The Blood Road

1

Drizzle misted down from a clay sky. It sat like a damp lid over a drab grey field at the base of a drab grey hill. The rising sun slipped between the two, washing a semi-naked oak tree with fire and blood.

Which was appropriate.

A brown Ford Focus was wrapped around its trunk, the bonnet crumpled, the windscreen spiderwebbed with cracks. A body slumped forward in the driver’s seat. Still and pale.

Crime-scene tape twitched and growled in the breeze, yellow-and-black like an angry wasp, as a handful of scene examiners in the full SOC kit picked their way around the wreck. The flurry and flash of photography and fingerprint powder. The smell of diesel and rotting leaves.

Logan pulled the hood of his own suit into place, the white Tyvek crackling like crumpled paper as he zipped the thing up with squeaky nitrile gloves. He stretched his chin out of the way, keeping his neck clear of the zip’s teeth. ‘Still don’t see what I’m doing here, Doreen.’

Detective Sergeant Taylor wriggled into her suit with all the grace of someone’s plump aunty doing the slosh at a family wedding. The hood hid her greying bob, the rest of it covering an outfit that could best be described as ‘Cardigan-chic’. If you were feeling generous. She pointed at the crumpled Ford. ‘You’ll find out.’

Typical — milking every minute of it.

They slipped on their facemasks then she led the way down the slope to the tape cordon, holding it up for him to duck under.

Logan did. ‘Only, RTCs aren’t usually a Professional Standards kind of thing.’

She turned and waved a hand at the hill. ‘Local postie was on his way to work, sees skidmarks on the road up there, looks down the hill and sees the crashed car. Calls one-oh-one.’

A pair of tyre tracks slithered and writhed their way down the yellowing grass to the Ford Focus’s remains. How the driver had managed to keep the thing from rolling was a mystery.

‘See, we’re more of an “investigating complaints made against police officers when they’ve been naughty” deal.’

‘Traffic get here at six fifteen, tramp down the hill and discover our driver.’

Logan peered in through the passenger window.

The man behind the wheel was big as a bear, hanging forward against his seatbelt, the first rays of morning a dull gleam on his bald head. His broad face, slack and pale — even with the heavy tan. Eyes open. Mouth like a bullet wound in that massive thicket of beard. Definitely dead.

‘Still not seeing it, Doreen.’

She gestured him over to the driver’s side. ‘Course it looks like accidental death, till they open the driver’s door and what do they find?’

Logan stepped around the driver’s open door... And stopped.

Blood pooled in the footwell, made deep-red streaks down the upholstery. Following it upwards led to a sagging hole in the driver’s shirt. So dark in there it was almost black.

‘Oooh...’ Logan hissed in a breath. ‘Stab wound?’

‘Probably. So they call it in and we all scramble out here like good little soldiers. Body’s searched: no ID.’

‘Give the hire company a call. They wouldn’t let him have the car without ID.’

She turned and stared at him. ‘Yes, thank you Brain of Britain, we did actually think of that. Car was booked out by one Carlos Guerrero y Prieto.’

‘There you go: mystery solved.’ Logan stuck his hands on his hips. ‘Now, make with the big reveal, Doreen: why — am — I — here?’

Little creases appeared at the sides of her eyes. She was smiling at him behind her mask. Dragging it out.

‘Seriously, I’m going to turn around and walk away if—’

‘While we were waiting on Trans-Buchan Automotive Rentals to get their finger out and stop moaning about data protection, someone had the bright idea of taking the deceased’s fingerprints with one of the wee live scan machines. We got a hit from the database. Dramatic pause...’

The only sounds were the clack-and-whine of crime-scene photography as she waggled her eyebrows at him.

‘Were you always this annoying? Because I don’t remember you being this annoying.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m surprised you don’t recognise him. OK, so he’s lost a bit of weight and shaved his head, and the Grizzly Adams beard and tan are new, but it’s still him.’

‘Doreen...’

‘Carlos Guerrero y Prieto’s real name is Duncan Bell, AKA: Ding-Dong, late Detective Inspector of this parish.’

Logan stared.

The hairy hands dangling at the end of those bear-like arms. The rounded shoulders. The heavy eyebrows. Take off the beard. Add a bit more hair. Put him in an ill-fitting suit?

‘But... he’s dead. And I don’t mean “just now” dead — we buried him two years ago.’

Doreen nodded, radiating smugness. ‘And that’s why we called you.’

The duty undertakers lifted their shiny grey coffin, slipping and sliding in the damp grass. Two of the scene examiners broke off from collecting samples and grabbed a handle each, helping them carry it away from the crashed Ford.

Logan unzipped his suit a bit, letting the trapped heat out, and shifted his grip on his phone. ‘We’ll need a DNA match to be a hundred percent, but they’ve done the live scan on his fingerprints five times now and it always comes up as DI Bell.’

‘I see...’ Superintendent Doig made sooking noises for a bit. When he came back, his voice was gentle, a tad indulgent. ‘But, you see, it can’t be him, Logan. We buried him. I was at his funeral. I gave a speech. People were very moved.’

‘You tripped over the podium and knocked one of the floral displays flying.’

‘Yes, well... I don’t think we need to dwell on every little aspect of the service.’

‘If it is DI Bell, he’s been lying low somewhere sunny. Going by the tan and new name, maybe Spain?’

‘Why would Ding-Dong fake his own death?’

‘And having faked his own death, why come back two years later? Why now?’

One of the examiners wandered up and pulled down her facemask, revealing a mouthful of squint teeth framed with soft pink lipstick. ‘Inspector McRae? You might wanna come see this.’

‘Hold on a sec, Boss, something’s come up.’ Logan pressed the phone against his chest and followed the crinkly-white oversuited figure to the crashed Ford’s boot.

A shovel and a pickaxe lay partially unwrapped from their black plastic bin-bag parcels — metal blades clean and glittering in the dull light.

She nodded at them. ‘Bit suspicious, right? Why’s he carting a pick and shovel about?’

Logan inched forwards, sniffing. There was a strange toilety scent — like green urinal cakes undercut by something darker. ‘Can you smell that?’

‘Smell what?’

‘Air freshener.’

She leaned in too, sniffing. ‘Oh... Yeah, I’m getting it now. Sort of pine and lavender? I love those wee plug-in—’

‘Get the pick and shovel tested. He’s been digging something up, or burying it, I want to know what and where.’

The other scene examiner sauntered over, hands in his pockets, glancing up at the hill. ‘Aye, aye. We’ve got an audience.’

A scruffy Fiat hatchback lurked at the side of the road above, not far from where the crashed car’s tyres scored their way down the mud and grass. Someone stood next to it peering through a pair of binoculars. Auburn curls made a halo around her head, tucked out of the way behind her ears. A linen suit that looked as if she’d slept in it. But she wasn’t looking at them, she was following the duty undertakers and the coffin.

‘Bloody press.’ The examiner with the pink lipstick, howked, then spat. ‘It’ll be telephoto lenses in a minute.’

Logan went back to his phone. ‘Boss? DCI Hardie’s running the MIT, any chance you can have a word? Think we need to be involved on this one.’

‘Urgh... More paperwork, just what we need. All right, I’ll see what I can do.’

He hung up before Doig launched into his ‘bye, bye’ routine and stood there. Watching the figure up on the road. Frowned. Then turned away and poked at the screen of his phone, scrolling through his list of contacts. Set it ringing.

The woman with the curly hair pulled out her phone, juggling it and the binoculars, then a wary voice — laced with that Inverness Monarch-of-the-Glen twang — sounded in Logan’s ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Detective Sergeant Chalmers? It’s Inspector McRae. Hi. Just checking that you’re remembering our appointment this lunchtime: twelve noon.’

‘What? Yes. Definitely remembering it. Couldn’t be more excited.’

Yeah, bet she was.

‘Only you’ve missed the last three appointments and I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me.’

‘Nooo. Definitely not. Well, I’d better get back to it, got lots of door-to-doors to do. So—’

‘You’re on the Ellie Morton investigation, aren’t you?’

The woman was still following the duty undertakers with her binoculars. They struggled up the hill with the coffin, fighting against the slope and wet grass. One missed step and they’d be presiding over a deeply embarrassing and unprofessional toboggan run.

‘Yup. Like I said, we’re—’

‘Any leads? Three-year-old girl goes missing, her parents must be frantic.’

‘We’re working our way through Tillydrone as I speak. Nothing so far.’

‘Tillydrone?’

‘Yup, going to be here all morning... Ah, damn it. Actually, now I think about it, I’ll probably be stuck here all afternoon too. Sorry. Can we reschedule our thing for later in the week?’

‘You’re in Tillydrone?’

‘Yup.’

‘That’s odd... Because I’m standing in a field a couple of miles West of Inverurie, and I could swear I’m looking right at you.’ He waved up the hill at her. ‘Can you see me waving?’

‘Shite...’ Chalmers ducked behind her car. ‘No, definitely in Tillydrone. Must be someone else. Er... I’ve got to go. The DI needs me. Bye.’

The line went dead. She’d hung up on him.

Those auburn curls appeared for a brief moment as she scrambled into her car, then the engine burst into life and the hatchback roared away. Disappeared around the corner.

Subtle. Really subtle.

Logan shook his head. ‘Unbelievable.’

Something rocky thumped out of the Audi’s speakers as it wound its way back down the road towards Aberdeen. Past fields of brown-grey soil, and fields of drooping grass, and fields of miserable sheep, and fields flooded with thick pewter lochans. On a good day, the view would have been lovely, but under the ashen sky and never-ending rain?

This was why people emigrated.

The music died, replaced by the car’s default ringtone.

Logan pressed the button and picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘Guv? It’s me.’ Me: AKA Detective Sergeant Simon Occasionally-Useful-When-Not-Being-A-Pain-In-The-Backside Rennie. Sounding as if he was in the middle of chewing a toffee or something. ‘I’ve been down to records and picked up all of DI Bell’s old case files. Where do you want me to start?’

‘How about the investigation into his suicide?’

‘Ah. No. One of DCI Hardie’s minions already checked it out of the archives.’

Sod.

‘OK. In that case: start with the most recent file you’ve got and work your way backwards.’

‘Two years, living it up on the sunny Costa del Somewhere and DI Bell comes home to dreich old Aberdeenshire? See if it was me? No chance.’

‘He had a pick and shovel in the boot of his car.’

‘Buried treasure?’

A tractor rumbled past, going the other way, its massive rear wheels kicking up a mountain of filthy spray.

Logan stuck on the wipers. ‘My money’s on unburied. You don’t come back from the dead to bury something in the middle of nowhere. You come back to dig it up.’

‘Ah: got you. He buries whatever it is, fakes his own death, then sods off to the Med. Two years later he thinks it’s safe to pop over and dig it up again.’

‘That or whatever he buried isn’t safe any more and he has to retrieve it before someone else does.’

‘Hmm...’ Rennie’s voice went all muffled, then came back again. ‘OK: I’ll have a look for bank jobs, or jewellery heists in the case files. Something expensive and unsolved. Something worth staging your own funeral for.’

‘And find out who he was working with. See if we can’t rattle some cages.’

A knot of TV people had set up outside Divisional Headquarters, all their cameras trained on the small group of protestors marching round and round in the rain. There were only about a dozen of them, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for with enthusiasm — waving placards with ‘JUSTICE FOR ELLIE!’, or ‘SHAME ON THE POLICE!’, or ‘FIND ELLIE NOW!’ on them. Nearly every single board had a photo of Ellie Morton: her grinning moon-shaped face surrounded by blonde curls, big green eyes crinkled up at whatever had tickled her.

Logan slowed the Audi as he drove by. Someone in a tweed jacket was doing a piece to camera, serious-faced as she probably told the world what a useless bunch of tossers Police Scotland were. Oh why hadn’t they found Ellie Morton yet? What about the poor family? Why did no one care?

As if.

The Audi bumped up the lumpy tarmac and into the rear podium car park. Pulled into the slot marked ‘RESERVED FOR PROFESSIONAL STANDARDS’. Some wag had graffitied a Grim Reaper on the wall beneath the sign. And, to be fair, it actually wasn’t a bad likeness of Superintendent Doig. Always nice to be appreciated by your colleagues...

