clomping along behind her in full ninja black.
The other one hung back with Logan, puffing and panting as they climbed. ‘Could we . . . we no’ have . . . have taken the . . . bloody lift? ’
And let Gungho Gertrude get there first? No thanks.
They burst out onto the next floor.
Chalmers was staring at the ward signs hanging from the ceiling. She did a slow three-sixty, before shrugging her shoulders and poking the uniform in the shoulder. ‘Well? ’
‘Must be the next floor.’
Sod.
Logan went back through the doors to the stairwell, pulling out his phone on the way and scrolling down to Steel’s name. It rang as they charged up the stairs. Bang – out into another bland green corridor that smelled of boiled socks and murdered cauliflower.
Steel finally picked up. ‘Oh, it’s you is it? Where’s my bloody paperwork? I told you I wanted it on my desk by lunchtime, no’ next sodding—’
‘We know who killed the necklacing victim.’
Pause. ‘You do? ’
One of the uniformed officers checked the ward signs, then marched off to the left. Chalmers hurried after him, Logan and Mr Too-Many-Pies bringing up the rear.
‘Guy Ferguson. He was in on the jewellery heist. Victim was probably one of his gang. He’s in ARI right now: we’re on our way.’
‘Buggering hell. . . It’s only been a day and a half, and I’ve already solved the thing. Keep telling everyone I’m a genius.’
‘You’ve already solved? ’ Logan barged through a set of double doors into another stretch of sickly green. ‘You’re as bad as bloody Chalmers.’
‘My intrepid leadership is what did it. I’m no’ saying you didn’t play your own small part—’
‘Do I get any sodding credit at all? ’
Up ahead, Chalmers and the other uniform were shouldering their way into a ward.
‘Laz, you’re big enough and ugly enough to know how this works: credit, like a happy wee party balloon, floats up the way. Blame, like jobbies, falls down.’ Rustling came from the other end of the phone. ‘Now, be a good boy and keep an eye on my party balloon while I hurry over there to collect it.’
Aye, right.
Logan held the phone out at arm’s length, then made a harsh hissing noise. ‘. . .ant hear what . . . signal . . . hello? Hello? ’
‘Don’t you sodding dare, Logan McRae, or I’ll ram my boot so far up—’
‘Isn’t. . . Hello? ’ He hung up.
Darth Vader’s theme tune burst out of the phone’s speaker, the word ‘STEEL’ flashing on the screen. He switched it off and jammed it back in his pocket. Served her right. He nodded to PC Pies. ‘OK, we’ll—’
The ward door banged open and three young men scrambled out, white trainers squeaking on the cracked terrazzo floor. They weren’t wearing identical tracksuits, but it wasn’t far off it, the tops pulled on over hoodies and baseball caps. One slammed into the wall, twisted round a couple of times, then sprinted straight towards Logan.
More squeaking as he scrabbled to a halt, eyes wide, staring at the huge constable. ‘Shite!’ And he was off again – accelerating the other way, following his mates.
Constable Pies lumbered into a run, giving chase.
Logan shoved open the ward door. The other uniform was feeling his way along the wall, one hand clutched tightly over his groin, sweat running down his pale face.
Chalmers appeared behind him, the front of her suit spattered with something brown.
Logan jabbed a finger at the PC. ‘You: get back there and secure the prisoner.’ Then glared at Chalmers. ‘Don’t just stand there dripping, get after them!’
The trail of destruction wasn’t that hard to follow – overturned carts, little old men shaking their walking sticks and bellowing obscenities, little old ladies shouting far worse.
Off in the distance, a pair of double doors boomed against the walls. More swearing.
DS Chalmers stuck her elbows out and her chin in, sprinting after them.
Logan skipped to a halt, then turned and charged through into the stairwell again, taking the steps two and three at a time before bursting out on the lower level. Where it was nice and quiet.
There were only two ways out of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary from here: double back towards the exit onto the side road opposite the auditorium, or keep going and out past Nuclear Medicine. Unless they just popped out through a fire door. . .
Too late to worry about that now.
He hurtled along the deserted corridor, passing empty beds and wheelchairs. An abandoned lunch pod.
An intern flattened himself against the wall, clutching a huge brown X-ray envelope to his chest, as Logan sprinted past.
Up the stairs at the end, heart pounding in his ears. Through the doors at the top and— PREGNANT LADY, PREGNANT LADY!
Logan’s shoes skidded on the patchwork of flooring and duct tape, stopping him just short of a wheelchair full of red-faced, teeth-gritted, soon-to-be motherhood, one leg encased in plaster to the hip. The man pushing the chair turned as Logan battered past, setting the shiny ‘CONGRATULATIONS!’ balloons spinning and bumping into each other.
‘Watch where you’re bloody going!’
And then BOOM – the door from the main wards smashed open and one of the tracksuit hoodies flailed into view, arms and legs windmilling as he tried to dodge a porter pushing a trolley heaped with metal bowls and trays. It didn’t work. The hoodie careened straight into him, the pair of them landing in a tangle of limbs as the trolley’s contents clanged and clattered across the cracked floor.
Then he was up on his feet again, lunging for the exit.
Only Logan got there first.
He slammed into the hoodie’s side, sending them both crashing into the automatic doors before they could open. They hit the rubber matting in a tangle of arms and legs.
‘Gerroffus, gerroffus!’
The door hissed open.
‘Police!’ Logan grabbed a handful of hood and hauled. ‘Hold still, you wee shite. . .’
‘Aaaagh, gerroffus!’
Something thumped into Logan’s side. The hoodie put his head down and threw another punch.
Right in the armpit. Buggering hell, that stung.
Logan let go of the hood and snatched at the other arm – fumbling till he got a good hold on the wrist, then bent it over on itself, forcing the palm towards the forearm and keeping it there.
‘AAAAAAAAAGH! GERROFFUS!’
Another bang and the door burst open again: another tracksuit hoodie. This one hurdled the porter’s overturned trolley, clearing it by at least two feet, going like the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.
BOOM – DS Chalmers charged through after him. Mouth open, sharp little teeth bared. ‘COME BACK HERE!’
Hoodie Number One landed another punch. ‘Gerroffus!’
Logan gave the wrist one final twist. . . And something inside went ‘pop’.
A moment’s stillness, then he exploded, screaming, legs thrashing.
His mate leapt over them and out through the door into the sunlight. Chalmers wasn’t quite so lucky. A flailing leg caught her mid-leap and she