In the Cold Dark Ground

19

‘...neighbour killed himself, because his business went bust. There’s fat cats whooping it up in London and his wife’s got to bury him in a council grave. Where’s the social justice in that?’

Logan groaned beneath the duvet.

‘Well, that’s a good point. OK, next up we’ve got Marjory from Cullen. Go ahead, Marjory.’

There was a proop-meep noise and something heavy landed on his bladder. ‘Argh...’ Then walked up his torso and sat on his chest.

‘It’s this oil price downturn. We all know these oil companies make billions of profits, so why are they squeezing the supply companies? How’s the industry supposed to survive if shareholders are wringing every penny out of the North Sea?’

He peered out at the clock radio. Half eight.

‘And let’s not forget, eighty percent of a gallon of petrol goes straight into the government’s pocket! That’s Scotland’s money.’

‘Go away.’ He reached out and thumped the snooze button. Slumped back on the pillow.

A little fuzzy head appeared above the edge of the duvet and biffed its cheek against his nose. Purring like a tumble dryer full of gravel.

A yawn.

The phone went, ringing downstairs in the living room. Then fell silent. Followed by the distorted sound of his own recorded voice telling whoever it was to leave a message.

Cthulhu biffed into his face again.

‘Yes, I know you want sweeties, you wee monster.’ He picked up the pack of cat treats from the bedside cabinet as the machine downstairs bleeped and a dark voice replaced his own.

Who the hell was that?

Another biff.

‘OK, OK.’ He dug a treat out and held it in front of her pink nose.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Samantha settled on the end of the bed, running a brush through her bright-red hair — making it shine. ‘You’re actually awake? Thought you were going to sleep till noon.’

Another treat.

‘It’s half eight, give me a break.’

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

She took hold of his foot through the duvet. ‘Big day, today.’

‘I know.’

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

‘Come on then: up and showered. You’re not switching me off looking like someone dragged you backwards through a combine harvester. Sunday best, Mr McRae.’ She smiled. ‘After all, it’s not every day you get to kill your girlfriend.’

Logan wandered back through to the bedroom, scrubbing at his head with a towel. The cool air made the hair on his arms stand up and pimpled the flesh beneath. He paused in the doorway, sniffing.

Was that bacon?

How could he smell frying bacon?

Maybe he was having a stroke?

Wait, were those voices?

He wrapped the towel around his middle, tying it off.

There were definitely voices coming from downstairs.

Maybe it was Reuben, come up to finish the job himself. Well he was out of luck, because... Oh for God’s sake. The equipment belt wasn’t where it should have been — on the chair in the corner of the bedroom. It was still hanging over the end of the banister.

Argh.

Improvise.

He hauled on a pair of jeans and tiptoed out onto the landing. Opened the cupboard and lifted the toolbox out. Selected an adjustable spanner from the pile of tools. Big and heavy.

Logan smacked the business end into the palm of his other hand.

Not quite an extendable baton, but if it got him to the bottom of the stairs where the equipment belt was, it’d do.

He crept down the stairs. No sign of anyone.

The voices coming from the living room sounded more like the TV than real life.

‘...news and weather where you are, but first we’ve got the singing sensation taking Britain’s Next Big Star by storm on the Breakfast sofa...’

Logan unclipped the CS gas canister from its holster, fiddling with it until the bungee cord holding it to the belt let go. Then slipped the extendable baton from its...

Someone was singing in the kitchen. A sweet, but smoky, growl of a voice, belting it out.

Logan lowered his armoury and stuck it through the balustrades onto the stairs, then pushed through into the kitchen.

She was standing at the cooker, shoogling a frying pan that hissed and sputtered. Singing away, oblivious:

‘Making friends and having fun,

Doing stuff for everyone.’

He leaned against the work surface. ‘What are you doing?’

Steel froze for a second, then went back to her shoogling. ‘Making breakfast.’ Then she looked around and raised an eyebrow. ‘Laz, how many times? I’m flattered, but I’m no’ shagging you. Now get dressed.’ She waved a spatula at him. ‘Sight of all them scars is putting me off my grub.’

He folded his arms across his chest. Then lowered them to cover the shining puckered lines that snaked across his stomach. ‘How did you get in here?’

‘No point being a keyholder if you don’t use your key, is there?’ She went back to poking at the pan. ‘Five minutes. And stop picturing me naked! We had words about that.’

Gah...

Logan turned and headed back into the hall. Maybe if he poured bleach in his ears it’d get rid of that particular mental image.

He stopped with one hand on the newel post at the foot of the stairs. ‘Who was on the phone?’

But she was off again.

‘Adventure Cat, Adventure Cat,

Foiling evil Dr Rat,

And his schemes most dastardly,

To save the world for you and meeeee!’

Why did he bother?

Through in the lounge, the red light on the answering machine blinked at him.

On the TV, two newsreaders tried to be chatty with a permatanned couple who had big hair and unnaturally shiny teeth.

‘...amazing. And did you ever think you’d be this popular?’

‘We have to say the fans have been absolutely fabulous, haven’t they, Jacinta?’

‘Oh yeah, totally fabulous. I mean, completely. Me and Benjamin been—’

Mute.

He pressed the button on the answering machine.

‘MESSAGE ONE:’ That same dark voice that had been barely audible through the floorboards oozed out of the speaker. ‘Sergeant McRae? It’s Chief Superintendent Napier, I got your message about the... project we discussed.’

Oh crap.

Logan lunged across the carpet and thumped the living room door shut.

‘I think it would be prudent for you to come in and discuss it in person. That way you can review the evidence.’

Well, Napier would have to wait. He had more important things to do than undermine and manipulate a Professional Standards investigation into Steel today. And tomorrow was blocked out for the hangover that came afterwards.

‘I think it’s important we get this underway as soon as possible, don’t you? After all, the longer it exists in limbo, the more chance there is of the papers getting hold of it. I think we can all agree that a trial by media would be regrettable for all concerned. If you’d like to call me back, we can set up a mutually convenient appointment. Thank you.’

Bleeeeeep.

Logan glanced at the wall separating the room from the kitchen. No way she could have heard any of that. Not still singing her lump-filled head off.

Unless, of course, she’d turned up when the call came through in the first place.

‘Message Two:’ Steel’s voice came from the machine. ‘Laz? You there?... Laz?... Pick up if you’re there.’

On the TV, they cut from the permatanned talentless toothmerchants to the ident for local news.

‘You better no’ still be in your scratcher, you lazy wee sod. Probably lying there, playing with yourself, aren’t you? Well stop it, you’ll go—’

Delete.

The Scottish newsreader was replaced by a mob outside one of the oil company headquarters in Dyce. The words, ‘...SCENES OF UNREST AS PROTEST ENTERS THIRD DAY...’ scrolled along the bottom of the screen.

‘YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES.’

Logan held down the delete button until the message count went back to zero, blanking Napier’s incriminating call.

The protests at Dyce gave way to woodland and a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

‘...HUMAN REMAINS IDENTIFIED AS LOCAL BUSINESSMAN, PETER SHEPHERD...’

He switched the TV off. Time to get dressed.

Steel put one foot up on the dashboard, scratching at her ankle, mobile phone pinned between her ear and shoulder. ‘Yeah... Did he?... Nah...’

Logan drove them along the winding road, west out of Banff. Taking his time.

White lines scratched along the sea’s blue face. Pounding against the cliffs. Sending up walls of spray. It glowed in the warm golden light that ramped up the colour of everything.

‘When was that?... Oh aye?... I’m no’ happy about that, Becky. I put you in charge of babysitting the wee scumbag, no’ Spaver: so sort it... Yeah.’

Samantha leaned forward from the back seat. ‘Still don’t see why she’s got to come with us.’

‘She’s worried about me.’

A huge puddle spread across the tarmac and he slowed for it. The tyres growled through, making their own walls of spray. Only grey and gritty instead of shining white.

‘She’s a pain in the backside. Always has been.’

‘That’s true.’

Steel put her phone away, then swore as it blared into life again. Dragged it back out. ‘Yes?... Superintendent Harper— Yes, Yes I know... Me?’ She cast a glance across the car at Logan. ‘Yeah, I’m following up a couple of things at the moment... Definitely. Be back in the office in a couple of hours? Ish?... What?’ Steel had another scratch. ‘Oh for God’s sake. How’d he get away with that?... The greasy goat-molesting scumbag — What?’

‘Thought it was going to be you and me today. My final morning on earth. Who invited the Wrinkled Witch of the West?’

‘Can you two not fight today? Please? Just for once?’

‘...No. Of course. We’ll get a cordon up. Malk the Knife’ll no’ make contact if Milne’s got half the world’s media camped outside his front door... Uh-huh. Will do.’

A sign loomed into view. ‘SUNNY GLEN 1 è’

Samantha put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not long now.’

‘Am I the only one who feels sick?’

‘Uh-huh... Uh-huh... OK. Thanks.’ Steel hung up, took her foot off the dashboard, and put her phone away. ‘What you chuntering on about, Laz?’

He shrugged. Indicated. Took the road to the right, heading closer to the cliffs.

Steel had a wee burp, then rubbed at her stomach. ‘Where’d you buy your tomato sauce, Halfords? Stuff’s like battery acid.’

‘Or it could be the three bacon butties you wolfed.’

‘No, it was your cheap-and-nasty own-brand bargain-basement sauce.’ She had another burp. ‘Apparently the media’s been camped outside Martin Milne’s house since we released Shepherd’s name. It’s like a rugby scrum.’

‘Not to mention the four cups of coffee.’

‘They caught some tabloid tosser shinnying over the back fence, having first pumped the neighbour and the wifie that does the school run for everything they had.’

‘So get Milne to make a statement. They won’t go away until he does.’

Sunny Glen appeared around the next bend: single storey for most of its length, with a balcony overhanging a large patio area where the ground fell away towards the cliffs. A couple of wheelchairs were out, their occupants positioned in the February sunshine.

Logan let out a long slow breath. ‘Here we go.’

Steel squeezed his leg. Again.

‘Hoy!’ Samantha banged on the seat. ‘Hands off, you old bag.’

‘She’s only being nice.’

There was a frown from the passenger seat. ‘What? Who’s being nice?’

The Punto slotted into a parking space outside the admin wing. ‘Milne’s wife, Katie. She’s trying to be nice to everyone. Can’t be easy after everything.’

Steel took out her e-cigarette and had a puff. ‘With her husband shagging a dead bloke? Probably no’.’ She climbed out into the sunshine and had a scratch at her belly.

‘Gah, it’s like sharing a car with a Labrador.’ Samantha thumped back into her seat and folded her arms. ‘Scratching and fidgeting and fiddling with her boobs.’

‘You coming?’ He grabbed his jacket.

Steel bent down and peered into the car. ‘Course I am.’

‘Right. Yes. Good.’ He led the way to reception: a glass-fronted room with pot plants, watercolours, and a big beech desk.

The young man sitting behind it looked up as Logan entered and smiled. ‘Mr McRae, how are you today?’

‘I’m not sure yet, Danny.’

‘Ah, of course.’ He stood. ‘Please, take a seat and I’ll get Louise. Would you like a cup of coffee, or...?’

‘No. Thanks.’

‘OK then.’ He picked up the phone and had a muttered conversation while Steel stalked around the room, squinting at the paintings, hands behind her back, like a badly creased crow.

Samantha wound her hand into Logan’s. ‘It’s going to be OK.’

He just breathed.

Steel took his other hand. ‘How you holding up?’

‘I appreciate the gesture, but I’m fine.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘You don’t have to be here. You’ve got a murder to solve.’

‘Well Harper can rant and rave all she wants, some things are more important.’ She gave his hand a squeeze. ‘Couldn’t leave you to go through this alone.’

He squeezed back. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re still not allowed to think about me naked, though.’

‘Urgh.’ He took his hand back and wiped it on the front of his jacket. ‘OK, now I’m going to be—’

‘Logan, hello.’ A woman marched into the room. Her bleached pixie cut curled across her forehead, cowboy boots clicking on the wooden floor. She held her arms out and the sunlight caught the linen sleeves of her shirt, making her glow like an angel. She wrapped him up in a hug. Then stepped back. ‘How are you?’

Why did everyone have to ask that? How the hell did they think he was?

‘Fine. I’m fine, Louise.’ It sounded better than: dead inside.

Samantha leaned in, her voice a warm soft whisper in his ear. ‘Liar.’

‘Now you’re sure you want to go through with this? Remember, there’s no rush.’

‘I know.’

‘OK.’ Louise stroked his arm. ‘If there’s anything that’s unclear, or you want to stop at any time, let me know. It’s not a problem.’ Then she turned to Steel. ‘You must be Logan’s mother. He’s told me so much about you.’

The wrinkles deepened across Steel’s forehead. ‘No! I’m no’ his mum, I’m his moral support. Nowhere near old enough, for a start!’

Louise’s smile slipped for a moment. ‘Right. Sorry. My mistake.’ Then she turned and gestured towards the door leading deeper into the building. ‘Shall we?’

The corridors were alive with the wub-wub-wub of a floor polisher and the noise of music coming from the rooms — each one playing something different. It blended into an atonal mush of sound, like a radio picking up multiple stations at once.

Men and women lay on their beds, some connected to machines, some breathing on their own. A couple propped up and strapped into armchairs, heads on one side, dribble soaking into their bibs.

‘Here we go.’ Louise held the door to number eighteen open and ushered them inside.

Samantha lay beneath the covers, an oxygen mask over her pale face. Her hair was almost all brown roots now, slipping into a faded scarlet only at the tips. A little dot marked her nose and another her bottom lip, more up both sides of her ears where the piercings had healed over. The tattoos stood out against her almost translucent skin, coiling up and down both bare arms — skulls and hearts, wound round with brambles and tribal spines. They looked so much blacker than they used to. As if they’d been leeching the life out of her all these years and were now ready to break free from the flesh.

Her cheekbones were sharp and pronounced, riding high on her sunken face. But the thing that really didn’t look like her was the big dip in her head, above the left ear, as if someone had taken a big ice-cream scoop out of her.

Louise placed a hand on Logan’s arm, turning him away from the bed towards the room’s other occupant. ‘Logan, this is Dr Wilson, he’ll be in charge of withdrawing Samantha’s medical treatment.’

A dapper man with no hair stuck a hand out. His chinos had creases down the leg you could shave with, denim shirt rolled up to the elbows with a pink tie tucked in between the buttons. ‘We’ll take good care of her, Logan. She won’t feel a thing.’

‘How does this work?’

‘We give Samantha a dose of morphine, wait for it to take hold, then switch off the respirator.’

‘So she suffocates.’

‘I know it sounds distressing, but she won’t be in any pain.’

At least that was something.

Dr Wilson folded his hands together, as if he were about to say a prayer. ‘Are there any questions you’d like to ask?’

Samantha’s chest rose and fell beneath the blankets, marking time with the hissing respirator.

‘Logan?’

Someone nudged him in the ribs. And when he looked around, Steel was frowning at him.

Her voice was soft. ‘You OK? Cos we can sod off home and do this some other day, if you want.’

Deep breath. ‘No.’ He reached out and took Samantha’s hand in his. The skin was dry and papery, cool to the touch. ‘It’s time.’

‘I understand.’ Dr Wilson nodded. ‘The procedure should—’

‘You’re not doing it.’

He pulled his chin in. ‘I know this is difficult, but I can assure you I’ve done this many times—’

‘You didn’t know her.’ Logan brushed a lock of hair forward on Samantha’s head, covering the dent. ‘It should be me.’

‘Ah...’ The doctor looked at Louise. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good—’

‘She deserves that much. Not to be switched off by a stranger.’

