The Blood Road

33

The stairwell rang with the sound of feet and voices, coming from the floors below as Logan plodded his way up. One hand on the bannister, one on his phone. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve no idea when I’ll get finished tonight.’

Tara sighed. ‘You sure?’

‘I know I’m only in charge for forty-eight hours, but it’s still a murder inquiry.’

A tiny PC thundered down the stairs, carrying a stack of case files. He nodded at Logan on the way past. ‘Guv.’

‘Damien.’ Logan kept on climbing.

‘And have you decided how you’re going to make things up to me yet, or do I need to impose sanctions?’

‘Sanctions?’

‘Oh, I’ll go all United Nations on your arse. You’ll think North Korea’s getting off lightly.’

‘OK, now you’re being cruel.’ He walked past the lifts and pushed through the double doors, into the corridor beyond.

‘I got dumped with your kids last night, Logan. I’m allowed to be cruel.’

‘Yeah, you’ve got a point.’

A couple of doors down, Rennie poked his head out of the temporary office and waved. ‘Thought it was you. DCI Hardie’s throwing a wobbly!’

Wonderful.

‘Sorry: got to go.’

‘I know, I know. “It’s a murder.”’ She hung up.

Logan sighed and put his phone away. ‘Has Norman Clifton seen his solicitor yet?’

‘I’m not kidding about Hardie: this isn’t just any old wobbly, it’s a full-on, five-star, man-the-lifeboats, wibbly wobbly. He’s about thirty seconds off exploding and taking everyone with him. Wants you in his office A.S.A.F.P.’

Wonderful.

‘What’s gone wrong now?’

34

Hardie’s office door was open, letting the sound of muttered voices ooze out into the corridor, overlaid by the harsh electronic ringing of his desk phone.

Logan stopped, hand up — ready to knock.

DS Robertson and DS Scott had Hardie hemmed in behind his desk and he did not look happy.

Scott dumped a huge stack of paperwork into the in-tray. ‘Five hundred door-to-doors and not a single lead.’

‘What a shock.’ Robertson grabbed the ringing phone. ‘DCI Hardie’s office... Uh-huh... Uh-huh...’

DI Fraser fumed in one of the visitors’ chairs, arms folded, eyebrows down, as if someone had spat in her ear. ‘Completely unbelievable that anyone could be that stupid. It’s a PR disaster! How are we supposed to get the public to trust us after this?’

Hardie shook his head. ‘As if I haven’t got enough to deal with already...’

DS Scott tapped the pile of paper. ‘We’ve done another appeal for witnesses, but you know what it’s like: soon as they find out there’s a reward we’re swamped with crazies, loonies, time-wasters, chancers, and conmen.’

Fraser shook a finger at the ceiling. ‘It’s unforgivable!’

Logan knocked on the door frame.

No one paid any attention.

‘Hold on, I’ll check.’ Robertson put a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘Boss, they can get you on the six o’clock news for another appeal. Interested?’

Hardie sagged. ‘Urgh... OK, OK. Six o’clock.’

Robertson went back to the phone. ‘Yup, six is fine... OK.’

‘You’re busy.’ Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I can pop by later if you like?’

Hardie looked up, face darkening. ‘Oh no you don’t!’ He reached for his in-tray, stopped, then scowled at Scott’s big stack of forms. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ He snatched them up and dumped the paperwork into Scott’s hands. Then hauled out a sheet of paper and thrust it in Logan’s direction. ‘The Aberdeen Examiner faxed over Monday’s front page, wanting a comment.’

Why did that sound like a threat?

‘OK...’ Logan stepped into Hardie’s office and took the sheet of paper. The headline blared, ‘HEARTLESS POLICE SLANDER ELLIE’S DAD’ above a photo of Russell Morton looking stern and disappointed. And for some bizarre reason an inset photo of Logan sat on the right with the subheading ‘POLICE HERO TURNS CRUEL COP’.

Oh for...

He poked the page with a finger. ‘How did they get hold of this?’

