22 Dead Little Bodies

17

‘Gah...’ Steel pulled the e-cigarette from her mouth and made a face like a ruptured frog. ‘Look at it. Could you no’ have picked a better day to move?’

Rain rattled against the kitchen window. Wind howled across the extractor fan outlet — mourning the end of an era.

Logan wrapped a strip of brown parcel tape around the last box. ‘Don’t know what you’re moaning about.’ He printed ‘BOOKS’ across the top in big black-marker-pen letters, then put it with the other two by the front door. ‘Not as if you’ve actually been helping.’

‘Supervising’s helping.’

‘Not the way you do it.’ Logan stuck the marker back in the pocket of his jeans.

His footsteps echoed from the laminate floor to the bare walls and back again as he checked the bedroom for the final time. Empty. Then the living room. Empty. Then the kitchen. Empty. And the bathroom. Every trace of him was gone — packed away over the last ten days and carted out to the removal van. Nothing but echoes and three packing boxes left to show he was ever there at all.

Steel slouched along behind him. ‘You’ve got OCD, you know that, don’t you? Place is cleared out.’

The front door clunked open and Duncan was back. Rain had darkened the shoulders of his brown boilersuit, plastered his curly fringe to his forehead. A smile. ‘Nearly done.’ He stacked two of the last boxes, hefted them up with a grunt, then headed back down the stairs again.

Logan turned on the spot. One last slow three-sixty.

No point being sentimental about it. It was only a flat. A container to live in. Somewhere to sleep and brood and occasionally drink too much.

Still...

Steel sniffed. Dug her hands into her pockets. Stared off down the corridor. ‘Susan says you can always come stay with us for a bit, if you like. Don’t have to be trailer trash, down by the jobbie farm.’

Logan grabbed the final box. ‘It’s a lovely offer. But can you imagine you and me living together? In the same house? Really?’

‘No’ without killing each other.’

He pulled a thin smile. ‘Thanks though. Means a lot.’

She thumped him on the arm. ‘Soppy git.’ Then sniffed. ‘Well, suppose I better get back to it. Got a rapist to catch.’

Logan followed her out onto the landing, then pulled the door shut with his foot. The Yale lock clunked. And that was it. No more flat.

Steel thumped down the stairs.

Look on the bright side: at least now he could pay for Samantha’s care.

Deep breath.

He nodded, then followed her. ‘Any closer to catching the scumbag who killed Gordy Taylor?’

‘Pfff... I wish. No’ exactly doing my crime figures any good. Nearly a fortnight, and sod all progress.’ They got to the bottom and she held the building’s front door open. Then screwed up one side of her face. ‘Sodding hell. Going to get soaked.’

Rain bounced back from the grey pavement, darkened the granite tenement walls of Marischal Street. Ran in a river down the steep hill, fed by the overflowing gutters.

The removal van was parked right outside, the back door open as Duncan strapped the fridge-freezer to the wall.

Steel stayed where she was, on the threshold just out of the rain. Pulled a face, then dug into her coat and pulled out a copy of that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner. A picture took up half of the front page — a smart young man, standing to attention, with medals on his chest and a beret on his head. ‘WAR HERO “LET DOWN BY POLICE” SAY GRIEVING PARENTS’

She gave it a wee shake as rain drops sank into the newsprint. ‘Apparently it’s our fault he ended up dead behind the bins. Well, us and those shiftless sods in Social Services. Oh, and the NHS. Don’t want to be greedy and claim all the guilt for ourselves.’

‘What were we supposed to do?’

‘Every morning it’s like waking up and going for a sodding smear test.’ She produced her phone and poked at the screen with a thumb. ‘I’ve had two reviews, three “consultancy” sessions with a smug git from Tulliallan, supervisory oversight from Finnie and Big Tony Campbell, and we’re no closer than we were when Gordy turned up dead behind the bins. Rennie’s latest theory is we’ve got a serial killer stalking the streets, knocking off tramps.’

‘Well...’ A frown. ‘He could be right, I suppose. Maybe?’

‘After a heavy night on the Guinness — with a dodgy kebab, a box of Liquorice Allsorts, and a bag of dried prunes — I’d still trust a fart before I’d trust one of Rennie’s theories. My bet? Gordy fell out with one of his mates and they poisoned him.’ She hoiked up her trousers. ‘That, or the silly sod thought rat poison would be a great way to get high...’ Steel frowned at her phone. ‘Buggering hell.’ She held it out. ‘Speaking of DS Useless, look at that.’

‘I swear, his spelling’s getting worse.’ She thumbed out a reply. ‘You sure you don’t want me to transfer him back to CID? Be a valuable addition to your team.’

‘Bye.’ Logan squeezed past her into the rain. Hurried around to the back of the removal van and handed the box of books up to Duncan. ‘That’s the lot, we’re done.’

