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Rough hands grab him, haul him back towards the bed and Harry’s naked body. ‘This what gets you off, is it?’

A backhand slap snaps Richard’s head sideways and he starts to cry.

They’re going to kill him.

They’re going to beat him to death in some crappy council housing flat for sex offenders.

The one in the pale leather jacket backs up a step. ‘You know what? This works. Fuck it, this works really well.’

‘Got to call an ambulance, police—’

‘Grab him.’

‘Lowe, look at the guy on the bed. We have to—’

‘Fine, I’ll do it myself.’

Those rough hands again, dragging Richard across the carpet, shoving his face against Harry’s naked thigh.

Richard struggles, but the guy digs his knuckles into the back of his neck.

‘Bite him. Go on, bite him like you did my dad, you fucking freak!’

‘I don’t…don’t…Please…’

He hauls Richard’s head back, then rams it forward into the hairy, clammy skin.

‘You do as your told, or so help me God I’ll break every fucking bone in your fucking body.’

‘I don’t…’ Pain, rips through his hand, bones grating against each other as the big man stamps on Richard’s knuckles, crushing them against the carpet.

‘Fucking bite him!’

Richard opens his mouth wide and sinks his teeth into Harry’s cold flesh.

49

Logan closed the front door behind him. The beautiful blue sky was gone, replaced by a layer of featureless grey that hurled little shards of ice at him, stinging his ears and nose, cheeks and fingers. He shuffled into the lee of a police van, trying to get his lighter to work.

Fourth time lucky: it caught and Logan dragged in a lungful of smoke, then spluttered it right back out again. Only his second cigarette today, not bad for twenty past three.

Nearly an hour and three-quarters to go. Have to leave soon, or get caught up in the traffic heading back to town. Rush-hour was bad enough, but the snow would grind everything to a halt. And he wouldn’t want to be late for his bollocking from Finnie.

That would be a dreadful shame.

The phone in his pocket rang, the vibration travelling through to his ribs.

‘Bugger off.’

It kept on ringing.

‘Bloody hell…’ He dragged it out with numb fingers and hit connect. ‘This better be bloody important.’

‘Sergeant…er…I mean, Logan. Look we got off to…it was a mistake, OK?’ Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie.

Logan huddled closer to the van, breath steaming out around his head before being whipped away by the wind. ‘You’re bloody right it was.’

‘I didn’t know this was going to happen! How could I know? I just…you said he had all this counterfeit cash and I thought…I thought it would—’

‘What? What exactly did you think it would do?’ He watched a patrol car slithering away down the lane, its headlights cutting through the blue-grey gloom, catching the whirling snowflakes. ‘You hounded an eighteen-year-old boy till he tried to kill himself. And then you tried to pin it on me!’

‘I just…’ Sigh. ‘Look, you’re good at this policeman stuff, it’s easy for you. I just wanted something to, you know, be a success. Crack the counterfeit case.’

There was a long silent pause.

Logan switched his phone to his other hand, dug the numb fingers into his armpit, smoking with his eyes screwed up.

‘Can you understand?’

Logan held his cigarette out at arm’s length and let go. The wind snatched it out of his fingers, sending it spiralling away to explode in a shower of orange sparks against the IB Transit van. ‘Fuck off, sir.’

Logan hung up.

Richard Knox stands at the window, staring out into the falling snow. He shivers, watching as a car pulls into the driveway.

The house is one of them farm building conversion things: all natural stone, wood floors, and exposed beams. When what you really want is proper insulation, carpets, and central bloody heating.

The huge black Range Rover lumbers to a halt, blocking the other cars in. There’s a pale grey Mercedes, a big black people carrier, and a little Clio.

It was the people carrier they’d used to transport him about – from the Sacro flat to the house where he had to bite the old man. And from there to here. Always blindfolded and gagged, trussed up like a joint of meat, on the floor behind the back set of seats. Well, you wouldn’t want to get your nice Mercedes all dirty by stuffing a registered sex offender in the boot, would you?

The Range Rover’s doors open and a small woman gets out, stands in the snow looking around. Oh God…It’s her.

Richard shrinks back, hiding behind the curtain, peeking out around the edge.