Neil watched them from his high vantage, focusing in on the other side of the wall, then down the street to the main road. Jack had set the phone so it only took one thumb touch to call Jed in the covered tanker.
"Elvis calling Bullitt. The road's clear, go, go, go. Johnny B Goode."
Jed floored it and hustled towards the corner, wanting out before the back-up arrived in the approaching hurry wagons. After the gunplay, they'd be all over the place like ants. He got to the junction, spun the wheel, taking a huge arc to keep the weight in place, was out and down the road with the winking blue lights far behind him.
Angus Baxter commandeered a bulldozer from a demolition site two hundred yards away and the big blue door simply flew off its hinges, broke into three pieces, one of which whirled across the yard, slammed through the crumpled service bay and almost decapitated Seggs Cullen as he crawled through the dwindling puddle of dilute whisky. The fumes of evaporating spirit were so strong that they caught in the back of the throat.
The firearms team went through the space like the SAS and Gus Ferguson raised the empty shotgun in an even emptier gesture. He took a butt under the jaw which dislocated it on the left side, but as he fell, he slammed against the brick wall and miraculously popped the bone back into the socket. It was the only good thing to happen to him that day.
Six policemen surrounded Cullen, each of them with a vicious looking fully automatic held at arms length, every stubby barrel pointing at his head. Cullen's leg gave way under him and he flopped once more to the draining golden pool.
"Drop the weapon," the lead man ordered. He put his boot right on Cullen's neck, forcing his head under the surface. The thug coughed, spluttered, managed to raise his head up and sprayed whisky for a yard.
"It's not mine," he managed to gasp. A gun-barrel was dug right in behind his ear and he dropped the Beretta.
They were out on the main road, haring for the turn that would take them up past the castle on the circle road out of town, Jed and Michael and Ed Kane in the front, with Jack and Donny in the tight space at the back of the cabin.
Jed had the wheel and he handled the big rig the way he drove on the stock circuit, fast and hard and very sure. The only difference was that this one had twelve wheels and a lot more inertia once it really got going.
He turned to Michael. "That's a hell of an eye you got there. It'll be shut like a clam tomorrow."
Michael grinned shyly. "You ought to see the other guy."
"Oh, and what's he like?"
"He's built like a fucking brick shithouse. There's not a mark on him."
Jack reached forward and cuffed his brother lightly on the back of his head.
"Language! You're supposed to be the smart one. Your mother would clap your ear."
"So let her do it," Michael shot back. It was as if his overnight captivity had never happened. "You don't have mother privileges."
Everybody laughed. Jack ruffled his hair.
"You did good Mike. You stayed cool."
"I knew you would show up, one way or the other." He dabbed his cheek, gingerly testing the skin. "Has anybody got anything to eat? I'm starving to death."
Ed flipped the glove box and pulled out a couple of Mars bars.
"Okay Jake, that's two pints I owe you."
Michael only raised his eyebrows, not stopping to ask the question. Half the bar was in his mouth already.
"Jack said those cretins wouldn't feed you. He tries to think of everything."
The phone trilled unexpectedly. Ed snapped it open.
"I got bad news," Neil said quickly. "You've got a passenger."
"What do you mean?"
"Somebody must have jumped off the wall. I never saw it, but he's there now."
"Where?"
"He's on the nearside. High on the load."
Ed leant to the left, as close as he could get to the wing mirror.
"What's the matter?" Jack pushed forward, following his gaze. He froze. They were on the road out of town now, past the old quarry behind the school, hammering along the road as the buildings petered out through a stand of old oaks and tall birches, sending up a buffeting silver spray from the big wheels.
Jed craned over the wheel to view the mirror.
"Warning," he said. "Arseholes are much closer than they appear."
"Right, that's it," Ed said quietly. Wiggy Foley was hanging on to the tarpaulin rope with one hand, and gripping the top of the frame with the other. His face was twisted with effort and anger as he inched his way along the side of the truck.
"I don't believe it," Jack said. "He thinks he's Bruce Willis. Try to shake him off."
Jed got to the straight, spun the wheel left hard and then right again, as much as he dared with such a big load. The tail swung alarmingly and Foley flipped outwards, legs in the air, but he still hung on.
"Coming up to bends. I can't risk that again."
Ed opened the door, forced it wide with his foot.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to knock him off."
"Don't be crazy. You'll kill yourself."
"That Foley, he's the crazy one," Ed said. "He always carries a blade. He's mad enough to do somebody some hurt. And I owe him one."
"Where's the shooter?" Donny wanted to know.
