22 Dead Little Bodies

1

Oh dear God... it was a long way down.

Logan shuffled along the damp concrete ledge.

His left shoe skidded on something, wheeching out over the gaping drop. ‘Aaagh...’

He grabbed at the handrail, heart thumping as the carrier bag from Markies spiralled away, down... down... down... fluttering like a green plastic bat on a suicide run.

All the saliva disappeared from his mouth, leaving the taste of old batteries behind.

Thump.

The bag battered into the cobbled street: prawn-and-mayonnaise sandwich exploding, the bottle of Coke spraying foam out at the circle of onlookers. The ones nearest danced back a couple of paces, out of reach of the sticky brown foam. Then stared up at him again: a circle of pale faces and open mouths. Waiting.

One or two of them had their mobile phones out, filming. Probably hoping for something horrible to happen so they could post it on YouTube.

Had to be at least sixty feet down.

Why couldn’t jumpers leap off bungalows? Why did the selfish sods always threaten to throw themselves off bloody huge buildings?

Logan inched closer to the man standing at the far edge of the roof. ‘You...’ He cleared his throat, but it didn’t shift the taste. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

The man didn’t look around. One hand gripped the railing beside him, the skin stained dark red. Blood. It spread up his sleeve — turning the grey suit jacket almost black.

His other hand was just as bad. The sticky scarlet fingers were curled around a carving knife, the blade glinting against the pale grey sky. Black handle, eight-inch blade, the metal streaked with more red.

Great.

Because what was the point of slitting your wrists in the privacy of your own home when you could do it on top of a dirty big building in the east end of Aberdeen instead? With a nice big audience to watch you jump.

And it was a long way down.

Logan dragged his eyes away from the slick cobblestones. ‘It isn’t worth it.’

Another shrug. Mr Suicide’s voice trembled, not much more than a broken whisper. ‘How could she do that?’

‘Why don’t you put down the knife and come back inside?’

The distant wail of a siren cut through the drab afternoon.

‘Knife...?’ He turned his head and frowned. Little pointy nose, receding hairline, thin face, watery eyes lurking above bruise-coloured bags. A streak of dried blood across his forehead. The front of his shirt was soaked through with it, sticking to his pigeon chest. The sour stink of hot copper and rotting onions radiated out of him like tendrils.

Logan inched closer. ‘Put it down, and we can go inside and talk about it, OK?’

He looked down at the carving knife in his hand, eyes narrowing, forehead creasing. As if he’d never seen it before. ‘Oh...’

‘What’s your name?’

‘John.’

‘OK, John: I’m Logan, and I’m going to— Bollocks.’ His phone rang deep in his pocket, blaring out the Imperial March from Star Wars. He fumbled it out with one hand, the other still wrapped tightly around the railing. ‘What?’

A smoky, gravelly voice burst from the earpiece. ‘Where the hell are you?’ Detective Chief Inspector Steel. She sniffed. ‘Supposed to be—’

‘I’m kinda busy right now...’

‘I don’t care if you’re having a foursome with Doris Day, Natalie Portman, and a jar of Nutella — I’m hungry. Where’s my sodding lunch?’

‘I’m busy.’ He held the phone against his chest. ‘What’s your last name, John?’

‘What does it matter?’ John went back to staring at the ground, blood dripping from his fingertips. ‘Skinner. John Skinner.’

‘Right.’ Back to the phone, keeping his voice down. ‘Run a PNC check on a John Skinner, IC-one male, mid-thirties. I need—’

‘Do I look like your mum? Lunch, lunch, lunch, lunch—’

For God’s sake.

‘Just for once, can you think about someone other than your sodding self?’ Logan pulled on a smile for the blood-soaked man teetering on the edge of the roof. ‘Sorry, my boss is a bit...’ He curled his lip. ‘Well, you know.’

‘And another thing — how come you’ve no’ filled out the overtime returns yet? You got any idea—’

‘I’m busy.’ He thumbed the off button and stuck the phone back in his pocket. ‘Come on, John, put the knife down. It’ll be OK.’

‘No.’ John shook his head, wiped a hand across his glistening eyes, leaving a thick streak of scarlet behind, like warpaint. ‘No it won’t.’ He held the knife out and dropped it.

The blade tumbled through the air then clattered against the cobbled street below.

A uniformed PC turned up, pushing the crowd back, widening the semicircle, looking up over her shoulder and talking into her airwave handset. With any luck there’d be a trained suicide negotiator on scene in a couple of minutes. And maybe the fire brigade with one of those big inflatable mattress things in case the negotiator didn’t work. And this would all be someone else’s problem.

‘It’ll never be OK again.’ John let go of the railing. ‘How could it?’

‘Don’t do anything you’ll—’

‘I’m sorry.’ He crouched, leaned backwards... then jumped, springing out from the roof. Eyes closed.

‘NO!’ Logan lunged, hand grasping the air where John Skinner wasn’t any more.

Someone down there screamed.

John Skinner’s suit jacket snapped and fluttered in the wind, arms windmilling, legs thrashing all the way down. Getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller, and THUMP.

A wet crunch. A spray of blood.

Body all twisted and broken, bright red seeping out onto the dark grey cobblestones. More screaming.

Logan crumpled back against the railing, holding on tight, and peered over the edge.

The ring of bystanders had flinched away as John Skinner hit, but now they were creeping closer again, phones held high to get a decent view over the heads of their fellow ghouls.

The wailing siren got closer, then a patrol car skidded to a halt and four officers clambered out. Pushed their way through the amateur film crew. Then stood there staring at what was left of John Skinner.

Logan’s mobile burst into the Imperial March again. Steel calling with the PNC check on their victim. He pulled the phone out. Pressed the button. ‘You’re too late.’

‘Aye, see when I said, “Get your bumhole back here”, I meant now. No’ tomorrow, no’ in a fortnight: now. Sodding starving here.’

2

‘Where the hell have you been?’ DCI Steel had commandeered his seat, slouching there with both feet up on his desk. A wrinkled wreck in a wrinkled suit, with a napkin tucked into the collar of her blue silk shirt. Tomato sauce smeared on either side of her mouth; the smoky scent of bacon thick in the air. She took another bite of the buttie in her hand, talking and chewing at the same time. ‘Could’ve starved to death waiting for you.’

She’d made some sort of effort with her hair today — possibly with a garden strimmer. It stuck out at random angles, grey showing through in a thick line at the roots.

Logan dumped his coat on the hook beside the door. ‘Feel free to sod off soon as you like.’

She swallowed. Pointed. ‘You owe me a smoked-ham-and-mustard sandwich and a bottle of Coke. And change from a fiver.’

‘They didn’t have ham, so I got you prawn instead.’ He scrubbed a hand over his face, then dug in his pockets. Dumped a couple of pound coins on the desk. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any point asking you to get out of my seat?’

‘Nope. Come on: make with the lunch.’

He settled into the visitor’s chair, and slumped back, arms dangling loose at his sides. Frowning up at the ceiling. ‘He’s dead, by the way. In case you cared.’

‘I’m still no’ seeing any sandwiches here, Laz.’

‘Ambulance crew say it’d be pretty much instantaneous. Flattened his skull like stamping on a cardboard box.’

‘What about crisps?’

‘Got you salt-and-vinegar. I slipped on the rooftop, almost went over myself. Lunch hit the deck instead of me. You can fight the seagulls for it.’ He closed his eyes. ‘They’re probably busy eating leftover bits of John Skinner anyway.’

She sighed. ‘See when they call it “talking a jumper down”, they mean by the stairs, no’ the quick way.’

‘Funny.’ He put both hands over his face. ‘That’s really, really funny.’

‘Laz, you know I love you like a retarded wee brother, but it’s time to pull up your frilly man-panties and get over it.’ Steel’s voice softened. ‘People jump off things. They go splat. It happens. Nothing personal. Wasn’t your fault.’

Raised voices thundered past in the corridor outside, something about football and beer.

‘So...’ A click, then a sooking noise. ‘You got anything exciting on?’

He let his hands fall away. ‘It’s CID. There’s never anything exciting on.’

Steel made a figure of eight with the e-cigarette in her hand. ‘What did Aunty Roberta tell you?’

