22 Dead Little Bodies

9

Stoney eased into the room, a folder balanced on the palm of one hand acting as a tray for a mound of tinfoil-wrapped packages. ‘Three bacon, one sausage, and one booby-trapped. Get them while they’re hot.’

The rest of the team swarmed him, snatching up their butties, then retreating to their seats to unwrap them. The air filled with the meaty smoky scents.

Early morning light oozed through the dirty office window, turning it nearly opaque, hiding the pre-rush-hour calm of a slowly waking Aberdeen.

Logan checked his watch: five past seven. Time to get going. He ripped a bite of sausage buttie and pointed at the whiteboard. ‘Guthrie?’

At least he didn’t look quite so much like an extra from Night of the Living Dead this morning.

‘Mrs Skinner’s boyfriend was a Brian Williams. Twenty-two. Engineer with TransWell Subsea Systems in Portlethen. Steel’s MIT took over the investigation, but I still had to deliver the sodding death message to his fiancée. She wasn’t too chuffed.’

Wheezy Doug picked at his teeth. ‘There’s a shock.’

‘Here’s a bigger one — the MIT are taking all the credit.’

DS Baird frowned at the whiteboard for a moment, then wiped a smear of tomato sauce from her cheek. ‘Got a good write-up in the paper, though.’ She picked a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner from her desk and held it up.

The front page had a more formal photograph than the one Logan and Guthrie had been showing around yesterday. A posed family portrait with a marbly background. Everyone in their Sunday best, hair combed, teeth shiny. ‘FAMILY FEARS FOR MISSING CHILDREN’.

Baird cleared her throat and turned the paper back to face herself. ‘“It wasn’t as if the Skinner family didn’t have enough tragedy to deal with. On Saturday, John Skinner — thirty-five — jumped to his death, and on Sunday, his wife of eight years, Emma Skinner — twenty-seven — was found stabbed to death in a family home in the Bridge of Don. But what hurts most, say John and Emma’s parents, is that Heidi — seven — and Toby — six — are missing...”’ Baird wrinkled her top lip. ‘Why are the papers obsessed with how old people are? What’s the point?’

Wheezy stuffed down another bite of buttie, talking with his mouth full. ‘They say anything about us?’

She skimmed the front page, lips moving silently as she went. ‘Nope. “Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel...” See they haven’t got her age. “...told a press conference yesterday that Police Scotland was very concerned for the children’s safety. ‘We will leave no stone unturned in our quest to find Heidi and Toby...’” Blah, blah, blah. Nothing about you, or the Guvnor.’

‘Typical.’

A little yellow trail of yolk was making its way down Guthrie’s chin. ‘Guv, are you still interested in Gordy Taylor?’

‘Wasn’t interested in him in the first place.’

‘Only the girl who gave him a kicking’s up before the Sheriff at twenty past nine.’

‘Pleading guilty?’

‘Blaming it on PMS and starting university.’

Baird shuddered. ‘Hate women who do that. “Oh, I can’t act rationally, because I’m a weak and feeble woman at the mercy of my hormonal uterus.” Puts the whole cause back a hundred years.’

Logan held up his hand. ‘Right, soon as everyone’s finished their buttie, I want—’ His phone blared out the anonymous ringtone that signalled an unknown caller. ‘Give us a minute.’ He pulled it out and hit the button. ‘DI McRae.’

Screaming battered out of the earpiece and he flinched back.

Then tried again. ‘Hello? Who is this?’

The screaming broke into jagged words, roughened by sobs. ‘He’s killed them all!’

‘There! Look what he did. LOOK AT THEM!’ Mrs Black’s trembling finger came up and pointed at the back fence.

The back garden stank of ammonia. It turned every breath into a struggle, caught the back of the throat, made the air taste of sour vinegar and dirt. Logan blinked tears from his stinging eyes.

Cages ran down one side of the long garden, backing onto the massive leylandii hedge between this side and Justin Robson’s house on the other. Wooden frames with metal mesh inserts, full of perches and floored with sawdust and droppings. Every single door hung open.

But they weren’t what Mrs Black was pointing at.

About twenty little bodies were frozen against the back fence — wings out. Most were blue with white faces, but some were green-and-yellow instead. And each one had a large nail hammered through its breast, pinning it to the wood. As if a butterfly collector had decided his hobby just wasn’t creepy enough and it was time to upgrade to something bigger.

Blood made spattered patterns on the fence behind and beneath them.

Mrs Black sobbed, tears coating her cheeks, gulping down air only to cry it out again. ‘My babies...’

‘OK.’ A nod. ‘Is Mr Black—’

‘Don’t you... don’t you dare mention... mention that bastard’s name.’ She ground the heel of her hand into her eye sockets. ‘He walked out on me. On ME! Packed his bags like I was the one being unreasonable.’ She threw her arms out. ‘LOOK AT IT! LOOK WHAT HAPPENED!’ The arms drooped by her sides. ‘My babies...’

Logan puffed out a breath. Then patted Wheezy Doug on the shoulder. ‘Constable Andrews, maybe you should get Mrs Black inside and make a cup of tea, or something. I’m going next door.’

Justin Robson folded his arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter. ‘Nope. Nothing to do with me.’ His face was pale with greeny-purple bags under the eyes, his breath stale and bitter. Hair slicked back and wet. Dark-blue dressing gown.

Behind him, the garden was in darkness, the early morning sunshine murdered by Mrs Black’s spite hedge. A curl of smoke twisted up into the gloom.

Logan pulled out his notebook. ‘Come off it: she trashes your car, and you decide to turn the other cheek? Really?’

‘Wasn’t even here: out all night at a friend’s house. You can check if you like.’

‘Oh we will.’ The pen hovered over the pad. ‘Name?’

‘Can do you better than that. Hold on, I’ll call him.’ Robson picked the phone out of its cradle and fiddled with the buttons. The sound of ringing blared out of the speaker.

Then, click. ‘Hello?’

‘Bobby? It’s Justin. Sorry to call so early, but can you tell this guy where I was last night?’ He held out the phone.

‘What? Yeah, Justin came round about six-ish? We watched a couple of films. Had a bit too much wine and a moan about girls till about three in the morning. Justin was so blootered he could barely stand.’

‘Cheeky sod. No I wasn’t.’

‘Were. So I put him in the spare room. Set the alarm. And went to bed.’

Logan wrote it all down. At least that explained the pallor and the smell. ‘And he didn’t leave the house?’

‘No way Justin could’ve got out without deactivating the alarm and he doesn’t know the code. Didn’t go home till about half an hour ago? Forty-five minutes? Something like that? Told him he should cop a sicky and crash here all morning, but blah-blah work etc.’

