The blinds were down in Steel’s living room, but the indoor lightning strikes of flash photography lit up the room.
He hurried up the path, then had to step back into the gravel border as a fourth trolley was hefted out through the front door. Didn’t need a Police National Computer check to know who that was.
Jack Wallace groaned behind his oxygen mask, skin pale as paper. he’d been handcuffed, trousers pulled down around his knees, a big wodge of blood-soaked gauze taped over his crotch.
The paramedic at the front shuddered. ‘Oooh, makes you wince just to think, doesn’t it?’
His colleague took up the rear, pushing. ‘Shame we couldn’t find the missing bit...’
Down the path, into the last ambulance, and away.
OK, that was... weird.
Logan crossed the threshold into Steel’s house and there was DC Goodwin, with his floppy hair and squint nose. ‘What do you think you’re doing, this is a crime... Oh.’ He tucked his clipboard under his arm and saluted. ‘Inspector McRae. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Dougie. Is Steel still here?’
‘Yes, Inspector. They’re in the kitchen.’ He pointed down the hall, as if Logan had never been here before. ‘DI Vine’s with them.’
Logan stayed where he was, staring down at Goodwin. ‘And?’
‘Er... DC Quirrel and Steel’s wife’s there too?’
‘No: you’re Crime Scene Manager. You have to make me sign in, remember?’
‘Oh, yes! Right. Signing in.’ He held out the clipboard and a pen. ‘Sorry, Inspector. I just... Sorry.’
Logan filled in his details, then Goodwin flattened himself against the coat rack to let him past.
The flashgun flares clacked out of the open lounge door, reflecting back from the shiny wooden balusters and framed photos. He peered into the room.
Four Identification Bureau techs in the full scene of crime getup were measuring, tagging, and photographing things. Whatever had happened in there it’d been brutaclass="underline" two smashed chairs, coils of blue nylon rope, blood all over the Persian rug. A six-inch hunting knife sticking out of the floorboards.
Yeah, that didn’t look good.
Well, couldn’t put it off any longer.
Logan straightened his shoulders and marched down the hall. Took a deep breath and pushed through into the kitchen.
Susan was on her hands and knees in front of the fridge, wiping up what looked like a massive bird-strike of yoghurt. Tufty sat on a stool at the breakfast bar, a bag of frozen peas clutched to his head, a massive shiner on his face, a ring of red around his throat, and a ring of bandages around one wrist.
DI Vine stood off to one side, doing his best Stern-Faced Police Officer impersonation. ‘I can’t believe you bit it clean off...’
‘Urgh.’ Steel swigged from a bottle of Smirnoff, gargled, swooshed it around her mouth, then spat it into the sink. ‘Don’t remind me.’ Then tipped back another glug. Glanced at Logan. Spat. ‘You took your time.’
‘Control said Jack Wallace attacked everyone. What happened, are you all OK?’
‘Logan!’ Susan stood. Her lips were swollen, cracked in one corner, the beginnings of a bruise darkening her cheek. She wiped her hands on a tea towel and hugged him. Warm and soft and smelling faintly of peaches.
‘Jasmine and Naomi?’
‘Oh, they’re fine. Slept right through the whole thing.’ One last squeeze and she let him go. Stepped back. ‘Now, how about a nice cup of tea?’
Vine nodded at him. Formal. Wary. ‘Inspector McRae.’
‘John.’
‘Well, I think we’re about done here.’ He turned to Steel. ‘Come down the station tomorrow and we’ll finalise your statements. Then I think you and Constable Quirrel deserve a couple of days off.’ Vine held up a hand. ‘No, don’t thank me. It’s only fair.’ Then turned and stalked from the room.
Steel spat out another mouthful of vodka. Wiped her chin with a hand. ‘Blah, blah, blah. Thought he’d never leave.’
‘Ooh, ooh, ooh!’ Tufty bounced up and down on his stool, peas still clasped to his head. ‘You should’ve seen us, it was great! Jack Wallace tried to stick his willy in the Sarge’s face and she’s like, “No way!” And he’s like, “Here comes the aeroplane!”—’
‘That blow to the head didn’t knock any sense into you then?’
Steel sniffed. ‘I said that.’
‘—and she’s like, “BITE!” And then there’s screaming and Richard’s going to slash her with a Stanley knife and—’
‘Tufty,’ Steel put the cap back on the Smirnoff, ‘give it a rest, eh?’
He stuck out his free hand, miming stabbing someone. ‘—but I tripped him up, and Eric’s got this massive pointy knife, and Terry’s trying to strangle me cos I banged his head in the fridge—’
Steel threw a scrubby sponge at him. Missed. ‘Tufty!’
‘—but Susan wriggles free and she’s got this set of antique golf clubs—’
‘CONSTABLE QUIRREL!’
‘And POW! Then—’ The second sponge found its mark, bouncing off his chest — leaving a rectangular damp patch on his shirt. ‘Hey!’
She dried her hands. ‘Give it a rest, OK? Just lived through it: don’t need a blow-by-blow replay.’
‘Oh...’ His shoulders dipped a little, then he took a deep breath and rattled it out as quick as possible: ‘Then she shouts, “Fore!” And WHANG! Right up the fairway. Gave him a hole in one. Popped it open like a squished grape.’ Tufty sat back, smiling. Clearly pleased with himself for making it all the way through to the end. Then frowned. ‘I’m feeling a bit dizzy. Is anyone else a bit dizzy?’
The garden stretched away back into the darkness, the short grass scattered with kids’ toys. Bright plastic landmines waiting for the unwary foot. The lonicera was in bloom, filling the air with the sticky scent of warm honey.
Steel had parked herself at the picnic bench by the Wendy house, puffing away on her e-cigarette, making her own strawberry-scented fog bank.
Logan lowered a hot mug in front of her, then settled onto the bench-seat opposite. ‘Horlicks.’
‘Hmph.’ She leaned forward and sniffed at it. ‘Could at least have put some whisky in there.’
He stared up at the trees. ‘Are you OK?’
‘OK?’ A small laugh, then a slurp of Horlicks. ‘Someone threatened to rape my wife, sell my kids to paedophiles, and stuck their dick in my mouth. What do you think?’
‘On the plus side, he’s never going to do that again. Jack Wallace’s raping days are over. If he ever gets out of prison, the tattered stump you left him with isn’t going to trouble anyone.’ Logan snuck a glance. She had a very nasty smile on her face. ‘You know they probably could’ve sewn it back on again, right?’
‘I’m never going to moan about Susan spending all her time on the golf course again.’
‘If they’d found the bit you bit off.’
‘You should’ve seen her, Laz: she was magnificent. An Amazon with a six iron. Wonder Susan!’
A huge furry cat sauntered out of the darkness, big grey tail like a plume of smoke behind him. He wound his way around Logan’s legs, then did the same with Steel. Purring. Hopped up onto the picnic table on large white paws.
Steel rubbed at his ears. ‘You hungry, Mr Rumpole? Are you?’
‘There’s going to be an internal investigation — don’t really have a choice after all the carnage here tonight — but it’s nothing to worry about. Promise.’
‘Who’s my hungry little boy?’ She stood and picked Mr Rumpole up with a grunt. ‘Pfff... Ooh, you’re a fat wee sod.’ He hung in her arms: a bag of fur, smoky tail twitching as she carried him through the French doors and into the kitchen. Plonked him down on the breakfast bar.