Logan nodded. ‘We were set up.’
The reporter had his notepad out. ‘That a quote?’
Finnie coughed. ‘Call it, “sources close to the investigation”.’
‘Gonnae give us details?’
‘DS McRae can fill you in on the way out – the usual restrictions apply. Now unless there’s anything else …?’ The DCI turned back to his computer.
‘Actually sir,’ Logan nodded towards the CID room, ‘I need to have a quick word with you. About another operation?’
Steel hauled herself out of her chair, then stood there, bent almost double for a moment, before straightening up with a sigh. ‘Come on, Weegie Boy, you can walk us to the front door while the lovers here have their wee tryst.’ She lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘That means they’re going to have a shag.’
‘Thank you, Inspector, that will be all.’
Logan waited until the door clunked shut. ‘No offence, sir, but I’d rather keep our relationship platonic.’
Finnie glowered at him. ‘I allow Steel a little latitude because, despite everything, she’s an effective detective inspector. You however …’
‘Sorry, sir.’ He sank into the chair Colin Miller had just vacated. ‘It’s about DI McPherson – you know he’s got a drug bust on tomorrow? He’s planned it for the middle of the afternoon.’ There was a silent pause. ‘When the targets are going to be—’
‘Yes, Sergeant, I’m well aware of what drug dealers do in the afternoon.’ Finnie sat back, tapped the flat tips of his fingers against his rubbery lips. ‘And what do you propose to do about it?’
‘Well, you could speak to McPherson, let him know …’ Logan blinked. Licked his lips. Shifted in his seat. ‘Sorry, what do I propose to do …?’
‘Well, clearly you know better than a DI with nine years’ experience. What are you going to do with your drug bust?’
Oh bloody hell.
‘I really … with the … and it’s … erm …’ Logan checked his watch. Just after seven. ‘OK, well, I’m back in on Friday and—’
‘I believe in striking while the iron’s hot, don’t you, Logan? How else are you going to get the creases in your jeans nice and straight?’
‘But I’ve got a … thing on tomorrow. And it—’
‘Where are we with the post mortem on the toe?’
‘You see, I booked the time off so—’
‘Do try to pay attention, Sergeant: post mortem.’
Logan could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. ‘I phoned the pathologist, Hudson – spoke to his wife. Apparently he’s not left the toilet all day. “Tube of toothpaste” was the term she used. She thinks he’ll either be dead by the morning, or back to work.’
‘Good.’ Finnie clicked a button, bringing his monitor back to life. ‘Now you trot along. I’m sure you’ve got a great deal of organizing to do.’
5
‘… confirm, we are in position. Over?’
Logan scrubbed a hand across his gritty eyes and squinted out at the semi-detached house at the end of the quiet cul-de-sac. The neighbourhood had that slightly rundown feel to it: the grass left too long so it was going to seed, a battered washing machine sitting next to a pair of dented wheelie bins. The whole scene turned monochrome in the sodium glow of a dozen streetlights.
He keyed the button on his Airwave handset. ‘OK, listen up people: we have three, possibly four, IC-One males inside. This has to be quick and clean – no sodding up, no getting hurt, no hurting anyone else. And Shuggie Webster’s meant to have a new Rottweiler, so keep an eye out. We clear?’
‘Team Two, Roger.’
‘Team One, Rover.’
‘Just don’t come crying to me when there’s a huge dog chewing your knackers off, OK?’ Logan tugged his jacket sleeve back, exposing his watch. ‘And we’re live in: eight, seven, six—’
‘Aww … who farted?’
‘—three, two, one. GO!’
PC Guthrie shifted in the passenger seat. ‘Don’t see why I have to be—’
‘You wanted me to do something about it, I did something about it.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t push it, Allan. Wasn’t for you I’d be snuggled up at home with my intended.’
Down at the far end of the cul-de-sac torches sprang into life, sweeping the front garden of a nondescript two-storey. White BMW 3 Series in the drive.
The dull crack of a mini battering ram slamming into a UPVC door.
‘Fucking thing …’
A dog barking.
Another crack.
Then another.
