In the Cold Dark Ground

1

Where the hell was Syd?

The song rambled to a halt, and the DJ was back. ‘Wasn’t that great? We’ve got JC Williams on in just a minute, talking about her latest book PC Munroe and the Poisoner’s Cat, but first here’s Stacy with all your eleven o’clock news and weather. Stacy?’

Logan screwed the cap on his Thermos, popped it on the dashboard, then wrapped his hands around the plastic cup. Warmth seeped into his fingers, almost making it as far as the frozen bones. Tendrils of steam mixed with his breath, fogging the windscreen.

‘Thanks, Bill. The hunt for missing Fraserburgh businessman, Martin Milne, continues today...’

He wriggled in his seat, pulling himself deeper into the stabproof vest, like a turtle. Knees together, rubbing slightly to get maximum itchiness from the black Police-Scotland-issue trousers. Took a sip from the Thermos lid.

Tea: hot and milky. Manna from heaven. Well, from the station canteen, but close enough.

‘...concerned for his safety after his car was found abandoned in a lay-by outside Portsoy...’

Logan wiped a porthole in the passenger window.

Skeletal trees loomed on either side of the dirt track. Gunmetal puddles in ragged-edged potholes. The bare stalks of old nettles poked out of the yellow grass like the spears of a long-dead army. All fading into the dull grey embrace of February drizzle.

Something bright moved in the distance — where the oak and beech gave way to regular ranks of pine — a fluorescent-yellow high-viz smear. Then the woods swallowed it.

‘...with any information to call one-zero-one. A teenage driver who crashed through the front window of Poundland in Peterhead was six times over the drink-drive limit...’

Sitting next to the Thermos, his mobile phone dinged, skittering an inch to the right as it vibrated. He grabbed it before it fell off the dashboard. Pressed his thumb on the text message icon.

Sodding DCI Sodding Steel. Third time today.

‘Leave me alone. I’m working, OK? That all right with you?’

He deleted the message. Scowled at the empty screen.

‘... eight pints of cider at a friend’s eighteenth birthday party...’

A pair of headlights sparked in the rear-view mirror: the cavalry had arrived. With any luck they’d brought biscuits with them.

‘...remanded in custody. The body of a young woman, discovered ten days ago in woods outside Inverurie, has been formally identified...’

Logan took another sip of tea, then popped the door open, climbing out as a battered green Fiat lurched and rolled to a halt, windscreen wipers squealing across the glass.

Everything smelled of dirt and mould and green.

‘...Emily Benton, a nineteen-year-old philosophy student from Aberdeenshire...’

The Renault’s door clunked open and a man climbed out, dressed in tatty black combat trousers and a quilted black fleece. Big grin on his face. Short grey hair circled a wide strip of shiny pink scalp. His breath steamed out into the drizzly morning. ‘Fine day for it.’ He pulled a baseball cap from his back pocket: black with ‘POLICE’ embroidered over a black-and-white checked strip. He put it on, hiding his bald patch from the rain.

Logan toasted him with the Thermos cup. ‘Syd. You bring your hairy friends with you?’

‘Emily was last seen leaving the Formartine House Hotel on Saturday night...’

Syd leaned back into the car and came out with a thick leather lead, draped it around his neck, under his arms, and clipped it behind his back, like DIY braces. ‘Thought you and your minions already searched this one.’

‘...anxious to trace the driver of a red Ford Fiesta seen in the vicinity.’

‘Didn’t find anything.’ A shrug. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Forget about it.’ Syd waved a hand. ‘Only so many times you can watch Lord of the Rings.’ He marched around to the back of the car and popped the boot open. A golden retriever scrabbled out onto the track, tail wagging, feet pounding round and round his master, nose up to him, mouth hanging open. ‘You ready to put that nose back to work, Lusso? Are you? Yes you are. Yes you are.’ He ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘Do you good to get off your backside and do some work for a change, you fat lump.’

‘...appeal for witnesses. Now, are you ready for Valentine’s Day? Well, one enterprising teenager is auctioning his booking for a romantic meal for two at the Silver Darling restaurant in—’

Logan clicked the radio off and downed the last of his tea. Pulled a padded high-viz jacket on over his stabproof vest, then dipped into the kitbag stuffed down into the rear footwell. Came out with a brown paper evidence bag. ‘Here you go.’

‘Socks?’

‘Better.’ Logan opened the bag and came out with a red T-shirt. The company name was speckled with paint: ‘GEIRRØD ~ CONTAINER MANAGEMENT AND LOGISTICS’

‘Well, you never know your luck. Since we retired, Lusso’s sniffed out nothing more challenging than other dogs’ bumholes.’ He unrolled a small fluorescent-yellow waistcoat thing and slipped it over the golden retriever’s head, clipping the straps together behind its front legs. Then Syd took the T-shirt and wadded it up into a ball. Squatted down and held it under Lusso’s shiny black nose. ‘Big sniffs.’

Logan pulled on a pair of padded leather gloves. ‘We set?’

‘As we can be.’ Syd stood, then swept his arm out in an arc, hand pointing towards the woods on one side of the track. ‘Come on, Lusso: find.’

The dog scampered around them a couple of times, then its nose went down and it snuffled away.

They followed Lusso across the damp leaf litter, into the forest gloom, ducking under branches and crunching through brittle beige curls of dead bracken.

Logan nodded at the dog. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘Long shot, to be honest.’ Syd tucked his hands into his pockets. ‘If you’re after dead bodies, cash, or explosives: Lusso’s your dog, but this tracking thing...’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘Well, you never know.’

The musky brown scent of earth rose from the ground like a blanket, turning sharper and more antiseptic as they crossed the boundary from deciduous to evergreen. At least the tops of the trees were evergreen; down here, at ground level, everything was black and grey and jagged.

Through a clearing, tufted with heather and fringed with brambles.

Down a small ravine.

They clambered over a fallen tree, its roots sticking up into the air like a hairy shield.

Up a steep hill, puffing and panting by the time they reached the summit.

But there wasn’t much of a view from the top, just more dark trunks, stretching down and away into the distance. Merging together in the fog and drizzle.

Syd sniffed. ‘Of course, trouble is, it’s been so long since he’s had to actually work Lusso might think he’s out for a walk.’

There was that.

‘Well, at least we’re—’ Logan’s mobile blared out its anonymous ringtone. He closed his eyes and sagged for a moment. Then straightened up. Pulled on a smile. ‘Sorry. I’ll catch up.’

He dug the phone out as Syd worked his way down the hill, following the wagging tail.

‘McRae.’

A woman’s voice. ‘Logan? It’s Louise from Sunny Glen.’

And Logan sagged again.

The crackle and snap of Syd fighting his way through a clump of dead rosebay willowherb faded into silence. Somewhere in the distance a pigeon croooed.

‘Logan? Hello?’

Deep breath. ‘Louise.’

A sigh came from the earpiece. ‘I know this isn’t easy, Logan, it’s a horrible thing, but there’s nothing else we can do for her. If there was, I would. You know that.’

Of course he did. Didn’t make it any easier, though.

‘Yeah...’ He stared down at his boots. At the tufts of grey-green grass poking out between the dirty pine needles. ‘When?’

‘That’s really up to you. Samantha’s... You’ve been the best friend she could ever have hoped for, but it’s time. It’s just her time.’ Another sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Logan. I really am.’

‘Right. Yes. I understand.’

‘We have a specialist counsellor you can speak to. She can help.’

Another smear of fluorescent yellow appeared away off to the right, before disappearing into the undergrowth again.

Four beeps sounded underneath his high-viz jacket, followed by a muffled voice. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Logan unzipped the jacket and reached inside, feeling for the Airwave handset. Leaving it on its clip while he pressed the button. ‘Give us a minute, Tufty.’

Back to the phone.

Louise was still going: ‘...all right? Logan? Hello?’

‘Sorry. I’m kind of in the middle of something.’

‘You don’t have to decide right away. We’re not trying to rush you into anything. Take your time.’

‘Yeah, I understand.’ The stabproof vest held him tight in its Velcro embrace, keeping everything squeezed inside. ‘Friday. We’ll do it Friday.’

‘Are you sure? Like I said, you don’t have to—’

‘No. Friday the thirteenth. Samantha would’ve liked that.’

‘I’m sorry, Logan.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back into an inside pocket. Stared up at the heavy grey sky.

Friday.

When he breathed out, it was as if someone had attached weights to his lungs and stomach, dragging them down.

Another breath.

Then another.

And another.

Come on.

He blinked. Rubbed a hand across his face, wiping away a cold sheen of water. Hauled himself straight.

Then pressed the call button on his Airwave handset again. ‘Tufty: safe to talk.’

‘Sarge, we’ve done the loop again. No sign of Milne. You want us to try the burn?’

‘Might as well.’

Dripping water made a slow-motion drumroll on the forest floor.

‘Sarge?’

‘What?’

‘Can we go home soon? Only Calamity’s gone all blue and purple. Last time I saw someone that colour they were lying on a mortuary slab. Bleeding freezing out here.’

‘Tell her we’ll give it another hour, then back home for tea and biscuits.’

‘Sarge.’

Logan slithered his way down the hill, picking his way between the trees, following Syd’s trail.

Silence blanketed the forest, the needles underfoot and the branches overhead smothering all sounds except the ones he made. Not even midday and it was already getting dark. The clouds overhead had blackened and crept lower. Gearing up for the change from breath-frosting drizzle to a full-on downpour. Maybe an hour was chancing their arm? Might be better to pack it up and try again tomorrow.

And after that it’d be someone else’s problem.

A ding and a buzz against his ribcage marked another text message coming into his mobile. No point checking: it’d be Steel. It was always Steel.

Wah, wah, wah, why haven’t you called me back? What I want is much more important than anything you’re doing. Wah, wah, wah...

He left his phone in its pocket. Kept going.

It wasn’t too hard to follow Syd. His feet had left a scuffed path through the needles, the layer below darker than the ones on the surface. It wound its way between the trees, scratching a zigzag line down and off to the left. Where—

Was that a shout?

Yes. Somewhere off in the distance, but definitely there.

Logan stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth in a makeshift loudhailer. ‘SYD?’

Another shout.

Nope, still no idea what he was saying.

Needles slipped beneath Logan’s feet as he hurried down the slope and up the other side. ‘SYD?’

He froze at the crown of the hill, surrounded by boulders and Scots pine. The ground fell away in front of him: a steep incline punctuated by rocks and gorse between hundreds of circular stumps where the trees had been harvested. A dirt track ran along the bottom of the hill, with another clump of gorse on the other side.

Syd stood in front of it, waving his arms like he was trying to guide a plane in to land. Lusso lay on the ground at his feet, hairy yellow tail sweeping back and forth through the mud.

