LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

of the rider. And then Logan got a glimpse past the bucking, rearing monster: DI Insch’s Range Rover was nose-down in a ditch, rear wheels spinning. Behind it another horse shifted from hoof to hoof, looking embarrassed while its rider lay flat on her back on the grass verge.

      The sound of raised voices cut through the cold afternoon.

      ‘You stupid – fucking – inconsiderate – fucking …’ it was a woman, dressed in jodhpurs, sweatshirt, and riding hat, covered in mud all down one side of her body. She was beating the living crap out of Wiseman as he tried to crawl away from the crashed Range Rover. ‘Inconsiderate – wanking – bastard!’ Each word punctuated with another blow from her short riding crop. ‘It’s bad enough we’ve got to put up with arseholes like you roaring round the countryside.’ She gave up on the whip and kicked Wiseman in the ribs instead. ‘YOU COULD HAVE KILLED US!’

      Logan took one look at the spinning horse, and decided discretion was the better part of not getting his head staved-in by a flying hoof. He clambered over the nearest gate and hurried through the field. The front end of the Range Rover was a mess: steam billowed out from beneath the bonnet, windscreen shattered, headlights smashed, radiator buckled around a dirty big lump of stone, taking half the barbed-wire fence with it.

      ‘You think there’s no one else on the road? You think you own – the – fucking – road?’

      Logan picked his way through the debris and grabbed her before she could castrate Wiseman with her riding boots. ‘Enough!’

      ‘Did you see what this idiot—’

      ‘Stand over there and calm down!’

      ‘—roaring round the corner in the middle of the road!’

      Logan pulled out his handcuffs and she froze.

      ‘If you touch me, I’ll scream.’

      ‘Oh for God’s sake: I’m a police officer. Now go see if your friend’s OK.’

      Wiseman was curled up on the muddy grass, clutching one arm to his chest – probably broken. His nose certainly was. The butcher’s face was a spider’s web of tiny cuts, little flecks of glass sticking out of his bald head. He screamed in pain as Logan forced him face down and cuffed his hands behind his back.

      ‘Kenneth Wiseman, I’m arresting you for driving without due care and attention… And some other stuff we’ll charge you with when we get you back to the bloody station. On your feet.’

      It took three goes to get Wiseman upright. He might have been built like a rugby fullback, but he didn’t put up a fight, just limped and swore and grimaced and cried as Logan dragged him back to the crashed Range Rover. Where the woman who’d just beaten up Scotland’s most notorious serial killer was bent over her companion, holding her hand and talking softly.

      ‘How is she?’

      The rider lying spread-eagled on the grass raised a shaky thumb.

      ‘I think her leg’s broken. Lucky to be alive, that bloody idiot screaming round the corner in—’

      ‘We’d better get her an ambulance …’ Logan fumbled through his pockets with one hand – looking for his phone – as he pushed Wiseman back against the inspector’s ruined car. The butcher wobbled a bit, then slid down the door panel till he was sitting on the ground looking dazed. Then threw up in his own lap.

      Logan jumped back, trying to escape the rancid splatter. ‘Oh you dirty f …’ There was something in the Range Rover’s boot, partially covered by a dog-hair-encrusted tartan blanket. A pale, white hand poked out from beneath it. ‘No …’

      He ran round to the back and fought with the boot release. Locked.

      ‘Damn it!’ Logan grabbed a chunk of rock from the ground and swung it at the rear windscreen.

      The glass buckled, but didn’t break.

      Again – sending a network of cracks racing across the surface.

      Again – and the lump of stone punched a grapefruit-sized hole, sending little glittering cubes of glass all over the Range Rover’s huge boot. Logan stuck his hand in and fumbled for the catch to lower the tailgate, then jerked the boot lid up and clambered inside.

      ‘Oh God… Sophie …’ Insch’s youngest was lying on her side, partially covered by the tartan dog blanket, hands cabletied behind her back, legs tied at the ankle, silver duct-tape wrapped round her head, covering her mouth. Blood caking her nose. Face pale and waxy. ‘Sophie!’

      Logan ripped the tape off and put his ear to her mouth. She wasn’t breathing. He stuck two fingers against her throat, feeling for a pulse … it was there, but there wasn’t much of it. ‘Don’t you die on me, Sophie!’ He flipped her over onto her back and started breathing for her.

      In – out – in – out – in – out.

      A voice sounded behind him: Faulds, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing leaving Wiseman unsupervised out here? He … oh shit.’

      In – out – in – out.

      Electronic bleeping noises – numbers being punched into a mobile phone. ‘Shut up and listen! I need an ambulance and I need it now!’

      In – out – in – out.

      ‘How the hell am I supposed to know? DS McRae told you where we were, didn’t he?… Yes!’

      In – out – in – out.

      ‘… I don’t care! Get someone out here now – we’ve a little girl who’s not breathing!’

      In – out – in – out.

      Logan felt for a pulse again: it was getting weaker. ‘She’s Insch’s daughter!’

      ‘Oh God … did you hear that?… Yes … yes, OK.’

      In – out – in – out.

      ‘Come on Sophie!’

       24

      An ambulance sat on the gravel outside Insch’s house, its blue lights flickering as a pair of paramedics helped the inspector’s wife into the back. As Logan marched up the drive he could hear them telling her that everything was going to be OK. She didn’t look as if she believed them.

      He took a deep breath, thought about chickening out and leaving this to someone else, then walked into the granite house. The place was a mess – furniture upturned, mirrors and photos smashed, little dots of blood on the oatmeal-coloured carpet. The smell of human waste fighting against a large tub of orange potpourri. Insch was in the kitchen, kneeling in front of the dog basket.

      ‘Sir?’

      ‘Bastard kicked her. She’s fifteen, an old lady … but she went for him.’ He stroked the spaniel’s coat. ‘Poor old thing …’

      ‘Sir, I need to talk to you about—’

      ‘She’s broken inside …’ The inspector glanced up for a moment, puffy eyes glistening with tears in his bruised and battered face. ‘The vet’s on his way. And then she won’t be in pain any more … she’s not …’ He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Wiseman tried to make us think we were eating one of the girls. But it was just pork. Anna and Brigit were tied up in their bedroom the whole time.’

      ‘Sir, I’m—’

      ‘No.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘Don’t say it. I don’t want a death message. You can’t—’

      ‘I’m sorry. The paramedics did everything they could. But Sophie … she was so small and the crash … it …’

      Insch bit his bottom lip, then turned silently and went back to stroking his

Скачать книгу