22 Dead Little Bodies

13

‘OK, any questions?’ Standing at the front of the MIT office, Steel clicked the remote and the screen behind her filled with the photos of Heidi and Toby Skinner.

A hand went up at the back. ‘We still looking for live kids, or is it kids’ bodies now?’

Steel scowled through the gathered ranks of uniform and plain-clothes officers. ‘You looking for a shoe-leather suppository, McHardy? Cos I don’t use lubricant.’

He lowered his hand. ‘Only asking.’

‘Well don’t.’ She turned to the crowd again. ‘Heidi is seven. Toby is six. They’re only wee, and we are damn well going to find them while they’re still alive. Am I clear?’

A muffled chorus rippled around the room.

‘I said: am I sodding clear?’

This time the answer rattled the ceiling tiles. ‘Guv, yes, Guv!’

‘Better.’ She straightened the hem of her shirt, pulling it down and increasing the amount of wrinkly cleavage on view by about an inch. ‘Now our beloved Divisional Commander is going to say a few inspirational words.’ She jerked her head towards a big man with a baldy head and hands like a gorilla. ‘Come on, Tony, fill your boots.’

While Big Tony Campbell was banging on about civic responsibility and the weight of the public’s expectations, Logan flicked through the short stack of Post-it notes that had been stuck to his monitor when he got in. All pretty much the same: ‘MRS BLACK CALLED AT 21:05 COMPLAINING ABOUT THE NOISE FROM NEXT DOOR (RAP MUSIC).’, ‘MRS BLACK CALLED AT 21:30 STILL COMPLAINING ABOUT THE NOISE.’, ‘MRS BLACK CALLED AT 22:05 COMPLAINING ABOUT RAP MUSIC AND SWEARING FROM NEXT DOOR (AGAIN). SOUNDED DRUNK.’ The next six were the same — every fifteen to twenty minutes she’d call up to moan about Justin Robson, apparently sounding more and more blootered each time.

Suppose they’d have to go around there again and read them both the riot act.

So much for the ceasefire.

Big Tony Campbell still hadn’t finished being motivational: the power to make a difference, serving the community, proving our detractors wrong. Blah, Blah, Blah.

Steel sidled her way around the outside of the room, till she was standing next to Logan.

Keeping most of her mouth clamped shut, she hissed at him out of one side. ‘Don’t forget — you’re on babysitting duty tonight.’

He kept his face front, expressionless.

She sighed. ‘OK: a tenner, a pizza, a bottle of red, and a tub of Mackie’s.’

Logan didn’t move his mouth. ‘What kind of pizza?’

‘Microwave.’

‘Get stuffed.’

Up at the front, Big Tony Campbell came to the end of his speech and held up his hands in blessing. ‘Now get out there and find those children. I know you can do it.’

The younger members of the audience launched into a round of applause. That petered out under the withering stares of the older hands. Some embarrassed clearing of throats and shuffling of feet. Then they started drifting out of the MIT office, heading off on their allotted tasks.

Rennie appeared at Steel’s shoulder, stifling a yawn. ‘All set, Guv. Both lots of grandparents are on their way for the press conference at eight.’

She didn’t look at him. ‘I know when the press conference is.’

‘You knew when the last one was, and you were still fifteen minutes late.’

Her lips pursed, wrinkles deepening at the corners as her eyes narrowed. ‘Coffee. Milk and two sugars. And a bacon buttie. Now, Sergeant.’ Soon as he was gone, she tugged at her shirt again. Any further and there’d be bra on show. ‘Cheeky wee sod that he is.’

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Thought you weren’t using John Skinner’s parents.’

‘United front, Laz. We want them kids back. Our beloved Divisional Commander thinks if we stick both sets up there, the public’s more likely to help hunt down John Skinner’s beamer.’

‘OK, well, have you got a team going door-to-door on Newburgh Road, where we found the wife’s car?’

She closed one eye and squinted at him. ‘Do I look like a complete and utter numpty to you? Course I have.’

‘If someone saw John Skinner turn up to murder his wife, maybe they saw someone else in the car? An accomplice.’

‘Yeah, I did actually think of that. It’s no’ my first murder, thank you very much.’ A sniff, then another shirt tug, revealing a line of black lace. ‘Tell you, Laz, that nasty feeling of mine’s getting worse.’

‘You’re not the only one. I— Sodding hell.’ His phone was going again, playing that same irritating anonymous ringtone. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out and pressed the button. ‘Hello?’

Nothing.

‘Hello?’

A woman’s voice, thin and trembling. ‘Is this... Are you Sergeant McRae?’