‘Good stuff.’ He put it with the others, strapped it into place, then hopped down to the ground and hauled the rolling door shut. ‘Right. See you over there.’

Logan stepped back onto the pavement. Gave the van a quick wave as it pulled away from the kerb and grumbled its way up the hill.

Rain seeped into the shoulders of his sweatshirt.

Well, that was that then. Fourteen years in the same flat. A stone’s throw from Divisional Headquarters, two bakers, three chip shops, and loads of good pubs. And now he’d have to fight his way around the sodding Haudagain Roundabout at least twice a day. Oh joy of joys. It was—

‘Mr McRae?’

He turned, and there was Marjory from the solicitors, sheltering beneath a golf umbrella with the firm’s name plastered around the outside.

Logan dug into his pocket and came out with the flat’s keys. ‘Was on my way up to see you.’

She smiled her fake smile. ‘That’s very kind, but at Willkie and Oxford we want to make everything as easy as possible for you.’ She held out her hand, palm up.

Fourteen years.

He passed her the keys.

‘Excellent. Thank you.’ She turned and waved at an Audi TT, parked a little bit up the hill. ‘I’ll give these to Mr Urquhart, and we’re all done. Congratulations, Mr McRae, I hope you’ll be very happy in your new home. And if you ever decide to sell it, I do hope you’ll think of Willkie and Oxford.’ One last go on the smile, then she marched up to the Audi.

The driver buzzed open the window and she bent down, had a brief chat, handed over the keys, shook his hand, then marched off towards Union Street.

Ah well, might as well head over to the caravan and get unpacking.

He unlocked his manky old Renault Clio. Pot plants and picture frames filled the back, but a large cat-carrier sat on the passenger seat — the seatbelt threaded through the handle on the top, bungee cords securing the whole thing into place.

Cthulhu pressed up against the carrier’s door and yowled, a pitiful wailing noise that sank its claws in his chest. Her fur poked out through the bars in grey and brown tufts, one paw scratching at the hinge.

‘I know, shhh... We’ll be in our new home soon, I promise.’ He slipped a finger between the bars and stroked her on the head. ‘Shhh... it’s OK. Daddy’s here.’

There was a brief honk, and Logan peered out through the rain-rippled windscreen. The Audi had pulled into the space where the removal van used to be. Its driver grinned and waved at him.

The guy looked familiar. No idea why, though.

Logan gave Cthulhu another stroke. ‘Wait here, Daddy will only be a minute.’

He climbed back out into the rain and closed the door on her tortured wails.

Mr Audi stepped out and popped a collapsible brolly up above his head. Expensive-looking black suit, lemon shirt open at the neck, neat brown hair, flashy stainless-steel watch. Couldn’t have been much more than twenty, twenty-five tops. Little pockmarks covered both cheeks, the ghosts of acne past. He stuck out his hand. ‘Mr McRae, no’ seen you for ages, yeah?’

OK...

Logan took the proffered hand and shook it. Tilted his head to one side. Nope, still no idea. ‘Mr Urquhart?’

He grinned again, showing off small white teeth separated by little gaps. ‘It’s the hair, isn’t it? Finally grew out of dying it green. You like the suit?’ He did a little catwalk two-step. ‘Got it made special like.’

Green hair?

No. Couldn’t be.

Logan squinted at him. ‘Wait a minute. Urquhart. Jonny Urquhart?’

‘Bingo!’ He stuck a thumb up.

Oh sodding hell. No, no, no, no, no...

‘You bought my flat?’

‘Yeah.’ He glanced up at the building. ‘Cool, isn’t it? Starting my own property empire. Mr Mowat says a man’s got to put down proper business roots in the community.’

Christ. What if Professional Standards found out?

What if Napier found out he’d sold his flat to someone who worked for Wee Hamish Mowat, Aberdeen’s biggest bloody crime lord? And if that wasn’t bad enough, that they’d paid twenty thousand pounds over the asking price. Twenty thousand sodding pounds.

Logan took a couple steps away, then back again. ‘You can’t buy my flat! What the hell were you thinking?’

Jonny Urquhart’s eyebrows went up. ‘Eh? Steady on, it’s win-win, right?’

‘Win-win? WIN-WIN?’ He threw his arms out. ‘DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW THIS LOOKS?’

‘Don’t worry: the money’s clean. Laundered to a crisp and shiny white.’ He placed a hand against his chest, fingers spread, as if he was about to pledge allegiance to something. ‘Mr Mowat gives me a bonus for my loyal service. You get your flat sold. And your girlfriend gets to go to a nice private hospital with excellent facilities. Win-win-win.’

‘Oh God...’

He was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.

18

First would come the investigation. Then the accusations. Then the recriminations. Prosecution. And eight to twelve years in Glenochil Prison with all the other bribe-taking dodgy police officers.

Oh God.