A nice tight alibi. Very convenient. ‘OK, I’m going to need your full name and address.’

Wheezy Doug snapped off his blue nitrile gloves and stuffed them into a carrier bag. ‘What kind of dick does that to harmless wee birds?’

Logan nodded back towards the house with the decorated cherry tree. ‘How is she?’

‘Mangled. Says that after her husband stormed out, she hit the vodka. Staggered off to bed about eleven after checking the birds were all fine. Gets up at seven this morning and finds that.’ Wheezy puffed out his cheeks. ‘Poor wee things. I had to lever them off the fence with a claw-hammer. That’s why some are a bit squashed.’ He pulled out a pen and printed the evidence label for twenty parakeets, all sharing a big evidence pouch. Each one individually zip-locked into its own tiny plastic bag. ‘What about laughing boy?’

‘Says he had nothing to do with it. Got himself an alibi.’

‘That’s convenient.’ Wheezy closed the pool car’s boot.

‘Exactly what I thought.’ Logan led the way back to the house.

Robson had moved through to the lounge, a bowl of Rice Krispies in his lap. Breakfast News burbled away on the widescreen telly as he tied a tie around his pale neck. He’d swapped the dressing gown for trainers, jeans, and a pale-yellow shirt.

‘... double murder in Aberdeen yesterday have been identified as Emma Skinner and Brian Williams...’

He straightened his tie, then dipped a spoon into his cereal. ‘You forget something?’

‘... committed suicide on Saturday.’ The screen filled with amateur mobile-phone video of John Skinner preparing to jump.

Logan stepped between Robson and the TV as the anchor handed over to Carol for the weather. ‘You do understand that we can take DNA from the parakeets, don’t you? Whoever killed them will have left their DNA on their feathers. We’ll get it from the nails too. And fingerprints.’

‘Isn’t science marvellous.’

‘We can match contact traces of metal between the nail-heads and a specific hammer. We can match the nails with ones from the same batch.’

‘OK.’ He killed the TV, then put his breakfast on the coffee table. ‘Tell you what, if you don’t believe I was with Bobby all night, why don’t you search the house again? Do the garden too. You can even try the shed.’

Little sod was either innocent, or arrogant enough to believe he could get away with it.

Wheezy Doug tucked his hands into his pockets and nodded at Robson’s feet. The trainers were bright white, without so much as a scuff on them. ‘They’re nice. Look new.’

‘Cool, aren’t they? Fresh on today.’

‘Where are the old ones?’

He smiled. ‘Yeah, they were getting all stinky and dirty. Plus, someone might have been sick on them last night. So I got rid of them.’

What a surprise. Nothing quite so incriminating as a pair of blood-stained Nikes.

Logan took out his notebook. ‘And where, exactly, are these sick-drenched shoes now? In the bin?’

‘Ah...’ Robson bared his top teeth in a rabbit grin. ‘I burned them soon as I got home. Was doing some garden rubbish anyway.’ He stood and walked through to the kitchen. Pointed out through the window to a stainless-steel bin, hidden away in the shadows at the bottom of the garden. The thing had holes in its sides and a chimney lid. Coils of smoke drifted away into the morning sky. ‘Never had one before, but it’s really efficient. Burns everything.’

Definitely arrogant. And probably right.

Robson frowned. ‘You know, now I think about it, if I’d been nailing live parakeets to a fence, I’d be all covered with scratches and pecks, wouldn’t I?’ He held up his hands. Not a single mark on them. ‘I mean, they’re going to put up a fight, aren’t they?’

Logan stepped in close. ‘This stops and it stops here. No more. Understand?’

The smile didn’t slip an inch. ‘Nothing to do with me. You’d have to speak to the bitch next door.’

Yeah, there was no way this was over.

‘We’ll be watching you, Mr Robson.’ Logan turned and marched from the room, down the hall and out the front door.

Wheezy Doug hurried after him. Unlocked the pool car and slipped in behind the wheel. ‘He did it, didn’t he?’

‘Course he did. He doesn’t have scratches on his hands, because he wore gloves. And then he burned them. So no fingerprints on the nails or the birds. And odds on he’d wear a facemask too.’

‘So no DNA, or good as.’

‘Bet he even burned the hammer.’ Logan stared back at the house.

Robson was standing in the living room, smiling through the window. He gave them a wave.

Logan didn’t wave back. ‘This is going to get worse before it gets better.’

Wheezy pulled away from the kerb. ‘And last time we were here, I distinctly remember DCI Steel making a big thing of how no one ever gets rid of their shoes. The wee turd listened and learned.’

Logan took his Airwave handset from his jacket pocket. ‘Should’ve arrested them both when we had probable cause.’ Too late for that now though, it’d been no-crimed. He pressed the talk button. ‘DI McRae to Control. I need a Wildlife Crime Officer, or whatever it is we’re calling them these days.’

Twenty dead parakeets.

Yeah, this was definitely going to get a lot worse.

10

Baird dipped into the big evidence bag and came out with a wee, individually wrapped, dead parakeet. Wrinkled her nose. ‘Poor thing.’

Logan’s office was warmer than it had any right to be. He cracked open the window, letting in a waft of stale air tainted by cigarette smoke. ‘Killed all twenty of them.’

She placed it back in the bag with the others. ‘Twenty dead little bodies.’

‘If you were Mrs Black, what would you do?’

‘Me?’ Baird scrunched her lips into a duck pout. ‘If I was a total nutjob, what would I do? Cut his knackers off. No, not cut, I’d hack them off. With a rusty spoon.’

Logan sank into his seat. ‘That’s what worries me.’ He pointed at the big bag. ‘Get it off to the labs. I want anything they can get linking the birds to Justin Robson before this goes any further. At least if one of them’s banged up they can’t kill each other.’

‘Guv.’ She picked it up. ‘What about the Skinner kids?’

‘No idea.’

‘Seems a shame, doesn’t it? Wasn’t their fault their mum was screwing around.’

‘Never is.’ Logan pulled his keyboard over. ‘If the lab gives you stick about analysing a bunch of parakeets, tell them I’ll be round to insert a size nine up their jacksy next time I’ve got a minute. It’s—’

A knock on the door and there was Guthrie, face all pink and shiny, out of breath as if he’d been running. ‘Guv... It’s... It’s...’ He folded over and grabbed his knees for a bit. ‘Argh... God...’

Baird patted him on the back. ‘That’s what you get for eating so much cheese, Sunshine.’

He shook her off and had another go. ‘Guv, it’s... Gordy Taylor...’

Logan groaned. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘Dead...’

Baird dumped the evidence bag back on Logan’s desk. ‘I’ll get a pool car.’