‘Don’t, OK? I’m not—’

‘“Come join the MIT,” I said. “These new specialist teams will hoover up all the interesting cases,” I said. “All you’ll be left with is the GED crap no one else wants to do,” I said. “It won’t be like it was when we were Grampian Police,” I said. But would you listen?’

A rap on the door, then Constable Guthrie stuck his head in. With his pale eyebrows, blond hair, and pink eyes he looked like a slightly startled rabbit. ‘Sorry, Guv, but I need a word. Inspector?’

Steel popped the fake cigarette between her teeth. ‘What?’

‘Er, not you, Guv — DI McRae.’

She sniffed. ‘No’ good enough for you, am I?’

‘It... I...’ He pulled his mouth into a dead-fish pout. Then held out a sheet of A4 towards Logan. ‘Did that PNC check you wanted: John Skinner, fourteen Buchanan Street, Kincorth. Married, two kids. Conviction for speeding eighteen months ago. Drives a dark blue BMW M5, registration number X—’

‘Who cares what he drives?’ Logan slumped further in his seat. ‘We’re not setting up a lookout request, Constable. We know fine well where he is.’

Pink bloomed on Guthrie’s cheeks. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ He shuffled his feet a bit. ‘Anyway, couple of people at the scene got the whole thing on their phones, you want to see the footage?’

‘I caught the live show, I really don’t need to see the action replay.’

‘Oh...’

Steel polished off the last of her buttie, then sooked the sauce and flour off her fingers. ‘Well, if you minions of CID will forgive me, I’ve got to go do some proper grown-up police work. Got a serial rapist on the books.’ She stood and stretched, arms up, exposing a semicircle of pale stomach. Then slumped a bit. Had a scratch at one boob. ‘Still hungry though.’

Guthrie pointed at his own cheek. ‘You’ve got tomato sauce, right here.’

‘Thanks.’ She wiped it off with a thumb. ‘And as a reward, you can get your pasty backside over to Buchanan Street, let the Merry Widow know her bloke’s died of cobblestone poisoning. Offer her a shoulder to cry on — perchance a quickie, or kneetrembler up against the tumble drier — then wheech her down the mortuary to ID the body.’

Logan gritted his teeth. ‘Do you have to be so bloody—’

‘Oh come off it, Laz — the boy Skinner topped himself, no one made him do it. He jumped, leaving a wife and two wee kiddies to cope with the sticky aftermath. What kind of selfish scumbag does that?’ Steel hoiked up her trousers. ‘It’s always some poor cow that’s left picking up the pieces.’

And that’s exactly what the Scenes Examination Branch had to do. Pick up the pieces before the seagulls got their beaks into what was left spread across the cobbles of Exchequer Row.

‘... so I wondered if there was any news.’ Logan paused in the middle of the corridor, one hand on the door through to the main CID office.

A sigh came from the mobile’s earpiece. ‘I’m sorry, Mr McRae, but Mr and Mrs Moore feel it’s not really big enough for them.’

‘Oh.’ His shoulders dipped an inch. He cleared his throat. ‘Any other viewings coming up?’

‘Sorry. Mrs Denis called to cancel Wednesday. They’ve bought a new-build out by Inverurie instead. The market isn’t all that buoyant for one-bedroom flats right now.’

Great. Just — sodding — great.

‘Yeah, thanks anyway.’ The line went dead and he slipped the phone back in his pocket.

Eighteen months, and they’d achieved exactly bugger all.

He deflated a little further, then thunked his forehead off the CID door three times.

No reply. So Logan let himself in.

The main CID office wasn’t anywhere near as big as the one they’d shared before the change to Police Scotland: no big fancy flatscreen TV for briefings; no sink for making tea and coffee; no vending machine full of crisps, chocolate, and energy drinks. Instead, it was barely large enough to squeeze in four desks — one on each wall — and a pair of whiteboards covered in low-level crimes and lower-level criminals. A motley patchwork of manky carpet tiles clung to the concrete floor. Ceiling tiles stained like a toddler’s nappy. Ancient computers with flickering screens.

Even the filing cabinets looked depressed.

Logan wandered over to one of them and checked the kettle perched on top: half empty. He stuck it on to boil. ‘Where’s everyone?’

DS Baird looked up from her screen. Pulled the earbuds out. ‘Sorry, Guv?’ Her short blonde hair formed random spikes on top of a rectangular face with heavy eyebrows. A pair of thick-framed glasses in black magnified her eyes to twice the size they should have been. Her smile was like a wee shiny gift. ‘Coffee with two, if you’re making.’

He pulled two mugs out of the top drawer. ‘Where’s Stoney and Wheezy Doug?’

She pointed at one of the empty desks. ‘DC “couldn’t find his own backside with both hands” Stone’s off trying to find who’s been vandalizing cars in Mannofield, and DC “just as useless” Andrews is off taking witness statements for that fire-raising at the Garthdee Asda.’

‘You going to forgive them any time soon?’

‘No. You need something?’

‘Just interested.’ The kettle rumbled to a boil.

‘Hear you caught a jumper this afternoon.’ Creases appeared between those thick black eyebrows. ‘Well, not “caught” caught, but you know what I mean.’

‘Guthrie’s delivering the death message.’

A nod. ‘I hate doing suicides. Don’t mind telling someone their loved one’s died in a car crash, or an accident, or they’ve been stabbed, but suicides...’ Baird shuddered. ‘It’s the look of betrayal, you know?’

Logan dug a spoon into the coffee, breaking the kitty-litter clumps back into their individual grains. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to put damp spoons in the jar?’

‘Like you’re making it up to spite them.’ A sigh. ‘Can’t really blame the family, though, can you?’

The office phone rang, and she picked it up. ‘CID: DS Baird.’ Then her expression curdled. ‘Not again... Really?... Uh-huh...’

Two sugars in one mug, milk in the other.

‘No. I can’t... He’s not here.’

Logan put the black coffee on her desk. She looked up and gave him a grimace in return. Put the phone against her chest, smothering the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, Guv, but Mrs Black’s downstairs again.’

He took a sip of his own coffee. ‘Which brave soul doth possess the Nutter Spoon of Doom upon this dark day?’

Baird scooted her chair over to DC Andrews’s desk and pulled a wooden spoon from the top drawer. It had a photo of a woman’s face stuck to the bowl end: grey hair, squinty eyes, long nose, mouth stretched out and down, as if she’d taken a bite out of something foul.

‘Ooh...’ Logan sooked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Looks like it’s not your lucky day, Denise, for whomever wields the Nutter Spoon of Doom must—’

‘I’m on the no-go list. Apparently I’m in collusion with McLennan Homes and the Planning Department to launder drug money for the Taliban.’ She held out the spoon with its glowering stuck-on face. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

Logan backed away from it. ‘Maybe someone in uniform could—’

‘They’re all banned from talking to her. She’s got complaints in against everyone else.’

‘Everyone?’

‘Yes, but...’ Baird waggled the spoon at him. ‘Maybe she’ll like you?’

Logan took the Nutter Spoon of Doom. It was only a little bit of wood with a photo Sellotaped to the end, but it felt as if it was carved from lead.

Oh joy.

3

Logan stopped outside the visiting-room door. Took a deep breath. Didn’t open it.

The reception area was quiet. A bored PC slumped behind the bulletproof glass that topped the curved desk, poking away at a smartphone. Posters clarted the walls, warning against drug farms in cul-de-sacs and walking home alone at night. An information point cycled through views of Aberdeen. And a strange smell of mouldy cheese permeated the room.

No point putting it off any longer.

He shifted his grip on the thick manila folder tucked under his arm, opened the door, and stepped inside. It wasn’t much bigger than a cupboard, with a couple of filing cabinets on one wall and a small opaque window that didn’t really overlook the rear-podium car park.

Mrs Black was sitting on the other side of the small table that took up most of the available space. She narrowed her eyes, tugged at the hem of her skirt, and sniffed — turning that long nose up towards the ceiling. Her short grey hair shimmered as if it had been conditioned within an inch of its existence. Then the glasses came out of the bag clutched to her chest. Slipped on with all the pomp and circumstance of a royal wedding. Voice clipped and dark. ‘I have been waiting here for nearly an hour.’