Logan stuck his hat on his head, climbed out, and hurried across to the double doors, swerving to avoid the puddles. Along a breeze-block corridor and into the stairwell. Taking the steps two at a time.

A couple of uniformed PCs wandered downwards, chatting and smiling.

They flattened themselves against the wall as Logan approached, all talk silenced, both smiles turned into a sort of pained rictus.

The spotty one forced a little wave. ‘Inspector.’

Logan had made it as far as the third-floor landing when his phone dinged at him. Text message.

He pulled it out and frowned at the screen.

The caller ID came up as ‘HORRIBLE STEEL!’ and his shoulders sagged a bit. ‘What do you want, you wrinkly monster?’

He opened the message:

Nope. Logan thumbed out a reply as he marched past the lifts:

He pushed through the doors and into a bland corridor that came with a faint whiff of paint fumes and Pot Noodle.

A tiny clump of support officers were sharing a joke, laughing it up.

Then one of them spotted Logan, prompting nudges and a sudden frightened silence.

Logan nodded at them as he passed, then knocked on the door with a white plastic plaque on it: ‘DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR STEPHEN HARDIE’.

A tired voice muffled out from inside. ‘Come.’

Logan opened the door.

Hardie’s office was all kitted out for efficiency, organisation, and achievement: six whiteboards covered in notes about various ongoing cases, the same number of filing cabinets, a computer that looked as if it wasn’t designed to run on coal or hamster power. A portrait of the Queen hung on the wall along with a collection of framed citations and a few photos of the man himself shaking hands with various local bigwigs. Everything you needed for investigatory success.

Sadly, it didn’t seem to be working.

Hardie was perched on the edge of his desk, feet not quite reaching the ground. A short middle-aged man with little round glasses. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead. A frown on his face as he flipped through a sheaf of paperwork.

He wasn’t the only occupant, though. A skeletal man with thinning hair was stooped by one of the whiteboards, printing things onto it in smudgy green marker pen.

And number three was chewing on a biro as she scanned the contents of her clipboard. Her jowls wobbling as she shook her head. ‘Pfff... Already got requests coming in from Radio Scotland and Channel 4 News. How the hell did they get hold of it so quickly?’

Hardie looked up from his papers and grimaced at Logan. ‘Ah, Inspector McRae. I would say “to what do we owe the pleasure?” but it seldom is.’

Number Three sniffed. ‘Only positive is they don’t know who our victim was.’

Number Two held up his pen. ‘Yet, George. They don’t know yet.’

George sighed. ‘True.’

Logan leaned against the door frame. ‘I take it Superintendent Doig’s been in touch?’

‘Urgh.’ Hardie thumped his paperwork down. ‘You know this is going to be a complete turd tornado. Soon as they find out we’ve got a murdered cop who faked his own death, it won’t just be a couple of TV crews out there. It’ll be all of them.’

‘Did you ever hear rumours about DI Bell? Backhanders, evidence going missing, corruption?’

‘Ding-Dong? Don’t be daft.’ Hardie folded his arms. ‘Now: we need to coordinate our investigations. PSD and MIT.’

‘Honest police officers don’t run off to Spain and lie low while everyone back home thinks they’re dead.’

‘You can have a couple of officers to assist with your inquiries.’ Hardie pointed at his jowly sidekick. ‘George will sort that out.’

She smiled at Logan. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t lump you with the neeps.’

‘Should think not. And I could do with a copy of the investigation into DI Bell’s so-called suicide, too.’

‘I think Charlie’s got that one.’

Sidekick number two nodded. ‘I’ll drop it off.’

Logan wandered over to the whiteboards and stood there, head on one side, running his eyes down all the open cases.

Hardie was trying on his authoritative voice: ‘My MIT will be focusing on catching whoever stabbed Ding-Dong. You can look into... his disappearance.’

Logan stayed where he was. ‘You’re running the search for Ellie Morton?’

‘I expect you to share any and all findings with my team. You report to me first.’

Aye, right. ‘And Superintendent Doig agreed to that? Doesn’t sound like him. I’d probably better check, you know: in case there’s been a misunderstanding.’

A harrumphing noise from Hardie. Busted.

Logan gave him a smile. ‘Ellie’s been missing for, what: four days?’

DS Scott tapped his pen on the whiteboard. ‘DI Fraser’s working that one. My money’s on the stepdad. Got form for indecent exposure when he was young. Once a pervert...’

A nod. ‘I’ll give Fraser a shout.’

Hardie harrumphed again. ‘If I can drag you back to the topic for a brief moment, Inspector: DI Bell’s files. Where are they?’

‘DS Rennie’s going through them.’ Logan turned and pulled on a smile. ‘You wanted us to look into the historic side of things, remember? Bell’s disappearance?’

A puzzled look. ‘But I only just told you that.’

Logan’s smile grew. ‘See: we’re already acting like a well-oiled machine.’

2

The canteen was virtually deserted. Well, except for Baked Tattie Ted, in his green-and-brown tabard, worrying away at the deep-fat frier while Logan plucked a tin of Irn-Bru from the chiller cabinet.

Logan pinned his phone between ear and shoulder while he went digging in his pocket for some change. ‘Anything?’

The sound of rustling paper and creaking cardboard came from the earpiece, followed by a distracted-sounding Rennie. ‘Nada, zilch, zip, bugger-and-indeed-all. Not that screams “lots of money went missing!” anyway.’

Two fifties, a ten and a couple of pennies. They jingled in Logan’s palm as he walked to the counter. ‘Of course it might not be about an old case. Maybe his personal life was what made him up sticks and disappear?’

A groan. ‘Please don’t tell me I’m wading through all this stuff for nothing!’

The canteen door thumped open and in strutted a woman made up like something off the cosmetics counter at Debenhams. Jane McGrath: in a smart trouser suit, perfect hair, folder under one arm, phone to her ear, and a smile on her face. ‘That’s right, yes... Completely.’

She waved at him and helped herself to a cheese-and-pickle sandwich and a can of Coke. Tucked a packet of salt-and-vinegar under her arm. ‘That’s right... Uh-huh... Yes. I know, it’s terrible. Truly terrible.’ She pinned the phone to her chest and her smile blossomed into an evil grin — mouthing the words at Logan: ‘Isn’t it great?’ Then back to the phone. ‘It’s a miracle their injuries weren’t even more serious. I don’t need to tell you how many police officers are hurt in the line of duty every year... Yes... Yes, that’s right.’

Rennie whinged in his ear. ‘Guv? You still there? I said, tell me I’m not—’

‘Don’t be daft, Simon: it’s not for nothing if you find something. And see if you can text me a list of DI Bell’s sidekicks.’

‘Hold on...’ The sound of rustling papers. ‘OK. Let me see... Here we go. Most recent one was Detective Sergeant Rose Savage. God that’s a great police name, isn’t it? Sounds like something off a crime thriller. Detective Sergeant Rose Savage!’

Jane dumped her sandwich, Coke, and crisps on the countertop. ‘I’ll talk to the hospital, but I’m pretty sure we can get you in for a ten-minute interview: “brave bobbies suffer broken bones chasing cowardly criminal!”... Yes, I thought so... OK... OK. Thanks. Bye.’ She hung up and sagged, head back, beaming at the ceiling tiles. ‘Ha!’

‘Find out where this Sergeant Savage works now and text me.’

‘Guv.’

Logan put his phone away as Jane launched into a little happy dance.

‘Guess who just got all that crap about us being rubbish off the front page. Go on, I’ll bet you can’t.’

Logan frowned. ‘Hospital?’

‘Two uniforms were chasing down a burglar last night, he wheeches through some back gardens then up and over a shed. They clamber after him and CRASH! Pair of them go straight through the shed roof.’

‘Ooh... Painful.’

‘One broken arm, one broken leg. Which was lucky.’

She had a point. ‘Especially given the amount of pointy things people keep in sheds. Shears, axes, forks, rakes, bill hooks—’

‘What?’ She pulled her chin in, top lip curled. ‘No, I mean: lucky they got hurt in the line of duty. Newspapers love a good injured copper story.’ That kicked off another bout of happy dancing.

Logan paid for his Irn-Bru. ‘Working in Media Liaison’s really changed you, hasn’t it?’

‘And with any luck they’ll have a couple of good bruises as well. That always plays well splashed across the front page.’ She turned and danced away.

Logan shook his head. ‘Why do we have to keep hiring weirdos? What’s wrong with normal—’

His phone dinged at him and he dug it out again.

A text message from ‘IDIOT RENNIE’:

Talking of weirdos...

Logan typed out a reply:

North Anderson Drive slid by the car’s windows, high-rise buildings looming up ahead on the right, their façades darkened by rain. A couple of saggy-looking people slouched through the downpour, dragging a miserable spaniel on the end of an extendable leash.

‘...heightened police presence in Edinburgh this weekend as protestors are expected to descend on the World Trade Organization Ministerial Conference...’

He took the next left, past rows of tiny orangey-brown houses and terraces of pebble-dashed beige.

‘...avoid the area as travel chaos is extremely likely until Tuesday. Local news now, and the Aberdeen Examiner has its sights set on a Guinness World Record next week as it hosts the world’s largest ever stovies-eating contest...’

Three teenaged girls hung about on a small patch of grass, sheltering beneath the trees to share what was quite possibly a joint. Passing it back and forth, holding the smoke in their lungs and pulling faces.

Logan slowed the Audi and wound down the passenger window. Waving at them. ‘’Ello, ’ello, ’ello, what’s all this then?’

‘Scarper!’

They bolted in three different directions, their hand-rolled ‘cigarette’ spiralling away into the wet grass.

Logan grinned and wound his window back up again.

And people said community policing was a waste of time.

‘...and I’m sorry to say that it looks like this rain’s going to stay with us for the next few days as low pressure pushes in from the Atlantic...’

He turned down the next side street, past more tiny terraces, and right on to Arnage Drive in time to see one of the scarpering teenagers barrel out from the side of another grey-beige row. She scuttered to a halt in the middle of the road and stood there with her mouth hanging open, before turning and sprinting back the way she’d come. Arms and legs pumping like an Olympian.

Ah, teenagers, the gift that kept on giving.

He pulled into the car park behind the little shopping centre, designed more for delivery vans and lorries than members of the public. The front side might have been OK, but the back was a miserable slab of brick and barred windows on the bottom and air-conditioning units and greying UPVC on top. All the charm of a used corn plaster.

A handful of hatchbacks littered the spaces between the bins, but Logan parked next to the lone patrol car. Hopped out into the rain.

It pattered on the brim of his peaked cap as he hurried across to the station’s rear door, unlocked it, and let himself in.

The corridor walls were covered in scuff marks, a pile of Method Of Entry kit heaped up beneath the whiteboard for people to sign out the patrol cars, a notice not to let someone called Grimy Gordon into the station, because last time he puked in Sergeant Norton’s boots.

‘Hello?’

No reply, just a phone ringing somewhere in the building’s bowels.

The reception area was empty, a ‘CLOSED’ sign hanging on the front door. No one in the locker room. No one in the back office.

Might as well make himself comfortable, then.

The station break room was bland and institutional, with an air of depression that wasn’t exactly lifted by the display of ‘GET WELL SOON!’ cards pinned to the noticeboard, almost covering the slew of official memos and motivational posters. A window would have helped lift the gloom a bit, instead the only illumination came from one of those economy lightbulbs that looked like a radioactive pretzel. A dented mini-fridge, food-spattered microwave, and battered kettle populated the tiny kitchen area.

Logan dumped his teabag in the bin and stirred in a glug of semi-skimmed from a carton with a ‘STOP STEALING MY MILK YOU THIEVING BASTARDS!!!’ Post-it note on it.

He sat back down at the rickety table and poked out a text message on his phone:

SEND.

It dinged straight back.

TS TARA:

Excellent. Now all he needed was—

A strangled scream echoed down the corridor and in through the open break-room door.

Logan put his tea down and poked his head out.

‘Stop bloody struggling!’ The sergeant was missing her hat, teeth bared and stained pink — presumably from the split bottom lip. Hair pulled up in a bun. Arms wrapped around the throat of a whippet-thin man in filthy trainers and a tracksuit that was more dirt than fabric. Both hands cuffed behind his back. Struggling in the narrow corridor.