Steel’s frown deepened. ‘Laz, you sure you want to do this?’

‘Doesn’t matter what I want: I owe her.’

‘Mr McRae, please. I think you should reconsider, it’s—’

‘You heard the man, Doctor.’ Steel stepped between them and held her arms out, as if she were breaking up a fight in a pub. ‘Show him how to do it, then off you trot for a nice cuppa tea and a chocolate Hobnob.’

20

The machines pinged and hissed.

Logan pulled the visitor’s chair from the corner of the room and positioned it alongside the bed. Sat in it. Hissed out a long breath.

It was a lot less crowded in here without Steel, Louise, and Dr Wilson. Just Logan and the two Samanthas — the one in the bed and the one in his head.

‘You sure you know what you’re doing?’ She settled onto the bed next to him, one hand on the dying Samantha’s leg. ‘Don’t want you screwing this up. I could end up with brain damage, and then where would you be?’

Another breath.

‘Don’t I look pale?’ She leaned forward and ran a finger around the dent in the body’s forehead. ‘And that was never flattering, was it? Oh yes, let’s hack a big chunk out of her skull to relieve the swelling on her brain. That’s a good look.’

‘Don’t.’

‘What? I’m keeping your spirits up. Don’t be ungrateful.’ Samantha swung her legs back and forth. ‘And look on the bright side: think of all the cash you’re going to save, me not being here. This place costs a fortune. You should sell the caravan too.’

‘I never grudged it.’

‘Take the money and go on holiday for a change. How about Spain? You could go see Helen. I always thought—’

‘No.’ He looked away. ‘We’re not talking about this again.’

‘I’m lying there on my deathbed, I’ll talk about anything I like.’

‘It didn’t work, it’s not going to work. So can we please—’ Logan’s phone blared out its ringtone. Cocking hell. He denied the call, then switched the thing off. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have fallen. They set fire to the place because of me. You’re here because of me.’

She placed her hand over his where it held the dying Samantha’s. ‘You’re right. You’re a horrible human being and you never deserve another day’s happiness in your life.’

A little smile tugged at his mouth. ‘I liked it better before you started answering back.’

‘You ready?’

‘Yeah.’ Something large sat on his chest, squeezing out the air. Logan pressed the button and the morphine pump whirred.

Samantha blinked. Wobbled a bit. ‘Whoa, that’s a head rush.’

The her in the bed didn’t even twitch.

‘Logan? What’s going to happen to me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If I’m dead, will you forget about me?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Maybe you should.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s time.’

He reached out and clicked the switch on the respirator. The hissing died away. Samantha’s chest sank beneath the blankets and didn’t rise again.

‘Logan, I’m scared.’

A knife slipped into his throat, blocking it, then twisted.

The words would barely come. ‘It’ll be OK.’

He swallowed, but the blade stayed where it was.

He squeezed her hand.

Hauled in a harsh jagged breath.

‘I’m sorry.’

The room blurred.

Everything tasted of broken glass.

Oh God.

‘I’m so sorry.’

Steel lowered the mug of tea onto the coffee table. ‘Milk and two sugars. And before you say anything, I know you don’t take sugar. Hot sweet tea’s traditional.’

‘Thanks.’

She sat on the arm of the settee, placed a hand on his back. ‘Feeling any better?’

‘I keep telling you: I’m fine.’

‘Cos you don’t look fine, you look sodding awful.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘I’m having a bit of a day.’

Sunlight streamed into the living room, catching motes of dust and making them glow. Cthulhu lay on her back, on the rug, arms stretched out, feet curled into fuzzy quote marks, white belly absorbing as much solar radiation as possible.

Logan stood and picked her up. Buried his face in her fur, breathing in the scent of biscuits and sunshine. Shuddered it out again. ‘Just you and me now, kiddo.’

‘Maybe you should put in for compassionate leave? Could come down to Aberdeen and stay with me and Susan for a bit. Hang out with the kids.’

He flipped Cthulhu over, rubbing her tummy as she stretched and purred. ‘And who’d look after Little Miss Monster with her stretchy arms and curly feets?’

More purring.

Steel frowned at him. ‘You been drinking already?’

‘Basic cat anatomy: arms at the front, legs at the back. Paws at the front, feets at the back.’

‘Yeah...’ She pulled her chin in, multiplying the wrinkles. ‘You’ve been living on your own for far too long, Laz. We need to— In the name of the scrabbling bumhole.’ She yanked out her ringing phone. ‘What?’ Then stood. ‘Uh-huh... Yeah... OK, OK. Well it’s no’ like I can trust you to do it, is it?’ Steel mouthed the word ‘Rennie’ at him, then wandered across to the window, blocking Cthulhu’s light. ‘Yeah... I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t let him out of your sight till then.’ She hung up. ‘Sorry.’

‘I know. Everyone’s sorry.’

‘We’re taking your suggestion and getting Milne to make a statement. With any luck the baying hordes will sod off and leave him alone long enough for Malk the Knife’s goons to get in touch.’

‘Good for you.’

She hauled up her trousers. ‘You want me to get Susan up here? She could keep you company. Shoulder to cry on. Make loads of hot sweet tea and the occasional sandwich?’

‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

Steel folded her arms. ‘You’re going to get blootered, aren’t you?’

He toasted her with the mug.

‘Aye, well, probably for the best. Soon as I get off shift I’ll join you. Till then, I’d better shoot.’

She cleared her throat. Fiddled with the sleeves of her jacket. Then bent down and kissed him on the cheek. Before harrumphing a couple of times, and letting herself out.

The front door slammed shut, leaving him alone in the quiet.

Reunited with her sunbeam, Cthulhu purred.

Logan topped up the whisky in his tumbler. Took a sip of Glenfiddich. Let his head fall back and stared up at the living room ceiling as the whisky spread its warm tentacles through his body. ‘You there?’

No reply.

Of course she wasn’t there. She was dead. And all he had left was a big aching hollow, right in the middle of his chest, wrapped around with whisky.

Of course, it was obvious what she’d say if she was here. He cleared his throat. ‘Get off your backside, Logan. Stop wallowing in it. Find yourself a gun and figure out how to get Reuben somewhere killable.’

As if that was ever going to happen.

But then, she was always the practical one.

So, if it was quite all right with everyone else, he was going to sit here and wallow.

The doorbell gave its long mournful drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring.

‘Go away.’

Cthulhu stopped washing her pantaloons and stared at the living room door.

Drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring.

‘God’s sake.’ He levered himself out of the couch and slouched out of the room, taking his whisky with him. Why couldn’t everyone sod off and let him wallow in peace. Was it really too much to ask for?

Drrrrrrrrr‌rrrrrrrrrrrrrrring.

‘All right, all right.’ Logan unlocked the door and yanked it open. ‘What?’

A wall of muscle filled the threshold. It was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. Which didn’t really go with the words ‘KILL’ and ‘MUM’ tattooed on the knuckles of two big fists. The face wasn’t much better, topped off with a haircut even shorter than Logan’s.

The creature that evolution forgot smiled. It didn’t help. ‘Can Sergeant McRae come out to play?’

A Transit van was loomed at the kerb behind him. It might have been white once, but the paintwork had aged to a dirty yellow, covered in a timpani of dents. Two other thugs stood on either side — one of whom seemed to be carrying a body bag.

Screw that.

Logan slammed the door, but it was too late: Smiler had his foot in the way.

He put one tattooed hand against the wood and pushed his way into the house. The other hand reached into his jacket and came out with a short-barrelled revolver. ‘Easy way, or hard way?’

The two outside didn’t move.

A taxi droned past.

Somewhere in the distance, a seagull screamed.

So this was it. Reuben hadn’t even waited till after the funeral. Pig time.

Should be fighting back. Should be kicking off and struggling and biting and... But what was the point? After this morning, what did it matter?

Logan took a sip of whisky. ‘I’ve got a choice?’

Smiler snapped his fingers and one of his mates stepped forwards — a wee bloke with big blond sideburns and a ratty ponytail — holding out the body bag. Only up close it looked a lot more like a suit carrier.

The gun twitched towards the stairs. ‘Better get changed, Sergeant. You’ve got an appointment.’

Bench seats ran down both sides of the Transit’s load bay. Logan sat on the driver’s side, with Smiler at the other end, blocking the door. One of his mates, a thin man with bad teeth and a lazy eye, sat opposite, playing on a hand-held games console. Tongue poking out the side of his mouth as the thing bleeped and binged.

The van lurched around a corner, then accelerated.

That would be them leaving Banff.

Difficult to tell. There were no windows back here — the walls lined with big rectangles of chipboard covered in metal hooks and the vacant outlines of tools.

Goon Number Three had the radio on in the cab section, singing along to ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ at the top of his voice. The noise rattled through the bulkhead wall, clashing with the plinkity music from Mr Teeth’s game machine.

Logan loosened his tie: black, like his suit and shoes. It wasn’t a bad fit, but it wasn’t exactly classy. The kind of outfit you could pick up for a few quid at one of the larger supermarkets. All three of them dressed up like something out of Reservoir Dogs.

He jerked a thumb at the bulkhead. ‘So, what, we’re on our way to a Blues Brothers revival?’

Smiler didn’t smile. ‘Shut up.’

Thick plastic sheeting covered the load-bay floor. Just right for preventing all those nasty, hard-to-clean bloodstains.

Not too hard to see how today was going to end.

Should have listened to Samantha. Should have listened to Wee Hamish Mowat. Should have killed Reuben instead of sitting on his backside waiting for the murderous bastard to make the first move. Well, it was too late now.

But then again, it was always going to end this way, wasn’t it? In a kill-or-be-killed world, the normal people always ended up dead.

Logan let his head thunk back against the chipboard.

Yup, this was turning into a really top-notch Friday the thirteenth.

The engine noise dropped to a low growl, then the Transit swung to the left. Crunching came from the wheel arches. They’d turned onto gravel. Either a track or someone’s driveway. Which meant the magical mystery tour was about to come to its unpleasant conclusion.

More crunching.

The van rocked and lurched a bit, then slowed to a halt.

Through in the cab, the seventies musicfest died.

Then came the clunk of the driver’s door and the scrunch, scrunch, scrunch of his footsteps.

Here we go.

The back door opened, letting in a flood of sunlight.

Smiler turned and hoiked a thumb at the view. ‘Out.’

Logan clambered down from the tailgate onto a gravel driveway at the side of a rough stone building surrounded by trees. A door hung open, its red paint flaking like leprous skin.

A large finger pointed at the dark hole of the doorway. ‘In.’

Something twisted deep inside Logan’s chest.

Maybe there was a way out of this? Slam his elbow back and up into Smiler’s face. Ram the arm forward and break Mr Teeth’s nose. Kick Captain ABBA in the balls. Then run for it before any of them got themselves together.

Deep breath.

It wasn’t going to work.

But it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose, was it? Probably wind up dead either way.

OK. In three, two—

A cold hard lump pressed against the back of his neck. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

Logan turned, just far enough to see Smiler out of the corner of his eye. That cold hard lump was the snub-nosed revolver’s barrel.

Yeah... Maybe not.

Logan straightened his tie instead. Took a breath. Then marched in through the door.

Inside, it was one big gloomy room, the only light coming from the doorway behind him and a couple of dirty skylights. There was barely enough to make out the bare rafters and the closed garage doors.

And the big sheet of heavy-duty plastic spread out in the middle of the concrete floor. Like the one in the van, only much bigger and with stitches of duct tape holding it down.

A big hand in the small of his back propelled him forward, until he was standing right in the middle of the crinkly sheet.

‘Stay.’

The thing in Logan’s chest twisted again, turning his heartbeat up to a deafening thump. Thump. Thump. Sweat prickled across the back of his neck.

He was going to die here. Slowly. Then be dragged away for pig food.

Smiler retreated to the shadows while Mr Teeth took up position by the door. He was bent over his Gameboy/DS thing again, pinging and dinging away to repetitive doodly music.

No sign of Captain ABBA.

Slow calm breaths.

And then Reuben appeared in the doorway. He’d stripped off to the waist. The patchwork of scar tissue and fur that marked his face continued down his barrel chest and across his gut in a foot-wide strip of twisted skin. His bottom half was covered in a pair of overalls, the arms tied in a knot beneath his stomach. Big rig boots on his feet — nice and heavy with steel toecaps. Perfect for kicking someone to death. ‘’Bout time.’

Reuben rolled his head to one side, then the other. Flexed his shoulders. Puffing himself up. ‘Some of the guys think you can’t be trusted, McRae.’ The hands were next, coiling into huge fists. ‘Think you’re going to stitch me up.’

Logan swallowed. Forced his chin up.

Don’t tremble. Don’t let the bastard see you fall apart.

Fight back. Make him pay for it.

‘See, I can’t have that, McRae. Can’t have that at all. Got to have a hundred and ten percent loyalty from my team. You get that, don’t you?’

He’d come fast and he’d come hard. Use that bulk of his to pin Logan down and then batter the living crap out of him.

Logan shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, knees slightly bent.

OK. Go for the eyes. Gouge them out of his fat ugly head.

At least then he’d have something to remember him by.

The lump in Logan’s chest wound itself into a knot.

‘Take this wee prick...’ Reuben stepped aside and Captain ABBA was back, hauling a shivering man with him.

The newcomer wore nothing but a stained pair of pants, the elastic going at the waist. Bruises made angry patterns across his skin, wrapping around his legs, torso, and face. He clutched one arm to his chest, the elbow swollen like a grapefruit and the wrist flopping in a way nature never intended, fingers poking out in all sorts of horrible directions. ‘Plsss...’

The word barely managed to squeeze its way out of his swollen lips.

Reuben pointed, and Captain ABBA dragged the man onto the plastic sheet and dumped him at Logan’s feet.

‘This is Tony. Say hello, Tony.’

He coiled up on the floor, tears and snot ribboning his face. ‘Plsss... Plsss dnt kgggh mmmi...’

‘Tony thought it would be fun to help himself to the merchandise and the profits. Didn’t you, Tony?’

‘Plsss...’

‘Well, Tony, was it fun?’

‘Mmmm ssssrree...’

‘Too late to be sorry, Tony. That ship sank long ago.’

‘Plsss dnt kgggh mmmi...’

Reuben snapped his fingers.

Mr Teeth put the Gameboy away and pulled out a claw hammer. Captain ABBA produced a semiautomatic.

All the moisture vanished from Logan’s mouth, tightening his throat. He held his hands up. ‘Come on, Reuben, you don’t have to prove—’

‘I’m not an unreasonable man, Tony, I’m going to give you a choice.’ Reuben reached out and took the claw hammer. ‘You want this or the gun?’

‘Plsss...’

‘Going to be one or the other. What’s it to be, quick and shooty, or slow and thumpy?’

Lying at Logan’s feet, Tony sobbed.

‘Or, if you like, you could go to the pigs as you are? All thrashing and screaming as they eat you alive. Might be more fun for them. Bit of sport.’

‘Plsss...’

‘Going to have to hurry you, Tony: gun or hammer?’

‘Gnnn... Gnnn.’

‘Good boy.’ Reuben pointed with the hammer and Captain ABBA stepped onto the plastic, hauling back the semiautomatic’s slide. Chick-clack. All primed and ready to fire.

Logan hauled in a breath.

Do something.

Now.

Do it now.

Because otherwise it’d be too late and...

He frowned as Captain ABBA held the gun out to him.

The guy stood there, with the primed semiautomatic held at arm’s length by the barrel. ‘Here you go, chief.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Nope.’ Reuben shook his head. ‘See, I’ve been telling the doubters, McRae isn’t going to screw us over. McRae can be trusted. And right now I’m trusting you to put Tony out of his misery.’ A shrug. ‘And in case you’re wondering, he’s dead either way. Question is: are you on the team or not?’

