— secondhand children —
43
The Auctioneer lowers his arms. ‘Before we begin tonight’s sale, we have a bit of housekeeping to do. If you hear a fire alarm, please make your way calmly from the building using either of the exits being pointed out to you now.’
Five swings an arm up at the door Sally came through, Four points at a metal one at the opposite end of the cattle court.
‘Today, we welcome two new members to our congregation: Dragon and Rooster. Big round of applause for Dragon and Rooster!’
The clapping lasts all of three seconds, then peters out. Chicken / Rooster shrugs and shuffles his feet like he’s been nominated for an award.
‘We have one more item of business to attend to before we can begin our auction this evening.’ The Auctioneer turns and waves. ‘Number One?’ Then he picks up the roll of clear plastic sheeting, unfurls it with one smooth movement — about the size of two double duvets joined side to side — and lays it out on the concrete walkway.
A huge man with the number one painted on his dull-blue mask pushes through the door at the far end, propelling someone in front of him. A man, dressed all in black, with his hands secured behind his back and a black bag covering his head and shoulders.
Pig rubs his fingers against his jeans. ‘Ooh, a floorshow...’
Number One shoves the man and he stumbles, tripping over his own feet and tumbling to the straw-covered floor with a muffled cry. Like he’s been gagged.
Number One grabs him by the arm. ‘Get up.’ He hauls the man to his feet and drags him onto the walkway.
Pig rubs at his jeans again. ‘I do love a good floorshow.’
Tufty parked the pool car at the junction and hopped out. Scrambled back inside for his peaked cap, and hopped out again.
The headlights blazed in the darkness, turning the rain into shiny things, making the wet tree trunks glow. He stepped in front of the bonnet and his high-viz fluoresced radioactive yellow. Looked out into the Deep Shadowy Woods of DOOM.
He checked his phone again. Nothing since,
SERGEANT MCRAE:
There isn’t time you idiot! Follow her! I’ll catch up later!
Tufty shifted from one foot to the other and dialled the Sarge. It rang straight through to voicemail.
‘Hello, this is Inspector McRae. I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave a message after the beep.’
Try to sound calm. ‘Sarge, it’s me... again. Where are you? Just wondering.’
He hung up. Fidgeted in the headlight’s glow — his shadow long and dark before him as he cupped his hands to his mouth in a makeshift loudhailer, breath billowing out. ‘SARGE?’
The engine grumbled. The windscreen wipers whonked. The rain pattered.
Tufty turned and tried again. ‘HELLO?’
OK, this was bad. This was really, really bad.
He hiked as far up the track as the headlights reached. ‘INSPECTOR MCRAE!
COME ON, THIS ISN’T FUNNY!’
Nothing. Not even an echo.
Tufty bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes raking the dark tangle of branches and trunks. Where the hell had the Sarge gone?
Like it or not, it was time to own up and ask for help.
He scrambled down the track and jumped into the pool car, unzipping his jacket as the windows began to fog. Pulled out his phone and selected ‘THE PRINCESS OF DARKNESS!’ from his contacts.
It rang. And rang.
‘Come on, come on, come on...’
Steel’s voice crackled in his ear, breaking up. ‘Where the bl— ...ell have— ...ello?’
‘I can’t find him!’
‘Hello? Tuf— ...odding useless—’
‘He said I had to go after Danielle Smith’s car and I did but I couldn’t find it and I circled round to pick him up and now I can’t find him. He’s not answering his phone or anything!’
Tufty rocked back and forward in his seat.
What if the Sarge died of pneumonia? Or hypothermia? Or fell down a hole and broke his neck?
‘...uck’s sake! This... pointless— ...ear a word.’
And then silence. She’d hung up.
He fidgeted with the steering wheel for a bit. Then climbed out into the rain again. Grabbed the big Maglite torch from the boot and clicked it on — sweeping the beam across the trees either side of the road. Left or right?
Right?
OK.
He took a deep breath and followed the torch’s glow into the dark woods.
He could do this. He could and he would.
Because if he didn’t, Steel was going to kill him.
Roberta scowled at her phone. ‘NO SIGNAL’, as if she couldn’t tell that by the complete and utter lack of being able to talk to Tufty, let alone give him the biblical bollocking he so desperately deserved. ‘Useless lanky wee fudgemonkey.’
Rennie looked over from the driver’s seat. ‘No joy?’
‘Pfff...’ She stuffed her phone in her pocket and scowled out the car window at the dark fields whooshing past in the rain. ‘The idiot’s lost Laz. How do you lose a stupid great big-eared lump of Professional Standards like that?’
Roberta snapped her right hand out, catching Rennie a stinger, right across the arm.
‘Ow!’
‘I should drag the lot of you down the vets and have you all tagged. And neutered as well.’
You could hear the wee sulker sticking his bottom lip out. ‘You decided where we’re going yet?’
Gah...
No point returning to the station — they’d nearly made it as far as Inverurie. And it was no’ as if they could stop at the next petrol station and ask for directions to the nearest auction house specialising in buying and selling abducted wee kids.
She slumped in her seat and gave her armpit a good rummage. Chasing the itch. ‘Given we’ve sod-all idea where the Livestock Mart is and Tufty the Idiot’s let our only lead drive off into the sunset, suppose we’d better go help him find Laz.’
And after all this Logan had better be in real motherfunking trouble. Because if she had to go sodding about in the rain looking for him and he wasn’t in trouble? He bloody well soon would be.
The figure in black tries to pull away as he’s dragged down the walkway towards the Auctioneer. He’s shouting something, but all that makes it out through the gag in his mouth and the bag over his head are muffled grunts.
The Auctioneer leans forwards, forearms resting on the handrail, looking down at them. ‘That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, we have an uninvited guest! And you know what we do to uninvited guests, don’t you?’
Everyone but Sally and Rooster belts it out in unison: ‘Discipline them!’
Rooster tries to join in, but he’s two seconds too late. ‘Discipline them...’ He shuffles his feet. Looks away.
A nod from the Auctioneer. ‘Number One?’
There’s a small pause, then Number One shoves the man onto the plastic sheeting and slams a fist into his kidneys. A muffled cry as knees bend, spine arching, head thrown back in its black fabric bag.
Number One batters an elbow down on the man’s face and he collapses onto the plastic sheet, moaning and writhing, hands fixed behind him as the blows hammer down. Fists first, then feet.
Sally gasps, retreats a couple of steps, but Rabbit grabs her arm.
Rabbit doesn’t look at her, keeps his face turned towards the walkway and his voice at a whisper. ‘Don’t. You show weakness and they’ll turn on you.’