The Blood Road

16

A bus rumbled past the pool car and Logan turned away from it, a finger in his other ear. Didn’t make any difference to the noise, though — still couldn’t hear the phone. ‘Sorry? I didn’t get that.’

Outside the car windows, George Street was a grey mass of grey buildings beneath the grey sky. A swathe of down-at-heel businesses lined the bit they’d parked in: bookies, charities, pawn shops, and a wee café with steamed-up windows.

A gust of wind slapped an empty crisp packet against the windscreen. It caught on the wipers and writhed there, crackling.

But at least it’d stopped raining. For now.

Superintendent Doig sighed and had another go. ‘I said, “Well what is it in particular that’s worrying you?”’

‘Don’t know. It just feels... off.’

‘Have you seen the opinion piece in today’s paper?’ Rustling sounds came down the phone, followed by, ‘Listen to this. “It’s about time Police Scotland admitted NE Division,” brackets, “formerly known as Grampian Police,” close brackets, “is incapable of finding little Ellie Morton and send in a team of more qualified officers instead.”’ Another sigh. ‘No wonder Hardie’s got his Y-fronts in a knot.’

‘Why would DI Bell kill someone and fake his own death? Why not simply disappear?’

‘Of course it’s all that Colin Miller’s fault. Stirring things up. Nothing he likes more than putting the shoe-leather into us poor souls.’

‘He had to be panicking that something was going to come out. Some secret so bad that he’d be utterly screwed if anyone discovered it.’

‘I bet he was bottle-fed as a child. You can always tell.’

On the other side of the road, Rennie emerged from the coffee shop — a paper bag in one hand and a cardboard carrier-thing in the other. It had two wax-paper cups in it. So at least he’d got that bit right.

‘Only it didn’t come out. So there he is, lying low in Spain, worrying at it like a loose filling.’

‘You want a bit of advice, Logan?’

‘Hiding away all that time, until now. What changed? Why come back now?’

‘The human heart is a dark and sticky animal, but nobody does anything without a reason. Your job is to figure out what that reason is.’

Logan slumped in his seat and rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, thanks for that, Boss. Very helpful.’

You could hear the smile in the rotten sod’s voice. ‘I thought so.’ And then he hung up.

Always nice when senior officers shared the fruits of their hard-won experience.

Not far up the road, a woman with a pushchair launched into a screaming row with an older man. The pair of them in tracksuits that looked as if they spent more time in the kebab shop than the gym. Flailing their arms around and yelling at each other, their words torn away by the wind, leaving nothing behind but the pain on their faces.

The driver’s door opened and Rennie thumped in behind the wheel. He plucked one of the wax-paper cups from his carrier and passed it over. ‘Iced Caramel Macchiato, with a shot of raspberry, and white chocolate sprinkles.’

Logan curled his lip and creaked the plastic lid off. Sniffed at it. Sort of sweet and bitter and fruity all at the same time. ‘I asked for a coffee.’

‘It’s got coffee in it.’ He held out the paper bag. ‘Bought this for you from the charity shop.’

OK...

Inside was a paperback copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite, by Sally MacAuley and someone billed as ‘AWARD-WINNING JOURNALIST: BOB FINNEGAN’. The cover was a bit lurid — the Aberdeen skyline Photoshopped into a scene from Skemmel Woods, a close-up of that teddy bear cable-tied to the tree, and a head-and-shoulders of Aiden and Kenneth MacAuley. A bit tatty around the edges, the pages yellowing, spine cracked.

‘Are you happy working with Professional Standards, Simon?’

‘What?’ A look of utter horror crawled its way across Rennie’s face. ‘But... But I bought you a coffee, and a book!’

‘I’m not firing you, you halfwit, I’m asking if you’re enjoying the job.’

Rennie’s mouth clamped shut and his eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’

‘Superintendent Doig is thinking of offering you a permanent post. Well, two to three years, depending. Something to think about, anyway.’

A smile, then he reached across from the driver’s seat. ‘Guv...’

Logan batted his hands away. ‘No hugging. I can still tell Doig you’re a liability.’

Rennie beamed at him.

Urgh...

Logan opened Cold Blood and Dark Granite, flipping through to the shiny pages in the middle, where the photos were.

First up: a smiling family at Aiden’s third birthday — party hats, cake, candles, and grins.

Then another pic of Aiden, sitting in the back garden, little face fixed in a serious frown as he played with a Dr Who action figure and a couple of Daleks.

Next up was a series of holiday snaps. Then one of Kenneth MacAuley lording it over a smoking barbecue in shorts and a T-shirt. Sausages and chicken blackening away.

And the next page: DI Bell, looking threadbare and knackered, directing a group of uniformed constables.

Opposite him was a black-and-white portrait of a middle-aged man with a hint of grey in his swept-back hair. A strong nose and jaw. The caption underneath was, ‘RAYMOND HACKER — ABERRAD INVESTIGATIONS.’

And last, but not least, some more pictures of the woods. The bridge. The stream. The tributes. Not a single crime-scene photograph to be seen.

Logan closed the book. ‘Two options: we go see Fred Marshall’s family, or we try our luck with Sally MacAuley’s private investigators.’

Rennie dug a fifty-pence piece from his trouser pocket and held it up. ‘Toss you for it.’ Then his face contorted in a pantomime wink. ‘Oo-er missus!’

‘I’m an inspector with Professional Standards, Detective Sergeant. And if you expect to join us, you’re going to have to learn the difference between what is and is not acceptable. Professional Standards don’t do “oo-er missus”.’

His face sagged. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

‘We do “fnarr-fnarr”.’

17

‘...anything else?’

‘No, that’s good for me. Thanks, Brucie.’ Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket.

Rennie took a left, parking outside a drab beige-and-white row of tenement flats in Hayton. Four storeys of rain-soaked brick and harling, punctuated by steamed-up windows and rusting satellite dishes. Eight flats to a communal door, three doors per block. An identical tenement faced it across the potholed parking area.

Why did council housing have to look so depressing? Why couldn’t they build something nice for people to live in?

Tower blocks loomed behind the flats — big and grey, sticking up like the transistors on a circuit board — their upper floors scratching at the low grey sky.

The pool car’s wipers clunked and groaned.

Rennie pulled a face. ‘Well, this is... lovely.’

‘Intel’s a bit out of date, but Brucie says Fred Marshall’s last known associates were Liam Houghton, Valerie Fuller, Oscar Shearer, and Craig Simpson.’

‘Urgh. Great. Crowbar Craig. Don’t suppose we can call for backup, can we?’

Logan climbed out of the car, into the rain. Stuck his hat on his head as he hurried up the little path to the middle door. A crack in the downpipe sent a gout of water spraying across the harling, like a teeny waterfall. Or a slit wrist.

The intercom was broken, wires protruding from its battered casing, the names obliterated by a squirt of red paint that bled its way down the wall. He gave the door a quick shove — it swung open.

Rennie scurried up the path after him, shoulders hunched around his ears. ‘What if they’ve got a dog? Or a sawn-off? Or a candlestick in the library?’

‘Then I’ll hide behind you.’

Inside, the stairwell was every bit as bleak and damp as the outside. Rainwater made lopsided puddles on the concrete floor. Or at least it looked like water.

Rennie’s face curdled, nostrils flaring as he sniffed. ‘Smells like a tramp’s Y-fronts in here.’

Logan picked his way up the stairs. ‘Top-floor flat.’

‘And not a healthy tramp either. One who’s been drinking anchovy smoothies and rubbing his crotch with mouldy onions.’

‘Feel free to stop talking now.’

Around the landing and up another flight.

‘And then peeing on the onion. Then eating it.’

Another flight. Another landing. Another questionable puddle.

‘And then peeing out oniony piddle and rolling in it.’

‘Will you shut up about piddling?’

The third-floor landing had all the charm of an abattoir, only without all the blood and dead animals. Instead the skeletal remains of a bicycle were chained to the metal balustrade, both wheels missing, the frame kicked and bashed into a twisted wreck. Two flats — one on either side.

Logan knocked on the door to number seven.

Rennie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s not too late to call for backup.’

Across the hall, what had to be an utterly massive dog barked and barked, thumping against the door, making it rattle.

‘Oh God...’ Rennie reached into his jacket and pulled out his extendable baton. ‘I knew I should’ve taken Donna swimming this morning...’

Logan knocked again: three, loud and hard.

Another dog joined the cacophony, only this one high-pitched and whiny, coming from number seven.

Then a woman’s voice. Small, thin, and wary. ‘Who is it?’

He held his warrant card up to the spyhole. ‘We need to talk about Fred Marshall.’

Irene Marshall’s flat was spotless. OK, so the furniture and décor were a bit old-fashioned and dark, as if a pensioner lived there, but there wasn’t a hint of dust anywhere.

A playpen sat in front of the TV, imprisoning a toddler in a tiger onesie who was busy banging the living hell out of some wooden blocks. His teddy bear cellmate was about three times bigger than him, eyes sparkling in the reflected light of a kids’ show with the sound turned off.

Mrs Marshall sat on the brown corduroy couch. Late-twenties, dressed like a schoolteacher, hair cut into a curly brown bob. Big glasses. An ugly yappy miniature sausage dog in her lap. She fidgeted with its ears, eyes fixed on the rain-streaked window. ‘No. Not for two years one month and twenty-seven days.’ Deep breath. ‘Something must have happened to him.’

Sitting on a throw-covered armchair, Rennie scribbled in his notebook. ‘Happened to him...’

Logan leaned back against the sideboard. ‘What about his friends? Liam Houghton, Valerie Fuller, Oscar—’

She sniffed. ‘They weren’t his friends, they were bad for him. Every time Freddie got into trouble, one of them was standing right behind him, egging him on. As soon as Freddie found out I was pregnant, that was it. He never spoke to any of them ever again. Ever.’

‘Never spoke to them ever again...’

‘So where do you think he went?’

‘He loves me and he loves baby Jaime. He would never abandon us!’ The dog whimpered and she hugged it, all four little legs poking out straight ahead. ‘Shhh, Tyrion. Daddy loves you too.’ She sniffed back another tear. ‘He was going to catering college...’

‘Going to catering college...’

‘Thank you, Detective Sergeant, I think we can do without the echo chamber.’

Rennie blushed. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

Idiot.

‘Mrs Marshall, did Fred ever mention someone called Aiden or Kenneth MacAuley?’

She frowned, head on one side. ‘He was... that little boy who went missing, wasn’t he? I remember, because the book came out when I was pregnant with Jaime. And I felt so sorry for that poor woman. If anything like that happened to Jaime I’d die. I would, I’d just die.’

The ugly dog whimpered again.

‘Did Fred say anything that made you think—’

Her mobile phone dinged and buzzed, on the couch next to her. She ignored it.

Logan had another go. ‘That made you think he was in trouble of some kind?’

‘Other than you lot hounding him and blaming him for things he hadn’t done?’ She stood, holding the dog even tighter, its tail whapping against her stomach. ‘I have to put Jaime down for his nap.’

Another ding-and-buzz from her phone. She glanced at it. Licked her lip. Stepped between it and Logan.

‘We’re trying to help, Irene. We’re trying to get Fred back for you.’

Mrs Marshall’s eyes flicked to the window. ‘Please, I need to put baby Jaime to bed! He’s tired.’

The prisoner went on battering his wooden blocks together.

‘Don’t you want Fred back?’

Her face flushed. ‘OF COURSE I WANT HIM BACK! I MISS HIM LIKE I’D MISS A LEG, YOU...’

A rattle sounded in the hall, followed by the front door’s creak. Then a man’s voice, getting louder: ‘Baby? Baby, I got them Oreos you like: peanut butter...’

Logan turned.

He was big, broad, with tiny piggy eyes and a barbed-wire tattoo around his neck. Handlebar moustache and a chin tuft. Hair shaved at the sides and swept back on top. Fancy-looking chunky watch on his wrist, gold sovereign rings on his fingers. A hessian bag-for-life covered in daisies in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.

‘Well, well, well.’ Logan reached for his handcuffs. ‘If it isn’t Crowbar Craig Simpson. How nice of you to...’

And Simpson was off, dropping the phone and legging it.

Rennie scrambled out of his chair and ran after him, Logan close on his tail.

Down the short hallway, and onto the landing.

Crowbar hammered down the stairs, taking them two at a time, arms out to keep him upright.

Bloody hell, he was quick. Throwing himself around the corners, bouncing off the walls, getting away.

Logan skidded around onto the first-floor landing. ‘STOP! POLICE!’

And then Rennie grabbed hold of the bannister and vaulted it, clearing the gap between the flights of stairs — coat-tails flapping out behind him, like a cut-price Batman. Crashing down on top of Crowbar as he reached the bottom step.

They tumbled across the wet concrete floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

Grunting and hissing. Struggling.

A lurch to the left and Rennie was on top. ‘Hold still, you wee—’

Crowbar roared. His fist snapped forward, right into Rennie’s jaw, sending him rocking backwards.

And as Rennie thumped against the wall, Crowbar wrestled his way upright, lurching to the front door and yanking it open as Logan clattered down the last few steps and leapt.

BANG — Logan slammed into his back.

They burst out through the open door and thumped onto the rain-slicked path. Rolling over and over. Crowbar swinging his arms and legs. Grunting. Teeth bared. ‘GERROFF OF ME!’

A fist whistled past Logan’s nose.

He grabbed the wrist it was attached to, twisting it around the wrong way and leaning on it.

A flicker of lightning sparked the sky white for a moment, then thunder roared — a vast booming crackling howl. And the rain hammered down.

‘GERROFF ME! I’LL KILL YOU!’

Logan twisted harder.

‘AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’ Thrashing and writhing.

‘Hold still!’ Logan yanked Crowbar to the left, grabbed a handful of his Peaky Blinders haircut and forced his face into the grass at the side of the path.

‘I AIN’T DONE NOTHING!’ The words muffled by mud. ‘GERROFF ME! YOU’RE BREAKING MY ARM!’

‘I said, hold still!’

Rennie staggered out through the front door, clutching his jaw. ‘Rotten sod...’

‘Little help?’

‘You’re not meant to punch police officers in the face!’ Rennie pulled out his cuffs and snapped one end onto Crowbar’s wrist. Forcing it up behind his back so he could get the one Logan was holding as well. Crrrrritch. All nice and secure.

They stood, panting as Crowbar bellowed his rage out into the downpour.

Served him right.

Irene Marshall sat on the couch with her ugly little sausage dog, glaring up at them.

The middle of the tidy living room was almost completely taken up with Rennie and Crowbar Craig — still in handcuffs and all clarted in mud — dripping on the carpet.

Logan shook the rain from a trouser leg. Absolutely soaked right through. ‘So that’s why you were so keen to get rid of us.’

Mrs Marshall hugged her dog tighter. ‘No comment.’

‘What happened to “they weren’t his friends, they were bad for him”?’

‘Oh yes, because you know what it’s like being a single mother living on benefits!’

Crowbar tightened. ‘You leave her alone.’

Rennie patted him on the shoulder. ‘Easy...’

‘I have needs! OK? I’m flesh and blood and I have needs.’ The ugly dog bared its teeth at Logan and growled. ‘Shhh, Tyrion. Shhh...’ Mrs Marshall turned her back on them. ‘I have needs.’

The custody suite had that strange biscuity smell to it again, like stale digestives and vinegary BO. It went with the painted breeze-block walls, community engagement posters, and row of creaky plastic seating. It especially went with Sergeant Jeff Downie — standing behind the chest-high custody desk, ignoring his domain. Skin so pale it was nearly fluorescent, shining in the overhead strip lights. Hooded eyes. Almost no chin.

Gollum in a Police Scotland uniform.

He was reading that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner. The one with the photo of DI Bell’s crashed rental car and ‘“SUICIDE COP” FAKED OWN DEATH’ headline.

Logan squelched over to the desk and knocked on the Formica top. ‘Got a present for you.’