‘Can I help you?’

‘It’s over.’

OK. He took a couple of steps away and stuck a finger in his other ear. ‘Who am I talking to?’

‘It’s over. It’s finally over. I’m free.’

‘That’s great. Now, who am I speaking to?’ The voice was kind of familiar, but not enough to put a name to it. Distorted and distant, as if whoever it was wasn’t really there. ‘Hello?’

‘I’m free.’ Then nothing but silence. She’d hung up.

Nutters. The world was full of nutters.

He checked his call history: 01224 area code — didn’t help much, that covered nearly everything from Kingswells to Portlethen and all points in between. Including the whole of Aberdeen. He dialled the number back. Listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And ring. More soup. And ring...

‘Hi, this is Justin’s answering machine. I’m afraid he’s too busy to come to the phone right now, but you know what to do when you hear the...’ Followed by a long bleeeeeep.

‘Hello? Anyone there? Hello?’ Nothing. ‘Hello?’ Silence. Logan hung up. Frowned down at his phone: Justin.

But it had been a woman’s voice he’d heard: It’s over. It’s finally over. I’m free.

Logan’s eyes widened: Justin.

Sodding hell.

He ran for the door.

Grey houses streaked by the pool car’s windows. The siren wailed, lights flashing, parting the early morning traffic as Logan tore up Union Street doing fifty. ‘Call Control — whoever’s closest, I want a safe-and-well check on Justin Robson. Grade one!’

Sitting in the passenger seat, Wheezy Doug dug out his mobile and dialled. Braced himself with his other hand as the pool car jinked around a bendy bus. ‘Control from Sierra Charlie Six, I need a safe-and-well check...’

The Music Hall flashed by on the right, pedestrians stopping on the pavement to gawp as the car screamed past.

‘... Justin Robson... No, Robson: Romeo — Oscar — Bravo — Sierra — Oscar — November... Yes, Robson.’

Shops and traffic blurred past. Across the box junction by the old Capitol Cinema.

‘Don’t care, Control, as long as they get there now. We’re en route.’

A hard left onto Holburn Street. A van driver’s eyes bulged as he wrenched his Transit up onto the kerb. Silly sod should’ve been on his own side of the road in the first place. The needle crept up to sixty.

‘OK.’ Wheezy pinned the mobile to his chest, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Control want to know what are they sending a car into?’

‘Something horrible. Now tell them to get their backsides in gear!’

‘Guv.’ And he was back on the phone again.

The needle hit sixty-five.

Logan abandoned the Vauxhall sideways across the road, behind a patrol car, and bolted for Justin Robson’s house. The front door was wide open, raised voices coming from inside: ‘I don’t care what they’re doing, tell the Scenes Examination Branch to get their backsides over here.’

He battered into the hall. ‘Hello?’

A uniformed officer appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair scraped back, tattoos poking out from the sleeves of her police-issue T-shirt. She had her Airwave up to her ear. ‘OK, make sure they do.’ Then she twisted it back onto one of the clips on her stabproof vest and nodded at him. ‘Sir.’ Her mouth turned down at the edges. ‘Sorry.’

Logan jogged to a halt. ‘Is he...?’

She jerked her head back and to the side. ‘Through there.’ Then stood back to let Logan in.

Justin Robson’s immaculate kitchen wasn’t immaculate any more. Bright scarlet smeared the granite worktops. More on the big American fridge freezer. More on the walls. A few drops on the ceiling.

Robson sat on the tiled floor, with his back against one of the units. Legs at twenty-five to four. One arm curled in his lap, palm up, fingers out, the other loose and twisted at his side. Head back, mouth open, eyes staring at the rack lighting. Skin pale as skimmed milk.

He was dressed for work: brand-new trainers, blue jeans, shirt, and tie. Everything between his neck and his knees was stained dark, dark crimson. One of his own huge, and probably very expensive, kitchen knives stuck out of his chest, buried at least halfway in. It wasn’t the only wound — his torso was covered with them.

The PC eased into the room and stood well back from the spatter marks with her arms folded. Staring down at the body. ‘He’s still warm. I’ve called an ambulance, but look at him. Has to be stabbed at least thirty, forty times? No pulse.’

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Where’s Marion Black?’

She was in the living room, sitting on Justin Robson’s couch. Red and brown streaks covered both arms, the black leather seat beside her clarty with more blood. Her tartan jimjams were frayed at the cuffs, the front spattered and smeared.

Logan beckoned the PC over. ‘Your body-worn video working?’

She tapped the credit-card-style cover. ‘Already running.’