"I gave it away."
"Brilliant," Donny said. He didn't know Jack's plan. "We could finish it right now."
Ed gripped the handle above the door, waited until they were on a right bend which let the door swing wide, and he flipped himself out with athletic grace.
"Get back in," Jack bawled. "You're Ed Kane, not Eddie Murphy"
Ed hung onto the grip, facing backwards. "Hold it steady, and don't hit the trees."
He winked at Jack and then he started moving towards the back.
Foley had his face against the tarpaulin, trying to clamber on to the top of the truck and when he raised it again he saw Ed clinging to the side. He snarled and let go with one hand, reaching into his pocket with the other.
"He's got something," Jack said, pushing past Michael, clambering onto the front. "A knife. A gun maybe." Foley had done six years in Barlinnie for grievous bodily harm and had earned no remission. Anything at all was possible.
Ed was fast and his next move surprised both Foley and Jack. He took one of the rope lashings in his free hand, wound it round with a few flicks of his wrist and gave it a tug. The slip-knot looped to the frame came free and Ed just threw himself outwards.
As an act of sheer audacity Jack had never seen anything like it in his life. For a moment he thought Ed had slipped off the speeding tanker and his heart leapt into his throat.
But Ed hadn't slipped. The momentum carried him out and away from the side, flipping close to the bushes that lined the road and the edge of the tarpaulin followed him like a sail. As soon as the wind caught the canvas, it drove it back in to the side again, carrying Ed's weight with it, but the length of rope looped round his wrist gave him another couple of yards. He was swung back, beyond the point where Foley was reaching into his pocket, and the tarpaulin simply folded on itself to trap the other man behind it. Ed grabbed the frame and held on with his right, keeping the tarp tight. Underneath it Foley bellowed like a bull. Ed used the frame like an exercise bar, pivoted his weight again and drove both feet forward, just where he estimated Foley's ribs would be.
The hard jolt and the immediate grunt from under the flapping canvas told him he'd connected.
He swung again, and this time used his knuckles, one-two-three, hitting in a blur, short powerful jabs. Foley punched outwards, trying to shove his way through the material. Ed pulled back just as a thick steel blade stabbed through it, curved down in a fast slash and ripped the canvas open in a four-foot shriek.
"Bastard." Foley's frothy snarl was almost lost in the flapping of the tarp and the strangle of his own rage. He slashed again, hauled himself through the hole in the fabric, swung the knife back at Ed. The point of it sliced air only inches from his face and Ed pulled back, quickly unspinning the rope from his hand to free it.
"I'll fuckin' fillet you." Foley lunged again and the tanker hit a pot-hole, jolted and one foot slipped from the frame. He scrabbled for purchase, still gripping the knife. Jack Lorne was clambering through the cabin window, wielding a big tyre iron. Foley got back up again and pushed past the flapping canvas shreds, digging the knife forward. Ed gripped the frame with both hands, flipped himself up onto the roof, ignoring the buffeting turbulence, and scrambled to the other side. He was faster and fitter than Foley, sure of his grip. The big thug came scrambling after him, round the back of the tanker. Ed braced, dug a heel into his face, two quick slams. Foley roared fury and frustration. His nose burst flat and the wind carried the blood round to both ears. But without hesitation, Foley slashed forward and caught Ed's calf, slicing his jeans to the knee, and digging a groove up the front of his shin. The pain burned like brief fire and was lost in the adrenaline surge.
Ed kicked again, another two quick ones, driving his heel in hard, catching him on the other eye. A plummy bruise began to match the other. Foley cursed, dripping blood and came swinging round on the off-side. Ed scrambled away, hand over hand, until he got half-way to the cabin.
Jack was up on the roof, crawling over the top, desperate to get at Foley. The trees were flashing past in a blur as Jed speeded up, sending up a buffeting spray from the wheels. He took the corner tight on the left, trying to give Ed as much room as he could, when a lorry came hurtling round in the opposite direction.
"Shit," Jed blurted, jerking at the big wheel. The other truck was way across the centre line. The other driver's face was a pale wide blur.
"Watch out!" Michael was thrown to the right as the tanker slammed right.
Jed felt it happen before anyone else did. Years of hammering round the stock track gave him the edge. The other lorry was past in a roar and a cloud of spray, scraping by with only inches between its front and the tanker's rear. He flicked a glance at the wing, saw Ed thrown outwards by centripetal force, with Foley close to him.
