Devil Take The Hindmost

Chapter Nineteen

I woke around dawn to the twin sounds of trilling birdsong in a dozen avian languages, uplifting and joyful, and the rhythmical drumbeat thumping of fists against a heavy bag which I found much less so.

I groaned and felt my face and ribs.

Much of the swelling of the previous night had drained away, and, though bruised, I was able to count each rib bone without the tell-tale stabbing needle-like pain in my lungs indicating a crack or a break.

Ty had talked me out of going to speak with Finn Atkins last night on the very sound basis his mother was not pleased to see us at the best of times and arriving at 3 o'clock in the morning with a face like a butcher's window seemed like a plan doomed to fail.

Instead, he had ushered me up into the hayloft with the statement that tomorrow was another day. And it was. One which he seemed to have started pretty early, judging by the pitch and frequency of the squeaks and groans of the rope and joist from which the punch bag swung outside the barn doors.

I pulled on shorts and wriggled my way into a faded Megadeth T-shirt, initially intending to join Ty on the bag, but having second thoughts when the acts of dressing and then opening the heavy oak panels out onto the farmyard caused searing starburst of pain across my core and side.

Outside I was met by the familiar sight of Edge in a once navy sleeveless vest, now black and slick with sweat.

I suspected he was taking out the frustration of missing out on the preceding night's third opponent on the bag. He wasn't toying with it, just landing a flurry of blows causing the leather to be imprinted with a series of fist shaped indentations.

Any thoughts that Ty might be unhappy, however, where soon put to bed by the broad smile on his face. This expression was in stark contrast to the stony look of disdain firmly etched upon the second person waiting out in the yard.

Detective Constable Cat Dee was sitting on an upturned tea crate, observing Ty with the kind of ill-disguised distaste most people reserve for queue jumpers and trainee street mimes.

"Well, now," the policewoman scowled as she looked over my battered and dishevelled appearance. "Would you care to make a statement this time?"

"Nope," I answered jauntily, forcing the surprise off my face with the most plastic of smiles.

"I told her you would say that," Ty chimed in without breaking a five-punch combination.

"He did," Cat confirmed, unimpressed by what I thought to be a fine display of the sweet science. "Yet, he had bruised knuckles before he began assaulting that heavy bag, and you," she pointed at me "look like you were set on fire and put out with a pillowcase full of doorknobs."

Ty paused to look down at his hands, raw and slightly bloody from impacts with the bag, and shrugged.

"In addition," Cat expounded, "your shaved gorilla here seems to think you two have solved the case!" she snorted derisively by way of punctuation.

I shook my head slowly.

"Tell her, Satch!"

I increased the speed and forcefulness of my head shaking.

"Ty ..." I started.

"Monty the Cardboard King has been running a protection racket, and his thugs have been over enthusiastically supporting the endeavour by way of butchering the occasional recalcitrant customer. Do I have that right?"

Cat raised an eyebrow at Edge. "Except, it isn't what happened to Darren Atkins at all, is it?" she stated, squinting at me with her inscrutable burnt nut eyes.