OK...

Logan reached out and took the gun. Heavy. Cold. No idea what make it was, but there were Cyrillic letters above the trigger guard. He pulled the slide back a fraction, far enough to see a sliver of brass in there. Loaded. Thumbed the magazine release and let it fall into his palm. It was nearly full — had to be nine or ten shots in there.

Captain ABBA smiled. Then backed away until he was on the concrete floor again.

Really?

Logan clicked the magazine back into place, then pointed the barrel right between Tony’s eyes. Poor sod probably couldn’t see much — they were a mass of broken blood vessels set in swollen bags of dark purple. They’d broken his nose, probably his jaw too.

‘Plsss dnnnt...’

‘Come on, McRae, chop-chop. Some of us got a funeral to go to.’

‘Plsss...’

Kill Tony, or be killed. Same bloody dilemma he’d been facing for days, only with the names changed. Murder or be murdered. Round and round and on and on.

Well, enough. Time to take a stand. Go out with bang.

He was dead anyway.

Logan snapped the semiautomatic up, two-handed, and aimed right at the middle of Reuben’s chest.

‘Tsk.’ The big man shook his head. ‘Dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

‘I won’t kill for you.’

Smiler stayed where he was, hands in his trouser pockets — nowhere near his revolver. Mr Teeth remained by the door, noodling away at his game. Captain ABBA just sighed.

There was a scenario like this on the firearms training course. Only there the bad guys were printed on bits of paper stuck to chipboard. They didn’t bleed and scream and die.

Logan slowed his breathing and clicked off the safety catch.

Samantha had been right all along. This was the only way. Didn’t matter if he liked it or not, he didn’t have any choice.

‘See, McRae, that doesn’t look too trusting, does it? You’re not being a team player, there.’

Do it.

Right now.

Pull the damn trigger.

So he did.

Click.

Oh no.

21

No, no, no, no, no.

Bloody gun wasn’t working.

He racked the slide back — chick-clack — sending the unfired cartridge flipping end-over-end out onto the plastic sheet, and pulled the trigger again.

Click.

Reuben grinned. ‘Do you really think I’m that stupid?’

One last go.

Chick-clack. Another cartridge went flying.

Click.

‘That’s the funny thing about guns, McRae: don’t work without a firing pin.’

Logan lowered the semiautomatic.

Idiot.

Of course they wouldn’t give him a working gun.

‘See, this whole thing’s been a test, hasn’t it, Tony?’

Lying on the floor, Tony cried.

‘A wee test to see how big your balls are, McRae.’ Reuben held out a hand and Captain ABBA handed him a white bath towel. ‘We weren’t going to shoot Tony. Nah.’ He wandered onto the plastic sheet. It scrunched beneath his rig boots. ‘Wouldn’t do that.’

Tony struggled to his knees. ‘Thhnkkk yyyy...’ His swollen lips trembled, a mixture of drool and blood spilling down his chest.

Reuben hunkered down beside him. Dabbed the towel against Tony’s face, turning the white tufts pink and red. ‘There we go. That’s better, isn’t it?’ He passed him the towel.

‘Thhhnnnk yyyy...’ Tears and snot and trembling. He held the towel over his face; blood soaked into the fabric.

‘Shhh, it’s OK.’

Logan backed away. ‘You weren’t going to kill him?’

‘Tony’s learned his lesson, haven’t you, Tony?’

‘Pllssss...’ He placed a grimy hand against his own chest, fingers splayed. ‘Immm srrrryyyy...’

Reuben stood. Stepped behind the snivelling figure and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘So, Tony, what are we going to do with Sergeant McRae? What do you think?’

The whole thing was one big set-up.

‘Shall we give him a second chance?’ Reuben’s voice chilled. ‘Or shall we show him what happens to disloyal wee shites?’ He snatched both ends of the towel and hauled, snapping Tony’s head back so his face pointed to the ceiling, covered in blood-flecked white fabric. Reuben wrapped the ends into one fist. Then battered the hammer down into Tony’s upturned towel-covered face. Once. Twice. Three times. Fast. Putting his weight behind it. The sound of cracking bone gave way to wet sucking noises as the white fabric became saturated with scarlet.

Logan stepped forward. ‘NO!’ But Smiler’s revolver appeared again, pointing right at his head. He froze.

Four. Five. Six.

Tony’s right foot twitched in time with the blows, but the rest of him sagged in place — only held upright by Reuben’s grip on the towel.

Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

Reuben let go of the dark-red fabric and Tony’s body slumped sideways onto the plastic sheet. No movement. No breathing. A puddle of blood oozed out onto the surface.

The whole thing had taken less than eight seconds.

Logan swallowed.

Smiler kept his gun levelled at him.

‘Oh yeah.’ Reuben stood there, grinning, puffing for breath. ‘That’s what we do to them.’ He passed the hammer back to Mr Teeth, who dropped it into a plastic freezer bag and ziplocked it tight.

A shadow filled the doorway behind him, then John Urquhart stepped into the garage all dressed up in funeral black-and-white. He glanced at the body on the floor, then up at Reuben. ‘Going to have to go or we’ll miss the start.’

‘They’ll wait.’ Reuben crossed to the far side of the plastic sheet. Picked what looked like another suit carrier from the shadows and pulled out a packet of baby wipes. Rubbed a couple across his face, clearing away the tiny spatter of red dots. He kicked off his boots. ‘You screwed up, McRae. Was going to let you do the job, prove you’re trustable, but now? Nah.’

Oh he was so screwed.

Logan tightened his grip on the semiautomatic. It might be no good as a gun, but it would still work as a cudgel.

Reuben untied the arms of his boilersuit and the whole thing fell to the floor, exposing a pair of hairy legs and red pants. ‘I’m going to go bury Mr Mowat, and then I’m going to have a chat with a chief inspector friend of mine.’ A pair of black trousers came out of the carrier, and he pulled them on. ‘Tell him how you took a bribe.’

‘I didn’t take any bribe!’

A white shirt was next, buttoned up by thick brutal fingers. ‘Twenty grand over the asking price, wasn’t it? Twenty grand of Wee Hamish Mowat’s money.’

John Urquhart stepped closer. ‘Yeah, about that. Kinda not the best idea.’

Reuben tucked in his shirt. ‘You’re going down, McRae.’

‘I didn’t know it was Hamish Mowat’s money.’

‘Erm...’ Urquhart held up a finger. ‘See, the only way you can dob McRae in, is if you dob me in at the same time, isn’t it? I bought the flat. And if I bought it with Mr Mowat’s cash, then that makes me dodgy too.’

A black tie was subjected to a schoolboy knot. ‘And?’

‘Look at it: far as Police Scotland’s concerned, I’m a small-time property developer and I’d kinda like to keep it that way. How am I gonna be your right-hand guy if the cops are digging away and following me everywhere?’

Creases formed between Reuben’s eyebrows. Then he slipped his feet into a pair of shiny black shoes. Grunted.

‘Come on, Reubster, you know it makes sense.’

He pulled on a black jacket to go with the trousers. Scowled at Logan. ‘You got kids, don’t you, McRae? With that bull-dyke lesbian boss of yours. You just mortgaged them against your debt.’

Logan took a step forwards. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘And you.’ He turned and poked a finger at Urquhart. ‘From now on you’re responsible for him, understand? He does what he’s told, when he’s told, or the pair of you are up to your ears in the piggery.’

Urquhart’s eyes widened. ‘Let’s... not get all hasty and that. We... Reuben?’

But the big man had turned on his heel, walking along the edge of the plastic sheeting, and out through the open door. ‘Funeral time.’

‘Damn it.’ Urquhart ran a hand across his face. Looked down at what was left of Tony, lying there with his head bashed in. ‘You three, tidy this up. Sergeant McRae and me have to go bury an old friend.’

It was one of those old-fashioned Scottish churches: a rectangle of granite with a tiny bell-spire and a slate roof, surrounded by ancient tottering headstones and fields. A long line of cars stretched along the road, parked half on the grass, leaving barely enough space for the next vehicle to squeeze past.

John Urquhart eased the Audi’s passenger-side wheels up onto the verge and killed the engine. Then groaned and curled into himself. ‘Why me?’

Logan undid the seatbelt. ‘I thought the gun worked.’

‘He’s going to feed me to the pigs.’

‘If it worked he’d be dead by now.’ And Tony would still be alive... He closed his eyes, but there was the image of Reuben battering the claw hammer down again and again. If the gun had worked, it wouldn’t have been murder. It’d be justifiable homicide. Saving another person’s life.

Bloody hell.

Worse: now Jasmine and Naomi were at risk.

‘Oh God...’ Urquhart covered his head with his hands. ‘We’re doomed.’

‘Welcome to my world.’

‘I should have stayed outside, I should have—’ His phone burst into song. He dug it out. Flinched. Then dragged on a smile. ‘Hi, Reuben. How’s it going, big man?... Uh-huh... Uh-huh.... OK, we’ll be there soon as... Yeah... OK, bye.’ He hung up and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

Outside, the sunshine streamed through the bare branches of a tree, casting ragged shadows across the road. A swarm of midges glowed in a patch of light. Second week of February and there were midges. Welcome to Scotland.

Urquhart sagged back in his seat. ‘Guess who’s showed up to “pay their respects”. Malcolm McLennan, Angus MacDonald, Stevie Hussain, and Jessy Campbell.’

‘Jessica “Ma” Campbell?’

‘Told you we were doomed.’ He stared at the car’s ceiling. ‘Man, the French Revolution’s got nothing on the terror about to fall on Aberdeen. These scumbags respected Mr Mowat, but Reuben? No chance.’

Logan opened his door and climbed out into the sun. ‘You coming?’

He locked the car. ‘They’ll turn Aberdeen into a warzone. Mr Mowat would hate this.’

They walked past the line of parked cars and in through a rusting iron gate. Headstones stretched off into the distance, along with a couple of mort safes and a big granite mausoleum topped with weeping cherubs.

Urquhart stopped. ‘Mr McRae? You’re going to do what Reuben says, aren’t you? I mean, exactly what he says and when he says it?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘I stuck my neck out for you! And I mean way out...’ His head drooped until his chin rested against his chest. ‘This is what it’s going to be like from now on, isn’t it? Everyone running scared. No stability. War.’

Logan turned, scanning the ranks of the dead. Just because he couldn’t do it, didn’t mean everyone else had the same problem. There wasn’t a single living soul in sight, but he dropped his voice anyway. ‘Then kill him.’

‘Reuben?’ Urquhart backed off a couple of paces, eyebrows up. ‘Me? Kill Reuben?’

‘You said it yourself: Hamish didn’t think Reuben is up to running the business. He’s going to make everything worse and get a lot of people hurt.’ Logan stepped closer. ‘So maybe you could do a better job? Maybe you could take Hamish’s place instead of him? Prevent everything falling apart; stop the war before it starts.’

‘But...’ Urquhart licked his lips. ‘I mean Reuben...’ He cleared his throat. Looked back towards the car. ‘OK, so he’s totally not suited to being in charge. He’s a great enforcer, but strategy? Planning? Keeping everything low-key and efficient?’

‘All the things Hamish Mowat was good at. Keeping Aberdeen stable. You saw what he did in that garage; Reuben’s unhinged. You could step in.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Who was he?’

Urquhart pulled his chin in. ‘Who was who?’

‘You know who.’

‘Oh. Tony?’ A shrug. ‘Tony Evans. Low-level distributor and three-strike loser. You’d think he’d have learned the first two times. Suppose some people can’t take a hint, not even when it’s, like, getting both your arms broken.’

The church bell pealed out three mournful chimes.

‘I mean it: Reuben’s going to get everyone killed. He has to go.’ Logan had another quick look around. Still no witnesses. ‘For the good of the city.’

Urquhart blinked at him for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘Anyway.’ He pulled his shoulders back and marched away along the path, head held high.

Logan gave it a beat, then followed.

It wasn’t even one o’clock yet, and already he’d killed his girlfriend, witnessed someone getting beaten to death, and embarked on conspiracy to commit murder. Friday the thirteenth just kept on getting better.

The path led down the side of the church and around to the back. Which turned out to be the front. A set of large wooden doors lay open, with a minister standing before them all dressed up in his long red dress with black scarf/shawl thing over the top. He shifted from foot to foot, clutching a handful of small booklets. Worked a finger into the neck of his white collar, pulling it away from his throat. Jerked upright when he saw them. ‘Hello.’ His voice wasn’t exactly steady as he held out one of the booklets to Logan. ‘Order of Service. We can start as soon as you’re ready.’ Beads of sweat glistened on his top lip.

Poor sod probably wasn’t used to having his church full, never mind full of gangsters.

Urquhart took an order of service and patted the minister on the arm. ‘Soon as you’re ready.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Right away.’ He turned and bustled off, red skirts billowing out behind him.

Inside, Old Ardoe Kirk was packed. Every pew in the place was rammed with men and women — all dressed in black, all talking in low voices. No wonder the minister had been bricking it outside on the doorstep: there were a lot of big blokes with close-cropped hair, scars, and tattoos. Hard-faced women with bleached hair and fists as cruel as the men’s. The kind of people who would have no problem beating someone to death with a claw hammer.

A coffin lay on a set of trestles, at the top of the apse, in front of the altar. A small arrangement of white lilies sat on the lid, their petals turned multicoloured by the light streaming in through a stained-glass window.

‘This way.’ Urquhart led the way down the middle of the church to the second row of pews from the front. He bent and picked two laminated A4 sheets with ‘RESERVED’ printed on them from the wooden surface, then sat and tucked them under the bench.

Logan looked around. Set off a bomb in here and you could probably halve Scotland’s organized crime problem. It was a Who’s Who of Aberdonian thuggery too. The McLeod brothers were there, the Flintoffs, Benny the Snake and his sister, and about a dozen others whose faces weren’t so familiar. All sitting there in their Sunday best, waiting for Hamish Mowat’s final outing.

Wait a minute, was that...? Of course it was. Because today wasn’t bad enough already.

A tartan turban bobbed about somewhere near the back row of pews, visible through the heads of the crowd. And if Narveer was here, that meant Detective Superintendent Harper wasn’t far behind.

Great — that made everything so much better.

Why the hell were they here? They couldn’t have followed him, not when he made the trip bundled in the back of a Transit van. And if they had, they’d have intervened and stopped Reuben killing Tony.

Wouldn’t they?

Reuben’s huge rounded bulk loomed in the front row, next to his bride-to-be — a short round lump of hate and gristle, with a peroxide bob so severe it wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Lego figure. And Reuben sat there. Calm as you like. No indication that he’d beaten someone to death with a claw hammer less than twenty minutes ago. Not so much as a spatter of blood on his ugly scarred head.

Raining the hammer down, again and again. The towel keeping the bloody spray to a minimum. The sound of thunking and crunching...

Logan’s hand trembled. He put it in his pocket.

The murmuring died down as Minister Nervous stepped up into the pulpit. Coughed. Then leaned into the microphone. His amplified voice echoed around the granite walls. ‘Lord Provost, ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to start by thanking you all for attending this afternoon. We’re here to give thanks for the life of Hamish Alexander Selkirk Mowat, a pillar of the Aberdeen business community, a philanthropist, and a keen gardener...’

‘Thank you for coming.’ The minister shook Logan’s hand, then moved onto the next person shuffling away from the graveside. ‘Thank you for coming.’

The Mowat family plot was marked by a statue of a weeping angel on a large polished granite plinth. The headstone was still missing Hamish’s name, but at least now he’d be reunited with his wife and son. His grave lay open, the coffin at the bottom spattered with handfuls of cold claggy dirt as one by one the mourners paid their final respects.