Logan tried again: ‘WHAT IS IT?’

Whatever Syd shouted back, it was swallowed by the wind and rain.

‘Sodding hell.’ No choice for it then. Logan scrambled down the slope, feet sideways to the drop, skirting the dark-green needles of gorse. Windmilling his arms as a clump of mud shifted beneath him, threatening to send him tumbling.

Keep going...

He clattered onto the track and skidded to a halt before he went over the edge and into a drainage ditch thick with rust-coloured water.

Syd sniffed. ‘Took your time.’

‘What?’

He raised a finger and pointed at a patch of broom. ‘In there.’

Logan smoothed down the front of his high-viz jacket, then stepped over the ditch and onto the bank on the other side. ‘Can’t see any—’

‘Keep going.’

Another couple of steps up the bank and... OK.

There was a dip in the earth: semicircular with a chunk of lichen-covered granite at one end. Stalks of dead weeds poked up through the yellowed grass. And right in the middle, lying flat on its back, was the body of a man. Naked. Hands behind him. One leg crooked out at the knee, the foot resting against his other shin.

His torso was a tie-die pattern of purples, blues, and yellows fringed with green, the bruises spaced randomly across pale-grey skin slick with drizzle.

Syd’s voice came from the other side of the bush. ‘That him?’

Logan blew out a breath. ‘Difficult to tell...’

The head was covered with black plastic — like a bin-bag — fixed around the neck with thick strands of silver duct tape. There was a strange smell too. Maybe bleach?

The pubic hair was a sickly yellowy-white, so it could be bleach.

Probably bleach.

Someone covering their tracks, trying to make sure they hadn’t left any DNA or trace evidence behind that could be identified. Yeah, good luck with that. Something always survived.

Another smell lay under the bleach, something sweet and meaty and cloying. Like a chunk of mince, forgotten about at the back of the fridge, a couple of days past its sell-by date.

Definitely dead.

Logan unzipped his jacket and pulled out his Airwave handset. Punched in the Duty Inspector’s shoulder number. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled out of the speaker, sounding slightly plummy, as if she was eating something. ‘Go ahead, Logan.’

‘Guv? I think we might have found Martin Milne...’

2

‘Sarge?’ Tufty pulled his eyebrows in, made his watery blue eyes all big and puppy-dog. Pouted, sinking his cheeks even further into his bony face. ‘Just in case: someone’s planning a surprise party Monday, right?’

Droplets pattered off the peak of his cap, hissed through the needles on the trees, rippled the puddles at their feet.

‘Monday?’ Logan ducked in under a pine, using the canopy of needles to keep the worst of the rain off. Up above, between the branches, the sky was nearly touching the treetops. Heavy and dark.

‘Well, Tuesday morning. I know we don’t get off nightshift till seven, and most places will be shut, but someone’s organizing something, right?’

Logan punched Calamity’s shoulder number into his Airwave handset. ‘Constable Nicholson, safe to talk?’

A crackle, then her voice came through: ‘On my way back now, Sarge. I’ve taped the road off at the junction.’

Tufty pulled one shoulder up to his ear. ‘Because it’s a big thing, isn’t it? Not every day you go from being a probationer to a full-blown instrument of justice.’

‘You got the tarpaulin, Calamity?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Course I’ve got the tarpaulin.’

‘Well hurry up then. Tufty’s going to suffer fatal rectal boot-poisoning if I have to put up with his whingeing much longer.’

There was a little pout, then Tufty inched closer, peering down at the body. ‘Funny, isn’t it? Soon as you cover a person’s face like that, you make them less... human. Like it’s not really a person any more.’

‘It’s still a person.’ Logan put his Airwave back on its clip. Cupped his hands to his mouth and blew, filling them with warm fog. ‘Wonder how long he’s been lying there?’

Tufty ducked, then worked his way through the jagged branches of the tree next to Logan’s, until his back was against the trunk. ‘First week I was on the job, there was this motorbike crash. Young woman, a girl really, didn’t make the corner — straight through a barbed-wire fence. She wasn’t wearing a helmet.’

‘All this rain. Probably not a lot of trace left on the body. Might get fibres off the bin-bag, though.’

‘Head came clean off.’

Then there was the bleach. If whoever did it bleached the body while it was lying here, they might not have turned it over to do its back. Could be DNA there, protected from the rain and the elements.

‘Searched for ages.’ Tufty frowned. ‘I found it in a clump of dead nettles. She was staring up at me with this confused look on her face. Surreal...’

The dirt track was the obvious point of entry to the scene. No sign of any tyre marks, though. So, they probably carried the body here from wherever they’d parked. Strange to go to all that effort when you could have just pitched it out of the boot.

Maybe the road was blocked?

Or maybe the victim was still alive when they got here? Maybe the killer made them walk from the car to here? Jesus, how frightened would you be? Naked, hands tied behind your back, picking your way along the forest road, knowing that when you got to where you were going, you’d be dead.

‘Anyway, we stuck the two bits back together and: bang, suddenly she was a person again. Never thrown up so much in my life.’ He shuddered, then blew out a billow of steamy breath. ‘See that? Probably getting frostbite.’

‘Feel free to shut up at any point.’

Syd appeared from the woods behind them, hands dug deep into his pockets, golden retriever trotting in lazy circles around him. ‘Nothing.’

Logan shrugged. ‘Worth a go. Thanks anyway.’

‘Been nice to get out and do something for a change. Retirement’s not all it’s cracked up to be. A lifetime of fixing-up the house and garden, DIY as far as the eye can see...’ A shudder. ‘Like a wheelbarrow: always in front of you.’

Lusso loped over to Tufty and stuck his nose in the constable’s groin.

‘Errr...’ Tufty flattened himself against the tree. ‘Doesn’t bite, does he?’

‘Anyway, if you don’t need me, I’ll head off. She Who Must wants a trip to B&Q. Apparently the spare room needs new wallpaper.’

‘We’ll give you a shout about a statement.’

‘And that pint you owe me.’ Then Syd clapped his hands. ‘Come on, Lusso, leave the poor wee loon’s winkie alone. We’re going home.’

A bark made Tufty flinch, then the golden retriever turned and trotted after its master. Up the slope and away into the forest.

Tufty wiped a hand down the front of his trousers, as if reassuring the contents that the nasty doggie had gone. Then squinted up at the heavy grey sky. ‘Think it’s cold enough to snow?’

Probably.

The rain fell.

And fell.

And fell.

Sod this. He punched Maggie’s number into his handset. ‘Maggie, safe to talk? You got an ETA for us yet?’

‘As far as I know they’re en route, Sergeant McRae.’

‘Well... if you hear anything, let us know, OK? It’s hammering down out here.’

He hooked the Airwave back into place, wrapped his arms around himself and tucked his hands into the armholes of his stabproof vest.

Tufty made a sound like a deflating whoopee cushion. ‘First time in my life I’m actually looking forward to a Major Investigation Team waltzing in and taking over. Let them stand about in the rain for a change.’ He stamped his feet. ‘How long’s it take to get up here from Aberdeen, anyway? What are they doing, walking?’

‘You remember what I said about rectal boot-poisoning?’

And the rain fell.

‘Up your end a bit...’ Logan tugged at the tarpaulin. Then nodded. ‘OK, pin it down.’

Calamity lowered a rock onto the edge of the blue plastic. Then another one. And another. Her black bob stuck to the sides of her face in rain-twisted strands, making her look a bit like a damp crow. She sniffed, then wiped a gloved hand under her pointy nose. Every time she bent over, water poured out from the brim of her bowler hat, spattering down her high-viz jacket. ‘Can’t feel my fingers.’

‘Just in case: we’re having a celebration after work on Tuesday morning, aren’t we? For Tufty’s coming out party?’

Calamity thunked another rock into place. ‘Thought Isla was organizing something.’

‘Do me a favour and check, OK?’ He tugged on the tarpaulin, securing the last corner with a big lump of quartz. ‘He’ll sulk for months if we don’t.’

She stood and stretched, hands in the small of her back, staring down at their makeshift crime-scene marquee. ‘What do you think: is this Martin Milne?’

‘Hope so.’

‘What if it’s not?’

Logan ducked under the tree again. Waved Calamity over and dug out his phone.

She squeezed in under the branches next to him as he scrolled through the photos of a naked man, lying on his back on a forest floor, with a black plastic bag duct-taped over his head. ‘Got one distinguishing feature.’ He zoomed in on the left shoulder — a tattoo was just visible through the multicolour rainbow of bruises — held the phone out. ‘That look like a dolphin to you?’

She squinted, tilted her head to one side. ‘Could be a whale...? No, look, it’s got a unicorn horn: narwhal.’

‘Is it?’ He took the phone back and frowned at it. ‘Could be. Did Martin Milne have a tattoo?’

‘You know what I think?’ Calamity pointed a toe at the tarpaulin. ‘Serial killer.’

Logan put his phone away. ‘That’s not funny.’

‘Isn’t meant to be. Look at it: middle of nowhere, dead body, dumped with a bag over its head.’

‘Calamity—’

‘And it’s not the first one, either. What about that student, Emily Something, turned up dead in woods near Inverurie a week and a half ago?’ Calamity nodded to herself. ‘Could be dozens of dead bodies out there, dumped in woodland all over the northeast.’

‘You been watching Scandinavian crime dramas again?’

‘Five quid says the post mortem turns up sexual activity, before and after death. That’s what the bag’s for: he’s dehumanized the victim by hiding the face. Doesn’t want to be looked at while he does his thing.’

‘Don’t you start as well. Had enough of the “doesn’t look like a person” thing from Tufty.’

‘Exactly my point. There’s a murder victim lying right there.’ She pointed. ‘Someone’s brother, father, son, husband. Someone with hopes and dreams, like you and me. And we’re standing here chatting about Tufty’s party. Been dehumanized.’

Ah...

Logan put his phone away. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Another fiver says we find the next body before the fortnight’s out.’

‘Get on to Isla: see if we’ve got any missing persons with a narwhal tattoo on their left shoulder.’ A frown. ‘Actually, don’t. Tell her any sort of tattoo will do. Don’t care if it’s a dolphin, elephant, narwhal, or Sandi Toksvig riding a unicycle, if there’s a misper with a tattoo on their arm I want to know about it.’

‘Sarge.’

‘With any luck we’ll solve this before the MIT turn up and trample over everything.’

Calamity got on the Airwave. ‘Constable Nicholson for Constable Anderson, safe to talk?’

A tiny voice crackled out of the speaker, sounding as if it belonged to a wee girl. ‘Go for it, Calamity.’

‘Isla, I need you to search the misper database for us...’

