Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8: Shatter the Bones, Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ low growl.

      The dog’s weight pushed Logan into the sodden grass, soaking through his jacket and shirt, cold and wet and oh God he was going to die …

      Thunder boomed out across the slate-grey sky, but the Rottweiler didn’t even flinch, just stood there with his front paws on Logan’s chest, snarling, teeth bared. Its breath stank of rotting meat and bitter onion, drool spattering against Logan’s cheeks and forehead, slimy and warm compared to the rain.

      A shape loomed in his peripheral vision. Shuggie, standing over the snarling dog, cradling the bandaged hand against his chest. ‘Hold real fuckin’ still, or he’ll rip your throat out.’

      Logan flicked his eyes to the side and back again. The dog barked, teeth glinting, speckling his face with drool. ‘Gah … Call him off!’

      ‘Gonnae give us my drugs back now? Before them Yardie bastards hack my hands off with a machete?’

      ‘I’m … I can’t. I’m a police officer … I can’t. Now call the dog off!’

      Sniff. ‘Nah, he can have you.’

      Uzi barked again.

      A drop of spittle landed in Logan’s eye. He flinched, blinked. ‘Fuck’s sake, Shuggie – I can’t!’ Voice high pitched and trembling.

      The only sound was the rain, drumming down all around them.

      ‘Give us your car keys.’

      ‘I’m not—’

      ‘Uzi …’

      Another roar of thunder, closer, almost overhead. The massive Rottweiler roared back. Teeth flashing in the thickening rain.

      Oh Christing fuck …

      Logan squealed.

      ‘Now give us your keys.’

      He dug his fingers into his pocket and pulled the Vauxhall’s keys out. ‘Take them!’

      Shuggie snatched them out of his hand.

      ‘Now call the bloody dog off!’

      Shuggie turned and limped back towards the fence.

      Logan tore his eyes away from the dog’s teeth, and watched him squeeze through the hole in the chainlink. He crossed the rutted track, climbed the grass verge, and onto Fairview Street.

      The dog tilted its head to the side, nose all creased and wrinkled, black rubbery lips pulled back from those butcher-knife teeth.

      Logan blinked the rain out of his eyes. ‘Please …’

      The Vauxhall’s headlights snapped through the gloom, the roar of the engine audible for a second, before another peal of thunder drowned it out.

      Another bark, front paws digging into Logan’s chest.

      Hailstones battered down, stinging his hands and face, knocking blossom from the tree above, showering them with slow-motion pink.

      Then the sound of a car door creaking open. ‘UZI! UZI!’

      The huge dog froze, head swinging around to face the car, both ears pricked.

      ‘UZI! GET OVER HERE YOU DAFT BASTARD!’

      It had one last snarl at Logan, then scraped its back paws through the muddy grass, before loping off.

      Oh thank God …

      Logan lay flat on his back, arms covering his head as he heard the Vauxhall’s door clunk shut again, then the engine faded away into the downpour as Shuggie drove off in Logan’s pool car.

      How the hell was he going to explain this one?

24

      ‘About bloody time.’ Logan thumped his mug of coffee down as DC Rennie ambled in through the pub’s front door, paused just inside, looked around, then waved.

      Idiot.

      Logan pressed send on his phone – ‘SHUGGIE, I’M FUCKING WARNING YOU: BRING MY BLOODY CAR BACK!’

      ‘Morning, Sarge. Been swimming?’ Rennie’s pearl-white grin flashed out from his fake tan.

      Logan stuffed his phone back in his pocket. ‘Are you really that desperate for a boot up the arse?’

      ‘OK … Not in a great mood then.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Got the car out front. You want a lift back to the station, or—’

      ‘Where is it?’

      Frown. ‘Er … Out front. By the disabled spaces.’

      Logan scrunched his eyes shut. Gritted his teeth. ‘Not your car, my bastarding car!’

      A shuffle of feet. ‘You weren’t serious about that, were you?’

      A young woman appeared at the table, clutching a pot of coffee. She smiled a train-track smile, light sparkling off her braces. ‘Would you like some more ice? Or a refill or something?’

      Logan forced a smile. ‘No, I’m fine, just on our way.’ He reached down and unwrapped the soggy tea-towel from his left ankle. A few chunks of half-melted ice fell to the carpet. The skin was angry pink and swollen, four parallel dark-red lines burning and stinging where Uzi’s teeth had ripped through his trouser leg and slashed across the ankle. At least it wasn’t bleeding any more.

      He handed the towel over. ‘Thanks.’

      Rennie watched until she disappeared through the door marked, ‘STAFF ONLY’. He ran a hand through his spiky blond hair. ‘Nice arse.’

      ‘I told you to run a bloody GPS trace!’

      ‘I thought you were joking. I mean, you know, why would you want a trace on your own car? How can you not know where your car is?’

      ‘Surrounded by idiots …’ Logan limped out of the front door, shoes squelching with every step, Rennie scurrying along behind.

      ‘What happened to your leg?’

      It wasn’t difficult to spot the constable’s CID pool car outside the pub – it was the manky Vauxhall with the dashboard overflowing with burger wrappers and empty crisp packets. Hailstones battered off the dirty paintwork, making a little drift of white across the windscreen wipers.

      Inside it smelled much the same as every other CID vehicle – that mix of stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and something going mouldy under one of the seats.

      Rennie got in behind the wheel. ‘Where to?’

      ‘Make the sodding call.’

      There was a brief pause, then the constable pulled out his Airwave СКАЧАТЬ