Authors: Stuart MacBride

Twelve Days of Winter (13 page)

What the hell do you say to someone in that situation? ‘Cheer up, could be worse’? I try for the shoulder squeeze again, but it doesn’t help, he just cries all the harder. . .

Kilo Mike Two and Three finally arrive from the local Kingsmeath station.

Richardson takes one last shuddering breath and wipes his eyes. Trying to make out he’s all right.

I fasten the Velcro on my bulletproof vest. ‘I want you to stay here, OK? Keep an eye on the house while we go in.’

‘No. I’m OK. You need the manpower.’

I shake my head. ‘Not
that
much. You’ve had a shock. You. . .’ Deep breath. ‘What if something happens and you infect someone? Look, I’m sorry: I know it’s shitty, but you’ve got to stay in the car.’

‘No, I need to come with you, don’t—’

‘Believe me, I’d much rather have you with me than some of these KM Muppets, but you
have
to wait in the car. You know you do.’

‘But—’

‘We can talk about it when I get back, OK? Thain can take the prisoners back to FHQ, and you and me will go grab a bacon buttie and talk, OK?’

‘But—’

‘No. You’re staying put whether you like it or not.’

He goes back to staring at the falling snow. Sulking.

I can’t really blame him.

A burgundy van pulls up in front of Kilo Mike Two – the dogs are here. That’s my cue.

I climb out into the chilly morning air.

HIV. What a great end to the week. Still, after today I’m off till Tuesday. Three days of trudging around the three million relatives we never see at any other time of the year. Because ‘everyone wants to see the baby’. Hell, I’m its dad and half the time even
I
don’t want to see the little bugger.

DS Thain’s waiting for me by the back of the dog van, dressed in firearms team black, machine pistol cradled against his chest. ‘Morning, sir.’ He eyes my lumberjack costume. ‘Ready when you are.’ He’s one of these career policemen hot-footing it up the promotion ladder. But he’s a nice guy, good cop too: efficient, not an arse-kisser like a lot of these fast-track wankers. Which makes it all the more unfair to take the piss out of his red hair.

But I do it anyway. ‘Jesus, Thain, something horrible’s happened to your head! Oh, wait, it’s your hair.’

He smiles. ‘Bugger off, sir.’ Sounds a bit bunged up, as if he’s got a cold.

I grin back at him. After PC Richardson and his cloud of impending doom, it’s a bit of a relief.

DS Thain sniffs. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘Surround the place. Half the troops round the back, everyone else round the front. Two from each team go in, the rest wait outside in case Black makes a run for it.’ I look up at the house, then back at the Canine Unit where the black nose of a police Alsatian is making snotty whorls on the glass. ‘And we’re taking one of the dogs in with us too. Just in case.’

‘Sir.’ He marches off to get everyone in place, red hair glowing in the gloom.

I give Stephanie a ring and ask if she wants anything from the shops while I’m out. Still making the effort.

Stephanie doesn’t want anything. But she
almost
sounds happy I called. We chat for a bit about who’s getting what for Christmas. No fights. No sniping. Just two grownups having a conversation. Who knows: maybe if we can make it through to the New Year there’s hope for us after all. We could—

DS Thain is back, giving me the thumbs up.

I nod, then shift the phone to my other ear. ‘Sorry, I gotta go. See you at four.’

‘
Love you.
’

‘Love you too.’ Because I still do.

And then it’s time to get going.

Life is beginning to stir in Denmuir Gardens: lights sparkling on in lounge windows, bedrooms and kitchens. But not number fourteen. Dillon Black is obviously having a bit of a lie-in.

He’s about to get rudely awakened.

‘Right: everyone make sure your partner’s got their vest on – there’s no record of Black owning a gun, but we’re not taking any chances. I expect Black to resist, but he’s not an idiot. He pulls a gun and we’ll blow his arse off. He puts up a fight and the dogs will tear him a new one. His only choice is to come quietly.’

The firearms team check their Heckler and Koch MP5 machine pistols and Glock 9mms.

‘I want this nice and clean, people. No heroics, no shooting things for the fun of it. In and out: no one hurt. Understand?’

They ‘Yes sir!’ me, then everyone trots off into place, coughing and sneezing as they go. You can always tell when it’s Christmas in Oldcastle because every bugger on day shift is dying from colds and flu.

Thain nods towards the car Richardson’s sitting in. ‘Not letting him out to play?’

I shrug. ‘He’s not feeling well.’

‘Oh aye?’ Thain blows his nose, just to make sure I know that
he
’
s
not feeling too hot either. Tough. He racks a round into the chamber of his machine pistol.

I give the signal.

The battering ram rips the front door right off its hinges. BOOM. It falls back into the hallway in a flurry of splintered wood. The place is in darkness, and it’s cold too – like the central heating hasn’t come on yet. Which makes sense: the kind of business Dillon Black runs doesn’t keep nine-to-five hours. It happens after dark in deserted car parks and warehouses.

