you useless wankers had done your jobs and caught him, Lauren would still be here!’ He squared his shoulders, bearded chin jutting out. ‘Two years. TWO FUCKING YEARS you had before he took her!’ Burges took a step forwards.
Here we go.
I pushed myself off the handrail, coiling my aching hands into fists. ‘You need to calm down, before you get hurt.’
‘You got any idea what it’s like? The waiting? Every birthday, waiting for the next card, waiting to see what he’s done to her?’
All the time.
I closed my eyes, counted to five. Had another go: ‘Henry Forrester tried to help you.’
Burges threw his arms wide, the drysuit creaking as it stretched. A balding bear in a rubber romper suit, beard jutting out like wire wool. ‘Why should he get to forget? Eh? Why should he get to put it all behind him? Every year we get another card. Every frigging year. We moved up here and he still found us! He’s out there with his camera and his knives and other people’s daughters, because you FUCKERS can’t do your—’
‘What the hell are we supposed to do: magic the bastard up out of thin air?’ Getting louder. ‘You think this is easy? You think you’re the only one fucking suffering? At least we’ve found Lauren’s body, at least you get to …’
Burges’s eyes went wide, mouth hanging open, face drained to a pale grey.
‘Are you OK?’
He took a step back, then thump, he was sitting on the platform’s wooden surface. Staring up at me.
‘Mr Burges?’ Shite, he was having a heart attack. ‘Mr Burges?’
‘You …’ He blinked, rubbed a huge hand across his face. Then looked out across the water, eyes glistening. ‘You found my Lauren …?’
‘No one told you?’ For fuck’s sake – surely someone should have told him. One of Dickie’s team, or Weber, or—
‘You little bastard …’ He scrambled to his feet, neoprene drysuit squeaking and groaning. Backed up to the open doorway. ‘You’re fucking for it now!’
Great. If I’d known I was going to be delivering the sodding death message I wouldn’t have opened with, ‘Stay the hell away from Henry Forrester.’
Idiots. How could they not tell him? How could they be so bloody …
Burges was back on the walkway, clutching a rifle. Big wooden stock, black metal barrel – a two-twenty-two, more than capable of blowing a massive hole in anyone daft enough to stand in front of it.
Oh. Shit.
The big man racked the bolt up and back, then forward again. Putting a bullet in the breech.
SHIT.
Where the hell was Royce? I glanced over my shoulder – the little boat was still tied up on the shore by the containers. They’d hear the shot … but by then I’d be dead.
Then do something. Rush him. Grab the gun. Move.
Burges raised the rifle to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger.
Too late.
Missed. The bastard missed! Everything was crystal clear, each detail rendered in glowing HD Technicolor, with Dolby surround: the slap of the water against the platform, the grain of the wood on the walkway, the flecks of rust on the handrail, the golden flash as the brass cartridge spun through the air, the ping as it bounced off the shed wall.
MOVE!
I rushed the fat bastard, head down like a battering ram.
Nothing hurt any more. Like being reborn.
I slammed into Burges’s swollen stomach, sending him crashing back into the door frame. He wasn’t just big, he was solid too – it was like rugby-tackling a sofa. The two-twenty-two went flying, clattered against the wooden platform.
‘Get off me!’
I did: coiled a fist back, ready for the fat bastard’s face, but he was faster than he looked – barging past, making for the railing where I’d been standing, feet thumping on the walkway, making it judder.
I grabbed the rifle, hauled it up and round until it was pointing right in the middle of Burges’s huge back.
He stood there, at the railing, staring out at the water.
Why didn’t he go after the gun?
I racked another bullet into the chamber.
Burges jabbed a finger at the loch. ‘There! Got you, you little shit!’
A grey shape floated past, about eight-foot from the barge – skin like freckled neoprene, a ragged scarlet hole in its side. The body rolled and twitched, one flipper making eddies in the bloody water. The thing had to be at least five feet long. Jesus …
Burges turned and grinned at me, like a crack-head with a chainsaw. ‘The boathook – give me the boathook. Quickly!’
‘On your knees. Hands behind your head.’
The boat puttered towards the platform, PC Clark in the prow – holding a coil of rope at the ready – while Benny peered out through the wheelhouse window.
The constable’s mouth worked up and down, but no sound came out, his eyes wide, staring at the thick smear of blood that went from the open shed doors to the edge of the walkway. Then he stared at me instead: sitting there on a folding chair in the sunshine, the rifle across my knees.
Finally Royce found his voice again. ‘Oh God …’
The boat bumped against the platform and he fumbled the rope around the cleat. ‘We heard a shot; where’s Arnold Burges?’ The constable scrambled onto the walkway, one hand over his mouth, staring down at the blood. ‘What did you do? I told you! What am I going … How am I supposed to explain this?’
Benny nodded. ‘Yokkit horns, did dey? What did I tell dee: rile Arnie and he’s laek ta glaep dee.’
Royce took a couple of deep breaths, hands fluttering at his sides. ‘Got to call it in. Get on the radio and call it in. Not your fault, Royce, nothing you could do. Oh God …’
Benny picked up a sack of fish food and thumped it down on the walkway. ‘There’s no point being aff a leg an on a leg, Royce ma darlin’, Arnie’s Arnie, du knows that.’
The constable shifted from foot to foot. ‘Oh God, we’ll have to drag the loch: what if the body drifts out to sea? They’re going to blame me!’
Arnold Burges walked out of the shed, drysuit peeled down to
