Logan pressed the button and ran for it. ‘Tell Biohazard Bob to get the car round to Hillview Drive, it’s …’ He scrambled onto the roof of a wee plastic bike-shed thing, shoes skidding on the frosty plastic. From there to the top of a narrow brick wall. Squinted out over a patchwork of darkened gardens and ones bathed in the glow of house lights. ‘It’s the junction with Hillview Terrace.’
Detective Chief Inspector Steel’s smoky voice rasped out of the handset’s speaker. ‘How have you no’ caught the wee sod yet?’
‘Don’t start. It’s … Woah.’ A wobble. Both hands out, windmilling. Then frozen, bent forward over an eight-foot drop into a patch of Brussels sprouts.
‘What have I told you about screwing this up?’
Blah, blah, blah.
The gardens stretched away in front, behind, and to the right – backing onto the next road over. No sign of her. ‘Where the hell are you?’
There – forcing her way through a copse of rowan and ash, making for the hedge on the other side. Two more gardens and she’d be out on the road.
Right.
Logan hit the send button again. ‘I need you to—’ His left shoe parted company with the wall. ‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ Cracking through dark green spears, sending little green bombs flying, and thumping into the frozen earth below. THUMP. ‘Officer down!’
‘Laz? Jesus, what the hell’s …’ Steel’s voice faded for a second. ‘You! I want an armed response unit and an ambulance round to—’
‘Gah …’ He scrabbled upright, bits of squashed Brussels sprouts sticking to his dirt-smeared suit. ‘Officer back up again!’
‘Are you taking the—’
The handset went in his pocket again and he sprinted for the fence. Clambered over it as Steel’s foul-mouthed complaints crackled away to themselves.
Across the next garden in a dozen strides, onto a box hedge then up over another slab of brick.
She was struggling with a wall of rosebushes, their thorned snaking branches digging into her blue summer dress, slicing ribbons of blood from her arms and legs. Blonde hair caught in the spines.
‘YOU! STOP RIGHT THERE!’
‘Please no, please no, please no …’
Logan dropped into the garden.
She wrenched herself free and disappeared towards the last house on the road, leaving her scalp behind … No, not a scalp – a wig.
He sprinted. Jumped. Almost cleared the bush. Crashed through the privet on the other side, head first. Tumbled.
On his feet.
There!
He rugby-tackled her by the gate, his shoulder slamming into the small of her back, sending them both crunching onto the gravel. Sharp stones dug into his knees and side. The smell of dust and cat scratched into the air.
And she SCREAMED. No words, just a high-pitched bellow, face scarlet, spittle flying, eyes like chunks of granite. Stubble visible through the pancake makeup that covered her thorn-torn cheeks. Breath a sour cloud of grey in the cold air. Hands curled into fists, battering against Logan’s chest and arms.
A fist flashed at Logan’s face and he grabbed it. ‘Cut it out! I’m detaining you under—’
‘KILL YOU!’ The other hand wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed. Nails digging into his skin, sharp and stinging.
Sod that. Logan snapped his head back, then whipped it forward. Crack – right into the bridge of her nose.
A grunt and she let go, beads of blood spattering against his cheek. Warm and wet.
He snatched at her wrist, pulled till the hand was folded forward at ninety degrees, and leaned on the joint.
The struggling stopped, replaced by a sucking hiss of pain. Adam’s apple bobbing. Scarlet dripping across her lips. ‘Let me go, you bastard!’ Not a woman’s voice at all, getting deeper with every word. ‘I didn’t do anything!’
Logan hauled out his cuffs and snapped them on the twisted wrist, using the whole thing as a lever against the strained joint.
‘Where’s Stephen Bisset?’
‘HELP! RAPE!’
More pressure. ‘I’m not asking you again – where is he?’
‘Aaaaagh … You’re breaking my wrist! … Please, I don’t—’
One more push.
‘OK! OK! God …’ A deep breath through gritted, blood-stained, teeth. Then a grin. ‘He’s dying. All on his own, in the dark. He’s dying. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’
The windscreen wipers squealed and groaned their way across the glass, clearing the dusting of tiny white flakes. The council hadn’t taken the Christmas decorations down yet: snowmen, and holly sprigs, and bells, and reindeer, and Santas shone bright against the darkness.
Ten days ago and the whole place would have been heaving – Hogmanay, like a hundred Friday nights all squished into one – but now it was deserted. Everyone would be huddled up at home, nursing Christmas overdrafts and longing for payday.
The pool car’s wheels hissed through the slush. No traffic – the only other vehicles were parked at the side of the road, being slowly bleached by the falling snow.
Logan turned in his seat and scowled into the back of the car as they made the turn onto the North Deeside Road. ‘Last chance, Graham.’
Graham Stirling sat hunched forwards, hands cuffed in front of him now, dabbing at his blood-crusted nostrils with grubby fingers. Voice thick and flat. ‘You broke my nose …’
Sitting next to him, Biohazard Bob sniffed. ‘Aye, and you didn’t even say thank you, did you?’ The single thick eyebrow that lurked above his eyes made a hairy V-shape. He leaned in, so close one of his big sticky-out ears brushed Stirling’s forehead. ‘Now answer the question: where’s Stephen Bisset?’
‘I need to go to hospital.’
‘You need a stiff kicking is what you need.’ Biohazard curled a hand into a hairy fist. ‘Now tell us where Bisset is, or so help me God, I’m going to—’
‘Detective Sergeant Marshall! Enough.’ Logan bared his teeth. ‘We don’t assault prisoners in police cars.’
Biohazard sat back in his seat. Lowered his fist. ‘Aye, it makes a mess of the upholstery. Rennie: find somewhere quiet to park. Somewhere dark.’
DS Rennie pulled the car to a halt