‘Good. Stay there.’ He stepped in front of Mrs Black — where the BWV would catch them both. ‘You phoned me.’

She looked up and smiled. Slow and happy. Peaceful. Like her voice. ‘Isn’t it lovely and quiet?’ Her pupils were huge and dark, shiny as buttons.

‘Mrs Black, Justin Robson’s dead.’

‘I know, isn’t it wonderful? He’s dead and gone and it’s all lovely and quiet.’ Her fingers made tacky sticky noises on the leather couch. ‘He killed my babies and then...’ A frown. ‘That horrible music at all hours. Pounding away through the walls. Boom, boom, boom...’

‘Mrs Black, what—’

‘I asked him to turn it down, and he laughed in my face. He killed my babies, and laughed at me. Played that horrible music till I couldn’t...’ She looked down at her blood-smeared fingers. The nails were almost black. ‘And now he’s dead and it’s lovely and quiet again. We can all live happily ever after.’

‘I’m going to need you to come with me.’

She waved a hand at the huge flatscreen TV and the games consoles. ‘Why would a grown man need all this stuff?’

‘Marion Black, I am detaining you under Section Fourteen of the Criminal Procedure — Scotland — Act 1995, because I suspect you of having committed an offence punishable by imprisonment: namely the murder by stabbing of Justin Robson.’

‘It’s pathetic, isn’t it? All this stuff. All that money. And what good did it do him?’

‘You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be noted down and may be used in evidence. Stand up, please.’

She unfolded herself from the couch. Rubbed each thumb along the tips of her filthy fingers. Caught, literally, red-handed. A frown. ‘I’m glad he’s dead.’ Then the smile was back. ‘Now I can sleep.’

14

Steel stood on her tiptoes and peered over Logan’s shoulder into the interview room. ‘She cop to it?’

‘Yes and no.’ He eased the door closed, leaving Mrs Black alone with DS Baird and the PC from the house. ‘We’ve got her on BWV admitting she killed him, but in there? She “can’t remember”. She’s “confused”. And now she’s decided she does want a lawyer after all.’

‘Gah...’ Steel’s face soured. ‘Want to bet whatever slimy git she gets will tell her to no comment all day, then aim for a diminished responsibility in court tomorrow morning?’ Steel went in for a dig at an underwire. ‘No’ saying I wouldn’t buy it, mind. She’s off her sodding rocker.’

‘She’s off her face too. Had pupils the size of doorknobs when we picked her up.’ Which was kind of ironic, given her obsession with Robson being a drug dealer. ‘Odds on it’s antidepressants.’

‘Five quid says she cops a plea, gets three or four years in a secure psychiatric facility. Out in two.’

‘Ever wonder why we bother?’ He tucked the manila folder under his arm and started down the corridor. ‘What’s the news with Heidi and Toby Skinner? Search turn up anything?’

‘Maybe we could get someone to section her? Indefinitely detained in a nice squishy room with a cardie that buckles up the back.’

‘He must’ve parked that damn car somewhere.’

Steel gave up on the underwire and had a dig at the bit in the middle instead. ‘Can’t be hard getting a shrink to say she’s a danger to herself and others, can it? No’ with three pints of Justin Robson’s blood caked under her fingernails.’

‘I was thinking — the big car parks have ANPR systems, don’t they? In case you do a runner without paying, they can track you through your number plate.’

‘We could get your mate Goulding to section her, assuming he’s finished stuffing Professor Marks like a sock puppet. Pervy wee sod that he is.’

Logan frowned. ‘Goulding or Marks?’

‘Bit of both.’ She blew out a breath and sagged against the corridor wall. ‘You want to know what we’ve got on the hunt for Skinner’s kids? Sod all, that’s what. Even with a massive search, there’s no sign of the car anywhere. No one’s seen it or the kids.’ She covered her face with her hands, fingertips rubbing away at her temples. ‘McHardy was right — they’re dead, aren’t they? Don’t get them in the first twenty-four hours: they’re dead. And it’s been three days.’

‘We’ll find them. And we’ll find them alive. All we need’s one—’

A clipped voice cut through the corridor: ‘Ah, there you are.’ A cold smile followed the words, attached to an utter bastard in Police ninja black. Chief Superintendent Napier. His brogues were polished to dark mirrors, one pip and a crown glowing on his epaulettes. His hair glowed too, a fiery ginger that caught the overhead lighting like a Tesla coil. Napier spread his hands. ‘And if it isn’t Acting Detective Inspector McRae as well. Just the officers I need to talk to.’

Oh great.

Steel took a deep breath and held it.

