“Like, ninety percent,” Tyler said. The track came to an abrupt end at a wall of trees, and the DC quietly cleared his throat. “Maybe closer to seventy.”
Logan sighed and crunched the BMW into reverse. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you you’re a liability, son?” he asked. “Because if not, I feel I’ve been remiss in my duties as your superior—”
“Wait!” Tyler cried. He prodded a finger against the side window, to where a ramshackle old house was just visible through gaps in the branches. “Trees are thicker. That’s all. More leaves. That’s it there, though. I’m positive that’s the place, boss. That’s where Dinky lives.”
Logan grunted, then shut off the engine. “Aye, well. No’ before bloody time,” Logan said, throwing open his door and stepping down from the car.
“You’ll want to go canny, boss,” Tyler said, lowering his voice into a whisper. “You really don’t want to get on the wrong side of his dog.” He turned to look at the bulky item that filled the boot of the car. “That’s why I brought this.”
“I think you imagined things, son,” Logan said. He looked over in the direction of the house, then back at Tyler, who still hadn’t opened his door. “I don’t see any dog.”
And that was when the howling started.
Hamza approached the front door of the Fort William Police Station, caught sight of the figure standing on the other side of the reception desk, then briskly about-turned.
“Oh, great,” he muttered.
“What’s up?” asked Ben, marching up the path behind him.
“That old dragon’s back,” Hamza said. “Behind the front desk.”
“Is she? Is she, indeed?” asked Ben, fighting back a grin. “I heard a wee rumour that she might be back, right enough.”
“Where did you hear that? Some sort of ancient prophesy about the end times?”
“Ha! Aye, something like that,” Ben said, pulling open the door.
He stood up straight as he approached the desk, his smile battling through his attempts to hold it in until it lit up his whole face. Behind the glass, Moira Corson sniffed once and blinked twice, but otherwise didn’t react in the slightest.
“Moira. Good to see you back with us,” Ben said, stopping across the counter from the receptionist. “You’re looking well.”
“Well, looks can be deceiving,” Moira replied. “Especially at your age, with your eyes.”
“True. True,” Ben agreed. “Still, you’re up and about.”
“I was up and about when you saw me last week, too,” she retorted.
Ben shot a wary glance back at Hamza, and was relieved to see that the DS was still hovering just out of earshot.
“You’ll have forms for us to fill in, I’m sure,” Ben said, and he practically clapped his hands as two small bundles of paper were slid towards him through the gap at the bottom of the glass.
He picked up one of the piles and rifled through the pages, listening closely.
“Are these thicker?” he asked. “They feel thicker.”
For a moment, Moira almost looked impressed. It didn’t last. “There’s an extra page,” she said. “Visitor ethnicity.”
“Why’s that been added?” asked Hamza, stepping in closer.
“Do I make the rules?” Moira snapped, sharply enough to stop Hamza in his tracks.
“I, um, I don’t know,” the DS admitted. “Do you?”
Moira eyeballed him until he looked like he might fold in on himself, then shifted her attention back to Ben. “Is he serious?
“Tell you what, son. Why don’t I fill in both forms?” Ben suggested. “I’m sure Mrs Corson here will find that acceptable.”
There was a clack as Moira sat a ballpoint pen down on the counter beside the paperwork.
And then, there was a second clack, as she placed another one alongside it.
“Everyone fills out their own forms,” she instructed. “Or they don’t get in.”
Ben chuckled, picked up both pens, and handed one to Hamza.
“And to think,” he told Moira, fishing his glasses out of his shirt pocket. “I actually missed you…”
Logan stood in front of his car, listening to the sound of barking growing steadily louder. He turned at the sound of the BMW’s boot being shut, and found himself face to face with Dinny the Drink-Driving Squirrel.
“Jesus Christ, son,” he sighed. “Like I told you back at the station, I think that’s maybe overkill.”
“You’ve no’ seen it, boss,” Tyler said, raising his voice to be heard from inside the mascot costume. “It’s a monster. It’s probably evolved since last time, too.”
“Evolved?”
Tyler shambled out from behind the car, praying that the thick padding of the outfit would offer protection from the jaws of the oncoming beast. “Aye, it’ll have two heads or something by now. Or teeth on its paws.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad. I’m sure it’s just a dog,” Logan replied.
“Aye, well, you weren’t here when it nearly bit my whole arse off, boss. I mean it, you should get in the car,” Tyler insisted. “It doesn’t sound happy.”
He had a point. Logan couldn’t see the dog yet, beyond a vague impression of speeding movement beyond the trees, but the sounds it was making were big, and powerful, and very, very angry.
It was the sort of barking that existed only in horror movies, or TV dramas about the rabies virus running out of control. Each bark was followed by a frenzied series of growls and snarls, like the dog was so enraged by the sounds coming out of its own mouth that it was trying to eat them.
Not the sharpest pup in the litter, then.
“Eh, boss. I mean it,” Tyler said, feeling his way along the car. “It’s a beast of a thing. It’s like a shark with legs. It’ll go right for your throat. If you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, it’ll go for somewhere else. At least the throat would be quick, unlike—” The giant squirrel head turned sharply, and Tyler’s muffled voiced rose in both pitch and volume. “Shit, shit, here it comes!”
Logan turned and saw the thing come exploding out from within the trees. Technically, it was running, he knew, and yet it seemed to be flying a couple of feet above the ground, its big furious bounds so powerful that its feet didn’t appear to touch the ground.
It was a mongrel. Not in the same way that Taggart was, though. This thing wasn’t a random mish-mash of mismatched bits and pieces, it was a carefully orchestrated living nightmare. If Dr Frankenstein had turned his back on monster-making and gone into animal husbandry, this thing would be his pièce de résistance.
It was part Rottweiler, part German Shepherd, part Hellhound, and almost certainly had a wee bit of werewolf ancestry a couple of generations back.
And it was running at Logan very quickly indeed.
He had two options, he knew. Three, if you counted shitting himself, but he’d ruled that one out. The two he’d been left with were familiar to anyone who’d done his job and walked in his shoes. It was the choice that all polis everywhere were faced with all the time.
Fight or flight.
Stand his ground, or run for his life.
He could get in the car. He could shut the dog outside.