‘Guv! You forgot your waterproof!’
‘Yes, because creeping through the woods, in the middle of the night, is so much easier in a fluorescent-yellow jacket!’
Idiot.
Logan turned and stepped off the track, and onto a slippery patch of fallen leaves. Yeah, this was going to be a barrel of laughs.
He pushed through a clump of dying nettles, ducking under the branches of a huge Scots pine and into the woods proper.
Lichen-crusted beech snatched at his black fleece, their fingers brittle and rattling.
They gave way to Forestry Commission pines, standing guard like sentries in the dark. Their trunks pale against the suffocating gloom.
He scrambled up a small ridge of needle-matted ground, then down the other side. Stepping over the drainage channel at the bottom. It was a lot darker in here, but at least the canopy kept most of the rain off. And he had to be virtually invisible in his black Police Scotland fleece, trousers, and boots.
Logan crept on, crouched over to avoid the lower branches, feet scuffing through the rolling sea of fallen needles. Every step smelled of old houses, stale bread, and pine disinfectant.
The sound of a car engine idled up ahead. Getting louder.
He stopped.
There — through the trees. Danielle Smith’s white Renault Clio. Parked down a rutted track of its own. Only she’d reversed up hers, the car sitting nose out. For a quick getaway?
Logan sneaked closer.
She was squatting down by the boot of her car, fiddling with something.
Urgh. She wasn’t having a—
No. She stood, holding the rear number plate in one hand, screwdriver in the other.
OK, so she was definitely up to something. Innocent people didn’t anonymise their motor vehicles.
He could probably get a bit nearer if he—
Logan froze as his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He dug it out — the screen was like a searchlight in the gloom. He slapped it against his chest, smothering the glow, and ducked behind a tree trunk. The word ‘TUFTY’ filled the screen.
Logan answered it, keeping his voice so low it was barely there. ‘This better be important!’
Tufty crackled on the other end. ‘Guv? There’s a... comin— Guv?... — ello?’
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘...car com—... see it? I—’
He hung up and thumbed out a text instead:
Reception is terrible. Have located Smith. She’s parked up a small track, taking off her number plates.
SEND.
Headlights glowed in the middle distance, coming this way.
Logan turned down the brightness on his phone and crept around to the front of the tree again. Slipped in behind a clump of jagged broom, keeping low and out of sight, then peered through its branches.
A rusty old Jaguar rolled to a halt at the junction where the track met the road and sat there, windscreen wipers click-thumping. Then eased onto the track. Stopping a couple of feet in.
Danielle Smith stood.
At least, it was probably Danielle Smith. Her face was hidden behind a smooth dull-blue mask with a big white number six on it. A baseball cap hiding her hair. She popped open the Clio’s boot and chucked the number plate inside. Thunked it shut again. Checked something in her pocket. Stood there. Still and silent.
The Jag’s driver wound down his window. Overweight with a mop of greying hair and an open-necked shirt. Sweaty and jowly, like a proper child molester. He waved at her, voice booming out, ‘HELLO?’
She didn’t reply. Instead she stood there, with her head on one side, as if trying to decide which of his bones to break first.
Logan started up the camera app on his phone and clicked off a few shots. The results were all grainy in the low light, but they were good enough to make out the Jag’s number plate. He took a few more, trying to get the driver’s face.
Sweaty McChildMolester checked his watch. ‘CAN WE GET ON WITH THIS PLEASE? I DON’T WANT TO BE LATE!’
She ran at him, from zero to a full-on sprint, covering the ground to his car in seconds, arms out, growling.
Sweaty ducked inside again, but she was too quick — before he could wind up his window her hand snapped forward, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled his head out into the rain. The other hand dipped into her jacket and when it reappeared... Great. A semiautomatic pistol. Because this whole thing wasn’t screwed-up enough.
She ground the barrel into Sweaty’s forehead.
He scrunched his eyes shut. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God...’
Logan tensed. OK, so running out there and getting between Sweaty and a bullet was a stupid thing to do, but he couldn’t sit here and watch her murder the guy.
Danielle growled it out: ‘You didn’t say the magic word.’
‘Wormwood! Wormwood! The magic word is Wormwood...’
Come on, Logan. Charge in there and save the day.
Maybe she won’t even shoot you?
Or at least, not fatally.
Maybe.
Here we go.
Deep breath.
In three. Two...
She yanked the Jag’s door open and dragged Sweaty out onto the road. Stuck the gun in her pocket.
Oh thank God for that.
Sweaty tumbled onto his back, squealing and whimpering, both hands covering his face as she searched him.
‘Where’s your phone? WHERE’S YOUR PHONE?’
She yanked it from one of his inside pockets, then shoved him over onto his front so she could check the rest of him.
Then stood.
Nodded.
And gave the car a quick search as well. Fast and efficient.
Logan tried a few more photos.
She stood over Sweaty, holding his mobile phone between two gloved fingers like a soiled nappy. ‘You can pick this up at the end of the night.’
He whimpered and curled into a ball.
‘In the car. NOW!’
Sweaty scrambled into the Jag and sat there, trembling and muddy.
‘Better.’ Danielle thumped the door shut and stepped away from the car. Then reached into her pocket and produced an envelope. Pulled a card from it and held the thing out just a tiny bit too far from the open window.
Sweaty ran a shaky hand over his dirty face. Licked his lips. Then nodded and reached for the card. Stretching for it. Podgy fingertips searching the air... almost... almost...
She let him take it. ‘Pleasure doing business with you.’
He snatched his arm in again and wound the window up. Eyes darting left and right as he reversed off the track, the scrunch of grit giving way to the squeal of tyres as he stuck his foot down and the old Jaguar roared off into the night.
Danielle waved after him, the grin obvious in her voice: ‘YOU’RE WELCOME!’
Logan cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew a warm breath into them. Fog escaped through the gaps between his fingers as he huddled there, sitting on the forest floor, hidden from the track by a lump of broom. He clamped his knees together and leaned against a tree trunk. Wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. At least the pine needles gave a bit of insulation to his bum, everything else was half frozen.
Danielle had returned to her car, sitting in the passenger seat, still wearing her Number Six mask. Nodding away to a song belting out of the stereo: something loud with pounding drums and a bloke banging on about ‘loving this feeling’.
All right for some.
Logan’s phone buzzed and he dug it out.
TUFTY:
You OK?