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ARREST!’
    ‘Fucking police bastards!’ The woman crawled upright, eyes thin slits, graveyard teeth bared, a smear of blood from her cracked lips. Then she charged, head down, like a greasy battering ram.
    Logan lurched out of the way … or tried to.
    She slammed into his stomach. Pain ripped across his scars, digging deep into his guts, tearing all the breath from his throat as they thudded into the bedroom wall, then down to the carpet. All he could do was curl up around the fire and try not to throw up. Barely feeling the harsh nip of her teeth sinking into his arm through his suit jacket. The dull thunk of her forehead battering into his right ear.
    And then she was gone. Screaming. ‘Let me go you bastard! Let me fucking go! RAPE! Fucking … RAPE!’
    Logan peeled open one watering eye to see her a foot-anda-half off the ground, legs flailing about. Archie was standing behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, holding her up.
    ‘Calm down!’
    ‘RAPE! RAPE!’
    And all the way through it, the kid kept on screaming.

Chapter 6
    ‘How’s the balls?’ PC Ferguson handed Logan another packet of frozen chips from the gurgling freezer. The kitchen reeked of cannabis and stale fat, the extractor hood above the cooker covered in a dark-brown greasy film.
    Leaning back against the working surface, Logan pressed the bag of frozen chips against his aching stomach. ‘You found him yet?’
    ‘We should maybe take you to the hospital?’
    ‘Greg: have – you – found – him?’
    The constable pinched his face into a painful chicken’s bum. ‘Well, there’s a funny story, and—’
    ‘You let him get away, didn’t you?’
    ‘It wasn’t—’
    ‘Why the hell didn’t you have anyone watching the back? I told you to get someone watching the back!’
    ‘But it—’
    ‘For God’s sake, Greg, did you sleep through the bloody risk assessment and planning meeting? Two out front, two out back to catch any runaways!’
    PC Greg Ferguson stared at his shoes. ‘Sorry, Guv. It all kinda got away from me. A bit…’
    ‘A bit ? He was handcuffed to a bloody whirly!’
    ‘It’s just … I’ve been having a tough time at home, with wee Georgie ill and Liz on the tablets, and her mum moving in … and I can’t…’ He ran a finger around the collar of his black fleecy top. ‘I can’t go up in front of the rubber-heelers again. Bain’s thinking about making us up to sergeant, and we could really do with the extra dosh…’
    Logan slumped back, stared up at a strange brown stain on the ceiling. ‘Way I see it we’ve got three options. One: I dob you in.’
    ‘Please, Sarge, you—’
    ‘Two: I take the heat and let Professional Standards tear me a new one.’
    Ferguson broke out a thin smile. ‘Would you really do that for—’
    ‘No I bloody wouldn’t. Three: we come up with some sort of cover story…’ Logan straightened.
    Ellen, the officer who’d given everyone a leg-up through the lounge window, lurched into the kitchen, face all pink and glistening. She puffed and panted her way across to the sink, set the cold tap running, and stuck her head under the stream of water. ‘Bloody hell…’
    Ferguson licked his teeth. ‘Did you…?’
    She turned, dripping all over the kitchen floor. ‘They should rope … rope him in … for the 2012 Olympics. If the bugger can … can run that fast handcuffed … to a rotary drier … he’ll walk the five hundred metres…’ She stuck her head back under the tap again. ‘Swear I watched him hurdle a … six foot fence like it … like it wasn’t even there.’
    ‘Oh God…’ Ferguson covered his face with a hand. ‘I’m screwed.’
    ‘Ellen?’ Logan fidgeted with the bag of frozen chips. ‘I think Greg here wants to ask you a favour.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Just make sure the pair of you’ve got your stories straight for Professional Standards, OK?’
    A knock at the kitchen door.
    It was Guthrie, clutching an assortment of white paper bags,