Logan stepped out from under the canopy of green needles. The rain was getting heavier again, pitter-pattering against the undergrowth. ‘Can you smell something?’
‘What if Shuggie’s knocked down some old dear, or something?’
He held a finger to his lips. ‘Shh …’ The car park was surrounded with dense green ferns, their long fractal fronds waving in the thickening rain. Someone had forced a path into them, at thirty degrees to the official trail that led off into the woods.
Logan picked his way around a puddle. Dark stains turned the mud black around the trampled ferns. He stepped to the side, making sure he wasn’t treading on anything that looked important as he crept closer.
‘Sarge?’
He waved Rennie back. ‘Give us a second.’
Standing on his tiptoes, he could just see into a little flattened clearing at the end of the path. It couldn’t have been much more than five-foot across, the undergrowth trampled, ferns and grass stained a shiny black.
Something lay off to one side: a dark mound, torn open, chunks of red, purple and white poking out. A curl of grey tubes, glistening on the darkened grass.
‘What?’ Rennie appeared at his shoulder. ‘What have you … Fuck me. Is that a dog?’
It was. A huge Rottweiler, by the look of what was left of its head.
Someone had hacked Shuggie Webster’s dog to death.
The Wildlife Crime Officer sat back on his haunches and shook his head. ‘What a bastard …’ A slow, steady rain beat a tattoo on the hood of his white SOC suit; a pair of purple gloves on his hands, blue plastic over-booties on his feet. ‘Who’d do this to a wee dog?’
The bright glare of a camera flash froze raindrops in mid-air. An IB technician shifted around for another shot. Logan nodded at the remains. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think someone needs taking out and shot, that’s what I think. Beautiful dog like that.’ The WCO reached out and stroked the dark fur on the back of the massive animal. ‘Lot of people think Rottweilers are these horrible aggressive dogs, but they’re big softies really …’
Yeah.
That’s exactly what Uzi was when he was trying to rip Logan’s throat out. ‘I meant: any idea what killed it?’
A long sigh, making the white paper oversuit rustle. ‘Well, I’m no pathologist, but looking at the size of the cuts … most of them to the dog’s back and shoulders …’ Another sigh. ‘A sword? There’s a lot of wee toerags buying those samurai swords off the internet these days. Or maybe a huge knife? Proper Rambo job. It’d have to be at least, what?’ He looked over at the IB technician he’d brought with him. ‘Eighteen inches long?’
The IB tech lowered his massive digital camera. ‘Give or take.’
About the same size as a machete.
Which explained where Shuggie Webster had gone, and why he’d left the CID pool car behind. Sodding hell. Now Logan had to call it in.
‘What about prints, fibres, that kind of thing?’
The IB tech slung the camera strap over his shoulder. ‘You want the full CSI treatment?’
Logan looked back at the hacked-up Rottweiler. There was no way Shuggie Webster would’ve gone quietly, not after someone did that to his dog. Chances were his mutilated corpse would be turning up soon enough. Any trace evidence they could find would help. As if today needed to get any shittier. ‘As much as you can give me, without Finnie throwing a wobbly about the cost.’
‘You’ll be lucky – all this rain, outdoors, public place … Can’t promise anything.’ He patted the WCO on the shoulder. ‘It’s OK, Dunc, you can take him away if you like. I’m done.’
They left him stuffing chunks of butchered Rottweiler into a white child-sized body-bag.
The IB tech dumped his sample kit next to a couple of Tesco carrier bags, lying flattened on the muddy ground, weighed down with stones. He removed one of the rocks, and peeled back the plastic. There was a perfectly rectangular puddle of plaster-of-Paris underneath. Pure white in the middle, greying at the edges. He poked it with a finger. Sighed. Then wiped the digit on his oversuit. ‘Still not convinced we’re going to get anything …’
‘What about fingerprints?’
‘I mean, the footwear marks weren’t exactly in the best of shape to start with, were they? Doesn’t help it’s pishing with rain.’
‘You could dust the car while you’re waiting for it to set? Maybe they touched the paintwork?’
He flopped the bag back into place, and weighed it down again. ‘I mean, mud’s great for taking footprints, but soon as it starts to rain again, they go all mooshy—’
‘Ernie: the car.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He pulled off his facemask, exposing a little ginger goatee beard and a smile full of squint teeth. ‘What do you think fingerprint powder’s going to do on wet metal?’
‘Ah …’ Bugger.
‘Exactly.’ Ernie peeled back the hood of his SOC suit, exposing a high forehead barely holding onto a crown of yet more ginger. ‘Have to get it back to the ranch. Stick it somewhere dry for a couple of hours.’
‘Right …’
Rennie was sitting in his pool car, head stuck in The Accidental Sodomist again.
Logan knocked on the window.
A pause while the intellectual marked his place with a lottery ticket, then the window buzzed down. ‘Guv?’
‘Steel says I’m supposed to pick a minion: you’re it.’
Rennie grinned. Then hunched up one shoulder, scrunched up his face, and put on a ridiculous voice. ‘Yeth Maaaaathhhhhter … ?’
‘Get your lopsided arse back to FHQ – I want a breakdown of every kidnapping in the country for the last ten years.’
The constable paused, biro hovering over his notebook. ‘Ten years?’
‘You heard.’ Logan watched the Wildlife Crime Officer waddling backwards into the car park, dragging the white body-bag. ‘Find out who’s running the drug gang investigations this week – I’m looking for Yardies with a thing for machetes.’
Rennie scribbled it all down. ‘Ten years …’
‘And,’ Logan pointed at his abandoned pool car, ‘you’re taking that back to the station. Wear gloves. Don’t sign it back in, don’t let anyone else touch it. Park it in the garage and let it dry off till Ernie can dust it for prints. If Big Gary gives you a hard time, tell him it’s evidence.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah, if anyone asks …’ What?