Then a piercing whistle crackled from the brow of the hill and there was Tufty, waving. A man in an overcoat struggled up next to him, then another, and a third. All with mud clarted up to the knees of their suit trousers.

Speak of the devils and they shall appear.

They struggled their way down the hill, holding on to each other in an admirably stupid display of team spirit. Meaning if one of them went down he’d take the other two with him.

At least Tufty had the common sense to steer clear of them. He picked his own path through the gorse and tree stumps, until he stood in front of Logan. Then jerked a thumb at the suits. ‘Found this lot wandering in the woods, Sarge. Can we keep them?’

The tallest of the three picked spiny green bristles out of his navy overcoat. ‘We were not wandering.’ Water dripped from the brim of his trilby hat, something else dripping from the end of his little pink nose. A sniff. Then he raised his hat, showing off a spiky mop of gelled blond hair. ‘Logan.’

‘Well, well, well. Defective Sergeant Simon Rennie, as I live and breathe.’ Logan smiled, then lowered his eyes to Rennie’s dirt-spattered trousers. ‘Were we playing in the puddles?’

‘Bloody place is like a swamp. With trees. And mud. A muddy foresty swamp.’ He stuck his hat back on. ‘Steel’s on her way. Till she gets here, this is DC Owen...’

Owen — a broad-shouldered lump of a man with greying curls plastered to his head by the rain. A nod. ‘Sarge.’ His teeth looked as if they’d been designed for a mouth three times bigger than his, poking out at all angles.

‘...and this is DC Anthony “Spaver” Fraser.’

Fraser’s nose had been destined for the same oversized face as Owen’s teeth. ‘Sergeant.’ He jerked it in the direction of the tarpaulin. ‘That our body?’

‘Not yet it isn’t.’ Logan held his hand out towards Tufty. ‘Constable Quirrel, pass me the Sacred Wooden Stick of Crime-Scene Dominion.’

There was a pause as Tufty blinked at him. Then realization must have dawned, because two seconds later a branch was pressed into Logan’s grasp. It wasn’t big — about two foot long, with a forked bit at the top. ‘Here you go.’

Logan offered it to Rennie. ‘Do you accept the Sacred Stick?’

A lopsided grin. Then he took the little branch and held it aloft as if he’d just pulled Excalibur from the stone. Posing. ‘I hereby claim this crime scene for Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Tiberius Steel and the glory of the Sontaran Empire!’

‘Good for you.’ Logan wiped bits of bark from his palm. ‘Body’s an IC-one male: tattoo on the upper left arm. Heavy bruising to the torso, bin-bag over the head. Duty doctor, Procurator Fiscal, pathologist, and Scenes Examination Branch have been informed.’ He turned. ‘Tufty, Calamity: pack up, we’re out of here.’

She shifted the Airwave handset to her other ear and nodded.

Rennie frowned. ‘But what about guarding the scene? Aren’t you going to—’

‘Not our scene any more. You’ve got the Sacred Stick, remember?’

His eyebrows went up, making a short row of wrinkles between them. ‘But—’

‘Body was probably dumped using the logging road. Get someone to search for tyre tracks. And don’t stand there with your gob hanging open, you look like a goldfish.’

A click, as Rennie closed his mouth. ‘Can’t we just—’

‘Probably not. But make sure you get your common approach path sorted before the PF and the Pathologist get here, or they’ll make you eat your hat.’ Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Oh, and I want my tarpaulin back when you’ve finished with it.’

The hill was a lot steeper on the way up than the way down, and by the time they reached the top sweat was trickling down between Logan’s shoulder blades and into his pants. He paused at the crest, looking back towards the makeshift SOC tent, breath fogging the air in thick white puffs.

Calamity’s face had gone all flushed and shiny. She gave him a lopsided grimace. ‘Got a bad feeling about this.’

‘They’ve investigated murders before.’

‘Only two types of people wear trilby hats, Sarge: auld mannies and tossers.’

‘Really?’ Tufty unzipped his high-viz jacket and flapped the sides. Steam rose from his stabproof vest. ‘I think they’re kinda cool.’

‘Which proves my point.’ She took off her bowler hat and fanned herself with it. ‘And why’s he holding that stick?’

‘He thinks it makes him in charge. How did you get on with Maggie?’

‘Strange stick obsession and a trilby hat.’ Calamity did a bit more grimacing. ‘He’s a tosser, isn’t he?’

‘Detective Sergeant Rennie isn’t a tosser.’

Down at the base of the slope, Rennie was directing his constables as they did a preliminary sweep of the scene — standing on a tree stump and using the Sacred Stick like a conductor’s baton. He was getting into it, swinging his arms about, wheeching the stick back and forth.

Logan bared his teeth. ‘OK, he’s a bit of a tosser. But...’

Rennie slipped and went flat on his backside in the middle of the track.

‘Actually, I’m going to leave it there.’

‘And they made that a detective sergeant.’ Calamity sighed. ‘Isla says we’ve got half a dozen mispers on the books with tattoos. That’s going back three years, including the unsolveds.’

‘Half a dozen?’ Tufty stopped flapping. ‘How many without tattoos?’

‘Hundred and twelve.’ She shrugged. ‘Half the time no one bothers to tell us Uncle Stinky’s come home. Other half...’ Another shrug.

One of the DCs — Owen, was it? — hauled Rennie to his feet. Then picked up the stick and handed it back to him.

Yeah, because that was a good idea.

Probably end up putting someone’s eye out with it.

‘Don’t suppose it matters now. Not our case. It’s theirs.’ Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take an interest, would it? Just in case. He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t suppose any of our tattooed half-dozen have a narwhal on their upper left arm?’

‘Nope. Or if they do it’s not in the database.’ She folded her arms, staring down at the three-man advance unit from Steel’s MIT. ‘Look at them. Here we are, serial killer on the loose, and our only hope for catching him is Tweedle-Dee, Tweedle-Dum, and their boss: Tweedle-Dumber.’

Couldn’t really argue with that.

‘Come on, we’ve got a division to police.’

Logan turned his back and headed for the car.

3

‘COME BACK HERE, YOU WEE SOD!’

But Lumpy Patrick was off, bone-thin arms and legs pumping for all he was worth. Long greasy strands of hair flapping about like damp string as he sprinted. Pilfered packs of bacon and cheese cascading from the pocket of his stained brown hoodie.

Logan grabbed hold of his peaked cap and gave chase through the rain.

They hammered down High Street with its strange collection of old stone buildings and harled monstrosities.

A lunge to the left and Lumpy sprinted across the road by the wee hidden library. A rusty Vauxhall Nova slammed on its brakes, the horn screeching out like an angry badger. Logan nipped across the back of it, picking up a bit of speed on the downhill run.

More tiny Scottish houses, their dark stone walls and slate roofs slick with rain.

A soggy woman at the bus stop watched them wheech past. Cigarette in one hand, can of energy drink in the other, screaming toddler kicking off in a pushchair.

Lumpy got to the corner and skidded round onto Skene Street, heading downhill back towards the centre of Macduff. Two packs of streaky and a chunk of cheddar went flying out into the road, where they were flattened by a Transit van.

Logan followed, pulse thumping in his ears — past rows of old grey buildings, past the chip shop, across the road, past the Plough Inn where a couple of damp smokers, sheltering in the doorway, stopped mid-fag to cheer Lumpy on.

He almost collided with an auld mannie coming out of Buttons & Bobs, skittered around him instead with some fancy footwork in his stained trainers, dropped another pack of smoked streaky, and kept on going. Ignoring the OAP’s torrent of abuse and rude gestures hurled at his back.

The gap was narrowing. Logan lengthened his stride, kept his mouth open. Long slow breaths, free arm swinging, the other keeping his hat in place.

Sploshed through a puddle.

Where the hell was Calamity?

Then a gap opened up between the buildings on the right — at street level, the house on this side looked single storey, but the ground dropped away sharply on the other side of a wall, had to be at least twenty feet.

Lumpy didn’t even pause: he vaulted up onto the wall and jumped, arms windmilling.

Sod that.

Logan screeched to a halt, grabbed the wall.

A line of garages stretched away from him, about twelve feet down: parking for the four-storey block of flats on the other side of the gap. Lumpy was back on his feet, limping along the line of corrugated roofs.

Gah.

Deep breath. Then up. Logan scrambled onto the wall and over the other side. Dropping like a breezeblock. The garage roof rushed up to meet him, then BANG he was through it, clattering into the empty garage in a hail of broken grey slabs and dust.

The concrete floor was a lot less forgiving.

Ow...

He lay there, flat on his back, staring up at the drizzle.

Dragged in a ragged breath.

Everything hurt. Arms, legs, back, head. Even his teeth hurt.

Probably did himself a serious injury.

Probably broke something, other than the roof, in the fall.
Probably going to die of a punctured lung, right here on the garage floor, and no one would know till the owner of whatever flat it belonged to came home and discovered his body.

Ow...

And then his Airwave bleeped at him. Calamity’s voice came through, sounding out of breath. ‘Shire Uniform... Seven.... safe to talk?’

Come on. Up.

He raised his head off the floor an inch. The garage was a mess, littered with bits of broken roof. Lined with stacks of cardboard boxes all bound up with parcel tape.

Up!

Nope.

Let his head thunk back down again.

Here lie the mortal remains of Logan Balmoral McRae, between the old copies of National Geographic and that fondue set we got from Aunty Christine and never used. Decorated police officer. Absent son. Dutiful boyfriend. Sperm-donor father of two little monsters. He is survived by a girlfriend in a coma, a small fuzzy cat called Cthulhu, and a huge credit card bill.

His Airwave bleeped again. ‘Shire Uniform Seven? Sarge? Are you OK?’

No.

He struggled onto his side. Then to his knees.

Ow...

Pressed the talk button. ‘Where were you?’

‘Got him, Sarge. Lumpy was pelting full tilt down Low Shore — pulled out right in front of him.’ A laugh. ‘You should’ve seen it, went sprawling across the bonnet, all arms and legs and packets of Edam.’

Logan hauled himself upright, wobbled a little. Leaned on the wall. ‘Come get me.’

The coast slid by the window, grey and dreich, robbed of colour by the driving rain. The Big Car’s wipers squeaked and squonked across the glass, thumping at the end of each smeared arc. The noise fought against the roaring blowers — on full, and losing the battle against Lumpy Patrick’s truly unique odour.

Rancid onions and garlic and off cheese, underpinned by something warm, diseased, and peppery.

‘God’s sake...’ Calamity buzzed her window down an inch, letting in the roar of the road and the hiss of the rain. ‘Did you go swimming in a septic tank, Lumpy?’

He was hunched in the back seat, with his hands cuffed behind his back, unwashed hair covering his face, hiding him from the rear-view mirror. ‘Said I was sorry.’

