‘That’s me.’ He dug into his pocket and pulled out a chunky boxed set of CDs. Then waggled it at her. ‘I got you the new Stephen King on audio book, but if you’re not interested. . .? ’

The scowl on her face faded to a smile. ‘You’re a rotten sod, Logan McRae.’

‘Thought so.’ He nipped out to the nearest vending machine for a Crunchie, an Irn-Bru, and a packet of prawn cocktail, and when he got back they just sat there, talking about everything and nothing: tattoos, Steel, kittens, necklaced bodies, holiday plans, being punched in the face. . . Until finally Logan checked his watch and groaned. ‘Right, got to go. Early start in the morning.’

Samantha looked up at him, a little dent between her eyebrows. ‘See you tomorrow? ’

He put his empty tin on the bedside cabinet, next to three unopened bottles of Lucozade and the stack of unread magazines. Then stood. Took hold of her cold hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Monday

Monday

Chapter 12

12

‘. . .unnngh. . .’ Logan rolled over and lay on his back, one arm covering his eyes. ‘Go away. . .’

The doorbell’s ding-dong chime ripped through the caravan.

He sat upright, stared at the clock. Six o’clock – fifteen minutes before the alarm was due to go off. Sodding hell, why did everyone. . .

Wait a minute: last time someone rang his doorbell in the morning he got punched in the face. Maybe this was one of Reuben’s ‘associates’ come round to make sure Logan was in no fit state to press charges? Because he was propping up a concrete patio somewhere in Elgin.

He rolled out from beneath the duvet and onto the gritty carpet, hand searching the space under the bed. Discarded socks. Shoebox. Plastic bucket. His fingers curled around the wooden pickaxe handle.

That’d put a dent in someone’s morning.

Unless they had a shotgun. . .

He hauled on a pair of trousers, not bothering with pants or a shirt, and padded his way to the caravan’s front door. Stopped to one side, flattening himself against the stripy wallpaper, ear pressed to the wall. Listening.

Nothing.

Tightened his grip on the pickaxe handle.

OK.

Wasn’t hard to imagine someone standing out there, watching the spyhole, waiting for it to dim as Logan stepped in front of it, then BOOM – a shotgun blast, tearing through the wood and then his chest. One more to the head, and that was it. Drive off into the early morning traffic.

Light spilled in around the letterbox. So it was darker in here than it was outside. That meant no shadow on the spyhole.

Logan crept over and peered out.