Downie looked up, sniffed, then actually smiled for a change. Beaming at Crowbar Craig. ‘Ah, Mr Simpson! How lovely to see you again. You’ll be pleased to hear that your usual suite is available. I’d recommend a spa treatment, but I see you’ve already had a mudbath. And what is that delightful smell?’

Crowbar glowered at him, jaw clenched shut.

‘Now, how about we empty our pockets so I can sign it all in?’

Rennie dug through Crowbar’s pockets, lining the contents up on the custody desk. ‘Assorted keys, cash, a wallet, a bag of weed, rolling papers, some betting slips.’ He patted Crowbar on the arm. ‘Come on then, let’s have those sovereign rings. That massive lump of a watch too.’

Between them they added his jewellery to the line.

Sergeant Downie picked up the watch and gave it a good hard squint. ‘Ooh, now that’s a swanky timepiece if ever I’ve seen one. Stolen?’

Crowbar shrugged. ‘Knock-off, isn’t it?’

‘Story of my life.’ Downie tried the wallet next, pulling out a credit card. ‘What have we here? When did you become Agnes Deveron? Looking after it for a friend, are we?’

‘No comment.’

Logan helped himself to Downie’s copy of the Aberdeen Examiner and wandered off to the line of plastic chairs while Rennie got Crowbar booked in. The photo of DI Bell’s crashed car with accompanying article by Colin Scumbag Miller.

He scrolled through the contacts on his phone and set it ringing.

It rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. And—

‘Mortuary.’

‘Sheila, I need to talk to Isobel.’

‘My mistress is engaged in her profession and cares not for interruptions.’

‘Your...? Why are you talking like that?’

‘Talking like what?’

‘Just get Isobel on the phone, OK?’

Her voice went a bit muffled, as if she was partially covering the mouthpiece. ‘Inspector McRae craves your attention, Professor.’

Isobel’s voice was barely audible in the background. ‘Urgh... Oh, all right then: put him on.’ And then she was up to full volume. ‘If you’re calling for DS Chalmers’ post-mortem results, you’re at least three hours too early.’

Logan gave the Aberdeen Examiner a pointed rustle. ‘I had a run-in with your husband today.’

‘How nice for you. Now, if that’s all, I’m busy. It’s gone five and I’d like to get home before the children are all in bed.’

‘He was in DI Bell’s widow’s house this morning, with a photographer. Says he knows what Bell’s been up to for the last two years, but he’s not going to tell us.’

‘And?’ All calm and unconcerned, as if it had nothing to do with her.

‘He’s withholding information from a murder investigation!’

She sighed. ‘Inspector McRae, you know perfectly well that Colin’s professional life and mine are completely separate. Do we have to go over this again?’

‘He—’

‘He doesn’t speak to me about his work and I don’t speak to him about mine. If you’ve got a problem with him, talk to him about it, not me.’

‘You could at least have a word with him and—’

‘No.’ She actually had the cheek to sound annoyed, as if this was somehow all Logan’s fault. ‘Now, is there anything else, or can I return to dissecting DS Chalmers’ liver?’

Pfff... There was no point arguing with her when she was like that. It only ever made things worse.

‘How’s it going?’

‘We’ll have to wait for the toxicology results, but going by the smell of her stomach contents, she’d consumed a lot of alcohol.’

‘Dutch courage. She was on antidepressants too. Probably helped.’

Silence from the other end.

‘Isobel?’

‘Which antidepressants? Do you know which ones?’

‘Erm...’ Nope — Chalmers’ medicine cabinet was a blur. Well, everything but the Aripiprazole, and that was an antipsychotic, not antidepressant. ‘I can find out, if you like?’

‘Thank you.’

One last go: ‘And Isobel? Talk to Colin. Please.’

‘No. Goodbye.’ And she was gone.

‘Great.’ Ah well, no one could say he hadn’t tried. Logan put his phone away and wandered over to the custody desk. Pointed at Crowbar Craig. ‘Do you a deal, Craig. I’m soaked right through, and DS Rennie here needs a shower so he doesn’t smell of stairwell-urine any more.’

Rennie folded his arms. ‘I do not smell of...’ He sniffed. Frowned. ‘OK, now I’m getting it.’

‘You tell us all about Fred Marshall and we’ll forget about you assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest. One-time-only offer, you’ve got until I get dry and changed to make up your mind.’

Simpson scowled at him, mouth working on something, jaw muscles clenching... Then he hung his head. Groaned. Nodded. ‘I hate Aberdeen...’

18

Rennie’s voice oozed out through the closed door. ‘...and it’s a really big deal, right? They don’t make just anyone Senior Investigating Officer, do they? So I said to him, I said, this isn’t—’

He went quiet when Logan opened the door and stepped inside.

Rennie winked at Crowbar Craig. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Someone must have given Interview Room Three a coat of paint recently, hiding its usual scent of desperation and cheesy feet beneath a magnolia-coloured chemical funk.

Crowbar sat in the chair opposite Rennie’s, with his back to the window, fidgeting. Not making eye contact as Logan closed the door and sat down.

A thumbs up from Rennie. ‘Ready when you are, Guv.’

‘Go on then.’

He set the machinery recording again. ‘Interview resumes at seventeen twenty-one, Inspector Logan McRae has entered the room.’

Logan dumped his folder on the table and settled back in his seat. Watching Crowbar. Letting the silence grow.

‘Aye.’ Crowbar fidgeted a bit more. Glanced up at the camera mounted in the corner of the room, where the walls joined the ceiling. ‘Before we begin, I want to make it crystal: I don’t shag my mates’ wives.’

Rennie nodded. ‘Well, except for, you know, shagging your mate’s wife.’

‘That’s different. That’s no’ shagging, that’s...’ his cheeks went all pink, ‘making love.’

Rennie spluttered.

Logan was a bit more professional, but it wasn’t easy hiding the smile. ‘You wanted to tell us about Fred Marshall, Craig.’

‘Aye. Long as we agree about the shagging thing, right?’ He paused, eyebrows raised. And then, when no one said anything: ‘Right. OK, so Freddie was going straight. Didn’t want to do nothing any more. No robbing, no nicking cars, nothing. I tried... I mean, some other bloke tried to get him involved in a bit of protection racketing and he wouldn’t even do that!’ Crowbar inched forward in his seat, eyes shining. ‘And I mean it was buttery as a fresh rowie: old fart shopkeepers with grandkids. No way they’d put up a fight or go to the cops.’

‘But he wouldn’t do it.’

A shrug, arms out as if it were unbelievable. ‘Told you: gone straight.’

Logan put on a full-throated panto voice. ‘Oh — no — he didn’t!’

‘Aye, he did. And anyone says different is a lying bastard.’

‘Really?’ Logan opened the folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Because I have here your statement to Detective Sergeant Rose Savage, two and a half years ago, where you claim that Fred Marshall told you he abducted Aiden MacAuley and murdered Aiden’s father Kenneth.’

‘Ah.’ Crowbar looked away, cheeks darkening even more. ‘No comment.’

‘You see, it’s hard to take you seriously when you say Fred Marshall was going straight with one breath and with the next you’re telling us he’s murdered someone.’

He slumped in his seat. ‘Aaaaaargh...’

‘In your own time.’

‘Before we go any further I want it made crystal: I don’t clype on people, right? Right.’

Rennie grinned at him. ‘But...?’

‘Yeah, he told me he killed the dad. Bashed his head in with a rock.’ A shudder. ‘He... kept on going with it, you know? Smashing and bashing till there’s blood and brains and bits of skull and that everywhere.’

Logan leaned forward. ‘Why?’

‘Why? Said he must’ve recognised him or something. I dunno, do I?’

‘Then why did he abduct Aiden MacAuley?’

‘Some bloke offered him two grand for the kid.’

Silence.

Logan skimmed the statement again. ‘Doesn’t say anything about money here, Craig.’

‘Yeah, I... must’ve forgot about that bit.’

‘You forgot that your best mate was paid two thousand pounds to abduct a child and murder someone?’

He went back to fidgeting. ‘I was doing a lot of coke then. Stuff gets muddled up.’

‘Riiiiiiiiiiight. Course it does.’ Logan tapped the tabletop. ‘Who paid two thousand pounds for Aiden MacAuley?’

‘I don’t do coke no more, cos of Jaime. Can’t be around a kid when you’re on coke. Got to raise kids right, like.’

‘Who — was — it?’

Barely a mumble, like a small child caught with a handful of biscuits: ‘Don’t remember.’

Of course he didn’t.

The little red lights on the recording equipment blinked.

Outside, in the corridor, someone shouted something incomprehensible.

Rennie sneezed.

Crowbar fidgeted.

More incomprehensible shouting.

More fidgeting.

A lovely uncomfortable silence.

Logan finally broke it. ‘You’re a strange friend, Craig. First you rat out Fred Marshall; then, when he disappears, you move in on his wife and raise his kid.’

‘When Jaime was born, Fred said, didn’t he? If anything happened to him, I had to promise to look after them!’ An embarrassed shrug. ‘You know: doing my bit. As a mate.’

‘Tell me, Craig, if I was to get a sample of Jaime’s DNA would it match Fred Marshall’s or yours?’

His face flushed red as a freshly popped zit. ‘No comment.’

‘Yeah, thought so.’

Hardie didn’t look up from his paperwork as Logan slipped into his office.

‘Have you got a minute, Chief Inspector?’

Hardie’s shoulders slumped. ‘Inspector McRae. Lucky me.’

‘It’s about the Kenneth and Aiden MacAuley investigation. We—’

‘I’m going to stop you right there.’ He held up a hand. ‘Whatever it is: I don’t care. Go tell the Senior Investigating Officer.’

Logan settled into one of Hardie’s visitors’ chairs. ‘Don’t think it would do much good. DCI Gordon’s still going to be off on the sick.’

And at that Hardie looked up. ‘Please tell me you’re trying to be funny?’

Logan shook his head.

‘Oh in the name of the hairy Christ!’ He crumpled the form he’d been reading, then did the same with his face. ‘Why the hell did I agree to do this job? I could’ve stayed where I was, banging up drug dealers, but no...’

‘Look on the bright side: at least DCI Gordon had his stroke before you took over. Not your fault Truncheon Tom forgot to assign a new SIO.’

‘Try telling our beloved leaders that.’ Hardie stared at the ceiling tiles for a moment. Sagged even further. ‘OK, OK, leave it with me. Gah...’

Logan let himself out.

Logan scuffed into his temporary office. Still no sign of any minions.

Rennie was there, though, with his feet up on his desk, hands behind his head. Whistling a cheery tune.

Logan dumped his fleece on the back of his chair and sat. ‘Should you not be working?’

‘Ten to six, Guv, shift’s over, time to go home.’ A grin. ‘Or better yet: time to go out and celebrate! Three and a half years the MacAuley case has been going on, and who gets the first breakthrough? We do. Ka-ching!’

‘Just because Crowbar Craig Simpson says something, doesn’t make it true.’

Rennie held up a hand. ‘Don’t widdle on my parade, I’m having a moment.’

‘You’re having an idiot.’ He pointed at Rennie’s computer. ‘Did you get an address for Sally MacAuley’s private eyes yet?’

A Post-it was produced with a flourish. ‘AberRAD Investigation Services Limited. Northfield Industrial Estate on Quarry Road. Open Wednesday to Sunday, ten till six thirty.’

Logan stood and grabbed his fleece again. ‘Well don’t sit there like a sack of neeps: get the car keys! If we hurry we might make it before they close.’

Rennie did a little wiggly dance in the driver’s seat as the pool car drifted across Northfield — singing along with some horrible autotuned nonsense on the radio, in what, to be honest, was a perfectly passable light baritone. Didn’t make it any less irritating, though. Especially as the whole thing was out of time with the groaning windscreen wipers:

‘Cos I’m a deep-sea diver, and I’m searching for your love,

Got the sharks down there beneath me and the boats soar up above...’

Logan hit him. ‘I’m trying to read, here.’ Then returned to his copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite. According to Sally MacAuley, when the investigation stalled, they—’

‘And the octopus, he knows me, cos his heart is lost like mine,

But we’re both sure we’ll find it, if you’ll only give us time...’

‘Seriously, I’ve read this page three times now. Shut up, or I’ll rip your ears off and make you eat them.’

A humph emanated from the boy idiot. ‘Not my fault you don’t like music.’

The car lumped and bumped its way across a potholed stretch of road and into a small industrial estate opposite the playground on Quarry Road. What looked like a builder’s yard and a couple of warehouse-style buildings.

‘That isn’t music.’ Logan clicked off the radio. ‘It’s a venereal disease with a tune.’

The pool car lurched to a halt in front of a cluster of Portakabins, in the corner furthest from the entrance, backed against the boundary wall and fence.

Rennie pulled on the handbrake. ‘How do you want to play this?’

‘I don’t care as long as it doesn’t involve you singing.’

‘Good cop, bad cop? Maybe a bit of Columbo?’ Rennie put on the voice. ‘“Ehhh... Just one more thing...”’ Then back to normal. ‘No?’

‘I should’ve left you at the station.’ Logan tapped the page he’d been over four times now. ‘It says here that DI Bell was a regular visitor to Sally MacAuley’s house.’

‘Told you they were at it.’ Rennie pointed at the Portakabins. ‘Shall I see if anyone’s in?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he climbed out of the car and strode over to the nearest one. A big sign was mounted on the side: ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD. ~ FAST, EFFICIENT, & DISCREET’ in bright-red letters, beneath a stylised ram’s head logo.

The Portakabin’s front door must’ve had a glazed bit at one point, but now the glass was boarded over with chipboard. Rennie opened the door and ducked inside.

Logan flicked through to the photos again. Stopped at the one of DI Bell organising his team. ‘What the hell were you involved in?’

No answer from the dead man in the photograph.

Rennie made a surprise reappearance, backwards — staggering to a halt on the tarmac as two figures bustled out of the AberRAD offices.

Number One: black biker jacket, black jeans, black trainers, and a bright-pink top. Long hair streaming out behind her as she surged forward, chin out, perfectly made-up face contorted into a snarl.

Number Two: a small burly bloke in blue jeans, with a brown leather jacket on over a garish Hawaiian shirt. Not a lot of hair left on his head. Both hands curled into fists.

The pair of them advanced on Rennie, who, for some reason, had adopted a fighting stance.

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Logan closed his book and climbed out into the drizzle.

The woman shoved Rennie, sending him staggering away. ‘You want some, do you? You want some?’

‘I’m warning you, I’m a—’

‘Aye, he wants some.’ Her friend rolled his shoulders. ‘Look at him, Danners, he wants some: big time.’

Wonderful.

Logan reached into the pool car and grabbed one of the collapsible batons.

Number One, ‘Danners’ shoved Rennie again. ‘I’m going to tear you apart and feed what’s left to my dog, little boy.’

Number Two grinned. ‘Ooh, you’re screwed now, sunshine!’

Logan slammed the car door. ‘All right, that’s enough.’

Number Two turned, arms out. Teeth bared. ‘Get back in the car, Lugs, unless you want a spanking as well.’

Danners gave Rennie another shove. ‘You’re mine, sunshine!’

‘You’re not listening.’ Logan clacked his extendable baton out to its full length. ‘I said, that’s enough!’

A grin spread across Number Two’s face. ‘Oh it — is — on!’ Bouncing on the balls of his feet, cricking his head from one side to the other.

Then the Portakabin door thumped open again.

‘Hoy!’ Raymond Hacker stood on the top step, a mobile phone clamped to his chest. ‘Will you idiots keep it down? I’m on the phone with a client.’ He looked much the same as he did in Sally MacAuley’s book. The swept-back hair was maybe a bit greyer at the sides, and the lines in his face a little deeper. But it was definitely him.

Number Two pointed at Rennie. ‘This arsehole barged in like he owned the place.’ He swung his arm around and jabbed the finger at Logan. ‘And this arsehole’s begging for a kicking.’