Logan turned away and stared out of the passenger window. The North Sea pounded against the cliffs, slate grey against dirty brown. Or was it the Moray Firth here? Either way it wasn’t happy.

Calamity shuddered. ‘You sure we can’t put the blues and twos on, Sarge?’

‘Sharing an enclosed space with Lumpy Patrick isn’t an emergency. Police Scotland frowns on that kind of thing.’

A sniff from the back seat. ‘Not my fault. It’s my glands.’

‘It’s being allergic to soap and water.’

More rain. More cliffs.

Then the road twisted away inland.

Another sniff. ‘This shoplifting thing. Any chance, you know: slap on the wrists and that? Learned my lesson. Promise to be a good boy in the future?’

Calamity laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right? How many times is this now? Sheriff’s probably going to make an example of you, Lumpy. Can’t have druggies nicking all the bacon and cheese in Banff and Macduff.’

‘Didn’t nick it. I was... It... Hold on. I found it. Yeah. Found it.’

‘Course you did.’ Logan shifted his legs in the footwell. Grimaced as little shards of ice gouged through his left ankle. Bloody garage roof. What was the point of building a garage if the roof wasn’t sturdy enough for someone to land on it without going straight through?

‘You know what, Lumpy?’ She threw a scowl at the rear-view mirror. ‘I tried to get some smoked streaky for butties yesterday and there wasn’t a single pack in Tesco or the Copey. You and your druggy mates had the lot on five-finger discount.’

More shards of ice when he rotated the ankle left and right. Should’ve strapped it up and stuck some frozen peas on it. Probably be the size of a melon by the time they reached Fraserburgh station.

‘What do you think, Sarge? Four months? Out in two with good behaviour?’

Not to mention all the paperwork needed to compensate the garage’s owner.

‘You’re screwed, Lumpy.’ Calamity grinned. ‘But look on the bright side: at least you’ll get regular showers in the nick. It’ll do your social life a world of good, not smelling like a dead sheep.’

She slowed down for the limits at New Aberdour. Then put her foot down again a minute later when they’d passed through the matching set on the way out. Then buzzed her window down a little further. ‘Can’t believe we’ve got to suffer this all the way to Fraserburgh.’

The kettle rattled and pinged its way to a boil. A dirty-cauliflowery smell pervaded the canteen, giving it the unwelcome ambience of a hospital waiting room. The place was at least four times bigger than the one back at Banff station, with not one but two vending machines, an open-plan kitchen area, a picture window, a row of recycling bins, comfy sofas, big flatscreen TV, and enough space to hold a reasonably intimate ceilidh if you moved the four tables up against the walls.

A faint buzzing oozed out of vending machine number two — which was out of chocolate — competing with the mindless drone of some Cash-in-the-Bargain-Hunt-Cheap-and-Nasty-Antiques-Car-Boot-Sale rubbish coming from the TV.

Logan retrieved the remote and switched the TV off, killing a permatanned idiot mid-ramble, leaving nothing but buzzing and rattling in the large yellow room that smelled like hospitals.

He put the remote control down.

A voice, behind him. ‘What’s with the face?’

Logan didn’t look around. ‘Just thinking.’

‘Sounds dangerous.’

He turned back to the kettle as it clicked itself off. Dumped a teabag in a dayglow pink mug with ‘World’s Greatest Duty Sergeant’ printed around the outside. Poured boiled water in on top. ‘You want a tea?’

‘Can’t. Persistent vegetative state, remember?’

‘Yeah...’ He stirred the bag, turning the water brown. ‘Do you think you’ll feel anything? When they switch you off?’

Her hand was warm on his shoulder. ‘When they switch me off?’

Logan dug the bag out of the mug with the spoon. Squeezed it against the side to make it bleed. ‘Will it hurt?’

‘What’s this “they” business? After all we’ve been through, you’re wimping out on me?’

Milk.

‘Don’t make me...’

‘Logan.’ A pause. Then the hand on his shoulder squeezed. ‘Logan, look at me.’

He puffed out a breath. Put the semi-skimmed down on the countertop. Turned.

Her hair glowed scarlet in the canteen lights. Tribal tattoos poked out from the sleeves of her skull-and-crossbones T-shirt, their spikes mixing with skulls and hearts and swirls. But the ink wasn’t bright and vibrant any more, it was faded and grey, as if she’d been photocopied one time too many. A gold ring looped through the edge of one nostril, semiprecious stones glittering in lines up the outside edge of her ears. She smiled at him and the small stainless-steel ball bearing that stuck out below her bottom lip turned into a dimple. ‘I’m not going to feel anything, OK?’ Samantha draped her arms over his shoulders, stepping in close. ‘I died five years ago. This is just housekeeping.’

‘That why I don’t... I don’t really feel anything?’

‘Hmmm.’ She sighed. ‘Speaking of which: this morning, the body in the woods. You used to care, Logan. You used to feel for them. You used to empathize. What happened?’

Outside the picture window, rain lashed the streets of Fraserburgh, drummed on the roof of parked cars. Sent an old man with an umbrella hurrying across the road.

Logan frowned. Shrugged. ‘I was just doing my job. You heard what Calamity said: covering the face dehumanized the body. Made it less of a person. Doesn’t mean I don’t care.’

‘Maybe it’s not the victim who’s been dehumanized.’

The old man lost hold of his umbrella and it went dancing away in the wind, pirouetting and whirling into the distance as its owner stumped after it.

To add insult to injury, a small red hatchback wheeched past on the road, right through a puddle that sent a wall of water crashing over the stumpy man. He stood there, arms out, dripping, staring after the disappearing car.

‘Logan?’ Samantha pulled his face back to hers. ‘I’m worried about you.’

‘If that auld mannie’s any sort of proper Brocher, he’s going to hunt them down and shove that umbrella up their backsides. Then open it.’

‘Logan, I’m serious.’

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. ‘I’m doing my best.’

‘I know you are. But if you leave it to someone else to switch me off on Friday, I swear on God’s Holy Banjo I’ll rise from the grave and kick your pasty—’

‘Sarge?’

Logan blinked. Cleared his throat. ‘Calamity.’

‘That’s Lumpy Patrick been processed. Says he doesn’t want a lawyer, which is a first. With any luck we can burst him and get back to Banff before half three.’ She looked left, then right, checking no one was eavesdropping. ‘Or, if you’re still strapped for cash, we could spin it out a bit for the overtime?’

A deep breath hissed its way out. ‘Right. Yes. No. Let’s get home.’

‘You OK, Sarge?’

He forced a smile. ‘Vending machine’s out of chocolate.’

Little creases appeared between her eyebrows. ‘You sure you’re OK? Was one hell of a fall. We could get the duty doctor in?’

‘It’s fine. Never better. Now, did—’ His phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ from Star Wars, dark and ominous. He closed his eyes. Scrunched his face up. ‘Great.’ Then sighed and pulled his mobile out. Nodded at Calamity. ‘Stick Lumpy in Interview Two — and make sure the window’s open. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ As soon as she left the room, he pressed the button. ‘What?’

A pause. Then Steel’s voice grated out of the earpiece, like smoked gravel. ‘That any way to talk to a Detective Chief Inspector, you cheeky wee sod?’ She snorted. ‘And what the hell were you thinking, turning up a body in the middle of nowhere, in the mud and the rain? Shoes are like squelchy buckets of yuck now.’

‘Is there a point to this call, or did you just ring up to moan? Only I’m off shift in ten, and I’ve got a suspect to interview. So...?’

‘Oh aye? And what’s your suspect saying to it? You got a line on my victim you’re no’ sharing with me?’

‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

‘Oh don’t be such a girl, Laz.’ There was a sooking noise. Then a sigh. ‘Called to do you a favour. Our beloved Chief Superintendent Napier — the Ginger Ninja, the Nosy Nosferatu, the Copper-Top Catastrophe, the Duracell Devil himself — is on the prowl. So watch your back... Hold on.’ A muffled conversation happened in the background, the words too far away to hear properly.

Samantha raised her eyebrows. Pointed at the phone. Made the universal hand gesture for onanism. ‘Oh, and I want a proper send off. Black coffin, red silk lining, all my bits and bobs, OK? Full battle-paint. And that leather corset. Not going to meet the worms dressed like someone’s mum.’

‘Anything else, your ladyship?’

‘Yes. Cheer up, for God’s sake. You’ve got a face like a skelped backside.’

And Steel was back. ‘Swear I’m going to swing for that idiot Rennie before the day’s out.’ She made a little growling noise, then sniffed. ‘Right, where were we? Yes: Napier. Slimy git retires in a couple of months, and he wants to go out with a bang. That means stitching some poor sod up. And you know he’s always had a hard-on for you and me. Let’s not hand him a threesome, eh?’

Now there was an image. ‘Don’t care. Let him dig, I’m clean.’

Well, kind of...

Ish...

If you didn’t count the whole flat-selling fiasco. Which Napier most certainly would if he ever found out about it. Logan ran a hand across his face. He wouldn’t find out. Never.

There was no way he could.

Could he?

‘Laz, you still there?’

Logan cleared his throat. ‘It’ll be fine.’ Or it would all go horribly wrong. ‘Right, got to go: suspect waiting. Give Jasmine and Naomi my love, OK?’ He hung up before she could answer.

Then switched his phone off, just in case.

4

Even with the window open, Interview Room Two stank. The cause sat on the low bench on the other side of the small white table. Fidgeting.

Lumpy Patrick’s arms stuck out from the sleeves of his T-shirt like dirty pipe cleaners. They were little more than bone, the muscles knotted bungee cords, stretched taut and thrumming. Skin peppered with dark pocked scars where the needles had tracked time and time again. His hands had taken on a brown-grey tinge, a mixture of dirt and... more dirt. Ragged black crescents for fingernails. Sunken cheeks and eyes the colour of Tabasco — fringed with clumps of yellow. And when he spoke, the smell of a thousand backed-up toilets spewed into the room. ‘I want you to let us off on the shoplifting.’

Logan pulled as far back into his seat as possible. Breathing through the side of his mouth. ‘And why would we do something silly like that?’

‘Cos it’s just bacon and cheese, yeah? Not like it’s anything major.’

He picked up a clear evidence bag and held it in front of Lumpy’s face. ‘For the tape, I am now showing Mr Hay the two wrappers of heroin found in his pocket when he was arrested.’ Logan put them back down again. ‘And before you deny it: we know they’re heroin, because we tested them.’

‘Ah...’ A nod sent greasy wisps of hair rocking. ‘Well, supposing I told you where you could, like, get a whole lot more of that stuff? Yeah, right?’ His pale tongue crawled out between his chapped lips, glistening. Then Lumpy leaned forward, enveloping Logan in his stench. ‘Way I hear it, Ma Campbell’s got herself a shipment coming up from Weegietown. Yeah?’ He held his filthy hands up, about two feet apart. ‘Big shipment. You like that?’

