Logan hung his jacket up, leaving it to drip on the carpet tiles. ‘And it’s lovely to see you too, Niamh.’
‘Don’t you dare Niamh me, Sergeant, you’re—’
‘One: my shift doesn’t start for another fifty minutes, so I’m not on duty. You asked me to call you Niamh when I’m not on duty. Two: the Sergeant’s Hoose belongs to Police Scotland, so my equipment belt has remained on police property since I left here at five. And three: I do have permission. Check with Inspector McGregor.’ He scritched off his stabproof vest. ‘Now, is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘Hmmm…’ Harper pursed her lips and swivelled left and right in his seat for a moment. ‘Is everything organized for the operation this evening?’
‘Why do you think I came in early?’
The Operational Support Unit van rocked on its springs as another gust of wind punched it in the ribs. Every seat in the van was taken – Tufty, Calamity, Isla at the back; the three officers from Elgin and their Chief Inspector in the middle, the four-man OSU team in the front, which barely left standing room for Harper, Narveer, Steel, Rennie, Logan, and the Police Dog Officer. Which was a shame, because she absolutely reeked of wet dog and it was impossible to get away from the smell.
Everyone in the van was dressed in full armoured ninja black – with kneepads, gauntlets, and elbow guards. Well, everyone except Harper and Steel, who looked as if they’d just crashed a very strange fancy-dress party.
Five minutes and it was already getting muggy in here, thick with the smell of stale clothes, damp dog, and warm bodies. The windows fogging up.
Logan pulled out his plastic folder of paperwork and held it up. ‘One last time.’
A groan from one of the Elgin contingent.
‘I don’t care if you’ve heard it before, you’re hearing it again. Ricky and Laura Welsh have form for violence, so watch yourself. They’re unlikely to have firearms, but their Saint Bernard makes Cujo look like Basil Brush – anyone who doesn’t have their Bite Back with them will not be allowed in that house until the dog’s been made safe. Am I clear?’
A smattering of, ‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Good. Sergeant Mitchell, you’re up.’
The huge figure sitting in the passenger seat pulled his helmet on. It grazed the van’s ceiling – he was that big. ‘Mesdames et Messieurs, grab your bonce protectors and gird your loins. In the immortal words of the Bard: il est temps de mettre sur le maquillage, il est temps d’allumer les lumières!’
The other three members of his team gave a synchronized bark of, ‘Hooah!’ and fastened their helmets.
Logan cracked open the van’s side door. ‘You heard the man.’ He backed out onto the sleety road as everyone did what they were told.
Well, everyone except Steel and Harper. And Narveer, but then there was no way he’d get a crash helmet on over his turban.
The smell of soggy canine got worse for a moment as the Police Dog Officer picked her way past, heading for the other van and its contingent of Alsatians and Labradors.
Steel and Harper joined Logan out on the road.
‘You’re no’ serious about that Saint Bernard, are you?’ Steel’s words billowed out on a cloud of fog, turned a pale yellow by the streetlights.
‘Thing’s massive. Looks like someone crossed a velociraptor with a highland cow.’ He fastened on his own helmet – pulling the chinstrap tight – unlocked the Big Car, and slipped behind the wheel.
Steel stuck her hand up. ‘Shotgun!’ Then scrambled into the passenger side, leaving Harper with the back seat.
Soon as she climbed in, Logan clicked the button on his Airwave. ‘Shire Uniform…’ Ah, no he wasn’t. Stubby was duty sergeant for as long as he was seconded to the MIT. ‘Sorry, force of habit. Sergeant McRae to Sergeant Mitchell. Operation Kermit is on.’
‘Roger that, we’re rolling.’
The OSU van pulled away from the kerb and turned left at the end of the street. After a couple of beats, the dog van followed it.
Logan pulled on his thick leather gloves.
Harper leaned forward and poked him on the shoulder. ‘What are we waiting for, Sergeant?’
‘You to put your seatbelt on. Sir.’
Steel produced her e-cigarette and puffed on it. ‘Brother Sergeant and Sister Sir. Oh, the family fun you whacky kids have these days.’
‘I see.’ A click from the back seat. ‘Right, well, go ahead.’