Logan closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. ‘Brilliant.’ He gave it a little thump. Then a harder one. ‘Sodding — bloody — brilliant.’ Banging his head with every word.

Samantha’s static caravan had developed its familiar peppery soil-and-dust scent again. The smell of mil-dew and neglect. Served him right for not coming down here and airing it out more often. Boxes filled the living room and the bedroom. More piled up in the tiny galley kitchen, with the mouse droppings. Green-brown slime growing in the shower cabinet and across the bathroom tiles. A lovely view across the river to the sewage treatment plant.

Welcome home.

But it was better than a cell.

Cthulhu clearly didn’t agree. Her cat carrier sat on the couch, amongst the pot plants, and she glowered out from its depths. Refusing to come out.

Logan let out a long, rattling breath.

Might be a good idea to head over to the B&Q in Bridge of Don and see if they had any anti-mildew paint, maybe a dehumidifier. And something to take away the smell.

And maybe just enough rope to hang himself.

‘... because we’ve got hundreds of bargains, bargains, bargains!’ Whoever was on the store’s PA system, they needed battering over the head with a lump-hammer. Then stuffed in a sack with a couple of breezeblocks and dumped in the River Don. ‘There’s massive savings on tiles and laminate in our flooring department, right now!’

Logan drifted along the aisle, hunched over his trolley. Phone to his ear, staring down at the three pots of paint, set of brushes, roller, and paint tray in there. ‘There’s no way? You’re sure? I mean, a hundred percent positive?’

On the other end, Marjory sighed again. ‘Mr McRae, we’ve been over this. Missives have been exchanged, money’s changed hands. You signed the contract. You’ve handed over the keys. That’s it done.’

‘But... there has to be a loophole, or something. People wriggle out of contracts all the time.’ He turned the corner, slouching his trolley past burglar alarms and home CCTV systems. ‘I checked with my bank, the cash hasn’t come through yet, so he hasn’t—’

‘Mr Urquhart paid cash: it’s in our account. And as we’re your legal representatives, the minute that money hit our bank account it’s deemed to be paid to you. There’s nothing you can do.’ A sigh. ‘Now, I’m really going to have to go. The money will be in your account, less our fee, as soon as your bank clears our cheque. Goodbye, Mr McRae.’

And she hung up on him. Unbelievable.

The CCTV systems gave way to locks and bolts. Then padlocks. Then chains and ropes. For all your wholesale bondage-dungeon needs.

Napier was bound to find out.

Then Logan would be screwed.

And probably in for a spanking.

He stopped. Stared at the paint. Swore.

It’d take at least three days for the solicitor’s cheque to clear. Plus the ten days they’d already taken...

Oh sodding hell. And it was Friday. So the useless greedy sods at the bank wouldn’t do anything about it till Monday.

Which would be fifteen days, in total, since Dr Berrisford at Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre said he’d keep Samantha’s bed open for two weeks.

Sodding, buggering, bloody hell.

He pulled out his phone and called Directory Enquiries. Got them to put him through to the centre. Maybe Dr Berrisford would give him a little leeway? He only needed a day. Twenty-four hours. Surely they could do that.

The phone rang.

Logan pushed his trolley around the corner, into an aisle lined on either side with hardware. Hammers. Pliers. Screwdrivers.

Still ringing.

A chirpy voice: ‘Newtonmyre Specialist Care Centre, how can I help you today?’

‘I need to speak to Dr Berrisford. It’s Logan McRae.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, but Dr Berrisford has gone home for the weekend. Would you like to leave a message?’

‘Yes. Tell him...’ Logan stared at the claw-hammers. ‘Tell him I’ll put the cheque for phase one in the post tomorrow. You should get it on Monday.’ After all, it would take their bank three days to clear it as well, wouldn’t it?

‘That’s lovely. You have a good weekend, Mr McRae.’

‘You too.’ He hung up.

Oh — thank — God. They’d take the cheque, Samantha could go into the care centre, everything would be fine.

All that panic, and there was nothing to worry about.

Clunk.

Logan’s trolley jerked in his hand as someone collided into it. He looked up to apologize, even though he’d been standing perfectly still, and froze.

The man was huge, tall and wide, hands like bear-paws wrapped around his trolley’s handle. Face a mixture of scar tissue and fat, stitched together by a patchy beard. A nose that was little more than a gristly stump. He pulled on a piranha smile. ‘Well, well, well. Look who the cat coughed up.’

Logan swallowed. Stood up straight, shoulders back. ‘Reuben.’

He’d lost a bit of weight since last time — but not enough to shrink that massive frame — and ditched his usual grubby overalls for a dark-grey suit. Blood-red shirt. No tie. ‘Fancy running into you here. What are the chances, eh?’

Logan didn’t move.

