Стюарт Макбрайд: Now We Are Dead

Susan reared up behind him, holding one of those rusty old golf clubs. Blood ran down from the corner of her mouth, dripped off the end of her chin. ‘I am not frumpy!’ She smashed the club down on Terry’s head with a resounding thungggggg !

His eyes went crossed, then dim, then he pitched forward onto Tufty.

‘Mmmmnph!’ God, he weighed a ton! Tufty hauled a breath in through the gag. Struggled and wiggled... But the fat sod just lay there, pinning him to the carpet. ‘Mnnghfff mnngg mmn!’

But Susan didn’t. Instead she tore her own gag off and turned — squaring up to Eric and his six-inch hunting knife.

She took the club in both hands, feet planted shoulder-width apart, the club’s head resting against the rug. ‘HEY, NUMB NUTS!’

Steel’s eyes went wide. ‘SUSAN, NO! RUN!’

‘Think your wee golf stick’s going to save you and your friends? Nah.’ Eric grinned. Knife shining. Blade snaking back and forth through the air. ‘I’m going to slash your guts open, then I’m going to—’

‘FORE!’ Susan swung back and then forward, fast , twisting her hips into it, the golf club’s head whistling in a low flat arc and up, right between Eric’s legs — THUD — so hard it lifted him up onto his tiptoes.

Oooooooh...

That had to hurt!

Eric’s eyes bugged. Then he dropped the knife and toppled forward, squealing like a pig in a cement mixer. Tears streaming down his face. Mouth moving, but no words coming out.

Susan tossed her golf club on the couch and kicked him. ‘Great Hazlehead Ladies Challenge Cup winner three years in a row , motherfunker!’

Blue-and-white lights strobed out, turning everything into a flickering mess of silhouettes and reflections. Three patrol cars and four ambulances were parked outside Steel’s house, blocking the road, and every single window in the street was ablaze — a knot of people in expensive-looking casual clothes standing on the pavement to watch the show.

Logan pulled into the nearest parking space, two doors down. Stared through the windscreen.

Two stretcher trolleys were being wheeled out of the house, their occupants strapped-down motionless lumps wearing oxygen masks. Paramedics bustled them down the garden path, and into the back of the waiting ambulances.

OK, that wasn’t a good sign.

He clambered out of the Audi and plipped the locks. Hurried up the pavement as the lead ambulance pulled away. Closely followed by the second one. Sirens wailing in the darkness.

‘Excuse me...’ Logan squeezed his way through the clump of people, then flashed his warrant card at the uniformed officer keeping them there. ‘Are they still inside?’

‘Inspector McRae?’ The PC snapped to attention. ‘DI Vine’s SIO, the IB are processing the scene, DC Goodwin’s CSM, and DCI Rutherford’s ETA is twenty-two hundred hours. He’s at some sort of black-tie dinner. Sir.’

‘OK.’ Not really what he’d meant, but never mind.

Logan marched over to the front gate. Shrank back as another stretcher trolley was wheeled out onto the pavement. A fat bald man with tears streaming down his face and a patch of red seeping out through the fly of his trousers. Making high-pitched squealing sobs as he got shoved into the back of Ambulance Number Three. Another wail of sirens.

The blinds were down in Steel’s living room, but the indoor lightning strikes of flash photography lit up the room.

He hurried up the path, then had to step back into the gravel border as a fourth trolley was hefted out through the front door. Didn’t need a Police National Computer check to know who that was.

Jack Wallace groaned behind his oxygen mask, skin pale as paper. he’d been handcuffed, trousers pulled down around his knees, a big wodge of blood-soaked gauze taped over his crotch.

The paramedic at the front shuddered. ‘Oooh, makes you wince just to think, doesn’t it?’

His colleague took up the rear, pushing. ‘Shame we couldn’t find the missing bit...’

Down the path, into the last ambulance, and away.

OK, that was... weird.

Logan crossed the threshold into Steel’s house and there was DC Goodwin, with his floppy hair and squint nose. ‘What do you think you’re doing, this is a crime... Oh.’ He tucked his clipboard under his arm and saluted. ‘Inspector McRae. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Dougie. Is Steel still here?’

‘Yes, Inspector. They’re in the kitchen.’ He pointed down the hall, as if Logan had never been here before. ‘DI Vine’s with them.’

Logan stayed where he was, staring down at Goodwin. ‘And?’

‘Er... DC Quirrel and Steel’s wife’s there too?’

‘No: you’re Crime Scene Manager. You have to make me sign in, remember?’

‘Oh, yes! Right. Signing in.’ He held out the clipboard and a pen. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I just... Sorry.’

Logan filled in his details, then Goodwin flattened himself against the coat rack to let him past.

The flashgun flares clacked out of the open lounge door, reflecting back from the shiny wooden balusters and framed photos. He peered into the room.

Four Identification Bureau techs in the full scene of crime getup were measuring, tagging, and photographing things. Whatever had happened in there it’d been brutal: two smashed chairs, coils of blue nylon rope, blood all over the Persian rug. A six-inch hunting knife sticking out of the floorboards.

Yeah, that didn’t look good.

Well, couldn’t put it off any longer.

Logan straightened his shoulders and marched down the hall. Took a deep breath and pushed through into the kitchen.

Susan was on her hands and knees in front of the fridge, wiping up what looked like a massive bird-strike of yoghurt. Tufty sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, a bag of frozen peas clutched to his head, a massive shiner on his face, a ring of red around his throat, and a ring of bandages around one wrist.

DI Vine stood off to one side, doing his best Stern-Faced Police Officer impersonation. ‘I can’t believe you bit it clean off...’

‘Urgh.’ Steel swigged from a bottle of Smirnoff, gargled, swooshed it around her mouth, then spat it into the sink. ‘Don’t remind me.’ Then tipped back another glug. Glanced at Logan. Spat. ‘You took your time.’

‘Control said Jack Wallace attacked everyone. What happened, are you all OK?’

‘Logan!’ Susan stood. Her lips were swollen, cracked in one corner, the beginnings of a bruise darkening her cheek. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and hugged him. Warm and soft and smelling faintly of peaches.

‘Jasmine and Naomi?’

‘Oh, they’re fine. Slept right through the whole thing.’ One last squeeze and she let him go. Stepped back. ‘Now, how about a nice cup of tea?’

Vine nodded at him. Formal. Wary. ‘Inspector McRae.’

‘John.’

‘Well, I think we’re about done here.’ He turned to Steel. ‘Come down the station tomorrow and we’ll finalise your statements. Then I think you and Constable Quirrel deserve a couple of days off.’ Vine held up a hand. ‘No, don’t thank me. It’s only fair.’ Then turned and stalked from the room.

Steel spat out another mouthful of vodka. Wiped her chin with a hand. ‘Blah, blah, blah. Thought he’d never leave.’

‘Ooh, ooh, ooh!’ Tufty bounced up and down on his stool, peas still clasped to his head. ‘You should’ve seen us, it was great! Jack Wallace tried to stick his willy in the Sarge’s face and she’s like, “No way!” And he’s like, “Here comes the aeroplane!”—’

‘That blow to the head didn’t knock any sense into you then?’

Steel sniffed. ‘I said that.’

‘—and she’s like, “BITE!” And then there’s screaming and Richard’s going to slash her with a Stanley knife and—’