Stuart MacBride - In the Cold Dark Ground

It was crowded with bodies in riot gear and the sound of elbow pads thumping off the walls. Then swearing as something kicked off at the front of the line.

‘GET THAT BLOODY DOG!’

‘AAAAAARGH!’

‘SHE’S GOT A KNIFE!’

Screw this.

Logan forced his way past Tufty, and out the front door. Grabbed Isla by the stabproof vest. ‘You, with me!’ He pounded down the pavement and skittered around the side of the terrace, nearly losing his footing on the sleet-crusted paving slabs.

There — an eight-foot wall with a wheelie bin in front of it.

He scrambled up and over, tumbled down the other side and crashed into a deformed snowman, knocking its head off. Got to his feet as Isla clattered down into the dark beside him, flat on her back.

‘Aaagh...’ Flailing arms and limbs.

Logan ran for the adjoining wall between this garden and the one next door.

‘It’s OK, I’m fine, I’m fine...’

Over the wall.

He landed and a security light blared on, illuminating a swing set and a shed.

One more to go.

He fought his way over a wooden fence and into Ricky Welsh’s back garden about two seconds before the kitchen door battered off its hinges. Someone in riot gear crashed out backwards, wrestling with a Saint Bernard the size of a hairy Godzilla. They rolled into the rectangle of yellow light cast through the kitchen window.

It was Claire, the huge woman from the Operational Support Unit, her mouth wide open in a snarling scream as the dog tried to take her head off.

Teeth flashed, saliva spattering her faceguard, huge paws pressing her into the lawn. Claire’s hands jabbed out, wrapping around the Saint Bernard’s throat, elbows locked, holding it back. ‘AAAAAAARGH! GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF!’

Ricky Welsh burst from the ruined doorframe, hurdled both dog and officer, and sprinted for the back wall — a six-foot-tall stretch of granite and crumbling harling topped with six inches of snow and ice.

Logan fumbled in his stabproof’s pocket for the tin of Bite Back. Pulled it out and sprayed half the can at the St Bernard’s muzzle. It blinked and made whimpery mewling noises. Backed away, shaking its head. Confused and disorientated.

Now, everything stank of cloves.

Isla thumped into the garden, landing on her feet this time.

Then the Dog Officer and her Alsatian exploded out of the kitchen, the big dog barking on the end of its lead.

Logan pointed at the back wall. No sign of Ricky Welsh. ‘That way!’

The Dog Officer battered past, going the long way around to keep her Alsatian away from the dissipating cloud of Bite Back. Over the wall. And away.

He sprinted after them, breath burning in his lungs. Sweat made tiny rivers down his back, between the shoulder blades, as he clambered up the wall. He paused at the top, one leg hooked over the other side.

Isla scrambled up beside him. ‘Where is he?’

Ricky Welsh had cleared the garden it backed on to, making for a break between two of the houses. One more fence and he’d be out.

Then the Dog Officer released the hounds. Well, hound.

Her Alsatian raced free of its leash and cleared the wall Ricky had just clambered over in a single leap. Crossed the lawn in a couple of bounds. Then lunged for Ricky’s flailing legs.

Its teeth snapped shut on an ankle.

Ricky screamed.

Isla cheered.

He tumbled backwards into the snow and curled into a ball, with his arms crossed over his face, flinching at every bark of the big dog.

The officer caught up with her Alsatian, shoved Ricky Welsh over onto his front and cuffed him. Then looked up, grinned, and gave them two thumbs.

Result.

It was about time something went right for a change.

Logan walked through the shattered doorway into Ricky Welsh’s kitchen. Not exactly the tidiest in the world. Certainly not now anyway.

He stepped over the battered remains of a chair. ‘You OK?’

‘Urgh...’ Claire, from the OSU, was hunched over the sink, splashing water on her face. ‘Covered in Saint Bernard dribble. How can one dog produce so much slobber?’

‘Told you it was huge.’

She raised her dripping face. ‘Thanks for spraying Cujo, Sarge.’

‘Nah.’ He left her to it and picked his way through the shattered remains of a small kitchen table and out into the hall. Muffled voices came from somewhere above his head. Lots of grunts and hissing. The occasional thump. Someone swearing.

The stairway was as narrow as the corridor. It doglegged around, emerging in what had to be an attic conversion. In the gap between two rooms, three officers in their riot gear were pinning a woman to the ground. Barely holding her in place. They piled on her back and legs, forcing her into the shabby carpet.

Laura Welsh was big, thickset. Ginger curls covered her face as she hissed and wriggled. Three small red hearts were tattooed between the knuckles of her right hand, stretched tight across her clenched fist.

The Chief Inspector from Elgin had his knee on her shoulder, jamming Laura’s other wrist against the floor with both hands. ‘I’m not telling you again — calm down!’

Nicholson lay across Laura’s legs. She grinned up at Logan. ‘I love knocking on doors.’

More wriggling.

The guy at the head of the piley-on scowled. ‘You’re not helping, Constable.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’

Logan whipped out his limb restraints and helped Nicholson secure Laura’s legs — one set binding her knees together, the other her ankles. Then he stood back as the others finally managed to get her hands cuffed behind her back. ‘Everyone OK? Anyone hurt?’

A flash of freckled skin, green eyes bulging, teeth bared, lipstick smeared. ‘I’LL KILL THE LOT OF YOU!’

The Chief Inspector flipped up the visor on his crash helmet, exposing a chubby face with a squint nose. ‘Are you honestly trying to make things worse for yourself, Mrs Welsh? Because threatening to kill four police officers isn’t going to look good when they haul you up in court.’

‘GAH!’ Then she pulled her head back and slammed it into the dirty carpet. Lay there, face against the floor, hissing breath in and out through her teeth.

‘There we go.’

Through the open door, behind Chief Inspector Chunky, lay a small bedroom. It was a shambles of clothes and cardboard boxes. Narveer sat on the edge of the bed with his head thrown back, one hand holding onto his turban, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. Blood made a bandit mask across the lower half of his face.

Logan poked his head into the room. ‘You OK?’

‘No.’ The word all bunged up and growly.

He wasn’t the only one in there — two of the Elgin officers were snapping the cuffs on a pair of men who were doing a lot more cooperating than Laura Welsh.

The bigger of the pair wore skinny jeans and a couple of hoodies, a blue one on over a red one. His hair was shorn at the sides and quiffed sideways in the middle. It went with the neck beard and horn-rimmed glasses.

Mr Hipster’s friend had a granddad shirt, braces, and a brown waistcoat — as if he was auditioning for a Mumford and Sons cover band. He even had the 1940s haircut.

Logan nodded at them. ‘Names?’

Mr Hipster licked his lips. ‘I know how this looks, but we were just...’

Mr Mumford blinked at his friend. ‘Yeah... there was... an advert in the paper for a mountain bike? We, erm, came round to see if it was any good.’

‘You know, to buy it and that?’

‘Mountain bike.’ Mr Mumford jerked his eyes towards the landing and lowered his voice. ‘No idea what’s going on here, but really don’t need a mountain bike that badly.’

‘Yeah, so if we could, you know, head off? That’d be cool.’