‘Why can’t we use bloody explosives?’
A light clicked on in an upstairs bedroom.
Another crack.
‘Open, you fucker!’
A muffled scream from somewhere inside.
Guthrie turned in his seat. ‘You know, I saw this video on the internet once. Welsh police took twelve minutes to get through one of these modern UPVC front doors. Bloody stuff’s tougher than steel, ii you—’
Logan stabbed his thumb down on the Airwave’s ‘TALK’ button. ‘Go in through the window!’
A pause.
‘Who’s got the hoolie bar?’
‘Thought you had it.’
‘How? I’ve got the Big Red Door Key, you Muppet.’
Another pause.
‘Sarge?’
Logan clicked the button again. ‘I swear to God, Greg, ii you make me come down there …’
‘It’s … er … in the back of the van.’
‘You’re supposed to be an MOE specialist!’ Logan hauled open the pool car’s door and scrambled out into the warm night.
The unmarked response van was parked off to the side, beneath a broken streetlight. Logan sprinted for it. Someone had finger-painted the words ‘MICHELLE SUX COX!!!’ in the grime that frosted the back windows.
Bloody thing wasn’t even locked.
He hauled the back door open and snapped on his torch. Empty pizza boxes, a litre bottle of Coke – half-empty, with fag-ends floating in it – and then, mounted to the van’s wall with a spider’s web of bungee cords, the hooligan bar.
Logan unhooked it and dragged the thing out: a three-and-a-half-foot-long metal pole with a claw at one end and a spike-and-lever arrangement on the other, its coating of spark-resistant black chipped and flaking. He hefted it over his shoulder and ran towards the target house.
Lights flickered on in the other buildings as the curtain-twitchers woke up for a good ogle.
PC Greg Ferguson was at the head of the small, ineffectual clot of police officers – all of them dressed in ninja black. He thumped the Big Red Door Key into the shuddering plastic door again. Sweat rippled across his bright pink face, teeth gritted, eyes screwed shut as the mini battering ram slammed into the cracking UPVC. ‘Come on, you fucker!’
Logan waded through the knee-high grass, making for the front window. ‘Glass!’
He held the hoolie bar at the far end: just above the claw, drew the thing back, and swung as hard as he could. The big metal spike tore straight through the double glazing, turning it into an explosion of little shining cubes. Logan closed his eyes, covering his face with one hand as glass shattered down all around him.
The hoolie bar thunked into the window frame.
Keeping his face covered, he raked it around the edges – just like they’d taught him on the Method of Entry course – clearing away everything but the smallest chunks of safety glass.
‘Don’t just bloody stand there!’
PC Greg Ferguson dropped the Big Red Door Key and made an ungainly leap for the window ledge, only just getting his stomach over it, then clambered inside, legs waving about as if he was having a fit. Then there was a thump and some swearing as he hit the floor inside.
‘Ow …’
One of the less useless team members stuck their back to the wall, hunkered down and cupped
their hands together, giving everyone else a leg up as they barrelled inside. Then she looked at Logan. Nodded towards her gloved hands.
‘Sarge?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll wait for the all-clear.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She turned and scrambled in through the broken window.
There was no point heading back to the car, so Logan perched himself on the bonnet of the BMW and fidgeted through his pockets for the packet of cigarettes that wasn’t there any more. Four weeks, two days and … what time was it now? Just after half three in the morning … Eight hours. Not bad going.
He stifled a yawn.
The sound of a toilet flushing came from upstairs, just audible between the shouts, screams, barking, and the high-pitched wail of a young child. Brilliant – more paperwork. At this rate he’d be lucky to get home before lunchtime. Which was going to be cutting it a bit fine …
Bloody PC Bloody Guthrie. Can’t you have a quick word, Sarge?
Speak of the devil.
Guthrie kicked his way through the grass until he was standing beside Logan, looking up at the house. ‘We going to be much longer, Sarge? Only I’ve got—’
‘Unless the next words out of your mouth are “I’ve got to go buy everyone a bacon buttie” I wouldn’t risk it. Understand?’