Hardie folded his arms, chin up, teeth bared. ‘Go on then: read it.’

‘Because this isn’t—’

‘Out loud for all the boys and girls!’

Great.

Logan took a breath and did what he was told. ‘“In a shocking move, police officers visiting Ellie Morton’s worried parents branded her stepfather a ‘workshy scrounger’...” That’s not strictly true.’

Hardie’s fist banged off the desk. ‘It shouldn’t even be vaguely true! What the bloody hell were you thinking?’

‘Me? Oh, no, I’m not...’ He clamped his mouth shut. Paused. Then, ‘How did the Aberdeen Examiner get hold of this?’

‘How could you be so stupid?’ Getting louder and louder. ‘I thought the key to being in Professional Standards was acting like a bloody professional!’

‘It wasn’t—’

‘YOU DON’T CALL VICTIMS’ PARENTS “WORKSHY SCROUNGERS”!’

Logan turned.

A couple of PCs stood outside in the corridor, gawping. And as soon as he made eye contact, they were off, bustling away towards the stairwell as if the host of hell was right behind them.

Logan closed the office door then turned back to Hardie. Kept his voice nice and calm. ‘Number one: I didn’t. Number two: I get that you’re stressed, but that doesn’t make it OK to scream at people. Number three: this is nothing more than Russell Morton playing power games.’

Hardie glowered back, lips shining with spittle. ‘I am trying to run a department here!’

‘Who wrote this...?’ Logan checked the byline. ‘Colin Bloody Miller.’ He pulled out his phone, stuck it on speakerphone and dialled. The tinny ringing noise sounded from his palm. ‘Morton promised to sell his story to the Scottish Daily Post. Probably got paid handsomely too. This is him showing them who’s boss.’

Fraser jabbed a finger at Logan. ‘Do you have any idea how damaging this is to NE Division?’

‘Yes, Kim, I’m aware. That’s why—’

Colin Miller’s Weegie accent belted out of the phone. ‘Well, well, well, if it’s no’ my old pal Laz. Who’s been a naughty—’

‘You sent a story over to DCI Hardie for comment.’

‘Oh aye, well, it’s only fair, right? I’m thinking of calling it, “Scroungergate”.’

‘Very original.’ Logan scowled at the screen. ‘How did you get hold of it?’

‘Poor guy’s lost his stepdaughter and you’re there callin’ him workshy?’

‘Thought Morton had an exclusive deal with the Scottish Daily Post?’

Silence from the other end.

Then, ‘Did he now? That’s no’ what he told me...’

‘Oh, I’ll bet he didn’t. He’s playing you off against them, Colin. You’re leverage.’

‘Ah well. Still a good story.’

Hardie’s glower hadn’t shifted any.

Logan paced the carpet tiles between the filing cabinets and the whiteboards. ‘Russell Morton said I called him a “workshy scrounger” and you believed him?’

‘You saying you didn’t, but?’

‘Damn right I am. All I did was question him about the meeting he’d had with DS Chalmers and where he got the money he’s been flashing about.’

‘Yeah, but heat of the moment—’

‘And I’ve got a witness: DS Steel was there the whole time. So unless the Aberdeen Examiner can produce evidence I said it — which you can’t, because I didn’t — you’d better get your lawyers warmed up, because you’re going to need them.’

‘All right, all right, keep your pants on, man. I’m no’ wantin’ to measure dicks here.’ A sly tone crept into Miller’s voice. ‘Suppose I do you a favour and kill the story, gonnae have a big hole on the front page to fill...?’

‘Hold on.’ Logan pressed the ‘MUTE’ button and jerked his chin at Hardie. ‘See?’

Hardie picked at his desk diary, not meeting Logan’s eyes. ‘Yes, well...’ He cleared his throat. ‘As you say, this is a very stressful time for everybody.’

‘Do you want to give him something to print? Something that helps us?’

‘Hmmm...’ Hardie pursed his lips. Put his head on one side. Then held out his hand. ‘Give me the phone.’

