Steel grinned a greasy grin. ‘I’ll do it.’ Then dipped a lump of battered fish into a big sklodge of mayonnaise – munching away as a dollop fell onto her black T-shirt. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with her.’
Yeah, right.
‘No thank you, Monica Spewinsky. Things are bad enough, withoutyoujoining in.’
Come on: there had to be a logical way through this...
Logan paced in front of the whiteboard wall. ‘Maybe this kidnap plot didn’t just spring out of nowhere – maybe Natasha Agapova and Andrew Shaw’s paths crossed somehow?’ That made sense, didn’t it? Logan grabbed Biohazard by the shoulder and marched him towards the door. ‘Shaw worked in a hairdresser; she has hair. Start there. And tell Forensics, Shaw’s car is now top priority – could be our abduction vehicle. Strip it down to the bare metal if they have to, butfindus something!’ Pausing on the threshold to point at everyone else. ‘The rest of you: less eating, more digging!’
XLVII
Natasha stood as far away from her anchor as the chain would allow, looking out through the crumbling window hole.
The air in her prison was like a giant fist, wrapped around her chest, squeezing every breath as merciless sunlight battered down on the world.
Those bastard flies had multiplied, droning through the sweaty, sticky air. And yeah, she used to shake them off, but what was the point? They just landed again. Feeding on the white tidemarks of salt that crusted her dirty, naked skin.
Mind you, it was hard to tell what was dirt and what was bruising.Everythingached as her battered flesh darkened – fresh blossoms of red and purple spreading out where DS Davis tried to break her ribs last night.
And speaking of the bastard...
Those fatbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzing bluebottles weren’t the only sound; a diesel growl came from behind the barn, joined by a rattling crack, clank, scrape, and rumble.
And there, just visible through the gap between the barn’s concrete wall and the other crappy outbuilding, was a sliver of rusty yellow digger. The excavator arm swung back for another go, gouging a huge clod of earth from the weed-choked field. Lifting it high, then swinging it around to dump onto a growing pile.
You’d think the sonofabitch would be out in his patrol car,beating up suspects and soliciting bribes, or arresting people for telling the truth on social media, but here he was: digging a hole.
Or, more likely, a not-so-shallow grave.
And no prizes for guessing whothatwas for.
Natasha opened her water and took a small sip. Just enough to wet the inside of her mouth. There was still about a third of it left, but there was only so long you could nurse one tiny little bottle.
She struggled the top back on and placed it on the ground at her bare feet – not easy with both wrists cuffed to this stupid bloody collar – then hauled in a deep breath.
Took hold of the chain.
Braced herself.
And pulled.
And pulled.
And pulled...
But the galvanised bucket was stuck firm, wedged up against that bloody line of buried stone.
She gave it one last haul, legs trembling with the effort, jaw clenched, snarling out a strangled scream as black-and-yellow spots flickered across her prison’s bare stone walls. ‘BASTARD, WANKING...FUCK!’
Natasha let go of the chain and staggered, folding over with the effort, bloodwhump-whump-whumping in her ears.
God, how great it would be to take a sledgehammer and smash the livingcrapout of the thing, till the concrete shattered and the chain came free and the bin was covered in dents. Then go hunting for DSBloodyDavis.
Instead, all she could do was bare her teeth, stick her heel against the bucket’s lip and shove.
‘Fucking thing!’
Another shove, harder this time.