‘Aye, well, maybe no’ such a coincidence after all.’ He reached out and plucked a crowbar from the rack beside him. Shifted his grip, then smacked the chunk of metal down into the palm of his other hand. ‘What with me following you and everything.’

‘Why?’

‘See, I don’t need to worry about you, do I?’ Smack. ‘Don’t need to worry about you at all.’ Smack.

Don’t back off. Don’t stare at the crowbar. ‘Really.’

Reuben’s trolley was stacked with rubble sacks. Duct tape. A bow saw. A hand axe. A box of compost accelerant. And a shovel. The smile graduated from piranha to great white. ‘See, if you try to move against me —’ smack, ‘— try to take what’s mine —’ smack, ‘— I’m no’ gonnae bother ripping your arms and legs off.’ Smack. ‘No’ gonnae haul out your teeth and cut off your tongue.’ Smack. ‘Gouge out your eyes. Nah. Don’t have to do any of that.’

There was something worse?

Reuben winked. ‘All I’ve got to do, is clype.’

Something dark spread its claws through Logan’s chest. ‘Clype?’

‘Oh aye.’ He placed the crowbar in his trolley. ‘What, you think Jonny came up with the idea to buy your flat all on his own?’ A laugh barked out of that scar-ringed mouth. ‘Nah. See, some people think I’m thick. Think I’m all about the violence and no’ so much the brainpower. The planning. Nah.’

Oh sodding hell. Sodding, buggering hell.

The claws dug in deeper.

‘See, McRae, I own you. Get in my way and I’ll squash you like a baby’s skull. When Mr Mowat passes, I’m stepping up. And then we can talk about what kinda favours you’re gonnae do me to stay out of jail.’ One last wink, then Reuben walked his trolley past. Whistling The Dam Busters theme tune.

Something happened to Logan’s knees. They didn’t want to hold him upright any more.

Reuben knew. Reuben.

No, no, no...

Oh God.

He rested his chest against the trolley’s handlebar. Let it take the weight for a bit. Closed his eyes.

Agh...

Think.

There had to be a way out of this.

OK, so he couldn’t break the contract. At least there was a chance of proving that he’d tried to. Get Marjory from Willkie and Oxford up on the stand and question her under oath. ‘Yes, Mr McRae tried to weasel his way out of the contract.’ That would help, wouldn’t it?

Might cut a year or two off his sentence...

Oh God.

Why did it have to be Reuben?

He was completely and utterly screwed.

A woman’s voice: ‘Are you OK?’

Deep breath.

Logan blinked a couple of times. Straightened up. ‘Sorry. Having a bit of a day.’

She was tiny, with long red hair and round freckled cheeks. According to the name badge pinned to her bright-orange apron, this was Stacey. Stacey smiled at him. ‘Anything I can help you with?’

He sighed. Pulled out the envelope he’d jotted everything down on and frowned at it. ‘Mildew, damp stuff, paint, mice, and something to clean grout with.’ He held the list out.

‘Right, OK. Well, we can cross out “paint”. Is your damp coming through a wall, or is it condensation?’

‘Condensation. Probably. Maybe.’

‘Right, follow me then!’ She led the way, down to the end of the aisles, then over another two.

Maybe he should take Wee Hamish up on his offer after all? If Reuben was face down in a shallow grave, he couldn’t tell anyone, could he? Or better yet — fed to the pigs. They wouldn’t care how ugly he was, they’d chomp through flesh and bone, leaving nothing but Reuben’s teeth behind.

Stacey came to a halt, and swept a hand up. ‘Here we go.’ The shelves were filled with bottles, jars, sprays, and tubs, beneath a sign marked ‘DAMP, MOULD, AND MILDEW CONTROL’.

She scanned the rows of products. ‘You’re going to need some of this...’ She hefted a ten-litre pot of anti-mould paint into the trolley. Added a second one. ‘Just in case. Nothing worse than getting halfway through a job and having to come back.’

Mind you, might be a better idea to go DIY with Reuben too. The more people who knew, the more chance of getting caught. Wee Hamish wasn’t going to kill his right-hand man himself, was he? In the old days, maybe. But now? Lying on his back, wired up to drips and monitors, being devoured by cancer? He’d have to farm it out.

Stacey grabbed half a dozen plastic tubs containing silica gel that promised to suck moisture out of the atmosphere. ‘You want to keep these in the cupboards where the mildew is.’ She checked the list again. ‘Right: grout cleaner.’

Maybe he should head back and pick up a crowbar of his own? Or a lump hammer. Something to crack Reuben’s head open with. Too risky trying to get his hands on a gun...

Who was he trying to kid?

He couldn’t kill Reuben. Couldn’t.

That hollowed him out, left him standing there in the middle of B&Q, with a hole in his chest the size of a watermelon.

He was going to prison...

Oh God.

Stacey teetered down the aisle a bit and plucked a spray bottle from a shelf. ‘That should help. So I think that leaves “mice”, right? You want to keep them as pets, or get rid of them?’