Baird tucked her hair into the SOC suit’s hood, then pulled the zip up all the way to her chin. Grabbed a handful of material around the waist and hoiked it up, setting the white Tyvek rustling. ‘You ready?’

Behind her, a double line of blue-and-white ‘Police’ tape cut off a chunk of Harlaw Road, tied between trees on opposite sides of the street, casting a snaking shadow. A crime scene dappled with light falling through the leaves.

The houses on the opposite side of the street didn’t look all that fancy — detached granite bungalows with attic conversions and dormer windows — but they overlooked the green expanse of the playing fields, so probably cost an absolute fortune.

Logan snapped a second set of blue nitrile gloves on over the first. ‘Might as well.’

They ducked under the outer cordon and rustled their way across the tarmac to the inner boundary of yellow-and-black — ‘CRIME SCENE — DO NOT CROSS’ — where a spotty uniform with huge eyes demanded to see their ID then wrote their names in the log before letting them past.

Two large council bins were lined up against the kerb, and behind them someone in the full Smurf outfit was squatting beside the body. He had a bony wrist in one hand, turning it over, letting the attached filthy hand flop one way, then the other.

Logan sank down next to him, blinking at the stench of alcohol and baked sewage. ‘Doc.’

The figure looked up and nodded — more or less anonymous behind the facemask and safety goggles. ‘Well, it’s official: this gentleman’s definitely dead.’

He let go of the wrist and shuffled back, letting them get a proper look at the body.

Gordon Taylor lay curled up on his side; knees drawn up to his chest; one arm thrown back, the hand dangling against his spine; the other reaching out in front. Head twisted back, mouth open. Eyes glazed. Beard and hair matted with twigs and vomit.

A bluebottle landed on Gordon’s cheek, and the Duty Doctor wafted it away. ‘Well, there’s no sign of serious trauma. He’s not been stabbed, or bludgeoned to death. The only sign of blood is that...’ The doctor pointed at the grubby bandage wrapped around Gordon’s right hand. It was stained with dark-scarlet blobs.

‘You want to guess at time of death?’

‘Very roughly? Sometime between him getting chucked out of hospital, and the bin men finding him here this morning.’ A shrug. ‘Anyone who gives you anything more precise is a liar.’

‘Any sign of foul play?’

‘Doubt it: your friend here choked on his own vomit. If you want my opinion, you’re looking at what happens when you spend your life downing litre bottles of supermarket vodka, whisky, and gin. Sooner or later it catches up with you.’ He straightened up with a groan and rubbed at the small of his back. ‘And with that, the brave Duty Doctor’s work was done, and he could get back to treating hypochondriac morons who think they know better than him because they’ve looked leprosy up on the internet.’

The uniform with the spots held up the barrier tape and the undertaker’s plain grey van eased back out onto Harlaw Road. The driver nodded to Logan and drove off.

Wheezy Doug was in conversation with a middle-aged man with a walking stick, two houses down. Stoney was at the far end of the street, nodding and taking notes as a mother of two waved her arms about, a pair of red-haired kids running screaming around her legs. DS Baird wandered up the road, hands in her pockets.

She stopped beside Logan and nodded at the departing van. ‘That him off, then?’

‘You get anything?’

‘Far as we can tell, Gordon Taylor’s been hanging around here for about a fortnight. I got Control to pull anything relating to Harlaw Road and three streets either side. There’s been an increase in breaking and enterings: low-level stuff, shed padlocks forced, meths and white spirit nicked kind of thing. One stolen handbag — owner put it on the roof of her car while she unloaded the shopping, came back: no handbag. Loads of complaints of antisocial behaviour.’ She pulled out her notebook and flipped it open at the marker. ‘And I quote, “There’s a smelly tramp staggering up and down the street at all hours, singing filthy rugby songs and rummaging through the bins.”’ Baird turned the page. ‘Eight counts of public urination. No one ever caught him at it, but in the morning people’s doorways would smell of piddle. That lot,’ she pointed at a tidy house with an immaculate garden, where a little old lady was pruning a rosebush, ‘called the police eight times in the last week.’

Well, the old dear wasn’t so much pruning the bush as nipping tiny bits off the one branch, probably using it as an excuse to have a nosy. She wasn’t the only one. At least half a dozen others were out, taking their time washing cars or raking the lawn. Pretending not to snoop.

A glazier’s van sat outside the old lady’s house. The driver and his mate were in the cab, stuffing down chocolate biscuits and pouring tea from a thermos. Staring as if this was the most interesting thing to happen all day. An episode of Taggart, playing out right there in front of them.

Logan turned his back on the gawkers. ‘So what happened?’

Baird shrugged. ‘Patrol car did a drift by a couple of times, but you know what it’s like. Don’t have time to attend every moaning numpty.’

True. But if they’d actually done something about it — if they’d turned up and arrested him — Gordon Taylor would probably still be alive today. Hard to drink yourself to death in a police cell.

Something heavy settled behind Logan’s eyes, pulling his whole head down.

And if he’d arrested Gordon Taylor on Saturday for being drunk and incapable, or done him for biting two security guards and a nurse, or for punching that other nurse on the nose...

Pfff...

‘You OK, Guv?’

A one-shouldered shrug. ‘Missed opportunities.’ He looked off down the road.

Didn’t really matter in the end, did it? Lock Gordon Taylor up for a night, or a week, and he’d still hit the bottle as soon as he got out. All it would’ve done was delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, he’d be in the undertaker’s van on the way to the mortuary.

Logan dragged in a deep breath, then let it out. Checked his watch. Might as well head back to the office and do something productive. ‘Get Wheezy to deliver the death message. He knows Gordon Taylor’s dad. Might be better if he finds out from a friend.’

There was only so much you could do.

Logan spat the last cold dregs of coffee back into his mug and shuddered. Time for a fresh cup.

He’d got as far as his office door when his mobile launched into its anonymous ringtone. Please let it be anyone other than Mrs Sodding Black again.

He hit the button. ‘McRae.’

‘Mr McRae? It’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors? How are you doing? That’s great. I’ve had Mr and Mrs Moore on the phone again and they’re prepared to go as far as fifteen thousand below the valuation.’

‘Then Mr and Mrs Moore can go screw themselves.’

A fake laugh came down the phone as Logan let himself out into the corridor, making for the stairwell. ‘Well, I had to let you know anyway. I’ll get back to their solicitor. And I wanted to know if you’re available this afternoon? We’ve had a call from a young man interested in viewing the property.’

‘I’m on duty.’ Which part of serving police officer did she not understand?

‘Right. Yes. Well, not to worry, I can show him around.’

Nice to know she’d be doing something for her one-percent-cut of the price.

He slid his phone back in its pocket and clumped up the stairs to the canteen. Froze in the doorway.