Logan looked down at his own clothes. ‘You can see I’m wearing a police uniform, right? You do know what “the police” is?’

Danners stepped in close to Rennie, looming over him, even though they were much the same height. ‘This tiny strip of piss isn’t wearing one.’

‘I’m a police officer too!’

She curled her top lip. ‘You have to be joking. No way they’d give something like you a warrant card.’

Rennie stuck his chest out. ‘I’m Senior Investigating Officer on a very important case!’

‘Oh aye?’ Number Two raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind of half-arsed case could you possibly... Ooh, I know: is it shoplifting?’

Danners poked Rennie. ‘Overdue library books?’

‘Someone’s stealing the CID biscuits?’

Rennie stuck his nose in the air. ‘It’s the suicide of a police officer, thank you very much!’

‘Ah...’ Danners looked away. Cleared her throat. ‘Sorry. Didn’t know.’

Number Two shrugged. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘Pair of halfwits.’ Raymond Hacker shook his head. ‘Now, if we’re all quite finished playing British Bulldogs: Andy, get the kettle on. Danners, see if we’ve got any biscuits left in the tin.’ Then Hacker stepped down from the Portakabin and held his business card out to Logan. ‘Raymond Hacker, Inspector...?’

‘McRae.’

‘Sorry about that.’ Hacker settled behind his desk. ‘We had a couple of Soprano wannabes in last week, trying to tap us for protection money. Well, you saw what they did to the front door. Danielle and Andy are a bit... disapproving about that kind of thing.’

It wasn’t a huge office, but it took up about a quarter of the Portakabin, separated from the rest of it by a dividing wall and a glazed panel door. On the other side of the glass, Number Two, AKA: Andy, was busying himself with a kettle in a tiny kitchen area at the far end while Danners rummaged through a barricade of filing cabinets.

No filing cabinets for Hacker’s office. Instead he had a couple of large pot plants, framed testimonials, and a photo of him shaking hands with the First Minister. A big digital camera, mounted on a tripod, overlooked the desk and visitors’ chairs. A fish tank burbling away to itself, full of little fish in cheery colours.

‘So, what can we do to help our brothers in blue?’ Hacker gestured towards the chairs. ‘Well, brothers in black now, I suppose.’

Logan sat. ‘Are you still working for Mrs MacAuley?’

‘Sally?’ He seemed a bit surprised at the question. ‘Yes. We’re still looking for Aiden on her behalf.’ He turned his chair and waved at the framed testimonials. ‘Course our bread-and-butter’s divorces. Cheating husbands, wayward wives — you know the drill. But we always keep an ear out for Aiden.’

‘Any luck?’

A shrug. ‘Rumours from time to time. Sightings everywhere from John o’ Groats to Istanbul. But nothing solid.’ Hacker sat back and squinted at him. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’

‘Did you have much to do with DI Duncan Bell?’

‘Ding-Dong? God, now there’s a blast from the past. Ding-Dong was my DI for about two years, before I left the force.’

Rennie took the other chair, notebook at the ready. ‘You were Job?’

‘Divisional Intelligence Office. But I never liked following other people’s orders. That’s why I left — to set up this place. Be my own boss.’

‘Don’t remember you...’

‘DIO isn’t meant to fraternise with other teams. Can’t risk compromising sources.’

‘Oh.’ Rennie nodded. ‘Yeah, suppose.’

Logan leaned forward. ‘Did DI Bell ever talk to you about the MacAuley case?’

‘I resigned from the force long before Aiden was abducted, but yeah. When Sally hired us I tried to get Ding-Dong to spill his beans loads of times. Only managed it once — think it was a couple of weeks before he topped himself. If I remember it right, he was sweating like a paedo in a nursery, acting all shifty.’

The fish tank gurgled.

Outside, in the office, a phone rang and Danners answered, the conversation too muted by the closed door to be audible.

Rennie shifted in his seat.

And Hacker just sat there. Completely unfazed by the silence.

Ah well, worth a try. ‘And what did DI Bell say?’

‘Word for word? Don’t remember.’ Hacker pulled a face, rocking his hands back and forth. ‘Something about time and consequences and never getting any justice for poor wee Aiden. He was pretty cut up about it.’

There was a knock on the door and Andy appeared with a tea tray — three mugs, a plate of biscuits, and a one-pint plastic container of milk. ‘Don’t have any full-fat, so you’ll have to make do with semi-skimmed.’

He put the tray on the desk and Rennie and Hacker helped themselves.

Logan left his where it was.

Andy thumped a hand down on Rennie’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘Sorry about earlier. Thought you guys were here to smash up the place, like. No hards, right?’

An uncomfortable smile. ‘Yeah.’

‘Andy?’ Hacker plucked a chocolate Hobnob from the plate. ‘Get on to Benny, will you? Make sure he’s got our equipment ready for that surveillance on the Buchan job before we close.’ A crunch of biscuit. Chewing as he turned back to Logan. ‘You’d be surprised how much infidelity goes on at the weekends. People get two days off and they’re at it like guinea pigs.’

Andy slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.

‘What else did DI Bell say?’

Hacker polished off his Hobnob. ‘If you’re after something in particular, might as well save us both the time and get to the point.’

‘Did he talk about suspects?’

A grin. ‘And there it is! You want to know about Freddie Marshall.’ He held up a chocolatey finger. ‘Yes, Ding-Dong told me about Freddie. My opinion? Don’t get me wrong, Freddie Marshall was an Olympic gold-medal-winning scumbag, but a killer?’

‘Everyone keeps telling me what a great guy Marshall was. Family, friends, social worker...’

‘A great guy? OK: pop quiz.’ Hacker wheeled his seat forward. ‘For ten points: who broke an old man’s arm in three places because he wouldn’t hand over his wife’s purse?’

Sarcasm. Great.

‘Is this really—’

Hacker made a harsh buzzing noise. ‘Nope, it was Freddie Marshall. Ten points: who battered a fifteen-year-old boy so badly the kid’s now confined to a wheelchair?’

‘I get the—’

Another buzz. ‘No. Freddie Marshall again. A bonus five if you can tell me who stabbed Limpy Steve Craigton three times in the guts over a twenty-quid wrap of heroin.’

Logan’s hand drifted down to cover his own collection of scar tissue.

‘I’m going to have to hurry you.’

Logan stared at him.

Hacker threw his arms in the air. ‘No, the answer was Freddie Marshall! But thanks for playing.’

‘Have you finished?’

Hacker picked up another biscuit, gesturing with it for emphasis. ‘I asked around. I probed. I questioned. And you know what? The only thing pointing at Freddie was Crowbar Craig Simpson. No forensics, no witnesses. Nothing but Crowbar’s word for it.’ A bite sent crumbs tumbling down the front of his shirt. ‘Did you know he’s shacked up with Freddie’s missus now? A more cynical man might draw a line connecting those two things. Still, all’s fair, eh?’

‘So Fred Marshall had nothing to do with Aiden’s disappearance or Kenneth MacAuley’s murder?’

‘Why don’t you find him and ask him?’

‘You’ve worked for Sally MacAuley all these years, why haven’t you?’

‘Don’t think we haven’t tried.’ Hacker pulled a face. ‘Oh, the wee sod’s still out there somewhere — probably Manchester or Birmingham, keeping his head down, eking out a living as a low-level drug dealer or enforcer — but he must’ve changed his appearance and got himself a new alias, because no one out there recognises his picture or his name. Or maybe he’s slunk off to the continent?’ Hacker pointed with what was left of his biscuit. ‘You haven’t touched your tea.’

Logan stayed where he was. ‘If Fred Marshall didn’t have anything to do with the MacAuleys, why did he vanish?’

‘Well, if you were him, with his background, and your best mate’s telling everyone you abducted a wee boy and killed that wee boy’s dad, would you hang about waiting for the cops to fit you up?’

Ellie leaned her head back against the crate and rubbed the metal buckle thing across the bits of wood: scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump... Then did the same going the other way: scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump... Not that it did anything to undo the buckle, or loosen it, or get the big red rubber ball out of her mouth, but it made a noise. And that was something.

The trick was not to bite into the ball — that just made her jaw all achey — but to relax like Granny on the couch after Christmas dinner, with her mouth hanging open, teeth out, making noises like an angry piggy.

Scrape, thump, scrape, thump, scrape, thump...

The spotty boy was crying again, all muffled and sniffing, cos he had a big red rubber ball in his mouth too. Hunched up in his crate, cos he wasn’t little like they were — he was a big boy with shiny-dotty-spots on his arms and chest. Ellie had seen them, because he only had jammie bottoms on. Cos he’d been naughty.

A warm gold-and-pink light dribbled through the dirty window, but the shadows were getting deeper and bluer. Stretching out behind all the stuff on the shelves and racks. Growing bigger and hungrier.

Someone, in one of the other crates, made an eeeeeping noise and Ellie scooted forward, pressing her eye to the gap. Over by the workbench, a teeny weenie hand wriggled between two of the wood bits, the fingers all reachy and dirty. Too far away.

The boy in the crate next to the hand turned away — Ellie could see the reflections in his eyes go out. He never ever cried. Never made a single sound. Just watched from the darkness of his wooden box. Like he wasn’t really there.

Then those teeny reaching fingers went all floppy and the hand disappeared inside again. Before a new set of sniffling sobs clicked and hushed through the Scary Room.

Four of them and eight crates. That meant there was still—

The Horrible Song crackled out of the speakers up by the roof and the sniffy crying stopped like someone had thrown a tea towel over a budgie:

‘Teddy bears and elephants went up the stairs to bed,

They’d had a lovely dinner of tomato soup and bread,’

The man was coming back. The man who didn’t have a face!

‘Their mummy made them custard and bananas for their tea,’

Ellie’s heart went thumpity in her chest, breaths spiky through her nose as she backed against the far wall of her crate and covered her face with her tied-together hands. Peering out through her fingers.

‘And read them lovely stories until they were all sleepy.’

The door opened and The Faceless Man walked into the Scary Room all squinted over sideways cos he was carrying a big plastic carrier thing in one hand — the kind with a grille door that people took kitty-cats to the animal doctor in. He grunted and heaved it onto the workbench in the corner.

‘Go up the stairs, you sleepy bears, it’s time to brush your teeth,’

Wiggled his fingers and wobbled his hand, cos whatever was in the big carrier had to be really heavy.

‘Then climb into your cosy beds and snuggle underneath,’

His face was a big flat slab of grey nothing. No nose, no mouth, and no eyes either — all he had were two thin holes with darkness behind them. Much worse than a monster, because monsters were made-believey-up and The Faceless Man was real.

‘You elephants must say your prayers and promise to be good,’

He unbolted one of the eight crates and thumped the lid open.

‘For Mummy and for Daddy just as every nice child should.’

The Faceless Man went over to the kitten-cat carrier and pulled out a small boy with shiny yellow hair, a red splodgy dirty bit on his face, and sticky tape hiding his mouth. Both hands tied together. The boy’s eyes were big as the moon as he tried to wriggle back inside, but The Faceless Man grabbed his arm and ripped the sticky tape off his mouth. Opened a drawer and pulled out a red ball thing like Ellie had on.

‘It’s time for dreams and sleepy times as you lie in your bunks,

You teddy bears without a care, you elephants with trunks,’

The boy squirmed. ‘Lemmego, lemmego, lemmego!’

But The Faceless Man pushed him down, stuffed the red ball into his mouth and buckled it behind his head. Then scooped him up, carried him over to the open crate and stuck him inside. Thumped the lid shut and clunked the fixy thing closed.

‘And Nanny will kiss you goodnight and wish you lovely sleep,

So close your eyes, my little ones, it’s time for counting sheep.’

The Faceless Man picked up the big carrier again.

‘Tomorrow is another day, what fun you’ll have, and how!’

He turned and looked at them with his empty slits. Waved.

‘But today is done and over, so let’s go to sleep for now,’

His voice was all kind and warm — like he’d stolen it from Ellie’s next-door neighbour, Mr Seafield, who always had sweeties in his pockets and a friendly smile and a doggy you could pat if you promised to wash your hands afterwards. ‘You all play nice now.’

‘God bless Mummy and Daddy, yes and God bless Nanny too,’

The Faceless Man took the kitten carrier out of the Scary Room, clunking the door shut behind him.

‘It’s sleepy time, oh loves of mine, and I will—’

The music stopped.

Ellie moved to the front of her crate as the silence got bigger and bigger and bigger.

Then the crying started again.

19

Fiery oranges and pinks glowed on the underside of the coal-coloured clouds, as if the whole sky was made of smouldering embers. Rain hissed against the pool car’s windscreen, thickening as they headed across Northfield.

The radio was on again, but at least this time Rennie had the decency to hum along instead of singing. ‘You want me to get a lookout request on the go for Freddy Marshall? Maybe try Manchester, Liverpool, and Birmingham? Ooh, and Brighton too.’

‘Hmmm...’ According to Cold Blood and Dark Granite Aiden’s photo and description had been circulated by the FBI, Interpol, and most of the world’s press.

‘Honestly, it’s like talking to myself.’

‘Hmmm...’ All that coverage for about four weeks and then the media moved on to the next terrorist atrocity and celebrity sex scandal. The twenty-four-hour news cycle devouring everything fed to it, then—

Logan’s phone dinged. Dinged. Then dinged again. When he pulled it from his pocket, ‘BRUCIE (3)’ sat in the middle of the screen. ‘Here we go.’ He brought up the first message and read it out loud. ‘“Raymond Hacker, CEO of AberRAD Investigation Services Limited. Used to be a detective sergeant, back when we were still Grampian Police.”’ Next message... ‘Ha! So much for leaving to set up his own business — says here Professional Standards kicked him out for taking bribes.’

Rennie nodded. ‘I knew he was dodgy.’

Message number three: ‘“Known associates, ex-DC Andy Harris: caught stealing evidence from crime scenes. Drugs mostly. And ex-DC Danielle Smith: done for excessive force. Broke a drink-driver’s jaw.”’

‘I could’ve taken her though. You know, if you hadn’t come along.’

‘She’d have had your bumhole for an umbrella stand.’ Logan put his phone away and picked up his book again. ‘So AberRAD Investigations is full of police officers who’ve been thrown off the force.’

‘You could make an ace detective thing on the telly from that.’ Rennie put on a big cheesy voice-over voice. ‘Once, they were bad cops. Now, they’re the last and only hope for those who can’t get justice anywhere else...’ Then launched into dramatic theme music. ‘Dan da-da dan daaaa! Diddly twiddly too dee doo...’

‘You’re an idiot. You know that, don’t you?’

He shrugged and drove on in silence for a bit. Then, ‘So why didn’t you drink your tea?’

‘Because I know what ex-police officers are like. And I don’t enjoy the taste of other people’s spit.’

A look of utter disgust writhed across Rennie’s face. ‘Urrgh! I drank all mine!’

Rennie slowed the pool car as they drove down Queen Street. Pointed across the road. ‘Look at these silly sods.’

The protest outside Divisional Headquarters was about three times the size it’d been earlier. Which was quite impressive, given the rain. It hammered down from a burnt-orange sky, yellowed by the street lights, bouncing off umbrellas and placards as they marched round and round and round.

Logan buzzed his window down an inch and rival chants broke through the downpour.

‘Find Ellie Morton today! End the uncertainty! Find Ellie Morton today! End the uncertainty!’

A second group stood over by the front doors.

‘Bring Ellie Morton back! Catch this sodding maniac! Bring Ellie Morton back! Catch this sodding maniac!’

A third bunch was putting on a show for the TV cameras and journalists, their loudhailer leader whipping them up.

Her voice hissed and crackled out into the rain: ‘WHAT DO WE WANT?’

A ragged chorus: ‘Ellie found, safe and sound!’

‘WHEN DO WE WANT IT?’

‘Now!’

Rennie grimaced. ‘Yeah, they look friendly...’