I lead the way, stepping into the hall as another BOOM sounds from round the back: the second team coming in. Thain and I charge up the stairs in the darkness, following the glow from the torches strapped to our MP5s.

‘POLICE, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!’

First door’s a bathroom, second’s a box room full of DVD players and cases of whisky, third’s a bedroom – empty – and so is number four. No sign of anyone.

Thain sweeps his torch beam back and forth. ‘Where the hell is he?’

‘Check the attic, we might get lucky.’ But we won’t: Dillon Black’s not here.

There’s nothing but junk in the attic, so we check all the bedroom cupboards then head back downstairs. There’s a small clump of constables at the foot of the stairs, hands in their pockets, helmets tucked under their arms, arguing about whether or not Oldcastle Warriors are the worst football team in Scotland. Passing round a packet of cigarettes. They’ve come up empty handed as well.

Thain peers into the lounge. ‘Someone must’ve tipped him off.’

Wouldn’t be the first time.

I shrug and wander through. It’s a big enough room: widescreen TV, fancy stereo, one of the DVD recorders from the stash upstairs . . . but something’s wrong. The chairs are all turned to face a blank wall with a nail in it. Like they’ve been looking at something that doesn’t hang there anymore.

Thain turns in place, sniffing the air. ‘Can you smell something funny?’

Great. Bad enough the bastards do it behind my back, I never thought Thain would be the kind of arsehole to play it up in front of the troops.

I poke him in the chest. ‘It’s not my bloody fault, OK? The baby was sick on me this morning, he peed all down my suit. I didn’t have time to shower! You bunch of—’

My phone starts ringing. I drag it out. ‘WHAT?’

There’s a ‘sccccchrickt’ from the hall: the sound of a sly fag being lit.

A pause from the other end of the line, then, ‘
Sir, it
’
s Richardson. You have to get out of there.
’

Thain’s frowning, ‘No, it’s not you, it’s more . . . can you smell gas?’

‘Sir, I mean it, you—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake
, Richardson
: I’m not telling you again. Stay in the bloody car!’

‘Sccccchrickt’

‘
Sir! You have to—
’

I freeze. ‘Wait, what? Gas?’ I can’t smell anything, but then I never could.

‘Sccccchrickt’

‘
Sir?
’

‘Sccccchrickt’

The world slows down. Every single detail stands out like a knife blade: the patch of stubble on Thain’s chin; the laughter coming from the hall; the DVD case for
The Muppet Christmas Carol
lying on the carpet; the sound of my heart beating in my ears like a drum. Thump, thump, thump.

I turn, haul in a deep breath. ‘NO!’ And then everything

PC Richardson made it as far as the garden gate before the house blew. A sudden rush of heat and noise, blasting through the lounge window, spraying him with broken of glass, knocking him flat on his back. And then the flames, roaring over his head as he lay in the middle of the snow-covered pavement.

He groaned. Rolled over onto his side, then up onto his knees. It wasn’t meant to happen like this!

Ewan Richardson staggered to his feet and stared at what was left of Dillon Black’s house. The whole downstairs was gone and a good chunk of upstairs too. Bricks and bits of wood littered the front garden. A police-issue helmet lay halfway down the garden path. Someone’s arm poked out through the front door.

Richardson lurched forwards, peering into what was left of the lounge. It was covered in blood and bits of dark-red meat.

He put one hand against the wall and threw up in the snow.

It wasn’t meant to be like this:
he
was supposed to go in first. Flick on the lights. . .

No one else was meant to get hurt. Just him. Blown to pieces instead of lingering on, getting sicker and sicker. Watching his body slowly kill itself. IT WAS MEANT TO BE HIM!

He sank down against the wall.

It should’ve been him.

A cheerful blast of music came from his pocket. He dragged out his mobile phone: Sandra. Richardson switched it off without taking the call, covered his face with his hands and sobbed.

He should be dead now − quick and painless − and Sandra would get his death in service benefits, and his pension. A big chunk of money to look after her and little Emma. To say sorry. For everything.

Now all she’d get was the £3,000 Dillon Black had paid him for the warning about this morning’s raid.

Life was so unfair.

About the Author

Stuart MacBride is the bestselling author of the DS Logan McRae series, the most recent of which,
Shatter the Bones
, was a
Sunday Times
No. 1 bestseller.

His McRae novels have won him the CWA Dagger in the Library, the Barry Award for Best Debut Novel, and Best Breakthrough Author at the ITV3 crime thriller awards.

Stuart’s other works include
Halfhead
, a near-future thriller,
Sawbones
, a novella aimed at adult emergent readers, and several short stories.

He lives in the north-east of Scotland with his wife, Fiona, and cat, Grendel.

For more information visit StuartMacBride.com

Other Works

By Stuart MacBride

The Logan McRae Novels

Cold Granite

Dying Light

Broken Skin

Flesh House

Blind Eye

Dark Blood

Shatter the Bones

Other Works

Sawbones

Birthdays for the Dead

Writing as Stuart B. MacBride

Halfhead

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Harper

An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers

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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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