From here the ground sloped down towards a high stone wall, with nothing on the other side but grey-green fields fading into the haar. It blanked out the horizon, oozing in from the North Sea, reaching its grey arms towards the graveyard.

A knot of large men with short hair stood over by a mausoleum, smoking. Another knot of women passed around a hipflask. Lots of murmured conversations and backslapping going on.

Must be strange being a gangster. There wasn’t much opportunity to network in a social setting. Unless they had conferences and festivals no one had told Logan about. Four nights in an anonymous hotel in the Midlands, watching presentations on the latest way to break someone’s kneecaps, body disposal 101, kidnapping for fun and profit.

That tartan turban appeared again, weaving its way between the headstones, bringing DI Singh with it. He stopped right in front of Logan. ‘Well, well. If it isn’t Sergeant McRae.’

‘Detective Inspector Singh.’

‘Didn’t think we’d see you here, Sergeant. And sitting down the front too.’

The other mourners made a bubble around them, as if going out of their way not to get contaminated by the stench of police.

‘Tell me, Sergeant, were you a close friend of the deceased?’ Narveer’s face was impassive, voice clipped. So much for Mr Nice Inspector.

Harper emerged from the church and stopped next to him. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t—’

‘Your sidekick’s already done that bit.’ Logan crossed his arms. ‘And for your information, yes: I knew Hamish Mowat. I was in Aberdeen CID for ten years, I’ve investigated a lot of the people here. The local ones anyway. Even managed to put a few of them away.’

Harper jerked her thumb at a tree standing guard in the corner of the graveyard. ‘Let’s take a walk.’

She picked her way between the tombstones, with Narveer close behind her. Logan dawdled along at the rear.

He could tell her to mind her own business. Tell her it was his day off and he could do whatever he bloody well liked with it. Tell her to take a running jump into a skip full of broken bottles and rusty nails. Tell her to take Police Scotland and shove it so far up—

He bumped to a halt, as someone walked into him. ‘Sorry.’

It was a short man, with close-cropped hair trying to draw attention away from the spreading swathe of shiny scalp. Hooded eyes looked Logan up and down. Then a smile spread across his face. When he spoke, the accent was pure Morningside: ‘No, my fault. Wasn’t watching where I was going.’ He nodded back towards the church. ‘Lovely service, wasn’t it? Hamish would have been proud, don’t you think, Sergeant McRae?’

Logan pulled his chin in. ‘I’m sorry, have we...?’

The wee man stuck out his hand. ‘Malcolm McLennan. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Malcolm McLennan, AKA: Malk the Knife.

Oh Christ. Harper would love that.

22

Malcolm McLennan’s smile positively sparkled. ‘I understand you’re looking into the death of that unfortunate gentleman in Macduff, Sergeant. What was his name... Peter Shepherd?’ A sigh. ‘Ah, it’s a terrible thing. The grapevine tells me he was beaten, bagged, and bleached.’

Of course it did.

‘Well, Sergeant, I know imitation is meant to be the sincerest form of flattery, but it’s not so flattering when it brings with it the unwarranted scrutiny of the police. Don’t you think?’

‘Are you saying your people didn’t kill him?’

‘Well, of course they didn’t. My people don’t kill anyone, Sergeant, we build affordable housing for hardworking families. We undertake public construction works. We raise money for Alzheimer’s research.’ A shrug raised the shoulders of what was probably a very expensive suit. ‘We try to do our bit.’

Logan returned the smile. ‘So all that stuff about prostitution, protection rackets, illegal firearms, people trafficking, drugs — that’s, what, a misunderstanding?’

‘Exactly.’ McLennan winked. ‘But if it were true I can assure you we’d have no interest in someone like Peter Shepherd. You’re following a trail of breadcrumbs, through the woods, to the wrong cottage. This one doesn’t lead home.’

No it led to Granny’s cottage, and the wolf was in residence.

‘So the fact that you lent him two hundred thousand pounds was just a coincidence?’

‘Two hundred...?’ Wrinkles appeared between his eyebrows. ‘Who told you that? Why would I lend him money?’

‘Because his company was going bankrupt.’

McLennan leaned in closer. ‘Trust me, Sergeant McRae, I don’t invest in failing businesses. If I’m interested in them I wait for them to fail, then I scoop up the assets once they’ve gone into receivership. I don’t throw money away.’

Had to admit he had a point. Why give Shepherd a loan he couldn’t pay back, just to get your hands on a container logistics company that’d be bankrupt by the end of the month anyway?

‘So if it wasn’t your people, who was it? Hypothetically.’

‘Ah, if I knew that, Sergeant McRae, I’d tell you. And if I find out, don’t worry: I’ll be doing my civic duty.’ The smile fell from his voice. ‘I don’t take kindly to people trying to fit me up.’

A couple walked by, glaring at each other and muttering in low voices.

Someone laughed in the distance.

The sound of car engines starting filtered through from the other side of the graveyard wall, as people departed the land of the dead.

Malcolm McLennan patted Logan on the arm. ‘Glad we cleared that up.’ He turned and walked off towards the road, joining a couple of massive goons in identical black suits.

They held the gate open for him, then stood there, staring back at Logan. Then they were gone.

He huffed out a long breath. Let his shoulders droop a bit.

Malcolm McLennan had heard a lot about him. Great.

Logan joined Narveer and Harper under the tree. ‘Someone in the Major Investigation Team can’t keep their big gob shut.’

Harper clicked a white tab of gum from a blister pack and popped it in her mouth, voice cold and hard. ‘Have you and Malcolm McLennan been friends long, Sergeant? Because you looked very chummy.’

‘Never met the man till two minutes ago.’

‘Could’ve fooled me. You’re not in CID any more, Sergeant, and yet here you are, rubbing shoulders with half the organized crime families in Scotland. Odd that, isn’t it?’

Logan folded his arms and leaned back against the tree. ‘McLennan says his people had nothing to do with Shepherd’s death. Says someone’s fitting him up.’

Narveer shrugged. ‘He would say that, wouldn’t he? Not exactly going to admit to it.’

True.

‘I didn’t know him, but he knew me. He knew how Shepherd’s body had been staged. Someone on the MIT’s talking.’

Harper chewed. ‘Oh I can believe that. And who’s my prime suspect?’ Her finger jabbed Logan in the chest. ‘You. Who the hell do you think you are? Coming down here and barging in, interfering with my investigation.’

‘I didn’t interfere with anything. It’s—’

‘What were you trying to do, muddy the waters? Warn someone off? Why are you even here?’

Logan’s back stiffened. ‘Are you finished?’

‘First you’re obstructive, then you’re useless, then you can’t even make a cup of coffee without turning it into a disaster, and now you’re talking to my suspects behind my back!’

‘Oh don’t be so—’

‘I have given you every chance to redeem yourself, Sergeant, but you still keep screwing up. If you ever go anywhere near Malcolm McLennan again, or anyone else, without my express written permission, you’re finished. Are we clear?’

‘He bumped into me! How am I—’

‘I said,’ she was getting louder with every word, ‘are — we — clear?’

Narveer turned away, taking a surprising amount of interest in a lichen-crusted headstone.

Logan stared at her. Let the silence grow. Then pulled on the coldest smile he could. ‘Very, sir.’

‘And don’t think I won’t be discussing this with Professional Standards.’

‘You do that, sir.’

A wave of shadow crashed across the fields, sweeping the sunlight before it. It crested the hill and swallowed the graveyard, plunging it into a gloom that washed all warmth from the air.

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets and pulled his shoulders up to his ears.

Clouds made a heavy grey lid, blanking out the sun.

Twenty minutes, hanging about outside the church, and there was still no sign of John Urquhart. How was Logan supposed to get home?

A handful of mourners lingered at the graveside. OAPs with curved spines and hooked noses. Glittering eyes and hands like claws.

Tiny pale flakes drifted down from the sky, melting as soon as they landed. But when Logan breathed out his breath left vapour trails.

Where the hell was Urquhart?

He worked his way over to the gate, peering round the high churchyard wall at the dozen or so cars still parked along the verge. Urquhart’s Audi was there.

More snow.

Sod this. Might as well call for a taxi. He pulled out his phone.

‘Laz?’ A voice behind him. ‘Aye, it is. Thought it was you.’

Logan turned. ‘Doreen?’ A smile broke out on his face. ‘Good grief, Doreen Taylor. It’s been... what?’

‘Year and a half: Baldy Bain’s retirement bash.’ She hadn’t changed a bit — still looked like someone’s plump aunty, dressed in a trouser suit and frumpy brown pudding-bowl haircut. Doreen pointed at the hunched figure next to her. ‘You met DC Shand? No relation.’

He held up a long tapered hand. ‘Hi.’ When he opened his mouth, the reek of long-dead garlic staggered out.

‘Iain, this is Sergeant McRae — used to be my acting DI back in CID.’ She beamed. ‘Logan, Lazarus, McRae. What brings you here?’

Not another one.

‘Wanted to see who turned up. You know: rumours.’

She shuddered. ‘Tell me about it. Half the druggies in town are convinced World War Three’s going to kick off in Tillydrone.’

He pointed at the church. ‘You?’

‘Much the same. We’re in Serious and Organised now. The boss wanted a heads up on who’s sniffing about Wee Hamish Mowat’s old territory. See if we can nip some of that in the bum before it starts.’

‘Right. Right.’

A couple of the wizened old gravesiders shuffled out through the gate and away.

‘So...’ Logan shrugged. ‘You see much of Biohazard?’

‘Argh.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s with the Divisional Rape Investigation Unit. Had to share a car with him on a shout last week and I swear to God a human being shouldn’t be able to produce smells like that, it’s not normal.’

Happy days.

‘Don’t suppose you guys are heading back into town?’

‘Before we freeze to death.’ She peered up at the sky and flecks of snow settled on her fringe. ‘See when I retire? I’m emigrating somewhere warm.’

‘Any chance of a lift?’

Logan sat in the back of the pool car, Doreen in the passenger seat, with DC Shand behind the wheel. Driving them along the twisting South Deeside Road. The snow was getting heavier, thickening, highlighting the bare branches of trees on either side.

She turned to look at him. ‘You hear the latest? They’re talking about merging Aberdeen City and Moray-and-the-Shire back together again.’

Logan groaned. ‘What was the point of splitting them up in the first place, then?’

‘Exactly.’

His phone dinged in his pocket and he pulled it out. Text message:

John Urquhart.

Doreen produced a hanky and blew her nose. ‘Can you imagine how much money we wasted changing everything from Grampian Police? All the signage, all the posters and bits and bobs?’

Be nice to ignore it, but then again he needed Urquhart. No point being in a one-person conspiracy to commit murder.

Logan thumbed out a reply.

Send.

‘Madness, isn’t it?’ She tucked her hanky away. ‘So, all that time and effort, and now we’re going to have to change it all back again.’

Shand shook his head. ‘Bet they won’t let us call it Grampian Police though.’

‘Don’t see why not. Tayside still get to be called Tayside.’

‘True.’

Ding.

Call that spelling? Maybe Urquhart had chucked a load of Scrabble tiles in the air and typed out whatever random order they fell in?

Ding.

What the hell was that supposed to mean: ‘Gt smthig 4 U’?

‘Still it could be worse, I suppose. Remember Big Gary McCormack the desk sergeant, Laz?’

‘Mmm?’

Ah right: got something for you.

‘He left when they screwed with the pension and pay-and-conditions; went and got himself a cushy number doing Health and Safety for one of the oil companies.’

Send.

‘Got made redundant two weeks ago. Now he’s back trying to interview for a constable’s position. How humiliating is that?’

Ding.

A present from Wee Hamish Mowat? God knew what that was. Probably another chess set.

Logan lowered his mobile and stared out of the window. The trees died away as the car slowed for the limits into Aberdeen. The granite houses had lost their sparkle beneath the clouds, darkening as the snow hit the stone and melted, leaching away the last of the sun’s heat.

Might not be such a great idea to have all these messages from one of Wee Hamish’s men on his phone. He deleted all Urquhart’s texts. Not that it would make any difference — the forensic tech guys would be able to get them back without too much trouble. And even if they couldn’t, a quick squint at the phone company’s metadata would show who he talked to and for how long.

Should really ditch the sim card and get a burner. Keep it untraceable.

But then... He scrolled down through the saved messages to the ones listed under, ‘SAMANTHA’.

Next.

Next.

Next.

The thing blared out its ringtone and Logan flinched. It tumbled from his fingers into the footwell. ‘Gah...’ He snatched it up and pressed the button. ‘What?’

‘Sergeant McRae.’ Oh joy, the dulcet tones of Detective Superintendent Harper the Harpy. ‘You and I need to talk.’

‘It’s my day off. If you want to shout, snipe, or belittle me you can wait till I’m on duty again. Till then, feel free to sod off.’

The pool car slowed as it approached the roundabout.

Silence from the phone.

Probably shouldn’t have said that last bit. But you know what? Screw her. Today was bad enough without having to kowtow to some jumped-up, holier-than-everyone, Central-Belt tosser on an ego trip.

An articulated lorry roared across in front of the car, the driver with one hand firmly engaged in trying to remove his own brain via his nose.

Still nothing from Harper. Maybe she’d felt free and sodded off?

‘You still there?’

‘Do you normally talk to superior officers like that, Sergeant?’

‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

‘Sergeant McRae, how dare—’

‘Tell you what, if you’re so offended and upset, you go right ahead and put in that complaint with Professional Standards. Have me thrown off the MIT. You won’t have to put up with my “incompetence” and I won’t have to put up with you.’ Blood thumped in his ears, the back of his arms itching in time with it. ‘Do us both a favour.’ He jabbed the call end button with his thumb. Bared his teeth at it. Then thumped his phone down on the seat beside him.

It burst into song again. Same number.

Decline.

And again.

He switched his phone off.

The car crawled up South Anderson Drive. A wee bit of snow and everyone drove like an old wifie, peering out over their steering wheels, doing five miles an hour. Could get out and walk quicker than this.

Doreen swore, then pulled out her buzzing mobile. ‘DS Taylor... What?... Yes, no, Boss... Yes, we’re heading over to the wake... Sergeant McRae?’ She looked back over her shoulder at him. ‘Yes, we’re giving him a lift. How did you—... No, he’s right here. You want to talk to him?... Oh. OK.’ Wrinkles lined up between her eyebrows. ‘Are you sure, Boss? Don’t mean to be funny, but we’re supposed to—... Right. I understand. Soon as we can... Yes, bye.’

She put her phone away. ‘Change of plan, Iain. We’re dropping Sergeant McRae off in Bucksburn.’

Her sidekick groaned. ‘But we’re going to the wake. Little sandwiches, those wee chicken Kiev things, slices of quiche.’

‘Bucksburn station, Constable, and step on it.’

Logan sat forward and tapped Doreen on the shoulder. ‘I don’t want to go to Bucksburn, I want to go to the bus station. I’m going home.’

‘Sorry, Laz, orders from on high.’

Sod that.

The traffic groaned to a halt at the junction with Great Western Road, a line of cars and articulated lorries halted at the traffic lights in front of them.

‘Fine, I’ll get out and walk.’ He unclipped his seatbelt and grabbed the door handle.

Nothing happened.

The child locks were on. Of course they were — this was a CID pool car. Couldn’t have suspects letting themselves out whenever they felt like it.

‘Doreen, I’m not even on duty, I’ve had a crappy day, and I want to go home.’

Colour flushed her cheeks. ‘We don’t have any choice, OK? Orders are orders.’ She tried for a smile. It didn’t look very convincing. ‘It’ll only take a moment. I’m sure it’s nothing really, just a quick chat with Professional Standards...’

