Close to the Bone (47 page)

‘
We’re scrambling every patrol car we can find. She’ll—
’

‘A bunch of cars hammering through the streets with blues-and-twos going? That’s not going to scare her off, is it? Plainclothes only: stick to the speed limit, nothing flashy.’

A grumble came from the other end of the phone. ‘
Fine. But when you get back, you and me are going to have a wee chat about the chain of command. In the meantime, you’re no’ to do anything stupid. Like let her get away.
’

‘I know.’

‘
I’m serious, Laz! Mr Fuckup is
not
coming to visit, understand?
’

‘OK,’ Logan downed the last of his tea and put the cup and saucer on the nearest workbench, ‘so I hide under the counter out front. We wait till she comes through to the back of the shop, then Dildo blocks the back door, I block the front, and Sim tackles Agnes. Any questions? ’

The counterfeiting room was virtually empty – all the merchandise loaded into the back of Dildo’s council van. The OAP workforce was squeezed into Ma’s office, complaining about not being able to sit down, and what did that poor Garfield girl ever do to deserve getting pounced on?

Logan closed the door on them. Now it was just him, Dildo, and Constable Sim.

Sim sniffed. ‘You sure we shouldn’t get them out of the building? ’

‘Agnes would see them milling about and know something was up. You got your pepper-spray? ’

A lopsided smile. ‘She’s an eighteen-year-old girl, Guv, not Genghis Khan.’

Logan’s phone rang: the Beatles and ‘Octopus’s Garden’. He pulled it out. ‘Dave, I’m kind of busy, so—’

The psychologist’s voice was clipped. ‘
Do you not think you could’ve asked before clogging up my inbox with three hundred and sixty-two emails?
’

Ah. . . ‘Look, I just need you to work your magic and tell me which of them are deluded and which are genuinely dangerous.’

‘
Now I’ve got IT on my back moaning about server space. And if you’d bothered to check: the profile I gave you clearly shows that Agnes Garfield is—
’

Something bleeped at the front of the betting shop. The door.

Sodding hell.

Logan checked the security-camera monitor mounted above the entrance through to the front of the shop. A figure in a hoodie and baseball cap stood in the middle of the screen in fuzzy black-and-white-ovision.

‘Sorry, Dave, I’ve got to go.’

‘
Logan, I’m not—
’

He hung up.

Sim peered up at the picture, her voice lowered to a whisper. ‘That Agnes? ’

‘Difficult to tell. . .’ The general size and shape was right, but the baggy hoodie and cap did a pretty decent job of hiding any distinguishing characteristics. ‘Might be? ’

If it was, she was five minutes early and Steel was right: they were screwed. There was no way he’d be able to sneak out front now and hide under the counter. Plan B, plan B, plan B. . .

Logan pointed into the room. ‘Move!’

Dildo scurried over to the back door and hid behind a stack of cardboard boxes. Sim ducked under a workbench in the middle of the room. Logan flattened himself against the wall beside the door, on the opposite side to the handle. So when it opened it’d hide him from view.

A voice floated through from the betting shop, high, wobbly at the edges. Definitely female. ‘
Hello? Ma?
’

‘
Hello, Rowan love. Oh, I
love
the new hair – that colour is just so you!
’

Stop sodding about, you old trout. Send her through the back. . .

‘
You go on through, there’s cake and tea.
’

‘
Em, OK. . .
’

Logan licked his lips.

The door handle turned.

Here we go. Nice and easy. No one gets hurt.

The door swung open.

39

Rowan steps into the room. Normally the place is alive with pale yellow and blue: the fuzzy-edged auras of old men and women. Short twists of beige for forgotten dreams. Wisps of grey for lost loved ones.

But today it’s empty.

Someone’s cleared the benches, emptied the shelves.

The only noise is the radio: a DJ burbling away about how great the weekend weather’s going to be in London.

The hydraulic return unit swings the door closed behind her.

Clunk.

Where are all the people?

Breath catches in her throat. Something’s wrong. Ma said there’d be tea and cake. . . It was a
lie
.

And then the noise – right behind her – a tiny speaker blaring out a tinny rendition of that song from the
Wizard of Oz
, the one about the scarecrow being thick. It’s a ringtone.

