Logan lowered himself into the chair Robertson had vacated. ‘I have some bad news.’
‘Noooooo...’ Hardie buried his head in his hands. ‘Of course you do.’
Tttttpt. Another clipped nail. ‘Told you: never rains, but it pours.’
‘DS Lorna Chalmers. Professor McAllister thinks she might not have hanged herself after all. She might have been murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Hardie peered out from behind his fingers. ‘Kim, did he say “murdered”?’
‘He said “murdered”.’ Another nail.
Logan held his hand up. ‘Possibly.’
Hardie looked as if he was melting. ‘But murdered?’
‘You might want to put a Major Investigation Team together.’
‘Murdered...’ He slumped forwards, keeping going till his forehead thumped into the desktop. ‘Murdered.’ He raised his head an inch, then banged it down again. ‘Murdered.’ Bang. ‘Murdered...’
‘Sorry.’
Logan parked on his driveway, in front of his skip, in front of his house — at — sodding — last. Then groaned and sagged in his seat for a moment.
According to the dashboard clock, it’d gone ten to nine. And he’d promised Tara he’d be home ASAP what, two hours ago? Oh yeah, he was dead. Bloody Roberta Bloody Steel had managed to kill the only good thing that had happened since... No idea. But it was a long time ago.
He climbed out, locked the car, and let himself into the house.
Clunked the front door shut behind him.
Then froze.
Stared at the hallway walls.
Dinosaurs and pirates and unicorns and zombies snaked across the plasterwork — from about waist-height down — kids’ graffiti in lurid shades of crayon and marker pen.
How...? What...?
He draped his Police Scotland fleece over the end of the stairs and stood there, looking up into the gloom of the floor above. ‘Hello?’
The only sound oozed out from the living room.
A full-fat American accent with a side-order of cheese: ‘Damn it, Poindexter, I’ll kick your ass if you touch Clara again!’
Another professional American, but a bit whinier: ‘You don’t get it do you, Chuck? I’m not the same nerd you picked on in high school!’
Logan undid his boots. ‘Tara? Sorry I’m late, there’s been a murder...’
He scuffed through into the living room.
All the lights were off. The only illumination came from the flickering TV.
An over-muscled blond bloke in a ripped T-shirt grimaced at a classic cliché glasses-and-tank-top nerd with oversized incisors. So that would be vampire schlock horror then. They were obviously meant to be college kids, but the actors playing them had to be in their thirties. The production was a bit ropey too — a dodgy day-for-night shoot outside a doughnut shop where all the colours were wrong.
Tara was slumped on the couch, head back, mouth open, snoring away. Jasmine had nestled in beside her, doing some snoring of her own.
Only Naomi was still awake, staring at the TV screen with wide eyes and a huge grin on her face. As if this was the best thing in the whole world ever.
Nerdy McTanktop gave a terrible fake laugh. ‘Bwahahahahahahaaaa! I’m a vampire now. A creature of the mother-lovin’ night! I’ll kick your ass!’
‘Get lost, Poindexter! I’ve got garlic and a crucifix and I’m not afraid to use them!’
Logan crept towards the couch, taking the long way round so he could sneak up behind Naomi. Reached out a hand and put it on her shoulder.
She didn’t even flinch. Just sat there, utterly enraptured. ‘Vampeeers, Daddy! Vampeers!’
Tanktop did his fake laugh again. ‘Garlic and a crucifix? That crap only works in the movies, Chuck.’
‘Yeah? Well, lucky I got Betsy here, then, ain’t it?’ Chuck McMuscles somehow managed to produce a massive chainsaw from thin air. It roared into life.
Logan settled on the arm of the couch. ‘Are you sure you should be watching this?’
Naomi squealed with delight, hands covering her mouth, as Chuck turned Poindexter into a collection of very messy body parts.
‘Because I think you should be in bed, you bloodthirsty little monster.’
She dragged her eyes away from the screen and blinked up at him, bottom lip trembling. ‘Noooo!’
Well... Tara and Jasmine were asleep. And it probably—
Naomi clapped her little hands together, bouncing up and down on the couch.
On screen, Chuck was covered in scarlet and breathing hard. But ‘Betsy’ was quiet. ‘You should’ve saw that coming, you undead nerd!’
‘Ow...’ Poindexter’s severed head rolled its eyes and grimaced at him. ‘Why didn’t I go eat the Chess Club instead?’
Logan ruffled Naomi’s hair. ‘You know this’ll probably turn you into a serial killer when you grow up, don’t you?’
She snuggled into him and grinned at the television.
Becca pushed back against the wall.
It was dark outside, and dark inside too. Dark and full of spiders and stinky smells and stuff that looked like skellingtons hiding in the shadowy bits. And everything tasted like towels.
She struggled her fingers into the gap between her cheek and the gag the Horrid Monster Lady tied around her mouth. Wriggled at it. Pulling left and right. Which was really hard with both wrists tied together. But she wasn’t giving up, cos it tasted like towels and towels weren’t nice to eat, they were horrid.
Something rustle-crunched on the other side of the wall. But it could bugger right off. That’s what Daddy always said about Uncle Kevin. ‘Christ in a hat, Rebecca, your Uncle Kevin can bugger right off.’ Cos he was a tit.
She strained her chin up, digging and forcing and straining...
The towelly thing came free and she woomphed in a great big breath that tasted of dust and furniture. Coughed a couple of times. Would’ve spitted too, but the towel had made her mouth all dry.
Another deep breath. ‘MUMMY!’ Loud as she could. ‘MUMMY, I’M IN HERE! HELP!’
The rustly-crunchy thing buggered right off. Scared of her.
And so it should be!
‘MUMMY! HELP ME!’ Becca filled her tummy with air and screeched out a big noisy, ‘EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeee...’ until her face was hot and the world went all swimmy.
Outside, something made ‘Hoo-hooooooo...’ noises. Like it was laughing.
No one charged in to save her.
So, instead, Becca turned and grabbed the chain the Horrid Monster Lady padlocked under her arms. The other end was screwed into one of the big sticks that held the shed walls together. She dug her trainers into the bit where the stick joined the floor, leaned away from the wall and pulled. And pulled. And pulled...
Then flopped onto the sleeping bag they’d left for her.
Becca sucked in her tummy and tried to get a finger in between the chain and her chest to push it down, but it was too tight and her wrists were tied together and she couldn’t get them into the right place and even when she finally managed it she couldn’t make the chain move because HER POOPY WRISTS WERE TIED TOGETHER!
‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’
Stuck. Trapped — in — this — horrible — shed... In the dark. With the spiders.
Becca sniffed. Blinked. Wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.