He spun the wheel again, forcing the tanker right, aiming to pull Ed back in and then he just ran out of road. The tight bend was only fifty yards ahead and he was on the wrong side. He pulled left yet again, braking sharply and that's when it happened. The whole rig slewed out, all wheels drifting on the road-slick. The whipping action of the weight on the tail dragged it round on the off-side.
Trees loomed dead ahead. Jed slammed the stick forward, gunned power to the drive as he felt the front and rear began to shut on each other like a jack-knife. The corner came zooming up, a tangle of trees and scrub.
"Hold on," Jed bawled. Michael grabbed the handle above the door. Up on top, Jack felt the slide and threw himself flat, grabbed for the whipping rope end and the side of the frame.
The rig slewed on... Jed gauged it, feeling for the weight, got the wheels to grip and just on the point of sideswiping the big oaks, he caught the line. Branches lashed at the windscreen, slammed against the wing and slapped the mirror right back against the door.
Ed Kane was catapulted right off the side and his weight tore the lashing from the canvas. He went tumbling though the air and disappeared into the trees.
A big branch caught Foley under his chin and flicked him off the side. The knife whirled out of his hand and thudded twenty feet high in the trunk of an oak tree to bury itself four inches deep in the solid wood.
Jack saw them disappear, tumbling through the foliage to crash somewhere out of sight in the dense undergrowth. The force of the turn dragged him right across the roof to the far side and his own feet were dangling out into space by the time Jed straightened up. He hauled himself forward, wind whipping his hair, and hammered on the roof of the cabin.
"Stop. Pull up."
A hundred and fifty yards along the Glen Murroch Road, Jed managed to slow down with a howl of rubber and a grind of protesting gears, pulled right in and got wheels up on the verge. He drove forward for another hundred, to where an access lane led away into the trees, steered up as far as he could until the tanker was out of sight of the road. Jack clambered down, face white.
"What happened?" Jed was just as pale.
"Ed got thrown off," he said. "Come on. He could be hurt."
Michael clambered down from the cabin, hands shaking.
"You stay here," Jack ordered. He turned and started running back through the scrub with Jed right on his heels and Donny close behind.
They reached the turn, scattering a couple of blackbirds rooting in the undergrowth and plunged through the clumps of honeysuckle clinging to the saplings just in from the edge. Jack still had the tyre iron, ready to use it on Foley if he put up a fight.
Apart from the sound of their passage, the trees were silent.
"Where did he come off?"
"Just on the turn." Jack pulled back out onto the road. Wide parallel lines curving from one side to this showed where Jed had braked, throwing the load into a slide. Twenty yards back from that, the lines took a sharp angle to the left, where he had managed to whip it out of a jack-knife.
"In here," Jack said, shoving back in. here two big oaks reached for the sky, trunks hoared with moss and overgrowth. He stopped and listened. Something moved, but a good few yards further in away from the road. He hefted the iron.
"Ed? Is that you?"
Jed looked at him. "Foley's got a blade."
"I know. Watch for him. Don't let him near you."
Something shivered the branches ahead of them and they barged through.
Somebody was on the ground, driven right down into the soft mud where a puddle had formed in a hollow. All they could see were a pair of legs and some of the back. The mud had splashed all over it, making recognition difficult. There was no movement at all.
Just to the left, the branches started to shake again.
"Ed, is that you?"
Jack turned and saw Foley caught in a thick hawthorn bush, his face jammed right up against the front of an oak tree, arms pulled back by the clutch of thorns. His eyes were wide open and his legs were kicking against the branches. Blood trickled from his nose.
"This must be Ed," Jack said, turning to the prone shape. "Come on."
The Donny was right beside him and without hesitation they grabbed the blackened legs.
"Watch, he could be hurt."
"He'll be hurt if we don't"
They hauled on the feet and Ed came slurping out of the soft mud. Jack let go and the pliant body oozed to the ground. Jack got to his knees, used a hand to wipe the mire from his face.
"Ed! Come on man." He jammed a finger inside his mouth and hooked out a plug of leaves and slime. "Come on!"
"Is he....?" Jed couldn't even say it. Jack didn't hear him. Instead, he flipped Ed round onto his face and thudded him hard between the shoulderblades with the flat of his hand. The force of it drove another black wad out of Ed's throat and his whole body jerked in a violent spasm. He coughed, spluttered and rolled over, gagging for breath.
"Jesus man. You scared the shit out of me." Jack moved forward, clapping Ed on the shoulder and just as he did so a movement at the side caught his eye and he turned in alarm.
Michael stood there, pallid and out of breath..
"Is he all right?"