Logan suppressed a sigh. Did his best to keep his voice polite and neutral. ‘Mrs Black.’ Stepped inside and closed the visiting-room door. ‘I’m sorry if my trying to catch criminals and keep the streets safe has inconvenienced you in any way.’

Her lips pursed. Pause. Two. Three. Four. ‘He’s doing it again.’

Of course he is.

Logan thumped the manila folder down on the little table. It was about as thick as a house brick, bulging with paperwork; a red elastic band wrapped around it to keep everything in. Then he settled into the room’s remaining seat and took out his notebook. ‘Right, we’d better take it from the beginning. You said, “He’s doing it again.” Who is?’

Mrs Black folded her arms across her chest and scowled. ‘You know very well, “Who”.’ A small shudder. ‘Justin Robson.’ The name came out as if it tasted of sick. ‘He’s... He’s covering my cherry tree with... dog mess.’

‘Dog mess.’

‘That’s right: dog mess. I want him arrested.’

Logan tapped his pen against the folder. ‘And you’ve seen him doing it?’

‘Of course not. He’s too careful for that. Does it in the middle of the night when Mr Black and I are sleeping.’ Another shudder. ‘Up till all hours listening to that horrible rap music of his, with all the swearing and violence. I’ve complained to the council, but do they do anything? Of course they don’t.’

‘You do know that we can’t arrest someone without proof, don’t you?’

Both hands slapped down on the desk. ‘You know he did it. I know he did it. Ever since I did my public duty and reported him he’s been completely intolerable.’

‘Ah yes.’ Logan removed the elastic band and opened the folder. Took out the top chunk of paperwork. ‘Here we are. On the thirteenth of April, two years ago, you claimed to have seen Mr Robson smoking cannabis in the garden outside his house.’

The nose went up again. ‘And did anyone arrest him for it? Of course they didn’t.’

‘This isn’t a totalitarian state, we can’t just—’

‘Are you going to arrest him or not?’

‘We need evidence before—’

She jabbed the desk with a finger. ‘I had thought you might be different. That you’d be an honest policeman for a change, unlike the rest of these corrupt—’

‘Now hold on, that’s—’

‘—clearly in the pocket of drug dealers and pornographers!’

Logan shuffled his chair back from the table an inch. ‘Pornographers?’

‘Justin Robson posted an obscene publication through my door; a magazine full of women performing the most revolting acts.’ Her mouth puckered like a chicken’s bum. A sniff. ‘Mr Black had to burn it in the back garden. Well, it’s not as if we could’ve put it in the recycling, what would the binmen think?’

‘Mrs Black, I can assure you that neither I, nor any of my team are being paid off by drug dealers or pornographers. We can’t arrest Mr Robson for smoking marijuana two years ago, because there’s no evidence.’

She hissed a breath out through that long raised nose. ‘I saw him with my own eyes!’

‘I see.’ Logan wrote that down in his notebook. ‘And how did you determine that what he was smoking was actually marijuana? Did you perform a chemical analysis on the roach? Did you see him roll it?’

‘Don’t be facetious.’

‘I’m not being facetious, I’m trying to understand why you think he was smoking—’

‘You’re not going to do anything about him putting dog mess on my cherry tree, are you? You’re going to sit there and do nothing, because you’re as corrupt as all the rest.’

Slow, calm breaths.

Logan opened the folder and pulled out the thick wad of paperwork. ‘Mrs Black, in the last two years, you’ve made five hundred and seventeen complaints against Mr Robson; the local council; the Scottish Government; the Prince of Wales; Jimmy Shand; Ewan McGregor; the whole Westminster cabinet; our local MP, MSP, and MEP; and nearly every police officer in Aberdeen Division.’

‘I have a moral obligation, and a right, to report corruption wherever I find it!’

‘OK.’ He reached beneath the desk and pulled a fresh complaint form from the bottom of the pile. Placed it in front of her. ‘If you’d like to report me for taking money from drug dealers and pornographers, you should speak to someone from Professional Standards. I can give you their number.’

She curled her top lip. ‘What makes you think they’re not all corrupt too?’

Logan pushed through the double doors, out onto the rear-podium car park. The bulk of Divisional Headquarters formed walls of concrete and glass on three sides, the back of the next street over closing the gap, turning it into a sun trap. Which meant the pool car was like a sodding oven when he unlocked the door.

Then froze.

Scowled.

Leaned back against the bonnet and crossed his arms as a dented brown Vauxhall spluttered its way up the ramp and into the parking space opposite.

The driver gave Logan a smile and a wave as he climbed out into the sunshine. Broad face with ruddy cheeks, no neck, greying hair that wasn’t as fond of his head as it had been twenty years ago. A proper farmer’s face. ‘Fine day, the day, Guv. Do—’

‘Wheezy! Where the bloody hell have you been?’

DC Andrews’s mouth clicked shut, then his eyebrows peaked in the middle. ‘I’ve been taking witness—’

‘I had to interview Marion Sodding Black!’

‘It’s not my fault, I wasn’t even here!’ He cleared his throat. Coughed. Covered his mouth and hacked out a couple of barks that ended with a glob of phlegm being spat against the tarmac. Leaving his ruddy farmer’s face red and swollen. ‘Gah...’ Deep, groaning breaths.

Then Logan closed his eyes. Counted to three. Wheezy was right — it wasn’t his fault he was out working when Mrs Black turned up. ‘OK. I’m sorry. That was unfair.’ He straightened his jacket. ‘Did you find anything out at Garthdee?’

‘Oh, aye.’ Wheezy Doug locked his pool car. ‘Fiver says it was Bobby Greig. Security camera’s didn’t get his face, but I’d recognize that manky BMX bike of his anywhere.’

‘Good. That’s good.’ Logan went for an innocent smile. ‘So you’re free right now?’

‘As I can be. Need to get a search warrant and...’ Wheezy Doug pulled his chin in, giving himself a ripple of neck wrinkles. Narrowed his eyes. ‘Wait a minute: why?’

‘Oh, just asking.’

He backed off a pace. ‘No you’re not. You’ve got something horrible needs doing, don’t you?’

‘Me? No. Not a bit of it. I want you to go visit Pitmedden Court for me. Take a look at a cherry tree for me.’

Wheezy Doug’s face unclenched. ‘Oh, that’s OK then. Thought for a moment there you...’ And then it was back again. ‘Pitmedden Court? Gah...’ He covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Noooooo... It’s her, isn’t it?’

The innocent smile turned into a grin. ‘Mrs Black says her neighbour’s sticking dog poo in her tree. And you’re officially in possession of the Nutter Spoon of Doom.’

‘Mrs Black’s a pain in the hoop.’

‘Yup, but right now she’s your pain. Now get your hoop in gear and go check out her tree.’

Logan tucked his phone between his ear and his shoulder, then locked the pool car’s door. ‘Nah, same nonsense as usual. Everyone’s corrupt. Everyone’s out to get her. Her neighbour’s hanging bags of dog crap in her cherry tree.’

On the other end, DS Baird groaned. ‘Dog crap? I must’ve missed that issue of Better Homes and Gardens. Stoney’s back — says are you coming to the pub after work?’

Quick check of the watch: five to four.

‘Depends how long I am here. Yeah. Well, probably.’

Wind rustled through the thick green crown of a sycamore tree, dropping helicopter seed pods onto the pool car’s bonnet to lie amongst the dappled sunlight. Buchanan Street’s grey terraces faced each other across a short stretch of divoted tarmac. Eight houses on each side in utilitarian granite, unadorned by anything fancier than UPVC windows and doors. Most of the gardens had been converted into off-street parking, bordered by knee-high walls and the occasional browning hedge.

Number Fourteen’s parking area was empty, but a useless Police Constable and his patrol car idled outside — blocking the drive.

The house didn’t look any different to its neighbours. As if nothing had happened. As if the guy who lived there hadn’t jumped off the casino roof and splattered himself across Exchequer Row.

Logan hung up and wandered over to the patrol car. Knocked on the driver’s window.

Sitting behind the wheel, PC Guthrie gave a little squeak and sat bolt upright, stuffing a magazine into the footwell before Logan could get a good look at it. He turned and hauled on a pained smile, pink blooming on his cheeks as he buzzed down the window. ‘Sorry, Guv. Frightened the life out of me.’