DCI Steel sat at the table in front of the vending machine, working her way through a Curly Wurly and a tin of Coke. A large parcel lay on the floor at her feet, wrapped in brown paper and about a mile of packing tape. She hadn’t seen him yet — too busy chewing. All he had to do was back out of the door and—

‘Hoy, Laz, I’ll have a hazelnut latte if you’re buying.’

Sodding hell.

Too late. He stepped into the canteen. ‘Any luck tracking down John Skinner’s kids?’

She took another bite of Curly Wurly, chewing with her mouth open. ‘Trust me, if there was you’d have heard about it. I’d be running through the station, bare-arse naked singing “Henry the Horny Hedgehog” at the top of my lungs.’

A shudder riffled its way across Logan’s shoulders. ‘Gah...’

‘Oh like you’re a sodding catwalk model. Least I’m getting some, unlike you. Surprised your right arm’s no’ like Popeye’s by now.’ Her teeth ripped a chunk off the twisted chocolate. ‘And while we’re on the subject, where the sodding hell have you been? Got missing kids to find, remember?’

He stared at her. ‘It’s your case. You took it over, remember?’

‘Don’t be so—’

‘And for your information, we’ve got enough on our plate as it is. Spent half the morning dealing with a sudden death.’ He bared his teeth. ‘So forgive me if I’m not available to run about after you all day.’

Steel leaned back in her chair and waved her Curly Wurly at him. ‘Oh aye, I heard all about your “sudden death”. Two missing kids trumps one dead tramp.’ The Curly Wurly jabbed towards the canteen counter. ‘Now backside in gear, and tell them no’ to skimp on the chocolate sprinkles this time.’

Typical.

He got a coffee for himself, and Steel’s hazelnut latte. Brought them both back to the table. ‘I’ve spat in yours.’

‘No you didn’t.’ She took a sip. Sighed. ‘Got two dozen bodies manning the phones. Heidi and Toby Skinner have been spotted everywhere from Thurso to the Costa del Sol, via Peebles and Chipping Norton.’ The creases between her eyebrows deepened. ‘Getting a bad feeling about this one, Laz.’

‘Just because we haven’t found them yet, doesn’t mean we won’t.’

‘When are we ever that lucky?’ Steel sank back in her seat and scrubbed her face with her palms, pulling it about like pasty plasticene. Then let her arms drop. ‘In other news: tomorrow night. You and Jasmine, daddy — daughter time, with Despicable Me one and two.’

‘No.’

‘You’re no’ watching a Disney film, Laz: I know you get aroused by all those princesses in their pretty dresses.’

‘I’m not being your unpaid babysitter.’

‘Come on: it’s our anniversary.’ Steel nudged the parcel with her toe. ‘Got Susan the perfect gift. Want to know what it is?’

He glanced beneath the table. Large, rectangular, with a website address printed on the delivery label. ‘Something you’ve ordered off the internet? Nah, I’d rather not know.’ It was bound to be something filthy. Probably battery operated.

‘You’re no fun.’ She unwrapped the last inch of twirly toffee and jammed it in her mouth. ‘Tell you what: ten quid, cash. And a pizza. Can’t say fairer than that.’

‘No.’

‘OK: ten quid, a pizza, and a bottle of red...’ She narrowed her mouth to a little pale slit. ‘Uh-ho. Crucifixes at the ready, Laz, here comes Nosferatu Junior.’

Logan turned and peered over his shoulder. Superintendent Young was marching across the green terrazzo floor towards their table. Dressed all in black, with a silver crown on each epaulette attached to his black T-shirt. The fabric stretched tight across his barrel chest.

Steel hissed. Then stared at the tabletop, keeping her voice low. ‘Don’t move. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t even breathe. He’ll get confused and walk away.’ She took a deep breath.

Young stopped at the head of the table. ‘Inspector. Chief Inspector.’

She didn’t move.

Logan nodded. ‘Superintendent.’

He pulled up a chair. ‘Mrs Black has made another complaint.’

What a surprise. ‘Let me guess — Wheezy and I are corrupt because we didn’t arrest Justin Robson this morning?’

‘Apparently he’s bribed you with drugs and dirty magazines. He...’ A frown. ‘Why is Chief Inspector Steel going purple?’

‘Because she’s not right in the head.’ Logan took a sip of coffee. ‘And for the record, there was nothing we could do. Robson killed Mrs Black’s parakeets — no doubt about that — but he burned all the evidence. Even his shoes.’

‘I see. And is DCI Steel planning on holding her breath till she passes out?’

‘Probably. Look, we can’t arrest Robson, because we’ve got nothing on him that’ll stand up in court. I’ve sent the dead parakeets off to the labs, but you know what the budget’s like. Assuming we can even get past the backlog.’

‘But you’re not hopeful, are...’ A sigh. Then Young leaned over and poked Steel hard in the ribs. ‘Breathe, you idiot.’

Air exploded out of her, then she grabbed the table and hauled in a deep shuddering breath. ‘Aaaaaa...’

‘I understand you could’ve arrested the pair of them last night, but didn’t.’

‘Oooh, the world’s gone all swimmy...’

Logan twisted the coffee cup in his hands. ‘We felt it was more appropriate to try and defuse the situation with a warning.’

‘But Mr Robson didn’t take it.’

‘Not so much.’ A shrug. ‘Mrs Black poured paint all over his car and carved “Drug Dealer” into the doors. Probably have to get it completely resprayed. Going to cost him, what — three, maybe four grand?’

Steel blinked. Shook her head. ‘Wow. That’s a hell of a lot cheaper than a bottle of chardonnay.’

‘And in light of this morning’s actions?’

Logan raised one hand and rocked it from side to side. ‘The aggravated assault and vandalism got no-crimed. I doubt the PF would let us go back and do the pair of them retrospectively.’

‘Going to try that again.’ Steel took another huge breath and scrunched her face up.

Young frowned at her for a while. ‘Has she always been this bad?’

‘No, she’s getting worse.’

He poked her again. ‘We’ve got twelve different news organizations camped outside the front door, do you think you could try acting a bit more like a grown-up?’

She scowled at him. ‘Doing everything we can, OK?’ She held up a hand, counting the points off on her fingers. ‘National appeal in the media. Whole team going through all Heidi and Toby’s friends. Posters up at every train station, bus station, airport, and ferry terminal. We did three complete door-to-doors where they live. And...’ Steel wiggled the one remaining finger. ‘Erm... This little piggy’s being held in reserve in case of emergency.’

‘Piggies are toes.’

‘Whatever.’ She put her hand away. ‘If you’ve got any helpful suggestions, I’ll take them under consideration.’

Young shifted in his seat.

‘Aye, didn’t think so.’

