But still… she had tremendous knockers.
She punched him on the arm. ‘Worried our boy’s going to find you irresistible?’
‘Ha-ha.’ Harry shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Anyway, Knox likes auld mannies. And in case it skipped your attention, I’m in the prime of life.’ If you could call a divorced forty-three-year-old man with a receding hairline and expanding waistline in the prime of anything.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Mandy went back to staring at Knox. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting some kip? It’s nearly midnight, and you’re on at six.’
Harry shrugged again. ‘Can’t sleep the first night in a strange house. You?’
‘Like a log.’
Harry tore his eyes away from the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. ‘I hear he attacked more than a dozen pensioners in Newcastle. Chained them up like dogs.’
Mandy put her head on one side, still staring at the praying man. ‘Had to watch a paedophile once. Primary school gym teacher. Abusing little girls in the changing rooms. Got away with it for seven years.’
‘Jesus…’
‘Watched him for three weeks, till he slashed his throat with the lid off a tin of tuna. Bathroom looked like a horror movie, blood everywhere.’ She sighed. ‘Ruined a perfectly good pair of shoes.’
‘There’s a lovely image.’
‘Point is, he was never going to be a hundred percent safe: didn’t matter how long it took, he was always going to see six-year-old girls as sex objects. If he hadn’t topped himself, I’d probably still be watching him now. Knox is the same. Did it before, he’ll do it again.’ She shrugged. ‘If we’re not here to watch him.’
Harry tried a smile. ‘Good job I got in a couple packets of HobNobs then.’
She nodded at the man kneeling on the threadbare hearthrug. ‘Maybe you should have bought some tins of tuna…’
Richard Albert Knox tries not to smile. He can see them, reflected in the dusty screen of the dead television. Standing there at the lounge door like a pair of old women, gossiping.
His knees ache, but that’s all right. A little pain never did anyone any harm. Sometimes it did them a lot of good. And after all those years kneeling on the concrete floor of his cell, the tatty old rug’s something of a luxury.
But all that time spent on his knees really paid off, you know? Not like some of them dirty bastards in Frankland Prison; the time they spent on their knees was for a different reason. Not that Richard had anything to do with that, thank you very much.
No.
Well … only once, and it wasn’t like he had any option, was it? Not with a length of sharpened pipe waiting for him. They soon learned though, didn’t they? Felt the wrath of God. No one bothered him after that.
He sneaks another look at his two minders from Sacro. Harry and Mandy. A right pair of do-gooders. ‘Oh aren’t we so special, volunteering to look after rapists and paedos?’ How stupid can they be?
Richard can’t keep the smile off his face. They have no idea what’s coming their way.
DC Rennie scowled. ‘Is it me, or did the weather just get even crappier?’
Logan watched the windscreen wipers clunk and squeal across the glass. Rain drummed on the roof of the CID pool car, made spreading puddles on the uneven pavements, shivered the branches of a tall leylandii hedge. The little cul-de-sac was quiet, just a few kids being bustled into cars for the last-minute school run. ‘You got the warrant?’
Rennie dug it out of his jacket pocket. His short blond hair stuck up in all directions, as if he’d just fallen out of bed, and his face had the kind of unnaturally orange fake-tan glow any D-list celebrity would be proud of. ‘Thought nightshift were supposed to deal with this.’
Logan scanned the paperwork – all duly noted and authorized. ‘You ready?’
‘No.’
‘Tough.’ He opened the car door and hurried up the path to the semi-detached house, hop-skip-stepping to avoid the deepest puddles, Detective Constable Rennie sploshing along behind him.
They huddled under the little porch while Rennie thumbed the doorbell. ‘Argh … it’s trickling down the back of my neck!’
‘Better watch it doesn’t wash your tan off. You’ll go all streaky.’
‘Hey, at least I…’
The front door opened. A young man peered out at them: black eye, bruised cheek, and swollen lip, one arm encased in plaster from elbow to palm. The Police National Computer check said he was eighteen, he looked a lot younger. ‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Walker? Douglas Walker?’
He flinched, one hand coming up to shield his bruised face. ‘Don’t hit me!’
Logan held up his warrant card. ‘Police.’
Walker sagged. Sighed, then turned and limped back into the building. ‘Close the door behind you, yeah?’
Inside, it was a study in chintz. Walker levered himself down onto a floral sofa complete with lacy antimacassars. A gas fire hissed away to itself, the mantelpiece littered with glass ornaments, sparkling in the light of a standard lamp. Oil paintings covered the walls – scenes of Aberdeen in OTT gilt frames. Walker grimaced. ‘This about that car?’
‘What do you think?’
The young man stared at the swirly beige carpet. ‘I didn’t know, OK? I thought the cash was legit.’
‘Let me guess,’ Logan edged in front of the fire, letting his trousers steam, ‘soon as you found out there was a problem, you were in such a hurry to give Kevin Middleton his car back, you fell down the stairs a couple of times?’
Walker sniffed. ‘I’m not pressing charges. And you can’t make me.’
Logan let the silence drag out for a while, but Walker kept his face towards the floor.
‘You want to tell me where you got four and a half grand in dodgy twenties?’
He shook his head.
‘OK.’ Logan pulled out the warrant. ‘Douglas Walker, it is an offence to pass counterfeit moneys under section fifteen of the Forgery and Counterfeiting Act 1981, punishable by up to ten years in prison.’
At that, Walker did look up. His face pale, mouth working up and down. ‘But… I…’
‘I have a warrant here for your arrest. On your feet.’
‘You can’t…’
‘Stand