"Jesus Mike. I told you to stay by the truck."
Jed got to his feet, turned to the left. Foley was still suspended in the hawthorn bush, still trapped by the thorns which had hooked into his denim jacket, but there wasn't a mark on his face apart from the blood from where Ed had kicked his nose and those two bruises. His legs still kicked violently against the branches, making the whole bush shudder and shake.
"Jack," Jed said. "You better come and see this."
"What is it?" Jack was wiping the thick mud off Ed's face, making big pale streaks. Ed was coughing, still winded.
Foley's eyes were rolled up so far all you could see was white. His neck was twisted at an odd angle. Meaty hands trembled with uncanny life.
"I think this one's a gonner."
Michael looked at Foley. A thick of saliva and blood drooled from the thug's slack mouth. His hair was unpeeled from the front to the back of his head, leaving an angry bloody patch.
"Oh god," Michael said in a stricken gasp. "He's been scalped."
He turned away and without warning at all he was violently and comprehensively sick in to the forest ferns.
Donny clapped him on the back, holding him steady until he was finished.
"No, man. That's just Wiggy's toupee."
Blair Bryden got the story of the big raid out on the news long before anybody got a sniff of it. He and his photographer were on the scene seconds after the heavy squad arrived with all sirens blaring and their squat black guns locked and loaded. This time Blair was smart. The money he'd made from spreading the whisky theft story around the networks had been well invested in a good handicam video and Brian Deacon captured all the action for the tea-time news.
Gus Ferguson's face was pixelated out when he was seen being hauled away by a couple of tough looking policemen, dragging his heels and hauling at the cuffs. The sound had to be damped right down for family listening.
The camera panned round the scene of devastation, the curved barrel-staves scattered in all directions, the demolished bay and the bullet-holes in the big blue doors. Customs officers and policemen were everywhere. It seemed as if every one of Levenford's finest had been roped in to get this done right.
Only one intact barrel remained in the middle of the yard. The one that Donny had made sure wouldn't explode.
"This is in customs jurisdiction." James Gilveray drew himself up to a height a good span shorter than Angus Baxter .
"That might be the case, once it's been identified. We'll let you know."
"No. If it was removed illegally from customs bond, it's up to us."
"As I said," Angus paused to light the pipe, making Gilveray wait for it, "we'll identify it in due course of time. Until we do, then you'll just have to cool your heels a little. It's evidence in a major police investigation."
"It was ours first."
"And you made a good job of keeping it," Angus said. With his highland accent it was hard to discern the dripping sarcasm, but Jimmy Balloch didn't miss it. "Now, you run along like a good wee exiseman, and let proper policemen do their job."
"You can't do that," Gilveray protested. He could see his own job whirling down the drain with the rest of the whisky.
"Constable Balloch, would you be good enough to escort Mr Gilveray off these premises. And get some tape set up. This is a scene of crime. We can't have every Tom, Dick and jumped up railway porter messing up the evidence."
"You can't do that," Gilveray was almost hysterical.
"Oh, and by the way," Angus said, blowing out a blue plume. "We'd like you to come down to the station as well. Everybody who had anything at all to do with this whisky, well, you're all witnesses. I'll need a full statement from you, if you don't mind."
The chief customs man looked as if he might suddenly burst a blood vessel.
Ferguson demanded to see his lawyer and Angus made him cool his heels too. The sawn-off shotgun was already in a plastic bag and on its way down to forensics. Ferguson had been stripped to the skin and now he was dressed in a papery one-piece that made him look like a pantomime polar bear. He sat and glowered as the forensic men swabbed his fingers for traces of powder.
Billy Butler had come down from Aitkenbar Distillery and identified the contents of the two remaining barrels. There was nothing left of the rest, all of it gone down the drain, leaving only a wide damp patch and a stench of raw whisky.
"It's the Glen Murroch, all right. What I can't understand, is why it's back in the barrels."
"Explain that to me."
"Every barrel is stencilled when it's filled. After a while you get to know the codes. These are definitely the barrels it's been stored in the for past twenty five years."
"And how would it get back in there?"
Billy shrugged. "I really don't know. Somebody must have put it there."
"Or maybe it never left the premises after all."
Angus turned to young Jimmy Balloch, whose good work had helped crack the case. "You can have the dubious privilege of inviting Alistair Sproat esquire down for a chat."
In the interview room, Ferguson's lawyer sat with his hands on his briefcase. Baxter kept his eyes on him as he spoke.