Friday the thirteenth strikes again.

23

The floral stench of carpet cleaner filled the anonymous waiting room. Probably there to cover the smell of fear, sweated out by previous victims. Posters on the wall extolled the virtues of Police Scotland, each with a posed photo of an officer at some scenic spot. Truth. Reliability. Honesty. Impartiality.

Traffic droned by outside.

Logan paced back to the window.

Snow drifted down in large puffy flakes, thick enough to hide everything beyond a few hundred feet. Cars and buses and lorries, nose-to-tailed each other on either side of the dual carriageway below. Streams of headlights and blood-red tail-lights, moving in a slow-motion shuffle away from here.

Jammy sods.

But then they hadn’t been ratted out to Professional Standards by Superintendent Bloody Harper. No, that was a special treat for Logan alone.

He scowled at the crawling traffic.

OK, so maybe it had been a mistake to tell her to sod off and hang up on her. And maybe he could’ve diffused the situation instead of making it worse. But...

Yeah, probably best to leave that thought there.

Idiot.

He pulled out his phone and turned it back on again. No more texts from Urquhart, thank God. But there was a voicemail from Calamity. Logan set it playing.

‘Sarge? Hi. It’s Janet... Listen, we heard about Samantha, and we wanted... well, we’re really, really sorry. If there’s anything we can do, you give us a call, OK? All of us.’ There was a long pause. ‘If you want to talk to someone, or, you know, go out and get weaselled, let us know. We’re thinking of you.’

‘End of Messages. To Replay The Message, Press One. To—’

Logan hung up.

Put his phone away.

Stared out at the traffic.

‘So sorry to keep you waiting.’ A gaunt woman stood in the doorway, wearing standard Police-issue black with an inspector’s pips on the epaulettes. Her fringe was nearly down to her eyebrows, but it didn’t manage to hide the thick wrinkly creases that made valleys across her forehead. ‘We’re ready for you now.’

Logan followed her out into the corridor, past office after office — all with their doors shut — and into another room.

They’d made more of an effort in here. Pot plants stood in the corners, historical photographs of Aberdeen hung on the walls, and a couple of windows looked out onto the snow. She waved a hand at one of the comfy chairs arranged around a coffee table with a bowl of individually wrapped mints on it. ‘Now, would you like a tea or a coffee before we start?’

OK...

She was obviously down to play Good Cop.

‘Thanks. Tea with milk. If that’s all right?’

‘Not a problem. Well, take a seat, Sergeant McRae, Chief Superintendent Napier will be with you soon as he’s off the phone.’ She slipped out, closing the door behind her.

So really he’d just swapped one waiting room for another.

But at least an inspector was making him tea for a change.

Logan sank into the comfy chair.

Nobody expects the Spanish inquisition.

She was back two minutes later with a mug and a small plate of jammie dodgers. ‘There you go. Won’t be long now.’ And she was gone again.

Maybe there were hidden cameras in the room, filming his every movement? Maybe Napier and his Minions of Darkness were huddled in an observation suite watching him right now? Waiting for him to incriminate himself.

Well tough.

Logan helped himself to a biscuit.

Wonder what it was this time: telling Superintendent Harpy where to stick her MIT, being at Wee Hamish’s funeral, selling the flat to John Urquhart for way over the valuation... Or perhaps it was about a drug dealer getting beaten to death with a claw hammer?

Sit still and drink your tea. Don’t fidget. Eat your jammie dodgers.

Two biscuits later, Chief Superintendent Napier arrived, with a file under one arm and a mug in the other. ‘Sergeant.’ He settled into the chair opposite. Put the mug on the table and opened the file. ‘Now, as you may have guessed, a number of people in the Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism Unit are interested in your attendance at Hamish Mowat’s funeral this afternoon.’ Napier steepled his fingers. ‘Would you care to comment on that?’

Logan had a sip of tea. ‘I was abducted from my home this morning by three men in a Transit van, forced into a black suit, and driven to a garage somewhere on the outskirts of Aberdeen where I witnessed a man being murdered. I was then driven to the funeral because Hamish Mowat thought of me as a friend and a fitting successor to lead his criminal empire after his death. On the way there I plotted with another individual to kill Mr Mowat’s right-hand man.’

Napier smiled, then nodded. ‘Well, that’s quite understandable. Now, would you like a pay rise or a knighthood? I’ve been authorized to give you both, if you like?’

Oh, if only.

Instead Logan lowered his mug. ‘We’ve been getting reports of various cartels and gangs wanting to move into the area following Hamish Mowat’s death. After discussing this with Chief Inspector Steel, it was decided that I should attend the funeral.’

Napier raised an eyebrow. ‘You discussed this with DCI Steel?’

‘Ask her if you like.’ Logan pulled out his phone and called Steel.

Two rings, then her voice blared in his ear. ‘Where the hell did you get to? I turned up at lunchtime with a big bag of sausage rolls, all set for tea and sympathy, and you were nowhere to be—’

‘Guv, can you brief Chief Superintendent Napier about our plan for me to scope out Wee Hamish Mowat’s funeral today?’ He put his mobile on speakerphone and held it out.

Silence.

Napier leaned forward in his seat. ‘Well, Chief Inspector?’

‘Hold on, got digestive biscuit crumbs all down my cleavage.’

He curled his top lip and sat back again.

‘Aye, right. The funeral. I sent Sergeant McRae down there to scope out the opposition. I got the feeling these thugs from down south would be up for the service, and I wanted someone on-site to see if they could pick up some info. You know, what with Peter Shepherd being all dead in a Malk-the-Knifey way.’

Had to hand it to her: no one could lie quicker and slicker than Roberta Steel.

‘Now is there anything else? Only my boobs are all gritty with biscuit here and I need to get my bra off and give it a good shake.’

If Napier was trying to hide his grimace, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. ‘I see. Well... we won’t keep you from that.’

Logan switched the speakerphone off and put the phone back to his ear. ‘Thanks. I’ll debrief you when I get back to Banff.’

‘You’re no’ doing anything with my briefs, Sunshine. My pants are off limits. And what the hell was that all about? You better no’ be—’

He hung up and switched his mobile off again.

Napier closed the folder. ‘I’m glad we could get that cleared up so quickly.’ Then he stood and stalked across the room to the window and stood there with his hands behind his back, as if he were reviewing the troops. ‘And did you learn anything of import at the funeral, Sergeant?’

‘Malcolm McLennan thinks someone’s trying to fit him up.’

‘I see. Speaking of “fitting people up”, while we’ve got you here, I’d like to talk about Jack Wallace.’

Steel’s paedophile.

Logan drained the last of his tea. ‘What about him?’

‘His laptop. Oh, it’s full of child abuse images, that’s not at issue, but Wallace claims his laptop was missing for a couple of days. He’s adamant that someone else took it and put those images on there. That he would never have done it himself.’

‘Yes, because real paedophiles always own up to what they’ve done, don’t they? Only the innocent ones say they didn’t do it.’

‘Steel had dealings with Wallace before. She investigated him twice on accusations of rape.’

‘Children?’

Napier shook his head. ‘Both times the prosecution fell through. The victims changed their minds and withdrew their complaints. And we all know how well DCI Steel takes failure in cases of sexual assault.’

Snow was building up along the window ledge, clumps sticking to the glass for a moment, before melting.

‘You see, Logan, the laptop worries me. All those images of child abuse are in two distinct blocks. Half were loaded onto the machine one day, and the rest went on the day after. One would expect, if Jack Wallace really were a practising paedophile, the images would have built up gradually over a period of time. But they didn’t, they simply arrived...’ He turned and leaned back against the windowsill. ‘Which is suspicious, don’t you agree? Almost as if someone had placed them there on purpose.’

Logan fiddled with his empty mug. ‘Were the pictures encrypted? Had he tried to hide them in any way?’

‘The folder they were in was password protected: his mother’s maiden name, spelled backwards. All sitting in a subdirectory of his iTunes files.’

So pretty well hidden then.

Which did beg the question: how did Steel find them buried away down there?

Napier flashed his teeth. ‘Ah, I see you’ve finished your tea. Why don’t we go and sort that out?’

God, a cup of tea from an inspector and a chief superintendent, all in the same day? Well that certainly made up for all the other crap that had happened since breakfast.

Down the corridor, third on the left. It wasn’t much more than a cupboard with a kettle, a microwave, a toaster, and a wee fridge.

Napier filled the kettle from a bottle of mineral water, and stuck it on to boil. ‘Would you like to have a look at the laptop? It’s being held here as evidence.’

‘Lots of pictures of kids being abused? Not really.’

‘I meant the files. You don’t have to browse the actual images.’

Oh. ‘Would it help?’

‘It might help you.’

He made two mugs of tea, and glopped milk into Logan’s without asking. Then handed it over. ‘No sugar: that’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Er... Thank you.’

Napier opened a cupboard and took out a bag-for-life that was covered with bees and flowers. He reached inside and produced a round metal biscuit tin. Gave it a shoogle. ‘Ah, good. The Counter Corruption team haven’t got their sticky fingers on them yet.’ He levered the lid off. ‘I’ll pass you on to Karl, our IT whiz, he’ll show you anything you need.’ Then Napier held the open tin out to Logan. It was full of raggedy brown things. ‘Chocolate crispies. I make them with Special K, melted Mars Bars, and crunched-up Maltesers. Not frightfully good for you, but little treats, now and then.’

‘Yes. Right.’ Logan blinked at him, then helped himself to one. ‘Lovely.’

OK, this was getting creepy.

Napier popped the lid back on and tucked the tin under his arm with the folder, then led the way back out into the corridor. ‘Tell me, Logan, do you enjoy being in uniform again? Feet on the streets, dealing with the public?’

He followed Napier down towards the far end. ‘It’s...’ A frown. ‘Yes.’

‘Good man. I miss it myself. Oh, it’s lovely being in a position to influence policy and really achieve things on a broader scale, but there’s a lot to be said for being on the front line.’ He stopped, knocked on one of the office doors, then poked his head inside. ‘Karl? That’s Sergeant McRae here. Show him anything he needs to see, all right?’

A middle-aged man with a grey cardigan thrown on over his black Police Scotland T-shirt peered out at them from behind a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles. His gaze drifted downwards, then a smile split his round face. ‘Do these ancient eyes deceive me, Nigel, or have you made another batch of your famous fudge-and-raisin brownies? Hmmmm?’

Napier held the tin out. ‘Chocolate crispies.’

‘Ooh, I love those.’ He creaked the tin open and helped himself. ‘Now, Sergeant McRae, let’s get you sorted. Thank you, Nigel, I’ll take good care of him.’

‘Well, this is where we part company, Logan.’ Napier shook his hand. ‘I’m afraid I have to deal with a constable who seems to have forgotten that rule number one of using an extendable baton is you do not hit people in the head with them. But if you need anything, give me a call.’ And then the doppelganger pretending to be the Ginger Ninja turned on his heel and marched off to distribute his chocolatey treats.

‘Shall we, Sergeant?’ Karl ushered Logan inside and closed the door behind him. Plonked himself on the other side of a workbench covered in bits of electronic equipment. Laptops, desktops, tablets, mobile phones — all tagged and bearing sticky labels. Another, smaller, bench sat against the wall with a laptop on it, a rainbow swirly screensaver dancing away across the display. ‘That’s you over there. All set up and ready.’

Logan perched on the edge of a bar stool and poked at the keyboard. The screensaver disappeared, replaced by the machine’s desktop. The picture was a line-up of Aberdeen football club players, all done up in their red kit. ‘Karl?’

‘By name, Karl by nature.’

‘Does Chief Superintendent Napier do a lot of baking things?’

‘Every Friday. You really should try Nigel’s brownies. Oh my, yes.’

Napier baking? Being nice to people? Having a first name? It was official — that last blow to Logan’s head had scrambled his brains. That, or he’d woken up in some alternative mirror-universe this morning.

Nigel.

Bizarre.

Logan moved the mouse arrow over the folder icon and clicked it open. Navigated his way through the computer’s hard drive to the iTunes section of the program files. ‘Any idea where I should be looking?’

‘Try “iTunes dot resources”.’

He did and got a screen full of other folders for his trouble. ‘Then what?’

‘“E S underscore M X dot lproj”. Then “printing templates”. You’ll see a printer icon, only it’s not really a printer it’s a password-protected RAR file.’

It sat at the top of a list of XML files. Logan double-clicked it and when the password prompt came up, turned back to Karl. ‘Do you have...’

He was holding up a Post-it note with ‘HUTCHESON’ written on it in big black letters. ‘Only backwards. Capital N.’

Logan picked ‘NOSEHCTUH’ out on the keyboard and hit return. Immediately the screen filled with rows and rows of pretty explicit filenames. Some were clearly ordered into groups, as if they formed part of a different photo set. They all had different modified dates, but when Logan ordered them by created date, they fell into two distinct chunks just like Napier had said. And the created dates were all after the modified dates as well.

He leaned back on his seat.

OK, so that didn’t prove anything, did it? Jack Wallace might have got them from one of the dodgy scumbags in his paedophile ring. Or maybe he copied them off an older machine? Or had them saved onto a DVD or something?

Didn’t mean Steel broke into his house or car, nicked his laptop, then stuck a bunch of kiddy porn on it. Returned it to the house and accidentally stumbled onto the folder.

Though let’s face it: the files would be nearly impossible to find, given how buried they were in the file structure. You’d really need to know what you were looking for and where, not to mention what the password was. Steel could barely work her own phone, never mind hack her way through a jungle of folders.

And what had she said, when he’d asked her about it? Wallace didn’t even try to hide the pictures, as if he was proud of his collection.

Yeah. This was beginning to look dodgier by the minute.

‘Karl?’

‘Your wish is my command, oh inquisitive one.’

Logan pointed at the laptop. ‘These files, all squirrelled away down here in the iTunes folders, that takes some doing, right? Wallace had to be a bit of a computer whizz kid to bury them away there.’

‘Oh dearie me, no.’ Karl laughed, big and wobbly, like something off a fairground attraction. ‘Finding the files is difficult. Hiding them, on the other hand, is child’s play. You navigate your way down to the bottom of any folder tree that takes your fancy, and Robert is the sibling of your immediate progenitor. My Yorkshire terrier could do it with one paw tied behind his back.’

So maybe even a detective chief inspector could manage.

Steel wouldn’t fit him up for fun, though, there had to be a reason.

Logan turned around in his seat. ‘Napier said you could show me anything I need to see, right? Well, I need to see everything you’ve got on Jack Wallace.’

24

‘Of course, you know what this is, don’t you?’

Logan stared at the crumpled lump in the toilet mirror. ‘Shut up.’ He finished washing his hands, then ran them under the howling roar of the air dryer.

Mirror Logan shook his head. ‘You’re only doing this so you don’t have to go home and sit there. In the dark. Getting drunk. Worrying about Reuben.’

‘Yes, but this is important, isn’t it?’

‘You killed Samantha this morning, remember?’

‘So what: you want I should be home brooding instead?’

‘Yes!’ A nod. ‘At home, right now, not dicking about in Bucksburn station, helping Napier get Steel up on charges. Should be getting utterly and completely hammered...’

A shudder rippled its way through him. Hammered wasn’t a term to use today. Not after what happened to Tony Evans.

Deep breath.

The whole top floor was strangely quiet. In most police stations the place would be a barely controlled din of phones and voices and printers. People hanging out in the corridor gossiping and passing on info. But this was like visiting a hospital ward, where the cubicles were full of the soon-to-be dearly departed.

Logan made himself another cup of tea, then headed back to his temporary office. The place was full of photos — a happy woman looking increasingly rounded, finishing off with what must have been a baby shower. He sank behind the desk. Had a sip of too-hot tea, and frowned at the open file.