Logan poked her. ‘If it didn’t work on the apprentice, it’s not going to work on the Sith Lord, is it?’

A frown creased Napier’s forehead. ‘Sith...?’

She puffed out the air. ‘This about Justin Robson?’

The smile widened and chilled. ‘Indeed it is, Chief Inspector. Tell you what, why don’t we start with you, and then move on to Acting Detective Inspector McRae? Call it privilege of rank.’

Some privilege. But Logan wasn’t about to volunteer to go first.

He backed away down the corridor. ‘Right. I’d... better get on with that investigation, then.’

Nice and slow to the corner, then run for it.

Logan wandered up the pavement, away from the knot of smokers kippering each other outside the Bon Accord Centre’s George Street entrance. The ribbed, concrete, Seventies lump of John Lewis squatted in the sunlight like a big grey wart, facing off against a row of charity shops, a supermarket, and a pawnbroker’s with ideas above its station.

He stuck a finger in his other ear, to shut out the wails of a passing toddler. ‘You’re sure? Twenty grand?’

‘I know, it’s marvellous, isn’t it? He’s starting a property portfolio and thinks your flat’s an excellent rental prospect. And the offer’s unconditional. He’s paying cash: we don’t even need to do another Home Report!’ Marjory sounded as if she was about to pop the champagne. Eighteen months on the market, and it was going for twenty thousand over the asking price. Willkie and Oxford would probably give her a badge. And a hat. ‘So, shall I tell him...?’

‘It’s a deal.’ An extra twenty grand would make a huge amount of difference.

‘Wonderful. I’ll get the paperwork drawn up and pop it in the post—’

‘Actually, I can probably nip by and sign it. Get the ball rolling.’ Before Mr Property Portfolio changed his mind. Or sobered up.

‘Even better. Should be ready for you by lunchtime. We can—’

Logan walked away a couple of paces and lowered his voice. ‘What about the moving date?’

‘Well, standard terms are four weeks, but we can probably stretch that to a month and a half if you need time to—’

‘No, I mean does it have to be that long? Can we make it a week, or ten days, or something?’ Ten days — it’d be cutting it close, but at least he’d be able to afford the phase-one payment for Samantha’s place at the care centre.

‘Well, it’s unusual, but I can try.’

‘Please.’ Logan waited till she’d hung up, then had a quick look around to make sure no one was watching before doing a little happy dance. Straightened his tie. Wandered back to the entrance and nodded at DS Baird. ‘We good?’

She had one last sook on her cigarette, then nipped the end out and dumped it in the bin. ‘Ahhh... I needed that.’

Logan pointed over her shoulder. ‘Let me guess, Wheezy?’

Wheezy Doug paced the pavement in front of John Lewis, on his phone, head down, brow furrowed.

‘Not this time.’ She shook her head, then dug in a pocket for a packet of mints. ‘Police Constable Allan “Sunshine” Guthrie. Got stuck with him for three hours this morning. I swear to God, Guv, if I hear the story of how he had a threesome with the cast of Snow White one more time, I’m going to kill him.’

‘Understandable.’

Baird shuddered. ‘I mean, can you imagine it?’

‘Rather not.’

Wheezy Doug got to the end of the kerb and stopped, head bowed over his phone, eyes screwed up. Then there was swearing and coughing. A gobbet of phlegm hit the gutter.

Baird shook her head. ‘It’s a miracle he’s not been invalided out yet.’

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Steel thinks the kids are dead. We’re looking for bodies.’

‘Probably. You know what these selfish wee gits are like. Kills the wife, kills the kids, kills himself. If he’s going to die, the rest of them have to too.’ Her top lip curled. ‘How could they possibly live without him?’

Wheezy stuffed his phone back in his pocket and lurched over, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Eyebrows down. Shoulders hunched. Hands curled into fists. ‘Sodding goat-buggering hell.’

Baird grinned at him. ‘Good news?’

‘Postmortem result on Gordy Taylor. Pathologist says he’d scoofed down about a litre of rough whisky before he died: stomach was sloshing with it. Official cause of death is asphyxia caused by aspiration of regurgitated particulates.’

‘Choked on his own vomit.’

‘We knew that yesterday.’ Logan folded his arms. ‘So why all the swearing?’

‘Lab’s got a new piece of kit in, so they rushed through the tox report as an excuse to play with it. Gordy’s blood was full of sleeping pills, painkillers, and...’ he checked his notebook then took his time pronouncing the word in little chunks, ‘bro-ma-dio-lone.’

‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

‘It’s a fancy way of saying “rat poison”.’