He stood, slid his chair back into place. Straightened his T-shirt. Stuck a huge, warm, scarred hand on Logan’s shoulder. ‘And make sure you’re getting every encounter with Mrs Black on video. I’ve got the nasty feeling this is going to blow up in our faces.’

DS Rennie popped his coiffured head around Logan’s door. His mouth stretched out and down, like someone had stolen his pony. ‘Guv, you got a minute?’

Logan shoved the keyboard to one side. ‘If it’s more interesting than budget projections for the next quarter, I’ve got dozens of them.’

‘Cool.’ He stepped into the office and sank into a visitor’s chair. Unbuttoned his suit jacket, then pulled out his notebook. ‘I spoke to the janitor at Heidi and Toby Skinner’s school, and—’

‘Going to stop you right there.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘Don’t tell me, tell Steel. She’s running the case.’

A shrug. ‘Yeah, but she’s doing a press conference, and this was sitting on her desk.’ He held up a sheet of A4 with, ‘OFF BEING A MEDIA TART — ANYTHING COMES UP, TELL DI MCRAE.’

Typical. Couldn’t have given the reins to one of her minions, could she? No, of course not. Not when she could make Logan’s life more difficult.

‘Anyway...’ Rennie went back to his notebook. ‘So I spoke to the janitor, the professor from Aberdeen Uni who runs the Saturday maths club, and a really camp Geordie who takes the ballet class. All say the same thing: John Skinner picked Heidi and Toby up at midday.’

‘Damn it.’ Logan frowned at the screen, ignoring the spreadsheet and its irritating little numbers. Skinner picked up the kids. Did he do it before, or after he killed their mother? Did he make them watch? ‘What about family and friends?’

Rennie flipped the page. ‘Teams been going through them all morning, but no one’s seen the kids.’

And John Skinner’s car was still missing.

‘OK: if you haven’t already done it, get a lookout request on Skinner’s BMW. Tell traffic and every patrol-car team it’s category one. I want it found. Might be something in there that’ll tell us what he’s done with Heidi and Toby. Make sure the SEB sample any dirt in the footwells — get it off for soil analysis.’ He tapped his fingertips along the edge of the desk, frowning at those horrible little numbers. ‘Maybe it’s parked on a side street somewhere near where he dropped the kids?’ After all, that’s how they’d found Emma Skinner. Not that it’d done her any good.

‘Yes, Guv.’ Rennie stood. ‘So... you in charge till Steel gets back?’

Logan folded over and banged his head on the desk a couple of times.

‘Guv?’

Of course he sodding was.

Because DCI Steel had struck again.

11

‘OK, thanks Denise.’ Rennie put the phone down.

Logan looked at him. ‘Well?’

‘Sod all.’

‘Pffff...’

The Major Inquiry Team room was a lot grander than the manky hole CID had to work out of. New carpet tiles that were all the same colour, swanky new computers that probably didn’t run on elastic bands and arthritic hamsters, electronic whiteboards, a colour printer, a fancy coffee machine that took little pods, and ceiling tiles that didn’t look as if they’d spent three months on the floor of a dysentery ward.

How the other half lived.

A handful of officers were on the phones, talking in hushed voices and scribbling down notes.

Logan picked up one of the interactive markers and drew a circle on the whiteboard. There was a small lag, then a red circle appeared on the map of Aberdeen that filled the screen, taking in a chunk of the city centre around the casino. ‘John Skinner didn’t park in the Chapel Street multistorey and walk the length of Union Street to kill himself. He was clarted in blood — someone would’ve noticed.’

DS Biohazard Bob crossed his arms and poked out his top lip, as if he was trying to sniff it. It wasn’t a good look: with his sticky-out ears, bald patch, and single thick hairy eyebrow, he bore more than a passing resemblance to a chimpanzee at the best of times. ‘What about the NCP on Virginia Street? It’s just round the corner.’

Rennie shook his head. ‘The one on Shiprow’s closer.’

‘Pair of twits. It’s the same car park.’ Logan drew a red ‘X’ on the screen. ‘Doesn’t matter — logbook says it’s been searched. No dark-blue BMW M5.’

Biohazard had a scratch. ‘There’s a council one on Mearns Street, that’s pretty close too. Or Union Square?’

‘Or...’ Rennie pointed at the map. ‘What if he had a long coat on? Like a mac, or something. Could cover up the bloodstains and no one would notice. Dump it when he gets onto the roof of the casino.’

‘Nah.’ Biohazard shook his head. ‘We would’ve found it on the roof.’

‘Not if the wind got hold of it. Could be in Norway by now.’

‘True.’

Logan took the pen and marked on all the public car parks within a fifteen-minute walk. ‘Rennie — get down to the CCTV room and tell them to go over the footage from Saturday. Any route to the casino from any of these car parks. See if they can find John Skinner.’

‘Guv.’

‘Biohazard — grab some bodies and work your way through the car parks, find that BMW. Start with the closest, work your way out.’

‘Guv.’

The pair of them turned and marched off, leaving nothing but a cloying eggy reek behind.

Logan gagged, wafted a hand in front of his face. ‘Biohazard!’

Giggling faded away down the corridor.

‘That’s us done Union Square. Got a dark-blue beamer, but it’s not his. I’m... Hold on.’ Biohazard Bob’s voice went all muffled, barely audible. ‘I don’t care. You should’ve gone before we left the station.’ Then he was back. ‘Sorry, Guv, logistical problems.’

Logan drew a red cross on the whiteboard, eliminating Union Square. ‘Might as well try College Street multistorey, while you’re there. Then hit the Trinity Centre.’

‘Guv.’

The MIT office was nearly deserted. A handful of plain-clothes officers were bent over phones, taking sightings from members of the public. A whiteboard by the fancy coffee machine bore a list of possible locations that now stretched from Lerwick to Naples. A woman with bouffant hair and pigeon toes put her phone down, shambled over, and added ‘PORT ISAAC’ to the roll.

She puffed out her cheeks, then turned to Logan. ‘I know they’re only trying to help, Guv, but why do they all have to be nutters? Oh, here we go.’ Her eyebrows climbed up her forehead and she pointed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Showtime.’

He turned and there was Steel on one of the large flatscreen TVs. A media liaison officer sat on one side of her, fiddling with his notes and looking uncomfortable. On the other side were an elderly couple: a grey-haired woman and a bald man, both with dark circles beneath watery eyes. The lines in their faces had probably deepened an inch since Saturday.

Officer Bouffant scuffed over to Logan, staring up at the screen. ‘Both sets of grandparents wanted to do it, but the boss thought it’d be best to stick to the wife’s side of the family. Might be harder to get sympathy with the murdering wee sod’s mum and dad there.’