‘Rid.’ Then again, why bother? Why do up a manky static caravan, when he was going to spend the next eight years in a cell anyway?

‘Follow me.’

Two aisles along she stopped and pointed. ‘We’ve got humane traps, normal traps, and inhumane traps.’ She picked up a couple of plastic things that looked as if they could take a finger off. ‘These are pretty much instant death, so the mouse won’t suffer much.’

Lucky mice. A quick and painless death...

Might not be a bad idea. He could jump off something tall, like John Skinner. Ten storeys, straight down. Goodbye cruel world. Splat.

‘These are the humane ones.’ She held up what looked like a small, bent, rectangular telescope. ‘They get stuck inside, and can’t get out. Then you drive at least four miles away and release them into the wild.’ Her mouth turned down at the ends. ‘Or you could go inhumane and poison them.’ She poked a box marked ‘BAIT STATION BRAVO!’ with a finger.

Sitting next to it was a tub with a red lid and a warning sticker across the top and ‘BROMADIOLONE-TREATED WHOLE WHEAT’ down the side.

Rat poison.

Logan picked it off the shelf. Turned it over in his hands. The contents hissed against the plastic innards.

‘My bet? Gordy fell out with one of his mates and they poisoned him.’

No chance. What, someone living on the streets marched into B&Q, bought themselves a thirty-quid tub of this stuff, then a litre of whisky, mixed them together and let them sit till the poison was all leached out, put it back in the bottle, and gave it to Gordy Taylor as a gift? Why not drink the whisky yourself and batter his head in with the empty bottle? Why go to all that trouble?

‘Rennie’s latest theory is we’ve got a serial killer stalking the streets, knocking off tramps.’

Yeah, but Rennie was an idiot.

But there was something a lot more likely. What if—

‘Hello? Excuse me?’ Stacey was tugging at his sleeve.

Logan blinked at her. ‘Sorry, miles away.’

She shook her head. ‘You’ve got a cat, haven’t you? I can tell by the hairs all over your jeans.’ Stacey looked up at him, still holding on to his arm. ‘If it was me, if I had a cat, I wouldn’t want poisoned mice staggering around the house looking to get caught and eaten. Would you?’

‘Ah...’ He slid the tub back onto the shelf. ‘No.’

Then stopped, fingertips just touching the label.

Poisoned mice staggering around.

All you have to do is put the stuff where they can find it. They eat it, because it’s in their nature to eat whatever they can get their paws on. It’s what mice do. Make the poison tasty enough and they’ll do all the hard work for you...

Stacey tugged at his sleeve again. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

Logan grabbed four of the finger-snappers. ‘Thanks for your help: gotta go.’ Then marched the trolley away to the tills.

‘Guv?’ Wheezy paused for a cough. ‘Thought you were having a day off.’

The Clio crawled along the Parkway, around the back of Danestone in the rain. Fields on one side, identikit houses on the other, with a long slow-moving clot of rush-hour traffic in-between.

It was only four thirty-five. All these sods should still have been at work instead of clogging up the bloody roads.

Logan switched the phone to his other ear and put the car in gear again. Easing forward another six feet as the windscreen wipers groaned across the glass. ‘When we did the door-to-doors on Harlaw Road, did you check everyone’s alibis?’

‘Guv?’

‘When Gordy Taylor died. We questioned all the residents — did someone chase up the alibis? Was everyone where they said they were?’ A gap had opened up in front of the Nissan he was grinding along behind — had to be at least three car-lengths and the silly sod in front still hadn’t moved. Logan leaned on the horn. ‘COME ON, GRANDAD!’

‘But...’

‘Not you, Wheezy, this pillock in front.’

‘It wasn’t a murder when we were in charge, it was a sudden death. There wasn’t any reason to check. Then the MIT took it over.’

The Nissan finally got its bum in gear and they all inched forward a bit.

‘What about Steel’s team then, did they check alibis?’

‘Er, hold on.’ There was some clunking and rattling. The cars drifted forward another two lengths. Rustling. A thump. Then the sound of fingers punishing a keyboard, and Wheezy was back. ‘Right. According to the system, pretty much everyone was home that night. A couple families were at the cinema, two went to the theatre, and one guy was on a works night out. Looks like the MIT followed up and everything checked out. Why?’

‘Thinking.’ Logan tapped the fingers of his free hand along the top of the steering wheel. ‘What if DCI Steel’s right, and Gordy did poison himself? Just not on purpose. He thinks his ship’s come in — a whole litre of whisky, all to himself. So he crawls off behind the bins and swigs it down. But he doesn’t know it’s laced with bromadiolone.’

Someone behind leaned on their horn, and Logan looked up to see a four car-length gap between himself and the Nissan in front. Another bleeeeeeeeeep.

Impatient git.