The smile died on Baird’s face. ‘Poor Gordy.’

‘According to the labs, it was probably soaked into whole grain wheat: you know the stuff they sell in tubs coloured bright blue? You use it to bait traps. Only Gordy didn’t have any wheat in his stomach, or in the puddle of vomit he was lying in.’

‘That’s all we need.’ Logan let his head fall back and stared at the sky for a beat. A breath hissed out of him. The other stuff — the drugs — that was easy enough to explain. Gordy breaks into someone’s house, raids their medicine cupboard, decides he fancies getting high on whatever he finds, it doesn’t react well with the booze, he throws up and dies. But rat poison?

And what had Logan done when the poor sod had been hit by a car and assaulted? Blamed him for being a drunken idiot. Told him it was basically his own fault.

Wonderful: more guilt.

Logan squeezed it down with all the rest. ‘Any ideas?’

Wheezy spluttered a bit. Then spat. ‘Lab says if you dumped the rat bait in milk, water, or alcohol, you could leach the bromadiolone out of the poisoned wheat. And as his stomach was full of whisky...’

‘So he drinks a bottle of supermarket McTurpentine laced with rat poison and dies.’

‘Nope. Apparently, it takes a day, day and a half for bromadiolone to kick in. It thins the blood and causes internal bleeding — he’d have popped like a water balloon during the postmortem.’

Baird nodded. ‘So whoever did it didn’t know it’d take thirty-six hours. I mean, it’s not suicide, is it? You don’t kill yourself with rat poison, you kill other people.’

‘Doesn’t matter if he choked on his own vomit or not, he would’ve been dead by Wednesday anyway.’ Wheezy’s shoulders slumped an inch. ‘Suppose it’s not my problem any more then. Have to hand it over to the Major Investigation Team.’

Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to Police Scotland.’

‘Sod Police Scotland. I miss Grampian Police.’

‘Better head back to the ranch and get the paperwork started.’

A sigh. ‘Guv.’ Then Wheezy slouched off.

Baird screwed up one side of her face. ‘Rat poison.’

‘Not our problem any more.’ Logan pushed through into the shopping centre.

‘Yeah, but still... It’s a CID case, we should be the ones chasing it down.’

They marched past the juice bar and into one of the atrium spaces, queuing for the escalator behind a group of schoolkids in squint uniforms.

‘That’s the way things work now. Fighting it will get you nothing but ulcers. And possibly a reprimand, so—’ Logan’s phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ as they glided slowly upwards. That would be Steel, calling up to whinge about Napier.

Baird raised an eyebrow and tilted her head at his pocket. ‘You going to answer that?’

‘Nope.’

‘What if it’s important? Maybe they’ve found Skinner’s kids?’

As if they could be that lucky. But maybe Baird was right.

He pulled the phone out and hit the button as they hit the top of the escalator. ‘What?’

Steel’s voice was low and whispery. ‘I need you to set off the fire alarm.’

Typical.

‘I’m not setting off the fire alarm.’ Logan followed Baird past a couple of shops, then through a bland grey door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’.

‘Don’t be a dick! Had to fake a dose of the squits so I could get away and phone you. Napier’s lurking outside the ladies’, making sure I don’t do a runner. How untrusting is that?’

‘I’m in the Bon Accord Centre.’ His voice echoed back from the corridor walls. ‘Doubt that setting off the fire alarm here’s going to help you any.’

‘You rotten sod! This is no time to do your shopping, get your puckered rectum back here and rescue me!’

A handful of doors sat at the end of the corridor. Baird knocked on the one with ‘SECURITY’ on it.

‘I can’t come back, I’m busy.’

‘Busy my sharny arse. If you don’t get back here right now, I’m—’

Logan made a grating hissing noise. ‘... lo? Hello? Whhhhh...’ More hissing. ‘... an you hear me? Hello?’

‘How thick do you think I am?’

Ah well, it’d been worth a try. ‘Look: I can’t come back and rescue you, because I’m trying to find your missing kids. We’re...’

There was a clunk, the security door opened an inch, and a little old lady in a brown peaked cap peered out. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Got to go.’ Logan hung up and produced his warrant card. ‘Police Scotland. We need to see Saturday’s ANPR data for the Loch Street car park.’

‘Oh.’ She squinted at Logan’s ID, then nodded. ‘Better come in then.’ She opened the door wide, revealing a turd-brown uniform with sweetcorn-coloured buttons and piping. ‘You looking for anything specific?’

The room was small, lined with television monitors showing multiple views of the shopping centre. People going about their shoppy business, dragging stroppy toddlers and stroppier boyfriends behind them.