A man’s voice comes so close she can almost feel his breath on her neck: ‘Buggering hell. . .’

The song dies a sudden death.

She doesn’t turn around, doesn’t have to. ‘Detective Inspector McRae.’

The man who doesn’t know if he’s an Angel or a Hand of Death.

Black tendrils coil around her legs and chest.

The Kirk is my shield and my sword. The Kirk is my shield and my sword.

Blood thumps in her throat, each breath crackling deep inside her.

RUN.

She takes a step forward and a police officer uncurls herself from beneath one of the benches. Blue and red fizzing trails probe the area around her.

Rowan stops.

The Angel of Death clears his throat. ‘It’s OK, Agnes. You’re safe now.’ And he manages to sound as if he actually believes that.

Safe? How can she
possibly
be safe?

The door at the back of the room leads out into the alleyway behind the row of shops. All she needs to do is get there.

What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.

Another step.

Hands wrap themselves around her shoulders. A gentle touch that burns like a fistful of ice.

‘You’ll be OK, it’ll all be—’

She pistons her right elbow back, hard into his stomach, and warm breath explodes in her ear. Everything goes into slow motion. He lets go and falls back, crumpling around himself, hissing in pain.

Tenet Two: ‘Know thine enemy, for knowledge is power and power is victory.’

She’s watched him through his bedroom window, a towel wrapped around his waist, twenty-six little shining scars making constellations on his stomach. Old knife wounds never really fade.

Rowan’s already moving forward as he hits the ground. Up onto the nearest bench, running, dragging the pricking knife from the pocket of her hoodie, pulling the eight-inch blade free from its sheath.

The police officer turns, hair sailing out like a black wave behind her. A little canister of something glints in her hand. Rowan’s boot flashes out, connecting with the knuckles and it spirals away. End over end. So slow and delicate.

She keeps going.

A man lumbers out from behind a pile of boxes by the back door. His little round glasses are hollow and empty, his goatee beard stretched wide by his open mouth. ‘No!’

Something grabs her ankle. Her knee buckles and the workbench rushes up to meet her. Duck, roll, kick out. . .

There’s a grunt and the police officer is going the other way, arms flailing, a ribbon of blood fluttering from her mouth.

And Rowan is on her feet again.

The man has a goatee beard, but he’s a sheep. He grabs a chair and hauls it up in front of himself, like he’s a lion tamer. But she’s not a lion, she’s a Fingerman.

She hammers straight into it, slamming him back against the door.

His fist crawls through the syrupy air towards her face. She bats it away with her left, then punches him in the ribs with her right. Something goes crack and his eyes bug.

Rowan pulls back her hand. The pricking knife’s long blade drips scarlet.

And bang – everything is proper speed again.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, making a high-pitched mewling noise that builds into a proper scream.

She steps back and the chair clatters to the floor.

Red blooms across his chest. ‘No, no, no, oh Jesus. . .’ He leaves a smear across the wall as he slumps sideways to the floor.

What I do in its service lights a fire in God’s name.

She opens the back door, steps out into the alley, then closes it behind her.

Time to run.

Logan rolled over onto his back, hissing a breath out between gritted teeth. Burning coals seared through his stomach, melting all the way through to his spine, filling his lungs with scalding embers and choking ash.

Holy
Christ
, that hurt.

The back door slammed.

He worked his way up to his hands and knees, forehead resting on the scratchy beige carpet tiles.

Up. Get up. Get after her. DON’T LET HER GET AWAY.

The ground wobbled beneath his feet as he dragged himself upright sending fresh needles jabbing into his belly.

Ma’s counterfeiting shop was a mess: tables overturned, chairs, a smear of blood on the back wall. . . Dildo was lying on the floor by the door, knees curled up against his chest, a pool of scarlet seeping out onto the floor. ‘No, no, no, no, no: I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!’

PC Sim untangled herself from a swivel chair and lurched to her feet. Scarlet smears covered her mouth, twin trails glistened their way down the front of her stab-proof vest. ‘Gagh. . .’ She spat – frothy and red. ‘Bit my tongue.’ Then stared at Dildo. ‘Jeepers. Is he going to be—’

‘Don’t just stand there: GET AFTER HER!’