Mitchell’s voice came over the speakers. ‘Easy now… Baz: Big Red Door Key. Davy, you and me are first in. Carole, you’ve got the hoolie bar.’
Logan eased the Big Car out and took the same left as the vans.
Most of Macduff was in darkness, just the ribbons of streetlights holding everything together. A right. Then another left onto Manner Street.
Not a living soul to be seen. The only blot on the stillness was the two big white vans in yellow-and-blue police livery.
‘Ready when you are, Sergeant McRae.’
He pressed the button again. ‘And we’re clear. Go, go, go!’ The Big Car roared forward as Logan rammed his foot hard down.
Granite cottages flashed by on either side, the North Sea a wall of solid black dead ahead. He slammed on the brakes and the Big Car slithered on the sleety tarmac, stopping with two wheels up on the kerb. He jumped out.
A swarm of ninjas burst from the OSU van – the huge figures of Sergeant Mitchell’s team taking the lead. One of them clutched a mini battering ram, another held an elongated crowbar with a dirty big spike sticking out of it. Everyone else piled up in a big lump behind them.
The Dog Officer’s van skidded to a halt, less than a foot from the other van’s bumper. She leapt out onto the kerb then hauled open the sliding side door as Logan joined the back of the queue.
One of Mitchell’s team swung the Big Red Door Key and BANG, the cottage door went crashing in.
The other one – Carole? – swung the hoolie bar, shattering the living room window with the spike, raking the pick around the frame to dislodge the loose glass. Ripping the Venetian blinds away from their mountings.
The Dog Officer charged past Logan, one hand wrapped around the lead of her massive Alsatian.
And they were in.
A dark house. Narrow corridor with doors leading off to either side and one at the end.
‘POLICE, NOBODY MOVE!’
Barks went off like gunshots in the confined space.
Then answering barks from deeper inside the house. Deep and huge.
Logan shouldered the door on the left and burst into a double bedroom. Unmade bed, wardrobe door lying open, socks and pants scattered on the floor. No sign of Ricky or Laura Welsh.
Back into the hall. Almost.
It was crowded with bodies in riot gear and the sound of elbow pads thumping off the walls. Then swearing as something kicked off at the front of the line.
‘GET THAT BLOODY DOG!’
‘AAAAAARGH!’
‘SHE’S GOT A KNIFE!’
Screw this.
Logan forced his way past Tufty, and out the front door. Grabbed Isla by the stabproof vest. ‘You, with me!’ He pounded down the pavement and skittered around the side of the terrace, nearly losing his footing on the sleet-crusted paving slabs.
There – an eight-foot wall with a wheelie bin in front of it.
He scrambled up and over, tumbled down the other side and crashed into a deformed snowman, knocking its head off. Got to his feet as Isla clattered down into the dark beside him, flat on her back.
‘Aaagh…’ Flailing arms and limbs.
Logan ran for the adjoining wall between this garden and the one next door.
‘It’s OK, I’m fine, I’m fine…’
Over the wall.
He landed and a security light blared on, illuminating a swing set and a shed.
One more to go.
He fought his way over a wooden fence and into Ricky Wels
h’s back garden about two seconds before the kitchen door battered off its hinges. Someone in riot gear crashed out backwards, wrestling with a Saint Bernard the size of a hairy Godzilla. They rolled into the rectangle of yellow light cast through the kitchen window.
It was Claire, the huge woman from the Operational Support Unit, her mouth wide open in a snarling scream as the dog tried to take her head off.
Teeth flashed, saliva spattering her faceguard, huge paws pressing her into the lawn. Claire’s hands jabbed out, wrapping around the Saint Bernard’s throat, elbows locked, holding it back. ‘AAAAAAARGH! GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!’
Ricky Welsh burst from the ruined doorframe, hurdled both dog and officer, and sprinted for the back wall – a six-foot-tall stretch of granite and crumbling harling topped with six inches of snow and ice.
Logan fumbled in his stabproof’s pocket for the tin of Bite Back. Pulled it out and sprayed half the can at the St Bernard’s muzzle. It blinked and made whimpery mewling noises. Backed away, shaking its head. Confused and disorientated.
Now, everything stank of cloves.