Logan eased forward into the space. ‘Did you get any prints off the bottle?’

‘What bottle?’

‘The bottle of whisky Gordy drank: did you get fingerprints?’

‘There wasn’t one. Don’t think so, anyway.’ The rattle of fingers on a keyboard sounded in the background. ‘Nothing got signed into evidence.’

They’d finally reached the corner where the Parkway turned downhill towards the Persley roundabout. The traffic snaked away in a solid ribbon ahead, trapped single-file by the double white lines protecting the overtaking lane on the other side of the road. And once he’d managed to fight his way through all this, there would be the Haudagain. And then Anderson Drive to traverse. At rush hour. It would take hours.

Maybe not though.

A patrol car was coming the other way, up the hill. He flashed his lights at it, leaned on his horn... but they drove right past. Didn’t even clock him on his mobile phone. Lazy sods.

‘Wheezy, I need you to get onto Control, tell them...’

Blue lights flickered in his rearview mirror. The patrol car was doing a three-point turn.

‘Guv?’

‘Never mind. Meet me where they found the body, and make sure you bring some photos of Gordy Taylor with you.’

The patrol car pulled up alongside, lights flickering. The officer in the passenger seat wound down his window. ‘Sir, do you know it’s an offence to use your mobile phone while—’

‘Murder enquiry.’ Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘Get the blues-and-twos on. You’re escorting me to Harlaw Road.’ Nothing happened. ‘Now, Constable.’

The officer blinked a couple of times. ‘Yes, Guv.’

And they were off: siren roaring, lights blazing, carving a path through the oncoming traffic with Logan’s manky old Clio puttering along behind.

19

‘And they searched all round here?’ Logan pointed at the bushes behind and on either side of the council’s communal bins.

Wheezy nodded, rain drumming on the skin of his black umbrella. ‘Far as I know. Got a couple of condoms and some litter, but that was it.’

No empty whisky bottle.

Harlaw Road huddled beneath the slate-grey sky, all the colours muted by the downpour. The patrol car sat at the kerb, blue-and-whites spinning. A few of the residents stood in their front rooms, ogling out at the spectacle. But none felt the need to step out into the wet to satisfy their curiosity.

Logan brushed his hands on his jeans. ‘You’ve got the photos?’

Wheezy held them up. ‘We already did this, Guv.’

‘Then we’re doing it again, aren’t we?’ He led the way up the path to the house directly opposite where they’d found Gordy Taylor’s body. Leaned on the bell.

A tall woman, stooped forward by a rounding between her shoulder blades, peered out at them with sharp features. ‘Yes?’

Wheezy showed her two photos. One from way back, when Gordy was still in the army. A confident young man with a broad smile and shiny eyes, sitting on the bonnet of a military Land Rover. The other photo was from the ID database, the one they used to make books to show witnesses with a height chart in the background — long greasy hair and an unkempt beard, the shiny eyes turned narrow and suspicious, sunken into dark bags. ‘You seen this man?’

She barely glanced at the pictures — stared at the patrol car instead. ‘Do you have any idea what this is doing to property prices round here? Dead bodies, policemen, journalists.’ The last word was pronounced as if it smelled of raw sewage.

Wheezy tried again. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘Yes, I recognize him. He was the dead tramp they found over there. His face was in the papers. Now if there’s nothing else, I’ve got to get the dinner on.’

Logan stepped a bit closer. The porch was tiny, but it kept some of rain off his head. ‘Take another look.’

She shook her head, setting a severe brown bob wobbling. ‘Don’t need to. It was horrible. I mean the smell, and the shouting, and oh, my God, the singing. Well, if you could call that singing, I certainly couldn’t. It was like someone drowning parrots in the bath, it really was, and the language! Don’t speak to me about the language he used.’ She sniffed. Snuck a glance at the patrol car. Lowered her voice. ‘I know we’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but he made life unbearable for everyone. I mean, there are people here with small children! Well, it’s not wholesome, is it?’

The man in the suit frowned at the photos in Wheezy’s hand for a bit, then nodded. ‘It’s that poor sod, isn’t it? The one who drank himself to death behind the bins.’ A tut.

A wee voice sounded in the hallway behind him. ‘Daddy, you’re missing Peppa Pig!’

He turned. ‘I’ll be there in a minute, darling. Daddy’s speaking to the nice policemen right now.’ And back to Logan. ‘It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? Of course, I blame society. These people don’t need Care in the Community, they need proper medical help...’

The woman blinked a couple of times, brushed a strand of grey hair away from her face. Then pulled on her glasses and had a good squint at the photographs, deepening the lines around her eyes. ‘Oh dear. He was such a wholesome looking young man.’ She took off her glasses and let them dangle on the chain around her neck. Then stared back at Logan. ‘I’m so sorry. I really am.’

