Natasha bent down and rolled the bin towards the barn doors.
What about the wheelbarrow? Maybe she could make a sort of ramp out of all these bits of wood lying about the place? Then all she’d have to do is load her bucket into the barrow – and now she had both hands free, there was nothing stopping her grabbing the handles – and wheel the fucker up the ramp and in through the caravan door.
Assuming she could wrestle a binfullof concrete into thewheelbarrow in the first place, and the rusty bottom didn’t just fall out of the thing, and it would still move with a flat tyre...
Natasha rolled her anchor out through the barn doors and into the courtyard again.
The sky had grown a purple tinge while she was inside, fighting with the sledgehammer, the shadows lengthening and turning blue as the sun drifted down towards the treetops. Even the bluebottles had stilled, anticipating night.
She shoved the bucket over to the static caravan.
Up close, there was a strange...meatysmell.
Her stomach clenched.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
Yeah, but it was this, or try to shoot through.
Natasha reached for the door handle.
Just as her fingers touched the pitted metal, the sound of a car engine swelled in the distance, getting louder as it approached, accompanied by the rattling percussion of tyres on a rough track.
She was too late.
And Davis was back.
67
Journalists packed the conference room, cameras and phones at the ready. Staring at the podium and its Police Scotland backdrop with hungry eyes. As if someone was about to be sacrificed on the table in front of them to appease the Ancient Media Gods...
Logan marched his tired arse down the side of the room and into the little nest of whiteboards and flipcharts, where Chief Superintendent Pine and PC Sweeny were waiting for him.
Well, Sweeny was waiting, Pine was on her phone again.
The Media Liaison Officer closed his eyes and shuddered out a long breath. Knees bending, one hand propping him up against the wall. ‘Oh thank Christ for that...’
Pine stuck a finger in her spare ear, swivelling around to face the corner for a modicum of privacy. ‘Iknowthat, First Minister, this is why we’re devoting every available resource to finding Mrs Agapova....No, I realise it’s—’ Her shoulders tightened. ‘Yes, First Minister....Thank you, First Minister.’ She stuck her phone in her pocket and sagged. ‘Bloodypoliticians.’
‘Hey, Sarge.’
Logan turned, and there was Tufty, beaming up at him. ‘Why are you—’
‘Is everyone ready?’ Sweeny pressed a printout into Logan’shands. ‘Finally: some good news to Feed The Beast. Make sure you stick to your prepared statements, OK?’
Pine frowned at hers. ‘How did you get these ready so quick?’
‘Trick of the trade, Boss.’ His swanky swagger wilted beneath Pine’s glare. ‘Sorry. They covered it in the Media Liaison Officer Training Course: “Always prepare a best-case-scenario briefing as something to work towards.” That way, if things actuallydogo well, you’re ready for it.’
Which wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence in A Division.
Logan peered around the edge of a flipchart. The chatter was fading away as the last sixty seconds ticked down. ‘Think they’re all here about Charles MacGarioch?’
‘Don’t care,’ Sweeny brushed a knob of fluff off his black T-shirt, ‘as long as we come out of this smelling like roses, rather than what they’re grown in, it’s a win.’ Frown. ‘But if anyone asks you about anything that isn’t on the briefing notes, donotengage.Especiallyabout Natasha Agapova. Last thing we need is them turning our moment of triumph into a big bag of festering shite.’ He checked his watch. ‘OK: it’s showtime. Let’s give these bastards a briefing they’ll never forget!’ Then strode out into the room and up onto the platform.
Going by the glare Pine directed at Sweeny’s back, she hadn’t enjoyed that bit about ‘festering shite’.
Logan nodded at her private corner. ‘Operation “Find Natasha Agapova” not going well?’