to get on with their lives.
“So, Henderson, then?” said Ben.
“Aye,” Logan confirmed, his contempt evident in just that single word.
“But, I mean… for a story? I don’t get it. Why would Petrie tell him about Dylan? And, if he did, why didn’t Henderson just run with that? He could’ve found the missing kid. Been a hero.”
“Christ knows,” Logan sighed. “Maybe Petrie did tell him, or maybe he just figured it out himself, somehow. He’s always maintained we didn’t do things by the book with the original case. Maybe he thought he could prove he’s been right all these years. Get one over on me, or something.”
Logan shrugged. “Maybe Petrie put him up to it. Or manipulated him into putting Dylan up to it, anyway. Maybe it was all an attempt to cast more doubt on his conviction. He can be a persuasive bastard when he wants to be.”
Ben looked sceptical.
“He’s no’ the cabbage he makes out he is,” Logan insisted.
Ben tactfully steered the conversation in a different direction. “You think Henderson would have let Fisher kill Connor?” Ben asked.
Logan blew out his cheeks. “I don’t know. I mean, he was an arsehole to the core, but I’m still not convinced he was a murderer.”
“Guess we’ll never know,” Ben said.
Logan nodded. “Aye. Guess not.”
The front door to the house opened. Sinead emerged and stood on the step, chatting to someone inside. She was all smiles and animated gestures, so Logan guessed it was one of the Reids. Catriona, probably.
“She worked out well,” Ben said. “You’ve still got a knack for spotting the good ones.”
“Not always,” said Logan, shooting Ben a disparaging look.
“Funny,” said DI Forde.
Sinead said her farewells and turned away from the house as the door closed.
“Dylan Muir’s parents,” he said, still facing front. “They never find out.”
Ben turned to him. “You’re not serious?”
“I am. Dylan helped kill those two boys. And then… all this. With Connor. Henderson. And Hamza.”
He met Ben’s gaze. “They can’t find out. It’d kill them.”
“But isn’t it better they know? Isn’t it better they get some sort of closure?”
“Not this. Not like this,” Logan said. “This wouldn’t be closure. This would be the end of them.”
“Aye. I mean…” Ben began, but words failed him and he stopped there.
“As far as they know, we’re still looking for their boy,” Logan told him.
He turned the key in the ignition as Sinead closed in on the car.
“And we’ll never stop.”
Chapter Forty-Six
There was a going away party for Logan in the station canteen. It wasn’t a particularly grand affair—DS McQuarrie bought a pack of cakes from the Farmfoods up the road, and DC Neish put the kettle on—but it was the thought that counted.
The conversation started slowly, and mostly centred on the case. Gradually, things picked up. They discussed DC Hamza’s serious-but-stable condition, the fact that Ben had never got the double chips he’d asked for, and then Sinead had demonstrated, via the medium of mime, what Logan’s high-speed driving skills were like.
By the time they were onto Tyler’s inability to kick in a door, they were laughing like old friends. But by then, the cherry bakewells had been eaten, and the tea had been drunk, and it was time for the party to come to an end.
Logan wasn’t big on goodbyes at the best of times, so he kept things short and sweet. Or sweet by his standards, at least.
“I’ll be honest, when I first met you, I wanted to beat the shite out of you,” Logan told DC Neish. “Nothing personal, mind. It was just the hair. And a bit the face. Mostly the hair, though.”
Tyler grinned and ran his fingers through his immovable locks. He’d reapplied whatever chemical concoction held it in place, and it immediately returned to its original position when he took his hand away.
“You’re just jealous, boss,” the DC said.
“Aye. Probably,” Logan admitted. He shook Tyler’s hand. “Good work, son. Pleasure working with you.”
“You, too.”
“Well, ‘pleasure’ is maybe stretching it…” Logan added.
Tyler laughed and stepped away as DS McQuarrie approached. Logan spotted Tyler sidling closer to Sinead, considered putting a stop to it, then decided not to bother just this once.
“Sir,” said Caitlyn, shaking his hand. “It was good working with you. You have some… interesting methods. I reckon I’ve learned a thing or two.”
“Oh, God. No, forget anything you’ve learned from me,” Logan told her. “Seriously, keep doing it your way. I’m the last person you should be getting inspiration from.”
Caitlyn smiled. “Yeah. I was just being polite, sir. I’m not going to do any of that.”