Isla thumped into the garden, landing on her feet this time.
Then the Dog Officer and her Alsatian exploded out of the kitchen, the big dog barking on the end of its lead.
Logan pointed at the back wall. No sign of Ricky Welsh. ‘That way!’
The Dog Officer battered past, going the long way around to keep her Alsatian away from the dissipating cloud of Bite Back. Over the wall. And away.
He sprinted after them, breath burning in his lungs. Sweat made tiny rivers down his back, between the shoulder blades, as he clambered up the wall. He paused at the top, one leg hooked over the other side.
Isla scrambled up beside him. ‘Where is he?’
Ricky Welsh had cleared the garden it backed on to, making for a break between two of the houses. One more fence and he’d be out.
Then the Dog Officer released the hounds. Well, hound.
Her Alsatian raced free of its leash and cleared the wall Ricky had just clambered over in a single leap. Crossed the lawn in a couple of bounds. Then lunged for Ricky’s flailing legs.
Its teeth snapped shut on an ankle.
Ricky screamed.
Isla cheered.
He tumbled backwards into the snow and curled into a ball, with his arms crossed over his face, flinching at every bark of the big dog.
The officer caught up with her Alsatian, shoved Ricky Welsh over onto his front and cuffed him. Then looked up, grinned, and gave them two thumbs.
Result.
It was about time something went right for a change.
36
Logan walked through the shattered doorway into Ricky Welsh’s kitchen. Not exactly the tidiest in the world. Certainly not now anyway.
He stepped over the battered remains of a chair. ‘You OK?’
‘Urgh…’ Claire, from the OSU, was hunched over the sink, splashing water on her face. ‘Covered in Saint Bernard dribble. How can one dog produce so much slobber?’
‘Told you it was huge.’
She raised her dripping face. ‘Thanks for spraying Cujo, Sarge.’
‘Nah.’ He left her to it and picked his way through the shattered remains of a small kitchen table and out into the hall. Muffled voices came from somewhere above his head. Lots of grunts and hissing. The occasional thump. Someone swearing.
The stairway was as narrow as the corridor. It doglegged around, emerging in what had to be an attic conversion. In the gap between two rooms, three officers in their riot gear were pinning a woman to the ground. Barely holding her in place. They piled on her back and legs, forcing her into the shabby carpet.
Laura Welsh was big, thickset. Ginger curls covered her face as she hissed and wriggled. Three small red hearts were tattooed between the knuckles of her right hand, stretched tight across her clenched fist.
The Chief Inspector from Elgin had his knee on her shoulder, jamming Laura’s other wrist against the floor with both hands. ‘I’m not telling you again – calm down!’
Nicholson lay across Laura’s legs. She grinned up at Logan. ‘I love knocking on doors.’
More wriggling.
The guy at the head of the piley-on scowled. ‘You’re not helping, Constable.’
‘Sorry, Guv.’
Logan whipped out his limb restraints and helped Nicholson secure Laura’s legs – one set binding her knees together, the other her ankles. Then he stood back as the others finally managed to get her hands cuffed behind her back. ‘Everyone OK? Anyone hurt?’
A flash of freckled skin, green eyes bulging, teeth bared, lipstick smeared. ‘I’LL KILL THE LOT OF YOU!’
The Chief Inspector flipped up the visor on his crash helmet, exposing a chubby face with a squint nose. ‘Are you honestly trying to make things worse for yourself, Mrs Welsh? Because threatening to kill four police officers isn’t going to look good when they haul you up in court.’
‘GAH!’ Then she pulled her head back and slammed it into the dirty carpet. Lay there, face against the floor, hissing breath in and out through her teeth.
‘There we go.’
Through the open door, behind Chief Inspector Chunky, lay a small bedroom. It was a shambles of clothes and cardboard boxes. Narveer sat on the edge of the bed with his head thrown back, one hand holding onto his turban, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. Blood made a bandit mask across the lower half of his face.
Logan poked his head into the room. ‘You OK?’
‘No.’ The word all bunged up and growly.
He wasn’t the only one in there – two of the Elgin officers were snapping the cuffs on a pair of men who were doing a lot more cooperating than Laura Welsh.
