Logan skimmed a list of charges. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
Logan stopped reading. Not so good after all.
‘Any ideas where he’s heading?’
There was a pause.
All roads lead to Newcastle. Which was pretty much what they’d been thinking anyway. Logan thanked the psychologist and hung up.
Logan drummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the blank computer screen.
God: the idea that Knox could get even worse…
‘You should eat more roughage.’
Logan turned to find Doreen settling in behind her desk.
‘What?’
‘You’ve got the same expression on your face my six-year-old gets when he’s constipated.’
‘Join the club. DCI Finnie’s got everyone on either Knox or Danby. It’s an absolute nightmare trying to get anything else done.’ She rearranged her cardigan. ‘Do you know if our little fairy princess got to see her grandad again?’
Logan shrugged. ‘I’ve been a bit—’
‘Oh for goodness sake.
PC Butler stuck her head around the door. ‘You ready, Sarge?’
Logan gathered all the files together and stuck them back in the folder. ‘We got a pool car?’
Butler’s expression soured. ‘Guess.’
The Fiat groaned from second to third, then whined from third to fourth, and refused to do fifth at all. ‘You know.’ Butler hauled the gearstick back again. ‘I’ve got some friends who could arrange a little electrical fire, if you like? Claim on the insurance?’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ Not that he’d get much for it – the thing only cost him two hundred pounds. Logan ran his finger across the dashboard, leaving a clean grey line in the dust. ‘Suppose you were a gangster—’
‘Cool.’ Butler grinned. ‘Do I get to kneecap that sleazy git DS MacDonald?’
‘Just shut up and listen, OK? Suppose you were a gangster and some police officer had just cost you over a mill and a half in drugs. He’s got three of your men banged up waiting for trial, and if they turn Queen’s evidence it’s going to be bad news for your other business interests. What do you do?’
She didn’t even pause. ‘Kill them. Get a couple of mentalists inside to shank the bastards. Sends out a message – no one squeals.’
Logan looked at her. ‘What if they’re loyal.’
‘Not worth the risk. Got to cut out the cancer before it spreads.’ She slowed down for a corner, the tyres rumbling over a lumpy mixture of slush and ice. ‘Then you go after the pig.’
Logan turned back to the window. ‘That’s what I was thinking.’
‘He awake yet, Babe?’
‘Dunno. Think he’s faking it?’
‘One way to check.’
Pain lances through Detective Superintendent Graeme Danby’s nipples. His eyes snap open and he roars. Or tries to. There’s something over his mouth. Something over his head, making everything dim and muffled. He rocks back and forth, fire burning across his chest.
‘Gotta love the titty-twister, like.’
Fucking hell that
Then the woman’s voice is back again. ‘Hello, Sweetheart, remember me?’
Graeme tries to shrink back, but he’s sitting on something:
can’t move his arms or legs…A chair? And it’s freezing in here.
He’d been…He’d been wearing the white fluffy dressing gown he’d found in the hotel room wardrobe – the one with the matching slippers in a little plastic bag. But now he feels a biting draught on his bare stomach and thighs.
Isn’t even wearing any underwear.
He’s tied to a chair, stark bollock naked, with a bag over his head.
With
Graeme tries to sit up straight, to bring his chin up. Not to tremble.
‘You’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you, Danby?’ A man’s voice, Newcastle accent.
And then a fist slams into Graeme’s stomach, wrenching him forwards. Or as far as he can go with his wrists tied to the seat. He tries to breathe through the aching stabs, air whistling in and out through his burning nose. Everything smells of burning copper.
