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‘Well, as long as you’re sure.’
‘I’m fine.’ He raised his voice. ‘Military-grade ammo, Ross. Both of their heads have been practically removed. Best case is a .338, worst is a .50.’
‘Fuck, so a pro, then,’ said Ross, eyes wide.
‘Competent, rather than an expert, I’d say. Come on, let’s get up there, he may have left something behind,’ said Max as a dog van pulled up by the cordon.
A lean, tough-looking uniformed cop clutching a carbine got out of the car. He was followed by another more solid, but equally grey-haired cop, who went to the back of the van and opened the door. An excited whining came out, followed by a couple of low barks, and suddenly a large dog jumped out, ears back, tail wagging.
‘Quick work, boys, quick briefing, and we’re on our way,’ said Ross, cheerfully. Ross had many faults, including bumptiousness, a short temper, foul language and very little in the way of sensitivity. He wasn’t a panicker, however, and was at his best in moments of high stress.
Max looked at his boss, pensively waiting for one of his typical briefings that either went down well, or rather badly, depending on whom he was addressing. The two new officers both looked like no-nonsense, experienced cops and they stared expectantly at Ross, as the dog strained at the leash, tongue lolling, ready for action.
Ross cleared his throat. ‘Right, fellas. Some bad bastard’s tooken the heid’s off the two unfortunate buggers, currently camping inthat forensic tent, with a big, fuck-off rifle. Max here was a sniper in Afghanistan, which his icy, and possibly evil, demeanour demonstrates. He thinks he knows where the bastard’s shooting point was, but as almost ninety minutes have passed, the chances of him being there are bugger all. We need to search the copse of trees to see if we can locate his firing point. Fido here can do the sniffing, and you can shoot anyone who tries to kill us. Any questions?’
‘No, boss,’ they said almost in union, eyes glinting in amusement.
‘Excellent, Barney, get the drone up. I want eyes on that wood before we get up there.’
‘On it,’ said Barney.
‘We all set?’
There were nods all round.
‘Let’s roll.’
31
FRANKIE HARDIE WASprone on his narrow bed, watching some terrible programme about antiques, when there was a tap at his open door and Mr Jeffries, one of the more friendly screws, poked his head around the door.
‘Frankie, you’re needed in the office.’ There was something in his voice that made Frankie’s hackles rise.
‘What is it?’ he snapped back.
‘Best come, pal, someone to see you,’ said the screw, his voice unusually soft.
‘If it’s a fucking cop, I’m not interested, boss,’ he said, his voice hard.
‘It’s not a cop, Frankie.’
‘Well, fucking who, then?’
‘Just come, eh?’ The screw’s voice was almost sad, and Frankie felt a grip of tension in his gut.
Sighing, he swung his legs off the bed, slipped his feet into a pair of sliders and stood up. He followed the screw onto the landing, through one of the chipped and painted steel gates and along to the reinforced glass box that served as the supervisor’s room.
The sense of foreboding that was pulsating in his temples morphed into a rushing of blood in his ears when he entered the drab office. Mr Cole, the senior screw was sitting behind the desk next to a short, stout man wearing a clerical collar. Frankie wasn’t a religious man, and had never been to a church service at the prison, but he’d seenthe prison minister on the wing once or twice, and it was always for the same reason. Delivering bad news.
‘What’s going on?’ he said, actually feeling the colour draining from his face, followed by an explosion of butterflies in his stomach.
‘Sit down, Frankie, do you know Mr James?’ said Mr Cole.
Frankie felt weak, the dread beginning to overwhelm him. He sat in front of the desk, breathing heavily. ‘I don’t. What’s happened to Davie?’ he said, his voice low and with a slight tremor.
The minister cleared his throat, and in a light English accent, said, ‘Frankie, I’m Stanley James, I’m the prison minister, and I’m sorry, but I have some terrible news. Your brother Davie was shot dead this morning, together with your solicitor, Leo Hamilton. I’m so sorry.’
Frankie sat back in his chair, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. He just sat there for what seemed like forever. Stunned. First his big brother, and now Davie was gone. Wee Davie. His little pal. Confusion swirled in his head like thick fog on a Scottish hill. ‘Just back up a second here. What do you mean, shot?’ His voice was monotone as he tried to stop the rage that was starting to chase away the fog in his mind.