Baird took out her notebook. ‘Dark-blue BMW M5, parked here sometime before two.’ She rattled off the registration number as the old lady sank into a swivel chair and pulled a keyboard over.

Grey fingers flew across the keys. ‘Of course, I should really be asking to see a warrant — data protection and all that — but it’s my last day on Friday, so sod it.’ A line of letters popped up on the screen. ‘Here you go. Got it coming in at twelve oh three.’

Logan leaned on the desk. ‘When did it leave?’

More lightning keystrokes. ‘That’s odd...’ A frown, then she leaned forward and peered at the screen. Another frown. Then she put her glasses on. ‘Oh, no — here we go. Left at three twenty-two.’

Over an hour and a half after John Skinner did his Olympic diving routine onto the cobblestones.

Baird wrote the details down in her notebook. ‘We were right — he had an accomplice.’

Logan hooked a thumb at the bank of screens. ‘Can you bring up the car park CCTV footage for then?’

The old lady’s fingers clattered across the keys again, and half of the monitors filled with concrete, pillars, and cars. ‘There you go.’

He flicked from screen to screen. ‘Anyone see Skinner’s car?’

‘Guv?’ Baird tapped one in the top left corner of the display. ‘That not it there?’

A dark-blue BMW was heading down the ramp to the exit, only it wasn’t doing it under its own steam, it was being towed by a truck with ‘ABERTOW VEHICLE SERVICES ~ PARKING ENFORCEMENT’ stencilled along the side.

You wee beauty.

‘Baird?’

‘I’m on it.’ She pulled out her phone, poked at the screen then held it to her ear as she pushed out of the room. ‘Control? I need the number for a local company...’

The door swung shut, leaving Logan alone with the security guard.

She spooled the footage backwards, following the tow truck from camera to camera. ‘So, what’s this bloke supposed to have done?’

‘Killed himself.’

‘Poor wee soul.’

‘But he killed his wife and kids first.’

The old lady pouted for a moment, then nodded. ‘Well, in that case, however he committed suicide, I hope it bloody well hurt.’

15

Logan marched across the tarmac, mobile to his ear. ‘I don’t care if she’s got an audience with the Queen’s proctologist, get her on the phone. Now.’

‘Oh dear...’ A deep breath from PC Guthrie, then there was a thunk. A scuffing noise. And the crackle of feet hurrying down stairs.

Abertow’s vehicle impound yard sat on the edge of the industrial estate in Altens. Rows of confiscated vehicles sat behind high chainlink fencing. Razorwire curled in glinting coils along the top. Big yellow warning signs hung every dozen feet or so, boasting about dirty big dogs patrolling the place. Should have been one about the seagulls too. They screeched and crawed in wheeling hordes, a couple of them squabbling across the top of a Nissan Micra that had been liberally spattered a stinking grey.

‘Yeah, some people just couldn’t give a toss.’ The large man in the orange overalls tucked his hands into his pockets, the added strain threatening to burst the outfit apart at the groin. He pulled his huge round shoulders up towards his ears. Sunlight sparkled off his shaved head. ‘It wasn’t really parked, more like abandoned. Right in front of the emergency exit too. What if there’d been a fire?’ A sniff. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

Another thunk from the phone, then three knocks. Guthrie was barely audible. ‘He’s going to kill me...’

What sounded like a door opening. Then a cold voice, slightly muffled by distance. ‘This better be important, Constable.’ Napier.

Baird snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, then ripped open the evidence bag with John Skinner’s keys in it. The plastic fob for the BMW was cracked and stained with blobs of cherry red.

Guthrie cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, sir. But I need to get a message to the Chief Inspector. Ma’am? It’s DI McRae, says it’s urgent.’

Baird pointed the fob at the car and pressed the button. Nothing happened.

Napier didn’t sound impressed. ‘Constable, I think you’ll find—’

‘Sunshine!’ Steel’s smoky growl got louder. ‘I take back nearly everything I said about that lumpy misshapen head of yours. That for me? Come on then, give.’ A crackle as the phone was handed over.

Baird shook the keys and tried again. Still nothing.

‘Detective Chief Inspector I must insist—’

‘Don’t think I’m no’ enjoying our wee chat, sir, but operational priorities and all that.’

Baird gave up on the fob and stuck the key in the lock instead. Clunk. The central locking kicked in.

And Steel was full volume. ‘Who dares interrupt my meeting with the glorious head of Professional Standards?’