Logan tucked his copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite into his fleece pocket. ‘I want you to badger Inspector Pearce about that CCTV trawl for Chalmers’ car. Make a nuisance of yourself till she does it just to get rid of you.’

‘I thought, you know, as I’m SIO, I should pull in a couple of Chalmers’ colleagues.’ He took the turning around the side of the building, heading up the ramp. ‘Give them a bit of a grilling.’

‘And get that lookout request going for Fred Marshall.’

‘Stick them in a chair with a light in their face.’ Putting on a James Cagney voice for, ‘You’re gonna talk, see? You’re gonna talk, or I’m gonna beat the living snot outta ya!’ The rear podium car park opened out at the top of the ramp — the usual collection of patrol cars, pool cars, and the small cluster of much fancier vehicles belonging to senior officers glowed in the security spotlights.

‘Chalmers was working with DS Steel. So good luck with that.’

‘Ah... Yeah. Maybe not then.’

Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘You’d be better off having another trawl through DI Bell’s old cases. See if you missed anything.’

‘Noooooo...’ Whining like a teenager asked to tidy their room. ‘But I’m SIO!’

‘It’s not meant to stand for “Sulky, Incompetent, and ’Orrible”.’

Logan rolled his eyes. ‘You’re wrong. You are. Accept it.’

The corridor was all nice and shiny and smelling of pine — down the far end, the familiar rhythmic whum-whum-whum of a floor polisher echoed off the walls.

Rennie opened the door to their temporary office. ‘All I’m saying is: the shark would definitely win.’

Logan followed him in. ‘What if they were fighting in a wardrobe? The bear would definitely win.’

‘Yeah, but why would a shark be in a wardrobe in the first—’

The Addams Family theme tune belted out of Logan’s phone. He pointed at Rennie’s computer. ‘Go. Do stuff.’ Then answered it. ‘Sheila?’

A cold, hard voice sounded in his ear. ‘Of course not.’ Isobel. Oh joy. ‘Have you identified the antidepressants DS Chalmers was on yet?’

‘Isobel. How nice to hear from you again.’

‘The antidepressants, Inspector McRae, have you identified them?’

Logan stuck his hand over the phone and grimaced at Rennie. ‘Can you remember what antidepressants Lorna Chalmers was on?’

‘Ermmm... No?’

‘Well, you’re a fat lot of help, aren’t you?’ He turned around and trudged out into the corridor again. ‘I’m on my way to do it now.’

‘I should think so too.’ And then she hung up.

Lovely.

Logan put his phone away and hauled on his best Isobel voice. ‘“I should think so too.” “The antidepressants, Inspector McRae.”’ He dropped the iceberg impersonation. ‘God, Logan, you really could pick them...’

At least the rain’s stopped...

Sally pulls a handkerchief from her coat sleeve and blows her nose. Huffs out a cloudy breath. Wipes at her stinging eyes.

The play area’s busy — scores of kids screaming as they run around the slides and climbing frames and wobbly duck things. Their mums gather at the outside edges, smoking, chatting, or fiddling with their mobile phones, exploiting this break in the weather to tire out their little darlings. Up above, the sky is a solid lump of churned granite, but the setting sun has somehow managed to find a chink between the clouds and the earth, making Westburn Park glow. Turning Aberdeen from a dreich grey lump to a technicolour beauty.

She settles down on the edge of a bench — the only dry bit — and shifts the stroller so it’s next to her. The teddy bear strapped into the seat is mostly hidden by the hood and deep walled sides, but it still smiles its dead smile at her, plastic eyes glinting in the sunlight.

Sally takes a deep breath. Bites her lip.

Stares out at the play area.

Look at them all, running and shrieking and laughing, playing tag and pirates and...

She swallows down the knot of wire in her throat. Wipes her eyes again.

The swings were always Aiden’s favourites. He would’ve spent hours on them if she’d let him, squealing for Kenneth to push him higher this time. Higher, Daddy! And Kenneth would smile and push him higher, and they’d all laugh...

The knot of wire is back. Sally bites her bottom lip and tries to keep it all—

‘Excuse me, are you OK?’

She looks up and a fat balding man is running on the spot, right in front of her, in Lycra shorts and a fluorescent-orange T-shirt, earphones held in one hand. Face all pink and sweaty. His belly jiggles every time his big white trainers hit the ground.

Heat rushes up her cheeks. ‘Sorry.’ She dries her eyes again. ‘Just being stupid. Sorry.’

‘OK, if you’re...’ He’s staring at her. Then his eyes widen. ‘You’re her, aren’t you? Yeah, yeah, you are! God. Wow. I read your book!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, it was really good.’ A smile spreads across his chubby face. ‘Wow. Sally MacAuley...’ He licks his lips. ‘Look, I wouldn’t normally, but like I said, I read your book...’ Then he pulled out a smartphone. ‘Can I take a selfie? Yeah?’

‘I really don’t... I’m not...’

But he does it anyway: pulling a pose and flashing victory Vs at his phone’s camera as it clicks. The two of them captured forever on the screen.

Sally flinches.

He puts his phone back in his pocket. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

A nod. Holding it in. Please go away. PLEASE GO AWAY!

His smile never slips. ‘OK. Great. Well, really nice to meet you. Keep up the good work!’ He gives her a thumbs up, then sticks his headphones on again and lumbers off. ‘Sally MacAuley... Wow!’

Soon as he’s gone, Sally hits herself on the head — thumping her fist into the hair above her ear, making it ring. Then again, harder. And again. ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

What the hell was she thinking?

She stands, grabs the stroller and wheels the teddy bear towards the exit. Past the play area with its happy children and mothers too tired, or too stupid to realise that every single moment with their sons and daughters has to be cherished. Because someone can come along and take it all away in an instant.

She scrubs a hand across her eyes as she gets to the car park. Wheels the stroller over to her rusty old Shogun and opens the boot. It’s full of empty feed bags and drifts of orange baler twine, but Sally folds the stroller up and thrusts it inside anyway. Slams the boot shut and stands there, forehead resting against the scratched red bodywork. Scrunches her eyes closed and curls her hands into fists. ‘How could you be so stupid?’

Quarter to seven on a Saturday night and the streets were virtually deserted. Up above, the sky was still its burnt marmalade colour, the clouds lit from underneath by the city lights. But it had actually stopped raining for a change.

Logan took the slip road at the Lang Stracht junction, onto the dual carriageway, heading for Kingswells. Should be there in about, what, five minutes?

An overexcited DJ burbled out of the Audi’s stereo. ‘...is dinner with local crime writer J.C. Williams and the chance to be a character in her next PC Munro book!’

His phone dinged and buzzed, announcing an incoming text.

Well tough. He was driving.

‘And bidding for that stands at two thousand and sixty pounds. Let’s see if we can get it to three grand by the end of the show!’

Right at the roundabout, up the hill past the park-and-ride. Trees crowded both sides of the road, leaves shiny and dark. Glistening in the row of street lights.

This time, his phone didn’t bother dinging, it launched straight into ‘If I Only Had A Brain’. Logan pressed the button on the steering wheel and the radio faded to silence. ‘Simon.’

Rennie’s voice boomed out. ‘First up: Biohazard Bob says thanks for arresting Crowbar Craig. He owes you a pint or two.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Oh yeah, it’s absolutely lovely. I’m the one got punched in the face! Where’s my pints?... Wait, you sound like you’re in a car. Are you in a car?’

‘What’s second up?’

‘Did you abandon me at the ranch and sod off to do something more exciting instead?’

‘I need to check those antidepressants at Chalmers’ house. You were busy doing things, remember? Now: second up.’

A grunt, a groan, then, ‘OK, OK... Had a word with a mate of mine in DI Fraser’s MIT. They’ve got an address for where DI Bell was staying: the Netherley Arms. They’re keeping it top secret.’

The road skirted Kingswells, orange and grey pantile roofs visible over high garden fences.

‘Odds on it’ll be all over the Aberdeen Examiner tomorrow morning.’

‘And third up, but not least up: I nagged the team looking through the CCTV footage for DS Chalmers’ car, like you asked.’

Left at the junction and into darkest Kingswells. They’d made some effort with the planting, but it was still a sprawling collection of housing estates, bolted together by cutesy-woodsey-named roads.

‘And?’

‘Not great. Automatic number plate recognition only works if you’ve got the car on camera and there’s only so much of Aberdeen that’s covered in cameras.’

‘Hmmm...’ Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, How the hell were they meant to find out where Chalmers had been with no clues, witnesses, or evidence?

‘Does it matter where she went? I mean, if she killed herself...?’

‘It matters because she thought she had a lead on the Ellie Morton abduction, but she didn’t want to share it. We need to know.’

‘Ah, OK. In that case, maybe we’d be better off trying to track her mobile phone instead?’

He’d walked right into that one.

Logan grinned. ‘Good idea. Off you go then.’

‘Gah...! But it’s quarter to seven. On a Saturday! I knew I should’ve stayed at home...’

‘You’re SIO now, remember? SIOs get to go home when the work’s done.’

Silence.

Logan took a right, then a left, following the satnav.

A long, grudging sigh huffed out of the speakers. Then, ‘All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Let me know.’ Logan thumbed the button and hung up.

The DJ on the stereo got louder again. ‘...twenty pounds from Marion at Chesney’s Discount Carpet Warehouse in Milltimber if I’ll give a big shout-out to all their staff and customers. Done and done, Marion!’

He pulled onto Chalmers’ road, with its collection of boxy wee houses and too-small built-in garages, no two exactly identical, but all cobbled together from the same basic building blocks. As if someone had swallowed a whole bellyful of Lego then vomited it up.

‘You’re listening to Mair Banging Tunes with me, Kenny Mair, and we’re raising money for the Ellie Morton Reward Fund! Next up for auction: dinner for two at Nick Nairn’s—’

Logan killed the radio and parked.

Surprisingly enough, the street wasn’t as dead as it could have been. Maybe because it was a secluded cul-de-sac, far from the main road? But there were actually kids out riding bicycles, playing in the streetlight, people walking dogs. Lights on in every living room but one.

Chalmers’ house was in darkness. No car in the driveway.

Logan got out and walked up the path to the front door.

An old lady and her Dobermann pinscher stopped on the other side of the road to stare. Suppose anyone in a uniform would be big news here today. It wasn’t every Saturday you got to see the police attending a neighbour’s suicide.

Logan rang the doorbell.

No response.

Another go.

Still nothing.

A high-pitched voice sounded behind him. ‘Can I help you?’

He turned.

It was a young man: mid-twenties with a hipster haircut, Skeleton Bob T-shirt, flesh-tunnel earlobes, skinny jeans, and a Kermit the Frog tattoo on his arm — so new it was still swollen and covered in clingfilm. Kermit the Hipster pointed at the house. ‘He’s not in. Brian, Mr Chalmers, he’s not in. Went to stay with friends, I think. Cos of what happened.’ Kermit licked his lips, eyes shining. ‘My mum’s got a key, you know: for watering the plants and things when they’re on holiday. I can let you in, if you like?’

Logan gave the weird little man a nod. ‘Thanks. But I’d better check first.’

Creepy Kermit stood on the pavement, watching him like a hungry puppy watches a sausage.

Logan shifted his phone from one ear to the other, keeping it between him and Kermit. ‘Mr Chalmers? You still there?’

What sounded like singing, somewhere in the background. Not proper professional singing, shower warbling. And was that hissing noise running water?

Brian Chalmers cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just... the shock.’

‘Your wife was on antidepressants, Mr Chalmers. I need to know which ones.’

‘It... Yes. She... Ever since her father died. It... the job.’

‘Will you be returning home soon?’

The song warbled to an end, the running water fell silent.

Still nothing from Brian Chalmers.

‘Are you—’

‘I’m... I’m not staying there. I’m staying with... a friend. I can’t stand... I can’t be in the house. Not after... I’m sorry.’

Logan did another circuit of the driveway. Well, rectangle of tarmac in front of the too-small garage. ‘We need access to the property, Mr Chalmers.’

‘Fine. Break in. Kick the door down. I don’t care. I can’t be there.’

A voice in the background. Female, warm. ‘Brian? Brian, have you seen my hairbrush?’ She paused for a beat. ‘Who are you talking to?’

The response was hard and sharp. ‘I’m on the phone!’ Then muffled scrunching came from the earpiece. Probably Chalmers covering the phone to talk to what was her name, Stephanie? The account manager? ‘Sorry. I’m sorry, it’s... I’ll only be a minute. I promise.’ Brian returned at full volume. ‘Search the place, burn it down, do what you want. I — don’t — care.’ And then he hung up.

Hmph... Hadn’t taken Brian Chalmers long to get over his wife’s suicide, had it? Body wasn’t even post-mortemed yet.

Logan put his phone away. Turned to Creepy Kermit. ‘About that key?’

‘Yes. Right!’ He hurried up the path, produced a pink fuzzy keyring with a single rectangular key dangling from it, and unlocked the front door. Stood aside and made a flourishing gesture. ‘After you.’

Logan stepped inside. Stopped. Slipped the key from the lock and pocketed it. Turned to Creepy Kermit and gave him a smile. ‘Thanks for your help.’ Then closed the door in his surprised and disappointed face.

Weirdo.

And just in case: Logan engaged the snib on the Yale lock. That’d keep the little sod out.

Right: bathroom.

He tramped up the stairs, down the landing and into the small tiled space. Opened the medicine cabinet and called the mortuary. ‘Isobel? I’ve got the antidepressants here.’ Logan picked one of the pill packets from Chalmers’ collection and peered inside. Almost empty. ‘Right first up is... Mo... Moclo...’ Oh for goodness’ sake, why did they have to make medication completely unpronounceable?

Isobel put on her patient voice, as if she was talking to a four-year-old. ‘Try sounding it out. Slowly.’

Yeah, that wasn’t emasculating in any way.

He worked his way through them, checking inside each one as he went. ‘Mo-clo-bem-ide. Tran-yl-cypro-mine sulphate. Ven-la-faxine hydrochloride. Nor-trip-ty-line. And Aripiprazole. All the boxes are pretty much empty.’

No reply.

Logan put the last packet back in the cabinet. ‘Oh come on, my pronunciation wasn’t that bad.’

‘Are these all from the same doctor’s surgery?’

‘Hold on.’ He did a quick comparison on the pharmacists’ labels. ‘Yes, but different doctors each time. Why?’

‘I need to check something.’ She raised her voice, as if shouting across the room. ‘Sheila? Look up Venlafaxine hydrochloride, please: I need contraindications.’

Then what might have been the staccato click of fingers on a keyboard, but it was too faint to be sure.

He sat on the edge of the bath.

Look at all those shampoos and conditioners. How did one human being need so many bottles of the stuff? And body lotions! All they did was make you greasy and slithery. What was the point of—

Sheila Dalrymple’s voice, barely audible in the background: ‘Possible fatal drug interactions with monoamine-oxidase inhibitors.’

‘What about Tranylcypromine?’

Another pause. Then, ‘Contraindicated with MAO inhibitors and dibenzazepine-related entities, Professor.’

‘And unless I’m very much mistaken: Moclobemide is an MAO inhibitor and Nortriptyline is a dibenzazepine-related entity. Aripiprazole?’

That was definitely someone typing.

‘Moderate contraindicators with MAO inhibitors and dibenzazepine-related entities.’

Complete gobbledygook.

He picked up a bottle of shampoo — strawberry and pomegranate. Wouldn’t know whether to wash with it or eat it. ‘Is all this supposed to make any sort of sense to normal people?’

Isobel put on her talking-to-small-children voice again. ‘Mix any of her pills together and you risk a one-way trip to the mortuary. Add alcohol into the mix and you can virtually guarantee it. And as I said, DS Chalmers had consumed a lot of alcohol.’

Pfff...

Logan put the shampoo down. ‘She wasn’t taking any chances, then.’

A sigh. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m amazed she managed to make it as far as the garage.’

Fiery oranges and pinks glowed on the underside of the coal-coloured clouds, as if the whole sky was made of smouldering embers. Rain hissed against the pool car’s windscreen, thickening as they headed across Northfield.