"Fergus Hector Ferguson, I am charging you with a number of offences. They are: possession of an illegal firearm; discharging a firearm within a built-up area, discharging a firearm with intent to wound, discharging a firearm with intent to murder, resisting arrest, assault, breach of the peace, theft of twenty five thousand gallons of whisky, conspiracy to defraud Her Majesty's Customs and Excise, and loitering with intent. None of these charges are in any particular order at the moment, are by no means comprehensive, and other charges will most definitely ensue. You don't have to say anything."
The big policeman read him his rights.
"Now, as I said, you don't have to say anything. But..."
"I never took that whisky. It's not mine."
"We know that," Baxter said easily. "It's most definitely not yours."
"I never saw it before."
The lawyer leant forward. "You don't have to say anything."
"Fuck off you." Ferguson turned to Baxter. "I've been fucking set up."
"Indeed. And how do you explain this paperwork? The hire of the pump which is in your yard. Your company. Your signature."
Ferguson stared at the document that was now sealed in a flat clear envelope.
"I never saw that before in my life."
"And I suppose you and Mr Cullen and the other one, Mr Foley, are not involved, or have no connection whatsoever, with this company?"
"FF Enterprises? I never heard of that in my life. It's a fucking set up."
"So what you are telling me is that some time this morning, some individual drove a lorry load of stolen whisky into your yard, with customs documents relating to the manufacture of said whisky in the glove compartment, with a pump used to steal the whisky, hired by a company with you named as a director, and paid for by a cheque from the same company, again with your signature. This person then left the premises without myself or any one of a number of officers witnessing his exit, leaving you and the others armed with a shotgun and a handgun. Which you discharged with criminal intent.That's the sum of it, am I right?"
"That's exactly it. We were set right up. I'll fucking kill that bastard."
"Which particular bastard would that be, Mr Ferguson?"
Over by the door, Jimmy Balloch chuckled. Angus looked at him and winked.
"None of your business. Once I'm out of here, though...."
"I think that should conclude this interview for the moment," he said. He checked the time and turned to the lawyer.
"You don't mind if I take your client downstairs? He won't be leaving today."
Seggs Cullen couldn't believe he was up on an attempted murder charge. His leg hurt like all hell and an x-ray later discovered a hairline fracture close to his pelvis. Any harder a hit with the keg mallet and he'd have been down for months. He vowed a hard and bloody revenge against Donny Watson. That was twice now he'd had a go at that ginger-headed Jessie and twice he'd come off distinctly second best.
Despite the evidence on the assault team's video tape, forensics made doubly sure and the swabs proved positive for powder burns on his fingers, showing he had indeed fired the gun he'd been carrying. The bullets dug out of the wood on the door were an exact ballistic match.
"So just to go though it again," Angus Baxter said. Cullen looked pitiful in the white overalls, pitiful and thick. The inspector was beginning to think his own tone of weary incredulity would be fixed permanently. "This person threw the gun to you?"
"Sure. He was blasting all over the place, then he threw it at me. Or he dropped it. I grabbed it, like. I mean, I was down in the deck and all that hooch was spilling out. What could I do? He'd been shooting all over the shop. I just turned it and fired at him. Christ knows what happened. He dropped. I plugged the bastard. It was self defence.
"So you admit you shot the gun."
"Sure I did. He shot at me."
"And this Mr....ah, Lorne. Where did he go."
"He went over the wall."
"Over a fifteen foot wall, with barbed wire at the top?"
Cullen nodded, so engrossed in the memory that he couldn't see how ridiculous it sounded. "Him and his brother. See, we'd snatched the boy, me and Wiggy. Just to put the frighteners on Lorne. He'd nicked the whisky, and Gus, well, he wanted it, like."
"So, you and Foley, you kidnapped, this young man?"
Cullen nodded enthusiastically. Ferguson had not been so stupid. He hadn't even mentioned Jack Lorne's name. He knew a kidnap charge and conspiracy would be even worse when piled on top of pulling a gun.
"So this Mr Lorne came in, rescued his brother from your clutches, gave you the whisky and the gun, scaled a wall, and disappeared."
"Got it in one, Mr McLeod. That was after that bastard Watson swiped me with a hammer."
"Oh, there were three of them now?"
"Nearly broke my fuckin' leg."
Jimmy Balloch jammed his knuckles in his mouth to hold back the explosion of laughter.
Alistair Sproat was beginning to panic. Baxter had stared at him long and hard, forcing him to drop his eyes, and that made him feel even more vulnerable.
