mates, the hoodies: who are they? ’
‘Trouble. They’re trouble . . . that’s what mum always says. . .’
‘What about the man you killed, was he trouble too? Did he try to screw you out of your share of the jewellery, that it? What was he, the inside man? ’
‘Doctors came round. . .’ Guy held up the boxy things hiding his hands. ‘They’re going to cut off my fingers. . . All . . . all the ones on the left, and . . . and two on the right. . . My fingers. . .’
Chalmers poked a finger into the bedclothes. ‘That’s what you get for necklacing someone, isn’t it? Serves you right.’
‘All burned. . . Can’t save them.’ A deep breath. Then he screwed his eyes tight shut and bit his bottom lip. ‘Going to cut them off today. . .’ Tears rolled down his cheeks, glinting. As if that was going to make them feel sorry for the murdering little bastard.
He’d burned his hands so badly they’d have to amputate more than half his fingers: maybe Isobel was right? Maybe Guy Ferguson was stupid enough to strangle someone on fire? ‘You did it, didn’t you? ’
‘I. . . I can’t—’
‘You killed him. You chained him to a stake, stuck a tyre over his head and set fire to it.’
‘It wasn’t—’
‘Twenty minutes, that’s how long it takes someone to burn to death like that. Twenty minutes.’
Guy’s mouth fell open, bottom lip sticking out, tears spilling down his cheeks. ‘I. . . I don’t—’
‘Guy Ferguson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering an unknown male yesterday afternoon. You do not have to say anything—’
‘I did it. . .’ He sniffed, then blinked in slow motion. ‘I killed him. . .’ Guy wiped his eyes on his forearm, tears darkened the white bandage. ‘What else could I do? He was screaming and burning and I couldn’t get the tyre off and it’s all over my hands and they’re on fire and it’s horrible and it hurts and I had a . . . I had the knife.’ A deep, rattling breath. ‘So I stabbed him. And stabbed him, and stabbed him, and my hands are on fire and it hurts so much and . . . I couldn’t just leave him like that!’
Ah. . . Logan sat back in his seat. ‘He wasn’t part of your crew for the heist? ’
‘His face . . . you should have seen his face . . . screaming.’
‘He was burning when you got there? ’
A nod. ‘We . . . we ditched the car, divvied up the watches and rings and necklaces and stuff, and . . . and there he was.’ Guy held up the boxes where his hands should have been. ‘They’re going to cut off my fingers, because I tried to help someone. . .’
7
A woman’s voice blared in the corridor outside the hospital room. ‘I don’t bloody care – you let me in to see my son right now!’ Mrs Ferguson.
DS Chalmers sniffed. ‘You think he’s telling the truth? ’
‘Well. . .’ Logan leaned against the room’s little sink, staring down at the bed.
Guy was curled over, boxed hands against his chest, great heaving sobs rocking him back and forward.
‘Guv? ’
‘Necklacing, it’s . . . it’s a big-city gangland organized crime thing. Not something I can see a bunch of teenage wannabes doing. So . . . maybe. Probably.’
‘He did it so the victim wouldn’t suffer any more.’ She puffed out her cheeks, hissing out a breath. ‘Did the right thing, and it’s going to cost him his fingers.’
‘When everyone’s calmed down a bit we’ll interview his mates. See if they corroborate.’
That voice again. ‘I DEMAND TO SEE MY SON!’
Here we go. . .
Logan pointed at Chalmers. ‘Tell him to let them in.’
As soon as she stuck her head around the door, Mrs Ferguson barged her way past the uniform on guard, into the room. ‘Guy? ’
Mr Ferguson scurried in behind her, crying. ‘They told us you were dead.’
Guy’s mother wrapped him up in a hug. ‘My baby. . .’ Then she straightened up and glared at Logan. ‘YOU! You told us he was dead. How could. . .’ Her eyes went wide, staring down at her son’s ankle: at the handcuff. ‘HE’S IN A HOSPITAL BED!’
‘It’s not—’
‘HOW DARE YOU!’ She clenched her fists, took a step forward. ‘You take that off him, and you take it off him now.’
The stairwell echoed with footsteps and murmured conversations, overlaying the background hum of the hospital. Then Logan’s phone joined in – Darth Vader’s theme again. Should have left the damn thing turned off. He pulled it out. ‘It’s not—’
‘Have you got him? Where are you? ’ She sounded like a small child with a new puppy. If the kid had smoked forty a day for its whole life.
Chalmers pushed through the doors onto the ground floor, holding them open for Logan.
‘We’re heading back to the car, but—’
‘There! I see you!’
He froze.
DCI Steel was marching along the corridor towards them, mobile held against her ear, a big Cheshire grin pulling her wrinkles into a starburst. ‘Who’s Aunty Roberta’s special wee soldier then? ’
He hung up. Stood there, waiting for her.
Steel gave a hop-skip, then grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a little squeeze. Then frowned. ‘Where is he? How come you’re no’ taking him in? ’
‘He’s . . . upstairs under guard. They’re amputating most of his fingers this afternoon.’
‘And you’re sure he’s our boy? ’
DS Chalmers held up her notebook. ‘Confessed to the killing, and the jewellery heist too.’
‘Excellent!’ Steel let go of Logan and gave Chalmers a hug. Holding on for long enough that the DS started fidgeting.
Logan took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I need to—’
‘The ACC looks like he’s won free boobs for a year; scheduling a press conference for half three.’ She released Chalmers. ‘You’re both invited. Is this no’ great? ’ Steel poked at the screen of her mobile, then held it up to her ear. ‘ACC wants a word. . .’
‘Actually, Guy Ferguson—’
‘Aye.’