The radio was on again, but at least this time Rennie had the decency to hum along instead of singing. ‘You want me to get a lookout request on the go for Freddy Marshall? Maybe try Manchester, Liverpool, and Birmingham? Ooh, and Brighton too.’

‘Hmmm...’ According to Cold Blood and Dark Granite Aiden’s photo and description had been circulated by the FBI, Interpol, and most of the world’s press.

‘Honestly, it’s like talking to myself.’

‘Hmmm...’ All that coverage for about four weeks and then the media moved on to the next terrorist atrocity and celebrity sex scandal. The twenty-four-hour news cycle devouring everything fed to it, then—

Logan’s phone dinged. Dinged. Then dinged again. When he pulled it from his pocket, ‘BRUCIE (3)’ sat in the middle of the screen. ‘Here we go.’ He brought up the first message and read it out loud. ‘“Raymond Hacker, CEO of AberRAD Investigation Services Limited. Used to be a detective sergeant, back when we were still Grampian Police.”’ Next message... ‘Ha! So much for leaving to set up his own business — says here Professional Standards kicked him out for taking bribes.’

Rennie nodded. ‘I knew he was dodgy.’

Message number three: ‘“Known associates, ex-DC Andy Harris: caught stealing evidence from crime scenes. Drugs mostly. And ex-DC Danielle Smith: done for excessive force. Broke a drink-driver’s jaw.”’

‘I could’ve taken her though. You know, if you hadn’t come along.’

‘She’d have had your bumhole for an umbrella stand.’ Logan put his phone away and picked up his book again. ‘So AberRAD Investigations is full of police officers who’ve been thrown off the force.’

‘You could make an ace detective thing on the telly from that.’ Rennie put on a big cheesy voice-over voice. ‘Once, they were bad cops. Now, they’re the last and only hope for those who can’t get justice anywhere else...’ Then launched into dramatic theme music. ‘Dan da-da dan daaaa! Diddly twiddly too dee doo...’

‘You’re an idiot. You know that, don’t you?’

He shrugged and drove on in silence for a bit. Then, ‘So why didn’t you drink your tea?’

‘Because I know what ex-police officers are like. And I don’t enjoy the taste of other people’s spit.’

A look of utter disgust writhed across Rennie’s face. ‘Urrgh! I drank all mine!’

Rennie slowed the pool car as they drove down Queen Street. Pointed across the road. ‘Look at these silly sods.’

The protest outside Divisional Headquarters was about three times the size it’d been earlier. Which was quite impressive, given the rain. It hammered down from a burnt-orange sky, yellowed by the street lights, bouncing off umbrellas and placards as they marched round and round and round.

Logan buzzed his window down an inch and rival chants broke through the downpour.

‘Find Ellie Morton today! End the uncertainty! Find Ellie Morton today! End the uncertainty!’

A second group stood over by the front doors.

‘Bring Ellie Morton back! Catch this sodding maniac! Bring Ellie Morton back! Catch this sodding maniac!’

A third bunch was putting on a show for the TV cameras and journalists, their loudhailer leader whipping them up.

Her voice hissed and crackled out into the rain: ‘WHAT DO WE WANT?’

A ragged chorus: ‘Ellie found, safe and sound!’

‘WHEN DO WE WANT IT?’

‘Now!’

Rennie grimaced. ‘Yeah, they look friendly...’

Logan tucked his copy of Cold Blood and Dark Granite into his fleece pocket. ‘I want you to badger Inspector Pearce about that CCTV trawl for Chalmers’ car. Make a nuisance of yourself till she does it just to get rid of you.’

‘I thought, you know, as I’m SIO, I should pull in a couple of Chalmers’ colleagues.’ He took the turning around the side of the building, heading up the ramp. ‘Give them a bit of a grilling.’

‘And get that lookout request going for Fred Marshall.’

‘Stick them in a chair with a light in their face.’ Putting on a James Cagney voice for, ‘You’re gonna talk, see? You’re gonna talk, or I’m gonna beat the living snot outta ya!’ The rear podium car park opened out at the top of the ramp — the usual collection of patrol cars, pool cars, and the small cluster of much fancier vehicles belonging to senior officers glowed in the security spotlights.

‘Chalmers was working with DS Steel. So good luck with that.’

‘Ah... Yeah. Maybe not then.’

Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘You’d be better off having another trawl through DI Bell’s old cases. See if you missed anything.’

‘Noooooo...’ Whining like a teenager asked to tidy their room. ‘But I’m SIO!’

‘It’s not meant to stand for “Sulky, Incompetent, and ’Orrible”.’

Logan rolled his eyes. ‘You’re wrong. You are. Accept it.’

The corridor was all nice and shiny and smelling of pine — down the far end, the familiar rhythmic whum-whum-whum of a floor polisher echoed off the walls.

Rennie opened the door to their temporary office. ‘All I’m saying is: the shark would definitely win.’

Logan followed him in. ‘What if they were fighting in a wardrobe? The bear would definitely win.’

‘Yeah, but why would a shark be in a wardrobe in the first—’

The Addams Family theme tune belted out of Logan’s phone. He pointed at Rennie’s computer. ‘Go. Do stuff.’ Then answered it. ‘Sheila?’

A cold, hard voice sounded in his ear. ‘Of course not.’ Isobel. Oh joy. ‘Have you identified the antidepressants DS Chalmers was on yet?’

‘Isobel. How nice to hear from you again.’

‘The antidepressants, Inspector McRae, have you identified them?’

Logan stuck his hand over the phone and grimaced at Rennie. ‘Can you remember what antidepressants Lorna Chalmers was on?’

‘Ermmm... No?’

‘Well, you’re a fat lot of help, aren’t you?’ He turned around and trudged out into the corridor again. ‘I’m on my way to do it now.’

‘I should think so too.’ And then she hung up.

Lovely.

Logan put his phone away and hauled on his best Isobel voice. ‘“I should think so too.” “The antidepressants, Inspector McRae.”’ He dropped the iceberg impersonation. ‘God, Logan, you really could pick them...’

At least the rain’s stopped...

Sally pulls a handkerchief from her coat sleeve and blows her nose. Huffs out a cloudy breath. Wipes at her stinging eyes.

The play area’s busy — scores of kids screaming as they run around the slides and climbing frames and wobbly duck things. Their mums gather at the outside edges, smoking, chatting, or fiddling with their mobile phones, exploiting this break in the weather to tire out their little darlings. Up above, the sky is a solid lump of churned granite, but the setting sun has somehow managed to find a chink between the clouds and the earth, making Westburn Park glow. Turning Aberdeen from a dreich grey lump to a technicolour beauty.

She settles down on the edge of a bench — the only dry bit — and shifts the stroller so it’s next to her. The teddy bear strapped into the seat is mostly hidden by the hood and deep walled sides, but it still smiles its dead smile at her, plastic eyes glinting in the sunlight.

Sally takes a deep breath. Bites her lip.

Stares out at the play area.

Look at them all, running and shrieking and laughing, playing tag and pirates and...

She swallows down the knot of wire in her throat. Wipes her eyes again.

The swings were always Aiden’s favourites. He would’ve spent hours on them if she’d let him, squealing for Kenneth to push him higher this time. Higher, Daddy! And Kenneth would smile and push him higher, and they’d all laugh...

The knot of wire is back. Sally bites her bottom lip and tries to keep it all—

‘Excuse me, are you OK?’

She looks up and a fat balding man is running on the spot, right in front of her, in Lycra shorts and a fluorescent-orange T-shirt, earphones held in one hand. Face all pink and sweaty. His belly jiggles every time his big white trainers hit the ground.

Heat rushes up her cheeks. ‘Sorry.’ She dries her eyes again. ‘Just being stupid. Sorry.’

‘OK, if you’re...’ He’s staring at her. Then his eyes widen. ‘You’re her, aren’t you? Yeah, yeah, you are! God. Wow. I read your book!’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, it was really good.’ A smile spreads across his chubby face. ‘Wow. Sally MacAuley...’ He licks his lips. ‘Look, I wouldn’t normally, but like I said, I read your book...’ Then he pulled out a smartphone. ‘Can I take a selfie? Yeah?’

‘I really don’t... I’m not...’

But he does it anyway: pulling a pose and flashing victory Vs at his phone’s camera as it clicks. The two of them captured forever on the screen.

Sally flinches.

He puts his phone back in his pocket. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

A nod. Holding it in. Please go away. PLEASE GO AWAY!

His smile never slips. ‘OK. Great. Well, really nice to meet you. Keep up the good work!’ He gives her a thumbs up, then sticks his headphones on again and lumbers off. ‘Sally MacAuley... Wow!’

Soon as he’s gone, Sally hits herself on the head — thumping her fist into the hair above her ear, making it ring. Then again, harder. And again. ‘Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!’

What the hell was she thinking?

She stands, grabs the stroller and wheels the teddy bear towards the exit. Past the play area with its happy children and mothers too tired, or too stupid to realise that every single moment with their sons and daughters has to be cherished. Because someone can come along and take it all away in an instant.

She scrubs a hand across her eyes as she gets to the car park. Wheels the stroller over to her rusty old Shogun and opens the boot. It’s full of empty feed bags and drifts of orange baler twine, but Sally folds the stroller up and thrusts it inside anyway. Slams the boot shut and stands there, forehead resting against the scratched red bodywork. Scrunches her eyes closed and curls her hands into fists. ‘How could you be so stupid?’

Quarter to seven on a Saturday night and the streets were virtually deserted. Up above, the sky was still its burnt marmalade colour, the clouds lit from underneath by the city lights. But it had actually stopped raining for a change.

Logan took the slip road at the Lang Stracht junction, onto the dual carriageway, heading for Kingswells. Should be there in about, what, five minutes?

An overexcited DJ burbled out of the Audi’s stereo. ‘...is dinner with local crime writer J.C. Williams and the chance to be a character in her next PC Munro book!’

His phone dinged and buzzed, announcing an incoming text.

Well tough. He was driving.

‘And bidding for that stands at two thousand and sixty pounds. Let’s see if we can get it to three grand by the end of the show!’

Right at the roundabout, up the hill past the park-and-ride. Trees crowded both sides of the road, leaves shiny and dark. Glistening in the row of street lights.

This time, his phone didn’t bother dinging, it launched straight into ‘If I Only Had A Brain’. Logan pressed the button on the steering wheel and the radio faded to silence. ‘Simon.’

Rennie’s voice boomed out. ‘First up: Biohazard Bob says thanks for arresting Crowbar Craig. He owes you a pint or two.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Oh yeah, it’s absolutely lovely. I’m the one got punched in the face! Where’s my pints?... Wait, you sound like you’re in a car. Are you in a car?’

‘What’s second up?’

‘Did you abandon me at the ranch and sod off to do something more exciting instead?’

‘I need to check those antidepressants at Chalmers’ house. You were busy doing things, remember? Now: second up.’

A grunt, a groan, then, ‘OK, OK... Had a word with a mate of mine in DI Fraser’s MIT. They’ve got an address for where DI Bell was staying: the Netherley Arms. They’re keeping it top secret.’

The road skirted Kingswells, orange and grey pantile roofs visible over high garden fences.

‘Odds on it’ll be all over the Aberdeen Examiner tomorrow morning.’

‘And third up, but not least up: I nagged the team looking through the CCTV footage for DS Chalmers’ car, like you asked.’

Left at the junction and into darkest Kingswells. They’d made some effort with the planting, but it was still a sprawling collection of housing estates, bolted together by cutesy-woodsey-named roads.

‘And?’

‘Not great. Automatic number plate recognition only works if you’ve got the car on camera and there’s only so much of Aberdeen that’s covered in cameras.’

‘Hmmm...’ Logan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, How the hell were they meant to find out where Chalmers had been with no clues, witnesses, or evidence?

‘Does it matter where she went? I mean, if she killed herself...?’

‘It matters because she thought she had a lead on the Ellie Morton abduction, but she didn’t want to share it. We need to know.’

‘Ah, OK. In that case, maybe we’d be better off trying to track her mobile phone instead?’

He’d walked right into that one.

Logan grinned. ‘Good idea. Off you go then.’

‘Gah...! But it’s quarter to seven. On a Saturday! I knew I should’ve stayed at home...’

‘You’re SIO now, remember? SIOs get to go home when the work’s done.’

Silence.

Logan took a right, then a left, following the satnav.

A long, grudging sigh huffed out of the speakers. Then, ‘All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Let me know.’ Logan thumbed the button and hung up.

The DJ on the stereo got louder again. ‘...twenty pounds from Marion at Chesney’s Discount Carpet Warehouse in Milltimber if I’ll give a big shout-out to all their staff and customers. Done and done, Marion!’

He pulled onto Chalmers’ road, with its collection of boxy wee houses and too-small built-in garages, no two exactly identical, but all cobbled together from the same basic building blocks. As if someone had swallowed a whole bellyful of Lego then vomited it up.

‘You’re listening to Mair Banging Tunes with me, Kenny Mair, and we’re raising money for the Ellie Morton Reward Fund! Next up for auction: dinner for two at Nick Nairn’s—’

Logan killed the radio and parked.

Surprisingly enough, the street wasn’t as dead as it could have been. Maybe because it was a secluded cul-de-sac, far from the main road? But there were actually kids out riding bicycles, playing in the streetlight, people walking dogs. Lights on in every living room but one.

Chalmers’ house was in darkness. No car in the driveway.

Logan got out and walked up the path to the front door.

An old lady and her Dobermann pinscher stopped on the other side of the road to stare. Suppose anyone in a uniform would be big news here today. It wasn’t every Saturday you got to see the police attending a neighbour’s suicide.

Logan rang the doorbell.

No response.

Another go.

Still nothing.

A high-pitched voice sounded behind him. ‘Can I help you?’

He turned.

It was a young man: mid-twenties with a hipster haircut, Skeleton Bob T-shirt, flesh-tunnel earlobes, skinny jeans, and a Kermit the Frog tattoo on his arm — so new it was still swollen and covered in clingfilm. Kermit the Hipster pointed at the house. ‘He’s not in. Brian, Mr Chalmers, he’s not in. Went to stay with friends, I think. Cos of what happened.’ Kermit licked his lips, eyes shining. ‘My mum’s got a key, you know: for watering the plants and things when they’re on holiday. I can let you in, if you like?’

Logan gave the weird little man a nod. ‘Thanks. But I’d better check first.’

Creepy Kermit stood on the pavement, watching him like a hungry puppy watches a sausage.

Logan shifted his phone from one ear to the other, keeping it between him and Kermit. ‘Mr Chalmers? You still there?’

What sounded like singing, somewhere in the background. Not proper professional singing, shower warbling. And was that hissing noise running water?

Brian Chalmers cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just... the shock.’

‘Your wife was on antidepressants, Mr Chalmers. I need to know which ones.’

‘It... Yes. She... Ever since her father died. It... the job.’

‘Will you be returning home soon?’

The song warbled to an end, the running water fell silent.

Still nothing from Brian Chalmers.

‘Are you—’

‘I’m... I’m not staying there. I’m staying with... a friend. I can’t stand... I can’t be in the house. Not after... I’m sorry.’

Logan did another circuit of the driveway. Well, rectangle of tarmac in front of the too-small garage. ‘We need access to the property, Mr Chalmers.’

‘Fine. Break in. Kick the door down. I don’t care. I can’t be there.’

A voice in the background. Female, warm. ‘Brian? Brian, have you seen my hairbrush?’ She paused for a beat. ‘Who are you talking to?’

The response was hard and sharp. ‘I’m on the phone!’ Then muffled scrunching came from the earpiece. Probably Chalmers covering the phone to talk to what was her name, Stephanie? The account manager? ‘Sorry. I’m sorry, it’s... I’ll only be a minute. I promise.’ Brian returned at full volume. ‘Search the place, burn it down, do what you want. I — don’t — care.’ And then he hung up.