Jack Wallace: twenty-nine, blond with a wide nose and big chin. In the attached picture, his eyes were partially hidden by a pair of glasses. Oh, and he’d turned up the collar of his polo shirt, presumably because he wanted to look like a dickhead.

Mission accomplished, Jack.

Logan tapped his fingers on the pile of forms and statements.

Jack, Jack, Jack.

Nothing in there suggested he was into sexually abusing children. No, Jack the Lad was a ladies’ man, whether they liked it or not. As long as he was bigger and stronger than them. And it wasn’t just the two failed prosecutions for rape — there were about a dozen complaints of sexual harassment and assault. Everything from copping a feel in the lift at work, to ripping off a stranger’s blouse in a nightclub toilet then breaking her nose.

No denying it: Jack Wallace was a charmer.

But a paedophile?

All those pictures, hidden away on his laptop. Hidden away and password protected.

Hmmm...

Logan pulled out his phone and flicked through his own photos. There was Samantha, at a beach party in Lossiemouth, grinning like a slice of Edam. Another with her peeling the clingfilm off a new tattoo. One with her lying on her back, on the bed, in her leather corset, grinning up at him.

‘And before you say it, I know, OK?’ He put the phone down on the desk. ‘If you were here, you’d agree with the idiot in the mirror. Well, you’re both right. And I don’t care.’

No reply.

‘And don’t look at me like that. What was I supposed to do?’ He shifted in his seat. ‘I tried, OK? I tried to kill him and the gun didn’t work.’

Samantha’s picture sat there. Not moving. Not saying anything.

‘Yes, all right: it was cowardly, I admit it. You happy now? I tried to talk Urquhart into doing my dirty work for me, because I haven’t got the balls to do it myself.’

Logan scrubbed his hands across his face. ‘I don’t want to kill anyone.’

Mirror Logan was right, he shouldn’t be here, he should be home getting hammered.

Hmmm...

A frown.

The desktop computer came on with a bleep when Logan wiggled the mouse. Typical — its owner had been away on maternity leave for two months, and no one had thought to switch her computer off. No wonder Police Scotland was having trouble saving money.

He logged into the system and ran a search for Tony Evans.

It looked as if Urquhart had been telling the truth. Evans was a small-time drug dealer, never caught with more than nine hundred and ninety quid on him — a tenner shy of getting the lot seized as proceeds of crime. His criminal record was predictably repetitive: possession, possession, possession with intent, aggravated assault, possession, theft from a motor vehicle, possession with intent, theft by opening lockfast places, possession...

And right now, he was probably working his way, in very small pieces, through the digestive system of a couple dozen pigs. No body. No witnesses.

Well, yes, OK — there were witnesses, but Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA weren’t going to roll over on Reuben, were they? Not a chance. Urquhart wouldn’t rat either.

Which left Logan.

He glanced at the phone. Samantha’s picture had disappeared, replaced by a blank black screen.

‘What am I supposed to do, march up to Napier and tell him I watched Reuben batter Tony Evans’s head in? Oh, and by the way, I didn’t stop him. I just stood there like a squeezed pluke.’

No reply.

He put on a passable imitation of Napier’s clipped oily tones: ‘And tell me, Sergeant McRae, why exactly did you leave it this long to inform anyone of Reuben’s heinous crime?’

‘Well, your Ginger Ninja-iness, that’s a very good question. Makes me look a bit suspect, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it does.’

‘As if I made the whole thing up?’

‘Did you, Sergeant?’

‘Wonderful...’ Logan sat back in his borrowed seat. ‘Maybe I could tell him I’m suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? What with the horror of killing my girlfriend this morning, then witnessing a murder.’

Yeah, that would work.

He poked the phone. ‘Where are you? I sound like a nutter talking to myself like this. At least when you—’

A knock on the door, then Karl stuck his head into the room. ‘Sorry, thought you had visitors. I come bearing gifts!’ He scuffed in on tartan slippers, then dug into his cardigan pocket and produced a USB stick. ‘Ta-daaaaaaa...’

Professional Standards definitely had a weirdo-hiring policy.

Karl leaned over the desk and plugged the stick into a slot on the front of the computer. ‘You’re very welcome.’

‘What is it?’

‘Ah, an excellent question. For ten points, and a chance to come back next week, who managed to dig out a copy of the last interview DCI Steel did with Jack Wallace?’

Logan forced on a smile. ‘Would it be you?’

‘Bing! Correct, you move on to the next round. Thanks for playing.’ He stuck his hands in his cardigan, stretching it out of shape. ‘I can’t get hold of the earlier one, and, to be perfectly honest, I shouldn’t have been able to get hold of this one either. Still, ask no questions, nudge-nudge, etc.’

A couple of clicks had the video file playing full screen. It was one of the interview rooms at Aberdeen Divisional Headquarters — number three going by the beige Australia-shaped stain on the wall by the window. Three figures were visible, two sitting with their backs to the camera — one blond spiky haircut and one that looked like a badger who’d been run over by a combine harvester. DS Rennie and DCI Steel. Which meant the man on the other side of the table, facing the camera, had to be Jack Wallace.

His clothes must have gone off for testing, because he was wearing a white SOC oversuit with the hood thrown back. Not a big man, in any sense of the word. Thin, with a pencilled-in beard and narrow eyes, hair scraped forward in a failed attempt to cover a receding hairline. Long tapered fingers fiddled with the elasticated cuffs of the Tyvek suit. He opened his mouth, but nothing seemed to come out.

‘What happened to the sound?’

Karl poked a button on the keyboard and the computer’s tiny speakers crackled into life.

‘...comment.’ Wallace shut his mouth again.

‘It was on mute, dear fellow. Mute.’ Karl straightened up and rubbed at the small of his back. ‘Just drop the USB stick off when you’re done with it. Things are like gold dust here.’

Steel opened the folder in front of her. ‘And do you live at twenty-seven Cattofield Crescent, Kittybrewster, Aberdeen?’

‘No comment.’ The voice was flat and expressionless, as if he couldn’t really be bothered.

‘Good luck, contestant.’ A salute, then Karl turned and scuffed out of the room, leaving Logan alone with the computer.

‘Did you go to Auchterturra Lights nightclub on Justice Mill Lane, Aberdeen, last Friday night?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you see anyone there you knew?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you approach this woman and offer to buy her a drink?’ Steel pulled out a photograph and slid it across the table. Difficult to make out from here, but it looked like a head-and-shoulders shot of a woman with long blonde hair. ‘Claudia Boroditsky.’

‘No comment.’

Yeah, this interview was going well.

‘Did you repeatedly attempt to dance with her?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did she tell you that she wasn’t interested, because she had a boyfriend?’

‘No comment.’

‘At eleven forty-five when she left the nightclub, did you follow Claudia Boroditsky?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you make sexually threatening comments to her on Westfield Road?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you attack her on Argyll Place and pull her into Victoria Park?’

Wallace barely moved the whole time. Just sat there, picking at the sleeves of his white oversuit. ‘No comment.’

‘Did you punch her in the face, breaking her cheekbone?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you repeatedly kick her in the chest and stomach?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you produce a knife and hold it to her throat?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you tell her that if she screamed you’d “gut and skin her like a rabbit, then send the bits to her parents”?’

‘No comment.’

Steel’s hands tightened on the folder, making the edges curl. ‘Did you tear off her skirt and blouse? Did you cut away her underwear with your knife?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you rape her?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did you rape Claudia Boroditsky?’

‘No comment.’

‘Did — you — rape — her?’

Wallace seemed to think about that, his head on one side as he looked down at the photograph on the interview room table. Then he sat back. His face was as lifeless as his voice. ‘No comment.’

Logan’s breath billowed out in a pale cloud. He stuck his free hand into his trouser pocket and hunched his shoulders. Shuffled his feet. Still didn’t help. The air was so cold, every breath was like being stabbed with frozen knitting needles. ‘Because I wanted to go, OK?’

DCI Steel snorted down the phone at him. ‘You wanted to go to Wee Hamish Mowat’s funeral? What the hell is wrong with you, Laz, you lost your marble?’

The snow fell in slow lazy flakes, covering the pavement, piling up on top of the bus shelter. Drifting down between the crawling traffic.

‘It’s “marbles”. Plural.’

‘You’re no’ in possession of plural marbles. If you had one more screw loose everything would fall apart. No wonder the Ginger Ninja was after you.’

‘Yeah, well...’ He peered around the side of the bus shelter, back towards town. Cars and trucks and lorries and, dear Lord, was that the actual bus? The number 35 had finally crawled into view. And only twenty minutes late.

Which was pretty impressive, given the state of the traffic.

‘So where are you?’

‘Aberdeen. Waiting for the bus.’

‘The bus? Why didn’t you drive, you thick... Actually, I don’t care as long as you’re on your way home. Got plans this evening: curry and beer-ish plans. And maybe whisky-ish too.’

The number 35 grumbled through the snow. Its heating better be working or there was going to be trouble.

Standing out here in a cheap funeral suit and shiny shoes. Like an idiot.

‘We’ve got sod all out of Martin Milne today, by the way. Thanks for asking.’

‘I’m sorry, but maybe I’ve had other things on my mind today.’ He dug out his money ‘Be back about six. Ish.’

‘Did a press briefing with him this morning, so the jackals have dispersed. Don’t see Malk the Knife getting Milne to go smuggling anytime soon, though.’

‘Going to have a bath when I get in, so give us an hour, OK?’

‘Nah, he’s going to wait till this blows over a bit. Make his move when he thinks we’re no’ looking.’

The bus hissed to a stop, the doors opening to let out a red-faced woman and a grey-faced man.

Logan climbed inside and handed over his cash. ‘One to Banff.’

‘Bit of a risk though, isn’t it?’

He took his ticket and worked his way back along the bus to a pair of empty seats. Sat next to the condensation-streaked window. Bucksburn station loomed in the fog.

‘I mean, killing Peter Shepherd and leaving his body lying around like that. Course we’re going to investigate.’

‘I met him today.’

‘What, Peter Shepherd? How’d you manage that, ouija board?’

‘Not Peter Shepherd, you idiot, Malcolm McLennan. Says someone’s trying to set him up.’

‘Aye, and unicorns poop teacakes.’

The bus’s engine growled and they nudged out into the traffic, joining the slow-motion exodus out of town.

‘Could be though. Or maybe he did it so we’d all focus on Milne and his boats, when McLennan’s really off doing something dodgy somewhere else.’

‘Thanks, Laz, that’s sod-all help. Any other parades you’d like to piddle on while you’re at it? No? Cool, in that case I’m going to—’

The bus inched closer to the roundabout.

Someone sitting further forward nodded along to the tssssss-tsss-tsssss-tsss-tssss leaking out of their headphones.

‘Hello?’

An old lady embarked on a massive coughing session.

Logan checked his phone. Steel had hung up.

Lovely.

The battery icon was down to its last bar. Probably enough charge to last all the way home. Maybe. He stuck his mobile back in his pocket and stared out of the steamed-up window. Snow. Snow. And more Snow.

Should have asked her about Jack Wallace. Asked her why the prosecution collapsed before it got anywhere near the court. According to the files, Claudia Boroditsky withdrew her statement and claimed she’d been confused at the time of the assault. That she couldn’t really remember who attacked and raped her. That she’d had consensual sex with Wallace earlier in the evening.

Why didn’t that sound convincing? Why did it sound more likely that Wallace had tracked Claudia down and ‘persuaded’ her to change her mind?

No wonder Steel hadn’t been happy about the result.

But was she unhappy enough about it to do him on a trumped-up charge of possessing indecent photographs of children?

Logan drew a skull and crossbones on the bus window, sending tears of condensation crying down the glass.

And who’s to say Jack Wallace didn’t deserve it?

25

Logan cleared a porthole in the fogged-up window. A thin sliver of sky was squashed between the heavy grey clouds and the cold white earth; the setting sun made blood-spatters across the fields, lengthening the shadow behind the drystane dykes. Wind rocked the bus, hurling snow in great sweeping curtains.

The woman sitting in front of him shifted her phone from one ear to the other. ‘Oh, I know... I know. He’s all right, in general, but in bed? Honestly, he couldn’t find a clitoris with two Sherpas and a sat nav.’ All done at the top of her voice, as if there were nobody else on board.

The rest of the bus was a mixture of OAPs and youngsters, fiddling with their mobile phones and tablets. Each one off in their own private little fortress. A spotty man in a cagoule was actually reading a book. But he had a beard so no one wanted to sit next to him.

‘Oh, I know... Awful. I know size isn’t meant to matter, but it was like being sexually molested by a Chihuahua.’

Fog reclaimed the porthole, fading the world back to monochrome as the sun disappeared.

‘I swear to God, Jane, I thought having an affair would be more exciting. Dancing, champagne, clubs, romantic dinners, kinky hotel-room sex. He just wants to stay in watching boxed sets of Last of the Summer Wine.’

Logan’s phone burst into song, and he pulled it out. Disappeared from the world like everyone else on the bus. ‘McRae.’ But at least he had the common sense to keep his voice down.

‘Mr McRae, I have a call for you from Mr Moir-Farquharson, one moment please.’

Moir-Farquharson? Oh that was great. An afternoon with the Ginger Ninja, and now a call from Hissing Sid. Today was a gift that just kept on giving. Like syphilis.

And what kind of dick got their receptionist to make phone calls for them, anyway? It wasn’t the seventies.

‘Mr McRae?’ The voice was like a razorblade sliding down an exposed throat. ‘Sandy Moir-Farquharson, I need to talk to you about Mr Mowat’s estate.’

OK, seriously: enough with the blessings today.

Logan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘Now’s really not a good time.’

‘The will is going to be read on Monday morning, ten o’clock as per Mr Mowat’s instructions. As you’re the executor, I shall be requiring your attendance.’

‘I can’t—’

‘Mr McRae, need I remind you that Mr Mowat’s bequests include a sum of six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, sixty-six pence to be paid to yourself? As such, it might be considered churlish of you to not perform your duties.’

Oh God... The two-thirds of a million pounds.

How do you forget something like that?

By not wanting to think about it, that’s how. By running away from it, scared that anyone would find out.

Arrrrrrgh...

‘Mr McRae? Are you still there?’

Logan turned his face to the window and lowered his voice even further. ‘I told you I didn’t want his money.’

‘And I told you it doesn’t matter what you do or do not want. Mr Mowat has left this portion of his estate to you, as is his right. It will be paid to you. There is provision for its management, but how you choose to dispose of it after that is entirely your own affair.’ A sniff. ‘Any normal person would be delighted and grateful to inherit such a large sum.’

He cast a quick glance around him. No one was lugging in, they were all far too busy with their own phones. ‘I’m a police officer!’

‘And now you can be a very rich police officer. Monday, Mr McRae, ten o’clock at my office.’ He hung up.

Logan swore at the phone for a while, then switched it off and rammed it back in his pocket. Sagged in his seat, looking up at the ceiling of the bus. His bones rattled along with the engine’s diesel drone.

Two-thirds of a million. Because twenty grand over the asking price for his flat didn’t look bad enough.

And there was no way Reuben wouldn’t be there to hear Hamish’s will being read. To find out what they’d all got. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about landing Urquhart in it by clyping about the flat, he’d use the inheritance to destroy Logan.

The snow squeaked and crunched beneath his damp, shiny shoes. More fell from the dark orange sky in slow lazy arcs, like the drifting feathers of a shot bird. They flared in the streetlights’ glow, then faded, building up in ridges along the tops of the gravestones in the little cemetery. Sticking to the walls of the ancient buildings.