Logan leaned on the roof of the car, looming through the open window. ‘That better not have been porn, Sunshine, or I swear to God...’

The blush deepened. ‘Porn? No. No, course not.’ He cleared his throat then grabbed his hat and climbed out into the afternoon. ‘I’ve been round all the neighbours: no one’s seen Mrs Skinner since she took the kids to school this morning.’

Logan turned on the spot. Sixteen houses, all crushed together. ‘It’s Saturday, why was she taking the kids to school?’

‘Ballet classes for the wee boy, and maths club for the girl. He’s six, she’s seven.’

Made sense. ‘You tried the school?’

A shrug. ‘Closes at two on a Saturday.’

Well, it wasn’t as if they’d still be there anyway. Not now. ‘OK. Any of the neighbours got a contact number for Mrs Skinner?’

Guthrie pulled out his notepad and flicked through to the marker. Passed it over. ‘Mobile: goes straight to voicemail.’

Logan tried it anyway.

Click. ‘Hello, this is Emma, I can’t do the phone thing right now, so make messages after the bleep.’ Beeeeeep.

‘Mrs Skinner, this is Detective Inspector Logan McRae of Police Scotland. Can you give me a call when you get this, please? You can get back to me on this number, or call one-zero-one and ask them to put you through. Thanks.’ He hung up. Put his phone away.

Guthrie sniffed, then slid the back of a finger underneath his nose, as if trying to catch a drip. ‘Shame we can’t deliver the death message by text, isn’t it?’

Logan stared at him, until the blush came back. ‘For that little moment of compassion, you can stay here till she comes home.’

His shoulders dipped. ‘Guv.’

‘And stop reading porn in the patrol car!’

Logan pulled in to the kerb and swore his mobile phone out of his pocket. Checked the display. No idea who the number belonged to. Might be Mrs Skinner calling back?

He hit the button. ‘DI McRae.’

Harlaw playing fields lay flat and green behind their high wire fence. Three cricket matches, and a game of rugby, grunting and thwacking away in the afternoon light.

Logan tried again. ‘Hello?’

A familiar dark, clipped female voice sounded in his ear: ‘You were supposed to be investigating my tree.’

‘Mrs Black.’ Oh joy.

‘I’ll be putting in a formal complaint. I know my rights! You have to—’

‘We are investigating, Mrs Black.’ Keep it calm and level. No shouting. No swearing or telling her what she can do with her sodding complaints. Don’t sigh. ‘I’ve sent an officer round there. He will be taking statements. He will be photographing any evidence. OK?’ You vile, rancid, old battle-axe.

Silence.

Outside, a scruffy man with a beard down to the middle of his chest and hair like a diseased scarecrow lurched along the pavement. Scruffy overcoat, suit trousers, hiking boots, trilby hat. Not the best fashion statement in the world.

A carrier bag swung from one hand, like a pendulum. Something heavy in there. And from the look of him, it was probably cheap and very alcoholic.

Then Mrs Black was back. ‘That man is making my life a living hell and you’re doing nothing to prevent it. What about my human rights? I demand you do something!’

Seriously?

Deep breath. ‘We are doing something. We’re investigating.’ Logan coiled his other hand around the steering wheel. Strangling it. ‘Mrs Black, if Mr Robson’s done something illegal under Scottish law, we’ll arrest him. Putting dog mess in someone’s tree is antisocial, but it isn’t illegal.’

‘Of course it’s illegal! How could it not be illegal?’ She was getting louder and shriller. ‘I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t... Mr Black...’ A deep breath. ‘It’s the law. He’s harassing me. He’s putting dog mess in my cherry tree!’

Captain Scruffy stumbled into the path of a large woman wheeling a pushchair along the pavement.

She flinched to a halt, detoured around him. Shuddering as she marched off.

He wobbled in place, plastic bag clutched to his chest, yelling slurred obscenities after her.

‘I demand you arrest that Robson creature!’

‘Mrs Black, this is a civil matter, not a criminal one. You need to get yourself a lawyer and sue him.’

‘Why should I spend all that money on a lawyer, when it’s your job to arrest him? I demand you do your job!’

Captain Scruffy shook his fist at the escaping woman. The motion sent him off again: one step to the right. One to the left. Two to the right. And on his backside in three, two...

‘Are you even listening to me?’

The next stagger took him backwards, off the kerb and into the traffic.

Sodding hell.

A blare of horns. An Audi estate swerved, barely missing him with its front bumper. A Range Rover slammed on its brakes.

Captain Scruffy pirouetted, carrier bag swinging out with the motion.

BANG. A bright-orange Mini caught the bag, right on the bonnet, spinning him around and bouncing him off the windscreen. Sending him clattering to the tarmac like a bag of dirty laundry.

‘Why won’t anyone there take me seriously? I pay my taxes! I have rights! How dare you ignore me!’

Logan clicked off his seatbelt.

‘I have to go.’

‘Don’t you dare hang up on me, I—’

He hung up on her and scrambled out into the warm afternoon.

The Mini was slewed at thirty degrees across both lanes, its driver already out of the car staring at the bonnet. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God...’ She had a hand to her mouth, eyes wide, knees trembling. Didn’t seem to be even vaguely interested in the man lying on his back in the middle of the road behind her.

Then she turned on him. ‘YOU BLOODY IDIOT! WHAT’S MUM GOING TO SAY?’ Two fast steps, then she slammed a trainer into the fallen man’s stomach. ‘SHE’S ONLY HAD IT A WEEK!’ Another kick, this one catching him on the side of the head, sending that stupid little hat flying.

The other drivers stayed where they were, in their cars. No one helped, but a couple dragged out their mobile phones to film it, so that was all right.

Logan ran. Grabbed her by the arm and spun her around. ‘That’s enough!’

She swung a fist at Logan’s head. So he slammed her into the side of her mum’s car, grabbed her wrist and put it into a lock hold. Applying pressure till her legs buckled. ‘AAAAAAAAGH! Get off me! GET OFF ME! RAPE! RAPE! HELP!’

He pulled his cuffs out. ‘I’m detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure — Scotland — Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment—’

‘RAPE! HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME! RAPE!’

No one got out of their car.

‘You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say—’

‘HELP! HELP!’

Deep breath: ‘WOULD YOU SHUT UP?’

She went limp. Slumped forward until her forehead was resting on the new Mini’s roof. ‘It’s only a week old. She’ll never let me borrow it again.’

Logan clicked the cuffs over her wrists. ‘But anything you do say will be noted down and may be used in evidence.’ Then steered her over to the pool car and stuffed her into the back. ‘Stay there. Don’t make it any worse.’

He got out his phone again and dialled Control. ‘I need an ambulance to Cromwell Road, got an... Hold on.’

Captain Scruffy had levered himself up onto his bum, wobbling there with blood pouring down his filthy face. Eyes bloodshot and blinking out of phase with one another.

Logan squatted down in front of him. ‘Are you OK?’

An aura of rotting vegetables, BO, and baked-on urine spread out like a fog.

It took a bit, but eventually that big hairy head swung around to squint at him. ‘Broke my bottle...’ He clutched the carrier bag to his chest. Bits of broken glass stuck out through the plastic. ‘BROKE MY BOTTLE!’ The bottom lip trembled, then tears sparked up in those pinky-yellow eyes, tumbled down the filthy cheeks. ‘NOOOOOOOO!’

‘You’re a bloody idiot, you know that, don’t you?’ Back to the phone. ‘We’ve got an IC-One male who’s been hit by a car and assaulted.’ Logan nodded at him, trying not to breathe through his nose. ‘What’s your name?’

‘My bottle... My lovely, lovely, bottle.’ He hauled in air, showing off a mouth full of twisted brown teeth. ‘BASTARDS! MY BOTTLE!’

Yeah, it was definitely one of those days.

4

‘Logan, we don’t normally see you here during the day.’ Claire stuck her book down on the nurses’ station desk and smiled at him, making two dimples in her smooth round cheeks. ‘To what do we owe the honour?’

Logan pointed over his shoulder, back along the corridor. ‘Got a road-rage victim in A-and-E. Thought I’d pop past while they were stitching him up.’

