‘Don’t want to be late for the briefing, do you?’
‘But...’
‘We’ll take The Tank; I’m driving.’
And she was out the door, with Elizabeth skipping along behind – singing:
‘Going to the circus,
Going to the circus...’
Leaving Logan alone in the kitchen with his flaccid slice of not-quite cheese.
Logan strode into the open-plan office, bang on seven o’clock, to see what sort of crack team of hotshot officers Chief Superintendent Pine had assembled for him.
Which turned out to be Steel, Tufty, Barrett, Biohazard, Doreen, and Sergeant Bernard ‘Spudgun’ Moore – an unremarkable middle-aged man with mousey hair, a pronounced chin-cleft, and one leg slightly longer than the other.
Suppose some days you just had to work with what you had.
They were all dressed up in the full Police-Scotland-blackoutfit – with stabproof vests, utility belts, and high-vis waistcoats standing by – playing a spirited game of ‘Fud-or-Fanny’, waiting for the briefing to kick off.
‘OK,’ Biohazard bit his bottom lip and narrowed his eyes, ‘Vladimir Putin.’
Doreen didn’t even hesitate: ‘Fud. Massive, monstrous,murderous...’ She looked up and saw Logan. ‘Guv.’
‘Why are you all in uniform?’
Tufty struck a pose. ‘Chief Superintendent Pine sent out a memo, remember? We must has a reassuring the public.’
Oh, for God’s sake.
‘It’s anundercover operation, you bunch of fermented numpties! How are we supposed to sneak up on Charles MacGarioch with you lot dressed like an episode ofThe Bill? Go: get changed.’
The six of them scarpered.
‘And no fighting suits: casual clothes only!’
Halfwits.
LVI
The air was thick with flies and their bone-grindingbuzzzz...
Natasha stood beside her anchor – now upright again, and back where it was supposed to be – rising up on her tiptoes as she peered out through the window hole.
The JCB had gone from the field, returned to wherever the bastard usually kept it. Off to the right, the door to the other outbuilding still lay wide open, probably airing out now that its resident had...gone.
No music throbbed through the static caravan’s walls.
And there was no sign of the dick himself.
Something wentthunk.
A door? Maybe that was a car door? Maybe—
Then the engine started. Followed by the pop-crunch-ping of tyres on a rough track, fading away into the distance until only the flies remained.
Was he gone?