Logan was on his way up the stairs again when Rennie came clattering down, a blue folder tucked under one arm.

He screeched to a halt. ‘Guv, that’s Norman Clifton all lawyered up and ready to go in Interview Two.’

Pfff...

Logan checked his watch — seven fifty-two. Only nine and a half hours since he’d come on shift, so why did it feel like a week? This was what he got for coming into work on a Sunday.

He let out a long, weary breath, then turned and headed down the stairs again.

Today was never going to end.

Norman Clifton didn’t look much like a criminal mastermind. He sat, all hunched up, on the other side of the interview room table in a white SOC suit, arms wrapped around himself, eyes all red and puffy. Sniffing and wiping away tears, before going back to hugging himself.

Sitting next to him was a plump middle-aged woman in a brown cardigan and mumsy haircut. And as soon as they made scowling an Olympic sport, she was going to win gold for Scotland.

Rennie was perched and ready to go in chair number three with all his interview notes spread out on the table in front of him. Pen in hand.

Logan leaned back in chair number four. Watching Clifton in silence.

Watching him sniff and wipe and fidget and tremble.

Clifton’s solicitor pulled at her cardigan sleeve and checked a little gold watch. ‘Are you actually going to say something at some point, or can I get my knitting out?’

Logan smiled at her. ‘Making anything nice?’

‘An extremely itchy jumper for a nephew I hate.’ She straightened her cardigan. ‘Now, you’ve heard my client’s statement: he understands that his actions may seem inappropriate, but this is his first offence and he’s committed to getting psychological help. It’s time for you to release him.’

‘“May seem inappropriate”?’ Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘“Seem”?’ He leaned forwards. ‘Norman, you were masturbating, naked, in your dead neighbour’s garage, so really—’

‘And he’s apologised for that.’

‘—I think “seem” is kind of redundant, don’t you?’

Norman sniffed. ‘I didn’t mean to...’

His solicitor put a hand on his arm, voice warm and reassuring. ‘It’s all right, Norman, I’ll deal with this.’ The warmth leached away as she turned to Logan. ‘I’ve known Norman his whole life. He’s a good boy who’s maybe got a bit... confused about his feelings.’

Rennie held up his pen. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell us before we go any further, Norman?’

That got him a worried look.

Rennie tried again. ‘Anything we need to know?’

Mrs Scowly Cardigan gathered up her papers. ‘All right, I think we’re quite done here.’

‘Because, do you remember when you were arrested and processed? They took a DNA sample, didn’t they?’

She dumped a massive handbag on the interview room table and stuffed her papers inside. ‘If you’re trying to put my client at the scene of the crime, you can save your breath. He’s already admitted being there.’

Rennie raised his eyebrows. ‘You wouldn’t believe how quick the computers can process those DNA samples these days. Used to take ages and ages, now we can get a result in an hour.’

She clicked her handbag shut. ‘Is there a point to this?’

Logan picked a sheet of paper from Rennie’s folder and placed it on the table. ‘We got a match from your DNA, Norman.’

The hipstery wee sod flinched. Stared at his solicitor, bottom lip trembling.

She put her kind voice on again. ‘It’s all right, Norman, you haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Actually...’ Rennie sucked in a theatrical breath. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell us?’

‘My client has already told—’

Logan tapped the tabletop. ‘You licked her face, didn’t you, Norman?’

‘I...’ His eyes widened. ‘It...’

‘We found your saliva on Laura Chalmers’ cheek.’

‘Wow.’ Rennie tried a sympathetic voice. ‘Was that before, or after you killed her, Norman?’

Mrs Scowly Cardigan stared at Norman, open-mouthed. ‘What did you...’ Then blinked and shook her head. Fussed with the buttons on her cardigan. ‘I think I need to consult with my client again. In private.’