Claire squeezed one eye shut. ‘It’s not a hairy young gentleman with personal hygiene issues, is it? Only Donald from security was just in here moaning about being bitten.’

Yeah, probably. ‘How’s Samantha today?’

‘Getting up to all sorts of hijinks.’ She stood and smoothed out the creases in her nurse’s scrubs. ‘You got time for a cup of tea?’

‘Wouldn’t say no.’

‘Oh, and this came for you this morning.’ Claire reached into a drawer and pulled out a grey envelope. ‘Think it’s from Sunny Glen.’

‘Thanks.’ He took it and wandered down the corridor to Samantha’s room.

The blinds were drawn, shutting out most of the light, but it was still warm enough to make him yawn.

He sank onto the edge of the bed, leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Cold and pale. ‘Hey, you.’

She didn’t answer, but then she never did.

Something about the gloom and her porcelain skin made the tattoos stand out even more than usual. Jagged and dark. Like something trying to crawl its way out of her body.

He brushed a strand of brown hair from her face. ‘Got a reply from Sunny Glen.’ Logan held up the envelope. ‘What do you think?’

No reply.

‘Yeah, me too.’ He ripped it open. ‘“Dear Mr McRae, thank you for the application for specialist residential care on behalf of your girlfriend Samantha Mackie. As you know, our Neurological Care Unit has a worldwide reputation for managing and treating those in long-term comas...” Blah, blah, blah.’ He turned the letter over. ‘Oh sodding hell. “Unfortunately we do not have any spaces available at the current time.” Could they not have said that in the first place?’ He crumpled the sheet of paper into a ball and lobbed it across the room at the bin. Missed. Slouched over and put it in properly. ‘Place is probably rubbish anyway. And it’s all the way up on the sodding coast, not exactly convenient, is it? Traipsing all the way up there. You’d have hated it.’

Still felt as if someone had used his soul as cat litter, though.

‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve got another three applications out there. Bound to be one who’ll take a hell-raiser like you.’

Nothing.

A knock on the door, and Claire stuck her head into the room. ‘I even managed to find a couple of biscuits for you. So...’ She frowned as Logan’s phone launched into its anonymous ringtone. ‘How many times do we have to talk about this?’

‘Only be a minute.’ He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘McRae.’

A man’s voice, sounding out of breath. ‘You the joker who brought in Gordon Taylor?’

Who the hell was Gordon Taylor? ‘Sorry?’

‘The homeless guy — got hit by a car. Someone gave him a kicking.’

Ah, right. That Gordon Taylor. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s bitten two security guards and punched a nurse.’

Wonderful. Another dollop added to the cat litter. ‘I’ll be right down.’ He put his phone away. Took the mug of tea from Claire and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Don’t let Samantha give you any trouble, OK? You know how feisty she gets.’

The elevator juddered to a halt, and Logan stepped out into the familiar, depressing, scuffed green corridors. No paintings on the walls here, no community art projects, or murals, or anything to break the bleak industrial gloom. He followed the coloured lines set into the floor.

Here and there, squares of duct tape held the peeling surface together. And everything smelled of disinfectant and over-boiled cauliflower.

A porter bustled past, pushing a small child in a big bed. Drips and tubes and wires snaking from the little body to various bags and bits of equipment.

Logan pulled out his phone and called Guthrie. ‘Any sign of Mrs Skinner yet?’

‘Sorry, Guv. I’ve checked all the neighbours again, but no one’s heard from her.’

‘OK.’ He stepped around the corner, and stopped outside the doors to Accident and Emergency. ‘Get onto Control and see if you can...’ A frown. ‘Have you been round the house? Peered in all the windows? Just in case.’

‘Yup. Even got her next-door to let me through so I could climb the garden fence and have a squint in the back. She’s not lying dead on the floor anywhere.’

At least that was something.

‘Get Control to dig up the grandparents. They might know where she is.’

‘Will do.’ A pause. ‘Guv, did I ever tell you about what happened last time Snow White—’

‘Yes. And no more porn in the patrol car.’

Logan hung up, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

It wasn’t difficult to find Gordon Taylor, not with all the shouting and swearing going on. He was in a cubicle at the far end — crash, bang, wallop. A nurse squatted outside the curtains, head thrown back, a wad of tissues clamped against her nose stained bright red.

‘Hold still, you little sod...’

‘Ow!’

‘Can someone hold his head so he won’t bite?’

‘Ow! Ow, ow, ow... Bloody hell...’

Logan slipped through the curtains and stared at the human octopus wrestling with itself on the hospital bed. Arms, legs, hands, feet, all struggling to keep the figure on the bottom from getting up.

One of the nurses yanked her arm into the air. ‘OW! He bit me!’

‘Don’t let go of his head!’

Logan reached into his pocket, pulled out the little canister of CS gas, and walked over to the bed. ‘Let go of him.’

A doctor turned and glared. ‘Are you off your head?’

Click, the safety cover flipped off the top of the gas canister. ‘Then you probably want to cover your nose and mouth.’

Gordon Taylor’s filthy, blood-caked face rose from between the medics’ arms, teeth snapping.

Logan jammed the CS gas canister right between his eyes. Raised his voice over the crashing and banging, the grunting and swearing. ‘You’ve been gassed before, right, Gordon? Want to try it again?’

A blink. Then he froze.

‘Good boy. Now you let these nice people examine you, or I’m going to gas you back to the Thatcher era, OK?’

Gordon Taylor went limp.

The doctor bowed his head for a moment. ‘Oh thank God...’ Then straightened up. ‘Right, we need blood tests and a sedative. Then get these filthy rags off him.’

The nurses bustled about with needles and scissors, faces contorted with disgust every time a new layer of clothes came off revealing a new odour.

Logan kept the CS gas where Taylor could see it. ‘You’re an idiot, you know that, don’t you? Staggering about, blootered, abusing passers-by, falling into the road. Lucky you didn’t kill yourself.’

Taylor didn’t move. Kept his eyes fixed on the gas canister.

One of the nurses gagged, holding out a filthy shirt with her fingertips.

Gordon Taylor’s arms were knots of ropey muscles, stretched taut across too-big bones. No fat on them. But the left one had a Gordon Highlanders tattoo, the ink barely visible beneath the filth. His torso was a mess of bruises — some fresh and red, some middle-aged purple-and-blue, some dying yellow-and-green.

He jerked his chin up. ‘She broke my bottle.’ The slur had gone from his voice, but his breath was enough to make Logan back off a couple of steps.

‘You’re a drunken sodding menace to yourself and others, Gordon. What the hell were you thinking, staggering out into the road? What if a car swerves, trying to avoid your drunken backside, hits someone else and kills them? That what you want?’

‘A whole bottle of Bells that was!’ No wonder his breath was minging — his teeth looked like stubbed-out cigarettes.

‘I’ve arrested the woman who assaulted you. She’ll—’

‘Tell her! Tell her I’ll not press charges if she buys me a new bottle...’ Gordon Taylor’s eyes widened. ‘No, two bottles. Aye, and litre bottles, not tiny wee ones.’

Nothing like getting your priorities straight.

‘That’s not how it works, Gordon. She has to—’ Logan’s phone burst into song in his pocket. ‘Sodding hell.’

The doctor narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re not supposed to have your phone switched on in here.’

‘Police business.’ He pulled it out and hit the button, killing the noise. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’

There was a moment of silence, then a deep voice rumbled out of the speakers. ‘I think you mean, “Good afternoon”, don’t you, Acting Detective Inspector McRae?’

Oh no. Not this. Not now.

Logan closed his eyes. ‘Superintendent Young. Sorry. I’m kind of in the middle of—’

‘I think you and I need to have a chat about a complaint that’s landed on my desk. Why don’t we say, my office? Any time in the next fifteen minutes is good.’

Wonderful.

5

Superintendent Young was all dressed up in Nosferatu black — black T-shirt with epaulettes, black police-issue trousers, and black shoes. He sat back in his seat and tapped his pen against an A4 pad. Tap. Tap. Tap. ‘Are you denying the allegations?’

