‘Go!’ Jabbing a finger in his sweaty face. ‘Go get it!Now!’
They all had to shift sideways so Harmsworth could lumber from the room.
Logan watched him go. ‘Trouble?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ Tufty hooked a thumb. ‘Charles MacGarioch hoofed it inside; locked the door.’
‘So kick it in. It’s only an internal partition.’
That got him a grin. ‘I does has being an action hero!’
Then Tufty took a couple of steps back and put some welly behind it – his boot slamming into the door, right beside the lock.
The whole thing boomed inwards, first go, and PD Branston surged inside, barking her furry-missile head off as Tufty scrambled after her. Then Steel. Then Logan.
Charles MacGarioch’s bedroom was much more modern than the old lady’s, with matt-black paint on the walls and lots and lots of posters: pop-star ladies in bikinis; Aberdeen Football Club; a bunch advertising video games like ‘DiRT 6’, ‘ASSASSINS’ CREED 5’, and ‘GTA: LONDON RAMPAGE’.
A trio of monitors hovered on arms above a small desk, with a PlayStation 4 and a complete steering-wheel~gearstick~pedals-under-the-desk setup. Single bed beneath the window. A little bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. More on the windowsill.
And the almostcloyingcitrusy-woody fug of a young man who usesfartoo much deodorant.
The room also featured a man’s backside, disappearing through the open window. Not a good idea on the top floor of a three-storey building.
Charles Mountbatten MacGarioch had clearly suffered a haircut since the photo in the briefing notes was taken, swapping a perfectly sensible short-back-and-sides for a number-two fade with a go-faster stripe above each ear. Leaving the spots polka-dotting the back of his neck on full display.
He turned to look back at the police officers and big barky dog that had just invaded his childhood bedroom, giving them a good look at his wispy sideburns and beginner’s moustache-and-soul-patch kit. Which gave him the air of a cut-pricedStarlord fromGuardians of the Galaxy. Ripped jeans; red-and-white leather jacket; black, 4 Mechanical Mice T-shirt. Tears in his eyes.
Oh shite. He was going to jump wasn’t he.
Logan lunged forwards. ‘NO!’
Charles MacGarioch faced outward again, snatched a deep breath, and jumped. Screaming, all the way down...
Logan clambered up onto the single bed, sticking his head out the window just in time to see Charles hit the ground.
Only instead of goingSPLAT!, he bounced – almost as high as he’d jumped. Still screaming. Arms and legs pinwheeling as he soared away from the building, clearing a washing-festooned whirly by at least ten feet, before crashing into a tree.
Branches and twigssnap-crackledas he tumbled through it, then thumped to earth, facedown, in a shivering blanket of falling leaves.
Tufty’s head appeared alongside Logan’s, then PD Branston joined in – tongue lolling as she grinned.
‘Wow...’ Tufty pointed. ‘Did youseethat?’
Logan blinked. ‘But...?’
How was that even possible?
He stared down the back of the building and there was the answer: a large children’s trampoline, about twelve feet off to the right. That explained the ‘thud-adudadududa...’ noise. And the shrieking kids.
The kids were silent now, though. All standing around on the communal back lawn, staring at the tree Charles MacGarioch had just crashed through. Then up at the flat, and at the heads of Logan, Tufty, and Branson poking out of the window.
Actuallyhittingthe trampoline from this distance, instead of the ground, had to be a one-in-a-hundred shot. Charles was bloody lucky he didn’t break his neck, and every other bone in his body.
Why did young men always think they were sodding invincible? Right up until the moment they got proved fatally wrong.
Tufty’s eyes were wide as soup bowls. ‘How cool wasthat?’
Charles MacGarioch wasn’t moving, though. So maybe not so lucky after all...