Logan wiped a hand across his brow. “Phew. Had me worried for a minute there.”
And then, it was DI Forde’s turn. Neither man said much. They didn’t have to. There was a hand
shake that became a shoulder-pat, then a hug.
“Tell Alice I said hello,” Logan said.
“I will.”
“Does she still hate me, by the way?”
“With the fire of a thousand suns.”
“Jesus, still?”
Ben shrugged. “You killed Harry.”
“By accident,” Logan stressed.
“We both know it wasn’t an accident, Jack,” Ben scolded. “Anyway, even if it had been, it doesn’t matter. You still killed him.”
Both men realised then that the others were staring at them in confusion.
“Harry Pricklepants,” Ben said, as if that explained everything.
“It was this ugly bastard of an ornament,” Logan clarified. “Little hedgehog with trousers on. It was a mercy killing, if anything.”
The sense of relief from the others was palpable.
“Tell her I said hello, anyway,” Logan told Ben.
DI Forde nodded. “I’ll pass on your best.”
“Mind if I walk you out, sir?” Sinead asked when Logan turned to talk to her.
“Aye, escort this man off the premises, Constable,” DI Forde instructed. He lifted a napkin from the table, revealing the cherry bakewell he’d been keeping hidden, then peeled it out of its little foil case.
“And see that he doesn’t come back.”
“How’s Harris?” Logan asked, as they crossed the car park, headed for Logan’s car.
“He’s alright. Surprisingly,” Sinead said. “Our aunt and uncle came down from Nairn. They’re going to stay a few days. Jinkies… I mean, Chief Inspector Pickering has said I can take a few days off to get him sorted.”
“Take him up on that,” Logan advised.
“I will, sir. I just… I wanted to be there this afternoon to get Connor home. I wanted to, I don’t know, see it through.”
“Aye. I get that,” Logan told her.
They reached the car and stopped by Logan’s door. The rain had come down in sheets for half an hour, but now the blanket of cloud had become thin and patchy, allowing glimpses of the blue sky beyond.
The storm was over. For now, at least.
“I wanted to say ‘thank you,’ sir,” Sinead said. “For getting me involved. And for everything with Harris. You didn’t have to do either.”
“Well, I kind of do have to help kids who’re being held at knife point,” Logan pointed out. “It’s pretty much in the job description.”
Sinead smiled and nodded. “Oh. Is it? I should probably read that at some point.”
Logan wrinkled his nose. “I wouldn’t bother. It’s a bit dry, and you can see the ending coming a mile off.
“Besides,” he added. “You don’t need it. Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’ve got this.”
“Thanks,” Sinead said, blushing slightly. “So, I suppose it’s back to directing traffic and stopping the high school kids drinking down the riverbank at lunchtime,” she said. She smiled dreamily. “Can’t wait.”
“Aye. Well, I wouldn’t get too used to it,” Logan told her.
He offered a hand for her to shake, but she stepped in and hugged him, instead. He patted her back a little awkwardly, then she pulled away and stepped back, making room for him to open his door.
“Safe journey, sir.”
“Thanks, Sinead. Tell Harris I’ll send him tickets to my next ballet performance. Then we’ll see who’s laughing.”
“I will, sir.”
Logan opened the car door, shrugged off his coat, then tossed it onto the passenger seat. He was about to get in when Sinead spoke again.
“You should call her, sir.”
Logan paused, one foot in the footwell.
“Your daughter, I mean. You should call her.”
For a moment, Logan looked lost in thought.
“Aye,” he said, climbing into the car. “Maybe.”
And then, he pulled the door closed, fired up the engine, and the Focus swept out of the car park to begin the long journey south.
DC Hamza Khaled regarded the bag of grapes with an expression that was giving very little away.
“Did you check if they’re halal, sir?”
Logan’s eyes widened. “What? Shite. No, I thought—”
“I’m kidding,” Hamza said. He grimaced as he shuffled himself up the bed a couple of inches. It was the best he could do for now, but it was a start. “Sit down, sit down.”
Logan shook his head. “I’m not stopping. I’ve got an appointment. Just wanted to stop by and say hello. Make sure they were treating you alright.”
“It’s mental, sir,” said Hamza, dropping his voice to a whisper. “They’re treating me like a proper hero. I mean, check it out. Private room. Some of the nurses have even been asking for autographs and selfies. Whatever you do, don’t tell them all I did was get myself stabbed.”
