Oh bloody hell. I really with the and its erm Logan checked his watch. Just after seven. OK, well, Im back in on Friday and-
I believe in striking while the irons hot, dont you, Logan? How else are you going to get the creases in your jeans nice and straight?
But Ive 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 hes not left the toilet all day. Tube of toothpaste was the term she used. She thinks hell 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. Im sure youve got a great deal of organizing to do.
Chapter 5
confi rm, 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 culde-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 Websters meant to have a new Rottweiler, so keep an eye out. We clear?
Team Two, Roger.
Team One, Rover.
Just dont come crying to me when theres a huge dog chewing your knackers off, OK? Logan tugged his jacket sleeve back, exposing his watch. And were live in: eight, seven, six-
Aww who farted?
-three, two, one. GO!
PC Guthrie shifted in the passenger seat. Dont see why I have to be-
You wanted me to do something about it, I did something about it.
But-
Dont push it, Allan. Wasnt for you Id 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 cant 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 stuffs tougher than steel, if you-
Logan stabbed his thumb down on the Airwaves TALK
Logan stabbed his thumb down on the Airwaves TALK
button. Go in through the window!
A pause.
Whos got the hoolie bar?
Thought you had it.
How? Ive got the Big Red Door Key, you Muppet.
Another pause.
Sarge?
Logan clicked the button again. I swear to God, Greg, if you make me come down there
Its er in the back of the van.
Youre supposed to be an MOE specialist! Logan hauled open the pool cars 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 wasnt 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 vans wall with a spiders 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 theyd taught him on the Method of Entry course clearing away everything but the smallest chunks of safety glass.
Dont 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 Ill 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 wasnt 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 hed be lucky to get home before lunchtime. Which was going to be cutting it a bit fine
Bloody PC Bloody Guthrie. Cant 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 Ive got-
Unless the next words out of your mouth are Ive got to go buy everyone a bacon buttie I wouldnt risk it. Understand?
Guthries 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 well 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 Guthries 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? Dont 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 cant fly?
Urgh Billys face was a mass of beard and gritted teeth, his eyes wide, the pupils huge and dark. Think my legs broke
Lucky it wasnt your neck. So, come on then: how much gear have you got in the house?
How I dont know what youre on about.
Were going to find it anyway. Might as well save everyone the bother.
Aaaaargh, my leg Ahem. You know?
Logan hit Guthrie again. When youve 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, dont want him doing a runner and injuring himself.
They tried flushing most of it, but the whole bathrooms 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 Logans 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 dont 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, youre a disaster, you know that, dont 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 Billys pupils.
Wheres 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?