Calamity leaned back against the wall by the open window. ‘Who’s the delivery for?’

‘Oh no. We do us a deal first, yeah? I tell you stuff, we forget all about the shoplifting and that. Deal?’

‘Depends on whether you’re telling us the truth or not.’ Logan pulled out his pen and pointed it across the table. ‘Who’s it for?’

The smile that bloomed on Lumpy’s face was like watching something rot, it exposed a set of grey gums almost devoid of teeth. ‘You know Ricky Welsh?’

That got him a groan from Calamity. ‘Oh God. Not Ricky and Laura...’

‘Yeah. Big shipment coming in from Glasgow. All them Weegie drugs.’

Logan tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘Not meaning to be funny, Lumpy, but are you seriously sitting there clyping on Ricky and Laura Welsh? After what happened to Abby Ritchie?’

When Lumpy shrugged, his whole body slumped to the side, until the ends of his hair made little oily marks on the table. ‘Me civic duty, isn’t it? Can’t have Weegie imports ruining it for local businessmen. Not right.’

Yeah, because Lumpy Patrick was a fine upstanding member of the Banff and Macduff Chamber of Commerce.

Logan clicked his pen out. ‘When and where?’

‘Noooo. First we gotta talk my reward for being civic. I get...’ He tilted his head, coiling more hair on the tabletop. ‘Three thousand quid and you get me off on the shoplifting and possession. Yeah?’

Outside, a car grumbled past.

The rain hissed down on the world outside, the sound clear through the open window as the vertical blinds swayed in the breeze.

A phone rang somewhere in the depths of the station.

Calamity was the first one to crack, spluttering out a snigger that exploded into a full-on laugh.

Logan wasn’t far behind, rocking back in his chair, hooting. Letting it ring out.

Lumpy just stared at them.

Eventually the laughter rattled to a halt.

Logan sighed. Wiped his eyes. ‘Priceless.’

‘Three grand, Lumpy?’ Calamity shook her head, still grinning. ‘You’ll be lucky if we don’t bang you up for wasting police time. Remember the last red-hot tip of yours?’

He shifted on his bench. Lowered his voice and his gaze. ‘Wasn’t my fault.’

‘Any idea how many crimes we could’ve been solving, instead of traipsing round the countryside trying to find your non-existent dealer from Newcastle?’

‘Wasn’t my fault.’

‘And now you’re giving us this rubbish about Ma Campbell and the Welshes?’

Logan tapped the pad again. ‘Who do you owe three grand to?’

No answer.

‘Come on, Lumpy. You didn’t come up with that figure out of the blue, you owe someone, don’t you? Let me guess...’ Logan bit down on his bottom lip for a moment. ‘It wouldn’t be Ricky Welsh, by any chance, would it? That’d be a coincidence. You owe him a big chunk of cash, and here you are dobbing him in.’

Calamity sucked a breath through her teeth. ‘Lumpy, Lumpy, Lumpy. Clyping on someone you owe money to, just so we’ll bang them up and you won’t have to pay them back. Should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘No!’ Lumpy’s bottom lip wobbled for a bit. Then he shrugged his way down to the tabletop, so his cheek was resting against the chipped white surface. ‘Civic duty...’

‘OK. Well, we’re done here.’ Logan stood. ‘Good luck sorting things out with the Welshes. I’m sure Laura will be very understanding when she finds out you tried to weasel out of paying by informing on the pair of them. She’ll probably bake you a cake. She can send it to you, care of HMP Grampian, where you’ll be spending the next four to six months.’

‘Noooo...’ The thin arms came up over his head.

‘Officer Nicholson will show you back to your cell.’

She snapped her fingers. ‘Come on, Lumpy, on your feet. Maybe we can ask the Custody Sergeant to hose you down before beddy-byes?’

‘All right! All right, I’ll tell you.’

‘What do you think?’ Logan sat back in the visitor’s chair.

The room’s dark-blue carpet was getting a bit scuffed near the door. Large corkboards covered the two walls either side of the desk, one with a street map of Fraserburgh covered in little red, green, and yellow pins; the other with a map of B Division, surrounded with memos and official leaflets. And a poster of a kitten peeking out of an old boot.

‘And you’re sure it’s Ma Campbell?’ Inspector McGregor swivelled from side to side in her seat, chewing on one leg of her glasses. ‘Hmm...’ Her heart-shaped face creased itself into a frown, pulling wrinkles around her eyes. A thick streak of grey hair reached back above each ear, disappearing into a no-nonsense bun that matched the two no-nonsense silver pips on each epaulette fixed to her black Police Scotland T-shirt. She stopped swivelling and pointed her glasses at the only other person in the room. ‘What do you think, Hugo?’

‘What do I think?’ Inspector Fettes shrugged. Standing beneath the overhead strip light, his hair was a spectacular mop of fiery curls. As if Little Orphan Annie had a sex change and joined the rozzers. He folded his arms, hiding a pair of huge hands covered in freckles, like the ones that spattered across his nose and cheeks. ‘Honestly?’ He screwed one side of his face up. ‘I think Logan needs to go on a diet. Crashing through a garage roof? That’s too many pies, that is.’

Logan reached down and rubbed at his swollen ankle. ‘I am not fat.’

A smile twitched at the corner of McGregor’s mouth. ‘I meant, what about Patrick Hay?’

Fettes checked the clock mounted on the desk. ‘You’re still Duty Inspector. Not my problem for five more minutes.’

‘Thanks a heap.’

‘Hey, what happens on dayshift stays on dayshift. When it’s Backshift’s turn to worry about it, I’ll worry about it.’

‘Hmm...’ She went back to swivelling. Picked up a sheet of paper from her desk on the way past. ‘Ma Campbell, real name Jessica Kirkpatrick Campbell. Runs all the drugs, prostitution, and protection rackets from Paisley to East Kilbride.’ McGregor dumped the paper back on her desk. ‘I could do without this woman taking an interest in Banff and Macduff. Assuming Lumpy Patrick isn’t talking out of his crenulated bumhole again.’

Logan just shrugged.

‘It’ll take a lot of money and manpower to dunt in the Welshes’ door, and the budget’s tight enough as it is. If we don’t get a result...’

Inspector Fettes settled on the edge of the desk. ‘Well, if you want my opinion: anything that gets Ricky Welsh and his homicidal wife off the streets has got to be a good thing. It’s worth a punt.’

‘Agreed.’ She checked her watch. ‘Two minutes. Logan, anything else I need to know?’

‘Canteen vending machine’s out of chocolate.’

Fettes’s eyes widened. ‘OK, that I’m going to get right on.’

‘Wise choice.’ Inspector McGregor pulled the keyboard of her computer over and poked at it. ‘And when you’re done, be a darling and get some spare bodies and the Operational Support Unit organized so we can pay Ricky Welsh a visit, OK? Logan, do you have a date in mind?’

‘No way we’ll get it all sorted for tomorrow, not with the MIT barging about all over the place hoovering up resources, and we’re off Friday — Saturday, so... Sunday nightshift? We go in about half ten, eleven, something like that? Give ourselves plenty of time to ransack the place.’

McGregor nodded. ‘Agreed.’ Another glance at her watch. ‘And we’re done for the day. Bravo India is off to do the shopping, long live Bravo India.’ She stood and shuffled out from behind the desk. Picked up a framed photo of two boys, a girl, and a Jack Russell terrier, and slid it into a rucksack as Inspector Fettes settled into the vacated seat.

‘Mmm, still warm.’ He raised his eyebrows at Logan. ‘Right, Sergeant McRae, off you sod. I’ve got important police business to attend to.’ He grabbed the phone and pressed a button. ‘Sophie? Get me the number for those vending machine people...’

Rain pattered against the back door, making streaks on the glass, blurring the view of the car park behind the station. The doorway sat at the bottom of the back stairs, next to the tradesman’s entrance to the cellblock. A pile of Method of Entry equipmant was heaped in the space under the stairs — mini battering rams, hoolie bars, arm, shin, elbow, and kneepads, those horribly uncomfortable helmets with the neck guard that always smelled like someone had peed in them. All sitting behind a sign proclaiming, ‘DO NOT PUT ANYTHING IN THIS AREA!!!’

Inspector McGregor pulled on her gloves. ‘I don’t like it, Logan. I don’t like it one little bit.’

A shrug. ‘I know. But what are we supposed to do, ignore it?’

She turned and frowned. ‘Ignore what?’

‘Lumpy Patrick’s info.’

‘No, not Lumpy. The body in the woods.’

Ah. Logan jerked a thumb up the stairs. ‘Calamity thinks it’s a serial killer.’

‘That’s all we need. We’ll never get rid of the MIT if it is.’ A shudder. ‘I don’t like Major Investigation Teams stomping all over my division, causing trouble. They’re like locusts.’

OK...

‘She might have a point, though. What about the young woman found outside Inverurie ten days ago?’

‘Nothing like it.’ Inspector McGregor shook her head. ‘Emily Benton was beaten to death with an adjustable wrench. She didn’t have a bag over her head. And she wasn’t naked. So unless the Northeast’s answer to John Wayne Gacy is a bit confused about his MO, it’s not exactly likely, is it?’

‘Probably not.’ Logan checked his watch. Still no sign of Calamity. ‘We were a bit surprised to see you here.’

‘Think I’m welded to my desk back at Banff, do you? Office-bound? There’s more to my job than counting paperclips, Sergeant, thank you very much.’

‘OK, OK...’ Logan backed off, hands up. ‘Only making conversation, Guv. Didn’t mean anything by it.’

She sighed. ‘I was here for a MAPPA meeting, if you must know. Multi Agency Public Protection Arrangements my shiny backside. More like Morons And Police Pricking About.’ McGregor dug out her car keys. ‘Four agencies represented, and do you know what startling insight we came to? Apparently Charles Richardson still represents a very real danger to little old ladies who don’t like being raped. Two hours it took us to come up with that.’

Footsteps rattled on the stairs above. Then Calamity appeared, zipping up her high-viz jacket. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘Thought you’d fallen in.’

The Inspector pulled her peaked cap on and pushed the door open, letting in the shhhhhhhhhhhh of rain on tarmac. ‘Do we have any idea who the victim is? The one with the bag over his head?’

‘Nope.’ Logan followed her out into the downpour. ‘PF won’t let them take the bag off till the post mortem. Steel was all for ripping it off then and there, but you know what the Fiscal’s like.’