A PC staggered about at the far end, by the front door, one hand clamped over his nose as blood bubbled between his fingers and fell onto his high-viz jacket. ‘Unnnngghh...’

All three of them: drenched, soggy, and dripping.

Captain Tracksuit lashed his head to the side, broken brown teeth snapping inches from the sergeant’s face.

She flinched. ‘Calm down, you wee shite!’

He didn’t. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Bellowing it out in an onslaught of foul fishy breath. It went with the bitter-onion stink of BO.

Logan pointed. ‘You need a hand?’

The sergeant grimaced at him. ‘Thanks, sir, but I think we’ve got this. So if you don’t mind—’

Captain Tracksuit McStinky shoulder-slammed her against the wall, hard enough to make the whiteboard jitter and pens clatter to the floor. ‘GETOFFME, GETOFFME, GETOFFME!’

‘You sure you don’t want a hand?’

‘Quite sure.’

McStinky spun away and she snatched a handful of his manky tracksuit. It ripped along the zip, exposing a swathe of bruised xylophone ribs. Then he lunged, jerking his forehead forward like a battering ram.

She barely managed to turn her face away — his head smashed into her cheek instead of her nose. She stumbled.

‘Because it’s no trouble, really.’

McStinky kept on spinning, both hands still cuffed behind his back. ‘I never touched him! It was them! IT WAS THEM!’ Dance-hopping back a couple of paces then surging closer to bury one of those filthy trainers in her ribs. Then did it again.

‘Aaaaargh! OK! OK!’

Logan stepped out of the break room and grabbed the chunk of plastic that joined both sides of McStinky’s handcuffs and yanked it upwards like he was opening a car boot.

McStinky screamed as his arms tried to pop out of their sockets. He pitched forward onto the floor, legs thrashing. Bellowing out foul breaths as Logan kept up the pressure. Leaning into it a bit. Up close, the BO had a distinct blue-cheesiness to it and a hint of mouldy sausages too.

The sergeant scrambled backwards until she was sitting up against the corridor wall. Spat out a glob of scarlet.

McStinky roared. ‘DON’T LET THEM EAT ME!’

The PC with the bloody nose staggered over and threw himself across McStinky’s legs, struggling a set of limb restraints into place. ‘Hold still!’

Logan held out his hand to the other officer. ‘Let me guess: Sergeant Savage? Logan McRae. I need to talk to you about DI Bell.’

Logan leaned against the corridor wall, mug of tea warm against his chest. The station’s rear door was wide open, giving a lovely view of PC Broken Nose and Sergeant Savage ‘assisting’ McStinky into the back of the patrol car parked next to Logan’s Audi.

Rain bounced off the cars’ roofs, sparked up from the wet tarmac, hissed against the world like a billion angry cats.

Ding.

He pulled out his phone and groaned.

HORRIBLE STEEL:

A quick reply:

Sergeant Savage slammed the patrol car’s door shut, then lurched into the station again. Wiped the rain from her face. Scowled. ‘God, I love Fridays.’

Logan nodded at the car. ‘He’s nice.’

McStinky thrashed against his seatbelt, screaming — muffled to near silence by the closed car door — while PC Broken Nose stuck two fingers up to the window.

Savage peeled off her high-viz jacket. ‘You wanted to talk about DI Bell.’

‘Don’t you want to take your friend straight to the cells?’

‘Jittery Dave? Nah, he’s off his face. They won’t let us book him in till they know he won’t OD or choke on his own vomit. And the hospital won’t take him: not while he’s violent. So he can sit there and chill out for a bit. Smithy’ll keep an eye on him.’ She prodded at her split lip and winced. There was blood on her fingertip. ‘Why the sudden interest in Ding-Dong?’

‘You hear what happened this morning?’

‘Been chasing Jittery Dave since I got on shift. I’ve run a sodding marathon already today — never mind Mo Farah, we should put a couple of druggies in for the next Olympics.’

‘OK.’ Logan led the way back into the break room. ‘You were Bell’s sidekick.’

She bristled a bit. ‘I worked with him, yes.’

‘How was he as a boss?’

‘Good. Yeah. Fair. Didn’t hog all the credit. Actually listened.’

Logan stuck the kettle on and dug a clean mug from the cupboard. ‘What about his state of mind?’

‘He blew his brains out in a caravan. What do you think?’

Teabag. ‘I think someone wouldn’t do that without a very good reason. What was his?’

She looked away. Shrugged. ‘The last case we worked on. It was... tough for him.’

‘Tough how?’

‘Ding-Dong... Look: Aiden MacAuley was three when he was abducted. He was out with his dad, in the woods near their house. Fred Marshall attacked them. Killed the father, abducted Aiden.’

‘Fred Marshall?’

‘And we couldn’t lay a finger on him. We know he did it — he boasted about the attack to a friend of his down the pub. Told him all the grisly details about bashing Kenneth MacAuley’s brains out with a rock. Never said what happened to the kid, though. So we dragged Marshall in and grilled him. Again and again and again. But in the end, we didn’t have a single bit of evidence to pin on him.’

The kettle rattled to a boil and Logan drowned the teabag.

Savage prodded at her split lip again. ‘Course, we couldn’t tell Aiden’s mother any of that. We’re banging our heads against the Crown Office, but far as she’s concerned it looks like we’re doing sod-all to find her son and catch the guy who killed her husband.’

‘So what happened with Fred Marshall?’

‘It really weighed on Ding-Dong. We were a good team, you know? And now he can’t get it out of his head: he can’t sleep, he’s stressed all the time...’ Another shrug. ‘Then Ding-Dong’s whole personality changes. He’s jumpy, nervous, irritable. Shouting at you for no reason.’

She stared at the tabletop. Shook her head.

Somewhere in the station, that phone started ringing again.

‘He... He came to my house... about two in the morning. Told me I was to look after his wife. That I had to protect her from the press and the rest of the vermin. And that was the last time I saw him.’ Savage cleared her throat. ‘Until I had to ID his body in the mortuary.’

She shook her head. Blinked. Wiped at her eyes. Huffed out a breath. ‘Anyway... Nothing we can do about it now, is there?’

‘You ID’d the body?’

‘What was left of it. According to the IB, he rigged the caravan to burn before sticking a shotgun in his mouth. The whole thing went up like a firelighter.’ Deep breath. ‘The smell was... Yeah.’

Logan let the silence stretch.

The station phone went quiet for a couple of seconds, then launched into its monotonous cry for attention again.

Savage shook her head. ‘Couldn’t get any usable DNA off the remains — you know what it’s like when you cook everything.’ She shuddered. ‘Had to do it from his possessions: rings, watch, wallet. But we had his car at the scene, the suicide notes, what was left of his dad’s shotgun; even managed to lift some of Ding-Dong’s prints off the caravan...’ Savage’s eyes narrowed. ‘You still haven’t explained: why the sudden interest?’

Logan fished out the teabag and sloshed in a glug of milk. Added two sugars and stirred. ‘Did you ever think he was involved in something? Maybe got in over his head?’

‘Ding-Dong? No. He was a good cop. Most honest guy I’ve ever worked with.’

‘Hmmm...’ He handed her the mug of hot sweet tea. ‘I might have some bad news for you.’

3

Logan stepped into the Major Investigation Team office and closed the door behind him.

Chief Superintendent Big Tony Campbell prowled the line of electronic whiteboards at the front of the room like a horror-film monster: big and bald, bushy black eyebrows scowling over small dark eyes. He barely fit into his police-issue black T-shirt, his bare arms forested with salt-and-pepper fur.

Hardie didn’t look much happier, perched on the edge of someone’s desk in one of the cubicles that lined the other three walls, enclosing the meeting table in the middle. ‘Honestly, if you’ve got any suggestions I’m all ears.’

Big Tony jabbed a hand at the windows. ‘Well he must’ve been staying somewhere!’

‘I’ve got teams out canvassing every hotel and B-and-B in the area. Media Liaison are putting together “Have you seen this man?” posters. There’s another team at Aberdeen Airport going through the CCTV and every passenger manifest for the last two weeks. What else can I do?’

Logan knocked on a cubicle wall. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’

A harrumph from Big Tony, then, ‘Inspector McRae, please tell me you’ve got something.’

‘We’re pursuing several lines of inquiry at the moment.’

‘Wonderful. So you’ve got sod-all too.’

‘Early days, sir. Early days.’

Big Tony lumbered over to the window, peering down at the gathered TV people and protestors below. ‘Look at them, grubbing about, sneering at us, doing their snide pieces to camera about how NE Division couldn’t find a fart in a sleeping bag.’

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘I want to get someone exhumed.’

‘Ellie Morton’s mother’s giving a press conference at twelve. No points for guessing what her main theme will be. She’s...’ Big Tony frowned. ‘Wait, what? You want to exhume someone? Who?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

Hardie sniffed. ‘How can you not know who you’re going to exhume?’

‘We buried DI Bell two years ago, remember? Only he wasn’t really dead: he faked the whole thing. So who did we bury?’

Big Tony’s eyes widened as it sank in. ‘Oh for... CHRIST’S SAKE!’ He booted the nearest wastepaper basket, sending it flying, crumpled-up sheets of paper and sweetie wrappers exploding out like cheap confetti.

Hardie covered his head with his hands and groaned. ‘Not again.’

‘Why did no one think of this till now? What the fffffff...’ Big Tony screwed up his face, marched over to the dented bin and booted it away again. It clattered off a filing cabinet. ‘Aaaaargh!’

‘Now...’ Hardie peeked out between his fingers. ‘To be fair, there’s been a lot going on and—’

‘So let’s get this straight: not only do we have the PR disaster of DI Bell faking his own death then turning up stabbed in a crashed car, now we’ve got to investigate him for murder as well? We buried him with full police honours!’

Logan nodded. ‘So I can dig up whoever-it-is?’

‘The media are going to love this...’ Big Tony sagged. ‘Our beloved bosses at Tulliallan are already pulling on their hobnail boots to give my arse a kicking. When this hits... Argh!’ He gave the wastepaper basket one last whack and stormed from the room, flinging his arms about like a man on fire. ‘Dig him up. Dig them all up! Every single last bloody one of them!’

The door slammed shut.

Hardie stared at it for a moment. ‘I would really like to make it clear that none of this is my fault.’

‘I know how you feel.’ Logan settled back against the meeting table. ‘Speaking of which: have you heard of someone called Fred Marshall?’

A frown. ‘Possibly. Probably... I think so. Wasn’t he one of those rent-a-thug-have-baseball-bat-will-travel types? Why?’

‘Just wondering.’

The office they’d given him wasn’t exactly huge: lined with half a dozen manky old desks, a couple of scuffed whiteboards, and a collection of swivel chairs that looked as if they’d fallen off the back of a lorry. And then been driven over. Twice. Everything looked shabby and used, especially the carpet.

Logan sat back in one of the creaky chairs, phone to his ear, case file open on the scarred desktop in front of him. Frowning at the pathologist’s report on what was left of whoever it was they’d buried in DI Duncan Bell’s grave. ‘According to this, cause of death was indeterminable, but likely to be due to the extensive shotgun wound to the cranium.’

On the other end of the phone, Rennie gave a little sarcastic laugh. ‘“Likely”? Thought it took half of Ding-Dong’s head off!’

‘Turns out DI Bell had stashed about fifteen litres of petrol about the caravan, set fire to the place, then tried to gargle his dad’s shotgun.’ Logan turned the page. A crime-scene photo popped and crackled with reds and blacks and pinks. Like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre-themed barbecue. ‘Urgh... What was left of the remains isn’t pretty.’ He turned the page, hiding the image. ‘Do me a favour: run a PNC check on a Fred Marshall, IC-One male, thug for hire.’

‘Hold on, have to excavate my keyboard.’ The sound of rustling paperwork. ‘Fred Marshall. Fred Marshall... Why does that sound familiar?’

‘Prime suspect in the Aiden MacAuley case.’

‘Ah, that Fred Marshall. Here we go. Clickity, clickity... Fred Marshall.’ A low whistle came down the earpiece. ‘Well he does seem like every girl’s dream date. Five counts of threats and extortion, four aggravated assaults, three possessions with intent, two thefts from a lockfast place, one arson, and a partridge in a pear tree.’

‘And where’s Prince Charming now?’