“You did a lot more than that, Hamza,” Logan told him. “A lot more.”
“Says the man who brought Connor home.”
Logan shook his head. “Team effort. All the way.”
They chatted for a while. About the case. About the attack. About DC Neish’s hair.
Logan apologised. Hamza waved it away.
And then, Hamza’s wife popped her head impatiently around the door, and it was time for Logan to go.
“I’ll check back in tomorrow,” the DCI said. “Assuming I can fight my way through the mob of fans out front.”
“Aye, good luck with that,” Hamza told him.
He met Logan’s eye, and while they said nothing, something passed between them. Some understanding. Some bond.
“So, that’s it then, sir? Case closed, all done?”
Logan drew himself up to his full height. “No’ yet, son,” he intoned. “There’s one last thing to take care of.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The city had felt more claustrophobic than he remembered as he’d made his way through it, the M8 busier and more choked with traffic as he’d crawled along it, headed east.
His conversation with the receptionist had been brief, but friendly enough. She hadn’t asked any questions as he’d signed the book. They knew him well here. Well enough.
“Any joy?” he asked, indicating the open newspaper on her desk. A couple of the jobs had been ringed in black pen. She smiled nervously as she flicked the page.
“I was just having a look,” she said.
“Don’t blame you,” Logan replied, finishing his signature with a flourish. He picked up his own newspaper which he’d brought in, then tucked it under his arm. “Good luck.”
Petrie was sitting in his usual chair, back to the window, glassy doll-eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Logan approached without a word, then stood looming over him, the two men separated only by the little rolling table where Petrie ate his meals.
Still saying nothing, Logan unfolded the newspaper. It was a copy of that day’s Herald. He could’ve picked any one of the Scottish dailies, but had selected this one for the impact its combo of headline and image would make.
He placed the newspaper down, turned to give Petrie the best possible view of the front page. Logan watched him, waiting for the moment when the fog behind Petrie’s eyes would briefly clear, revealing the monster that lurked within.
When it happened, Petrie’s throat tightened, ejecting an involuntary grunt. His eyes met those of a young man in his early twenties. A pencil drawing, but a damn accurate one. Well worth the forty quid.
KIDNAPPER DIES IN TRAIN SUICIDE was the headline. Logan had liked the simplicity of it. No messing. No wordplay. Just the facts, blunt and raw and brutal.
Logan watched as Petrie tried to stop his shoulders shaking. Almost admired the bastard’s attempts to hold himself together.
The door opened at his back. Dr Ramesh’s voice was one long sigh of exasperation.
“Detective Chief Inspector Logan. I thought I’d told you not to turn up here? I thought I’d explained you couldn’t keep doing this?”
<
br /> “Don’t worry, Doctor,” said Logan. “I’m done here.”
He allowed himself another moment to enjoy Petrie’s suffering.
“I’m done.”
And then, he turned to the door, strode out of the hospital, and headed back towards the city he called home.
DCI Logan will return in
THICKER THAN WATER
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Thicker than Water - Chapter One
They were going to get in trouble. She was certain of it.
She was sure she felt her parents’ eyes on her as she slid clumsily down the embankment. Sure her dad would shout after her as she sprackled through the heather. Sure she would hear the rustling of the tent door being opened, and see the beam of a head torch sweeping across the campsite towards her as she stumbled the final few rocky steps to where the water met the land.
But, she didn’t. Instead, she stood there shivering at the shore of the loch, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves and the faster crashing of her own heart.
Nathan was a pace or two ahead of her, the moonlight bathing him as he hopped on one leg and wrestled off a shoe.
“We’re not actually doing this, are we?” Lolly asked. They were a good hundred yards from the campsite, tucked out of sight, but the fear of getting caught turned the question into a whispered giggle.
She’d only known Nathan for a day and a half, but he’d quickly turned a tedious family camping holiday in Scotland into much less of a soul-crushing ordeal. He was two years older than her – almost in Sixth Form – and she had immediately taken a shine to him.
He was funnier than the boys back home. Smarter, too. He’d been able to tell her all kinds of stuff about the history of the area. Yes, her dad had told her almost exactly the same information during the drive up, but the difference was that Nathan had explained it in a way that didn’t make her want to self-harm. He managed to make it interesting.