Guthrie’s chubby cheeks went a fetching shade of pink. ‘Er … yeah, that was what I was going to say. Bacon butties. You back on the meat then?’
‘Get onto Social Services – we’ll need someone to take care of the kid.’
The words, ‘PUT THAT BLOODY THING DOWN!’ boomed out from inside. Then a portable television burst through an upstairs window in a halo of glass. The TV crashed into the garden three foot from where they stood, cathode ray tube giving an angry pop as it burst.
Logan smacked a hand against Guthrie’s arm. ‘Might want to stand back a bit.’
A full-grown man barrelled out of the upstairs window. He seemed to hang in the air for a moment, caught in the light from the bedroom. And then he slammed into the garden at their feet with a sickening thud and crack.
Pause.
No movement. Just some groaning and muffled swearing.
‘Jesus …’ Guthrie hunkered down beside the crumpled figure. ‘Are you all right? Don’t move!’
One of the forced entry team peered out over the window-sill. ‘Everyone OK down there?’
‘More or less.’ Logan stood and dusted his hands together. ‘Billy Dawson, you silly sod. When are you going to learn that drug-dealing toerags can’t fly?’
‘Urgh …’ Billy’s face was a mass of beard and gritted teeth, his eyes wide, the pupils huge and dark. ‘Think my leg’s broke …’
‘Lucky it wasn’t your neck. So, come on then: how much gear have you got in the house?’
‘How … I … don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘We’re going to find it anyway. Might as well save everyone the bother.’
‘Aaaaargh, my leg … Ahem. You know?’
Logan hit Guthrie again. ‘When you’ve finished speaking to Social Services, call for an ambulance.’
The constable upstairs waved again. ‘Better make it two.’
Logan walked towards the house, stepping over the groaning body. ‘And keep an eye on Billy here, don’t want him doing a runner and injuring himself.’
‘They tried flushing most of it, but the whole bathroom’s clarted with the stuff.’ PC Ferguson waved a hand at the once-blue suite, now layered with a dusting of dirty-brown powder. A small pile of torn plastic and parcel-tape lay between the cistern and the bath; more, unopened, packages on the grubby lino floor.
The room smelled of peppery ammonia, dirty toilet, and floral air freshener … with a dark, fizzy undertone that was making Logan’s teeth itch. Probably better not to stand about breathing it in. He backed out of the room, hauling Ferguson after him, and closed the door. ‘Leave it for Forensics.’
Ferguson peeled the black scarf from around his face, showing off an amateur moustache kit. ‘Look, about earlier—’
‘What, when you forgot the hoolie bar?’
‘Er … yeah. Look, we don’t have to mention that, do we? I mean—’
‘So what am I supposed to say when Finnie asks why it took us so long to force entry the suspects had time to flush three bricks of heroin?’
The constable stared at his boots. ‘Operational difficulties?’
‘Greg, you’re a disaster, you know that, don’t you?’
He grinned. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’
‘Must be bloody mad.’ Logan turned and looked down over the balustrade.
The flocked wallpaper was torn and baggy, a patchy coat of magnolia doing little to make it look any classier. Scuffed carpet dotted with brown stains and clumps of animal hair. Bare light bulbs. A bedroom door with a deep gouge out of the wood, showing off the hollow interior.
The familiar bitter-sweet-sweaty taint of cannabis hung in the warm, stale air. Which explained the size of Billy’s pupils.
‘Where’s the rest of them?’
Ferguson pointed at the bedroom with the dented door. ‘Got two in there; one in the kitchen – fell over and split his head open on the worktop, stoned out his tits; one in the other bedroom … Well, two if you count the kid; and—’
‘One flat on his face in the middle of the front garden?’
‘I was going to say, one handcuffed out back.’
Logan made for the nearest bedroom. ‘Well bring him in then.’
‘Ah …’
He stopped, one hand on the doorknob. ‘Greg: what did you do?’
‘It wasn’t me! It was just … well we caught him trying to do a runner over the back fence, and Ellen was handcuffing him, when the biggest dog you’ve ever seen in your life comes tearing out of the bushes. And we kinda had to leg it. Barely got back inside with the arse still in our trousers. Left him cuffed to the whirly washing line thing.’
