FUCK!
Logan jinked right, and Uzi flashed past, tried to turn powerful back legs skidding across the waterlogged grass, sending up a wall of spray.
Jesus, the bloody thing was the size of a bear.
Tree! Logan jumped for the nearest one, wrapped his arms around a branch, hauled himself up. Or tried to. A sudden jerk back, knives slashing across his ankle, then a ripping sound as his trouser leg gave way. AAAAAghhh
The ground slammed into his back, ripping the breath from his lungs; and then the huge dog was on top of him, teeth flashing inches from Logans face.
Fuck hed dropped the pepper-spray.
Shuggies voice cut through the snarls. UZI hold!
A low growl.
The dogs weight pushed Logan into the sodden grass, soaking through his jacket and shirt, cold and wet and oh God he was going to die
Thunder boomed out across the slate-grey sky, but the Rottweiler didnt even flinch, just stood there with his front paws on Logans chest, snarling, teeth bared. Its breath stank of rotting meat and bitter onion, drool spattering against Logans cheeks and forehead, slimy and warm compared to the rain.
A shape loomed in his peripheral vision. Shuggie, standing over the snarling dog, cradling the bandaged hand against his chest. Hold real fuckin still, or hell rip your throat out.
Logan flicked his eyes to the side and back again. The dog barked, teeth glinting, speckling his face with drool. Gah Call him off!
Gonnae give us my drugs back now? Before them Yardie bastards hack my hands off with a machete?
Im I cant. Im a police officer I cant. Now call the dog off!
Sniff. Nah, he can have you.
Uzi barked again.
A drop of spittle landed in Logans eye. He flinched, blinked. Fucks sake, Shuggie I cant! Voice high pitched and trembling.
The only sound was the rain, drumming down all around them.
Give us your car keys.
Im not-
Uzi
Another roar of thunder, closer, almost overhead. The massive Rottweiler roared back. Teeth flashing in the thickening rain.
Oh Christing fuck
Logan squealed. Now give us your keys.
He dug his fingers into his pocket and pulled the Vauxhalls keys out. Take them!
Shuggie snatched them out of his hand. Now call the bloody dog off!
Shuggie turned and limped back towards the fence.
Logan tore his eyes away from the dogs teeth, and watched him squeeze through the hole in the chainlink. He crossed the rutted track, climbed the grass verge, and onto Fairview Street.
The dog tilted its head to the side, nose all creased and wrinkled, black rubbery lips pulled back from those butcher-knife teeth.
Logan blinked the rain out of his eyes. Please
The Vauxhalls headlights snapped through the gloom, the roar of the engine audible for a second, before another peal of thunder drowned it out.
Another bark, front paws digging into Logans chest. Hailstones battered down, stinging his hands and face, knocking blossom from the tree above, showering them with slow-motion pink.
Then the sound of a car door creaking open. UZI! UZI!
The huge dog froze, head swinging around to face the car, both ears pricked.
UZI! GET OVER HERE YOU DAFT BASTARD!
It had one last snarl at Logan, then scraped its back paws through the muddy grass, before loping off.
Oh thank God
Logan lay flat on his back, arms covering his head as he heard the Vauxhalls door clunk shut again, then the engine faded away into the downpour as Shuggie drove off in Logans pool car.
How the hell was he going to explain this one?
Chapter 24
About bloody time. Logan thumped his mug of coffee down as DC Rennie ambled in through the pubs front door, paused just inside, looked around, then waved.
Idiot.
Logan pressed send on his phone SHUGGIE, IM FUCKING WARNING YOU: BRING MY BLOODY CAR BACK!
Morning, Sarge. Been swimming? Rennies pearl-white grin flashed out from his fake tan.
Logan stuffed his phone back in his pocket. Are you really that desperate for a boot up the arse?
OK Not in a great mood then. He pointed over his shoulder. Got the car out front. You want a lift back to the station, or-
Where is it?
Frown. Er Out front. By the disabled spaces.
Logan scrunched his eyes shut. Gritted his teeth. Not your car, my bastarding car!
A shuffle of feet. You werent serious about that, were you?
A young woman appeared at the table, clutching a pot of coffee. She smiled a train-track smile, light sparkling off her braces. Would you like some more ice? Or a refill or something?
Logan forced a smile. No, Im fine, just on our way. He reached down and unwrapped the soggy tea-towel from his left ankle. A few chunks of half-melted ice fell to the carpet. The skin was angry pink and swollen, four parallel dark-red lines burning and stinging where Uzis teeth had ripped through his trouser leg and slashed across the ankle. At least it wasnt bleeding any more.
He handed the towel over. Thanks.
Rennie watched until she disappeared through the door marked, STAFF ONLY. He ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. Nice arse.