McGregor stopped beside a shiny grey BMW with mud spattered up around the wheel arches. ‘Suppose it’s just as well. No point compromising any trace evidence left inside the bag.’ She pointed her keyfob and the car’s lights flashed. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance we could solve the whole thing on our own tomorrow, is there? I don’t want to get back to work on Sunday night and find the MIT have moved in permanently. Like ticks on a dog.’

‘First they’re locusts, now they’re ticks?’

‘And leeches, and cockroaches, and fleas.’ She popped open her door then slid into the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t like my station being infested, Logan. I don’t like it at all.’ Then clunk, the door shut and she drove off.

Calamity hunched her shoulders up around her ears, rain bouncing off the brim of her bowler and the shoulders of her high-viz. ‘Is it just me, or is the guvnor getting weirder?’

‘Probably.’ Logan limped towards the Big Car. ‘Come on then: hometime.’

‘Night, Maggie. Night, Hector.’ Logan zipped up his fleece and stepped out into the rain. Pulled the blue door shut behind him. Squeezed between the two patrol cars that sat outside the tradesman’s entrance — one with a flat tyre, the other with a cracked windscreen — and onto the road.

Banff Police Station loomed in the orange sodium glow: three storeys of rain-slicked stone, with fancy gables, cornicing, twiddly bits over the windows, and urns on the roof. A small tree had sprouted in the thin fake balcony that jutted out over the main door. Water dripped from its leaves, ticking down onto the illuminated police sign. Making little sapphire splashes.

Lights shone from the bottom-left windows, but the rest of the place was in darkness. Much like the street. Four in the afternoon, and the whole town had been swallowed by gloom.

From here, Banff Bay gleamed like a slab of pewter, hissing and spitting against the beach. Nothing between him and the North Sea but a small car park, a stretch of tarmac, and a chest-high wall of speckled concrete.

He hunched his shoulders, turned, and limped along the road, heading past the ancient buildings, their pastel-coloured walls slick with rain. Every step sent needles jabbing into his ankle. Stupid garage roofs...

There weren’t many people on the streets, just an old woman fighting with the umbrella in her left hand and the Doberman attached to her right. Both of which seemed determined to go in opposite directions.

Left at the discount store with its racks of high-viz jackets sitting out the front, dripping. Up the road and out into what passed for a town square at the end of Low Street, where the squat sandstone lump of the Biggar Fountain looked like an evil gothic cupcake, complete with buttresses and crowned cap.

Someone had wedged three traffic cones into the structure, adding to the general pointiness.

Logan’s phone launched into ‘The Imperial March’ again. Brilliant. Should never have turned the damn thing back on.

He ducked into the doorway of the takeaway and pulled his mobile out. Hit the button. ‘For God’s sake, what now?’

‘Been calling you for ages. Where the hell have you been?’

‘Doing my job. Try it sometime.’

‘You think your job’s tough? Try leading a Major Investigation Team in a sodding murder case, when the sodding pathologist and sodding SEB won’t let you take the sodding bag off your sodding victim’s sodding head.’ Her voice went up in volume, as if she was playing to an audience. ‘How am I supposed to ID someone when I can’t see their face? What use is that?’

‘Are you finished?’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve had anyone reported missing with a bag over their head, have you? Because that’s the only way I’m going to get an ID.’ A sniff. ‘I’m cold, I’m wet, and I need a drink. Or six. Better call it a bottle.’

‘Tough.’

The old lady made it around the corner, still struggling with dog and brolly.

‘Lazy sod’s no’ doing the post mortem till ten tomorrow.’

‘At least you can get fingerprints.’ He shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Look, I’m kind of busy here, so if you don’t mind...?’

‘Fat lot of good fingerprints did us. Put them through our fancy new handheld scanner and do you know what came up? Sod all.’ There was a sigh, then Steel’s voice took on a bit of a whine. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy joining the team, do you? If I have to put up with Rennie much longer he’ll be singing soprano for the rest of his life. And Becky’s no’ much better: woman looks like someone’s jammed a traffic cone up her backside.’

‘No chance.’ Logan hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. Took a breath, then lumbered out into the rain, round the corner and up the steep narrow brae — wincing with every needle-filled step — past the grey row of little shops on one side, and the bland slab of buildings on the other. Popping out onto Castle Street.

His phone went again. He yanked it out as he limped across the road. ‘No, I am not joining your bloody MIT. Leave me alone!’

There was a pause. Just long enough for Logan to pass the solicitor’s and the butcher’s.

Then: ‘Mr McRae. Long time, no speak.’ A man’s voice, with more than a hint of Aberdonian burr to it.

Logan slowed to a trot as he reached the building next to the Co-op. Stopped with one hand on the door. ‘Can I help you?’

‘It’s me: John.’

Nope, no idea.

‘John Urquhart? I bought your flat?’

Logan flinched. Snatched his hand back as if the door had burnt it. Licked his lips. ‘How did you get this number, Mr Urquhart?’

‘Call me John, yeah? Known each other for what, six, seven years, right? John.’

‘Is there something wrong with the flat?’ Because if there was he could take a flying leap. No way Logan was paying to fix anything. Things were bad enough as it was.

‘I’m calling on behalf of Mr Mowat. He wants to see you.’

And now, they were worse.

5

Logan closed his eyes and leaned against the door. ‘I can’t—’

‘He really wants to see you, Mr McRae.’ Urquhart puffed out a breath. ‘He’s an old man. And he’s dying.’

‘He’s not dying. No way a little cancer is getting the better of Wee Hamish Mowat: it wouldn’t dare. He’s—’

‘Oncologist says maybe a week, week and a half if he’s lucky.’

Oh. ‘I see.’

‘Please?’

Logan pushed through the door into a warm, small-ish room with a couple of leather settees arranged on two sides of a glass coffee table. Tasteful flower arrangements. Framed testimonials on the walls. An understated desk with a brass carriage clock on it — no computer, no brochures, no paperwork. And no sign of anyone. ‘I’m a police officer, I can’t... If they find out I’m sitting vigil with Wee Hamish—’

‘He’s dying and he wants to see you. It matters to him.’

‘I...’ Logan’s shoulders slumped, dragged down by the weight of all the knives stabbed between them. ‘I can’t promise anything. But I’ll try, OK? If I can.’

‘Thanks. He’s looking forward to it.’ And Urquhart was gone.

Logan stood there, frowning down at his phone till the screen went dark.

Wee Hamish Mowat.

Oh, Chief Superintendent Napier would love that. Gah... Why did the Ginger Whinger have to be sniffing about now? Why couldn’t he have waited a month or two till it was all over?

By then, with Hamish dead, Reuben would’ve taken over. And after he’d finished killing everyone, Logan would probably be facedown dead in a ditch somewhere and wouldn’t have to worry about getting hauled up in front of Professional Standards and done for corruption.

Yeah, that was it: look on the bright side.

Logan put his phone away. Scrubbed a hand across his face.

Oh God...

And when he lowered them, a thin man in a black suit was standing in front of him, head lowered, hands clasped together. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Then an eyebrow went up. ‘Sergeant McRae? Well, this is a pleasant surprise.’ He stuck his hand out for shaking. ‘I’m not used to you coming to us.’

Logan shook. ‘Andy.’

‘Come, come.’ He turned, beckoning Logan to follow him as he stalked towards a curtain behind the desk. Pulled it back to expose a plain wooden door. ‘Tea? Or we have a rather nice coffee machine. It’s new. I think there may even be biscuits.’

Logan followed him through into a bare breezeblock room, with a small metal table in the corner, a kettle, fridge, microwave, sink, and a huge shiny chrome coffee maker. Posters lined the walls — displaying different brands of coffin with all the associated added extras.

‘Sit, sit.’ Andy pointed at the plastic chairs tucked under the table. ‘Now, tea or coffee?’

Logan sat. A heady whiff of pine air freshener pervaded the room, along with something much darker seeping under a door through to the rear of the building. ‘I need to arrange a funeral.’

‘I see. In that case, I think a cappuccino.’ He poked and fiddled with the chrome monster. ‘May I ask the name of the deceased and when they passed?’

‘Samantha Mackie. And it’ll be the day after tomorrow. She’s not dead yet.’

The eyebrow climbed higher up Andy’s forehead. ‘Sergeant McRae, we here at Beaton and Macbeth consider ourselves to be a very progressive firm, but we do draw the line at interring the living.’

‘It’s my girlfriend. Well, partner. Sort of. She’s been in a coma for years, they’re... we’re withdrawing life support on Friday. She can’t breathe on her own. So... Yeah. Friday.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Andy’s fingers twitched and clicked off one another. ‘And I took you back here. I’m so sorry, Sergeant McRae, please, let’s repair to the chapel of rest and I can—’

‘No. It’s OK. Here’s fine.’ Logan took a deep breath. ‘I need a black coffin with a red silk lining. And do you have anything with skulls-and-crossbones on it?’

The Sergeant’s Hoose sulked on the corner, diagonally opposite Banff station and a lot less impressive. Large patches of rough stonework poked through the crumbling render on the gable wall, one of the windows there still boarded up. Have to do something about that. The front was a bit better. Kind of. If you ignored the entire right-hand side with its sealed off doors and windows.

Logan switched the carrier bags to his other hand and dug his keys out. Let himself in. Dumped the carrier bags.

‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home.’ He clicked the hall light on, took his soggy fleece off, and went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Where’s Daddy’s little kittenfish?’

No reply. No thump of fuzzy paws battering down the stairs. No prooping or meeping.

‘Cthulhu?’

Nope.

Lazy wee sod was probably still asleep.

Logan picked up the mail from the mat, flicking through it on his way to the kitchen. Bill. Bill. Bill. You May Already Have Won!!! Donate To Charity Now! Buy A Hearing Aid. Do You Need New Windows And Doors?

He dumped the lot on the table and stuck the kettle on, then limped through to the living room while it groaned and pinged towards a boil.

The answering machine glowered at him with its angry red eye. He jabbed the button and a flat electronic voice growled from the speaker. ‘MESSAGE ONE:’ Then Helen’s replaced it, every word carving out a jagged chunk from his chest. ‘Hello?... Logan, are you there?... Please pick up if you’re there... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to end like that. I...’ A sigh. ‘Look, this was a mistake. I just... I wanted to hear your voice again.’

Bleeeeeep.

His finger hovered over the delete button a moment too long.

‘MESSAGE TWO:’ A harsh, smoky voice gravelled out into the room. Steel. ‘Laz? Where the hell are you? Why’ve you no’ called me—’

Delete.

‘MESSAGE THREE: Mr McRae? It’s Sheila here from Deveronside Family Glazing Solutions...’