Logan paused for a moment outside the Market Arms. Warm light spilled from the windows, bringing with it the muffled sound of music and laughter.

Tempting.

A shiver rattled its way through him, making his teeth click.

Home. Central heating up full pelt. Hot bath. A big dram of Hamish Mowat’s whisky.

He hurried down the street, shoulders up around his ears, hands deep in his pockets.

Past the grim Scottish houses, past the grim Victorian police station, then across the grim car park. The sea was a smear of black through the falling snow, grumbling against the invisible beach.

Around the corner, and...

Logan stopped where he was, on the pavement, looking up at the Sergeant’s Hoose.

A light burned somewhere inside, oozing out of the bedroom window.

Great. Steel had let herself in again. So much for a bit of privacy.

He took out his keys, but the front door wasn’t locked. It swung open when he turned the handle, the snib disengaged.

You’d think a Detective Chief Inspector would have some idea about home security.

He clunked the door shut behind him and clicked the button for the snib. It clacked home. ‘Hello?’

The central heating pinged and gurgled.

Light spilled down the stairs from the landing.

Logan peeled off his funeral-suit jacket and draped it over the banister. Undid his tie. Dug out his phone. ‘You know you left the door off the latch, don’t you?’

He kicked off his wet shoes and stood there in his wet socks. ‘Hello?’

The jacket dripped on the laminate flooring.

‘Hello?’

OK...

He tried the kitchen.

No Steel.

Then the living room.

Still no Steel.

Typical, she’d sodded off and left the house lying wide open so any druggy could wander in and steal all his stuff. But the TV was still there, and the DVD player, and the answering machine with its winking red light.

Maybe the snow had kept all the thieving gits from stalking the streets trying door handles?

Logan stripped off his trousers and squelched over to the bookcase and plugged his mobile into the dangling charging cord. Then pressed the button on the answerphone.

‘MESSAGE ONE:’ A woman’s voice replaced the electronic one. ‘Mr McRae? Hi, it’s Sheila here from Deveronside Family Glazing Solutions again. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mix-up with your windows.’

Of course there had.

He unbuttoned his clammy shirt.

‘Your order’s been checked by Dennis and they’re all out by about fifteen mil. I’m really sorry. We’ve no idea how it happened, but we’re getting them remade now. Please accept our apologies; we’ll get them to you as soon as we can.’

Bleeeeeep.

God’s sake.

‘MESSAGE TWO:’ There was a pause. ‘Logan?’ Louise from Sunny Glen cleared her throat. ‘I just wanted to let you know that the funeral directors have collected Samantha. I gave them the photo you wanted. I’m sure they’ll do a sensitive job. And again, I’m so sorry for your loss.’

Yeah, everyone was sorry. Everyone was always sorry.

‘Don’t forget, if you need to talk to someone, Debora is very good. She’s helped a lot of families and—’

Delete.

‘MESSAGE THREE:’ Logan peeled off his soggy socks. ‘Mr McRae? Mr McRae, it’s John. John Urquhart. Look, you need to give me a call, OK? Like ASAFP. Soon as you get this.’

Delete.

No way he was leaving something like that knocking about on his answering machine for Napier to find.

What the hell did Urquhart want that was so urgent?

‘MESSAGE FOUR:’ Steel’s gravelly tones graced the living room. ‘I know you’re in there, so answer the sodding door. My key’s no’ working and I’m freezing my nipples off.’

Bleeeeeep.

What? Why would her key not work? Of course her key worked — she kept letting herself in.

‘MESSAGE FIVE:’ Steel again. ‘It’s no’ funny, Laz. I know you’re in: I can hear you moving about in there! Answer the door.’

Bleeeeeep.

Logan turned and stared towards the front door. Steel could hear someone moving about inside...

‘MESSAGE SIX:’ She was back. ‘Laz, I get it — you’re upset, you’re sulking, but...’ A sigh. ‘Look, you don’t have to sulk on your own. I’ll sulk with you, you know that. Give me a call.’

Someone was in his house.

Bleeeeeep.

‘YOU HAVE NO MORE MESSAGES.’

Bloody hell — it had to be Reuben. That’s why Urquhart wanted him to call back. Reuben was in his house. And there was Logan, shivering in his sodden pants.

Not a very dignified way to die.

He padded out into the corridor. Shifted the wet suit jacket out of the way.

His equipment belt still hung over the post, complete with CS gas canister and extendable baton. He liberated both and checked the last door on the ground floor.

It opened on a room stuffed with dusty box files, the air thick with the stench of dirt and mould. He eased the door closed and crept up the stairs, freezing at every creak and groan beneath his bare feet.

Up onto the landing and its burning light.

The guest-bedroom door lay open. No Reuben.

Bathroom: no Reuben.

Logan licked his lips, then clacked out the extendable baton to its full length and barged into the master bedroom, CS gas up and ready...

No Reuben.

He clicked on the light.

The bed was made, the curtains drawn: exactly as he’d left it this morning.

Maybe he’d forgotten to turn the landing light off before he’d left for Wee Hamish’s funeral? It was all a bit rushed, what with the three guys bundling him into the back of a Transit van. But it wasn’t dark then, so why would he have the light on in the first place?

And Steel had heard someone...

He lowered the baton. A wooden box lay in the middle of the duvet. It was about the same length and width as a shoebox, but a lot thinner. Polished oak, from the look of it, with brass hinges and catch. A small leather handle, like a briefcase.

Logan dug into the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of itchy police trousers. Fished about in the pockets until he found a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Snapped them on.

Please don’t be Tony Evans’s severed fingers. Or any other part of his anatomy.

Click. The catch snapped open and Logan opened the box.

A semiautomatic pistol sat in a lining of black foam, cut to match the outline of the gun. What looked like a silencer sat above it and a spare clip and about two dozen bullets were lined up alongside with a small cleaning kit. The smell of gun oil dark and pungent.

Someone had taped an envelope to the inside of the box’s lid, addressed ‘TO MR MCRAE’.

He sank onto the edge of the bed.

A wee furry head appeared between his pale legs, meeping and purring as she rubbed against him.

‘Hiding, were we? So much for having a guard cat.’ Logan reached down and ruffled the fur between her ears. Then opened the envelope, reading out loud to her. ‘“Dear Mr McRae. Sorry, you were out so I kinda let myself in — brackets, think you should seriously consider a better door lock, some dodgy people about, close brackets.” You don’t say. And he’s spelled “seriously” wrong.’

Cthulhu settled down on the rug, bent almost double, legs stuck out in front of her, making shlurping noises as she washed her white furry tummy.

‘“Mr M wanted you to have this. Don’t worry, it is completely clean and has never been fired. He wanted you to have this because of You Know Who. All the best, JU.”’ Logan chucked the note onto the bed. ‘Well, at least that explains who left all the lights on.’

A clean gun: no prior convictions.

Typical.

So Urquhart didn’t want to get his hands dirty after all.

Logan puffed out a long, shivery breath, then picked the thing up. Solid. Cold. Heavy. He racked back the slide. Brass flashed and a bullet span from the ejector port. Of course that didn’t mean the thing actually worked. What happened in the garage this morning had proved that.

‘I don’t want to kill him.’

He stared at the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, give it a rest! “I don’t want to kill him.”, “I don’t want to kill him.” Shut up.’ Deep breath. ‘We don’t have any choice.’

‘But—’

‘Do you want him to go after Jasmine and Naomi? Is that what you want?’

No reply.

‘Didn’t think so. And now we’ve got a gun.’

He turned it back and forth in his hand.

Have to take it out into the middle of nowhere and squeeze off a couple of rounds to make sure. Turning up to murder Reuben with an untested gun was just asking to be fed to the pigs.

The semiautomatic snapped up, pointing at the open wardrobe.

‘You can do this.’

One bullet, right between Reuben’s ugly little eyes and—

The doorbell rang.

Logan flinched.

Squeezed out a breath.

Thank God the safety was on.

He crossed to the window and peered out at the road below. No sign of a Transit van, but a rumpled figure in a high-viz jacket stared back up at him, mouth working on what was probably a family-sized bag of swearing. Snow stuck to Steel’s hair. She raised both hands and the carrier bags that dangled from them.

Right.

He stuffed the gun back in its box, snatched up the ejected bullet and stuck it in there too. Then slid the lot under the bed, with the dust and balls of cat hair.

The doorbell went again, long and loud as Steel mashed the button and held it down.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Logan got as far as the bedroom door before stopping.

Yeah, probably better put on a dressing gown. Confronting Reuben in his pants was one thing, Steel was quite another.

26

‘Pass the oniony stuff.’

Logan picked up the polystyrene container of bright-scarlet relish and held it out. Heat pounded out of the radiator, filling the kitchen with warmth, enhancing the earthy spicy smell of takeaway curry. ‘Still think the candles are a bit weird.’

Tealights flickered away on the working surface, a couple on the windowsill, still more in various wee holders on the table — tucked in between the cartons.

‘It’s no’ meant to be romantic, you halfwit. Candlelight’s appropriate for sitting shiva. And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for locking me out in the snow.’

‘Told you: I was in the shower.’ He helped himself to a glopping spoonful of bright-orange curry laced with shining green chillies. ‘In case you didn’t notice, Samantha wasn’t Jewish, and neither is chicken jalfrezi.’

Steel shovelled in a shard of papadum, crunching through the words. ‘I think Detective Superintendent Harper fancies you.’

‘Away and boil your head.’

‘All she does is mutter about you under her breath. Logan McRae, this, Logan McRae, that. Aye, when she’s no’ giving me a hard time. How come it’s my fault we’re no’ making progress catching Peter Shepherd’s— Gah!’ A blob of onion fell from the end of her papadum and tumbled into her lap. ‘Bugger.’

‘She can go boil her head too. Woman’s a menace. All she does is moan and whinge.’

‘Nah, she loves you. She wants to have your babies.’ Steel plucked the rogue bit of onion from her trousers and ate it. ‘Tell you, we were sat in that damn pool car for two hours today, watching Martin Milne’s place, and she wouldn’t shut up asking questions about you.’

Logan ripped off a chunk of naan bread. Dipped it in the thick orange sauce. ‘I hung up on her today. Told her to feel free to sod off.’

‘Ah, so you fancy her too. You should pull her pigtails — maybe she’ll show you her knickers behind the bike shed after PE.’

‘You can feel free to sod off too.’

‘Oh she’s obsessed with you, sunshine. According to Narveer, she’s been watching you for a long time. Ever since the Mastrick Monster. Got a file and everything.’ Steel shovelled in another mouthful of lamb dansak, grinning as she chewed. ‘Fiver says Harper gets her hands on your onion bhajis by the end of the week.’

‘Seriously: sod off any time you like.’

Steel poured the last of the shiraz into Logan’s glass. ‘No more wine.’

He took a swig. ‘We’re having the funeral on Monday. It’s in Aberdeen, if you want to come?’

She clunked the bottle on the table, next to the other empties. ‘Think I should go get more?’

‘Nah, I’ll go.’ He threw back the final mouthful then hauled himself out of the chair. Carry-out containers, crumpled beer cans, and carrier bags littered the work surfaces. Plates piled up in the sink. He wobbled a bit. Steadied himself with a hand on the table. ‘Why?’

‘So we can drink it.’

‘No: why’s Harper the Harpy keeping a file on me?’

‘Told you, cos she wants to shag your scarred little backside off. Ooh, Logan, do me harder, yeah, like that... mmmm. Pass the Nutella, etc.’

Woman had a one-track mind.

Logan grabbed a hoodie from the washing basket in the corner of the kitchen. Gave it a shake and pulled it on. ‘White or red?’

‘Yes.’ Steel dug into her pocket and came out with a wallet. Produced a small wad of twenties. ‘And get some whisky. Nice stuff, nothing you can clean paintbrushes with.’

He folded the notes and slipped them into his pocket. ‘Seriously, why’s Detective Superintendent Harpy keeping tabs on me?’

‘And some crisps.’

Logan lowered the carrier bags to the floor and thunked the door closed behind him. ‘I’m back.’ He ran a hand through his hair, flicking off the chunks of snow. Shrugged his way out of the high-viz jacket. ‘Hello? You still there?’

If she wasn’t, tough: he was drinking her wine anyway.

He slipped off his snow-crusted shoes and padded through to the kitchen in his socks.

Steel was at the table, a frown on her face, fingers of one hand drumming on the tabletop, phone in the other.

‘What’s bitten your bumhole?’ Logan unpacked the bags onto the table. ‘Bottle of Chardonnay, bottle of Merlot, and...’ He plonked a beige cardboard tube next to the bottles, popped off the metal lid, and pulled out the contents. ‘One bottle of Balvenie, fourteen-year-old, aged in old rum casks.’

She licked her teeth and stared at him.

‘What? What have I done now?’

‘Kinda wondering that myself.’ She pointed. ‘You already had a bottle of whisky.’

The Glenfiddich he’d got from Hamish Mowat sat on the table beside her.

‘And now we’ve got more.’ The Merlot’s top came off with a crackle as he unscrewed it. ‘Sure you don’t want to stick to wine for now? You know, pace ourselves.’ It glugged into the glasses, thick and dark and red.

‘I looked it up on the internet.’

He went back into the carrier bags. ‘Got bacon frazzles, Skips, and some sort of cheesy tortilla things. Or there’s Monster Munch.’

‘Glenfiddich 1937 Rare Collection. Where did you get this?’

Must be serious: she hadn’t even smiled at the mention of Monster Munch.

Logan sat in the chair opposite. Took a sip of wine. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You got any idea how much this bottle’s worth?’ She picked it up, holding it like a newborn baby half-full of syrupy amber liquid. ‘Last time one of these was on auction it went for forty-nine thousand pounds.’

Logan stared back. Swallowed. ‘How much?’

‘Where’d you get it from, Sergeant?’

‘Forty-nine grand? For a bottle of whisky?’

Her mouth made a thin, cold line. ‘Is this why Detective Superintendent Harper is so keen on knowing all about you? How does a duty sergeant, way up here on the Aberdeenshire coast, afford something like that?’ She leaned forward and thumped her fist on the table, making the bottles rattle. ‘Damn it, Logan, I trusted you!’

‘Are you kidding me? Have you seen the piece of crap I drive? It’s a Fiat Punto with more rust than metal on it. My kitchen cupboards are full of supermarket own-brand lentil soup!’ He snatched the bottle from her. ‘If I had forty-nine grand knocking about, do you really think I’d spend it on one bottle of whisky?’

She folded her arms. ‘I’m waiting.’

‘It was a gift, OK?’ He looked away. ‘From Hamish Mowat.’

Silence.

Steel bit her lips for a moment. ‘So, a dead gangster gives you a forty-nine thousand pound bottle of whisky, and you wonder why a detective superintendent from the Serious Organised Crime Task Force has a file on you?’

‘It’s not like that.’

‘THEN HOW IS IT?’

He covered his face with his hands. ‘I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know the whisky cost that much. We had a drink out of it, then I was given the bottle to take home.’

‘You’re a bloody idiot.’

‘I — didn’t — know.’ Logan slumped. Forty-nine grand. And the money for the flat.

Ha. As if that was the worst of it. If Steel thought this was bad, she’d hit the roof when she found out about Hamish’s last will and testament.

Six hundred and sixty-six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six pounds, and sixty-six pence kind of put the rest of it into perspective.

‘Gah...’

Maybe she was right: maybe that was why Harper had a file on him. They knew.

Oh God.

Might as well go into work on Monday and resign before they get disciplinary proceedings underway. Take Wee Hamish’s money and sod off somewhere warm, where they don’t extradite police officers who’ve taken two-thirds of a million quid from gangsters.

Steel sighed again. ‘Well, don’t just sit there — get the glasses.’