The bigger of the pair wore skinny jeans and a couple of hoodies, a blue one on over a red one. His hair was shorn at the sides and quiffed sideways in the middle. It went with the neck beard and horn-rimmed glasses.
Mr Hipster’s friend had a granddad shirt, braces, and a brown waistcoat – as if he was auditioning for a Mumford and Sons cover band. He even had the 1940s haircut.
Logan nodded at them. ‘Names?’
Mr Hipster licked his lips. ‘I know how this looks, but we were just…’
Mr Mumford blinked at his friend. ‘Yeah … there was … an advert in the paper for a mountain bike? We, erm, came round to see if it was any good.’
‘You know, to buy it and that?’
‘Mountain bike.’ Mr Mumford jerked his eyes towards the landing and lowered his voice. ‘No idea what’s going on here, but really don’t need a mountain bike that badly.’
‘Yeah, so if we could, you know, head off? That’d be cool.’
‘Completely cool.’
Smiles.
No chance.
‘Well?’ Harper hadn’t moved from the back of the Big Car, sitting there with her seatbelt on and her arms folded.
Logan closed the driver’s door and peeled off his gloves. ‘Drug dog’s going through the place now. Our friend the Chief Inspector has decided to supervise the search.’
Steel puffed a faceful of steam across the car at him, e-cigarette glowing from the corner of her mouth. ‘Which means the thieving git wants to take all the credit.’
‘And Narveer?’
Logan shrugged. ‘Don’t think his nose is broken, but better safe than sorry.’
‘Agreed.’ Harper unfastened her seatbelt. ‘What about our two house guests?’
‘Nick McDowell and Steven Fowler. Sticking to their mountain-bike stories.’ He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, frowning out through the windscreen. The sleet had stopped at last, giving way to a bitter wind that rattled the streetlights. A couple of houses had people at the windows, staring out, having a good old nosy at the police vehicles. ‘Don’t know why, but Steven Fowler rings a bell.’
‘So do a PNC check.’
Logan glanced in the
rear-view mirror. ‘I did actually think of that, sir. He’s got a couple of parking tickets: that’s it. Never been arrested. Far as I can tell, he’s never even been cautioned.’
But still…
Steven Fowler.
Steve Fowler.
Stevie… Oh crap.
Stevie Fowler – the guy Reuben wanted him to collect a package from. Collect a package and hide it until further notice.
Oh that was just great.
Logan’s ‘loyalty test’ was under arrest, and now—
‘Sergeant?’
He blinked.
Harper was leaning forward between the seats, staring at him.
‘Sorry.’
Steel was at it too. ‘You OK, Laz? Only you look like someone’s stuffed an angry hedgehog up your bum.’
‘Just a … twinge that’s all. From breaking up that fight yesterday.’
‘Tell me about it. Could barely get my bra on this morning.’ She untucked her shirt. ‘You should see my ribs, Detective Superintendent, they’re—’
‘Actually,’ Harper pulled in her chin, ‘I think I’d better go check on Narveer. Excuse me.’ She fumbled with the door handle and clambered out of the car. Hurried along the pavement towards Ricky and Laura Welsh’s place.
Steel grinned. ‘Think your sister fancies me.’
‘Yes. Because you’re so desirable.’
‘And don’t you forget it.’ She puffed on her fake cigarette. ‘While you were off playing policeman, I regaled her with the sexual conquests of my youth. Edited highlights, anyway.’ A sigh. ‘Did I ever tell you about Mrs Morgenstern? She was thirty-four, I was fifteen. She was my piano teacher and I was horny as a—’
‘Can we not do this?’
Steel sniffed. ‘Thought you boys liked a bit of hot girl-on-girl action?’
A gap opened up through the clouds, letting a cold slab of moonlight crash against the street, bathing it in frigid grey light.
Stevie Fowler.
What the hell was Logan supposed to do now? Never mind the fact that whatever Fowler should have handed over for safekeeping would probably end up in the evidence store; would Reuben expect Logan to let him go without so much as a slap on the wrists? Because there was no chance of that happening. Not with Harper and Narveer and Steel and the Chief Inspector from Elgin falling over each other to find someone to prosecute so they could take the credit.
In the Cold Dark Ground Page 33