Hmph... Hadn’t taken Brian Chalmers long to get over his wife’s suicide, had it? Body wasn’t even post-mortemed yet.

Logan put his phone away. Turned to Creepy Kermit. ‘About that key?’

‘Yes. Right!’ He hurried up the path, produced a pink fuzzy keyring with a single rectangular key dangling from it, and unlocked the front door. Stood aside and made a flourishing gesture. ‘After you.’

Logan stepped inside. Stopped. Slipped the key from the lock and pocketed it. Turned to Creepy Kermit and gave him a smile. ‘Thanks for your help.’ Then closed the door in his surprised and disappointed face.

Weirdo.

And just in case: Logan engaged the snib on the Yale lock. That’d keep the little sod out.

Right: bathroom.

He tramped up the stairs, down the landing and into the small tiled space. Opened the medicine cabinet and called the mortuary. ‘Isobel? I’ve got the antidepressants here.’ Logan picked one of the pill packets from Chalmers’ collection and peered inside. Almost empty. ‘Right first up is... Mo... Moclo...’ Oh for goodness’ sake, why did they have to make medication completely unpronounceable?

Isobel put on her patient voice, as if she was talking to a four-year-old. ‘Try sounding it out. Slowly.’

Yeah, that wasn’t emasculating in any way.

He worked his way through them, checking inside each one as he went. ‘Mo-clo-bem-ide. Tran-yl-cypro-mine sulphate. Ven-la-faxine hydrochloride. Nor-trip-ty-line. And Aripiprazole. All the boxes are pretty much empty.’

No reply.

Logan put the last packet back in the cabinet. ‘Oh come on, my pronunciation wasn’t that bad.’

‘Are these all from the same doctor’s surgery?’

‘Hold on.’ He did a quick comparison on the pharmacists’ labels. ‘Yes, but different doctors each time. Why?’

‘I need to check something.’ She raised her voice, as if shouting across the room. ‘Sheila? Look up Venlafaxine hydrochloride, please: I need contraindications.’

Then what might have been the staccato click of fingers on a keyboard, but it was too faint to be sure.

He sat on the edge of the bath.

Look at all those shampoos and conditioners. How did one human being need so many bottles of the stuff? And body lotions! All they did was make you greasy and slithery. What was the point of—

Sheila Dalrymple’s voice, barely audible in the background: ‘Possible fatal drug interactions with monoamine-oxidase inhibitors.’

‘What about Tranylcypromine?’

Another pause. Then, ‘Contraindicated with MAO inhibitors and dibenzazepine-related entities, Professor.’

‘And unless I’m very much mistaken: Moclobemide is an MAO inhibitor and Nortriptyline is a dibenzazepine-related entity. Aripiprazole?’

That was definitely someone typing.

‘Moderate contraindicators with MAO inhibitors and dibenzazepine-related entities.’

Complete gobbledygook.

He picked up a bottle of shampoo — strawberry and pomegranate. Wouldn’t know whether to wash with it or eat it. ‘Is all this supposed to make any sort of sense to normal people?’

Isobel put on her talking-to-small-children voice again. ‘Mix any of her pills together and you risk a one-way trip to the mortuary. Add alcohol into the mix and you can virtually guarantee it. And as I said, DS Chalmers had consumed a lot of alcohol.’

Pfff...

Logan put the shampoo down. ‘She wasn’t taking any chances, then.’

A sigh. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’m amazed she managed to make it as far as the garage.’

20

Logan poked his head into the master bedroom. A couple of cardboard boxes sat on the unmade bed, half-full of clothes. More boxes on the floor, stuffed with CDs and books and DVDs.

Looked as if Brian Chalmers was moving out.

The second bedroom was just the same as it’d been that morning. No packing going on in here.

Might as well have a rummage. After all, you never knew...

He hauled the bottom drawer out of the bedside cabinet and dumped it on the carpet, next to the other two. Reaching into the hollow left behind with one hand, the other holding his phone. ‘How are you getting on?’

A groan from Rennie. ‘Give me a chance! Do you have any idea how much sodding about you have to do to get phone companies to release tracking data on someone’s mobile? On a Saturday? After the office is closed? Because it’s loads. Loads and loads and loads!’

Nothing in the hollow but a pair of black pop socks.

‘When they brought Chalmers in, did she have her notebook on her?’

‘And look at the time: it’s gone seven! Emma’s already been on, giving me grief about not going home when—’

‘Notebook, DS Rennie, notebook.’ Logan slotted the bottom drawer back into place. ‘Maybe she kept a record of what she was up to.’

‘Gah... All right, all right, I’ll have a rummage.’

‘And see if you can dig out her mobile phone too.’

His voice went all quiet and muttering. ‘Ordering me about like I’m an idiot or something. Supposed to be the SIO...’

Logan hung up and finished reassembling the bedside cabinet.

Wardrobe next.

Nothing in any of the jackets, trousers, or shirt pockets. Nothing in the pile of boots and shoes either.

Delving under the bed produced a handful of shoe boxes full of old school photographs and some fluff-covered bits-and-bobs.

He lifted up the mattress. A couple of baby magazines sat on the wooden slats beneath it. Would have been better finding sex toys. The magazines, hidden away like that, was just... depressing.

Logan placed them on the bedside cabinet, sighed, then wandered out onto the landing again.

There was a hatch in the ceiling, outside the bathroom.

Right: stepladder.

Probably find one in the garage.

Logan thumped downstairs and into the shelf-lined space. ‘Ladder, ladder, ladder, ladder... Ah, there you are.’ Hiding behind an artificial Christmas tree in a box.

He wrestled it free and carried it over to the door.

Stopped.

Chalmers’ glasses and shoes still sat there, on the shelves. Lined up, all neat and tidy, as if she’d nipped out for a minute and would be back for them soon.

Rennie had been right — it was weird.

Ah well, nothing he could do about that now.

Logan wrestled the stepladder up the stairs and clacked it open outside the bathroom door. Climbed it, shoved the hatch open and peered into the darkness. Like that scene in Aliens... A switch sat right by the opening and when he clicked it on, cold white light flickered into the space.

‘Great...’

The place was stuffed full of boxes. They were piled up on every flat surface, jammed in between the joists and rafters, and most of them looked as if they hadn’t been opened since Lorna and Brian Chalmers moved in.

Mind you, that cut down the workload a bit, didn’t it? Anything covered in dust could be ignored. If Lorna was planking her notebooks up here, hiding evidence, they’d have to be in a box that’d been opened recently.

Logan levered himself up into the cramped space.

And that meant these three nearest the hatch — everything else wore a thick lid of pale-grey fluff. Box one: kitchen gadgets that probably got used once then dumped. Box two: threadbare teddy bears, dolls, action figures, board games — all ancient and yellowed. Stored away, waiting for the child that Chalmers never had. Box three was full of her stuff from police college — photos, textbooks, journals.

He picked a journal and flicked through it: cramped spidery handwriting in blue biro, the occasional diagram that looked as if it’d been copied down at a lecture. Its pages dry and crackling. No sign of any recent additions, scribbled onto the last few pages, saying what had happened to Ellie Morton.

The other two journals were the same.

Logan opened the last one somewhere near the middle.

He shut the book and placed it in the box again. Folded the lid shut. Sighed.

All that hope and optimism, reduced to this. Some lonely toys, a box full of journals no one would ever read, and a body dangling from the end of an electrical cable in a crappy garage you couldn’t even park a car in.

Shaz should’ve taken that bet.

Anyway, this wasn’t achieving any—

His phone went ding.

That would be Rennie.

Only when he dug his phone out, it wasn’t.

HORRIBLE STEEL:

Yes, because today wasn’t bad enough already.

He thumbed out a reply.

SEND.

Ding.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ Tara wiped her hands on a tea towel as she hurried down the hall, following the summoning chimes of Logan’s doorbell. Probably looked a right state with flour all over the only apron she could find in the kitchen — a surprisingly un-macho pink number with kittens on it that she was definitely going to make fun of him for when he got home — and bits of cheese cobbler dough caked all over her fingers. But tough.

The bell went again — two long, dark, old-fashioned bongs.

‘Keep your underwear on...’ She opened the door. ‘Can I help... you?’

It was Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel, AKA: The Wrinkly Horror, standing on the top step with a worrying smile on her face and a huge bag over her shoulder. God knew what sort of products she used to get her hair like that. Probably matt varnish and mains electricity.

The smile got worse. ‘Aye, aye: you’ve got your clothes on, so I know I’m no’ interrupting anything naughty.’ She turned, stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled.

The call was answered by two little girls. Jasmine, with her dark-brown spiky hair, jeans, trainers, brown leather jacket — a sophisticated look for a ten-year-old, spoiled a bit by the threadbare teddy bear she was clutching. Her little sister, Naomi, waddled up behind, wearing a tatty-looking Halloween pirate costume — not the frilly girly version — holding a cuddly octopus toy above her head like it was a god. Or a sacrificial offering.

Something jagged coiled up in Tara’s throat. She swallowed it down. ‘Det... It... Detective Sergeant Steel. Logan isn’t—’

‘In you go, monsters.’ Steel gave the girls a push and they scampered inside.

‘But...’

‘Budge up a bit.’

Steel barged in after them, forcing Tara to flatten herself against the wall.

What was happening? Why was... What?

Outside, in the driveway, Susan waved from the passenger seat of a sensible hatchback — the engine still running. What she was doing with The Wrinkly Horror was anyone’s guess. She was a lovely, if slightly frumpy, blonde with a warm smile and dimples, while Steel was a hand grenade in a septic tank.

Tara tried for a smile of her own and waved back, then turned just in time to see Steel dump her bag in the hallway. ‘It... But...?’

Any sophistication points Jasmine had left evaporated as she caught sight of Logan’s cat and made a noise that wasn’t far off a full-on squeal. ‘Cthulhu!’ She charged off after the poor creature, closely followed by her tiny pirate sister.

‘Thooloo! Thooloo!’

Steel had a dig at an underwire. ‘Did Laz tell you how come he got the house so cheap? A fancy four-bedroom love nest in Cults must’ve cost a fortune, right?’

This must be what hostages felt like.

‘He... Someone left him money in their will.’

‘Oh aye, but this place was going cheap because the old lady who lived here... died here.’ She nudged the bag with her boot. ‘Everything’s in there: pyjamas, toilet bags, sleeping bags, bedtime stories.’

WHAT?

‘Sleeping bags?’

‘So the old lady has a stroke, or a heart attack or something, drops dead right here.’ Steel tilted her head at the big patch of new-looking floorboards at the foot of the stairs. ‘Took three months till anyone noticed she was missing. By then most of her had oozed through the floor into the basement. God, the smell! Carpet was about two inches thick with dead flies in here.’

A squeaky voice blared out through the living room door. ‘Thooloo! Thooloo! Thooloo!’

Tara swallowed again. ‘But—’

‘You’ve looked after them before, you’ll be fine.’

No, no, no, no, no...

‘But only when Logan was there too! I can’t—’

‘And they like you, which is a bonus.’ A wrinkly wink. ‘Normally they go through babysitters like vomit through a sock.’

‘But I’ve never—’

‘Ooh, look at that.’ Steel checked her watch. ‘Gotta go, or we’ll be late.’ She marched towards the front door. ‘Naomi’s bedtime is eight, Jasmine can stay up till ten, but only if she’s behaved herself and done her teeth after dinner. No chocolate.’

‘But Logan isn’t here!’

‘We’ll see you tomorrow for a nice big slap-up breakfast. Have fun!’

She actually skipped out the door, climbed into the driving seat of the sensible family hatchback. Grinned as she fastened her seatbelt.

Susan gave Tara another wave as the car pulled away, while Steel cackled.

This wasn’t fair.

‘I’m not good with children!’

That tiny voice bellowed out again, like something off Jurassic Park: ‘Thooloo! Thoolooooooooooo!’

Tara twisted the tea towel until it was tight as a garrotte. ‘Oh God...’

Logan wrestled the ladder in behind the boxed Christmas tree again. Something else that would probably never see daylight again. Never be taken out and covered in decorations...

God, this house was depressing.

He turned and made for the door through into the hall. Then stopped.

Chalmers’ shoes and glasses. All lined up on their respective shelves.

The glasses weren’t anything special — half wire frames with a blueish tint to the legs. He put them back in their place. Then picked up the shoes: grey and black, scuffed around the toe, the laces tucked inside. There was soil caught in the treads. Tiny flecks of green grass.

Now there was a thought.

He pulled out his phone with his other hand and scrolled through his contacts. Set it ringing.

A blare of party music got muffled by something. Then, ‘Hello?’

‘Dr Frampton? It’s Logan. Logan McRae?’

‘Ah, Inspector McRae. Let’s see it’s... twenty past seven on a Saturday evening, I’m guessing this isn’t a social call?’

‘I know it’s the weekend, but I wondered if you could maybe do me a wee favour?’

‘A forensic soil scientist’s work is never done. What do you need?’

‘I’ve got a pair of shoes with some dirt on them. I need to know what they trod in and where.’

‘Do you now...’ A pause. ‘Well, I suppose you did sort out that thing for me...’ Then a slurping noise came through the phone’s speaker. ‘It’ll have to wait till tomorrow, though: I’ve been downing Tom Collinses since four and even I wouldn’t trust me to run the mass spectrometer.’

‘Thanks. I’ll drop them off on my way past. Fifteen minutes?’

‘If I’m in the hot tub, you can leave them in the porch.’ A smile crept into her voice. ‘That or borrow a swimming costume?’

‘Can’t. Things to see, people to do.’

‘Shame. I’ve got a pair of budgie smugglers you’d look lovely in.’

‘Actually, I’ve got to...’ He hung up and had a wee shudder. Woman was incorrigible.

Right, all he needed now was newspaper to wrap Chalmers’ shoes in and a box to keep them safe from here to Dr Frampton’s house.

Logan tucked the Amazon box under his arm and locked the front door.

Kermit the Weirdo was waiting for him, standing on the driveway, the streetlight behind him casting his face and hands into shadow. The creepy effect was somewhat undermined by the fact he was sheltering under a Hello Kitty umbrella. Was that meant to be ironic, or did it belong to some unknown baby sister? Kermit took a step closer, eyes hungry in the gloom. ‘You find anything?’

‘I didn’t get your name earlier.’

Kermit nodded. ‘Norman. Clifton. But my mates call me “Tebbit”.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Logan held up his hand — the key glinted on the end of its fuzzy fob. ‘I’ll have to keep hold of this for a couple of days, Norman. Part of the investigation.’

‘Oh...’ He turned and scuffed away down the drive, shoulders hunched, umbrella canopy glowing like a pink mushroom as he passed beneath the streetlight.

‘Thanks for all your help.’ Logan smiled and waved him goodbye, keeping his voice nice and low so Kermit the Weirdo couldn’t hear him. ‘And this way you can’t sneak in and lick the floor where she hanged herself, you utter freak.’

More waving and smiling, until Kermit disappeared into his mum’s house, then Logan hurried down the driveway — scrambling in behind the Audi’s wheel as his phone belted out its generic ringtone.

He dumped the cardboard box on the passenger seat, then answered the call. ‘McRae.’

What sounded like a little girl, singing in the background, came through the speaker. Another, littler girl joined in, getting most of the words wrong.

‘An allosaurus, name of Doris, lived long ago inside a forest,

She was a stinky dinosaur, everyone told her so...’

Then the whole lot was drowned out by a harsh, hissing whisper. ‘You utterly and completely misogynistic bastard!’

‘It really hurt her feelings to be told she’s unappealing,

So Doris asked a brontosaurus, because she didn’t know,

And he said...’

‘OK...’ He checked the caller ID: ‘TS TARA’. Frowned. ‘Tara, is that you?’

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

Or stethoscopes, or skipping ropes, or envelopes, or telly!’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? I mean the thing about the old lady rotting her way through the floor was bad enough, but I am not your bloody babysitter!’

Not another one. He tried not to sigh, he really did.

