‘I did it. . .’ He sniffed, then blinked in slow motion. ‘I killed him. . .’ Guy wiped his eyes on his forearm, tears darkened the white bandage. ‘What else could I do? He was screaming and burning and I couldn’t get the tyre off and it’s all over my hands and they’re on fire and it’s horrible and it hurts and I had a . . . I had the knife.’ A deep, rattling breath. ‘So I stabbed him. And stabbed him, and stabbed him, and my hands are on fire and it hurts so much and . . . I couldn’t just leave him like that!’

Ah. . . Logan sat back in his seat. ‘He wasn’t part of your crew for the heist? ’

‘His face . . . you should have seen his face . . . screaming.’

‘He was burning when you got there? ’

A nod. ‘We . . . we ditched the car, divvied up the watches and rings and necklaces and stuff, and . . . and there he was.’ Guy held up the boxes where his hands should have been. ‘They’re going to cut off my fingers, because I tried to help someone. . .’

Chapter 7

7

A woman’s voice blared in the corridor outside the hospital room. ‘I don’t bloody care – you let me in to see my son right now!’ Mrs Ferguson.

DS Chalmers sniffed. ‘You think he’s telling the truth? ’

‘Well. . .’ Logan leaned against the room’s little sink, staring down at the bed.

Guy was curled over, boxed hands against his chest, great heaving sobs rocking him back and forward.

‘Guv? ’

‘Necklacing, it’s . . . it’s a big-city gangland organized crime thing. Not something I can see a bunch of teenage wannabes doing. So . . . maybe. Probably.’

‘He did it so the victim wouldn’t suffer any more.’ She puffed out her cheeks, hissing out a breath. ‘Did the right thing, and it’s going to cost him his fingers.’

‘When everyone’s calmed down a bit we’ll interview his mates. See if they corroborate.’

That voice again. ‘I DEMAND TO SEE MY SON!’

Here we go. . .

Logan pointed at Chalmers. ‘Tell him to let them in.’

As soon as she stuck her head around the door, Mrs Ferguson barged her way past the uniform on guard, into the room. ‘Guy? ’

Mr Ferguson scurried in behind her, crying. ‘They told us you were dead.’

Guy’s mother wrapped him up in a hug. ‘My baby. . .’ Then she straightened up and glared at Logan. ‘YOU! You told us he was dead. How could. . .’ Her eyes went wide, staring down at her son’s ankle: at the handcuff. ‘HE’S IN A HOSPITAL BED!’

‘It’s not—’

‘HOW DARE YOU!’ She clenched her fists, took a step forward. ‘You take that off him, and you take it off him now.’