‘It’s—’

‘What’s that? It’s an emergency? Dear God... No, don’t worry: I’ll be right there.’ A sigh. Then the sound became muffled, as if she was holding the phone against her chest. ‘Sorry, sir, much though I’d love to stay and chat, I gotta go. But we’ll always have Paris!’ The sound of Steel’s boots clacking up the corridor, reverberated out of the phone. Making good her escape. ‘Laz, what the hell took you so long?’

‘We’ve found John Skinner’s car. He dumped it in the Loch Street car park and it got towed Saturday afternoon.’

‘It got towed?’ Some swearing rattled down the line. ‘You tell those Automatic Number Plate Recognition idiots I’m going to bury my boot in their bumholes right up to the laces. They were supposed to check!’

Baird ducked into the car and had a rummage in the BMW’s footwells.

‘Not their fault. The ANPR camera on George Street only gets traffic coming toward it. The tow truck was in the way.’

‘Sod... Any clue where he dumped the kids?’

‘Searching the car now. We need to get the SEB up here. See if they can pull fingerprints, or fibres, or something. Maybe get some soil off the floormats and wheech it off to Dr Frampton for analysis? See if she can ID where it came from.’

‘Gah.’ A click, then a sooking sound. ‘Going to cost a fortune, but it’s two wee kids we’re talking about. If the boss wants to moan about budgets he can pucker up and smooch my bumhole.’

Baird stood upright. Shook her head. ‘Sorry, Guv. Loads of bloodstains and empty sweetie wrappers in there, but nothing obvious.’

Back to the phone. ‘You hear that?’

‘I’ll scramble the Smurfs. And—’

‘Guv?’ A crease appeared between Baird’s eyebrows. She pointed at the boot.

‘—you to make sure everyone keeps schtum. I don’t want—’

Logan squatted down and peered at the boot lid. A scattering of dark-red fingerprints marked the paintwork beneath the dust. A palm print in the middle, where you’d lean on it to slam it shut. He held his hand out. ‘Give me the keys.’

‘Keys? What keys? What are you talking about?’

Baird pulled off one of her gloves and turned it inside out over the BMW’s fob, sealing it away. Then handed it over.

‘Laz? What’s going on?’

‘Shut up a minute.’ He placed his phone on the ground and put the key into the boot lock. Or tried to. There was something in the slot already — a wedge of metal, the end matt and ragged, as if someone had snapped a key off in there.

Making sure it couldn’t be opened.

Oh sodding hell...

He looked up at Baird and tried to keep his voice level. ‘There’ll be a boot release in the car. Hit it.’

She stared at the boot. Then at him. Then the boot again. ‘You don’t think...’ Baird grimaced. Then scrambled around to the driver’s side and ducked in. A dull clunk came from the mechanism, but the boot remained firmly shut. ‘Anything?’

‘Try again.’

‘Come on you little...’

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

Still nothing.

The big guy in the too tight overalls sniffed. ‘Got a crowbar if you need it?’

‘Thanks.’ Logan picked up the phone as the yard supervisor lumbered off towards a bright-yellow Portakabin festooned with the Abertow logo. ‘There’s something in the boot.’

‘What?’

‘If I knew that I would have said.’

‘Don’t you get snippy with me, you wee—’

‘Here.’ Mr Overalls was back, carrying a long black crowbar covered in scars. He offered it to Baird, then hesitated, hand still wrapped around it. ‘Here, do I need to see a warrant or something? You know, if you damage the guy’s car—’

‘He can sue me.’ Baird pulled the crowbar out of Mr Overalls’s hand. ‘Might want to stand back, Guv.’

On the other end of the phone, Steel was shouting at someone to get the Scenes Examination Branch up to Altens ASAP, followed by various invasive rectal threats involving her boot, fist, and a filing cabinet.

Baird wedged the curved end of the crowbar in under the lip of the boot. ‘One, two, three.’ She humphed her weight down on the end. Creak. Groan. A squeal of buckling metal. Then pop and the boot lid sprang open.

The crowbar clattered to the tarmac.

Everyone stepped forward and stared down into the boot.

Then the smell hit. Rancid, cloying, sharp. It dug its hooks into the back of Logan’s throat, clenched his stomach, curdled in his lungs.

‘Oh God.’ Mr Overalls slapped a hand over his nose and mouth, staggered off a dozen paces and threw up all over a Peugeot’s bonnet.

Two small bodies lay curled on their sides in the BMW’s boot. A little boy and a little girl. Heidi and Toby Skinner, barely recognizable. Sunken cheeks, cracked lips, electric cable wrapped around their wrists and ankles. Faces smeared with blood. Still and pale.