"What puzzles me is this documentation." The inspector pushed the clear plastic wallet across the table. "It gives a list of the barrels which we found this morning, all from your company. It's on your Aitkenbar Distillery transfer sheets."
"I don't know anything about it."
"But the serial numbers on those barrels match those on the stock which was stolen."
"That can't be true. That was all decanted. The barrels were emptied into the tank. They'd be round at the cooperage."
"Indeed." Baxter seemed to be enjoying this. "So, can you explain how we were able to retrieve intact barrel, bearing the correct stencils, and containing the exact amount of your Glen Murroch as is stated in your own documents?"
"It can't be true," Sproat spluttered.
"Oh, I can assure you, it's true alright."
A bead of sweat started to swell at Sproat's thin hairline and quickly gathered enough weight to trickle down his temple. This was a complete nightmare. He'd been hit with the writ from the Charter 1315 tree huggers and his legal team had spent a whole day at court trying unsuccessfully to get it lifted. But somehow the protesters had raised enough money to hire Kerrigan Deane, one of the sharpest legal infighters in the game and the interdict still stuck. It would now take a fight to prove the big river harbour was distillery property, and until he did, he couldn't demolish the old buildings and reclaim the prime land. The developers had already been on the phone demanding an entry date and threatening to pull out of the deal. He was facing total ruin.
"I can't explain that. I'll have to go through all the stock sheets and transfers."
"No," Baxter said. "We'll go through all the stock sheets and transfers."
Back at the distillery, Sproat seemed to have shrunk into himself after his afternoon session with Baxter. Marge Burns hung up his coat and watched him slump in the chair behind the wide walnut desk. A couple of weeks ago he'd stood there in the hall, chest out and confident, and told all of his workers they'd be kicked out of their jobs. Now he looked as if he himself was getting very close to the end of the line.
She made him a coffee. Two days ago, she'd got into the files and duplicated all the necessary papers, just as Jack Lorne asked her to.
"Marge," Sproat said, voice hoarse. She bent over him, almost motherly, and gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat. He didn't even seem to notice.
"I have to get in touch with Michael Gabriel. It's urgent. Really urgent."
"I'll see if I can raise him," she said.
Jack Lorne had told her he'd do just that.
They had all stood there in stunned silence, while young Michael bent low and retched the mars bar into the woodferns.
Foley's suspended leg twitched and jerked. His eyes were wide and unfocussed, and he was definitely not breathing.
"Get him out of there," Jack said.
"I'm not touching him," Donny said vehemently. He looked as if he might suddenly lose his breakfast. "Is that normal?"
"What, the leg thing?"
"Yes, the leg thing."
"Sure. It'll stop after a while."
"How do you know?"
"I saw it in a movie."
"No, how do you know he's dead?"
Jack pushed into the bush, reached a hand to touch Foley's bull neck. The scraped-back wig made him look as if the entire skin on his head had been torn away, but the blood was just from the hawthorns and the rough oak bark. He pressed two fingers under the jaw, feeling for a pulse in the strangely warm neck. The body jerked again, and a little gasp of air blew from the lungs. He felt his own throat tighten.
"Nothing at all."
"He might be faking it," Donny insisted.
"No. He's a stiff," Ed said quietly. Only a few moments before he'd been kicking and punching the man in the tree, and then he'd been head first and up to his ribs in mud. He looked like he'd crawled through the trenches. "He hasn't blinked once."
"For a stiff he's doing a lot of jinking and jiving. Should we get somebody?"
"Who should we get?" Jack asked. Michael was pulling himself upright again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Jack gripped his shoulder and made him face the other way.
"An ambulance?" Jed suggested. "They could use those jump lead things."
"What for? He's dead. Probably broke his neck. A zillion volts won't do him any good. And we can't call the cops unless we want to hold out hands up and say it's a fair cop guv. You got me bang to rights. No. He's a goner and it's nobody's fault but his own. He shouldn't have snatched Mike and he shouldn't have hit you Don. And he shouldn't have come at us with a knife. The man was a cockroach, a disaster on feet, so I'm wasting no worries on him. Sooner or later he'd have had another go and somebody would have got really hurt. Worse maybe. Somebody could have got dead. One of us."
"So, what are we going to do?" Jed insisted. "Just leave him stuck up in a tree like the Christmas gargoyle?"
"No. Get one of the tarpaulins and wrap him up. We'll take him with us."
"Jesus man," Jed said. "What do we want to take it with us for? We get caught with a stiff, and we're in even bigger trouble."
Jack managed a cold laugh.
"Might as well get hung for a shit as a scam."