‘In the name of …’ Logan closed his eyes. Counted to ten.
‘Sarge?’
Whirlies aren’t fixed to the ground, Greg: the metal pole goes into a little hole. All he has to do is lift the thing up and he’ll be off!’ Logan wrenched the bedroom door open.
A woman crouched in the corner wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of ripped jeans. Stick thin, all elbows and ribs, sunken eyes glittering like polished coal. Hands cuffed behind her back. Chapped and faded lips, pulled back over yellowing teeth. ‘We didn’t do nothing!’
A small child – couldn’t have been more than three-years-old – was perched in her lap, wearing a filthy pair of Ben 10 pyjamas. Snot silvered the wee boy’s top lip, something brown smeared around his mouth.
One of the forced entry team was standing over them, fiddling with a mobile phone.
Logan brushed past, making for the window. ‘You better not be updating your bloody Twitter account, Archie.’
The pudding-laced constable blushed and stuck the phone in his pocket.
Logan stared into the back garden. There was a man in the middle of the wilderness, fighting with a rotary washing line while a black dog patrolled the knee-high grass around him. Shuggie Webster.
At least Ellen had been bright enough to cull him to the complicated lever joint that attached the four arms to the pole.
He was getting a bit enthusiastic … Hauling, tugging, swearing, trying to break either the handcuffs or the whirly getting tangled up in dirty yellow washing line. A big ugly fly caught in a plastic spider’s web. He turned himself upside down, both feet planted against the whirly’s arms, straining.
Logan opened the bedroom window. ‘He’s going to dislocate his wrist if he isn’t careful.’
PC Ferguson sidled up. ‘Don’t get any brighter, do they?’
‘Hoy! Shuggie!’
The man froze, still dangling upside down.
‘Cut it out. You’ve been caught.’
The dog stopped its
patrolling and turned to bark and snarl up at them.
The constable with the mobile phone appeared at Logan’s shoulder. ‘Bugger me … That’s a big dog.’
The stick-thin woman shoulder-charged Archie, hands still cuffed behind her back, sending him stumbling into Ferguson. Both officers went crashing to the bedroom floor in a tangle of limbs and swearing.
She shoved past Logan to the open window. ‘Shuggie! Pull the thing out the ground, you daft luck!’
Logan grabbed her, tried to haul her back, but she lashed out with a knee.
Boiling oil flared out from his groin, curdling in the pit of his stomach, making his knees buckle. He steadied himself against the tatty wallpaper. Oh Christ that hurt.
‘Shuggie! PULL THE FUCKING WHIRLY OUT THE GROUND!’
Outside, Shuggie finally seemed to understand. He squatted down as far as he could with one wrist cuffed to the articulated joint, wrapped his other hand around the pole, and hauled the whole thing out of the ground. He teetered for a moment, turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, then fell on his bum, tangled in the yellow plastic washing line again.
‘GET UP YOU DAFT CUNT!’
Logan cleared his throat, gritted his teeth, grabbed the skeletal woman again and threw her onto the bed – she bounced off the mattress and went spinning over the other side, disappearing from view with a thud.
The little boy wailed, tears and snot running down his puffy pink face.
PC Ferguson was back on his feet, leaning out of the window. ‘COME BACK HERE YOU WEE SHITE: YOU’RE STILL UNDER ARREST!’
‘Fucking police bastards!’ The woman crawled upright, eyes thin slits, graveyard teeth bared, a smear of blood from her cracked lips. Then she charged, head down, like a greasy battering ram.
Logan lurched out of the way … or tried to.
She slammed into his stomach. Pain ripped across his scars, digging deep into his guts, tearing all the breath from his throat as they thudded into the bedroom wall, then down to the carpet. All he could do was curl up around the fire and try not to throw up. Barely feeling the harsh nip of her teeth sinking into his arm through his suit jacket. The dull thunk of her forehead battering into his right ear.
And then she was gone. Screaming. ‘Let me go you bastard! Let me fucking go! RAPE! Fucking … RAPE!’
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8 Page 3