Cold Granite Part 41

With a snarl WPC Watson kicked her legs into the air, rocking back on her arms, arching her back so she was nearly upside-down.

Martin's face came up, the song dying on his lips as she pushed her knees as far apart as she could and lunged for his head. He didn't have time to move before she'd wrapped her legs around his neck and was squeezing for all she was worth.

Terror stretched Martin Strichen's face wide, making his eyes bulge with horror. Watson struggled to get her ankles locked left over right to get more leverage so that she could crush his windpipe.

Strichen's hands were all tangled up in his makeshift garrotte. His hands battered ineffectually at her thighs.

With a triumphant grunt, Watson managed to get her ankles into position. Now she could throw her full weight into it, watching with grim satisfaction as Martin's face started to go purple. She wasn't going to stop until the sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d was dead.

Panicking now, Martin flapped his hands free of the electrical cable, punching and scratching at anything he could reach. Pounding his fists into her abdomen.

Pain exploding through her stomach, Watson closed her eyes and kept on squeezing.

Martin sank his teeth into her thigh, just above the knee. He bit down with all his might, tasting blood, shaking his head, trying to tear off a chunk of flesh.

She screamed behind her gag, and Martin bit down again, still punching and scratching. A fist slammed into her kidneys, and Jackie went limp.

Martin was out of the leg-lock in seconds, scrabbling backwards, only stopping when he banged into the far corner of the cabin. Blood was trickling down his chin, his hands ma.s.saging his throat, fighting for breath. 'You're... You're just like all the rest!' he shouted, his voice hoa.r.s.e and raw.

Jamie McCreath started to bawl, a high-pitched, screeching sound that echoed off the bare concrete walls.

'Shut up!' Martin staggered to his feet and grabbed the boy by the upper arms, hauling him off the floor. 'Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!'

But this only made the child scream louder.

Snarling, Martin backhanded him, the slap hard and stinging, splitting the child's lip and b.l.o.o.d.ying his nose.

Silence followed.

'Oh G.o.d... Oh G.o.d, no...' Martin dropped the child to the floor, his face horrified.

He stared at the sniffing, terrified little boy, working his hands round and round, trying to wring the sting of the slap away.

'I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-' He reached forward but Jamie McCreath, eyes like dinner plates, flinched back, covering his face with his mittened hands.

Strichen glowered at WPC Watson in the weak torchlight. She lay on her side, panting through the gag, blood running scarlet from the bites in her legs.

'This is all your fault!' He spat the taste of her blood out onto the concrete floor. 'You made me hurt him!'

A boot slammed into Jackie's stomach, lifting her off the floor. She choked back a scream as fire lanced through her belly.

'You're just like all the rest!'

Another boot, this time to the ribs.

Martin was screaming now. 'It was all going to be OK! You ruined it!'

The door exploded open.

Logan charged into the gloomy cabin. In the pale light of a dropped torch he saw everything: WPC Watson half-naked, lying on her side, eyes closed in pain; Jamie McCreath scrabbling backwards, blood on his face; Martin Strichen pulling back his boot for another kick.

Strichen froze, turning just as Logan smashed into him, sending them both crashing into the far wall. A fist glanced off the side of Logan's head, a high-pitched whine rattling his ears. Not interested in a fair fight, Logan went straight for the groin: hammering his fist into Martin Strichen's crotch.

The large-boned man gasped and staggered back, one hand grabbing his genitals, his face going ashen-grey. Lurching, he vomited all over himself.

Logan didn't wait for him to stop, just grabbed the hair on the back of Strichen's head and ran him into the concrete wall. Martin's head hit with a dull clunk, the impact hard enough to make the mildewed girlie calendar bounce off its nail. He staggered back, blood streaming down his face and Logan made a grab for his arm, twisting it up behind his back.

A huge, bony elbow lashed out, catching Logan just under the ribs, sending pain scouring through his scarred stomach. Hissing in agony, he crumpled to the floor.

Strichen wobbled in the middle of the cabin floor. Grunting, he wiped the blood from his face. Then, with a lunge he grabbed up Jamie McCreath by the front of his snowsuit with one hand, the holdall with the other, and ran out into the snow.

Logan pulled himself to his knees. He stayed there for a moment, panting, trying to keep his insides from falling out. At last he managed to get to his feet and lurch for the door.

He stopped at the threshold. There was no way he could leave Watson like that. He stumbled back to where she lay, spotlighted by the fallen torch. Angry red weals were blossoming on her stomach and upper legs and a pair of bite-marks bleeding freely onto the concrete floor. He could feel ribs shifting beneath the skin as he untied her hands and helped her to sit up.

