Chapter LXIV
LXIV
A loud SPANNNNGGGGG rang out as Natasha swung the sledgehammer – double-handed and overhead, now both hands were free – into her chain where it poked out of the concrete.
The links didn’t give way. The anchor didn’t split open and disgorge the bloody thing, because apparently Detective Sergeant Davis had made sure the bastard ran all the way down to the bottom of the shitting bucket.
So far, she’d managed to make a dent in the concrete, but only about the size of a small melon.
Digging the slivers out with the bent screwdriver every dozen blows or so.
Other than that: nothing had changed, except her legs wobbled more and more, her arms ached, every breath rasped its way down her burnt-gravel throat, and a monster-sized headache rampaged through her skull.
Howling at her every time the stupid sledgehammer hit.
SPANNNNGGGGG . . .
She staggered backwards a couple of paces. Clunked the sledgehammer’s head down on the barn floor, then sank to her haunches. Then onto her bum. Folding forwards till her thumping forehead rested against the hammer’s warm wooden handle.
Maybe it was time to accept this wasn’t working.
Try to find some way into the caravan instead.
Might be a phone in there?
Maybe the key to the bloody padlock at the back of her stainless-steel collar?
Or a hacksaw . . .
Because she’d been at this for Christ knew how long, and DS Davis wasn’t going to stay at work for ever.
And soon as he got home, she was well and truly fucked.