Had to admit, he had a point.
‘Yeah: I suppose you’re notthatbad a sidekick. Now sod off; I’ve got crap to finish before I go home.’ Logan hung up and sagged a little more.
Down in the custody suite, the fabled nun performed a very unwise sexual act with a penguin and a bicycle pump – all belted out in a wobbly baritone.
Then Logan’s phone joined in with ading-buzzon the chorus.
SWEENY:
Where are you?
Press briefing is in 15 minutes!!!
Are you trying to give me a heart attack!?!?!
He let his headthunkback against the breeze blocks. ‘Come on, Logan, only five more years till you can retire...’
LXVI
Using the screwdriver as an icepick to chip away at the concrete was every bit as laborious and frustrating as battering it with the sledgehammer. Only slightly less exhausting. And even less efficient.
But all this buggering about, in the broiling heat, sweating, and struggling, and worrying, and not having anything to drink for...two days? Three? With nothing but a small bottle of spat-in water, made the whole world thrummmm...
Dehydration.
That would be why her head hurt so much, while her arms had turned into two blocks of solid lead, her legs to overcooked spaghetti, and her tongue was made of burning parchment.
And thisshitwasn’t helping.
Natasha straightened up – back howling in protest – groaned out a gritty wheeze, and dumped the screwdriver on the workbench. Flexing her aching hand.
How long were the shifts police officers did? Eight hours? Or was it twelve, like offshore workers? Either way: the longer she wanked about with this bloody anchor, the sooner Detective Sergeant Davis would rock-up home, bringing his hate and his rage and his digger keys with him.
Time to go.
But shewasn’tleaving the barn empty handed.
The Stanley knife sat on the workbench, next to the bent screwdriver. She forced the blade back in. Then...
Well, she could hardly stick it in herpocket, could she.
And she’d need both hands free to roll the anchor – which had to be easier and quicker than shoving the thing with one foot.
And her pants had been chosen for their might-get-luckiness, rather than their ability to securely hold DIY equipment.
Which left her bra.
The furry metal washorribleagainst her skin – like tinfoil on a filling – but Natasha wedged the Stanley knife into the side of her left cup. Shoving it down till the elasticated lace had a good grip on the rough casing.
Not ideal, but it was that or leave her only weapon behind.
She gritted her teeth and heaved the galvanised bin over onto its side again. It hit the floor with abang, and a chunk of concrete the size of a bowling ball clattered free – coming to rest by the table saw.
Ripper.
She peered inside, but the chain was still firmly held in place. Because no way she could be that lucky today.
Just had to hope there were keys to the padlock at the back of her neck waiting for her in the caravan. Assuming she could get into the bastard.