'Are you OK?' he asked, removing the gag. It left angry, deep, scarlet marks around her mouth.

She spat a wad of wet rag onto the floor and coughed, causing her face to crease up in pain. She clasped at her broken ribs. 'Go!' she hissed. 'Get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d...'

Logan draped his overcoat across her naked shoulders and staggered out the cabin door into the snow.

Torches were bobbing all around the quarry's rim and the sound of dogs barking echoed against the manmade cliffs. More torches to the south were closing in, their beams making the falling snow glow as if it was on fire.

A silhouette slid to a halt, less than two hundred feet away.

Strichen.

He twisted round, fumbling with the wriggling child, as he looked for somewhere to run, his face illuminated by the weaving torchlight.

'Come on, Martin,' said Logan, limping through the snow towards him, one hand clutched over his burning innards. 'It's over. You've got nowhere to run. Your picture's everywhere, everyone knows your name. It's finished.'

The figure spun around again, face wide with fear. 'No!' he wailed, desperately seeking a way out. 'No! They'll send me to prison!'

Logan thought that was pretty b.l.o.o.d.y obvious and he said so. 'You killed children, Martin. You killed them and you abused them. You mutilated their bodies. Where did you think you were going to go? Holiday camp?'

'They'll hurt me!' Strichen was crying now, his sobs puffs of white cloud in the darkness. 'Like he did. Like Cleaver!'

'Come on, Martin, it's over...'

Little Jamie McCreath squirmed and kicked, screaming at the top of his lungs. Strichen dropped the holdall to get a better grip on him, but Jamie McCreath slipped out of his hands, falling to the snow.

Logan lurched forward.

Strichen pulled a knife.

Logan staggered to a halt. The blade sparkled in the dark night, and something constricted around Logan's bowels.

'I won't go to prison!' Martin was screaming now, eyes flickering between Logan and the approaching cordon of police.

Unnoticed, Jamie McCreath crept to his feet and ran.

'NO!' Martin swung around to see the toddler charge off through the snow as fast as his little legs would go. Only Jamie wasn't running towards the police flashlights. The sound of barking dogs. He was heading straight for the quarry.

Martin leapt after him, the blade flashing in his hand, shouting, 'Come back! It's not safe!'

Jaw clenched against the pain, Logan followed, but he had a lot of ground to make up.

A hidden dip in the ground swallowed Strichen's foot and he went down, sprawling on his face in the snow. He was up again in an instant, but Jamie was well ahead, running deeper into the granite bowl of the quarry. Towards the black lake. Suddenly the little boy slithered to a halt. He'd gone as far as he could. There was nothing but cold, dark water ahead. He turned back, his face terrified.

'It's not safe!' Martin ran after him.

But Martin Strichen weighed a lot more than a small child. The ice that supported Jamie's weight wasn't up to Strichen's fifteen stone. A gunshot crack boomed out into the quarry. The larger man slid to a halt, arms spread wide, not moving. Another crack, louder this time, and he shrieked.

Twelve feet away, Jamie watched him with frightened eyes.

The ice gave way with a roar, a hole the size of a transit van opening up beneath his feet, and Martin Strichen was gone. Straight down. The black water swallowing his scream.

On the other side of the hole, Jamie crept forward and peered down into the inky darkness.

Martin didn't come up again.

39.

Logan stood in the softly falling snow, watching the ambulance's lights flickering away into the distance. They'd taken Watson away: concussion, hypothermia, some nasty bruises and a couple of cracked ribs. She'd get a teta.n.u.s jab for the bites. Nothing to worry about, said the paramedic. Not when you thought about what could have happened...

Logan clambered into the pool car he'd liberated from the FHQ car park, turned the engine over and the heaters up full pelt. He let his head sink forward onto the steering wheel and groaned. WPC Jackie Watson and Jamie McCreath were on their way to hospital and the b.a.s.t.a.r.d Simon Rennie was already there. But Martin Strichen was dead and so was his mother.

He looked up just in time to see an expensive car pull in. Two long, elegantly-clad legs swung out of the driver's seat and into the snow. The pathologist was here. Logan felt his heart sink even further.

Isobel MacAlister was dressed in some sort of Bond-Girl winter outfit, all camelskin and fur. And the worst thing was, it suited her.

Working a stray hair back under her fur hat she popped the boot and pulled out her medical bag.

Isobel and Miller Up a tree K.I.S.S.I.N.G...