The clatter of computer keys went on and on and on and on...

‘Rennie? You still there?’

‘Going digging.’

‘You better not be searching for porn on the office computers. This isn’t the Houses of Parliament.’

‘Moi? Never. Well, maybe that once... Right — I’ve got nothing for Fred Albert Marshall for... call it twenty-six months.’

Sounded unlikely.

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not so much as a parking ticket. Hang on, I’ll check Twitter and Facebook...’ More clattering. ‘Nothing. Nada. His last status update was going from “in a relationship” to “it’s complicated” and his last post... here we go: a picture of a monkey peeing into its own mouth with the caption “Police Scotland’s finest”. Two years and two months ago.’

Logan nodded. Frowned at the wall for a bit. Two and a bit years. So Fred Marshall was definitely a contender for ‘Most Likely To Have Been Buried In A Police Officer’s Grave’.

‘Guv?’

‘Yeah, I need you to get me everything you can about Fred Marshall: dental records, hospital X-rays, everything.’

‘And do you want that before or after the other four million things you’ve asked me to do?’

‘Thanks, Simon.’ He hung up, and had almost got the phone back in his pocket when it dinged at him.

HORRIBLE STEEL:

He thumbed out a reply.

Logan closed the case file.

Ding:

Reply:

And with any luck, that would be that.

Logan called up the inter-department contact list on his steam-powered computer. ‘Right: exhumation.’

‘OK. Thanks. Bye.’ Logan hung up and pocketed his phone. Swaggered over to the whiteboard and put a big red tick next to the words ‘EXHUMATION REQUEST’.

The other whiteboard was covered in maps; post-mortem photos; photos of a burned-out caravan in a clearing somewhere; and photos of a large, hairy, middle-aged man. DI Duncan Bell. Heavy, rounded shoulders, a thick pelt of hair on his head, more hair escaping from the neck of his shirt. Skin like boiled tripe.

Logan dumped the pen back in the tray beneath the whiteboard and grabbed his fleece. Pushed through into the corridor.

A couple of support staff were gossiping outside the stationery cupboard. Both of them shrank back as he passed, their voices dropped to hushed whispers.

He nodded and kept going.

So what if they were all terrified of him. Wasn’t his fault, was it? Just because he worked for Professional Standards now, that didn’t make him a monster. Not often anyway.

The stairwell echoed with the sound of laughter, coming from one of the landings above.

Logan headed downward, digging out his car keys with one hand and... Stopped.

DI Fraser came marching up the stairs — late twenties, not that tall, in a black denim shirt-dress. Black leather jacket. Long red hair with a pair of sunglasses perched on the top. Massive handbag. She was trailing a pair of plainclothes officers. One, a small wrinkly woman in a wrinkly suit. Hair like someone had run over Albert Einstein with a ride-on lawn mower. The other, a thin short-arse in the full Police Scotland ninja-black uniform, with a ginger buzz-cut and a pointy nose. Detective Sergeant Steel and Police Constable Quirrel. North East Division’s answer to Blackadder and Baldrick.

All three froze as soon as they saw Logan, making a strange mini-me tableau there on the stairs.

He gave them a smile. ‘Ah, Kim, I was on my way to see you.’

DI Fraser narrowed her eyes. ‘Were you now?’

He nodded at her miniature friends. ‘Roberta, Tufty.’

Tufty beamed back. ‘Hi, Sarge. I mean, Inspector. Sorry, force of habit.’

Steel made a cross with her fingers, as if she was trying to ward off vampires, and hissed at him like an angry cat.

‘OK...’ He turned back to Fraser instead. ‘You’re running the Ellie Morton case. Can we have a word?’

‘I’m a bit busy trying to track down a missing three-year-old.’

Logan stayed where he was. Saying nothing.

She rolled her eyes and slumped. ‘Urgh... Go on then.’

‘Somewhere a bit more private?’

Fraser snapped her fingers. ‘Tufty: one tea, so milky it’s borderline offensive; two coffees, one with sugar, one black. Roberta: go chase up the media office about that appeal.’

Tufty scurried away, but Steel lingered.

‘Now, Roberta.’

Another hiss, and Steel stomped off back down the stairs.

‘And stop hissing at people!’ Fraser grimaced at Logan. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘She’s upset because I won’t babysit tonight.’ He lowered his voice. ‘What’s happening with Ellie Morton?’

‘Why?’

‘You put in a complaint about DS Chalmers.’

‘Ah.’ Pink flushed Fraser’s cheeks. She cleared her throat. ‘Maybe we should talk about this in private.’

Photos covered Fraser’s office walls. Most were family gatherings, but pride of place went to a big portrait of a black Labrador by the name of Maggie, going by the plaque mounted on the frame.

Fraser dumped her huge handbag on the desk and settled into the chair behind it. ‘Ellie Morton went missing Monday morning. The mother leaves her alone in the back garden and nips to the shops for a pack of fags and four tins of own-brand lager. It’s a Co-op at the end of the street: so a five-minute trip, tops. She stops to talk to a friend on the way back, which means Ellie — and I can’t stress this strongly enough — a three-year-old girl was left unsupervised for approximately twenty, twenty-five minutes.’

Logan leaned against the short row of filing cabinets. ‘Forensics?’

‘Nothing useful. No fingerprints, no footprints, no sign of fibres or a struggle. Garden backs onto a path that sees a fair bit of traffic.’ Fraser dug her iPhone out of The Gargantuan Handbag Of Doom and fiddled with it. ‘You know what it’s like with child abduction cases: if you don’t get a major break in the first twenty-four hours...’ Was she Tweeting? ‘No one saw Ellie run away, no one saw someone take her. We’ve got a few reports of a red car, or maybe a blue one, estate and-slash-or hatchback in the vicinity, but that’s it.’

‘And DS Chalmers?’

A hard sigh. ‘I thought she’d turned herself around, I really did. Yes, she’s always been ambitious, driven, but... I don’t know.’ Fraser put her phone down. ‘I ask her to go interview someone, she doesn’t do it. I tell her to do door-to-doors, she never shows up. I order her to help search the neighbourhood sheds and garages, she goes AWOL.’

No surprises there, then.

‘Where is she now?’

‘Tillydrone: breaking the stepfather’s alibi. Or at least she’s supposed to be. God knows, half the time.’

Logan softened his voice. ‘What happens when you talk to her about it?’

‘Might as well paint a penguin on your willy and call it Antarctica. She’s sorry; she’ll change; she’s going through a rough time right now.’ Fraser reached into her desk drawer and produced a blue folder. Thumped it on the desk. ‘I documented every infraction, every meeting, and every outcome.’

‘You should’ve come to me earlier.’

‘I know, I know. But... sometimes they just need a slap on the wrist. Getting your lot involved isn’t...’ She went back to fiddling with her phone again. ‘They’re still my people.’

‘Professional Standards aren’t here to screw people, Kim. We’re here to help.’ Logan picked up the folder and stuck it under his arm. ‘Do you still want her in your team?’

Fraser kept her eyes on her phone’s screen. ‘I... We’re looking for a wee girl, Inspector McRae. We can’t afford to lose this time.’ She finally looked up. ‘And loyalty has to go both ways.’

Why did everything require nine million forms to be completed in triplicate? Couldn’t go for a pee in the police without a Three-Sixty-Nine B, two corroborating witnesses, and a—

Logan’s phone dinged.

HORRIBLE STEEL:

Reply:

He’d barely hit ‘SEND’ when the office door thumped open and Steel slouched in. The phone in her pocket chirruped as she settled on the edge of his desk.

‘That better be you texting me back in the positive, Laz.’

Logan put his phone down, sat forwards in his seat, steepled his fingers, and stared at her. ‘Ah, Detective Sergeant Steel, I wanted a word with you.’

‘If the word’s no’ “I’d be delighted to babysit” I don’t want to hear it.’

‘DS Lorna Chalmers: tell me about her.’

A shrug. ‘Magnificent breasts, so-so arse. But overall? I’d still ride her like a broken donkey.’

Oh God, there was an image.

‘No! What’s she like to work with?’

‘Aye, because I’m going to clype on one of my team to you sneaky Professional Standards scumbags.’

‘Scumbags?’

‘With all due blah, blah, blah, etcetera. Now what about that babysitting?’

He folded his arms. ‘I’m busy.’

‘No you’re no’. You have all the social life of a garden gnome.’

‘Yes I am. But maybe if you scratched my back...?’ Leaving it hanging.

‘Lorna Chalmers is a pain in the hoop,’ Steel stood, ‘but I’m still no’ clyping on her.’

Interesting.

‘But you admit there’s something to clype about?’

‘I’m admitting sod-all.’ She stuck her chin out. ‘And if you didn’t want to babysit your own kids you shouldn’t have got my wife pregnant.’

‘Not this again.’ He pointed at the door. ‘Away with you. Out. Go. Depart. Before I do you for insubordinating a superior officer.’

‘Pfff...’ She flounced out, nose in the air, leaving the office door hanging open. Then her hand appeared in the doorway, did a wee mime turny flourish, then flashed two fingers and flipped him the Vs before disappearing.

‘You’re supposed to be a grown-up!’

No reply.

‘Typical.’ Logan checked his watch: 12:10. Oops... Should’ve been back at Bucksburn for that meeting with Chalmers ten minutes ago. Assuming she’d bothered to turn up this time. He pulled out his phone and called Rennie. ‘Have I got any visitors?’

A strange, wet, slurping noise came down the line, followed by a muffled, ‘Have you noticed that no one visiting ever brings us biscuits?’

‘Are you eating something?’

Another slurp. ‘... No?’

‘Visitors, Simon. Specifically, DS Lorna Chalmers: we’ve got a twelve o’clock scheduled.’

‘But it’s ten past.’

‘I know. That’s why I’m—’

‘Ah, I get it. You’re making her stew in her own guilty gravy for a bit. Ratchet up the tension.’

‘No. I got caught up with these—’

‘Hold on.’ One more slurp, then a scrunching sound — the background noises changing as Rennie wandered off somewhere. ‘Nope: no sign of her in reception. Well, not unless she’s hiding under the coffee table.’

‘Damn it.’ Of course she wasn’t there. When did she ever turn up? ‘What about Fred Marshall?’

‘His doctor and dentist won’t give me anything without warrants, so I asked the Warrant Fairy for some and do you know what she said?’

Logan groaned.

‘That’s right, she said, “Naughty DS Rennie! You know you can’t have a warrant to seize people’s medical records without probable cause. Bad DS Rennie! Back in your box!”’

‘Then get me a last known address. And stop eating whatever it is you’re eating: it sounds obscene.’

‘Nothing obscene about Pot Noodles.’ Rennie gave his noodles an extra-loud slurp. ‘You know, when you asked me to come be a plainclothes gruntmonkey for you at Professional Standards I thought that was a playful euphemism for “valued colleague and important member of the team”.’

‘Diddums. Now be a good gruntmonkey and text me that address.’

4

Laughter and voices filled the station canteen as a collection of about two dozen uniforms, plainclothes, and support staff gorged on lunch. They filled all the tables but one. The one Logan sat at, all on his own, Billy Nae Mates in the middle of his own private bubble.

Good job he had a dirty-big plate of macaroni cheese and chips to console him.

He helped himself to a forkful of soft cheesy goodness as the phone in his other hand rang and rang and rang and—

‘This is Lorna Chalmers’ voicemail. Leave a message.’ Curt and to the point.

‘DS Chalmers, it’s Inspector McRae. Again. We had an appointment this afternoon. Please call me back.’ He hung up. ‘Not that you will, because you haven’t the last three bloody times.’

Logan balanced another gobbet of macaroni, on the end of a crisp golden chip. Crunching as he scowled at his phone. ‘Fine, there’s more than one way to skin a snake.’ He picked another name from his contacts and set it ringing.

‘Ahoy-hoy?’ What sounded like rain hissed in the background.

‘Tufty? It’s Logan. I need a favour.’

There was a small pause, then, ‘Aunty Jane, how you doing?’

More macaroni, chewing around the words, ‘Have you fallen on your head again?’

‘No, no. I’m at work, though, so I can’t talk for long.’

‘Steel’s there, isn’t she?’

‘That’s right, the party’s tonight, isn’t it? Don’t know if I can make it though, depends on the case.’

