Grabbing her face in one hand, he twisted her head around, sneering as he slipped a tiny key into the padlock on her leather mask.
Click.
He pulled the lock free and undid the zip.
Natasha hauled in a great gulp of fresh air.
But Davis didn’t let go of her face. Squeezing. Digging his fingers in. ‘You can have your water; don’t want you to die too quickly.’ Running the torchlight over her half-naked skin. ‘See all those teeny-tiny pale little flecks, like grass seed? They’re fly eggs. Give it two days and they’ll hatch. Hundreds of lovely maggots to eat your rancid flesh.’ A grin. ‘You’ll want to stick around for that.’
He gathered up the laptop and the whisky.
‘Makeonesound, Bitch, and the padlock goes back on. Andstayson.’ DS Davis toasted her with the bottle, then took a deep swig. Hissing out fumes, before scuffing his way from the room. ‘Sleep tight!’
Soon as the squealing door rattled shut, Natasha opened the water and trembled the bottle to her lips.
Spit or not, it was sweet as nectar.
She allowed herself two mouthfulsonly, before screwing the top back on. Nice though it’d be to neck the whole bloody lot, God knew when she’d get any more.
And meantime: she had an escape to plan.
— dig a deeper grave —
43
The big fish turned around in the bathtub and looked Logan right in the eye. ‘YOUneedTOdoSOMETHINGaboutTHESEsausages.THEY’REeatingALLtheCARPETinTHElivingROOM,and—’
Three loud knocks battered at the walls of the world.
‘Gnnnnphffff...?’ Logan jerked awake. Blinking.
Where the living...
Car.
He was in the pool car; passenger seat fully reclined.
And Sergeant Brookminster was peering in through the window at him, one eyebrow raised.
Logan scrubbed his hands across his face and sat upright, pulling the lever so the seat joined him. Then opened the car door.
Brookminster nodded. ‘Chief Inspector.’
‘Sergeant.’ A yawn popped and crackled free. ‘What time is...’ Squinting at the dashboard clock – 06:41. ‘Sod.’ He climbed out of the car.
The sun continued its relentless climb up the crystal-blue sky, blanketing the land in another layer of dusty heat.
Colin Miller’s red beamer had disappeared from the driveway outside Natasha Agapova’s house, replaced by another patrol car and a Mercedes Benz, black as an undertaker’s hearse.
Well, of course it was, how else would Brookminster get here? And where there was a Brookminster, Chief Superintendent Pine was never far away.
Logan straightened his rumpled black Police Scotland T-shirt. Then turned. ‘Boss.’
She’d been standingrightbehind him, in the full uniform, be-leafed peaked cap on her head, hands clasped, eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you still here?’
He popped his neck. ‘Supervising the search of the property, Boss. And our victim’s husband lives in Knightsbridge, so I’ve spent half the night “liaising” with the Metropolitan Police, trying to get them to send someone round to his place. And you know what a productiontheymake of everything.’ Another yawn shuddered through. ‘Went to do some emails in the car, round about sun-up and...’ He drooped. ‘Next thing I know – here we are.’
A whole two hours’ sleep, after a twenty-one-hour shift.