The Professional Standards office was tombstone quiet. A wooden clock ticked away to itself on the wall beside Young’s desk. The chair creaked beneath Logan’s bum. A muffled scuffing sound as someone tried to sneak past outside — scared to make a noise in case someone inside heard them and came hunting. And the sinister sods didn’t burst into flame when exposed to sunlight or holy water, so you were never safe.

Trophies made a little gilded plastic parade across the two filing cabinets in the corner, all the figures frozen in the execution of their chosen sport — clay-pigeon shooting, judo, boxing, ten-pin bowling, fly-fishing, curling. A framed print of The Monarch of the Glen above the printer.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Quarter past five. Should be in the pub by now, not sitting here.

Logan dumped the letter of complaint back on Young’s desk. ‘With all due respect to anyone unfortunate enough to suffer from mental illness, Marion Black is a complete and utter sodding nutter.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

Logan shifted in the creaky chair. ‘While I do know a pornographer, he’s never offered me a bribe.’

Young raised an eyebrow. ‘You actually know someone who makes dirty movies?’

‘Helps us out from time to time cleaning up CCTV footage. Moved into mainstream film a couple of years ago. Ever see Witchfire? That was him.’

‘And he used to make porn?’

‘You should ask DCI Steel to show you — she’s got the complete collection.’

A tilt of the head, as if Young was considering doing just that. ‘What about drug dealers?’

‘Guv, Marion Black has accused nearly everyone in a three hundred mile radius of corruption at some point. She’s a menace. You know that.’

‘It doesn’t matter how many complaints an individual makes, Logan, we have to take every one of them seriously.’

Logan poked the letter. It was a printout from a slightly blotchy inkjet, the words on the far left of the pages smudged. Densely packed type with no line breaks. ‘I met her at ten past three today, and spoke to her on the phone a little after four. And in that time she managed to write a three-page letter of complaint and deliver it to you lot. She’s probably got a dozen of them sitting on her computer ready to go at any time. Insert-some-poor-sod’s-name-here and off you go.’

Young swivelled his chair from side to side a couple of times. ‘It’s not going to work, you know.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘This.’ Young spread his hands, taking in the whole room. ‘You think the easiest way to get shot of Mrs Black is to ignore her. You do nothing about her concerns, she makes a complaint about corruption, and you get to pass the Nutter Spoon of Doom on to the next poor sod without having to do any work.’

Warmth prickled at the back of Logan’s neck. He licked his lips. ‘Nutter Spoon of Doom, Guv? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of—’

‘Oh don’t be ridiculous, we know all about it.’ He sat forward. ‘Let me make this abundantly clear, Acting Detective Inspector McRae: you have the spoon, and you’re going to personally deal with Mrs Black whether you like it or not.’ A finger came up, pointing at the middle of Logan’s chest. ‘Not one of your minions: you.’

Logan threw his arms out, appealing to the ref. ‘I met her today at three o’clock! I’ve got a suicide, a road-rage incident, a spate of car vandalism, petty thefts, fire-raising, a shoplifting ring, three common assaults, and a bunch of other cases to deal with. When was I supposed to go visit her poo tree?’

‘Make time.’

‘I delegated the task to DC Andrews.’

‘I don’t care.’ Young sat back again. ‘And make sure you never speak to Mrs Black without another officer present. Preferably someone who can film it on their body-worn video.’

Logan stared at the ceiling tiles for a moment. They were clean. New and pristine. ‘I’m not even supposed to be holding the spoon — it’s Wheezy Doug’s turn.’

‘My heart bleeds.’ Superintendent Young prodded the complaint file. ‘What about this man Mrs Black complained about in the first place...?’

‘Justin Robson. She claims to have seen him smoking cannabis in his garden two and a bit years ago. Says he’s now festooning her cherry tree with what she calls “dog mess”.’

‘I see.’ Young narrowed his eyes, tapped his fingertips against his pursed lips. ‘And how has CID investigated this unwelcomed act of garden embellishment?’

Logan shrugged. ‘I told Wheezy Doug to go take a look this afternoon. Haven’t had time to catch up with him yet.’

‘Hmm...’

Silence.

Young pursed and tapped.

Logan just sat there.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

More pursing and tapping. Then: ‘I think it’s about time someone looked into Mrs Black’s neighbour. I want you to have a word with this Justin Robson. Ask him, politely, to defuse his feud with Mrs Black. And tell him to stop decorating her tree with dog shit. Or at least wait until Christmas. It’s only August.’

Wonderful. Makework. As if they didn’t have enough to do.

‘Guv, with all due respect, it—’

‘Get cracking this evening; I’ll authorize the overtime. Let’s see if we can’t at least look like we’re taking her seriously.’

‘Sorry, Guv, still no sign of Mrs Skinner or the kids.’ Guthrie sniffed down the phone. ‘You want me to hang on some more?’

‘Does she have her own car?’ Logan unbuckled his seatbelt, as DC Wheezy Doug Andrews parked the pool car behind a Volvo Estate.

Pitmedden Court basked in the evening light. A long collection of grey harled houses, some in terraces of three or four, some semidetatched. Some with tiny portico porches, some without. A nice road. Tidy gardens and knee-high garden walls. Speed bumps. Hello, Mrs McGillivray, I hope your Jack’s doing well the day.

‘Hold on... Yes: dark-green Honda Jazz.’

‘Get a lookout request on the go. And make sure the Automatic Number Plate Recognition lot are keeping an eye out. Enough people filmed her husband jumping off the roof on their phones; I don’t want the poor woman seeing him splattered across the cobbles on the evening news.’

‘Guv.’

‘What about the grandparents?’

‘Got an address in Portlethen, and one in Stoneywood. You want me to pack it in here and go speak to them? Or hang about in case she comes home?’

Logan checked his watch: five past six. ‘Abandon ship. Better give his parents the death message first, then see if either set knows where she is. And get on to the media office too — we need a blanket ban on anything that can ID John Skinner till we’ve spoken to the wife.’ Logan put his phone back in his pocket. Turned to Wheezy Doug. ‘We ready?’

His bottom lip protruded an inch as he tugged the fluorescent yellow high-viz waistcoat on over his suit jacket. ‘Feel like a right neep.’

‘It’s what all the stylish young men about town are wearing this season. And if you’d looked into it when I sodding well told you to, we wouldn’t be here now.’

A blush darkened Wheezy’s cheeks. ‘Sorry, Guv.’ He fiddled a BWV unit onto one of the clips that pimpled the waistcoat’s front, like nipples on a cat. The body-worn video unit was about the same size and shape as a packet of cigarettes; with a white credit-card style front with the Police Scotland logo, a camera icon, and the words ‘CCTV IN OPERATION’ on it. ‘Don’t see why you couldn’t have got some spod from Uniform to do this bit, though.’

‘Because she’s filed complaints against all the spods from Uniform. No more whingeing.’ Logan climbed out into the sunshine. ‘Come on.’

The street’s twin rows of tidy gardens were alive with the sound of lawns being mowed. Gravel being raked. Cars being washed. The screech and yell of little children playing. The bark of an overexcited dog. The smell of charcoal and grilling meat oozing its way in through the warm August air.

Wheezy Doug sighed, then joined him. Pulled out the keys and plipped the pool car’s locks. ‘That’s the one over there — wishing well, crappy cherry tree, and leylandii hedge.’

The hedge was a proper spite job: at least eight-foot-tall, casting thick dark shadows across the neighbouring property’s lawn.

Logan puffed out a breath. ‘Suppose we’d better do this.’ He marched across the road to the garden gate. Stopped and looked up at the cherry tree.

It was thick with shining green leaves, the swelling fruits drooping on wishbone stalks. And tied onto nearly every branch was a small blue plastic bag with something heavy and dark in it. There had to be at least twenty of them on there. Maybe thirty?

Young was right — it did look... inappropriately festive.

‘Right. First up, Justin Robson.’ Logan walked along the front wall, past the thicket of spiteful hedge, and in through the gate next door. All nice and tidy, with rosebushes in lustrous shades of red-and-gold, and a sundial lawn ornament that was two hours out.

Honeysuckle grew up one side of the front door and over the lintel, hanging with searing yellow flowers. Scenting the air.