‘Fine.’ Logan shook another dash of vinegar into the puddle of cheese sauce. ‘DS Lorna Chalmers didn’t show for her appointment. You’re on the same team: where is she?’

‘Ah... Don’t really know. I could find out though, if you like?’

Then Steel’s voice blared out in the middle distance. ‘Come on, Tufty, you gimp-flavoured spudhammer, make with the chicken curry pies! I’m starving here.’

‘Text me.’

‘Will do. OK, got to go. It’s—’

‘Aren’t you going to tell your aunty you love her, before you hang up, Tufty? How very rude.’

A groan crawled out of the earpiece. ‘OK, Aunty Jane. Love you. Bye.’

‘Should think so too.’

He ended the call and dug back into his macaroni again. Cheesy vinegary crunchy potatoey goodness.

Over by the canteen counter, the lone figure of DI Kim Fraser peeled away from the till and wandered into the middle of the room. Clearly looking for a seat. But everything was taken, except for Logan’s table. Even then she kept looking.

Logan slid one of the chairs out with his foot. ‘It’s OK, I don’t bite.’

She stood there, staring at him for a beat, then settled into the proffered seat. The heady smell of spices wafted up from her plate — heaped with Friday’s curry special: chicken madras, rice, vegetable pakora, and naan bread, according to the board on the wall.

Logan gave her a wee shrug. ‘After all, no one wants to sit with either of us.’

‘People want to sit with me. Why wouldn’t people want to sit with me?’

‘People look at me, all they see is Professional Standards. People look at you and they see fast-tracked graduate-scheme “tosspot”.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not what I see, it’s what they see. We’ve got guys who’ve been on the job for twenty years and they still haven’t made it as far as sergeant. You’re, what, twenty-six?’

A blush darkened her cheeks. ‘Twenty-nine.’

‘And already a detective inspector. Some people feel threatened by that.’

‘Hmmph...’ Fraser crunched down one of the veggie pakora. ‘I take it you saw Ellie’s mum’s press conference.’

‘How can you eat that when there’s perfectly good macaroni cheese and chips on offer?’

‘How is it our fault? Tell me that!’

‘And if you go near my chips I will stab you with a fork.’

‘She’s the one abandoned her three-year-old daughter in the back garden to nip out for booze and fags! If she’d been a halfway decent parent, Ellie wouldn’t have been snatched.’

Logan put down his fork and looked at her. Silent.

Fraser groaned. ‘All right, all right: I know. But still... That doesn’t make it our fault.’

‘Imagine if you were her. Would you want to admit you were responsible? How would you live with yourself?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Fraser chewed on her curry for a bit. ‘And I’m not a “tosspot”, thank you very much. I had to do a law degree to get on the fast-track programme. You try it if you think it’s so easy.’

‘Whoever took Ellie, it has to be someone who knows the area, right?’

‘Back garden’s got a path behind it. Anyone walking past would see Ellie’d been left on her own.’

Logan scooped a chip through the cheese sauce. ‘You run a check on sex offenders living nearby?’

‘And not just Tillydrone. We did Hayton, Hilton, Sandilands, Powis, and Ashgrove too. Interviewed the lot of them. Checked alibis. Nothing.’

Over in the corner someone launched into ‘Happy Birthday to You’. One by one the other tables took it up and belted it out. The only ones not joining in were Logan and Fraser.

She dug into her curry again. ‘Of course the smart money is on the stepfather, but he interviews clean.’

‘Alibi?’

‘Playing video games, drinking Special Brew, and smoking dope at a friend’s house.’

‘Sounds like an excellent role model.’

‘Tell you, Inspector, I’ve scraped things off the bottom of my shoe with more—’

The song reached a deafening climax, complete with operatic wobbling harmonies and a hearty round of applause with extra cheering.

Fraser shrugged when it was quiet again. ‘Five to one, when Ellie’s body turns up, her stepdad’s DNA is all over her.’

‘If her body turns up.’

‘Yeah. If.’ She jabbed a pakora with her fork and gesticulated with it. ‘Course, if we can break his alibi it’s a different story. Assuming DS Chalmers has bothered her backside to even try. And before you say anything: I know. I should’ve sent someone else. She’s had enough last chances.’

Logan put his fork down. ‘Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’

‘Because... When you were in CID, would you have shopped one of your team to the Rubber Heelers? Of course not. No one...’ She cleared her throat. Ate her pakora. ‘Bad example. But the rest of us wouldn’t. Not unless there was no other option.’

‘There wasn’t. And I did it for the same reason you are. Sometimes people don’t leave us any choice.’

His phone dinged, a new message filling the screen.

TUFTY:

Logan polished off the last glistening tubes of macaroni and stood. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the pub.’

The building was set back from the road — an oversized mock Northeast farmhouse, long and low, with white walls, gable ends, a grey slate roof, and dormer windows. The Scottish vernacular charm was somewhat undermined by the big neon sign towering over the entrance in shades of yellow and green: ‘HUGE GAY BILL’S BAR & GRILL!’ It steamed and fizzed in the drizzle.

Only two vehicles sat in the large car park, a gleaming Land Rover Discovery and a mud-spattered Fiat. Chalmers’ Fiat. Logan parked two spaces down. Clambered out and hurried into the pub.

Inside, the place had a soulless, unloved feel. Like an abandoned Wetherspoons. A soulless mix of polished wood and psychedelic carpet. Lots of small round tables with chairs. Menus everywhere.

Something romantic oozed out of the jukebox.

The only two people in here were slow dancing in front of it — all wrapped up in each other — one a large, white-haired woman, the other a Victoria Wood look-alike. Oblivious to everything else.

Logan went across to the vacant bar and rapped his knuckles on the wood. ‘Shop!’

A grunt preceded a huge, broad-shouldered man who looked like the answer to the question, ‘What do you get if you cross a cage fighter with a gorilla?’ The lump of gristle clinging onto the middle of his face barely qualified as a nose. Somehow, the pristine-white shirt and dark-blue tie made him seem even more dangerous. He nodded at Logan. ‘Inspector.’

‘Bill. How’s Josh?’

Bill bared his teeth — teeny, like Tic Tacs. ‘Joshua is a scum-sucking arsehole.’ He grabbed a bottle of Bell’s whisky and shoved it into an empty optics slot, gripping the thing so tight his knuckles were white. ‘Why do I have to keep giving my heart to arseholes?’ Trembling, face darkening. ‘Tell me that. Go on!’

‘Don’t look at me, my track record’s not much better.’ Logan counted them off on his fingers. ‘One emotionally distant pathologist with intimacy issues; one PC with violent tendencies; a self-harming, Identification Bureau tech, tattoo addict in a coma; and a Trading Standards officer.’

Bill folded his massive arms. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

Good question.

Logan shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. Early days.’ He pulled a photo from his police fleece and placed it on the bar. Lorna Chalmers. ‘Her car’s parked outside.’

‘The scabby Fiat?’ Bill picked up the photo and squinted at it. ‘This your Trading Standards woman?’

‘No: colleague. I’m worried about her.’

‘Hmph... Well, suppose someone should be. State of her.’ He dumped the photo back down again and jerked his head to the side. ‘Ladies.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan had to detour around the slow dancers in front of the jukebox; they didn’t even look up.

Bill’s voice boomed out after him. ‘And take it from me, the crazy ones might be great in bed, but they’ll screw you over every time! Every — single — time.’

He had a point.

Logan pushed through the grey door marked ‘POUR FEMME’ and into something off of a film set. Dark grey slate tiles, a plush red chaise longue against one wall, individual mirrors in heavy gilt frames above the marble sinks.

A lone figure was hunched over one of the sinks — DS Chalmers. She held her mass of auburn curls back with one hand as she spat something frothy and pink into the marble bowl. Her other hand clutched at her ribs. Holding them in as she washed her face. Grunting and groaning.

Logan settled onto the chaise longue. ‘Having fun?’

She flinched, whipping around with a strangled scream, fists up. Ready.

He held his hands in the air. ‘Whoa. Calm.’

Chalmers lowered her fists, voice all muffled and lispy. ‘Inspector McRae. Oh joy.’ Either she’d fallen under a bus, or someone had given her a serious going-over. Scrapes darkened her cheeks, chin, and forehead. The first flush of bruises beginning to spread around them. Face damp where she’d washed the blood off. Or most of it anyway.

Logan pointed. ‘Want to tell me who did that?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘You were out breaking Russell Morton’s alibi, so it was either him or his mates.’

‘I said it’s nothing. Leave it.’

The awkward silence grew. Then Chalmers turned her back on him and splashed another handful of water on her battered face. Winced. Prodded at her gums.

A tooth clattered into the marble sink.

‘You’ve been married, what, three years? If it wasn’t Russell Morton...?’

She froze. ‘Leave Brian out of this.’

‘There are people out there you can talk to. Domestic abuse isn’t—’

‘Christ, you don’t listen, do you? It wasn’t Brian. It wasn’t anyone.’

‘Ah...’ Logan nodded. ‘The first rule of Fight Club.’

More silence.

Chalmers dabbed at the scrape beneath her right eye. ‘And you shouldn’t be here.’

‘Huge Gay Bill’s? Bill and I go way back. One of his ex-boyfriends broke into his mum’s house while she was in hospital and cleaned her out. Bill got his hands on him. Was going to rip the guy’s arms and legs off, till I talked him down. He’s always had terrible taste in men.’

She limped over to the driers and patted at her face, ignoring him as they roared at her.

Logan stretched out on the chaise longue, making himself comfortable. ‘You’ve been avoiding me.’

She tucked in her torn shirt. ‘Are they firing me?’

‘I’m not your enemy, Lorna.’

‘Could’ve fooled me.’

‘I’m here to help. We can—’

‘Then keep them off my back, OK?’ She limped back to the mirror and took out a small make-up kit. ‘Tell them everything’s fine. I’ve apologised and promise to be a good little girl from now on.’

Logan sighed. ‘It doesn’t work like that. You’ve been disappearing when you’re meant to be on the job. Ducking assignments. Not doing what DI Fraser tells you.’

‘DI Fraser’s an idiot.’

‘No she isn’t. And you know what? Even if she was, right now she’s your superior idiot and if she tells you to go interview someone you actually have to go interview them.’

A wodge of foundation got slathered on, covering up the scrapes and bruises. Wincing as she did her best to blend it in. You could still tell, though.

Eventually she stood back and stared at the result. Grimaced. ‘It’ll do.’ Her make-up clattered into the bag again. ‘Russell Morton’s alibi’s sound. He was where he said he was, when he said he was. I spoke to the guy who delivered one fourteen-inch four seasons with extra anchovies, one mushroom feast, a spicy American, two garlic breads, and three six-packs of Peroni.’

‘A lot of food.’

‘Morton paid him from a big roll of cash. Ten-quid tip, too.’

‘Flashy.’

‘Especially for someone on the dole.’ She examined herself in the mirror again. ‘So you can tell DI Kim Fraser I’ve been doing my job. Did it yesterday before she even asked. Just because I’m not grubbing around her feet, begging for titbits like those idiot sidekicks of hers, doesn’t mean I’m slacking.’

‘No one’s asking you to grub about, Lorna, but this is the police. You have to follow procedure. The chain of command’s there for a reason!’

She stared at him from the mirror, face blank. ‘Are we done, Inspector?’

‘Have you forgotten what happened with the Agnes Garfield case? You could’ve died. You very nearly got me and PC Sim killed! All because you couldn’t stand the thought of sharing the glory.’ Logan stood. ‘Police Scotland doesn’t need lone wolves, Lorna. That’s not how this works!’

Nothing back. Not even a flicker.

Then, ‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to have a wee now. Or do you want to follow me in there as well?’ She turned and barged into one of the cubicles. Slammed the door. Clacked the latch.

Logan knocked on the cubicle door. ‘They’re going to suspend you. Is that what you want?’

The sound of piddling hissed out from inside. Accompanied by what might have been muffled sobs...

Great. That went well.

Bill shook his head. ‘...so Shoogly Dave says, “Wasnae me, it was like that when I found it.” And he’s staggering about the stock room surrounded by two thousand...’ Bill pointed over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Your friend’s back.’

Logan turned and there was Chalmers, coming out of the ladies. Grimacing as she saw them.

