Tufty strolled along beside him. ‘Bet she’s guilty as a hedgehog in a condom factory.’
‘I don’t care. I’m tired, I’m sore, and I’m going home.’
52
Steel’s MX-5 scrunched up onto Logan’s driveway with a completely unnecessary roar. Roof down, stereo thumping out Frightened Rabbit’s ‘The Modern Leper’. Very cheerful.
He unfastened his seatbelt. ‘I could’ve made my own way home, you know.’
‘Aye, right.’ She got out and produced her e-cigarette. Puffed herself a watermelon-scented fog bank. ‘Anyway, got sod-all to do till your mate Beaconsfield’s brief turns up. Fiver says I can get him to roll on Russell Morton and Jerry Whyte.’ She jerked her chin at Logan. ‘You needing a hand?’
‘No.’ Bloody MX-Bloody-5. Why couldn’t they have made the thing easier to get in and out of for people suffering from a massive stab wound? Of course, if she’d left the roof on, he could’ve used it to lever himself up, but nooo...
He struggled out, using his crutch and the car door for leverage. Stood there, grimacing as fire burned its way across his stomach and up into his lungs.
She walked around the car and put a hand on his arm. ‘You sure you don’t want me to come in? Make you a cup of hot sweet tea, or something?’
‘Go away. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She puffed a lungful of watermelon at him. ‘You know, me being nice to you is a limited-time offer?’
‘Go! Give Susan an inappropriate hug from me.’ He turned and limped towards the house.
‘OK. But I’m going nowhere till you’ve made it inside without collapsing or dying.’
He hobbled up the step, unlocked the front door, and scruffed inside. Turned and made shooing gestures until she rolled her eyes, climbed into her car, and vroomed off in a buckshot-spray of flying gravel and a blast of music.
‘Oh thank God for that.’
He thumped the door shut and leaned against it as the fires raged.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Aaaargh... Maybe checking out of the hospital three days early wasn’t such a good idea after all? Grey cauliflower cheese or not.
He straightened up. ‘Cthulhu? Where’s Daddy’s girl? Where’s you, Cthulhu?’
No reply.
Logan limped through into the living room. Still no cat.
She wasn’t in the kitchen either. But there was a massive pile of dirty pots and dishes in the sink. None of which were his. ‘Great...’
Well, they could wait.
Right now it was time for a couple of antipsychotics and a whole heap of industrial-strength painkillers.
He hobbled out into the hall, and ditched his coat on the end of the stairs. Kicked off his shoes. ‘Where are you, you daft cat?’
The stairs were a bit of a challenge, so he got both feet onto one before starting on the next. Paused two thirds of the way up for a breather. Then one last push from base camp to the landing.
‘Cthulhu?’
So much for the big welcome home. Oh, I missed you, Daddy.
He stopped by the bathroom for pills and a pee, then clumped his way along the landing floorboards. Clunk-scuff, clunk-scuff. Unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand on the way.
‘Westlife tribute band’ indeed. Superintendent Doig was a cheeky sod.
The bandages around his stomach were pristine white, except for the faint yellow stain over the hole Number Five made. Stilclass="underline" could’ve been worse — Lee Docherty had an exit wound to deal with as well. And hopefully it really hurt.
Finally — the bedroom.
He opened the door and froze.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows. A solid bar of it lay across the bed, catching Tara’s hair and making it glow like Lucozade. She was spreadeagled on top of the duvet, fully clothed in joggy bottoms and a tartan T-shirt, one leg hanging over the edge of the bed. Mouth open, making snuffling snorey noises.
At least that solved the mystery of the missing cat — Cthulhu was curled up on her chest. A fuzzy yawn and Cthulhu stood, back arched as she launched into her stretching routine, tail fuzzy as a feather duster.
‘Well, it wasn’t my fault I had to stay in hospital for a week, was it? Somebody stabbed me. Again.’
She padded over and he rubbed her ears, smiling as she closed her eyes and leaned into it, purring.
‘Oh ha, ha. “That’s just careless.” You’re a laugh riot, aren’t you?’
More purring.
Tara screwed up her face, making little smacking noises with her mouth. Then peered up at him, blinking. Scrubbed at her eyes. ‘Whtimisit?’
‘Thought you were in Birmingham on a course?’
‘Urgh.’ She yawned. Shuddered. ‘Time off for good behaviour.’
He peeled off his shirt, undid his trousers, and collapsed onto the bed. Winced. ‘Ow...’
‘And before you complain, I was going to tidy up before you got home tomorrow.’ Tara rolled over and draped an arm across him. ‘You’re—’
‘Ow! Get off, get off!’ God, it was like being thumped with a crowbar.
She squinted at him. ‘And if this is your idea of foreplay, it leaves a lot to be desired too.’
Ahhh...
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’
‘Positive.’ Logan settled in amongst the bubbles, mug of tea in one hand, the other making lazy ripples bob through the water. Warm. Comforting. Wet. ‘My surgeon says I’m allowed baths.’
‘Hmm...’ Tara sat on the toilet lid, with a large glass of red wine. She held the shiraz out. ‘I don’t mind sharing, you know.’
‘Can’t: pills.’
Cthulhu hopped up onto the bath surround and sat there, watching him, head on one side, prooping and meeping.
Logan groaned. ‘All right, all right, quit nagging. I’m doing it.’ He turned to Tara. ‘Thanks for looking after the furry monster here for me. It was a massive help and I really, really appreciate it.’
‘That’s the only reason you gave me a key, isn’t it? So I’d look after your cat if you got stabbed and hospitalised.’
‘Yeah... something like that.’ He rested his head against the tiles and closed his eyes.
‘So, did it all turn out well in the end?’
Good question.
‘Well, Sally MacAuley got her son back for a whole ten days — he’s in care now and she’s off to prison. DI Bell ruined his life for her and got killed for it. We still don’t know who all the paedophiles in the animal masks were. A journalist got kicked to death. And I’m lying here with yet another stab wound to join the collection. So, on the whole? Not really.’
She dipped a couple of fingers in the water. ‘God, you’re cheery, aren’t you?’
‘There’s one consolation: Mrs Irene Marshall isn’t too happy about Crowbar Craig Simpson trying to pin Kenneth MacAuley’s murder on her beloved dead husband. So she’s been telling DI Fraser all sorts of interesting stories about what Crowbar’s been up to since he moved in with her: extortion, drugs, punishment beatings, that smash-and-grab at Finnies in July... You know what they say: “Heav’n has no rage, like love to hatred turn’d, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d.”’
‘Hark at you with the poetry.’
‘And while we’re doing him for all that, it’ll give us plenty of time to prove he was the one who murdered Kenneth MacAuley and abducted Aiden. He’ll get at least twenty years.’
Tara raised her glass. ‘Then here’s to Craig Simpson spending the rest of his life in prison.’