A soft meyowp came from the doorway behind him, then a small fuzzy body leaned into his leg with a thump — brown and grey and black stripes leaving hairy trace fibres on his damp Police-Scotland-Issue trousers. She wrapped her big fluffy tail around his leg, adding yet another layer of hair.

‘Where have you been then?’

‘...let you know that your new windows have come in.’

‘About time, been waiting six weeks.’

He bent down and picked Cthulhu up, turned her over so she was lying on her back, white fuzzy tummy on display as she stretched out her arms and curled her big white feet. He rubbed her belly, getting a thick rumbling purr in return.

‘So if you want to come in any time in the next week or so, we can get the invoice sorted out.’

Bleeeeeep.

‘You wouldn’t believe how much money Daddy spent on a custom coffin today.’

‘MESSAGE FOUR: Logan, it’s your mother. You know I don’t like talking to this infernal machine. Why on earth you can’t simply—’

Delete.

‘Going to have to live on lentil soup and the cheap cat food for a couple of years. Sorry about that.’

‘MESSAGE FIVE: Hello, my name’s Debora McLintock, Louise at Sunny Glen gave me your number. It’s my role to help families when the decision has been taken to end—’

Delete.

‘YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES.’

He played Helen’s message again. Then deleted the lot.

Samantha lay back on the couch with her legs across Logan’s lap. ‘Any good?’

He frowned up from the book. ‘Put it this way: JC Williams is no MC Beaton. PC Munro and the Poisoner’s Cat? Nothing but a half-baked Hamish Macbeth rip-off.’ Logan sniffed. ‘She’s only getting media attention because she’s a local author. If this wasn’t set in Banff, no one would touch it with a sharny stick.’

‘So don’t read it then.’ She dragged her fingers through her hair, working a chunk of it into a scarlet plait. ‘Or at least stop moaning about it.’

‘I mean, listen to this: “Och, hud your weesht,” said PC Robbie Munro dismissively, “the lad’s clearly been poisoned. His tongue’s all black and that always happens when someone’s given arsenic.”’ Logan lowered the book. ‘Which is utter bollocks. The only way you can tell someone’s taken arsenic is with a blood toxicology screen.’

His left foot rested on a pillow on the coffee table, a bag of not-so-frozen peas balanced on the ankle. He stretched the joint out, flaring his toes. Ankle was a bit numb from the cold, but it was better than the throbbing ache. And at least the swelling was going down.

Samantha wriggled her legs. ‘You know, you don’t have to live on lentil soup. Soon as I’m gone there’ll be no more care-home bills to pay.’

‘And who the hell poisons people with arsenic? It’s not the eighteen nineties: do you have any idea how difficult it is to get hold of arsenic these days?’

‘Rat poison.’

‘Thought that was warfarin?’

‘Not all of it. Maybe you could go on holiday or something? Head over to Spain and see Helen.’

Yeah, because the last time worked out so well.

He went back to his book. ‘I’m not talking about this again.’

‘And ant poison. Why not?’

‘Can we just leave it, please?’

‘And weed killer. What are you scared of?’

He poked the book. ‘I’ve read this sentence three times now.’

‘Come on, Logan, it’s not as if you don’t get urges. I’ve seen your internet browser history and—’

‘You’re not dead, OK? That’s why not.’ He thumped the book down on the coffee table. ‘You’re... I don’t know what you are. I don’t know what we are any more. You’re lying on your back, hooked up to all those machines in the care home, and I’m sitting here arguing with a bloody hallucination!’

‘Logan—’

‘No wonder Helen...’ He picked up the book and slammed it down again. ‘Five years since the fire. Five years of you lying there. We only went out for two. I’ve known coma you nearly three times as long as the real thing.’

She pulled her legs from his lap and stood. Then knelt in front of the couch, holding his elevated knee. ‘Do you want me to go?’

‘If you’d died five years ago, I could’ve mourned and moved on. But this...’

‘I’ll go if you want me to.’

The doorbell launched into its flat, two-tone, bing-bong.

Samantha sighed. Hung her head. ‘Saved by the bell.’

‘I don’t know what I want.’ He stood. ‘But this isn’t helping.’

Bing-bong.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Logan headed into the hall, unlatched the Yale, and opened the door.

The man on the pavement smiled, making the pockmarks on his cheeks dimple. He had a black umbrella, black overcoat, black suit, and black shoes. The only concession to colour was the green silk shirt. He stuck his hand out. ‘Mr McRae. You ready?’

Logan frowned at him. Why did he look familiar?...

Oh.

Damn.

Something curdled deep inside Logan’s stomach.

‘You’re John Urquhart.’

‘Guilty as charged.’ Urquhart shrugged, then he turned his offered handshake into a hitchhiker’s thumb and jiggled it at a black Audi TT. ‘Thought it might be best if I gave you a lift, like. Mr Mowat’s really looking forward to seeing you. Been ages.’

Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘This a request, or an order?’

‘Nah, don’t...’A grin. ‘It’s not an order. God, no. If it was an order it wouldn’t be me, it’d be three huge guys with a sawn-off, some duct tape, and a Transit van. Nah, this is just in case you and Mr Mowat have a wee dram or something. Don’t want you getting pulled over for drink-driving, right? That’d be embarrassing.’ The thumb came around and Urquhart poked himself in the chest with it. ‘Designated driver.’

So it was go with Urquhart and have a drink with a dying gangster, or wait at home for the three guys and an unmarked van.

Not much of a choice.

And Napier would twist either into a sign of guilt, even the duct-tape-and-van option. Tell me, Sergeant McRae, don’t you think it’s suspicious that Wee Hamish Mowat’s boys picked you to abduct? Why would they pick you? What makes you so special to the man who runs Aberdeen’s underbelly?

Still, at least this way he’d get to keep all his teeth.

‘OK.’ Logan let his shoulders droop. ‘Let me get some shoes on.’

The Audi purred through Oldmeldrum. Past the knots of newbuilds lurking beneath the streetlights, the old church, the garage, bungalows, old-fashioned Scottish houses, and out into the fields again. The purr turned to a growl as they hit the limits.

Logan turned in his seat, looking out through the rear window as the town receded into the darkness.

Urquhart raised his eyebrows. ‘You OK?’

He faced front again. ‘Used to know someone who lives there.’

‘Right.’

The Audi’s windscreen wipers swished and thunked back and forth across the glass. Swish, thunk. Swish, thunk.

Urquhart tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the wipers. ‘No offence, but your house is a bit... Let’s call it a development opportunity, yeah? Fix up the outside: some render, bit of pointing, coat of paint. Get those boarded-up windows ripped out and replaced with a bit of decent UPVC.’ He frowned, bit at his bottom lip for a bit. ‘What’s the inside like? Bit manky?’

‘Work in progress.’

‘Cool. Cool. So spend a couple of grand — ten, fifteen tops — and you could probably flip it for a pretty decent profit. I could help, if you like?’ He reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a business card. ‘Got a couple of boys I use. Did three places for me last year. Good finish too, none of your cowboy rubbish. They’ll do it at cost, you know, as you and me go way back.’

Logan turned the card over. Then over again. ‘The house belongs to Police Scotland. I just live there.’

‘Ah. Not quite so cool.’

And let’s face it — their last transaction didn’t exactly help.

Trees and fields swept past in the gloom. A handful of cars coming the other way, stuck behind a big green tractor with its orange light flashing. The windscreen wipers played their mournful tune.

Urquhart tapped his fingers along the steering wheel again. Then, ‘You want I should put the radio on?’

It was going to be a long night.

6

On the other side of the glass, Aberdeen twinkled in the distance and darkness like a loch of stars.

Logan leaned against the windowsill.

The red, white, and green flashing lights of an airplane tracked across the sky, making for Dyce airport.

Muffled voices came through the door behind him — it sounded like an argument, but the words were too faint to tell what it was about.

And then the door opened and John Urquhart stepped out into the corridor. Closed the door behind him. ‘Sorry about that.’

Logan nodded at it. ‘Reuben?’

‘Nah. Doctor’s kicking up a fuss. Says Mr Mowat’s too weak to see people, he needs to sleep. So Mr Mowat tells him to pick which kneecap he’d like removed with a jigsaw, and suddenly Dr Kildare decides that visitors are fine.’

‘Funny how that works.’

‘Yup.’ Urquhart joined him at the window, frowning out into the darkness. ‘Reuben’s...’ A hissing sound, as Urquhart sucked at his teeth. ‘Yeah. Going to be interesting times ahead.’

Logan turned his back on the darkness. ‘Is he planning something?’

‘The Reubster? The Reubenator? Ruby-Ruby-Reuben?’ A little laugh. ‘Anyway, you can go in now.’ He opened the door and held it for Logan.

Picture windows made up two walls, the view hidden away behind louvre blinds. It was dark in here, with a wooden floor, a couple of leather armchairs by the French doors, a settee and a coffee table opposite them in the gloom. And right in the middle, lit by a single standard lamp: a hospital bed — set up where its occupant would have an uninterrupted view out over the garden and the city beyond. A sweet earthy scent filled the room, presumably coming from the pair of joss sticks on a low table, their twin ribbons of smoke coiling around each other like ghosts.

The bed was grey and huge, bracketed by banks of equipment and drip stands, all hooked up to the paper skeleton lying there.

Wee Hamish Mowat’s skin was milk-bottle pale, his veins making dark green-and-blue road maps under the surface. Beneath the liver spots and bruises. Wisps of grey clung to his scalp in demoralized clumps. Cheekbones like knives, his nose large and hooked — getting bigger as the rest of him shrank. Watery grey eyes blinked out above the plastic lip of an oxygen mask.

Had to admit that the doctor was right: Wee Hamish didn’t look up to visitors. He didn’t look up to anything at all.

Logan pulled on a smile and walked over, trainers squeaking on the wooden floor. ‘Hamish, you’re looking well.’

A trembling hand reached up and pulled the oxygen mask away. ‘Logan...’ Voice so thin and dry it was barely there. ‘You came.’

‘Of course I came.’ Logan stood at the foot of the bed.

A shape lumbered out of the gloom: a bear of a man; tall and broad, with a massive gut on him. His face was a landscape of scar tissue, knitted together by a patchy grey beard. Dark sunken eyes. A nose that was little more than a knot of squint cartilage. All done up in a sharp suit, tie, and shiny shoes.

When he smiled, it was like small children screaming. ‘Well, well, well.’ The words were thick and flat, dampened by that broken nose. ‘If it isn’t Sergeant McRae.’

Logan didn’t move. ‘Reuben.’

A bone-pale hand trembled into the air above the sheets. ‘Boys...’

Reuben turned to Wee Hamish and his smile softened. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mowat, the sergeant and me have come to an accord, like. Haven’t we, Sergeant?’

The machines beeped and hissed and pinged.