He went back to his cappuccino, watching her in the mirror behind the bar as she marched over.

She stopped right behind him. Put on what was probably meant to be a reasonable voice. ‘You can’t let them take this away from me. Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for this job? Not just the hours: I barely see Brian. I’ve put everything on hold for this. Everything.’

‘We all make sacrifices, it’s part of—’

‘Oh that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it? You didn’t even have to have your own kids, did you? You farmed them out to someone else!’

‘That’s not—’

‘If you really want to help, keep Fraser off my back for a couple of days.’ A frown. ‘Better make it three.’

Funny.

He took a sip of warm milky coffee. ‘Twenty-four hours.’

She gave him a pained smile in the mirror. ‘No, it has to be seventy-two. I need—’

‘It’s not an offer, it’s the cliché.’ Putting on an American accent for, ‘“Ya gotta give me twenty-four hours to crack the case, Lieutenant.”’ Then back to normal again. ‘And no. If you’ve got information that might save Ellie Morton, you tell me or you tell DI Fraser. You do not keep it secret so you can grab the glory. A wee girl’s life is at stake!’

‘I know what’s at stake!’

Logan thumped his mug down. ‘Then grow up and stop playing Sam Sodding Spade!’

She glared at his reflection in the mirror. Turned. And marched out the front door.

Logan shouted after her. ‘I mean it, Lorna, this isn’t a game!’

The door slammed shut.

Bill stared at it. ‘Told you — great in the sack, but they’ll screw you over every time.’

5

Patronising, holier-than-thou, big-eared, wanker. Lorna stared through the windscreen at Huge Gay Bill’s Bar and Grill, teeth bared. Blood fizzing in her ears as the rain battered down and—

A boot thuds against the small of her back, another one into her shoulder. Lorna curls up tighter, arms wrapped around her head as the pair of bastards lay into her. First it was shoving. Then fists. Now boots.

Two against one.

‘Aaaargh!’ She bites it down. Don’t scream. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

More kicks, on her arms and legs. One to the kidneys that erupts around her torso like it’s full of angry wasps. Another to the hand covering her face and the world tastes of rust and hot batteries.

Lorna coughs and splutters out a spattering of bright scarlet.

And the beating stops.

She can hear them backing away. Panting.

Then Danners leans in close, her breath warm on Lorna’s skin. ‘Take a telling, you two-faced bitch. Next time we won’t be so polite.’

There’s the scuffing of feet on tarmac and she flinches, waiting for the blows to start again... But they don’t. Instead the sound of a Portakabin door slamming booms out into the rain.

She risks a look.

They’ve gone.

They’ve gone. She almost laughs, but her ribs hurt too much. So instead she struggles up to her knees, setting the wasps off again, then to her feet. Lurching across the car park to her little Fiat. Fumbling her keys from her pocket with fingers that are already starting to swell and stiffen. Unlocks the door and does her best not to fall inside.

Rows and rows of Northfield tenements drone by the car window, bricks and harling stained by the downpour. Everything aches.

Lorna’s mobile phone buzzes in her pocket, then launches into Radiohead’s ‘The Bends’. She pulls it out with one aching hand and squints at the screen: ‘BRIAN’.

Sod off, Brian.

She hits ‘IGNORE’ and keeps on driving.

Should get him a ringtone of his own. Something good. Then at least she can enjoy ignoring his calls.

The car park’s nearly empty as she pulls up outside Huge Gay Bill’s Bar And Grill. Turns the engine off. Sniffs. Blinks. Wipes a sore hand across her damp eyes.

Sits there and cries for a while.

Her phone goes into ‘The Bends’ again, the word ‘BRIAN’ filling the screen like a corpse. She hits ‘IGNORE’ again. Sags. Then grits her teeth and winces her way out of the car.

Locks it and lurches across the rain-puddled tarmac and in through the front door. Straight across the revolting carpet.

Huge Gay Bill looks up from stacking the fridge with alcopops and stares at her. ‘Dear God, are you OK? Do you need me to call a—’

‘NO!’ Storming right past him and into the ladies.

It’s all very fancy and fashionable in here, but the only thing that matters are the mirrors and the sinks. She grips the marble with blood-smeared swollen fingers and stares at the animal in the glass. Her left eye’s beginning to puff up — a thin purple line underneath it promising to blossom into a full-on shiner over the next couple of days. More scrapes and lumps on her cheek and forehead. A swollen bottom lip.

Her jacket’s torn at the shoulder and scraped through at the elbow — straight through the shirt too, all the way down to a raw patch of skin flecked with grit that starts stinging as soon as she sees it.

She turns on the taps and fills the sink with warm water. Splashes it on her face. Working her tongue along her bottom jaw. Flinching as it finds a rough bit of gum and a tooth that won’t sit still when she touches it.

How could it all go wrong? She’s been doing so well, and now this?

It isn’t fair...

The woman in the mirror blurs. Lorna drags in a serrated breath that tastes of blood. What does it matter if she cries in here? Isn’t as if there’s anyone to see it. Why shouldn’t she cry if she wants to?

She splashes her face with water again.

It’s a setback, that’s all. Nothing she can’t handle.

Bright red drips into the water, turning it pink.

Nothing she can’t handle.

Just breathe deep and calm down.

Stop shaking.

She folds forward and tries. And tries. And tries.

Then the door clunks behind her. And when she looks up — there, in the mirror, is Inspector Logan Bloody McRae. Because today isn’t enough of a crapfest.

Lorna glowered up at the neon sign above Huge Gay Bill’s, closed her eyes, and dragged in a deep breath. ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Turned the key in the ignition, wrenched the car into gear, hauled the steering wheel around, and drove for the exit.

‘The Bends’ jarred out of her phone and when she checked the screen, there it was: ‘BRIAN’. Again.

‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’

Lorna stabbed ‘IGNORE’ and tossed the phone on the passenger seat.

It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself and do something about it.

Lorna pulled up at the kerb opposite the house and frowned. There was a car in the driveway — a new-looking Mini Cooper, parked on her driveway. Brian’s precious midlife-crisis Alfa Romeo was right outside the house, two wheels up on the pavement.

Thought he was meant to be at work today?

She winced her way out of the car and limped across the road. Ignoring the rain.

The Mini had to be new — the number plate was that year’s. Metallic red, with a white roof. A child seat in the back, about the right size for a toddler.

Why park here? Why not park in front of someone else’s nasty little matchbox house on the nasty little matchbox street with its nasty little matchbox people? Bland three-up two-downs with built-in garages that no one ever parked their car in, because they were too small. Putting fake stonework around the windows and edges, didn’t make it any less like an undiscovered circle of Dante’s Inferno. Where dreams went to be punished.

She huddled under the porch, pulled out her keys, and unlocked her front door.

Stepped inside.

The sound of a kids’ TV show jangled out of the open living room door, cheerful idiots singing a stupid song:

‘Now Doris had a friend called Morris, he was a tyrannosaurus,

He had teeny tiny arms and couldn’t brush his teeth,’

A new coat had joined the fleeces and waterproofs behind the front door: pale pink, checked, feminine and fitted. Not hers. The material was soft between her fingers, and it smelled of... sandalwood and roses?

‘His breath was vile, he had no style, his cavities: an awful trial,

So Doris asked a stegosaurus how they could fix his smile,’

Lorna looked around the open living room door.

A toddler was imprisoned in front of the TV in a collapsible travel-playpen thing. Jiggling and gurgling in time with the song, beaming up at a bunch of really crap puppets, and a pair of morons dressed in overalls.

‘And he said,

We haven’t invented soap, so that’s why we’re all smelly,

There’s no toothpaste, it’s a disgrace, that’s why we can’t eat jelly,’

Lorna eased the door closed and limped down the short hall to the kitchen — small, cluttered, but no one there. Maybe...

A creak came from somewhere overhead.

She stood at the bottom of the stairs. Listening.

The only noise was the muffled song in the living room.

She climbed up to the landing.

Stopped with one hand on the bannister as all the air hissed out of her lungs. Staring.

Brian’s bedroom door was ajar.

Oh God...

A mousey blonde lay spreadeagled on the double bed, naked, one arm thrown over her eyes, nipples brown and swollen like Ferrero Rocher. Biting her bottom lip and moaning, because Brian — Brian who was supposed to be in meetings all day — was on his knees at the foot of the bed, going down on her. Chubby little Brian, with his hairy arse and bald bit at the back of his head. And this... woman had her hand hooked behind his ear. Guiding him as she squirmed and moaned.

Lorna turned and walked downstairs. Across the hall and through the door to the tiny garage that they’d lined with cheap metal modular shelving units, because neither of their cars would fit in here. Packing the place with all the things that wouldn’t fit in the kitchen or any of the other rooms. Bleach, scouring pads, boxes of lightbulbs and oatmeal and dishwasher tablets. The food processor and the bread machine they never used, the skis for the skiing holidays they never went on, old sporting equipment from her university days — back when she used to have dreams! Before she buried them away, out here in suburbia, with the domestic detritus of a marriage that had died years ago, leaving nothing but this rotting corpse behind.

She hauled a hockey stick from the rack of sports kit. Old and dusty and solid. Perfect.

Lorna marched to the garage door and twisted the mechanism, pulling the whole thing up-and-over. The springs and hinges squealed — probably the first time it’d been opened since they moved in. She kept going, down the driveway and across the road to her manky little Fiat. No midlife-crisis sports car for her. No baby for her. No promotion for her.

Nothing — but — crap.

She yanked open the back door and hurled the hockey stick into the footwell.

Stood there, staring at it.

Then Danners leans in close, her breath warm on Lorna’s skin. ‘Take a telling, you two-faced bitch. Next time we won’t be so polite.’

Not any more.

Lorna grabbed the hockey stick again, turned, and stomped back across the road to the brand-new Mini Cooper, with its shiny red body and its jaunty white roof. She swung the stick like a sledgehammer, right into the windscreen, sending cracks spidering out from the centre as the impact juddered up her arm and the car alarm screeched. Hazard lights flashing as she battered the hockey stick into the glass again. One more go and the whole windscreen sagged inwards.

Good enough.

Lorna went back to her Fiat, tossed the stick inside. Slammed the door. Got in the front and drove off.

Grinding her teeth, gums aching, the taste of blood in her mouth, hands tight on the steering wheel.

‘Take a telling, you two-faced bitch. Next time we won’t be so polite.’

Yes, well: two could play at that game.

‘Ready or not, here I come!’

6

Superintendent Doig placed a bag of currants on his desk and followed it up with one of candied peel. Then one of dates. Making sure they stood in a straight line, as if they were on parade. ‘Now, you see, Logan, the trick is to get your fruit in to soak early.’ A tall man with a big forehead surrounded by closely cropped hair. The wee bald patch at the crown glowing with fine little hairs, deep creases around his eyes as he smiled and added a packet of suet to his fruity soldiers. Doig frowned at a bit of fluff on his black police T-shirt. ‘Tsk...’ He picked it off and dropped it into the bin — a rectangular one, presumably because it was easier to align with the desk.

Everything in its proper place: the photo of a British Blue cat on his desk, precisely lined up with keyboard, pen holder, monitor, and notepad; the framed commendation from the Chief Constable exactly equidistant between the filing cabinets and the whiteboard; the perfect crease in his trousers, the perfect shine on his superintendent’s pips, the perfect mirror gloss of his boots.

His smile faltered when he looked at Logan slumped there in one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘Is something wrong?’

Logan rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Urgh...’

‘A Christmas cake can be a tricky thing, Logan. It’s important to follow proper procedure.’

‘One: it’s October. Two: I’m not “Urgh”ing about your cake, I like cake, I’m “Urgh”ing about Detective Sergeant Lorna Sodding Chalmers.’

‘Ah, I see. Well... I’m sure you did your best.’ A bag of dried cherries joined the ranks. ‘Now, as I was saying: it’s important to get your cake prepared in plenty of time so you can feed it. You want your cake nice and moist and boozy.’

‘I hate to do it, but I’m going to have to recommend disciplinary action.’

‘I like a mixture of brandy and whisky. Sherry’s too... trifley for me.’ Sultanas appeared next.

‘She’d clearly been in a fight today, but denied the whole thing. Lied right to my face. We didn’t even get onto what she was doing at the crash site this morning.’