Logan scraped his chair back from the table. ‘I got on with him, OK? He fed me info on rival gangs and I put them away.’

She frowned at her fingers, ticking them against one another. ‘Forty-nine thousand quid; twenty-eight drams in a bottle; that’s forty-nine less twenty-eight... twenty-one... hundred and ninety-six...’

‘I wasn’t working for him. I wasn’t doing favours for him. I was arresting drug dealers who needed arresting anyway.’ Logan dug two tumblers out of the cupboard — the crystal ones, seeing how expensive the Glenfiddich was. ‘And I arrested his people too, when I got the chance. That was the deal: no preferential treatment.’

The glasses went on the table.

Steel squeaked the cork from the bottle. ‘One thousand, seven hundred and fifty quid a dram.’ She poured. ‘Call it three and a half grand for a double.’

He sat at the table. ‘I mean it.’

She shook her head. ‘I know you do, Laz. But if Harper gets wind of this, you’re screwed.’ Steel raised her glass in toast. ‘Here’s to getting rid of the evidence.’

‘Any... left?’ With the curtains closed and the collection of tealights on the mantelpiece, the living room was warm and cosy. Like a hug. Or a stomach full of takeaway curry, beer, wine, and very expensive whisky.

Steel blinked, then picked up the bottle and upended it over her glass. A thin stream of amber splashed into the bottom, dripped twice, then stopped. She sooked on the end, working her tongue into the neck to get out every last drop. Then sat back on the couch and squinted at him. ‘You better... better no’ be... perving on me, Laz... Like... like something out... out of a porn flim.’

‘Porn film. Film. You said “flim”.’

‘No didn’t.’

‘Yes did.’ He covered his mouth as a smoky belch rattled free. ‘What do we do... with the bottle?’

‘Forty-nine... thousand pounds.’ She gave it a shoogle. ‘Never drunk whisky that... spensive before.’

Logan lurched to his feet. ‘I’ll get the... Balvenie.’

The floor was a bit wobbly beneath his feet, but he planted them wide apart and rode it out, lurching through the kitchen. Cthulhu hunched over her mat in the corner, crunching on cat biscuits.

‘Hello, sweetie. Hello. Who’s Daddy’s... special kittenfish? Hmm? Who’s Daddy’s love?’

She kept eating.

‘Be like that then.’ Through in the lounge the phone rang. Ringity ring, ring, ring. Logan picked the new bottle off the table, taking care in case it was as wobbly as the floor.

He made it as far as the lounge door, before the ringing stopped and the sound of his own recorded voice burst out of the machine. ‘Hi, this is Logan. I’m not answering the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon as I can.’

Steel was licking the inside of the Glenfiddich bottle again.

‘Sergeant McRae?’ Oh great, that central-belt accent could mean only one thing. ‘It’s Detective Superintendent Harper... It’s Niamh.’

‘Oho!’ Steel stopped suckling and winked at him. ‘Niamh. Told you: she loves you. Smoochie smooch-smooch.’

‘Shut up.’ He lurched across to the answering machine, still clutching the Balvenie. ‘What do you want, Harpy woman?’

Silence from the machine.

‘Logan, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Clearly you’re a capable officer.’

Maybe Steel was right?

The wrinkly wreck pulled herself upright. ‘Going for a pee. If she... if she propositions you, let me know.’

‘I think we need to talk. Tomorrow, when you get into work, let me know. We have things to discuss.’

A grin from Steel. ‘Like rubbing each... each other all over with marmalade and licking... licking it off.’ The doorbell rang and she blinked at the wall. ‘I’ll get it.’

‘I may not have been entirely fair with you. So. Yes. Well.’

She lurched from the room, singing away to herself. ‘Lazarus and Niamh, up a tree, H — U — M — P — I — N — G.’

‘Anyway. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

Bleeeeeep.

OK, that was... odd. She should’ve been shouting the odds, berating him for telling her to sod off. So this afternoon she complained about him to Professional Standards, and now she was calling him up to try and mend bridges and build fences? Or was that the other way around?

Out in the hall, Steel was still going strong. ‘First comes sex, then comes sneezes, then there’s itching cos you’ve caught diseases.’

Maybe opening the Balvenie wasn’t the best of ideas?

Probably.

The front door clunked, and her voice took on its usual smoky growl. ‘Aye? Are you—’

A clatter.

A thump.

A muffled grunt.

Logan dumped the bottle on the couch and sprinted out into the hall.

Steel lay on her side, curled up in the foetal position, arms covering her head as a big bastard in a grey boilersuit and blue ski mask stamped on her ribs. Groaning every time a boot landed.

‘GET OFF HER!’ Logan grabbed at the equipment belt — still hanging over the end of the newel post — fumbled at the catch holding the extendable baton in place, and dragged the length of metal out.

Ski Mask stopped laying into Steel and lunged at him instead.

A flick of the wrist and the baton clacked out to its full length but not fast enough. Ski Mask barrelled into Logan, sending them both smashing back onto the stairs, the treads stabbing into Logan’s spine.

Hands grabbed at his head, shoving his face into the treads.

Another pair of hands. Ski Mask had a friend.

Logan swung the baton, but the friend grabbed his wrist, twisting the arm up behind his back. Red hot nails hammered into the shoulder joint, prising the bone and muscles apart. ‘AAAARRRGH!’

The pair of them dragged him over onto his front. Forcing his other arm round to join the right. Piling on the pressure until lines of burning wire tore their way from Logan’s wrists to his shoulders. The baton tumbled from his numb fingers and clattered against the laminate floor.

They hauled him upright, the pair of them pulling him around so he was facing the front door and Steel — struggling to her knees by the coat rack.

Her voice was thin and shaky. ‘Laz? Laz?’ Blood covered the lower half of her face, more pulsing out of her battered nose. Dripping from her split lip. ‘Unnngh...’ She wobbled there, eyes fuzzy and unfocused.

Logan whipped his head forwards, then back again — hard and fast, looking to connect with one of the bastards’ face. But they weren’t stupid enough to stand that close.

The pressure on his arms increased and those burning wires forced a growl out between gritted teeth. Made his legs sag. ‘Get off!’

The big guy laughed. ‘Aye, right.’ The voice was familiar: Smiler. The chatty one from the back of the Transit van.

His wee friend stepped in front of Logan. That would be Captain ABBA, with the stupid sideburns and ponytail, both hidden behind a black ski mask. ‘Either you hold still and shut up, or I’m gonna slice you open, understand?’ An eight-inch blade gleamed in the hall light, then came down to rest against Logan’s throat.

He froze.

‘Good boy.’

The front door opened and number three came in. Thin and slightly hunched as if all that time playing on a Nintendo DS had curved his spine. Mr Teeth. He closed the door behind him. Nodded at Logan. ‘Aye: in case you’re wondering, like, this is by way of a warning.’

He grabbed a handful of Steel’s hair then battered her head off the wall hard enough to dent the plasterboard. Did it again.

Mr Teeth let go and she slumped to the floor.

Logan struggled forward and a sharp line clawed at his throat.

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Captain ABBA twisted the blade, making the line sting. ‘You stand there and you watch.’

His mate knelt astride Steel, one hand wrapped in her hair, the other coiled into a fist that snapped forward and battered her head back. Again. And again. Thud. Thunk. Thud.

Then Mr Teeth let go of Steel’s hair and sat back. ‘There we go.’

Her head lolled to the side, blood dripping onto the floor.

Smiler leaned in close. ‘You do what you’re told, McRae. Cos if you don’t: what happened here tonight? That’s going to look like a Christmas party at your nan’s house. OK?’

Mr Teeth nodded at his mates. ‘We done?’

‘Almost.’ Captain ABBA lowered the knife, then hammered a fist into Logan’s stomach, taking his legs out from under him as fire and ice rippled through the scarred muscle.

Smiler let go and Logan slid down the balustrade, hauling in great jagged gasps of air. The world screamed, like a million wasps had gone off at the same time.

Thump. The hallway twisted through ninety degrees, leaving him lying on his side on the laminate floor with tiny black dots circling around the ceiling. Getting bigger. And louder. And then...

Darkness.

... sounds. Grunting...

Dots swirling around the swinging lightbulb overhead...

... muttered voices too faint to make out...

An engine starting...

UP. GET UP AND HELP HER!

Logan forced himself over onto his front.

Gritted his teeth and pushed himself up onto his knees.

Flecks of snow twisted in through the open door.

Steel lay where she’d been left, slumped as if someone had cut all her strings.

Logan hauled himself upright, using the balusters. Staggered over to the door, one arm wrapped around his burning stomach.

White blanketed the parked cars, thick flakes shining in the streetlights’ glow. No sign of Reuben’s thugs. No sign of the Transit van.

Logan stepped out onto the pavement, but a groan behind him made him stop.

Steel.

Inside, he slammed the door shut and knelt beside her. ‘You’re OK. Are you OK? Hello?’

‘Urgh...’

He brushed a strand of damp grey hair away from her face. Her nose was squint, blood thick on her top lip and down the side of her cheek nearest the ground. One eye was swelling already, the skin around it angry and red.

‘Gnnnngh...’

Logan grabbed his phone and called the police.

27

‘It’s OK, Sergeant, you can see her now.’ The nurse pointed at the double doors in the corner.

‘Thanks.’ He creaked his way out of the plastic chair, standing up in stages like opening a Swiss Army Knife.

‘You sure we can’t get you something? Only you look—’

‘I’m fine.’ Logan reached up and ran his fingers along the line of gauze taped across his throat, where Captain ABBA’s knife had been. ‘Barely a scratch.’

‘Right, well I’m sure you know best. I’m only a healthcare professional after all, what would I know?’ Then she stuck her nose in the air, turned around, and marched off.

Logan hissed out a breath, then limped across and pushed through into a corridor that stank of disinfectant and despair. Steel’s room was halfway down — her name written on a little whiteboard outside it, like the prison cells in Fraserburgh. He opened the door and stepped inside.

The private room was dark, except for the reading light over the bed. It drained the colour from Steel’s skin, leaving it grey and creased. At least, where it wasn’t blue and purple. She was lying back, with about half a dozen pillows jammed in under her head. They’d smeared something over her swollen eye — making the bruised skin glimmer — and stuck a thick strip of white tape across the bridge of her nose, holding down a wodge of gauze.

He eased himself onto the edge of the bed. Tried not to wince. ‘You look... well.’

Steel’s one good eye narrowed. ‘My node hurds.’

‘They say it’ll take a couple of weeks, but you won’t even know your nose was broken.’

‘Ad my ribs.’

‘They’re going to keep you in overnight for the concussion, but other than that, you’re fine.’

‘Feel lige sombone’s burdig pee-stayned maddresses in my hebd.’

Logan patted her leg beneath the blanket. ‘Susan’s on her way up. Should be here soon.’

The one good eye widened. ‘Nooo. Don’d wand her to see me lige this.’

‘Tough. She’d kill me if I kept it secret.’ He gave the leg a squeeze. ‘Did you get a good look at them?’

‘Tell her I’mb fide!’

‘She’s coming whether you like it or not. Now, can you ID who attacked you?’

A one-sided frown. ‘Big basdard, with a sgee mask ond.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I saw. Three of them.’ He stared up at the ceiling tiles. ‘Been a hell of a day, hasn’t it?’

‘I hade Bandff.’

Another squeeze. ‘Get some sleep. And thanks. For staying with me and drinking too much.’ He pulled on the best smile he could muster. ‘I appreciate it.’

Steel sank back into the pillows. ‘You’re sudge a big girl’s blouse...’

Logan slipped back out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Closed his eyes and swore.

‘How is she?’

When he opened his eyes again, Rennie was right there in front of him, along with DS McKenzie. The pair of them looked as if they’d just heard the family dog had died.

‘She’s fine. A bit battered and bruised, but nothing permanent.’

McKenzie moved towards the door, but Logan put an arm out.

‘Best not. Let her rest.’

‘Right.’ McKenzie nodded, setting that curly brown bun of hers wobbling. ‘OK.’

Rennie pulled out his notebook. ‘Any idea who did it?’

Oh yes. But even if he told them, what good would it do? Even if they could find out Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA’s real names, what would happen? Would Reuben’s three stooges go down quietly, or would they drag Logan kicking and screaming with them?

He shrugged. ‘They wore ski masks and boilersuits. One big, muscly; one thin; one short-arse.’

McKenzie had a quick look up and down the corridor, then lowered her voice. ‘You know what this means, don’t you? Malk the Knife’s boys are spooked by the investigation.’

Rennie bared his teeth. ‘Ooh, that’s not good.’

‘They know we’re getting close and they’re trying to warn us off.’ She leaned closer to Logan. ‘Did they say anything?’

‘Thought you were supposed to be babysitting Martin Milne.’

A sneer. ‘Think this is a bit more important, don’t you, McRae? Now answer the question: did — they — say — anything?’

‘The one who attacked Steel, said it was a warning.’

‘I knew it. Maybe...’ She trailed off as an orderly squeaked by pushing an empty porter’s chair. Waited for him to fade from view. ‘We should let Detective Superintendent Harper know. If they came for Steel, they might be after her too.’

‘Good point.’ Rennie pulled out his phone and dialled. Listened in silence for a moment. Then, ‘Super?... Yeah, it’s DS Rennie.’ He wandered away. ‘Look, I know it’s late, but...’

DS McKenzie narrowed her eyes. ‘And how come you got off without a scratch on you, McRae?’

‘What about this?’ He pointed at the line of gauze. ‘Tried to slit my throat.’

‘Yeah, right.’ She pulled out her own phone. ‘I’ll get a guard on the Guv’s room.’ She walked off in the other direction, leaving Logan on his own outside Steel’s door.

He stood there as they got things organized. ‘I’m fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.’

Pair of idiots.

As if Malcolm McLennan would get his people to attack a senior police officer investigating a crime he was involved in. Talk about a perfect way to draw attention to yourself. You didn’t build a huge criminal empire by being stupid.

But Reuben? Oh he definitely was that stupid.

Logan headed down the corridor, through the double doors back into the waiting area, and turned his mobile phone on again. Fully charged. According to the home screen there were half a dozen text messages and three voicemails waiting. Well they could wait. He brought up his call history — John Urquhart’s number was top of the list. He called it.

Through the waiting room windows, the snow seemed thicker. Taking its time to drift down from the dark marbled sky.

He sank into one of the chairs, in the lee of a drooping cheese plant.

The phone rang. Then, finally, someone picked up. ‘Yup?’

‘Urquhart, that you?’

‘Mr McRae! Where have you been? I left messages and every—’

‘You tell Reuben—’

‘—got to watch out, OK? Reuben heard about you being executor for Mr Mowat’s will and went berserk. I mean total card-carrying, machete-wielding, berserk. He’s going to get people to come after you, says you need to learn your lesson. You’ve got to—’

‘Too late. They’ve been.’

‘Ah.’

‘Three of them: the guys with the Transit van.’ Logan leaned forward, scrunching himself around the phone. Making his stomach ache. Stoking the fires. ‘You pin your ears back, and you take notes: they attacked a friend of mine and they put her in hospital. If I get my hands on them, I’m going to make Jeffrey Dahmer look like Santa Bloody Claus. Are we clear?’

Silence from the other end of the phone.

‘You still there? I want names.’

‘Yeah... Erm... The guys we’re talking about are only obeying orders, Mr McRae. They get told to rough someone up, they don’t ask why. They do what they’re told.’

‘I got the gun.’

A sigh. ‘Look, I know where you’re coming from, but they’re only, like, minions, OK? They’re replaceable. Reuben’s got lots more where they came from.’

Don’t punish the dog that bites, punish the owner.

‘I don’t care.’