The back door’s open, letting sunlight spill into the kitchen.
Come on, Haiden, you can do it.
He hauls himself along the wall.
Closer.
Come on, you’re not a quitter, are you? No. You’re Haiden Bloody Lochhead!
Oh God...
Can’t feel his fingers.
Every breath stinks of raw meat.
Come on, Haiden.
Into the kitchen, inching his way across the grubby cracked lino to the open door. Getting slower with every heave. Heavier. Till he can’t move any more.
Mhari’s there — marching across the patch of grass that separates the cottage from the cliffs. Not huge cliffs, safe enough to play on with your wee brother: soldiers, storming the gun batteries. She looks over her shoulder and waves at him, then disappears, swallowed by the boiling clouds of broom and gorse.
Please don’t leave me...
But she’s gone.
And he’s all alone.
And soon he’ll be dead.
— broken promises, windows, and bones —
39
Logan stared at the dashboard display. ‘She’s his what?’
‘Sister.’ It sounded as if Jeffers was doing his best to sound all authoritative and reliable, but couldn’t pull it off. ‘The woman you know as “Mhari Powell” is Haiden Lochhead’s sister and “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead’s daughter.’
King looked from the display to Logan, mouth hanging open. ‘But... we saw her get into the car with Haiden and snog the arse off him. It was all caught on CCTV. And the visiting room at HMP Grampian. They were all over each other!’
‘We couldn’t get an exact match, because she’s not on the system, but soon as I opened the search up I found the familial ones. You see, I don’t really do DNA, I’m more of a—’
‘Fingerprint man. Yes.’ Logan reached for the button to end the call. ‘Thanks, Jeffers: you did good today.’ He hung up. ‘She’s Haiden’s sister.’
King whistled. ‘Wow. Talk about the family that plays together, lays together, and slays together.’
‘It doesn’t change anything, though.’
‘I mean, everyone knows the PASL, SPLA, SFFRF, and the rest of them were kinda incestuous, but Gaelic Gary’s kids are humping each other? No wonder we never get independence...’ King checked his watch. ‘Backup should be here by now.’ Drummed his fingers on the dashboard. ‘What if we’ve got this wrong?’
‘Then we look like a pair of idiots and the press sink their fangs in our backsides.’ Which was probably going to happen anyway. ‘Besides, where else would Haiden and Mhari be?’
‘Hmmm... How about that painting on Gaelic Gary’s wall? The stone circle. Haiden’s ex said the whole family were obsessed with stone circles.’
Dear Lord, that was stupid.
‘So, what: they’re keeping their victims in abandoned fridge freezers in the middle of a stone circle?’
‘Yeah, now you say it out loud.’ He checked his watch again. ‘Where the hell are our Thugs?’
And, as if by magic, Steel’s MX-5 appeared in the rear-view mirror. Closely followed by a pair of patrol cars — blue-and-whites flickering off as they climbed the hill. No sirens.
‘Ha!’ King faced front again. ‘OK, the cavalry has arrived. Can we go do this now?’
‘With pleasure.’ Logan put the Audi in gear and hared down the track, slithering to a halt on the parched grass in front of the rusty Mini. Scrambled out of the car with King close behind.
He tried the front door: locked.
King stuck his hand out. ‘Keys.’
‘Why would I have keys for their house? Are you—’
‘Car keys! Wheel brace in the boot, remember?’
‘Right.’ He tossed them over and King sprinted back to the Audi, popping the boot as Logan braced himself and slammed his foot into the front door, right beside the lock. The whole thing bounced and shuddered, letting loose an echoing BOOM. But it didn’t fly open.
He had another go.
Answer the phone. Answer the phone. Answer the bloody phone...
Haiden sags against the dirty linoleum. Lying on his side in a slowly expanding puddle of red.
Please, answer the phone...
Please...
Every breath is a short, spiky thing, getting colder with each gurgling lungful.
And then her voice comes from the phone’s speaker. ‘Who is this?’ Cindy.
He tries to tell her, but the only sound that comes out is the crackle of popping blood bubbles.
‘Oh very, funny. A dirty phone call with heavy breathing. Well you can take your pitiful little cock and shove it right up your—’
‘Cindy.’ Forcing the word out. ‘Cindy it’s... it’s me.’
‘Haiden.’ She says his name with all the warmth of a frozen turd. ‘What have I told you about calling me?’
A muffled boom comes from somewhere round the front of the house, but it’s too late to worry about that now. Far too late. For everything.
‘Is... is Marty... there?’
‘You threw away your visiting rights when you started seeing that Mhari bitch. You threw them away when you got arrested again!’
Tears fill his eyes, making the kitchen blur. ‘Cindy... Cindy, please.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ A sniff. ‘You know what? I don’t care. You can cry and beg and whine all you want: you’re not going to infect my son with your lies and failure and garbage.’
Another boom.
The phone slithers out of his hand, clunks onto the blood-slicked linoleum beside his head. Can’t pick it up again — his hands don’t work any more. Nothing does.
‘Please... please, Cindy...’
Her voice is faint, but still there, sneering out of the phone’s speaker ‘You’re weak. You’ve always been weak. You’re pathetic. Enjoy France, you useless bastard.’
‘Tell Marty... tell Marty... I love...’
The screen flashes ‘CALL ENDED’ at him. She’s hung up.
Hot tears roll down Haiden’s cheek, the word barely a whisper: ‘Him.’
Another boom from the front of the house, this one ringed with splintering woody noises.
Maybe it’s time? Yeah. Maybe it’s...
The frame finally gave way and the door bounced off its hinges, tumbling down into the hallway.
Logan stepped aside and King rushed the entrance, wheel brace held up, over his shoulder, as if it was an extendable baton. Ready to crack someone.
He followed, pushing through a tiny porch into a hallway-cum-living-room with tired green wallpaper and an exhausted brown couch. A saltire flag pinned up above the fireplace, a rampant lion on the wall opposite. No TV. A bookcase full of Oor Wullie and The Broons annuals. And a thick line of dark red along the carpet by the wall, emerging from the open bedroom door and disappearing into the open kitchen one.
That was a lot of blood.
King did a quick three-sixty, checking the living room. ‘Clear!’
Logan checked the bedroom — old-fashioned and dear God that was a huge puddle of blood by the window. He ducked down and checked under the bed. No one there. ‘Clear!’
‘Logan!’ King’s voice. ‘Logan it’s Haiden Lochhead! He’s been stabbed. Jesus...’