‘Remember when I lent you my key this morning on the condition that you didn’t turn out to be a complete nutjob?’

‘Just because I offered to cook dinner doesn’t make me your skivvy!’

‘What the hell are you on about?’

A muffled scrunch. Then, ‘Don’t act like you didn’t know: she turned up and dumped Jasmine and Naomi on me then ran away! She. Her. Steel!’

She dumped...? Oh God.

A cold hard lump ballooned inside his stomach.

How could she do that?

‘Tara? I’m going to have to call you back. I’ve got to go shout at Roberta Sodding Steel!’ He hung up and stabbed Steel’s number in his contact list. Set it ringing as he started the car and pulled away from the kerb.

The Audi’s hands-free system picked it up, and a robotic-sounding Steel belted out of the speakers. ‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Roberta Steel. I’m busy, or I don’t want to speak to you. Leave a message and you’ll find out which.’

Bleeeeeeep.

He strangled the steering wheel — if only it was her neck! ‘You can’t abandon Jasmine and Naomi with Tara and sod off! Are you trying to ruin everything for me?’ He bared his teeth, dragged in a long breath. ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAARGH!’ Then mashed the ‘END CALL’ button with an angry thumb.

Had another scream for good luck. ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Called Tara.

She was still doing the angry pantomime whisper. ‘Logan?’

‘Steel’s not answering her phone.’

The sound of little feet thundered past in stereo. ‘Thooloo! Thooloo!’

‘You didn’t agree to this in advance?’

‘Of course I didn’t! I bought bubble bath. I even bought fizzy wine for you to drink while soaking in the bubble bath. This is Steel’s revenge for me not babysitting last night.’

More thundering feet. Then Jasmine’s voice sounded loud and clear. ‘Aunty Tara? Aunty Tara, Naomi needs to go to the toilet.’

‘I’m not good with children, Logan. They frighten me.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go to the station and sign out, but then I’ll be right home. I promise.’

‘You’d better be. Because—’

‘Aunty Tara? Naomi really, really needs to go to the toilet!’

‘Oh God...’ She was obviously trying to put a bit of confidence into her voice. It almost worked. ‘Come on, Tara, if you can blind a man with your thumbs, you can do this.’ And then she was gone.

Logan grimaced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Yeah, that last bit wasn’t worrying at all...

21

That’s the thing about Aberdeen — as soon as the rain stops, people rush outside, trying to enjoy themselves, as if it’s the middle of a summer’s day. Only it isn’t.

A row of black metal lampposts cast a faint yellow glow into the car park, shimmering back from the puddles. About a dozen assorted hatchbacks and four-by-fours are spread out across the bays, but Sally ignores them, reversing in alongside a dirty grey Luton van in the corner instead. All four tyres are flat, and there’s a ‘POLICE AWARE’ sticker across the windscreen.

Hmph.

Yes, well the police might be ‘aware’, but, as usual, they’re doing sod-all about it.

She leaves enough space between the Shogun and the van to get the passenger door open, backing up till the towbar is a couple of feet from the hedge bordering the car park.

Her head itches, like it’s covered in ants. But that’s what she gets for listening to Raymond, isn’t it? I’ve bought you a wig, Sally. Put the wig on, Sally. No one will recognise you if you wear the wig, Sally. She tops the long, blonde, curly monstrosity with a baseball cap, flips up the hood on her old brown hoodie, and puts on her sunglasses. She looks like a stroppy teenager, but at least no one will ask for a selfie this time.

Right. Let’s try it again.

Sally gets the stroller from the boot, clacks it into shape on the wet tarmac and wheels it away down one of the paths that lead off into Hazlehead Park.

Nearly half past seven and there are lanky kids in AFC tracksuits and head torches, out whacking golfballs where they aren’t meant to. A knot of underage couples snogging and smoking and passing around two-litre bottles of extra-strong cider. Hands up sweatshirts and down jeans.

She keeps going, following the path deeper and deeper into the park. Moving from the waxy glow of one lamppost to the next.

Trees and bushes crowd in on the path as she pushes the teddy bear in its stroller. Following the sound.

Shrieks and yells and giggling laughter.

It’s not a huge play area: a seesaw, a climbing frame, and a set of swings. Almost a dozen small children have descended on it — some hanging from the bars, two going up and down and up and down, four roaring around and around pretending to be spaceships — while their parents stand on the periphery, looking bored. Chatting to one another or fiddling with their phones. Someone’s reading a magazine.

Sally wheels the stroller past them, keeping her head down — along the path as it curls past the far side of the play area and disappears between a clump of thick green bushes.

The kids on the other side screech and roar.

Maybe it would be...

She stops. Frowns.

There’s a small girl sitting on the ground beneath one of the bigger bushes where it’s dry, playing with a handful of Star Wars action figures. A pretty little thing — can’t be more than five years old — in denim dungarees, a wine-red T-shirt, and grubby trainers. Hair a froth of Irn-Bru-coloured curls.

No sign of her mother.

How could anyone just let her wander off like that?

Sally stands on her tiptoes, peering over the top of the bush. The parents barely seem to register the children screeching around in front of them. It’s unbelievable, it really is.

She hunkers down in front of the little girl. ‘Hello.’

No reply.

‘That looks fun.’

Still nothing. So Sally picks up the Darth Vader figure and makes it walk towards her, adopting an over-the-top French accent: ‘Ello. I have ze leetle boy who likes space stuff too.’

She doesn’t look up. ‘That’s not how Gunter talks. He’s American.’

Right. Of course he is. Sally swaps her Inspector Clouseau for John Wayne instead. ‘Well gee, I sure am sorry, partner.’

The little girl attacks a Chewbacca with a Princess Leia, biffing them together. ‘It’s OK. He’s a bit of a tit anyway.’

‘A bit of...?’

Chewbacca falls over and Princess Leia jumps on his head.

‘That’s what Daddy says when someone’s not as clever as he is.’ She puts on a deep growly voice. ‘“Christ’s sake, Becky, but your Uncle Kevin’s a bit of a tit!”’

‘I see...’ Sally forces a smile. ‘Well, Becky, would you and Gunter like to come play with my little boy?’

‘Is he a bit of a tit?’

Sally bites her lip for a moment, then pulls on the smile again. ‘No, he’s a lovely, handsome, clever, funny, little boy.’ She nods at the teddy bear, strapped into the stroller. ‘This is his best friend, Mr Bibble-Bobble. They’re playing hide-and-seek.’ She brings up a finger and points it at the bushes opposite. ‘Can you see him? He’s a very good hider.’

And at that, the little girl finally looks up from Princess Leia giving Chewbacca a kicking and stares at the bush, eyes narrowing, lips pursed.

Good. You keep facing that way.

Sally slips the homemade gag from her pocket — it’s only a tea towel with a knot tied in the middle, but perfectly serviceable. ‘Can you see him?’

Becky squints. ‘... Yes?’

She edges closer. ‘Ooh, look: there he goes!’ Swinging her finger towards the nearest exit. ‘I bet we can sneak up on him if we’re all super quiet and sneaky like spies.’

Becky scrambles to her feet. ‘Gunter is a spy!’

‘Quick, jump in the buggy and hide under Mr Bibble-Bobble.’ Sally unbuckles the bear. ‘He won’t expect a thing.’

Becky puts one hand on the stroller... then stops. Looks back through the bushes at the knot of parents.

Sally tightens her grip on the gag. Come on. Get in the buggy. Get in the buggy.

She scuffs away a step. ‘Maybe I better—’

‘Unless you’re too big a scaredy-cat to be a spy?’

‘Am not a scaredy-cat!’ She grabs Darth Vader / Gunter from Sally’s hands. ‘Come on, Gunter, don’t be a tit.’ Then clambers into the stroller and pulls the teddy on top of herself. It barely covers half of her, but it’ll be good enough from a distance.

She makes little giggling noises as Sally wheels her away along the path.

‘Shhh... You have to be very quiet.’

Past the play area, past the snogging underage drinkers. Past the where-they’re-not-meant-to-be golfers. Back into the car park. And Becky’s still giggling...

Sally pushes the stroller into the dark gap between her Shogun and the big manky Luton van. That’s when the giggling stops.

Becky sits up and frowns. Stares at her. Then hauls in a huge breath, mouth open and ready to scream.

Sally stuffs the gag into it.

Quick — before anyone sees!

She shoves Becky back into the stroller and grabs her hands — tying them together at the wrists with a double length of baler twine, ignoring the legs kicking against her thighs, the muffled roars as the little girl bucks and writhes.

Soon as she’s got the hands secured, Sally ties the gag as well, then hauls the Shogun’s rear door open and bundles Becky into the footwell. Pins her against the carpet and ties her ankles together in the dim glow of the interior light.

More muffled roaring.

‘Shh...’ Sally reaches out to stroke her hair, but Becky thrashes in the footwell like a mackerel in the bottom of a rowboat trying to escape the hook.

‘Shh... It’ll be OK. I promise, it’ll be OK...’

Another length of rope goes around her waist and then around the metal struts supporting the passenger seat. Tied tight so she can’t get free.

‘It’s only for a little bit, I promise. Be a good girl and it’ll all be over soon. OK?’ And then Sally takes the pillowcase from the back seat and pulls it over Becky’s head.

More roaring.

She closes her eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. ‘Oh God...’ Then backs out of the car, closes the door, shoves the stroller in the boot, and hurries in behind the wheel. Starts the engine and twists on the headlights.

It isn’t easy, sticking to the posted fifteen-mile-an-hour limit, but Sally does her best, even though muffled screams and thrashing sounds boom out from the back of the car.

‘Please, it’ll be OK. Please: shhhh...!’ Her voice is shrill in her own ears, panicky, pleading. ‘Shhhh...!’

And it makes no difference — Becky keeps going.

So Sally switches on the radio and turns it up to drown her out.

A broad Doric accent joins the cacophony, so thick it’s barely comprehensible. ‘...an amazin’ four thoosand poon! Absolutely crackin’. And dinna forget we’ve still got a richt load a thingies ye canna buy oanywye else tae auction off fir the Ellie Morton Reward Fund! Noo: fit aboot a bittie music?’

‘Hold still!’ Sally tightens her grip on Becky’s dungarees, unlocks the shed, then carries her and the teddy bear inside.

It’s gloomy in here. The ivy choking the window stops all but the faintest glow from the spotlight above the kitchen door getting through. Rain hisses on the roof, rattles in the ivy, scratches against the walls. It took most of the morning to clear the shed out, and now the only things in here are a couple of yoga mats with a sleeping bag on top, a pillow, a bucket, and the chain — screwed to one of the shed’s uprights.

Sally carries Becky over to the sleeping bag and lowers her onto it, which would be a lot easier if she wasn’t wriggling and squirming. Growling behind her gag, face still hidden by the pillowcase. Thrashing away on the floor of the shed.

Maybe she’ll tire herself out?

Or maybe she’ll hurt herself.

Sally grabs her by the shoulders and gives her a shake. ‘Stop it! Stop it, please...’

And she does. She actually does.

Quick — before she starts up again! Sally wraps the chain’s loose end around Becky’s chest, just under the armpits, tight enough that she won’t be able to get it down over her tummy, and fixes it in place with a padlock.

Good.

Sally stands and puts the sunglasses on again. Makes sure her baseball cap is straight and her hood is up. Then removes the pillowcase from Becky’s head, revealing a pair of puffy bloodshot eyes and a bright-pink tear-streaked face.

‘Oh my baby...’ Sally reaches out to stroke her hair, but she flinches away — growling again. ‘Look, I know it’s bad. I know. But I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I...’ She lowers herself to the wooden floor, sitting cross-legged in front of Becky. ‘I need your help. It’s only for a couple of days.’

Becky glowers at her.

‘If you promise to be a good girl, I’ll untie your legs. Do you promise?’

‘Mnnnphgnnnph mmnnn...’ She holds up her hands.

‘No. Not the hands, the legs. You promise?’

Silence. Then a nod.

‘There we go.’ Sally undoes the quick-release knot. Tucks the baler twine in her pocket. Sits back again. ‘Isn’t that a lot more comfortable?’

‘Mmmgnnnfff...’ Still glowering.

‘They took my little boy, Becky. They took him and they sold him to some very bad people.’ Sally picks up the teddy bear, squeezing it tight. ‘And I know he’s still alive, I know it, because people have seen him. People have...’

This won’t be easy to explain to a five-year-old.

‘Becky, they have something called the Livestock Mart: it’s like an auction where you can buy and sell people. Children. He’s going to be auctioned off again.’ She looks down at the teddy bear in her arms. ‘I...’ Hugs it tighter. ‘I’m going to buy my little boy back, but it’s not easy. The people who run the auction are... suspicious of newcomers. If you want to be there you have to prove you’re one of them.’ Bile stings at the bottom of Sally’s throat. She swallows it down. ‘You have to have someone to sell.’

Logan pushed into his temporary office.

Rennie was slumped over his computer, nose inches from the screen. Behind him, rain sparked and crackled against the windows — the streetlights turning it into amber fireworks. He looked up and yawned. Stretched. Then a short squeaky trumpet noise sounded from somewhere beneath the desk. His eyes widened. ‘Oops.’

Revolting little monster.

‘You better not have been saving that up for when I got back.’

Rennie pointed at a collection of evidence bags sitting on one of the other desks. ‘Chalmers’ stuff. I got everything they took off her at the mortuary. Couldn’t find any notebook, though.’ He swept an arm out, indicating the cardboard boxes on the other desks. ‘DI Bell’s stuff. Pick a box, any box.’

‘Not tonight, Josephine: time for home. We’ll go through his things tomorrow.’

‘Cool!’ Rennie scrambled to his feet and grabbed his jacket. ‘Bright and early though, right? Cos I’m SIO?’

‘No. Because one: tomorrow’s Sunday. And two: it’s a suicide. Soon as you sent off your report, that was it. Job’s done.’

His bottom lip popped out, trembling. ‘But I’m SIO...’

It was like running a nursery some days, it really was.

‘Fine. Come in early and draft a press release, if you like. But if you send it anywhere before I approve it, I’ll have your bollocks for tiny doorstops. Understand?’

Rennie grinned. ‘Thanks, Guv.’

‘And make sure you remind me to—’ Logan’s phone burst into the Addams Family theme tune and his shoulders slumped. ‘Why does God hate me?’ But he picked up anyway. ‘Sheila. What can I do for you?’

‘Inspector McRae, I would request your attendance at the mortuary. It appears we have something that may prove pertinent to the inquiries you make.’

What?

‘Why do you sound like something Dickens threw up?’ He checked that his computer was switched off. ‘You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m heading home, so—’

‘Make haste. My mistress has other appointments and a mind to keep them.’ And with that, she hung up on him.

Great. Because God forbid Logan McRae should actually be able to go home. And no prizes for guessing who Tara would blame for leaving her alone with the kids for however long this was going to take.

Logan groaned. Sagged. Then shooed Rennie away.

‘Go. Off with you. Before it’s too late to escape.’

Rennie gave him the thumbs up and scarpered.

Lucky sod.

Sheila Dalrymple stood over what was left of Lorna Chalmers. They’d stitched her body closed again, a thick line of puckered flesh and heavy black twine running from beneath both ears, down the neck and out across her collarbones. Another line disappeared under the pale green sheet draped over the remains to cover her modesty. As if that would make up for the post mortem’s violation. Skin pale as unsalted butter between the dark red and purple bruises.

But while Dalrymple was still dressed up in her white wellies, blue scrubs, purple nitrile gloves, a green plastic apron, and a hairnet — like Post-Mortem Barbie — Isobel had changed into a dark-grey suit. Very tailored and stylish.

Her hair swept back from her face, high cheekbones, full lips, eyes partially hidden behind narrow steel-framed glasses. The only thing letting the catwalk-model-look down was the pair of mortuary clogs on her feet.