Wheezy Doug stifled a cough. ‘Doesn’t really look like a drug den, does it?’ Then turned and nodded at the white BMW parked out front: spoiler, alloys, low-profile tyres. ‘The car, on the other hand has Drug Dealer written all over it.’ A howch and a spit. He wiped the line of spittle from his chin. ‘Right, everyone on their best behaviour, it’s Candid Camera time.’ He slid the white credit-card cover down, setting the body-worn video recording. Cleared his throat. ‘Detective Constable Douglas Andrews, twentieth August, at thirteen Pitmedden Court, Kincorth, Aberdeen. Present is DI McRae.’ A nod. ‘OK, Guv.’

Logan got as far as the first knock when the door swung open.

A short man with trendy hair and a stripy apron stared up at them through smeared glasses. ‘Yes?’

He held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector McRae, CID. Are you Justin Robson?’

‘That was quick, I only called two minutes ago.’ He stepped back, wiping his hands on the green-and-white stripes, leaving dark-red smears.

OK... That definitely looked like blood.

‘Mr Robson?’ Logan’s right hand drifted inside his jacket, where the small canister of CS gas lurked. ‘Is everything OK, sir?’

‘No it’s not. Not by a long sodding chalk.’ Then he blinked a couple of times. ‘Sorry, where are my manners, come in, come in.’ Reversing down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Wheezy Doug’s voice dropped to a whisper, a wee smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘Was that blood? Maybe he’s killed Mrs Black and hacked her up?’

They should be so lucky.

Logan gave it a beat, then followed Robson through into the kitchen.

It was compact, but kitted out with a fancy-looking oven and induction hob. Built-in deep-fat fryer, American-style double fridge freezer. A glass of white wine sat on the granite countertop, next to two racks of ribs on a chopping board.

Wheezy Doug reached for his cuffs as Robson reached for a cleaver. Pointed. ‘Oh no you don’t. Put the knife down and—’

‘Knife...? Oh, this.’ He wiggled it a couple of times. ‘Sorry, but we’ve got friends coming round and I need to get these ready.’ The cleaver’s shiny blade slipped between the rib bones, slicing through flesh and cartilage as if they were yoghurt. ‘I hope you’re going to arrest her.’

Nope, no idea.

Logan let go of his CS gas. ‘Perhaps you should start from the beginning, sir? Make sure nothing’s got lost in translation.’

‘That...’ the cleaver thumped through the next chunk of flesh, ‘bitch next door. I mean, look at them!’ He pointed the severed bone at a small pile of crumpled A4 sheets on the kitchen table. ‘That’s slander. It’s illegal. I know my rights.’

Not another one.

Wheezy Doug picked a sheet from the top of the pile. Pulled a face. ‘Actually, sir, slander would be if she said this to someone, once it’s in writing it’s libel.’ He handed the bit of paper to Logan.

A black-and-white photo of Justin Robson sat beneath the words, ‘GET THIS DRUG DEALING SCUM OFF OUR STREETS!!!’

Ah...

Logan scanned the paragraph at the bottom of the page:

Robson hacked off another rib. ‘I mean, for God’s sake, it’s got my photo and my home address and my telephone number on it. And they’re all over the place!’ Hack, thump, hack. ‘I want that woman locked up, she’s a bloody menace.’

‘I see.’ Logan took another look around the room. Wheezy Doug was right, it didn’t really look like a drug dealer’s house. Far too clean for that. Still, belt and braces: ‘And are you selling drugs to schoolchildren, Mr Robson?’

‘This isn’t Breaking Bad.’ Hack. Thump. Hack. ‘I don’t deal drugs, I programme distributed integration applications for the oil industry. That’s quite enough excitement for me.’ He pulled over the second rack of ribs. ‘You can search the place, if you like? If it’ll finally shut her up.’

A nod. ‘We might take you up on that.’ Logan folded the notice and slipped it into a jacket pocket. ‘Mr Robson, Mrs Black tells me that you’ve been putting “dog mess” in her cherry tree. Is that true? We checked, and the thing’s covered in poop-scoop bags.’

Hack, hack, hack. ‘I don’t have a dog. Does this look like a house that has a dog? Nasty, smelly, dirty things.’

‘I didn’t ask if you had a dog, Mr Robson, I asked if you were responsible for putting... dog waste in her tree.’

He stopped hacking and stared, face wrinkled on one side. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that I prowl the streets of Aberdeen, collecting other people’s dog shit, just so I can put it in her tree? Really?’ Hack. Thump. Hack.

‘Everyone needs a hobby.’

‘Trust me, I’ve got better things to do with my spare time.’ The second rack of ribs ended up a lot less neat than the first. He dumped them all in a big glass bowl. ‘All she ever does is cause trouble. Like she’s so perfect, with her screaming and crying at all hours of the night. Her and her creepy husband. And her bloody, sodding...’ A deep breath, then Robson slopped in some sort of sauce from a jug. Dug his hands in and mixed the whole lot up. Squeezing the ribs like he was strangling them. ‘Have you ever had to live next door to three hundred thousand nasty little parakeets? Squawking and screeching and flapping at all hours. Not to mention the smell. And will the council do anything about it? No, of course they sodding won’t.’

He thumped over to the sink and washed his hands. ‘I swear to God, one of these days—’

‘Actually,’ Logan held up a hand, ‘it might be an idea to remember there’s two police officers in the room before you go making death threats.’

Robson’s head slumped. Then he dried his hands. ‘I’m sorry. It’s... that woman drives me insane.’ He opened the back door and took his bowl of glistening bones and meat out onto a small decking area, where a kettle barbecue sat. The rich earthy scent of wood-smoke embraced them, not quite covering the bitter ammonia stink coming from the other side of another massive leylandii hedge that blotted out the light.

Squeaking and chirping prickled the air, partially muffled by the dense green foliage.

Wheezy Doug stared up at the hedge. Sniffed. Then clicked the cover up on his body-worn video, stopping it recording. ‘You know, I remember this one terrace where... well, let’s call them “Couple A” put up a huge hedge to spite “Couple B”. So “Couple B” snuck out in the middle of the night and watered it with tree-stump killer for a fortnight. Not that Police Scotland would advocate such behaviour. Would we, Guv?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Robson creaked up the lid of the barbecue and put down a double layer of tinfoil on the bars. ‘That hedge is the only thing between me and those revolting birds, there’s no way I’m sabotaging it.’ He laid out the ribs in careful bony rows.

Logan nodded back at the house. ‘Sorry to be a pain, but can I use your toilet?’

‘Top of the stairs.’ More ribs joined their comrades.

‘Won’t be a minute.’

Back through the kitchen and into the hall. Quick left turn into the lounge.

Well, Robson did say they could search the place if they liked. Fancy patterned wallpaper made up a single swirly green-and-black graphic across one wall. A huge flatscreen television was hooked up to a PlayStation, an X-Box, and what looked like a very expensive surround sound system. Black leather couch. All spotless.

Cupboard under the stairs: hoover, ironing board, shelves with cleaning products arranged in neat rows.

Upstairs.

The master bedroom had a king-sized bed against one wall, with a black duvet cover and too many pillows. Both bedside cabinets were topped with a lamp and a clock radio. No clutter. The clothes in the wardrobe arranged by colour.

The spare room was kitted out as a study. Shelves covered one wall, stuffed with programming manuals and reference books. Fancy desk, big full-colour laser printer, ergonomic chair. Framed qualification certificates above a beige filing cabinet.

Two big speakers rested against the adjoining wall, with their backs to the room and their fronts against the plasterboard. Both were wired into an amplifier with an iPod plugged into the top. The perfect setup for blasting rap music through the bricks at your neighbours in the dead of night.

So Justin Robson wasn’t exactly the put-upon innocent he pretended to be.

A quick check of the linen cupboard — just to be thorough — then through to the bathroom for a rummage in the medicine cabinet. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, except for two packs of antidepressants, but they had chemist’s stickers on the outside with dosage instructions, Robson’s name, and the prescribing doctor’s details. All aboveboard.

Might as well play out the charade properly.

Logan flushed the toilet, unused, and washed his hands. Headed back downstairs.

‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Robson. In case you’re wondering: we’ll be keeping an eye on Mrs Black’s tree from now on. I’d appreciate it if you’d help us make sure there are no more decorations on there.’

