Oh yeah.
Andrew threw his head back and howled at the moon.
Out in the field, the fox hunkered down, disappearing into the barley, then sprinted away, leaving the stalks shivering in its wake.
DS Davis was nowofficiallyscrewed, and soon as Andrew had finished bleeding him dry, he’d turn the bastard in – cos the cops couldn’t cover for him with the whole thing on video.
Or even better: bleed Davis dry, then sell the film to the papers. Get one last payday. And then the cops wouldn’t have a choice. No way they could cover this up with Davis’s face splashed all over theDaily Mail, orThe Sun.
Ha!
Turned out Andrew’s visit to Natasha’s house hadn’t been such a disaster after all...
— do not feed the seagulls —
13
Something went‘Gnnnnnnnnnnnnn!’...‘Gnnnnnnnnnnnnn!’in the darkness. Then David Bowie barged into Logan’s bedroom and tried to radio an astronaut.
Urgh...
Logan cracked open one eye and squinted up at the ceiling. Blinked a few times. Smacked his lips, because apparently the Jobbie Fairy had paid his mouth a visit sometime during the night. Shame it hadn’t tidied up before leaving, because the room was a bit of a mess: hardback books piled up by the chest of drawers, clothes piled up on the wicker chair in the corner, shoeboxes and assorted gubbins piled up on top of the freestanding wardrobes, and seventy-five percent of the duvet piled up on top of Tara. Because she was a thieving sod.
Leaving all of Logan’s naked bits on show.
The curtains were drawn, but bright light spilled in around the edges, making the walls glow a cheery yellow.
And still ‘Space Oddity’ wibbled on.
God’s sake.
Logan’s hand quested across his bedside cabinet, past the lamp and the alarm-clock radio, to grab the mobile phone making all the racket. Stabbing the button with his thumb.‘What?’
Silence.
Then a wee whispery voice:‘Sarge? It’s Tufty. Erm...Where are you?’
‘About to jam a cactus up your Large Hadron Collider!’ Glowering at the clock. ‘It’s five past seven!’
‘Yeah. And Morning Prayers start at seven, and you’re—’
‘Having a long lie!’
At which point, Tara rolled over, peering out from Fort Duvet, nose all wrinkled, mouth pinched tight, hair frizzing every-which-way like a ruptured gonk. ‘Don’t make mekillsomeone!’
‘It’s bloody Tufty.’ Back to the phone. ‘What – do – you –want?’
‘Only DCI Rutherford’s a no-show and we’re all kinda twiddling our thumbs, wondering what we’re meant to do today. You know: Operation Iowa?’
Wonderful.
No prizes for guessing why Rutherford hadn’t turned up this morning. After all that coughing yesterday? The bugger was off sick.
‘I thought maybe The Princess Of Darkness would take charge, but she does has a feet up on the table and reading the paper. Oh and a scratching under the bra.’
Logan scrunched his eyes shut again. ‘Who else is there?’
‘We’ve got Harmsworth, and Lund, and Barrett, and—’
