a small path down the side of the GlobalSantaFe building, but Logan had seen Sean sprinting past them onto Crimon Place, the little eight-year-old’s arms and legs going fifteen to the dozen.
That left the King’s Gate car park at the far end, but there was no way Sean could have got there so fast. He was hiding somewhere.
Gritting his teeth against the stitch in his side, Logan jogged forwards, pulling out his mobile phone to call for backup. It rang and rang and rang …
A drenched, knackered-looking policewoman staggered to a halt at the far end of the street, face flushed, panting and shiny as the rain drummed on her peaked cap and black waterproof jacket.
Still waiting for Control to pick up, Logan shouted, ‘You see him?’
She shook her head. ‘No … not … not a sign … Little bastard can run …’
A voice crackled in his ear – Control telling him the switchboard was buggered and— Logan cut the man off and told him to get a patrol car to Crimon Place right now. Sean Morrison had gone to ground. He snapped his phone shut and started back up the street, yelling, ‘Check the cars!’ to the constable at the far end. He peered underneath and between the vehicles as he went, splashing through puddles, the cold rain bouncing off the road, pavement, BMWs, Porsches, clapped-out Fiestas, Rovers … soaking through Logan’s stained suit, plastering his hair to his head as he searched for the child.
‘There!’ It was the policewoman who spotted him. ‘Behind the skip!’ Sean Morrison – eight years old, four foot two, bloody nose, wearing jeans and a red AFC hooded top – grabbed a length of wooden banister not much smaller than a cricket bat from the debris filling the skip, swinging it as the constable lunged for him, catching her right in the face. She grunted and jack-knifed, both feet leaving the ground as she fell, leaving a spray of bright scarlet hanging in the air, glowing against the low, blue-grey clouds. Logan froze for a moment, and so did Sean, watching as she battered onto the wet tarmac, then the eight-year-old looked up at Logan, turned, and legged it.
For a moment Logan was torn between checking the constable was OK and grabbing the little bastard who’d clobbered her. He sprinted after the boy.
Sean Morrison was fast all right, but his little legs weren’t nearly as long as Logan’s, plus he was still carrying his makeshift club. He made a hard right, skidding on the wet road, trendy trainers sending up a spray of rainwater as he leapt the kerb and hammered round the side of the Boys’ Brigade Battalion with Logan hard on his heels. And then he suddenly stopped, swinging his chunk of banister.
Logan had just enough time to get his arms up, covering his face before the wood cracked into it. But it was still enough to make him stop dead, slipping on the wet ground and hitting it hard as his legs went out from underneath him. The breath rushing out of his lungs, fire screeching across his scarred stomach. And then Sean was swearing, calling him a dirtymotherfuckingcuntbastard as he swung the wooden weapon again, smashing it down on Logan’s back, then more swearing – something about a splinter – and the banister went flying. Smash. A car alarm shredded the rainy air. Then a trainer crashed into the top of Logan’s head. He curled into a ball, protecting his stomach as a foot stomped down on his ribs. Making them creak. The little thug took three steps back, took a run up and slammed another foot into Logan’s back.
Sean was about to do it again, when a pained, angry shout cut across the blaring car alarm: ‘CUMB HERE YOU LIDDLE BASDARD!’
Logan opened his eyes in time to see Sean Morrison turn and begin to run. ‘No you bloody don’t!’ Lashing out with a hand, he grabbed the eight-year-old’s ankle, sending him crashing to the ground. More swearing. Logan lurched upright, staggered sideways and fell against an Alfa Romeo with a smashed front windscreen, clutching his head as the policewoman skidded to a halt. Everything was lurching in and out of focus in time to the ringing in his ears.
The PC’s face was a mess of blood, one eye already swollen shut, her nose flattened and misshapen, scarlet bubbles popping from her nostrils as she grabbed Sean Morrison by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off the ground. ‘You’re fugging nicked!’
She turned, asked Logan if he was OK, then suddenly went very pale. Clatter and Sean Morrison hit the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. The eight-year-old scrambled to his feet as the constable stared open-mouthed at the knife hilt sticking out of her neck, just between the stab-proof vest and her collarbone. Her hands fluttered, bright red spilling down her chest, her eyes locked onto Logan’s, imploring … Then she went down like a sack of tatties.
Logan caught her just in time to stop her head cracking open on the pavement. Easing her down he grabbed the Airwave handset on her shoulder and shouted, ‘Officer down! Corner of Crimon Place and Skene Terrace! Repeat, Officer down!’
He cradled her head in his lap as she twitched and moaned. Fresh blood soaking into his trousers as Sean Morrison ran away.
Four hours later and Logan was standing in Accident and Emergency, getting an update from a male nurse with a hairy mole. The PC was lucky still to be alive, the knife had nicked the brachiocephalic vein – one millimetre to the right and the last sixty seconds of her life would have been sprayed all over the pavement and Logan. She was still critical, but stable.
Outside, the rain had eased up a bit as the day had grown colder, not enough to snow yet, but it’d probably get there soon enough. Logan dug out his phone and switched it back on. Six messages. The first was Jackie trying not to sound worried as she asked about his run-in with Sean Morrison. Then it was Rennie telling him how that missing old-age pensioner they were looking for had been sighted in Turriff, and then Big Gary wanting Logan to keep him up to date with the PC’s condition. Apparently there was still no sign of Sean Morrison. Logan thought about just deleting Steel’s messages, but listened to them anyway:
The first was pretty much her standard whine these days, ‘Bloody ACC’s been down here again! Why haven’t we arrested anyone for Jason Fettes’s death? His bloody parents have been banging their gums in the papers again. Jesus, it’s no’ like we didn’t try, is it? No’ our fault their kid was a dirty bondage boy …’ Some muttered swearing. ‘And why haven’t we caught anyone for those break-ins yet?’ Whinge, whinge, whinge. ‘Tell you: next time that pointy-headed bastard comes down here I’m going to shove one of Fettes’s butt plugs right down his throat! See how he likes—’ There was more, but Logan just deleted it.
The second message was a bit more up to date, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at? He was eight! How could you let him get away? What the … Hold on, I’ve got someone on the other line …’ and then silence. Beeeeeeep. New message: ‘Where was I? Oh, aye – Eight! Fuck’s sake …’ Then some coughing. ‘Anyway, the hospital called about the bloke your wee villain attacked: punctured lung. It’s no’ lookin’ good. I’ve got a press conference set up for quarter to six, so get your arse back to the station!’ Beeeeeeep.
Logan groaned. His head was throbbing, the skin tender and swollen where Sean had kicked it. His ribs ached from being stamped on. His suit was stiff with dried blood. Right now all he wanted to do was go home, take a couple of the pills he’d been given after an embarrassing examination – ‘You were beaten up by an eight-year-old? Seriously? Hey, Maggie, come see this!’ – climb into a long hot shower, curl up and feel sorry for himself until Jackie got back from her shift. And then get her to feel sorry for him too. Instead of which he had to be at a press conference in – he checked his watch – just over half an hour. Muttering curses, Logan slouched back into A&E and went in search of one of the PCs stationed at the hospital to give him a lift.
The natives were getting
