Cold granite

K.I.S.S.I.N.G…

If he went to Professional Standards first thing tomorrow morning, the ginger-haired, sour-faced Inspector Napier would have her frogmarched out of the building quicker than you could say 'gross misconduct'. At least it would get Napier off his back.

Logan stared morosely at the Strichen house. She'd be ruined. No police force in the country would touch Isobel with a bargepole. Unemployable. What was it Miller had said? She just needed someone to share her day with…Someone to be there for her…Just as Logan had been there for her. Once upon a time, in the bad old days.

And now the only way Logan would ever feel the touch of her cool hands again would be when he was lying on his back in the morgue. With a tag on his toe.

'Great,' he told himself as the windscreen finally cleared. 'Good image. Very healthy…' Sighing, he pulled the car away from the kerb.

The city was quiet as he slid the vehicle across North Anderson Drive. Only taxis and eighteen-wheelers were out, cutting parallel black ribbons in the snow-covered roads. The wake from their wheels – arcing sprays of slush and melt-water – were turned into golden fireworks by Logan's headlights.

The car's police radio crackled and bawled almost continuously: news was travelling fast. Strichen was dead! The kid was alive! Watson had been in her bra and pants!

Snarling, he twisted it off. Only the silence was worse than the noise. Silence encouraged the 'what-ifs' to rattle around his head.

What if he'd gone left instead of right? What if he'd turned up five minutes later? What if he hadn't frozen when Martin Strichen pulled out the knife? What if he'd got to him in time…Determined not to think about it, Logan clicked on the other radio, spinning the dial until the dulcet tones of a Northsound DJ boomed out of the speakers. It was a small sign that the world was still where it should be.

Tapping his fingers to the music, he felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders. Maybe things had turned out OK. Maybe Martin was better off dead. It was probably better than being banged up in Peterhead Prison, where every third inmate was another Gerald Cleaver.

But Logan knew he was going to have nightmares.

He slipped the car off the drive and cut through the north side of town, where there was nothing on the roads but him, the snow, and globes of streetlight. The music on the radio drifted off into silence. After a pause of about ten seconds, followed by a giggling apology, came the news. They were still putting out Martin Strichen's description, still telling everyone to be on the lookout. Even though he was dead. By the time Logan got back to Queen Street the clock was wending its merry way towards half-past ten. He abandoned the car around the back and slouched his way into Force Headquarters, wondering where everyone had got to. The building was as silent as the grave. Very appropriate.

Give it a half hour. Then he'd call the hospital and find out how WPC Watson was getting on. First he'd get some coffee. Tea. Anything, just as long as it was warm. He was halfway across main reception when someone shouted at him.

'Lazarus!'

It was Big Gary, spraying little bits of Tunnocks Tasty Caramel Wafer over the front desk. His grin was wide enough to fit a coat hanger sideways.

His companion's head snapped up, the telephone pressed to his ear. He grinned too, giving Logan an enthusiastic thumbs-up through the glass. Big Gary barged through the side door and embraced Logan in a bear hug. 'You wee darling!'

Nice though a bit of recognition was, it made Logan's heavily-scarred stomach scream. 'Enough! Enough!'

Big Gary released him and stepped back with a paternal smile of pride. It disappeared when he saw the pain on Logan's face. 'God, I'm sorry! Are you OK?'

Logan waved him away, gritting his teeth, trying to breathe slowly, just as they'd taught him at the Pain Clinic. In and out. In and out…

'You're a bloody hero, Lazarus,' said Gary. 'Isn't he, Eric?'

The desk sergeant, now free of the phone, agreed that yes, Logan was indeed a hero.

'Where is everyone?' asked Logan, changing the subject as quickly as he could.

'Next door.' Meaning the pub. 'Chief Constable's buying. We've been trying to get you on the radio for ages!'

'Oh…' He smiled rather than tell him he'd switched the damn thing off.

'Better get over there, Lazarus, my man,' said Big Gary, once more looking as if he might engulf Logan in another rib-cracking, stomach-tearing hug.

Backing away, Logan agreed that he would. Archibald Simpson's was noisy for a Wednesday night. Everywhere Logan looked there were police men and women drinking their own bodyweight in alcohol. The mood was festive, like New Year's Eve, except that no one was fighting.

As soon as someone recognized Logan the shout went up and rapidly turned into a football-terrace version of 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow'. Endless hands slapped him on the back, drinks were pressed on him, people shook his hand, or kissed him, depending on how they were feeling at the time.

Finally Logan worked his way through the crowd to a relative haven of calm. He located the expansive bulk of Detective Inspector Insch and plonked himself down on an empty stool next to him. Insch looked up, a broad smile split his face and he slapped Logan on the back with a huge hand. On the other side of the table Logan saw the Edinburgh contingent. The DI and his sergeants looking rosy and pleased, calling out congratulations, but the clinical psychologist looked as if the smile he was wearing might cause him permanent damage.

'The CC said tonight's on him!' beamed Insch, pounding Logan on the back again. 'Flash your warrant card at the bar and it's free!' He leaned back and downed half a pint of dark beer in one go.

Logan looked round at the assembled horde: Grampian's finest. Tonight was going to cost the Chief Constable a fortune.