standing on her own, jabbing away at a bandit. Flashing lights spiralled round and round the machine’s face, glittering and bleeping and dinging away. A half-drunk bottle of Budweiser was clutched in her other hand as she stabbed the flickering buttons, sending the tumblers whizzing round again.
‘You look happy,’ said Logan as two lemons and a castle appeared on the display.
She didn’t even look round. ‘Not enough bloody evidence!’ Watson hammered the nudge button, getting an anchor for her troubles.
‘Have to keep looking,’ said Logan, taking a swig, enjoying the warm fuzzy feeling spreading out from the middle of his head. ‘Forensics didn’t find anything at the flat—’
‘Forensics couldn’t find shite in a septic tank. What about the bloody receipt?’ She stuffed another couple of pounds in the slot and smacked her fist down on the Go button.
Logan shrugged and Watson snarled at the pictures: anchor, lemon, bar of gold.
‘We all know he’s guilty!’ she said, sending the tumblers spinning again.
‘And now we’ve got to prove it. But we wouldn’t even have him in custody if it wasn’t for you.’ Logan had a bit of difficulty with the word ‘custody’, but WPC Watson didn’t seem to notice. He leaned forward and poked her gently in the shoulder. ‘That receipt was a damn clever catch.’
He could have sworn she almost smiled as she fed another pound into the machine.
‘I didn’t spot the Clubcard points. You did that.’ She didn’t take her eyes off the flashing lights.
‘And I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t found the receipt in the first place.’ He beamed at her and took another drink.
She took her eyes off the machine’s flashing lights to watch him sway slightly, almost in time with the music. ‘What happened to “one four times a day, not to be taken with alcohol”?’
Logan winked. ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’
She smiled at him. ‘Babysitting you is going to be a full time job, isn’t it?’
Logan clinked his pint glass against her bottle of beer. ‘I’ll drink to that!’
10
Six o’clock and the alarm’s insistent bleeping dragged Logan out of his bed and into a blistering hangover. He slumped at the side of the bed, holding his head in his hands, feeling the contents swell and throb. His stomach was gurgling and churning with lurching certainty. He was going to be sick. With a grunt he staggered to the bedroom door and out into the hall, making for the toilet.
Why did he have so much to drink? The pills said quite clearly they were not to be taken with alcohol. . .
Afterwards, he leant on the edge of the sink and let his head droop forward to touch the cool surface of the tiles, the acid tang of bile still burning his nostrils.
He slid one eye open, just far enough to make out the pint glass sitting on top of the cistern. There was still half a bottle of the painkillers he’d been given the first time he’d come out of the hospital, when the scars were still fresh. Logan pulled them out with a trembling hand, struggling with the childproof lid. He filled the glass with water, knocked back a couple of the pebble-sized capsules, and slouched into the shower.
He wasn’t feeling that much better by the time he was finished, but at least he didn’t smell like a cross between a brewery and an ashtray any more. He was halfway across the hall, rubbing a towel through his hair, when he heard a polite cough.
Logan spun around, heart suddenly racing, his hands balling into fists.
WPC Watson was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of his old T-shirts and waggling a plastic fish slice at him. Her hair, released from its tight regulation bun, fell over her shoulders in dark brown curls. A pair of bare legs stuck out of the bottom of the T-shirt and they were very nice legs indeed.
‘Cold, is it?’ asked Watson with a smile and Logan suddenly realized he was standing there in the nip, with everything on show.
He clutched the
‘You look happy,’ said Logan as two lemons and a castle appeared on the display.
She didn’t even look round. ‘Not enough bloody evidence!’ Watson hammered the nudge button, getting an anchor for her troubles.
‘Have to keep looking,’ said Logan, taking a swig, enjoying the warm fuzzy feeling spreading out from the middle of his head. ‘Forensics didn’t find anything at the flat—’
‘Forensics couldn’t find shite in a septic tank. What about the bloody receipt?’ She stuffed another couple of pounds in the slot and smacked her fist down on the Go button.
Logan shrugged and Watson snarled at the pictures: anchor, lemon, bar of gold.
‘We all know he’s guilty!’ she said, sending the tumblers spinning again.
‘And now we’ve got to prove it. But we wouldn’t even have him in custody if it wasn’t for you.’ Logan had a bit of difficulty with the word ‘custody’, but WPC Watson didn’t seem to notice. He leaned forward and poked her gently in the shoulder. ‘That receipt was a damn clever catch.’
He could have sworn she almost smiled as she fed another pound into the machine.
‘I didn’t spot the Clubcard points. You did that.’ She didn’t take her eyes off the flashing lights.
‘And I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t found the receipt in the first place.’ He beamed at her and took another drink.
She took her eyes off the machine’s flashing lights to watch him sway slightly, almost in time with the music. ‘What happened to “one four times a day, not to be taken with alcohol”?’
Logan winked. ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’
She smiled at him. ‘Babysitting you is going to be a full time job, isn’t it?’
Logan clinked his pint glass against her bottle of beer. ‘I’ll drink to that!’
10
Six o’clock and the alarm’s insistent bleeping dragged Logan out of his bed and into a blistering hangover. He slumped at the side of the bed, holding his head in his hands, feeling the contents swell and throb. His stomach was gurgling and churning with lurching certainty. He was going to be sick. With a grunt he staggered to the bedroom door and out into the hall, making for the toilet.
Why did he have so much to drink? The pills said quite clearly they were not to be taken with alcohol. . .
Afterwards, he leant on the edge of the sink and let his head droop forward to touch the cool surface of the tiles, the acid tang of bile still burning his nostrils.
He slid one eye open, just far enough to make out the pint glass sitting on top of the cistern. There was still half a bottle of the painkillers he’d been given the first time he’d come out of the hospital, when the scars were still fresh. Logan pulled them out with a trembling hand, struggling with the childproof lid. He filled the glass with water, knocked back a couple of the pebble-sized capsules, and slouched into the shower.
He wasn’t feeling that much better by the time he was finished, but at least he didn’t smell like a cross between a brewery and an ashtray any more. He was halfway across the hall, rubbing a towel through his hair, when he heard a polite cough.
Logan spun around, heart suddenly racing, his hands balling into fists.
WPC Watson was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of his old T-shirts and waggling a plastic fish slice at him. Her hair, released from its tight regulation bun, fell over her shoulders in dark brown curls. A pair of bare legs stuck out of the bottom of the T-shirt and they were very nice legs indeed.
‘Cold, is it?’ asked Watson with a smile and Logan suddenly realized he was standing there in the nip, with everything on show.
He clutched the
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