Logan leaned against one of the other cutting tables. ‘Well? What was so urgent it—’

‘I need you to pay attention.’ Isobel clicked her fingers. ‘Sheila, if you wouldn’t mind?’

Dalrymple gave a weird curtsy / nod thing, then took hold of Chalmers’ left arm, raised it straight up and held it there. As if Chalmers was asking to go the bathroom.

‘Thank you. Now, Inspector McRae, the crime-scene photographs clearly imply that DS Chalmers committed suicide by hanging herself, do they not?’

‘I know. I was there.’

Isobel produced what looked like a pen from her pocket, then pulled it out into a pointer and tapped it against the body’s forearm. ‘It was your list of antidepressants that made me take another look. Antidepressants, antipsychotics, and alcohol: if you’ve taken all three of those things, why bother with the rope?’

‘Being thorough?’ Logan shrugged. ‘Or maybe Chalmers hanged herself to punish her husband? It’s a bit more dramatic if he has to come in and find her dangling there in the garage.’

‘Notice the marks on her wrist and forearm. They’re faint, more like the memory of folds pressed into the skin.’ The pointer moved. ‘The other arm please, Sheila.’

Dalrymple lowered the left with exaggerated care, then walked around the table and raised the right.

‘There are matching marks, here...’ indicating Chalmers’ wrist, ‘and here.’ Isobel clacked her pointer in again and turned to Logan. ‘If I was a speculating sort of person, which as you know I’m not, I’d be wondering if they were significant.’

OK, no idea.

‘And are they?’

‘Let’s imagine you tie someone’s hands behind their back — someone who’s struggling to breathe because of the noose around their neck — that leaves very distinct marks. Now imagine you wrap something else around them instead.’ Isobel mimed doing it. ‘Something that doesn’t have a single hard line to it. Something large, like a bath sheet, or some foam rubber.’

Logan stared at Chalmers’ body. ‘Are you saying someone tied her hands behind her back, then hanged her?’

‘No, I’m saying they didn’t tie her hands. Because it would have left—’

‘Distinctive marks.’

‘There are similar marks on her calves and shins too.’

Dalrymple’s hand flashed out and grabbed hold of Logan’s wrist, squeezing it through his sleeve. Putting some pressure on it.

‘Gah!’ He flinched, but she held on. Grinning at him like something out of a Hammer House of Horror film.

‘See?’ She gave it an extra squeeze. ‘See how the fabric folds and crumples as I squeeze it? That leaves distinctive marks on the skin.’ Dalrymple let go of his wrist and pulled up his sleeve. A network of small white grooves snaked across the red skin, branching and merging — mirroring the wrinkled fabric. Exactly like the ones on Chalmers’ arms and legs.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake... She was murdered?’

Isobel pulled the sheet up, covering Chalmers’ bruised face. ‘The medication and the alcohol would have been enough to make her malleable.’

‘Ah-ha!’ Dalrymple rubbed her hands. ‘But not malleable enough to dangle meekly at the end of a rope, I’ll wager. For that a means of restraint must be put in place.’

There was silence as Isobel frowned at her. Then, ‘What have I told you about speaking like that, Sheila?’

Another strange curtsy / bow thing. ‘A thousand apologies, Professor. I shall return to my allotted tasks immediately.’ She took hold of a mop and wheely bucket, pushing out of the cutting room on squeaky wheels.

Isobel sighed. ‘I suppose it’s my own fault for getting her that boxed set of Ripper Street as a birthday present. She hasn’t even watched the damn thing yet, God knows what she’ll be like by tomorrow.’

Logan crossed the ancient brown floor tiles and stood over Chalmers’ shrouded body. ‘Someone wanted us to think she’d killed herself.’

‘That would be a logical conclusion. Unless I’m wrong about the marks on her arms and legs, that is.’

He shook his head. ‘When are you ever wrong?’

They should be so lucky.

22

Logan knocked on DCI Hardie’s door and stood there in the corridor. Waiting.

Actually, you know what? Sod this.

He pushed in without an invite.

Hardie sat behind his desk and a large stack of paperwork. Face flushed and shiny as he wheedled at someone on the phone. ‘...yes. And all the surrounding streets too... Well I don’t know, do I?’

He had company — DI Fraser and DS Robertson, the pair of them sitting in the visitors’ chairs, Fraser frowning at a clipboard. ‘...when you’ve done that: get McHardy and Butler to dig up everything they can on the parents. Facebook, Twitter, the whole social-media circus.’ Her shirt-dress thing looked a lot more rumpled than it had that morning. A patch of what might have been dog hair on her lap. ‘Maybe someone’s threatened them, or maybe they’ve threatened someone? We’re looking for motive.’

Robertson nodded. ‘Guv.’

Hardie rubbed at his eyes. ‘Look, I’m drafting in other patrol cars... Yes.’

Robertson picked a pile of papers from Hardie’s desk and turned. Jerked to a halt as she clapped eyes on Logan. Forced a smile onto her face and nodded. ‘Guv.’

‘George.’

She sidled past him and out into the corridor. Footsteps getting quicker as she hurried away.

‘Because we’re screwed, that’s why... Oh for...’ Hardie rubbed at his eyes. ‘Just get out there and do what you can.’

DI Fraser gave Logan a grimace. ‘It never rains, does it?’

‘Something wrong?’

She scowled at her fingernails: long and unpolished, then popped her pinkie-nail in her mouth and gnawed at it, clipping it away. ‘Bucketing down. Thunder and lightning.’

Hardie hung up and sagged. Groaned. Rubbed at his eyes again. ‘Another little girl’s gone missing: Rebecca Oliver, five years old. She was playing in Hazlehead Park, Mum turns her back for two minutes and she’s vanished.’

Fraser thhhpted the clipped nail out into the palm of her other hand and started in on the next one. ‘Monsoon season...’

‘No witnesses, no ransom demand. Same as Ellie Morton.’

Logan lowered himself into the chair Robertson had vacated. ‘I have some bad news.’

‘Noooooo...’ Hardie buried his head in his hands. ‘Of course you do.’

Tttttpt. Another clipped nail. ‘Told you: never rains, but it pours.’

‘DS Lorna Chalmers. Professor McAllister thinks she might not have hanged herself after all. She might have been murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Hardie peered out from behind his fingers. ‘Kim, did he say “murdered”?’

‘He said “murdered”.’ Another nail.

Logan held his hand up. ‘Possibly.’

Hardie looked as if he was melting. ‘But murdered?’

‘You might want to put a Major Investigation Team together.’

‘Murdered...’ He slumped forwards, keeping going till his forehead thumped into the desktop. ‘Murdered.’ He raised his head an inch, then banged it down again. ‘Murdered.’ Bang. ‘Murdered...’

‘Sorry.’

Logan parked on his driveway, in front of his skip, in front of his house — at — sodding — last. Then groaned and sagged in his seat for a moment.

According to the dashboard clock, it’d gone ten to nine. And he’d promised Tara he’d be home ASAP what, two hours ago? Oh yeah, he was dead. Bloody Roberta Bloody Steel had managed to kill the only good thing that had happened since... No idea. But it was a long time ago.

He climbed out, locked the car, and let himself into the house.

Clunked the front door shut behind him.

Then froze.

Stared at the hallway walls.

Dinosaurs and pirates and unicorns and zombies snaked across the plasterwork — from about waist-height down — kids’ graffiti in lurid shades of crayon and marker pen.

How...? What...?

He draped his Police Scotland fleece over the end of the stairs and stood there, looking up into the gloom of the floor above. ‘Hello?’

The only sound oozed out from the living room.

A full-fat American accent with a side-order of cheese: ‘Damn it, Poindexter, I’ll kick your ass if you touch Clara again!’

Another professional American, but a bit whinier: ‘You don’t get it do you, Chuck? I’m not the same nerd you picked on in high school!’

Logan undid his boots. ‘Tara? Sorry I’m late, there’s been a murder...’

He scuffed through into the living room.

All the lights were off. The only illumination came from the flickering TV.

An over-muscled blond bloke in a ripped T-shirt grimaced at a classic cliché glasses-and-tank-top nerd with oversized incisors. So that would be vampire schlock horror then. They were obviously meant to be college kids, but the actors playing them had to be in their thirties. The production was a bit ropey too — a dodgy day-for-night shoot outside a doughnut shop where all the colours were wrong.

Tara was slumped on the couch, head back, mouth open, snoring away. Jasmine had nestled in beside her, doing some snoring of her own.

Only Naomi was still awake, staring at the TV screen with wide eyes and a huge grin on her face. As if this was the best thing in the whole world ever.

Nerdy McTanktop gave a terrible fake laugh. ‘Bwahahahahahahaaaa! I’m a vampire now. A creature of the mother-lovin’ night! I’ll kick your ass!’

‘Get lost, Poindexter! I’ve got garlic and a crucifix and I’m not afraid to use them!’

Logan crept towards the couch, taking the long way round so he could sneak up behind Naomi. Reached out a hand and put it on her shoulder.

She didn’t even flinch. Just sat there, utterly enraptured. ‘Vampeeers, Daddy! Vampeers!’

Tanktop did his fake laugh again. ‘Garlic and a crucifix? That crap only works in the movies, Chuck.’

‘Yeah? Well, lucky I got Betsy here, then, ain’t it?’ Chuck McMuscles somehow managed to produce a massive chainsaw from thin air. It roared into life.

Logan settled on the arm of the couch. ‘Are you sure you should be watching this?’

Naomi squealed with delight, hands covering her mouth, as Chuck turned Poindexter into a collection of very messy body parts.

‘Because I think you should be in bed, you bloodthirsty little monster.’

She dragged her eyes away from the screen and blinked up at him, bottom lip trembling. ‘Noooo!’

Well... Tara and Jasmine were asleep. And it probably—

Naomi clapped her little hands together, bouncing up and down on the couch.

On screen, Chuck was covered in scarlet and breathing hard. But ‘Betsy’ was quiet. ‘You should’ve saw that coming, you undead nerd!’

‘Ow...’ Poindexter’s severed head rolled its eyes and grimaced at him. ‘Why didn’t I go eat the Chess Club instead?’

Logan ruffled Naomi’s hair. ‘You know this’ll probably turn you into a serial killer when you grow up, don’t you?’

She snuggled into him and grinned at the television.

Becca pushed back against the wall.

It was dark outside, and dark inside too. Dark and full of spiders and stinky smells and stuff that looked like skellingtons hiding in the shadowy bits. And everything tasted like towels.

She struggled her fingers into the gap between her cheek and the gag the Horrid Monster Lady tied around her mouth. Wriggled at it. Pulling left and right. Which was really hard with both wrists tied together. But she wasn’t giving up, cos it tasted like towels and towels weren’t nice to eat, they were horrid.

Something rustle-crunched on the other side of the wall. But it could bugger right off. That’s what Daddy always said about Uncle Kevin. ‘Christ in a hat, Rebecca, your Uncle Kevin can bugger right off.’ Cos he was a tit.

She strained her chin up, digging and forcing and straining...

The towelly thing came free and she woomphed in a great big breath that tasted of dust and furniture. Coughed a couple of times. Would’ve spitted too, but the towel had made her mouth all dry.

Another deep breath. ‘MUMMY!’ Loud as she could. ‘MUMMY, I’M IN HERE! HELP!’

The rustly-crunchy thing buggered right off. Scared of her.

And so it should be!

‘MUMMY! HELP ME!’ Becca filled her tummy with air and screeched out a big noisy, ‘EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEE‌EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeee...’ until her face was hot and the world went all swimmy.

Outside, something made ‘Hoo-hooooooo...’ noises. Like it was laughing.

No one charged in to save her.

So, instead, Becca turned and grabbed the chain the Horrid Monster Lady padlocked under her arms. The other end was screwed into one of the big sticks that held the shed walls together. She dug her trainers into the bit where the stick joined the floor, leaned away from the wall and pulled. And pulled. And pulled...

Then flopped onto the sleeping bag they’d left for her.

Becca sucked in her tummy and tried to get a finger in between the chain and her chest to push it down, but it was too tight and her wrists were tied together and she couldn’t get them into the right place and even when she finally managed it she couldn’t make the chain move because HER POOPY WRISTS WERE TIED TOGETHER!

‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAAARGH!’

Stuck. Trapped — in — this — horrible — shed... In the dark. With the spiders.

Becca sniffed. Blinked. Wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

No: no crying. No crying allowed.

Big fierce strong girl!

She yanked at the chain again, straining backwards, legs trembling, arms all sore and achy. Pulling and pulling and pulling...

But it was no use. The chain stayed where it was.

Becca sank down onto her sleeping bag.

Stared up at the metal platey thing screwed to the stick.

Sniffed.

No crying...

None.

She wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve. Glared at the Horrid Monster Lady’s stupid teddy bear with its big soppy face. Big floppy ears. Big goofy smile... Maybe he was a prisoner like Becca? Maybe he was scared and frightened, because he was all alone and it was dark and he was only little. He needed someone to look after him and keep him safe and give him a proper name, cos ‘Mr Bibble-Bobble’ was a crap name.

‘Don’t worry, Orgalorg.’ She picked him up in her tied-together hands. Gave him a hug — all fuzzy and squishy. ‘I won’t let the tits hurt you.’

Becca laid down on her side. The chain around her armpits clinked and rattled as she pulled one half of the sleeping bag over herself, making sure Orgalorg was tucked in too. Breath all jaggy and shaking in her throat.

No crying!

Sally stands at the sink, leaning on the cool stainless steel, staring out of the window. All the lights are off, turning her into nothing but a faint outline in the glass. Tartan nightshirt barely visible. A ghost.

The shed outside is a dark silhouette, one side blurred by the swathe of ivy.

Looking at it makes her chest ache.

‘I’m so sorry...’

Maybe she should have left Becky with a night light? Or a torch? What if she’s afraid of the dark? What if—

‘Sally? What are you doing in here with all the lights off?’

She lets her eyes focus on the window again as Raymond’s reflection steps up behind her, his naked skin more visible in the glass than she is. Because he’s still alive.

‘Her name’s Rebecca Oliver. Her mother was on the news, Raymond: crying and pleading for her little girl.’ Sally huffs out a trembling breath. Wipes her eyes with the palm of her hand. ‘Just like I used to do. Standing there with Aiden’s photo, begging for whoever took him to bring him back safe and sound...’

‘You have to stop blaming yourself.’ He wraps his arms around her and kisses the skin between her collar and hairline with warm dry lips. ‘I know it’s horrible, but you didn’t have any other choice.’

‘But the police—’

‘You were careful, remember? No one saw you. And even if they did, they wouldn’t recognise you: with the wig and the baseball cap and the hoodie and sunglasses? There aren’t any CCTV cameras in the area, no automatic number-plate recognition either. That’s why we chose it.’ He hugs her. ‘No one can connect you with this.’

She looks through his reflection to the shed again. ‘She’s a little girl.’

‘You had to do it. They won’t let new people into the Livestock Mart without something to sell. It’s how they know you’re legit.’ He takes hold of her shoulders and turns her to face him. Standing there naked in the kitchen, staring at her with those serious grey eyes. The ones that match the two streaks in the swept-back hair at his temples and the stubble on his strong chin. Her knight in shining armour. Only there’s nothing shiny about what they’re doing. Nothing shiny at all.

Raymond cups her chin and lifts her face to his. Kisses her. ‘Listen to me: it’ll be OK. We get Aiden back, then we ramp up the reserve price on the girl so high no one will be able to afford to bid for her. We drop her off somewhere safe and call it in anonymously.’ A lopsided smile. ‘And we come home with Aiden.’

Sally looks away. ‘But what if it doesn’t work like that? What if someone can afford her?’

He sounds so very dependable and reasonable. As if he does this kind of thing every day. ‘Then Andy and Danielle follow them home, beat the crap out of the dirty paedo scumbag, and bring the wee girl back. He won’t get to lay a finger on her, I swear.’ Raymond wraps her up in a hug, his naked skin warm through her nightshirt. ‘It’ll all be over soon. Trust me.’