Spudgun sidled over. ‘We got the call twenty minutes ago, Guv. Your man,’ pointing at Mr Hairy, ‘shoved his way in here, wanged a member of staff,’ pointing at the medical drama bleeding all over itself at the nursing station, ‘marched inthere, and barricaded the door before Security could arrive.’
‘Then why are you not booting the door in?’
The Ward Sister poked Logan again. ‘Because there are fourextremelyvulnerable patients inside, you idiot!’
God’s sake...
‘And has anyone actually triedtalkingto him?’
She threw her hands in the air. ‘No, we didn’t think of that. How verysillyof us.’
‘Won’t talk to anyone but you, Guv.’
‘Me?’Logan pulled his chin in. Violent nutters only ever asked for you by name when everything was about to go horribly wrong. But four vulnerable patients were four vulnerable patients. ‘OK...?’
Deep breath and he parted the thin black-and-fluorescent-yellow line, walking forwards till he was just six feet from the shattered window. That would be far enough, wouldn’t it? In case anything got hurled through the glass?
Inside, Hairy Darryl lowered the chair and blinked at him.
Logan faked a smile. ‘Hey, Darryl. ItisDarryl, isn’t it?’
A nod.
‘Right. From the hotel.’ Looking around. ‘This is all a bit of a mess. Why don’t you come out so we can talk about whatever’s bothering you?’
His voice was muffled by the glass, but clear enough: ‘You were right.’ Wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘It’s what happens when bastards think it’s OK to hate brown people, and Jews, and Muslims, and poofs, and Celtic supporters just cos of who they are, yeah? “You can commit atrocities,” you said, “even kill kids.”’ Then Darryl looked over his shoulder, at the bed in the far corner. ‘Not any more.’
Yeah...That didn’t sound good.
Logan edged closer, and the names written up on the little whiteboard by the door came into focus: ‘1:ALBERTHAMILTON~2:MORRISPEARSON~3:GEORGEMAIR[NBM]~4:SPENCERFINDLATER’.
Sodding hell...
‘Darryl?’ To hell with flying glass. Logan stepped right up to the broken window, peering through the cracked webs. ‘Darryl: what have you done?’
Spencer Findlater lay flat on his back, in the bed furthest from the door. There seemed to be alotof bandages and fibreglass casts keeping his limbs together – so much of it that Spencer might even have looked a little comedic in other circumstances.
He had a pillow draped across his chest and his head tilted back at an unnatural angle. Mouth and eyes wide open.
Not moving.
Not even breathing.
One arm dangled over the edge of the bed, the hand weirdly reminiscent of Adam’s – reaching for God on the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. Only, as Spencer was reachingdownward, probably safe to assume that his appointment was with a slightly more...subterraneandeity.
It was Sergeant Jeff Downie on the custody desk today, with his hooded eyes and ghostly glow. A man who clearly came from a long line of people who believed in never marrying a stranger when a first cousin would do. Or a sibling.
Word was he had webbed feet and double the usual number of toes.
Logan hung back, by the wall, as a couple of burly PCs led Darryl Merickson away to his cell. Quiet as a headstone. As if he was finally at peace with himself.
Tufty signed Downie’s clipboard, acknowledging deposit, then wandered over, hands tucked into the armholes of his stabproof. A frown on his daft wee face ‘Not entirely certain how to feel about that one. I mean, wethinkSpencer Findlater maybe helped burn the hotel down, which makes him a horrible, racist, killing-innocent-people person, plus there’s all the breaking-in and nicking things, but did hedeservewhat he got?’ Making a seesaw gesture with one hand.
‘Murder’s murder.’ Logan made for the stairwell. ‘Doesn’t matter what your motivation is, or what the victim’s done. It’sstillmurder.’
‘True.’ Skipping after him. ‘We can has tenses, now?’
‘Somehow, I’m not in a celebratory mood.’