She didn’t glance over his shoulder at the patrol car with its spinning lights. Kept her eyes on Logan instead.

He tilted his head to one side. Why did she look familiar?

Right — she was the nosy old bat pretending to prune her rosebush the first time he was there. The one with the double-glazing van parked outside. The one who’d called the police to complain about Gordy Taylor three times in one week.

‘You weren’t very happy about him being here, were you, Mrs...?’

‘Please, call me Olivia.’ A blink. ‘And no, I wasn’t really. Would you be?’

Logan pulled on his brightest smile. ‘Sorry to bother you, Olivia, but is there any chance my Detective Constable could use your toilet? Standing out in the rain, you know how it is.’

She moved to block the door. Then pursed her lips. And pulled on a smile of her own. ‘No, of course. Do come in.’ She backed away, top lip curling slightly as Logan and Wheezy Doug stepped over the threshold and dripped on the polished floorboards. ‘First on the right.’

The hallway was beige, with a smattering of photographs and a framed poster advertising a railway journey from the fifties. Panel doors. A dado rail.

Wheezy excused himself and squeezed past, into the downstairs loo.

Logan gave it a pause, then clapped his hands together. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea as well?’

The smile brittled. ‘Of course. Where are my manners.’

She led him through to an immaculate kitchen. More beige. A large, stripy, ginger cat lay full length along the radiator, tail twitching. The cat turned and peered at him with emerald eyes.

Logan closed the kitchen door. ‘Lovely home you have here.’

‘Thank you.’ The kettle went on, and three china mugs appeared from a cupboard. ‘My Ronald was in the building trade for years, so we were able to get a lot of things done.’

A creak from outside, in the corridor. That would be Wheezy going for a poke about.

Logan raised his voice a bit to cover the noise. ‘I like the patio doors. Very stylish.’

The white PVC monstrosities overlooked a perfect lawn, lined with perfect bushes, and perfect apple trees groaning with fruit. A nice little seating area, with a wrought-iron table, four chairs, and a barbecue.

‘They’re French doors, not patio.’ She dumped teabags in the mugs. ‘Patio doors slide, French doors are hinged.’

‘My mistake.’ He tried the handle. They weren’t locked, so he pulled the door open, letting in the hiss of rain through the leaves. ‘Very swish. Look brand new.’

‘Yes, well.’ She curled her lip again. ‘We had to get them replaced.’

‘Ah, right.’ The only thing not perfect about the lawn was the pigeon staggering along the fenceline. One wing flapping, head lolling. ‘I saw the glazier’s van. Was it an accident?’

The kettle’s rumble hit its crescendo, then click, it fell silent.

Olivia brought her chin up. ‘Someone tried to break in.’

‘I see.’ He stepped over to the ginger cat and ran a hand along its back. The tail went straight up, then the cat hopped down from its radiator and sauntered towards the open French doors. Paused to stretch with its bum in the air. ‘Did you report anything? Any stolen property? Ooh, I don’t know... Sleeping pills, painkillers, big bottle of whisky — that kind of thing?’

Her back stiffened. ‘I don’t think I like your tone.’

Logan nodded toward the mugs. ‘Just milk for me, thank you. Detective Constable Andrews is milk and three: he’s got a sweet tooth.’

She put the kettle back on its base unit. ‘I think I’d like you to go now.’

‘What did you do with the empty whisky bottle?’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘No, let me guess: it went out with the recycling.’

The ginger cat slipped out into the rain and padded across the lawn, making straight for the struggling pigeon.

Colour rushed up Olivia’s cheeks. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She pushed past him, through the patio doors, sandals slapping on the wet paving slabs. ‘Paddington! You come back here this instant, young man!’

The cat didn’t seem to care. It hunkered down on its front legs, bum wiggling in the air, then pounced.

‘NO!’ Olivia lunged, but she was too slow to grab Paddington before he crashed his orange-stripy weight down on top of the pigeon. ‘Don’t you dare eat that!’

Logan stepped out into the garden as she wrestled the pigeon away from her cat.

‘Dirty! Bad Paddington!’

An outraged meow, then Paddington turned and stalked off to lurk under the bench by the back wall.

The pigeon may have been half-dead to begin with, but it was all-the-way dead now. It dangled in Olivia’s hands, head swaying on the end of its neck like a soggy pendulum.

‘Honestly.’ She glowered after the cat. ‘You know these make you sick.’ Then Olivia yanked the lid off the dustbin and dumped the dead little body inside. Clanged the lid shut again.

Logan stared at the bin.

Stacey looked up at him, still holding on to his arm. ‘If it was me, if I had a cat, I wouldn’t want poisoned mice staggering around the house looking to get caught and eaten. Would you?’

‘The pigeons make him sick?’

Olivia pulled her shoulders back. ‘That’s why I don’t let Paddington eat them. They’re foul little things; who knows where they’ve been?’ She sniffed. ‘Why those idiots next door insist on feeding them, is beyond me. They don’t even like pigeons.’