Sim blinked a couple of times, nodded, then charged over, wrenched open the back door and disappeared.

Logan limped across and sank down next to Dildo. ‘Tim, you’re going to be OK. We’re going to sort you out. It’s OK, it’s OK.’

Blood bubbles popped at the side of his mouth. ‘I don’t want to die. . .’

Logan dragged out his traitorous phone. ‘I need an ambulance and back-up to J. Stewart and Son bookmakers, Mastrick.’

‘
One moment, I’ll just—
’

‘Don’t you sodding dare put me on hold! I’ve got a Trading Standards Officer with stab wounds to the chest, Agnes Garfield is fleeing the scene, PC Sim is chasing her on foot.’

‘I don’t want to die. . .’

‘You’re not going to die, Tim, just calm down OK? Ambulance is on its way.’

‘
All cars, this is Control, be on the lookout for an armed suspect, I-C-One female: Agnes Garfield—
’

Dildo stared up at him, face the colour of skimmed milk, lips thin and purple. ‘Oh God, you called me “Tim”, I
am
dying.’

‘Don’t be a dick, you’re
not
dying.’ Back to the phone. ‘Where’s that bloody ambulance? ’

Logan peeled off his shirt and dumped it in the bathroom sink. Scarlet coils leeched out of the fabric into the cold water. He stuffed the whole thing under the surface, then dumped his socks and trousers in after them. Squelched it all together until the water was nearly scarlet, then drained it off and turned the tap on again. Left them to soak while he climbed into the shower.

Hot water pounded against his back, washing Dildo’s blood down the drain. Soothing the burning in Logan’s stomach.

By the time he was towelling himself dry, his mobile was singing Rennie’s theme tune. He snatched it up and pressed the button. ‘Any word? ’

‘
Still in surgery, Guv. Doctors say he’s lucky to get off with a punctured lung – any higher and it would’ve nicked his heart.
’

That was something at least. He pulled on a clean shirt, the fabric sticking to his damp back. ‘They find Agnes Garfield? ’

Silence. Then Rennie cleared his throat. ‘
You’ve got an appointment with Professional Standards at noon. And Strathclyde are going to do the independent review. You know, as they’re up here anyway.
’

‘And Steel couldn’t be bothered to tell me herself.’

‘
She’s . . . kinda pissed-off at the moment. Last time I went past her office, sounded like she was battering the crap out of everything with a sledgehammer.
’

Wonderful. Because today wasn’t bad enough already.

‘
Not like it was your fault though, was it? You had to do what you could in the time that you had. Only other option was to let her get away. . . Erm. . . Sort of. We’ve got a lookout request on for Agnes Garfield.
’

Logan picked his notebook off the bedside table and thumbed through it until he got to the last entry from Ma Stewart’s shop and read out the number for Agnes Garfield’s new mobile. ‘Get a GSM trace on that, pronto. She’s probably ditched it, but it’s worth a go.’

‘
Will do
.’ Pause. ‘
Dildo’s going to be OK. It wasn’t your fault.
’

‘Just get your arse over here and give me a lift back to the station.’ Logan hung up. Returned the phone and the notebook to the table. Sank down on the edge of the bed and stared at the crumpled sheet of paper taped to the wardrobe mirror.

‘L
IKE
I
T
O
R
N
OT
, Y
OU’RE
S
TILL
A
LIVE
’

His phone trilled and buzzed at him.

Couldn’t even leave him alone for five minutes. . .

‘What? ’

‘
Mr McRae? Yes, hi, it’s Kwik Fit, you left a car outside the garage this morning?
’

Nursing it slowly around the massive bulk of Mounthooly roundabout with a firm grip on the handbrake.

He stared at the ceiling. ‘How much is it going to cost? ’

‘
Well, you need two new brake lines, and all your brake fluid needs replaced. The disc and the drums on the rear wheels are corroded, the suspension arm on the passenger-side front is almost rusted through, back tyres are worn almost to the canvas, the exhaust is—
’

‘The brakes. How much to fix the brakes? ’

‘Right, sorry.’ Some rustling. ‘You know, you’re lucky they didn’t give out on the motorway, or a junction or something. Really nasty thing to do to someone. . . Right, OK, just to fix the brakes is going to be—’