I told you to run a bloody GPS trace!
I thought you were joking. I mean, you know, why would you want a trace on your own car? How can you not know where your car is?
Surrounded by idiots Logan limped out of the front door, shoes squelching with every step, Rennie scurrying along behind.
What happened to your leg?
What happened to your leg?
It wasnt difficult to spot the constables CID pool car outside the pub it was the manky Vauxhall with the dashboard overflowing with burger wrappers and empty crisp packets. Hailstones battered off the dirty paintwork, making a little drift of white across the windscreen wipers.
Inside it smelled much the same as every other CID vehicle that mix of stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and something going mouldy under one of the seats.
Rennie got in behind the wheel. Where to?
Make the sodding call.
There was a brief pause, then the constable pulled out his Airwave handset and punched in the number for Control. Yeah, Jimmy, I need a GPS trace on Charlie Delta Seven? Er no. Hes not answering his mobile Or his Airwave. Rennie glanced over at Logan, clocked the glower, and faced front again. Look just do us a GPS trace, OK? What? The constable sat up straight in his seat. No: Jimmy, dont you bloody dare put him- A cough. Chief Inspector Finnie, yeah, I was just DS McRae? Er Rennie stared at Logan, eyes bugging, mouth making a squiggly line across his face.
Logan mouthed, No! waved both hands, palm out, shaking his head.
Hold on Rennie held the handset out. Its for you. Bastard.
Logan took the Airwave. Sir?
Tell me, Detective Sergeant, did I accidentally give you the day off and forget all about it?
Well, no, but-
Then perhaps youd like to explain why youre not currently interviewing Frank Baker like I told you?
Logan peered out through the hail-flecked windscreen. How the hell did Finnie know he wasnt-
Superintendent Green tells me hes been waiting for you to appear for the last fi fteen minutes.
Hes what? Look its bad enough weve-
It would be nice, Sergeant, if for once I thought I could actually depend on a member of my team to act like a professional. I dont care if you think its a waste of time or not get round there, interview Baker, and try not to behave like a petulant bloody child!
And then there was silence.
Logan held out the handset and read the little grey-and-black LCD screen: CALL TERMINATED
Perfect.
Just. Bloody. Perfect.
Logan rapped his knuckles on the cars passenger window.
Superintendent Green looked up from the laptop he was poking away at, and stared at Logan for a moment, then a smile crawled across the lower half of his face, going nowhere near his eyes. Bzzzzzz the window slid down a couple of inches. Been on our holidays, have we, Sergeant?
Warm air curled out into the cold morning. The hail had died off, replaced by a frigid drizzle.
Logan forced a smile of his own. Pursuing other avenues of enquiry, sir.
Yes Green turned to the uniformed constable sitting in the drivers seat. Wait for me. He snapped the laptop closed and slipped it into an oversized leather satchel. Stepped out into the horrible morning. Looked Logan up and down. Raised an eyebrow. Is your suit meant to look like that?
Logan glanced at his left trouser leg. The fabric was torn and tattered, stained dark-grey with blood, rain, and dirt. Muddy paw prints on his chest. I thought you were in a hurry?
After you.
The fabrication yard where Frank Baker worked was a small industrial unit bolted onto a large warehouse, cut off from the road by a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. As if anyone was going to break in and make off with a two tonne chunk of drilling pipe. They lay stacked up around the building, held in place with wooden chucks and ratchet straps.
Green marched towards the door marked, ALL VISITORS MUST REPORT TO RECEPTION!
Punctuality is the sign of an effective police officer, Sergeant.
Tosser. How could Logan be late for an unscheduled meeting?
Really, sir? I always thought it was catching criminals and preventing crimes.
Green paused for a moment, then pushed through into a small room that smelled of industrial grease and coffee. A large woman with a bowl haircut looked up from a stack of forms and stared at them over the top of her glasses. No, Hello? No, Can I help you?
The superintendent glanced around the room Health and Safety posters, framed photo of an oil rig, calendar with kittens on it, shelves groaning with lever-arch files. I want to speak to Frank Baker.
She puckered her lips. Hes working.
Green thrust his warrant card under her nose. Now.
Inside, the warehouse was vast: filled with machinery, forklift trucks, and more pipes. A radio boomed out something poppy, competing with the bangs, clangs, and thrum of heavy equipment. The machine-gun pops of welding.
Frank Baker didnt look the same without his nice clean suit. Instead he was wearing a pair of grubby orange overalls with a padded green jacket on top, the chest and shoulders covered with pinhole burns. Big leather gloves, steel toecap boots. A thick red line across his forehead from the welding mask hed just thumped down on a length of rust-flecked pipe. I dont appreciate you bastards coming here every day.