Steel poked Logan’s shoulder. ‘Aye, seriously though: should we no’ve landed mob-handed? This could go arse-shaped real quick; loads of these teuchter banjo-fuckers have gun licences, and Idon’tfancy a shotgun enema.’
‘We’ll befine. Besides, we don’t even know if this Braithwaite has anything to do with anything.’
‘Oh, aye, it’s just ahugecoincidence his car was at Agapova’s house the night she disappeared, given her newspaper ruined his life and everything.’ Steel scowled as Tufty swung the gate open toclanggggagainst a fencepost. ‘Pretty good motive for revenge.’
...
Actually: she had a point.
Tufty hopped back in behind the wheel, drove them through the gateway. Stopped. Scrambled out again, and closed the gate behind them – like a weil-brought-up loon fae the sticks.
‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ Logan turned in his seat. ‘Want to wait for backup?’
Her eyebrows scrunched. ‘Might as well take aweelook, while we’re here. Just in case? Bugger might no’ even be in.’
Now that they were Country-Code-compliant, Tufty returned – piloting the pool car past a twisted stand of trees and around another bend.
A small collection of farm buildings loomed ahead: two tumbledown old stone byres; a barn with concrete walls and a corrugated grey roof; and a static caravan in shades of diarrhoea-brown-and-disappointment-beige. A forest of weeds surrounded the place, engulfing piles of building materials, while an ancient JCB backhoe sat off to one side.
Logan knocked on the dashboard. ‘OK, listen up: we’re on shaky ground here. No one takesanyrisks; no one wanders off on their own – line of sight at all times; no one gets shot, stabbed, beaten-up, their brains bashed in, or killed in any way shape or form. Understood?’
Steel shook her head. ‘Aye, remind me to give you a wee training session on motivational speaking, eh?’
Tufty parked the pool car next to a tired grey Vauxhall Astra, and they all climbed out into the stifling motionless air.
Muffled music thudded out of the caravan, heavy metal by the sound of it – the kind that was all screaming and howling and being very, very angry that Daddy didn’t buy you a pony.
A pile of pallets lay partially collapsed against one of the outbuildings, woven through with nettles and bramble. The spare bucket for an excavator rusted away, next to a big pile of gravel.
‘Aye, aye.’ Steel hauled up her trousers and pulled on her stolen shades. ‘Sounds like somebody’s home.’
Tufty grabbed the Airwave handset mounted on his high-vis, pressing the button and talking towards his nipple. ‘Alpha Charlie Eight to Control, we are in situ at Gorseburn Croft, near Durris. Be advised: looking for possible suspect in Natasha Agapova abduction.’
A tinny voice crackled out.‘Roger that, Alpha Charlie Eight.’
He let go of the button and shrugged. ‘Just in case...’
Logan followed a trampled path through the grass and weeds between one of the outbuildings and the barn, into a sort of courtyard.
Then stopped, both arms out, blocking the way for Steel and Tufty.
‘What?’
‘Shhh...!’ He stuck a finger to his lips, then pointed at the trail of blood that spattered between the barn, the caravan, and the far building. Thick and dark. And a hell of a lot more than you’d get with a simple nosebleed.
OK.
Logan pointed at Tufty, then at the outbuilding. Then at Steel, and the caravan. Then at himself, and the barn. Then at both of his own eyes. Which surely everyone would understand?
Tufty nodded, and tiptoed along the side of the courtyard, making for his assigned target.
Good lad.
He peeked in through the ragged window hole. Then shot Logan a worried look, shaking his head and playing an invisible accordion. Whatever the hell that meant.
Steel picked her way across the quad, high-stepping over the trail of blood, to the caravan. Snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and tried the door handle. Pulled a couple of times, before giving up and making a throat-cutting gesture with her thumb.
Locked.