‘And of course, it has to be black treacle.’ The tin joined the growing battalion.

‘I got Rennie to go digging. There’s no sign she ever worked with DI Bell. So why was she at the crash site?’

Superintendent Doig looked up from his troops. ‘And how is Simon getting on?’

‘Rennie?’ Logan pulled his chin in. ‘Why?’

‘I know he’s only on temporary loan from CID, but if he’s fitting in, perhaps we should make it permanent?’

‘Yeah... Anyway: about DS Chalmers—’

‘I do love Christmas, don’t you?’ Doig went back to smiling at his packets of fruit.

‘Allan, can we focus on my problems for a minute?’

‘People think it’s a bit odd, a grown man obsessed by Christmas, but when you’re adopted you know how important human kindness is. Everyone needs a bit of hope.’

Logan sat up. ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t recommend disciplinary action?’

‘Oh God, no. If DS Chalmers really is sitting on intel that could save Ellie Morton she needs a short sharp shock, not mollycoddling.’ Next up: a packet of ground almonds. ‘What’s happening with DI Bell?’

‘Early days, Guv. Early days.’

‘Hmm...’ Doig blinked what had to be the longest eyelashes known to man. ‘I know it’s petty of me, Logan, but it’d be nice if Professional Standards discovered something useful before DCI Hardie and his troops.’

‘Whatever Chalmers knows, it probably won’t save Ellie Morton. A three-year-old girl, missing for four days with no ransom note? Chances are she’s already dead.’

‘Well, you might as well get it over with, then.’

Logan groaned, pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. Selected ‘DS LORNA CHALMERS’ and listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And—

‘This is Lorna Chalmers’ voicemail. Leave a message.’

He hung up. ‘No answer. Shock horror. She’s been avoiding me for days.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk. Chief Superintendent Napier used to say that getting hold of you was like trying to catch oiled eels in a barrel of slippery socks.’ A bag of demerara sugar took up position at the rear of the column.

Logan pulled over Doig’s desk phone, knocking over a couple of soldiers — much to their commander’s distress — and dialled Chalmers’ number. Listened to it ring again. ‘Come on... Pick up the damn—’

‘Who’s this?’

‘DS Chalmers, it’s Inspector McRae.’

The response was muttered, but still clearly audible. ‘Oh for God’s sake...’ There was a pause, filled with what sounded like engine noises. ‘What do you want? I’m busy.’

‘They want to suspend you, Lorna, but I’ve talked them into giving you one last chance.’

Doig raised an eyebrow at that.

OK, so it was maybe a bit of artistic licence. Still worth a go, though. ‘Go into the office right now and tell DI Fraser what you know, or suspect, or whatever it is you’re chasing about Ellie Morton.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Work with me; I’m trying to help you here!’

The contempt virtually dripped from the earpiece. ‘Remind me to send you a thank you card and a medal.’ Another pause. ‘Now, if you’re finished being beneficent and condescending, I’ve got work to do.’

God’s sake, she was impossible.

‘Lorna, don’t be...’ Logan stared at the phone. ‘She’s hung up.’

Superintendent Doig shrugged. ‘Some people just don’t want to be helped.’

Lorna turned off the main road, into the little industrial estate, ignoring the five miles an hour speed limit as she roared past the line of warehouses. Slamming on her brakes so the Fiat slithered to a halt outside one of the Portakabins at the far end of the car park.

A big sign decorated the front wall: ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD. ~ FAST, EFFICIENT, & DISCREET’ with a ram’s head above it for a logo.

She climbed out into the rain and nothing hurt any more, adrenaline singing through her veins. She slammed the car door, pulled the hockey stick from the back seat and strode over there. Rolling her shoulders. Loosening up. Getting ready.

She swung the stick, smashing its head into the glass panel that made up the top half of the Portakabin’s door, shattering it, sending the ‘COME ON IN, WE’RE OPEN!’ sign flying.

Yes. This was more like it.

Lorna backed away, cricking her neck from side to side, feet planted shoulder-width apart, stick at the ready. Took a deep breath ‘COME ON THEN! LET’S SEE HOW BRAVE YOU ARE NOW!’

The door opened.

Logan tucked the packet of Penguin biscuits under his arm, picked up the two mugs of tea, and wandered out into the PSD office. They’d taken over half of the floor, stuck a couple of offices down one side, a reception area, put in a cupboard-sized kitchen, and left the rest open plan. Divided up by the ubiquitous Police Scotland cubicles.

A poster adorned one wall — a kitten climbing out of an old boot, beneath the slogan, ‘GO GET ’EM, TIGER!’

Someone definitely go-getting-’em was Shona. Logan nodded at her as he passed, keeping his mouth shut. Because if you said anything to her she’d drag you into her ongoing battle with the office printer. She was belting it with a packet of Post-it notes, teeth gritted, her brown fringe flopping with every blow — exposing the toast-rack wrinkles that crossed her forehead.

She gave it another thwack. ‘Print both sides, you useless pile of junk!’

Brandon was on the phone, one foot up on his return unit, rocking his chair from side to side. ‘...only, and here’s the problem, I don’t think that was a wise thing to say to a member of the public, do you, Constable?’ He looked over at Logan’s mugs and raised two massive hairy eyebrows. Hopeful.

Logan kept on going.

The eyebrows fell again. ‘Because, Constable, when you tell someone to “bleep” off “bleeping” filming you on their “bleep-bleeping” mobile phone and stuff it up their “bleeping bleephole”, they tend to make formal complaints!’

Rennie’s cubicle lurked in the corner, mostly hidden by a wall of file boxes, archive crates, stacks of paperwork, and a faint miasma of beef-and-tomato. Its occupant sat hunched over, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he traced a finger through a document and typed with his other hand.

Logan stuck one of the mugs on Rennie’s desk. ‘Milk, two sugars.’

A beaming smile. ‘Ooh, ta.’ Slurp. ‘And does one spy biscuits?’

‘One does, but only if one has actually discovered something useful.’

‘Oh.’ He poked at the papers spread across his desk. ‘I’ve been through all of DI Bell’s cases for the last ten years. Nothing with missing evidence. No gold bullion, or jewellery, or nonsequentially numbered banknotes, or works of art. If he was digging up loot I’ve no idea where it came from.’

‘What about forensics? They get anything off the car, or the pick and shovel?’

‘Tried chasing them up this morning: they laughed at me. Apparently we’re not the only case they’re working on.’ Rennie dug into his stacks of paper and came out with a ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ poster. He handed it over. ‘Media Department released that at lunchtime.’ Someone had done an e-fit picture of DI Bell, looking like he had when they found his body in his crashed car this morning. Only less dead. Above the e-fit, in big block capitals, was, ‘CARLOS GUERRERO Y PRIETO AKA: DUNCAN BELL’.

Logan frowned at the poster. ‘Please tell me someone’s been to see his next of kin?’

‘Dunno, Guv.’

‘How much do you want to bet?’ He pulled out his phone and called Hardie. It rang for a bit, then crackled.

Hardie’s voice had a strange hollow echo to it, the words broken and fuzzy. ‘Inspector McRae?’

‘DI Bell: has anyone delivered the death message yet?’

‘What? I can barely hear you. Hold on...’ A couple of thumps. A click. Some rustling. Then, ‘Urgh... Are you there?’

‘I said, has anyone delivered the death message to DI Bell’s next of kin?’

‘Reception’s terrible in the mortuary.’

‘Only I’m pretty sure his wife’s still alive. He’s got grown-up kids too: boy and a girl.’

‘Inspector McRae, did you drag me out of Ding-Dong’s post mortem for a sodding reason, because—’

‘And if we’re going to plaster the Northeast in posters with his face on them and “have you seen this man?”, they’re probably going to notice.’

A moment’s silence, broken only by what might have been a muffled swear word.

Logan took a sip of tea. ‘Would be nice if she heard it from us, before the press find out and go after her.’

‘All right, all right.’ Then a sigh. ‘I’ll get a Family Liaison Officer sorted.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Professor McAllister says Bell probably bled to death as a result of the stab wound to his right side. Straight through his ascending colon and severed a chunk of his small intestine. Wasn’t a whole heap of fun watching her remove that lot.’ Hardie huffed out a breath. ‘Anyway: knife went in deep enough to nick the common iliac vein, if that means anything to you? The hilt left a narrow rectangular bruise on the skin too, so we’re looking at a six-inch knife with a wide blade tapering to a point. Maybe a kitchen knife.’

Wow.

‘Isobel said all that? Used to be you couldn’t prise a diagnosis out of her without a crowbar and two weeks’ notice.’

‘Not that it helps.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’

‘Anyway, better get back to it. Still got the urogenital block to dissect.’ What sounded like a shudder. ‘Always a favourite.’ And Hardie was gone.

Logan hung up and stared out of the window.

Cars and lorries and trucks and buses crawled their way along the dual carriageway outside Bucksburn station. Backed-up westbound by the roadworks and roundabout, eastbound by the traffic lights and potholes.

Kitchen knife. So probably untraceable, unless they already had a suspect and something to match the stab wound with. Which they didn’t. And that—

Rennie poked him. ‘So, about those biscuits?’

Logan checked his watch. 16:30. Ah, why not. He opened the packet and tossed a Penguin onto the desk. ‘Here. Got to keep your strength up: big day tomorrow. Interviews and an exhumation.’

‘But... it’s Saturday tomorrow! I’ve got to take Donna swimming, then we’re off to KFC and ballet classes.’

A shrug. ‘Ah well. I suppose we’ll just have to cope without you.’

‘No, but I want to come with!’ Rennie stood, arms spread in true martyr style as he gestured at his piles of paper and boxes. ‘All I ever do is go through files and stuff. I want to be out there, where the action is. Solving crimes!’

‘Well we can’t just put everything on hold for the weekend, Simon, I’ve got a JCB digger booked for half-nine tomorrow.’

‘Argh...’ He slumped back into his chair, hands over his face. ‘Emma’s going to kill me...’

‘Then man-up and take your daughter swimming.’ Logan pointed at the paperwork. ‘And when you’ve finished whatever it is you’re doing, you can pack up for the night. Whoever’s buried in DI Bell’s grave will still be dead on Monday.’

7

Rain sparkled in the Audi’s headlights as he pulled into his driveway, illuminating the yellow bulk of the skip sitting on the weed-flecked lock-block. Logan parked in front of it and sat there.

Need to get that guttering fixed. And do something about the garden. Compared to the rest of the street it was a bit... well, ‘shabby’ was probably being generous. Call it an overgrown jungle instead. The rattling spears of rosebay willowherb shook beside a rhododendron bush big enough to swallow a caravan. A couple of beech trees lurked in the gloom, dropping their pale-cream leaves in the tussocked grass.

Never owned trees before. Or rhododendrons. Or a garden, come to that.

Still, one thing at a time.

He climbed out and hurried up the drive, past the skip, to shelter under the porch.

Ivy wound its way around the granite pillars supporting the little roof, reaching out from a massive wodge of the stuff that choked the living room window and curled into the gutters, hiding the blockwork. That would have to go too.

He plipped the Audi’s locks and let himself in.

‘Cthulhu?’

Click — the bare lightbulb showered the hallway in cold white light.

Scuffed floorboards clunked beneath his feet, tiny tufts of fabric still sticking to the gripper rods where he’d torn the carpet up. Walls stripped to the bare plaster, white blobs of Polyfilla making it look like a child undergoing treatment for chicken pox.

Logan peeled off his Police Scotland fleece and hung it over the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Tried not to think too much about the patch of brand-new floorboards surrounding it.

At least the smell had gone.

More or less...

‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s home!’

He unbuttoned the flaps on his T-shirt and slid the epaulettes free on his way into the living room.

It was almost pitch-black in here, the yellow glow of the streetlights dimmed to a septic smear by the ivy outside.

Click — more chicken-pox walls, and bare floorboards.

But at least he was making a start. Rolls of fresh paper lay piled up on the floor, by the wallpaper table. Two stepladders with a scaffolding board slotted into the steps between them. Pots of paint. A couple of cheap camping chairs, a sofa that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the skip on the driveway, and a decent-sized TV — even if it was propped up on breeze blocks.

‘Cthulhu? Where the hell are you, you...’ Logan smiled as she padded into the room. He squatted down and held out his hand.