The vending machines droned away to each other: one wholesome — full of crisps and chocolate and bags of sweeties — while the other was pure EVIL. They sat like Cain and Abel, next to the empty chiller cabinet. Nearly all of the canteen chairs were stacked on the tables, legs in the air, giving the place a cold and hostile look. Ready to repel invaders.

That hadn’t stopped Logan and Rennie, though. They sat at the table nearest the scrubbed-down counter, nursing evil-tasting coffee in an evil plastic cup from the evil vending machine.

Rennie pulled out his phone and poked at the screen. ‘Nearly twenty past. Taking their time, aren’t they?’

‘Be fair, she’s just found out her client was up to a bit more than an inappropriate wank.’

‘True.’ A nod and a frown. ‘Do you think he did it? I think he did it. You can’t trust people with those flesh-tunnel ear things. It’s not right.’

‘What happened with the missing person reports?’

‘Even the word’s perverted, isn’t it? “Flesh tunnel”. Who goes into a shop and asks for a “flesh tunnel”?’

‘Stop saying “flesh tunnel”.’ Logan reached across the table and thumped him. ‘Now focus: missing persons?’

‘Which ones?’

‘For the love of... I told you to go through every missing person report for the month DI Bell faked his own death!’

‘Oh, that. Did that ages ago.’

The evil vending machine buzzed.

Someone walked past the canteen door, whistling the theme tune to Danger Mouse.

Logan reached across the table and thumped Rennie again. ‘And?’

‘Oh, right. Won’t be a tick.’ He scrambled out of his chair and hurried from the room.

‘I’m surrounded by idiots.’ Logan took another sip of hot brown yuck. ‘Urgh...’ Then called up the contact list on his phone, found ‘HORRIBLE STEEL’, and set it ringing.

Her voice crackled in his ear, all echoey and distorted, as if she’d answered from inside a filing cabinet. ‘What?’

‘“Workshy scrounger”. Remember that?’

A papery rustling noise. ‘I’m kinda busy.’

‘I had to defuse an unexploded DCI Hardie, because you couldn’t keep your mouth from running away with itself in front of Russell Morton!’

More rustling. ‘Says here there’s a guy in Dundee who’s grown a six-foot marrow. It’s in the Sunday Post, so it must be true.’

‘So much for “if she prints a word of it he’ll have her”.’

‘Who wants to eat a six-foot marrow? Be like chewing a roll of linoleum stuffed with mouldy peas.’

Typical. She couldn’t even be arsed paying attention to a bollocking.

‘You really don’t give a toss, do you? We’re trying to find missing kids and track down cop killers and you simply don’t care!’

‘Course I care. Waste of good courgettes, letting them grow that big.’

‘Hardie thought it was my fault!’

‘Well, you were the senior officer, so he’s got a point. If you can’t control the people working for you...’

‘You dirty, rotten, two-faced, backstabbing—’

‘Temper, temper.’ A hollow knocking sound echoed out in the background. Steel raised her voice. ‘Occupied.’

Oh no!

Logan recoiled from the phone. Holding it away from his ear. ‘Please tell me you’re not on the toilet!’

More knocking. ‘Are you smoking in there? Because you’re not allowed to smoke in there!’

‘Occu-sodding-pied!’

‘Oh God, you’re on the toilet, aren’t you?’

How could anyone be that manky?

The canteen door thumped open and Rennie staggered in, all red in the face and breathing hard. Holding a folder above his head like a revolutionary flag. ‘Got it!’

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of making wee Russell Mortons here and you’re putting me off my stroke.’ And with that, she hung up.

‘Gahhhh...’ Logan put his phone down and wiped his hands on a napkin. Probably have to scrub his ears with bleach now. ‘The woman’s a horror show.’

Rennie collapsed into his seat and sagged there — one arm dangling, the other hand clutching his ribs. ‘Arrgh... Stitch.’

A shudder rippled its way across Logan’s shoulders. ‘On the toilet.’