Next door, Wheezy Doug leaned on the doorbell. ‘What do you think? Is Robson our Phantom Pooper Scooper? The Defecation Decorator. The...’ A frown. ‘Christmas Tree Crapper?’

‘Hmmm...’ Logan turned towards the thick barrier of leylandii hedge — tall enough and thick enough to completely blot out all view of Justin Robson’s house. ‘He’s a neat freak — the whole place is like a show home. Is someone that anal going to collect other people’s dog shit to spite their neighbour? Don’t know.’ Stranger things had happened. And then there were those two heavy-duty speakers up against the wall in the study... ‘Possibly.’

Mrs Black’s garden wasn’t nearly as tidy as her neighbour’s. Dandelions and clover encroached on the lawn. More weeds in the borders. The cherry tree with its droopy blue plastic decorations.

Even if you removed every single one of them, would you really want to eat the fruit that had grown between those dangling bags?

Wheezy Doug sniffed, then stifled a cough. ‘Can’t really blame him though, can you? Living next to the Wicked Twit of the West would drive anyone barmy.’ Another go on the bell. ‘Maybe she’s not in?’

‘One more try, and we’re off.’ Superintendent Young could moan all he liked, they’d done their bit. Wasn’t their fault Mrs Black was out.

The drrrrrrrringgggg sounded again as Wheezy ground his thumb against the button.

Then, finally, a silhouette appeared in the rippled glass panels that took up the top half of the door. A thin wobbly voice: ‘Who is it?’

Logan poked Wheezy. ‘You filming this?’

A quick fiddle with the BWV. ‘Am now.’

‘Good.’ Logan leaned in close to the glass. ‘Mrs Black? It’s the police. Can you open up, please?’

She didn’t move.

‘Mrs Black?’

‘It’s not convenient.’

‘We need to talk to you about a complaint.’

A breeze stirred the blue plastic poo bags, making them swing like filthy pendulums.

‘Mrs Black?’

There was a click and the door pulled open a couple of inches.

She peered out at them, her short grey hair flat on one side, crusts of yellow clinging to the corners of her baggy eyes. A flash of tartan pyjamas. ‘Have you arrested him yet?’

‘Mrs Black, have you been putting these up around town?’ Logan reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded flyer. Held it up so she could see it.

She stiffened. Her nose came up, and all trace of tremor in her voice was gone. ‘The people here have a right to know.’

‘If you have proof that Mr Robson is dealing drugs, why didn’t you call us?’

‘He’s a vile, revolting individual. He should be... should be castrated and locked up where he can’t hurt anyone any more.’

Logan put the flyer back in his pocket. Closed his eyes and counted to three. ‘Mrs Black, you can’t go making accusations like that without proof: it’s libellous. And Mr Robson’s made a formal complaint.’

Her face hardened. ‘I should have known...’

‘Mrs Black, can we come in please?’

‘I’ve been complaining about him for years and did you do anything about it?’ She bared her teeth. ‘But as soon as he says anything, you’re over here with your jackboots and your threats!’

Don’t sigh.

‘No one’s threatening you, Mrs Black. Do you have any proof that Mr Robson is dealing drugs?’

Her finger jabbed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘HE PUT DOG MESS IN MY TREE!’

‘Do you have any proof? If you have proof we’ll look at it and—’

‘HE DESERVES TO DIE FOR WHAT HE’S PUT ME THROUGH!’

Wheezy Doug stepped forward, palms out. ‘Mrs Black, I need you to calm down, OK?’

‘HE’S SCUM!’ Her voice dropped to a hissing whisper. ‘Sitting in there with his drugs and his pornography and his filthy rap music. I demand you arrest him.’

The sound of whirring lawn mowers. A child somewhere singing about popping caps in some gangbanger’s ass. A motorbike purring past on the road. All as Mrs Black stood there, trembling in her pyjamas, lips flecked with spittle.

Logan kept his voice low and neutral. ‘I need you to stop putting up these posters. And if you have any evidence that Mr Robson is dealing drugs, I want you to call me.’ He pulled out a Police Scotland business card with the station number on it. Held it out.

She stared at the card in his hand. Curled her lip. Spat at her feet. ‘You’re all as corrupt as each other.’

Then stepped back and slammed the door.

Not the result they’d hoped for, but no one could say they hadn’t tried.

‘So...’ Wheezy Doug dragged the toe of his shoe along the path. ‘Pub?’

Logan popped the business card through the letterbox. ‘Pub.’

6

Sodding keyhole wouldn’t hold still... The key skittered around the moving target, until finally it clicked into place.

Hurrah.

Logan picked up his fish supper again, and pushed through into the flat. Floor was a bit shifty too.

Deep breath.

He eased the door closed and shushed the Yale lock as it clunked shut. Wouldn’t do to wake the neighbours. They wouldn’t like that. Got to be a good neighbour. ‘Shhhh...’

Then he dumped his keys on the little table by the radiator. ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’

Silence.

Little sod.

Logan grabbed the salt, vinegar, mayonnaise, and a tin of Stella from the kitchen and escorted his supper through into the pristine living room.

Whole place was unnaturally tidy, everything superfluous hidden away in various cupboards and the loft, leaving nothing behind but estate-agent approved set dressing. Like the two glossy magazines lined up perfectly with the edge of the coffee table. Or the line of candles on the windowsill. The photos in the wooden frames lined up where the books used to be. Everything dusted and hoovered with OCD fervour. All so some pair of picky sods could take a quick sniff around then decide the flat wasn’t ‘big enough for them’. Scumbags.

He slumped into the couch then clicked the ring-pull off the Stella. Gulped down a mouthful. Stifled a burp.

Why? Who the hell was going to complain about it?

He took another swig, then let his diaphragm rattle.

Better.

The batter was a bit thick, but the fish was moist and meaty. The chips limp in a way that only chip shops could get away with. How come a chip shop couldn’t get chips crispy? You’d think they’d be chip experts. Clue’s in the name.

The light on the answering machine winked at him, like a malevolent rat with one glowing red eye.

He stuck two fingers up at it and went back to his flaccid chips.

Cthulhu finally deigned to put in an appearance, padding in on silent fuzzy feet, tail held high. All grey and brown and black and stripy, with a huge white ruff and little white paws. She popped up onto the arm of the couch, then sat there, blinking slowly at him.

‘Oh, you love me when there’s food in it for you, don’t you?’ But he blinked back and gave her a nugget of haddock anyway.

Cue purring and chewing.

And still the answering machine glowered with its ratty eye.

Tough. Whatever it was, it could wait till morning.

Fish for Logan. Fish for Cthulhu.

The answering machine didn’t care.

He stuffed down a mouthful of chips, followed by a swig of Stella.

It kept on glowering.

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ He levered himself to his feet and lurched across the rolling deck. Propped himself up with one hand on the shelf. Pressed the button.

‘You have three new messages. Message one:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Logan? It’s your mother. Why do I always—’

‘Gah!’ He poked the machine.

‘Message deleted. Message two:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Hello? Mr McRae? It’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors. I know Mr and Mrs Moore said they weren’t interested, but they’ve come back with an offer for the flat. It’s twenty thousand less than the valuation though...’

‘Pair of wankers.’ Poke.

‘Message deleted. Message three:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Hello, Logan? It’s Hamish.’ The voice was a gravelly, breathless mix of Aberdonian and public school. Rattling at the edges where the cancer was eating him. ‘I’ve been thinking about mortality. Yours. Mine. Reuben’s. Everyone... Give me a call back and we can talk about it.’

The chip fat congealed at the back of Logan’s throat. Crept forward and lined his mouth. Made his teeth itch. Wee Hamish Mowat. Not exactly the kind of message anyone wanted lying about on their answering machine where Professional Standards could find it.

And tell me, Acting DI McRae, would you care to explain why Aberdeen’s biggest crime lord is phoning you for a chat, like an old mate?

No Logan sodding wouldn’t. Poke.

‘Message deleted. You have no new messages.’

Mortality.

With any luck, Wee Hamish had decided to save everyone the bother, and shot Reuben in the face.

Yeah, well. Probably not.

But a boy could dream, couldn’t he?