Logan grabbed the remote and turned the sound on.

‘... thank you.’ The media officer shuffled his papers again. Then held out a hand. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Steel.’

It looked as if she’d had a bash at combing her hair. And failed. ‘Heidi and Toby Skinner were picked up by their father from Balmoral Primary School at twelve o’clock on Saturday afternoon. At one forty-five, John Skinner jumped from the roof of the Grosvenor G Casino on Exchequer Row. At some point between twelve o’clock and one forty-five, Emma Skinner — Heidi and Toby’s mother — was subjected to a brutal and fatal attack, along with her friend, Brian Williams, at a house in Newburgh Road.’

At that, the elderly couple sitting next to Steel quivered and wiped away tears.

Officer Bouffant tilted her head. ‘We’re calling Williams her “friend”. Thought it’d be kinder.’

A copy of that morning’s Daily Mail sat on the desk beside her. ‘MUM AND TOYBOY LOVER IN BLOODBATH HORROR’.

‘How did that work out for you?’

She picked up the newspaper and dumped it in the bin. Shrugged. ‘Well, it was worth a go.’

‘... appealing for any information that will help us locate Heidi and Toby. Did you see John Skinner’s dark-blue BMW M5...’

Then a sigh. ‘Wasting our time, aren’t we? Fiver says that gets us nothing but more phone calls from nutters.’

‘Yup.’

‘... extremely concerned for their wellbeing...’

Officer Bouffant curled into herself a bit, shoulders rounding. ‘You know what? Being in the police would be a great job, if we didn’t have to deal with members of the sodding public.’

‘Thank you.’ The media officer had another shuffle. ‘And now Mr and Mrs Prichard would like to read a brief statement.’

The old man’s voice was cracked and raw, trembling with each breath. ‘We’ve already lost so much. Emma was the brightest, most wonderful human being you could ever meet. She lit up every room...’

‘Think they’ll get custody of the kids? You know, assuming we find them.’ She folded her arms. ‘I mean, the court won’t give Heidi and Toby to the dad’s parents, will they? Not after what he did.’

‘Haven’t you got phones to answer?’

Sigh. ‘Yes, Guv.’

‘... bring our grandchildren home, safe and sound. Please, if you know anything, if you saw... their father...’ The poor sod couldn’t even bring himself to say John Skinner’s name. ‘... if you know where our grandchildren are...’ He crumpled, both hands covering his face. His wife put her arm around him, tears shining on her cheeks.

Mr Media did some more shuffling. ‘Thank you. We will now take questions.’

A forest of hands shot up.

‘Yes?’

‘Carol Smith, Aberdeen Examiner. Why did John Skinner jump off the casino? Did he have a gambling problem?’

Steel shook her head. ‘No’ that we know of. The casino has no record of him ever being in the building before. As far as we—’

Logan killed the sound and left Steel chuntering away to herself in silence.

It was all just for show anyway. The illusion of progress. Yes, someone might spot John Skinner’s BMW, but it wasn’t likely. The only way they were going to get Heidi and Toby back was by working their way through every parking spot in the city, and hoping there was something in Skinner’s car that would point the way.

And hope even more that it didn’t point to a pair of tiny shallow graves.

His phone buzzed deep inside his pocket, then launched into ‘If I Only Had a Brain’. That would be Rennie.

Logan hit the button. ‘What have you got?’

‘Guv? Think we’ve found him.’

‘There.’ The CCTV tech leaned forward and poked the screen. A figure was frozen in the lower left-hand corner, shoulders hunched, long blue raincoat on over what looked like a grey suit. John Skinner.

Logan nodded. ‘It’s him.’

She spooled the footage backwards, and he reversed onto Union Street, disappearing around the corner of the Athenaeum pub. ‘Took a while, but we managed to—’

‘Hoy!’ The door thumped open and Steel stood on the threshold, with a mug in one hand and a rolled-up newspaper tucked under her arm. ‘Who said you sods could start without me?’

And everything had been going so well. ‘Thought you were off being a media tart.’

‘Did you see me on the telly? I was spectacular. Like a young Helen Mirren.’ She thumped the newspaper against his chest. ‘Page four.’

Logan opened the Scottish Sun to a spread on ‘FATHER OF TWO IN MURDER-SUICIDE SPREE’ complete with photos of John Skinner, his two victims, and his missing children.

She poked the article. ‘See? “The community has been stunned by Skinner’s terrible crimes, and now fears for Heidi — seven — and Toby — six — are growing.”’ A nod. ‘Told you: missing kids trumps dead tramp. Think they’re going to run a two-page spread on Gordy Taylor choking on his own vomit? Course they’re no’.’

He dumped the paper in the bin. ‘That doesn’t mean we don’t—’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel leaned on the desk, close enough to brush the tech’s hair with an errant boob. ‘What are we looking at?’

‘John Skinner.’ She shuffled an inch sideways, getting away from Steel’s chest. ‘So, we track him backwards from the casino...’ Her fingers clattered across the keyboard and the scene jumped to the security camera at the junction of Union Street and Market Street. John Skinner reversed across the corner of the image, clipping the edge of the box junction before disappearing again.

‘Can barely see the wee sod; can you no’ follow him properly?’

The CCTV tech shook her head, flinching as her ear made contact. ‘If someone does something and we’re there, we can follow him from camera to camera. But we can’t jump back in time and tilt and pan, can we? You’re lucky we got anything at all.’

Logan’s phone rang, deep in his pocket. Please don’t be Mrs Black, please don’t be Mrs Black. But when he checked the display it was only Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, useless solicitors and rubbish estate agents to the stars. Probably calling with another derisory offer from the Moores. Well, she could go to voicemail. Let it ring.

Steel glowered at him. ‘You answering that, or do I have to shove it up your bumhole. We’re working here.’

Right. He pressed the button to reject the call. ‘Sorry.’

‘Think so too.’ She eased a little closer to the CCTV tech. ‘Come on then — where now?’

Another rattle of keys.

‘Markies and the Saint Nicholas Centre probably got him on their cameras, but the next time he shows up is here...’ A view across School Hill at the traffic lights. Three cars and a bus stopped on one side, a motorcyclist and a transit van on the other. Skinner lurched backwards across the road and into a short granite canyon blocked off by metal bollards. He reversed past the bank and in through the line of glass doors leading into the Bon Accord Centre. Or more properly, out of it — given the way he’d been going in real life.

She poked the screen as the doors shut, swallowing him. ‘That’s it.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Doesn’t appear on foot on any of the other CCTV cameras in the area.’ A smile put dimples in her cheeks. ‘But I found this.’