Baird chewed on her bottom lip. Looked away. ‘You shouldn’t have let him jump, Guv. You should’ve dragged that bastard down from the ledge so we could all kick the living shite out of him.’

Poor little sods.

Baird was right.

Logan let out a long shuddering breath. Stood upright. Squared his shoulders. Snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Cleared his throat. ‘Denise, I need you to get on to the Procurator Fiscal. And we’ll need the Pathologist. Better get the Duty Doctor out too.’

A nod. But she didn’t turn around. ‘Guv.’

Two little kids. How could any father do that?

Logan reached into the boot. Brushed the hair from little Heidi Skinner’s face. Seven years old.

‘Guv? You shouldn’t touch them. The SEB need to take photos.’

A flicker. There. That was definitely a flicker.

You wee beauty!

Logan scooped Heidi out of the boot.

‘Guv!’ Baird grabbed his sleeve, voice low and hard. ‘Have you lost your bloody marbles? The PF—’

‘Get the car! Get the sodding car, now!’

16

Logan pulled on his jacket, then poked his head into the CID office. Wheezy Doug was hunched over the photocopier, jabbing at the buttons as if the machine had suggested his mother was romantically intimate with donkeys on a regular basis.

No sign of Stoney. But DS Baird was on the phone, elbows on the desk, one hand pressed to her forehead.

‘Uh-huh... Yeah... OK, well, let me know.’ She put the phone back in its cradle and looked up. ‘Hospital says Heidi Skinner’s responding well to the IV fluids. Just woke up.’

‘What about Toby?’

‘Heidi’s freaking out. Three days, locked in a boot with your brother. In a car parked in the sunshine... I’d be freaking out too.’

‘Denise: what about Toby?’

She puffed out her cheeks. Stared down at the phone. ‘He was only six, Guv.’

‘Sodding hell.’ Something heavy grabbed hold of Logan’s ribcage and tried to drag him down to the grubby carpet tiles. A deep breath. Then another one. ‘I should’ve checked the car park’s ANPR sooner. I should’ve done it soon as we found out the car was missing. I should’ve...’ He mashed his teeth together. Clenched his fists. Glowered at the filing cabinet. Then took two quick steps towards it and slammed his boot into the bottom drawer, hard enough to rattle the mugs and kettle balanced on top. Hard enough to dent the metal. Hard enough to really regret it five seconds later as burning glass rippled through his foot. ‘Ow...’

‘Three days.’ Baird slumped further down in her seat. ‘It’s a miracle she’s alive at all. Doctor said any longer and her internal organs would’ve started shutting down.’

Wheezy jabbed away at the photocopier again. ‘Don’t know about anyone else, but I’m going to the pub tonight and getting sodding wasted.’

Baird nodded. ‘I’m in. Guv?’

Logan turned and limped back towards the door. ‘I’ll see you there. Got something to sort out first.’

Marjory stood up and held a hand across her desk for shaking. Her smile looked about as real as the potted plant in the corner. ‘Mr McRae, I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.’

Three walls of the office were covered with racks of schedules, complete with photographs of various bungalows, flats, and semidetatched rabbit-hutches in Danestone and Kincorth.

Logan settled into the chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Been a rough day.’

‘Well, not to worry, there’s still time.’ She dug into a tray on her desk and came out with a chunk of paperwork. Passed it across to him. ‘As you’ll see, there are no demands or conditions. They asked for a four-week entry date, but I went back to them with your proposal for ten days and they accepted.’ The fake smile intensified. ‘Now, if you need help finding a new property in a hurry, we’d be delighted to help you with that. We’ve got a lot of excellent homes on—’

‘I’ve got something sorted, thanks.’ Even if it was a static caravan, equidistant from Aberdeen’s worst roundabout, a sewage treatment plant, and a cemetery. At least the chicken factory had moved somewhere else. That was something.

And ten days from now, Samantha would be getting the specialized care she needed. Everything else was just noise.

‘Oh. Well, I’m sure you know best.’ Marjory handed him a pen. ‘If you sign where I’ve put the stickers, we’ll get everything faxed over to Mr Urquhart’s solicitors and that’s that.’

Logan skimmed the contract, then scrawled his signature where the big pink stickers indicated.

‘Excellent.’ She took the paperwork back. ‘Congratulations, Mr McRae, you’ve sold your flat.’

It should have been a moment of joy. An excuse to celebrate for a change. But after what happened to poor wee Toby Skinner?

Logan scraped back his chair and stood.

Time to go to the pub. Meet up with the team. And try to drink away the horror of two little bodies, locked in a car boot.

The celebration could wait.