The idiots next door — Mr Sensitive, with his Peppa Pig obsessed little girl.

Logan crossed to the fence and peered into the adjoining garden.

A bird table poked out of the lawn. Not your standard wee house on a stick, this was a fancy wrought-iron thing with different levels, all suspended around a central pole. One layer had a wide, round base and a pitched roof over it to keep the bird feed dry. Whole wheat birdseed, from the look of it. Whole wheat and bright blue.

He turned and hurried back into the house. Banged his hand on the kitchen door as he barrelled through it. ‘WHEEZY! WE’VE GOT THE WRONG HOUSE!’

20

Logan leaned on the bell again while Wheezy dragged the two officers from the patrol car. One blinking and scrubbing at her face as if she’d been catching a nap in the passenger seat.

The door popped open, as they started up the path.

Mr Sensitive pulled on his smile. ‘Can I help you?’

Logan wedged his foot in the open door, stopping it from closing. Stared back. ‘We know.’

The smile slipped. Then fell. Mr Sensitive licked his lips. ‘Really? That’s...’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Rat poison and whisky.’

A breath huffed out of him. Then he clicked his mouth shut. Blinked at the police officers looming in front of his house. Swallowed.

The same little voice sounded in the hall behind him. ‘Daddy, you’re missing it!’

Fingers trembled across his lips. ‘Oh God...’

‘Daddy!’

‘I think you’d better come with us, don’t you, sir?’

He closed his eyes and swore.

Mark Cameron stared down at his hands — coiled into claws on the interview room table. The skin nearly as pale as the white Formica top. ‘Does my daughter have to know?’

Logan shrugged. ‘Probably. It’s going to be in the papers. On the news. Someone will say something.’

A shudder. ‘I don’t want her to know.’

The camera lens stared down at them, the red light glaring in judgement.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer, Mark?’

A nod.

‘For the record, Mr Cameron is nodding his head.’

A deep breath, then he spread his claws. ‘That... man was hanging out on the street for days. Going through the bins. Shouting. Swearing. Singing. Then one day he pushed Jenny off her bike. Probably didn’t do it on purpose, probably too drunk to know what he was doing, but he did it.’

Logan folded his arms. ‘Is that why you killed him, Mark? Because he hurt Jenny?’

Cameron shook his head. ‘I was...’ He blinked. Wiped the back of one hand across his eyes. ‘We were asleep. Must’ve been about two in the morning, when there’s this crashing noise. And Angie’s convinced someone’s in the house.’

The digital recorder whirred away to itself.

Outside in the corridor, someone laughed.

A car drove by.

Then Mark Cameron licked his lips. ‘So I got up. And it was him. Broke one of the conservatory windows and got into our house.’ Mark looked away. ‘He was outside Jenny’s room when I found him and I lost it. I punched him and kicked him and kicked him and stamped on his filthy head...’ A shuddering breath. ‘I wanted to kill him. But I couldn’t. Not like that. Not like an animal.’

What was probably meant to be a smile twisted Cameron’s face. ‘So I apologized. I begged him not to report me to the police. And I gave him something for the pain — stuff Angie gets for her migraines.’

This time the pause didn’t last for nearly as long. ‘Only that wasn’t enough, was it? Next day he came back demanding more painkillers. And booze. The day after that too. And the next. Every evening, there he’d be with his hand out.’ Mark Cameron closed his eyes. ‘I couldn’t kill him like an animal, because he wasn’t an animal — he was vermin. And we all know what you use to kill vermin.’

‘Well?’ DCI Steel was waiting outside Interview Room Number Three, one hand jammed into her armpit, an e-cigarette poking out the corner of her mouth.

Logan closed the interview room door, shutting out the sobbing. Then started down the corridor. ‘Didn’t have to burst him, he burst himself.’

‘He definitely killed Gordy Taylor?’

‘Got it all on tape.’

‘Ya beauty.’ She slammed a hand into Logan’s back. ‘Well done, that man! I’m impressed.’

‘I’m going home. Get some unpacking done.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Steel linked her arm through his, gave it a little squeeze. ‘You’ve got to celebrate! Big win like this calls for something special. Like a bit of quality daddy — daughter time.’ A wink. ‘Susan’s taking me out to see a film. Don’t know when we’ll be back, but don’t wait up, eh? Might get lucky in the back seat of the cinema.’

Logan stopped in the middle of the corridor, stared up at the ceiling and swore. ‘I just moved house; I need to unpack.’ And to sit in the dark for a bit, drinking whisky and trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do about Reuben.

‘Nah, what you need’s a pizza, a tenner, a bottle of red wine, and to babysit your daughter.’ She gave his arm another squeeze. ‘You ever watched Peppa Pig?’

‘Oh God...’