The screen jumped to a view down Berry Street, where it made a T-junction with the Gallowgate. Bland granite flats on one side, and a bland granite office block on the other side. A dark-blue BMW M5 came down the Gallowgate and paused in the middle of the junction, indicating right. The opposing traffic dribbled away and it turned onto Berry Street.

She hit pause. ‘Number plate matches.’

Steel pressed in even closer. ‘So what are we saying?’

Logan poked her on the shoulder. ‘Get your boob out of the poor woman’s ear.’ He pointed. ‘Down there you’ve got John Lewis and the Loch Street Car Park. What about the CCTV camera at the corner of St Andrew Street and George Street?’

‘Nope. Far as I can tell, he dumps the car in the car park and walks through the Bon Accord Centre.’

Steel smacked her hand down on the desk. ‘Saddle the horses, Laz, we’ve got two wee kids to save!’

12

The patrol car’s sirens carved a path through the Monday rush hour. It was still excruciatingly slow though, crawling along under thirty miles an hour till they got to the junction with Berry Street, where John Skinner had turned right. Then the traffic thinned out and Rennie put his foot down, gunning the engine, throwing them hard around the corner and— ‘Eeek!’ He locked his arms and stamped on the brakes as the back end of a Citroën Espace burst into view. Its ‘BABY ON BOARD’ sticker loomed huge, getting huger...

They slithered sideways in a juddering rumble of antilock brakes, coming to a halt half on the pavement.

Steel leaned over from the passenger seat and skelped him round the ear. ‘What have I told you about no’ getting me killed?’

‘Pfffff... That was close.’

‘Moron.’

The Espace pulled forward up the ramp, apparently unaware that they nearly had an extra three passengers in the back seat, complete with patrol car.

Rennie backed off the pavement and followed them under the curved blue sign and into the concrete gloom. A wee queue of traffic led up to an automatic barrier, issuing tickets slower than tectonic plates move.

Steel slumped in her seat. ‘Gah. Would’ve been quicker sodding walking.’

Logan’s mobile gave its anonymous ringtone. He pulled it out and checked the screen: Marjory from the estate agents again. He stuck the phone back in his pocket, let it go to voicemail.

Finally, Rennie grabbed a ticket from the geological machinery and pulled up onto the first level. Stopped, craning left and right. ‘Which way?’

A forest of concrete pillars reached away into the distance, the space between them packed with cars, all washed in the grimy glow of striplights.

Steel jabbed a finger at the tarmac. ‘Follow the arrows. Nice and slow. Anyone spots a BMW, they shout.’

‘One more time?’ Rennie ran his fingers across the top of the steering wheel as their car emerged from the darkness into the evening sunshine. The ramp curled around to the right, then across a short flyover — suspended three storeys above the street below — and they were back on the roof of John Lewis again.

The last gasp of overflow parking was nearly empty. Half a dozen huge, expensive-looking, shiny, four-by-fours stood sentry on the seagull-speckled tarmac, each one parked as far away from the others as possible, in case someone marred their showroom finish.

Could pretty much guarantee that none of them had seen anything more off-road than the potholes on Anderson Drive.

Steel checked her watch. ‘Sodding hell.’ She sighed. ‘He’s no’ here, is he?’

Logan leaned forward and poked his head between the front seats. ‘What if he looped round the back of the Bon Accord Centre and onto Harriet Street? Parked in there?’

Rennie shook his head. ‘Nah: Harriet’s one way.’

Ah. ‘Still be a lot of wee places you could leave a car round here though. Not legally, but if you’ve just stabbed your wife and her lover to death, you probably aren’t too bothered about that.’

Steel covered her face with her hands and swore for a bit. Then straightened up. ‘One last time round the car park, then we try Crooked Lane. Then Charlotte Street. And anywhere else we can think of.’ She kicked something in the footwell. ‘Buggering hell!’

‘... your news, travel, and weather at seven, with Jackie.’

‘Thanks, Jimmy. The trial of Professor Richard Marks enters its third day today, with one prosecution witness claiming the psychiatrist sexually assaulted him on eighteen separate occasions...’

Rennie swung the car around Mounthoolie roundabout. ‘Where now?’

‘... at Aberdeen University since 2010...’

The massive lump of earth and grass slid by the driver’s side, easily big enough to hold its own housing scheme. Surprised no one had thought of that yet. Could make a fortune.

Steel slumped against the passenger window. ‘Back to the ranch.’

‘... twenty-three counts. Next up: the grandparents of two missing local children issued an appeal today for information. Heidi and Toby Skinner have been missing since their father committed suicide on Saturday...’

Rennie took the next left, up the Gallowgate. Grey three-storey flats on one side, grey four-storey flats on the other. The grey monolithic lump of Seamount Court towered over the surrounding buildings with its eighteen-storeys of concrete, narrow windows glittering in the sunlight.

‘... you, please: we just want our grandchildren back...’

The North East Scotland College building drifted past the driver’s side — in yet more shades of grey.

Logan shifted in his seat. ‘Maybe he had an accomplice? Maybe he got out at the Bon Accord Centre and someone drove the kids away?’

‘Maybe.’ Steel raised one shoulder. ‘Or maybe he decided the whole family would be better off dead. You know what these scumbags are like — she’s shagging around on him, so everyone gets to die.’ She stared out of the window at the sea of grey buildings. ‘You’ve really managed to cock this one up, haven’t you?’

What?

Logan reached forward and poked her on the shoulder. ‘How have I cocked it up?’

Rennie kept his eyes on the road, mouth shut.

‘You should’ve had a lookout request going on the kids soon as they scraped Skinner off the cobblestones!’

‘Really? Because I remember you saying it was all his own fault and Guthrie should head round and try to shag the widow.’

A sniff. A pause. Then Steel raised an eyebrow. ‘To be fair, given what she’d been up to with Brian Williams, Sunshine might have been in with a chance, so—’

‘And I don’t see you showering yourself in glory here. If it wasn’t for me, we wouldn’t even be searching the car parks!’

Steel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nobody likes a smart arse.’

Rennie knocked on Logan’s door frame. ‘Thought you’d have gone home by now.’ His hair was back to its usual blond quiffiness, the tie loosened and top button undone. Bags under both eyes.

Logan leaned back in his office chair. ‘Could say the same for you.’

A small smile and a shrug. ‘Got everyone we can out looking for Skinner’s car. Might have to organize a mass search tomorrow. Half of Aberdeen rampaging through the streets, shouting at blue BMWs. Fun. Fun. Fun.’

‘The joy of working for Detective Chief Inspector Steel.’

‘Tell me about it. Our Donna’s less of a hassle, and she’s only six months old. Still, at least we don’t have to change Steel’s nappies.’

‘Yet.’

Rennie curled his top lip. ‘Shudder.’ Then he hooked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the corridor. ‘Bunch of us are heading off to Blackfriars. You wanna?’