If he went to Professional Standards first thing tomorrow morning, the ginger-haired, sour-faced Inspector Napier would have her frogmarched out of the building quicker than you could say 'gross misconduct'. At least it would get Napier off his back.

Logan stared morosely at the Strichen house. She'd be ruined. No police force in the country would touch Isobel with a bargepole. Unemployable. What was it Miller had said? She just needed someone to share her day with... Someone to be there for her... Just as Logan had been there for her. Once upon a time, in the bad old days.

And now the only way Logan would ever feel the touch of her cool hands again would be when he was lying on his back in the morgue. With a tag on his toe.

'Great,' he told himself as the windscreen finally cleared. 'Good image. Very healthy...' Sighing, he pulled the car away from the kerb.

The city was quiet as he slid the vehicle across North Anderson Drive. Only taxis and eighteen-wheelers were out, cutting parallel black ribbons in the snow-covered roads. The wake from their wheels arcing sprays of slush and melt-water were turned into golden fireworks by Logan's headlights.

The car's police radio crackled and bawled almost continuously: news was travelling fast. Strichen was dead! The kid was alive! Watson had been in her bra and pants!

Snarling, he twisted it off. Only the silence was worse than the noise. Silence encouraged the 'what-ifs' to rattle around his head.

What if he'd gone left instead of right? What if he'd turned up five minutes later? What if he hadn't frozen when Martin Strichen pulled out the knife? What if he'd got to him in time... Determined not to think about it, Logan clicked on the other radio, spinning the dial until the dulcet tones of a Northsound DJ boomed out of the speakers. It was a small sign that the world was still where it should be.

Tapping his fingers to the music, he felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders. Maybe things had turned out OK. Maybe Martin was better off dead. It was probably better than being banged up in Peterhead Prison, where every third inmate was another Gerald Cleaver.

But Logan knew he was going to have nightmares.

He slipped the car off the drive and cut through the north side of town, where there was nothing on the roads but him, the snow, and globes of streetlight. The music on the radio drifted off into silence. After a pause of about ten seconds, followed by a giggling apology, came the news. They were still putting out Martin Strichen's description, still telling everyone to be on the lookout. Even though he was dead.

By the time Logan got back to Queen Street the clock was wending its merry way towards half-past ten. He abandoned the car around the back and slouched his way into Force Headquarters, wondering where everyone had got to. The building was as silent as the grave. Very appropriate.

Give it a half hour. Then he'd call the hospital and find out how WPC Watson was getting on. First he'd get some coffee. Tea. Anything, just as long as it was warm. He was halfway across main reception when someone shouted at him.

'Lazarus!'

It was Big Gary, spraying little bits of Tunnocks Tasty Caramel Wafer over the front desk. His grin was wide enough to fit a coat hanger sideways.

His companion's head snapped up, the telephone pressed to his ear. He grinned too, giving Logan an enthusiastic thumbs-up through the gla.s.s. Big Gary barged through the side door and embraced Logan in a bear hug. 'You wee darling!'

Nice though a bit of recognition was, it made Logan's heavily-scarred stomach scream. 'Enough! Enough!'

Big Gary released him and stepped back with a paternal smile of pride. It disappeared when he saw the pain on Logan's face. 'G.o.d, I'm sorry! Are you OK?'

Logan waved him away, gritting his teeth, trying to breathe slowly, just as they'd taught him at the Pain Clinic. In and out. In and out...

'You're a b.l.o.o.d.y hero, Lazarus,' said Gary. 'Isn't he, Eric?'

The desk sergeant, now free of the phone, agreed that yes, Logan was indeed a hero.

'Where is everyone?' asked Logan, changing the subject as quickly as he could.

'Next door.' Meaning the pub. 'Chief Constable's buying. We've been trying to get you on the radio for ages!'

'Oh...' He smiled rather than tell him he'd switched the d.a.m.n thing off.

'Better get over there, Lazarus, my man,' said Big Gary, once more looking as if he might engulf Logan in another rib-cracking, stomach-tearing hug.

Backing away, Logan agreed that he would.

Archibald Simpson's was noisy for a Wednesday night. Everywhere Logan looked there were police men and women drinking their own bodyweight in alcohol. The mood was festive, like New Year's Eve, except that no one was fighting.

As soon as someone recognized Logan the shout went up and rapidly turned into a football-terrace version of 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow'. Endless hands slapped him on the back, drinks were pressed on him, people shook his hand, or kissed him, depending on how they were feeling at the time.