She prooped and meeped her way across the floorboards, huge fluffy tail straight up, white bib and paws almost fluorescent in the harsh overhead light. Cobwebs sticking to her brown-and-grey stripes. Fur so soft it was like stroking smoke.

‘How’s Daddy’s bestest girl?’

She did her little cat dance, treadling on the floor as she turned around him.

‘Oh, you’ve been hunting mouses? Good girl! Did you catch any?’

She thumped her head into his thigh and purred.

‘Well, that is exciting.’ He scooped her up with a grunt, holding her upside down and rubbing her tummy as he wandered back through to the hall.

More purring.

‘What? No, not really. It was a horrible day.’

Up the stairs and along the landing. More chicken pox. Probably have to replace a few of the floorboards here too.

‘Someone abducted a little girl. Four days and there’s still no ransom note.’

At least the master bedroom was finished: nice thick carpet, cheerful yellow walls, some framed photos above the double bed.

‘I know, I know: if they didn’t snatch her for ransom, then it’s probably sexual, isn’t it?’ He lowered Cthulhu onto the bed and stripped off his Police Scotland T-shirt. The scar tissue crisscrossing his stomach shiny and pink. Might be an idea to invest in some of those warm-white lightbulbs instead? Something a bit less intense and guard-towery.

Cthulhu treadled on the duvet cover, making delighted noises.

‘That’s what I was thinking.’ He changed out of his boots and police-issue trousers. ‘Oh, you think she’s been abducted to order? Could be. Amounts to the same thing, I suppose.’

A pair of paint-spattered jeans came out of the wardrobe.

‘Or maybe someone abducted her to sell on? A little girl’s got to be worth a fair bit on the open market. If you had somewhere to sell her.’ He did up the buttons. Fastened his belt. Frowned. ‘That’s a very good point. Maybe it is the fabled northeast Livestock Mart...’

Cthulhu started in on a wash.

‘Or maybe it’s the obvious answer? The stepfather abused her, killed her, and hid the body somewhere.’ An equally painty T-shirt joined the jeans. ‘I knew you’d say that, but Chalmers interviewed him. His alibi’s sound.’

Cthulhu washed her tummy in a barrage of shlurpy noises.

‘True... I don’t think I’d trust Lorna Chalmers either.’ Logan perched on the end of the bed and pulled on a pair of painty trainers. ‘Tara’s coming over later for pizza. That’ll be nice, won’t it?’

One last shlurp and Cthulhu stopped washing and stared at him.

‘What?’

More staring.

‘Oh come on, not this again. There’s nothing wrong with talking to your cat. People do it all the time.’ He leaned over and kissed her on her fuzzy little head. ‘And it’s not as if you’re actually answering back, is it? Only crazy people own talking cats.’ Another frown. ‘Which reminds me.’

Logan stood and wandered down the landing again, into the bathroom.

Still have to finish tiling those other two walls. Just because the shower was usable, didn’t mean the room was done.

Blah, blah, blah.

He opened the medicine cabinet, took out the box of Aripiprazole and popped two small orange tablets out of their blister pack and onto his hand.

Cthulhu appeared in the cabinet’s mirrored door as he shut it — following him into the bathroom and jumping up onto the toilet lid. More staring.

‘I know: I’m taking them, see?’

He popped the pills in his mouth, washing them down with a full glass of water before the taste hit. Then turned and opened his mouth wide for Cthulhu to see.

‘Look: all gone. So if Doctor Goulding asks, you can tell him I’m definitely taking my antipsychotics.’

She didn’t move.

‘Because I know you’re in cahoots with him, that’s why.’

A long slow blink of those big yellow-and-black eyes.

Logan sagged. ‘I know. I love you too.’ He blinked back at her. ‘Now, do you want to help Daddy wallpaper the living room?’

She jumped down from the toilet and padded off towards the bedroom.

‘Lazy sod!’

Ah well, she’d only make the wallpaper paste all hairy anyway.

Logan smoothed down the lining paper’s edges with his brush, making the seam disappear. Might even get this wall finished tonight. Which would be—

His phone launched into its generic ringtone.

‘Arrrgh! Leave me alone!’

But it kept on ringing.

He gave the lining paper one last flourish, then dumped the brush on the table and wiped his fingers clean on his painty T-shirt. ‘Pfff... Almost finished as well.’

When he picked his phone off the couch, the words ‘DS LORNA CHALMERS’ glowed in the middle of the screen.

Interesting.

He prodded the ‘ANSWER’ button then stuck the thing on speakerphone. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello?’

Lorna sagged back in her seat. Outside, the North Sea boomed and crashed against the beach, the spray a grey smear in the night. Lights flickered in the gloom, small and distant — huge supply boats anchored down to wait out the storm. If only it could be that simple...

The tower blocks of Seaton rose up on the left, windows shining as normal people went about their normal evenings as they did every single day of their normal little lives.

When did she forget what that felt like?

Most of her ached. And what didn’t ache, hurt. Stung. Burned.

‘Hello? DS Chalmers? Are you there?’

She dragged in a breath, ribs squealing in protest at the movement. Her voice came out muffled and lisping. Weak. Pathetic. ‘All I ever wanted to do was help.’

A sigh came from her phone’s speaker. ‘Then come in tomorrow and help. Ellie Morton might still be out there, alive.’

She wiped her other hand across her eyes. Do not give him the satisfaction of hearing you cry! ‘Why does it always have to be so hard?’

Headlights swept around the corner, getting closer, making her squint.

The woman in the rear-view mirror was a disaster: her face covered in scrapes and fledgling bruises. A black eye. Shirt collar ripped. Jacket too. Blood smeared around her nose and mouth.

Then the car was past and she was in darkness again.

‘Because it’s about people. Nothing about people is easy.’ McRae put on one of those fake, gentle voices — pretending he cared about her. When he didn’t. No one did. ‘Come in, Lorna. We can find her. Together. We can save a wee girl’s life.’

Lorna swallowed. Blew out a breath. Blinked at the car’s roof. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Lorna? Lorna, it’s—’

She hung up. Put her phone on the passenger seat.

Fumbled a half-dozen painkillers into her palm, swallowing them with a mouthful of Ribena. Grimacing as they clawed their way down her throat. Chased them with another mouthful.

Lorna curled forward, till her forehead rested on the steering wheel, and let the tears come. Why did everyone hate her? Why did everything go wrong? Why wasn’t—

Her phone burst into ‘The Bends’ and there was his name on the screen again: ‘BRIAN’.

She stared at it. Snarled. Picked the thing up.

‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAARGH!’ Then hurled it into the passenger footwell.

Enough!

She turned the key in the ignition, scrubbed a hand across her eyes, turned on the headlights, and pulled away from the kerb.

There was going to be a reckoning, and it was going to happen right now.

‘Sure you don’t want any wine?’ Tara waggled the half-empty bottle again, making the tips of her long, dark-orange hair jiggle.

Logan gave her a pained smile. ‘Sorry the kitchen’s kind of a tip.’

That was gilding the jobbie a bit. The walls hadn’t even made it as far as the chicken pox stage — instead seventies brown-and-green wallpaper lined the room, faded so much that the pattern looked more like mould than anything else. Dark shapes lurked around the edges where he’d ripped out all the kitchen units. Sockets and switches dangled from their wiring. All the skirting removed to reveal holes in the lathe and plaster. The whole thing topped off by the decorative sculptural presence of an electric cooker straight out of the Flintstones and a battered stainless-steel sink.

Tara settled back in one of the six nonmatching chairs arranged around the rickety kitchen table and looked at him over the top of her glass. Piercing blue eyes, a bit like a wolf’s, surrounded by smokey make-up and freckles. Heart-shaped face with a strong jaw. And, let’s face it, slightly out of his league. The unattainable goddess vibe was only undermined by the big red blob of sauce on her fitted white shirt.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I boring you?’

‘No. No. Not at all.’ He took another slice of pizza from his box. Shrugged. ‘It’s just... my day’s been all errant cops and a missing child. It’s not really... you know.’

Cthulhu jumped up onto the table and plonked herself down between Logan’s ham-and-mushroom and Tara’s vegan Giardiniera with prosciutto. Stuck a leg in the air and started washing her tail.

Tara took a sip of wine. ‘Mine’s been all lockups stuffed to the rafters with counterfeit vodka and cigarettes. So I think you probably win.’

He took a bite. ‘Can’t help wondering what happened to Ellie Morton. Maybe it’s better if she isn’t still alive.’ He followed it with a mouthful of fizzy water. Stifled a burp. ‘You ever heard of something called the “Livestock Mart”?’

‘What, Thainstone?’

‘No, not Thainstone. This one’s highly illegal: supposed to be a place where you can buy and sell abducted children. Moves about the countryside so no one can find it unless they know where to look.’

‘Yeah...’ She lowered her glass. Curled her lip. ‘Not really the kind of thing we deal with in Trading Standards.’

‘Been rumours doing the rounds for years. Decades, probably. But no one’s ever—’

Cthulhu sat bolt upright on the table, staring off into the corner of the room at a large hole gnawed through the lathe and plaster.

Logan scooted forward on his chair. ‘Oh ho, here we go.’

Cthulhu thumped down from the table like a dropped washing machine and prowled across the kitchen floorboards. Hunting.

‘Mice.’ Another bite of ham-and-mushroom. ‘Rotten wee sods have eaten half the wiring and nearly all the pipe insulation.’

‘So let’s get this straight: you invited me round to your vermin-infested house to eat takeaway pizza and talk about people buying and selling kids — and you think you’re getting lucky tonight?’

He pointed at the bottle in front of her. ‘There’s more wine, if that helps?’

Tara shook her head. ‘I’m a fool to myself.’

‘Hopefully...’ A grin. ‘And what’s a few mice between friends?’

Tara shuddered. ‘I hate mice.’

Ellie hugged her knees to her chest and pulled the blankie tight. It wasn’t easy, cos the man had tied her hands together with itchy rope. She sucked a breath in around the big red ball stuck in her mouth. And she couldn’t even spit it out cos it was all buckled at the back of her head.

The buckle pulled at her hair whenever she leaned against the wall of the crate.

A wooden crate, made of bits of wood, with spaces between the bits of wood so she wouldn’t stuffocate. And she could peer out, through the gaps, into the Scary Room that was all dark and smelled of dirt and nasty things and crying.

Dirty-orange light glowed through a manky-pants window, thick with spiders’ webs and the shiny black lumps of dead flies. It was barely bright enough to see the edges of boxes and piles of stuff and dead bicycles hiding in the shadows. And the other crates...

Seven crates and her one made eight — same as the number of tentapoles on an octopus.

Mouses skitter-pattered across the dirt floor between them, on teeny pink feet, their eyes shiny as black marbles, teeny pink noses twitching, teeny pink ears swivelling.

One of them crept closer to Ellie’s crate, sniffing, whiskers twitching.

It slid between two of the wooden bits, even though the gap was only big enough to poke a finger.

A tiny mousey, with its twitchy tail and its sniffy nose.

She held her breath as it stared at her, then inched towards what was left of her sammitch — just the crusts, because they were icky.

Soft and fluffy mousey.

Ellie tried to make a smile, but the big red ball in her mouth was all difficult, so she did gentle crooning noises instead. Grubby fingers reaching, reaching...

The mousey looked at her, pointy head on one side as her fingers got closer and closer.

Then she’d got him! She’d got the mousey! And he was all soft and fuzzy and warm and she would call him Whiskers and Whiskers would be her best—

Whiskers squeaked and sank his teeth into her thumb and it stung and it hurt and teeny drops of blood fell out of her thumb and she dropped Whiskers cos he’d bitted her!

Bad mousey!

She snatched her hand away and he tumbled to the floor, scampering back out through a gap in the wooden boards.

He bitted her...

Her thumb thumped and stung and throbbed and there was nobody to kiss it better.

Ellie slumped against the crate walls as big snottery sobs rattled out of her.

She only wanted a friend.

Everything was horrid and cold and unfair and her thumb hurt and SHE WANTED TO GO HOME!

And outside, in the Scary Room, someone else started crying too — all muffled and sniffy. Then the other someone, till all three of them were snuffling in the darkness. Like little piggies, waiting to be turned into sausages.