Logan shut down his computer. ‘Tempting, but I’ve got to check on a nutjob before I go home.’

Violent pink and orange caught the underside of the grey clouds, as the sun sank towards the horizon. Logan tucked the pool car in behind a Mini on the other side of Pitmedden Court.

Across the road, lights shone from Justin Robson’s windows, but Mrs Black’s house was slipping into darkness. She was probably sitting in there, on her own, mourning her dead parakeets at the bottom of a vodka bottle. Wondering where her life went so badly wrong.

Maybe plotting revenge on her horrible next-door neighbour.

Not that Justin Robson didn’t deserve a good stiff kicking for what he’d done. And got away with.

Still, at least they didn’t seem to be at each other’s throats this evening. That was something. But there was no way it would last. Sooner or later, one of them was going to open fire again.

Logan pulled away from the kerb, heading back towards Divisional Headquarters.

Should’ve arrested the pair of them when they had the chance.

Logan let himself into the flat. ‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’ He clunked the door shut. Hung up his jacket. Grabbed the last tin of Stella from the fridge. ‘Cthulhu?’

She was through in the lounge, stretching on the windowsill — paws out front, bum in the air, tail making a fluffy question mark. A couple of proops, a meep, then she thunked down on to the laminate floor and padded over to bump her head against his shins.

The answering machine was giving its familiar baleful wink again.

Well it could sodding wait.

He squatted down and scooped Cthulhu up, turning her the wrong way up and blowing raspberries on her fuzzy tummy as she stretched and purred.

‘Daddy’s had a crappy day.’

More purring.

The answering machine bided its time, glowering.

Might as well get it over with.

He carried Cthulhu over and pressed the button.

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

‘Mr McRae? It’s Dr Berrisford from Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre, we’ve got your application in for a bed for Samantha Mackie in our neurological ward. Normally there’s a waiting list of about six months, but we’ve had a cancellation. Can you call me back please? I’ll be here till about eight. Thanks.’

He hit pause and checked his watch, making Cthulhu wriggle. Seven forty-five. Still time. Cthulhu got placed on the arm of the chair while Logan dug out the paperwork from the coffee table’s drawer. Flipped through to Dr Berrisford’s contact details. And punched the number into the phone.

Listened to it ring.

‘Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre. How can I help you this evening?’

‘Can I speak to Dr Berrisford, please? It’s Logan McRae.’

‘One moment...’

He sank into the couch. Then stood again. Paced to the window and back.

A deep, posh voice purred down the line. ‘Ah, Mr McRae, how are you?’

‘You’ve got an opening for Samantha?’

‘That’s right. We were holding a bed for someone, but unfortunately they’ve passed away.’

‘That’s great...’ Logan cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, obviously it’s not great for them. I just meant—’

‘It’s OK. I understand. Now, there are a few things we’ll need to sort out, to make sure Miss Mackie can get the best care possible. You are aware of our fee structure?’

Right to the chase.

Logan glanced down at the letter, with its columns of eye-watering figures. ‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. Well, if you can organize the phase-one payment we’ll get the ball rolling.’

Phase one cost more than he made in a year.

He forced his voice to stay level. ‘When do you need it?’

‘Well, normally we’d say straight away — there is a waiting list — but if you need time to sort things out I can probably extend that to two weeks? Any more than that and I’ll have to release the bed again.’

Two weeks. Could probably get a second mortgage organized on the flat by then, couldn’t he?

Or he could take Wee Hamish Mowat up on his offer. Borrow enough money to pay the care centre’s fees till the mortgage came through.

Sweat prickled the back of Logan’s neck. Cross that line and there was no going back. No ‘plausible deniability’. He’d be in Wee Hamish’s pocket, and that would be that.

Logan’s eyes widened. Oh crap...

Wee Hamish.

He’d taken an interest in Samantha’s care. Said he’d put in a word. What if he’d done more than that? What if he’d made the opportunity.

‘Mr McRae? Hello?’

‘Sorry.’ Logan licked his lips. ‘Dr Berrisford, the person who died, how did... Was it...?’

‘Pneumonia. She was due to come up from Ninewells Hospital three weeks ago, but there were complications.’ A sigh. ‘It’s often the case with people in long-term unresponsive states. Chest infections are very difficult for them to deal with and, sadly, she was simply too weak to fight this one off.’

The breath whoomphed out of Logan, leaving him with eyes closed, one hand clasped to his forehead. Thank God for that. At least Wee Hamish didn’t have her killed.

‘I see. Right. Two weeks.’

‘Let me know if that’s not going to be possible, though, OK?’

‘No, yes. Right. Thanks.’

He listened till the line went dead, then clicked the phone back in its charger.

Two weeks.

Another deep breath. First thing tomorrow — get an appointment with the bank. See what they could do.

Two weeks.

It was as if something huge and heavy was sitting on his chest.

Logan pressed play on the answering machine again.

‘Message two:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Logan? What exactly is wrong with you? I’m your mother and I deserve—’

‘You can sod off too.’ Poke.

‘Message deleted. Message three:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Guv? It’s Rennie. We’re in Archie’s, where are you?’ The sound of singing and cheering drowned him out for a moment. ‘... buck naked. Anyway, we’re having another couple here, then maybe grabbing a curry. Give us a call, OK?’

‘Message deleted. Message four:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Aye, DI McRae? It’s Alfie here from Control. Yon horrible wifie Mrs Black’s bin on the phone aboot a dozen times, moaning aboot her neighbour. Are you—’

‘Message deleted. Message five:’ Bleeeeeep.

‘Mr McRae, it’s Marjory from Willkie and Oxford, Solicitors again. Hello. I’ve been trying to get in touch about the young man who came round to view the property this afternoon. He loves the flat and he’s made an offer...’ She left a dramatic pause.

That was the trouble with people these days — too much time spent watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and Celebrity MasterChef, and Strictly Come Sodding Dancing. They couldn’t just come out and say something, they had to build it into a big production number.

‘Mr Urquhart wants to know if you’ll take the property off the market for twenty thousand pounds over the valuation.’

Logan stared at the machine. ‘How much?’

‘Anyway, it’s nearly five o’clock, so if you want to give me a call back tomorrow morning, we can see how you’d like to proceed. OK. Thanks. Bye.’

Bleeeeeep.

‘How much?’ He pressed the button to play the message again.

‘Mr Urquhart wants to know if you’ll take the property off the market for twenty thousand pounds over the valuation.’

Damn right he would.

He played the message three more times. Then kissed Cthulhu on the head, popped her down on the couch, and toasted her with the tin of Stella. ‘Daddy’s sold the flat!’

God knew it was about time something went right.