Then Logan nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Wee Hamish took a hit on the oxygen, closing his eyes as he breathed. Then sank deeper into his pillows. ‘John... can you get... Logan a seat?... And... bring the Glenfiddich... Three glasses.’ More oxygen.

‘Yes, Mr Mowat.’ Urquhart hurried off to the corner and came back with a wooden chair. He placed it beside the bed, level with Wee Hamish’s elbow.

Logan sat. Scraped the chair around by thirty degrees to keep Reuben in sight. ‘How are you feeling, Hamish?’

A long, rattling sigh. ‘I’m... dying.’

‘No, you’re—’

‘Please, Logan.’ He placed a hand on Logan’s — bones wrapped in cold parchment. ‘Just... shut up... and listen.’ He buried his face in the oxygen mask again. Three long damp breaths. ‘You have... power of attorney... If I... slip into anything.... you tell them... to let me... die... Understood?’ The hand tightened. ‘I don’t... want these hacks... keeping a sack... of gristle and mush... breathing for... the hell of it.’ A smile twitched at the edge of his lips. ‘Promise me.’

Logan stared at the liver-spotted claw covering his own hand, then up at Wee Hamish. The hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Why not? It wasn’t as if he’d never had to make that decision before. ‘Promise.’ Twice in one day.

Urquhart came back to the bed, carrying a tray with three crystal tumblers, a bottle of whisky, and three glasses of water. He lowered it onto the foot of the bed, then backed away out of sight.

Wee Hamish trembled a finger at the tray. ‘Do the... honours.... would you?’

The foil cap was still on, so Logan slit it open with a fingernail. The cork squeaked out of the neck, then came away with a pop.

Logan poured a finger of mahogany-coloured whisky into each tumbler. A rich leather-and-wood scent coiled up from the crystal as he placed one into Wee Hamish’s hand.

It wobbled, grasped in knotted fingers as it was raised in toast. ‘Here’s... tae us.’

‘Fa’s like us?’

Reuben picked his glass from the tray, intoning the final words like a death sentence. ‘Gey few, and they’re a’ deid.’

They drank.

One line of whisky dribbled down the side of Wee Hamish’s chin. He didn’t wipe it away. Picked up the oxygen mask instead and dragged in a dozen rattling breaths.

Reuben just stood there. Looming.

Over in the corner, someone cleared their throat.

The machines bleeped.

Finally, Wee Hamish surfaced. ‘Tired...’

A man appeared at his shoulder, glasses flaring in the room’s only light. He’d rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and tucked his tie into his shirt, between the buttons. He fiddled with one of the machines, then licked his lips. Stared off into the gloom, not making eye contact with Reuben. Probably thinking about that threatened jigsaw. ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Mowat really needs to rest.’

Reuben grunted, then jerked his chin up, setting the folds of flesh wobbling.

Wee Hamish reached beneath the sheets and produced an envelope. Held it out to Logan. It fluttered like a wounded bird. ‘Take the... bottle... with you... Drink it... for me.’

Logan swallowed, then reached out and took the envelope. Slipped it into his jacket pocket. Stood. Patted Wee Hamish on the arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Goodbye... Logan.’

Stars glared down from the cold dark sky. Aberdeen’s streetlight glow hid them from view on one side, but on the other they stretched across the baleful darkness like angry gods.

The house lights reflected back from Urquhart’s shiny black Audi.

Reuben closed the front door and stepped down onto the gravel driveway beside Logan. ‘He’s dying.’

Really? What gave it away? The machines? The smell? The terrified doctor?

Logan nodded. Kept his mouth shut.

‘Soon as he does, that’s it. I’m the man, you got me? I say jump, you don’t ask “why”, you ask “how high”.’

‘It’s a different world, Reuben. I’ve not been CID for years.’ He shifted Wee Hamish’s bottle from one hand to the other. ‘I’m a uniform sergeant way up on the coast.’

‘Don’t care if you’re a pantomime dame in Pitlochry, you’ll do what you’re told.’

Logan did his best not to sigh, he really did. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’

‘Oh aye, it does. Cause I say it does.’ The big man stepped in close. ‘Your protection dies with Mr Mowat. You either get with the team, or you and me are going to have words.’

The whisky bottle was cold and solid in Logan’s hand. It’d make a pretty decent weapon.

Reuben grinned, then dropped his voice to a growling whisper. ‘Well, I’ll have the words, you’ll be too busy screaming.’

Could batter Reuben’s brains in right here and now. Probably. As long as he got the first blow in. And kept on going till the huge sod stopped breathing.

Logan stared back at him. ‘Grow up.’

Reuben lunged, grabbed Logan by the throat and shoved him back against the car, held his big scarred face close. The words came out on a wave of bitter garlic. ‘Listen up and listen good, you wee shite, I will skin you alive, do you hear me? And I’m not being metaphoric, I will take a knife and slit the skin from your pasty wee body!’

The whisky bottle came up, ready to hammer down.

Then Urquhart’s voice boomed out from the door. ‘STOP IT RIGHT THERE!’

No one moved.

‘Mr Mowat was very clear about this, Reuben. What did he say?’

Reuben hissed another sour breath out through gritted teeth. Then he shoved Logan and stepped back at the same time. Shot his cuffs. Glowered.

Urquhart took out his keys and plipped the Audi’s locks. ‘OK then.’

A huge paw came up, one finger prodding at Logan’s chest. ‘Enjoy your whisky, Sergeant. I’ll be in touch.’ Then he turned on his heel and lumbered back into the house.

Logan sagged a little. Opened the car door and settled into the passenger seat. Clutched the bottle against his chest where Reuben had poked him.

The front light went out, plunging the driveway into darkness.

‘So...’ Urquhart put the car in gear and drove down the drive towards the gates. ‘You and the Reubster, then.’

‘Who does he think he is? Threatening police officers?’ Logan hauled on his seatbelt. Kept his face forward. ‘Moron.’

‘Yeah, Rubey Doobie Doo. Hmm.’ The gates buzzed open and Urquhart took them out onto a narrow country road. ‘You know he’s moved into Mr Mowat’s other house? Set himself up like lord of the manor over there in Grandholm. You ever meet his fiancée?’

Logan stared across the car. ‘Someone’s marrying that?’

‘Big Tam Slessor’s daughter.’

Ah. A marriage made in the Hammer House of Horror studios.

‘Yeah, Mr Mowat gave them the Grandholm place for an early wedding present. I got them a dozen towels and a fondue set from John Lewis. Very classy.’ He turned right at the junction, heading for Aberdeen along the dark winding road. The Audi’s headlights reflected back at them from the rain-slicked tarmac. ‘You getting them anything?’

How about a shallow grave?

Trees whipped past the windows.

Logan shifted in his seat. ‘When I asked you if Reuben was planning anything, you laughed.’

‘Well, you know Reuben. These days he’s all about the strategic planning.’ Urquhart cleared his throat. ‘Mr McRae?’

The headlights caught a stiff bundle of feathers in the middle of the road — a pheasant, with its bottom half flattened and stuck to the road.

‘See, I was wondering... When Mr Mowat’s gone, he wants you to take over, right?’

‘I’m a police officer.’

‘Yeah, but he wants you, right? He doesn’t want Reuben. Doesn’t think the Reubmeister’s up to running the show. Thinks it’ll all just collapse into anarchy and war: all these guys coming up to carve Aberdeen into bite-sized chunks.’ A hand came off the steering wheel, ticking them off one finger at a time. ‘Malk the Knife from Edinburgh, the Hussain Brothers from Birmingham, the Liverpool Junkyard Massive, Ma Campbell from Glasgow, and Black Angus MacDonald with the Dornoch Mafia.’ A frown. ‘I know for a fact the Hussains are already sniffing about.’

They weren’t the only ones. Not if Lumpy Patrick was telling the truth. Which would be a first.

Drizzle misted the windscreen, and Urquhart put the wipers on. ‘Anyway, point is: they’re lining up to take their chunks. And soon as Mr Mowat’s gone, they’ll be here. And it’ll be war.’

‘And Reuben can’t stop it?’

Urquhart bared his teeth. ‘Tell the truth? I think he’s looking forward to it.’

Logan waited for the Audi’s tail-lights to disappear around the corner before letting himself into the Sergeant’s Hoose. Closed and locked the door. Put the snib on, just in case. Probably wouldn’t hurt to get a chain fitted. Maybe one of those metal bar things as well...

Not that it’d stop Reuben or his minions from coming in the window.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for them.

He clicked the switch, setting the hall’s bare bulb glowing. ‘Cthulhu?’

Samantha poked her head out from the lounge. ‘You’re still alive, then. No trip to the pig farm for you?’

‘Not tonight. Not till Hamish Mowat dies.’

‘You want a tea?’

‘Nope.’ Logan held up the bottle. ‘Present.’ Through to the kitchen for a tumbler, which got a good splash of the Glenfiddich.

Samantha’s hand on his shoulder. ‘You need a plan, you know that don’t you?’

He rolled a sip of warm leathery whisky around his mouth. ‘Thought I’d give Beaton and Macbeth your photo from Rennie’s engagement party. You always liked that one. Get them to match your make-up.’

‘This is serious, Logan. Reuben’s dangerous, you know that. If you don’t do what he wants, he’ll kill you. Slowly.’

‘Can’t decide what to do about all the piercings, though. I mean, he’s a nice enough guy, but I don’t fancy Andy fiddling about getting your nipple ring back in. Never mind the more intimate ones. Maybe he could get George to do it?’

‘You need a plan!’

‘I know George has got huge hands, but she’s not as rough as she looks. Did I tell you she breeds chinchillas?’

‘God’s sake, Logan, listen to me. Reuben will grab you, torture you, kill you, then feed you to Wee Hamish’s pigs. Is that what you want? Are you happy with that?’

Another sip of whisky. It seeped through his innards, spreading across his chest. He lowered his head. ‘I’m a police officer.’

‘And I don’t care.’ She stepped in front of him. ‘You have to kill Reuben, or you have to get the hell out of Narnia. If you don’t, you’re pig food.’

‘Maybe not.’ Logan swirled the tumbler, leaving smears of whisky around the glass. ‘Maybe he’ll go to Professional Standards and tell them I sold my flat to one of Hamish Mowat’s minions for twenty grand over the asking price?’

‘Yes, but you didn’t know you were selling to someone dodgy.’

‘Think that’ll matter to Napier?’ A grimace. ‘I could fit Reuben up? Get him sent down for something. Keep him out of the way for eight to twelve years.’

‘And all he has to do is make one phone call to the outside world and have some of his minions pop up to Banff and do the job for him.’ A sigh. ‘Oh, Logan...’ She stepped in, her body warm against his chest. Reached up and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to kill Reuben.’