The Bug House by Jim Ford

wanted.’
    ‘I’m happy with the car I’ve got,’ Severin says. ‘Do you want me to put this one with the others?’
    ‘That’s it,’ Vos says in to the comms handset. ‘Let’s go.’
    ‘What the fuck?’ Philliskirk says.
    ‘It’s the polis!’ Delon exclaims.
    Tiernan says nothing. He just turns and runs.
    The others have already seen the Transit van speeding through the gate. Philliskirk is scrambling back towards the Cayenne, where Delon, gripping the wheel, is frantically pumping life back into the ticking engine. There’s a roar and the big SUV is suddenly careering towards the gate, Philliskirk cursing and hanging on to the open door briefly before cartwheeling to the ground in a heap. Up ahead the Transit has screeched to a halt, blocking the exit as it disgorges its cargo of police officers. They fling themselves to the ground as the Cayenne spears into its front end, then skews round on two wheels and smashes against one of the stacks of mangled cars.
    Ptolemy and Vos arrive on foot in time to see the topmost layer of cars shear off the stack like boulders from a crumbling cliff face and land with a deafening crash on the bonnet of the Porsche.
    Jesus
. . . Ptolemy thinks, staring at the scene of carnage in the scrapyard.
    A uniform is staggering blindly from side to side towards them, cursing, his face covered in blood. Another is sitting on the floor beside the open rear doors of the Transit, staring stoically at the way his leg is twisted at right angles from his knee. Two others are wrestling a pair of cuffs onto the flailing Philliskirk, who squeals with indignation as his right arm is shoved up between his shoulder blades so the hand almost reaches the nape of his neck.
    ‘Get your hands off me, you bastards,’ Severin snarls as he is led away to a waiting custody van by two officers.
    Vos watches him go impassively. ‘Get to the cabin,’ he says to Ptolemy. ‘I’ll see what’s happened to Tiernan.’
    Ptolemy runs through the dust and the noise and the chaos. The cabin door is open. She steps inside, sees a desk with a computer screen and a shelf full of box files, a black metal filing cabinet and a printer, invoices stacked in in-trays, trade books, mechanical manuals, a copy of the
Evening Chronicle
. Her job is to collect up all the paperwork, seize the computer hard drive, ensure that she has anything that might incriminate Tiernan.
    Outside she hears men shouting and the barking of dogs.
    *   *   *
    Tiernan is running, but he won’t get far. The chain-link perimeter fence is ten feet high and topped with barbed wire.
    ‘Come on, Dale,’ Vos calls out, using the Christian name he knows Tiernan hates. ‘It’s over. Let’s not fuck about any more than we have to, eh?’
    He pauses. Listens. Sighs. Tiernan is clearly intent on dragging this out as long as possible. In the distance Vos can hear the dogs barking. Six months’ undercover work and it has come to this: a squalid game of hide-and-seek.
    ‘The dogs are coming, Dale,’ he says. ‘There’s no way out of this.’
    The scrapyard is a labyrinth of twisted metal, with the huge crusher at its heart. Towering above it are two cranes with claw attachments. Vos pauses beside one of the caterpillar treads, waiting, listening. The noise has receded now; all around is a supernatural calm, as if he is in the eye of a storm.
    Suddenly there’s a noise like tearing fabric and before Vos can react a muscular, flat-headed dog explodes from a gap between two cars. It gets to within a foot of his throat before the heavy chain securing it to the axle of one of the cars snaps taut around its neck and jerks the animal in the air. It lands on its back in the dirt but scrabbles to its feet and, eyes bulging white with impotent fury, continues to lunge at Vos.
    ‘Is this what you’re looking for, sir?’
    Vos looks up to see one of the uniform squad sergeants standing nearby with a smirk on his face. Beside him is Tiernan, cuffed and