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.’
‘… 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