‘Anyway,’ Rennie opened the new folder, ‘just to be safe, I did an extra month before Bell didn’t kill himself as well. Eliminated anyone too tall, too short, too womany, the wrong number of limbs, or who’s been found since — and that leaves us with...’ He produced three printouts and laid them on the table in front of Logan — mugshots with personal details underneath. ‘Number one: Joseph Horman. Librarian from Buckie. Been suffering from depression for three years, then one day he walked out of the family home and never came back.’ Rennie tapped the next mugshot. ‘Number two: Barry Linwood. Self-employed accountant from Mintlaw. Wife reported him missing after a four-day bender. And number three: Evan Forshaw. He was a Church of Scotland minister who vanished off the face of Peterhead in the middle of the night. Turned out he’d been embezzling cash from a fund-raising thing. Sick kids in Syria, I think.’

‘Yeah...’ Logan examined each one in turn. Horman’s flat forehead, Linwood’s jowly face, Forshaw’s sticky-out ears. ‘None of them look much like DI Bell.’

‘Which is why I present, for your viewing pleasure, Bachelor Number Four.’ Rennie delved into the folder again and pulled out one more printout, laying it on top of the others with a flourish. ‘No one reported him missing, but Rod Lawson here disappeared at some point during the week Bell’s meant to have died.’

‘At some point?’

A shrug. ‘Was supposed to see his parole officer on the Wednesday. Never turned up. No one’s heard from him since.’

Just like Fred Marshall.

Logan picked up Rod Lawson’s mugshot.

A sullen, hairy man scowled out of the picture, a police measurement chart clearly visible on the wall behind him, his name in magnetic letters on the small board he was holding. Bags under his eyes, a smattering of cold sores around his mouth. Blotchy skin.

‘Let me guess: drugs?’

‘To a band playing. DI Bell did him a couple of times for possession with intent. Same height as Bell, same basic build, same hairiness. About ten years younger, and the nose, ears, and eyes are all wrong, but if you’re blowing his head off and setting fire to the remains...?’

‘Close enough.’ Logan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Of course, if we could find his teeth we might actually have some DNA to do a match with.’

‘Yeah... Well, maybe?’

‘Get a warrant sorted — I want his medical records. And don’t let them fob you off this time!’ Logan grabbed his phone and called Control. ‘I need you to put me through to Sergeant Rose Savage.’

The sound of muffled fingers on a keyboard rattled out for a bit, then: ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Savage isn’t on duty today. Do you want to leave a—’

‘Then put me through to her mobile.’

Rennie stuck bachelors one-through-three in the folder again. ‘They’re not going to give me a warrant without corroboration or probable cause. How am I supposed to—’

Logan held up a finger, silencing him as Sergeant Savage answered.

Her voice dripped with suspicion. ‘Who’s this?’

‘When you worked with DI Bell, do you remember him mentioning Rod Lawson at all?’

No reply.

‘Hello? You still there?’

‘Sorry, you broke up a bit. Did Ding-Dong mention...?’

‘Rod Lawson.’

‘Rod...? No, that doesn’t ring a...’ Another small silence. ‘Oh, wait, you mean Hairy Roddy Lawson? The Sandilands Sasquatch? Oh, I know him fine. Did him for possession and shoplifting more times than I can count. Haven’t seen him for ages, though. Why, has something happened to him?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’ Logan tried another sip of evil coffee. Nope, still horrible. He pushed the cup away. ‘Did Bell mention him?’

‘Not that I can remember. But it was a long time ago.’ Something clunked in the background. ‘Sorry. Is it important?’

‘And when you ID’d Bell’s body, there wasn’t anything suspicious about it?’

‘What, other than the fact he’d blown his own head off and then burnt to a crisp? Other than that, you mean?’

‘Fair point. But—’

The canteen door thumped open. ‘Inspector McRae?’ A lanky PC with a centre parting waved at him.

‘Hold on a second.’ Logan put a hand over his phone’s mouthpiece and raised his eyebrows at the constable. ‘Yes?’

‘Your guy’s solicitor says they’re ready to make a statement.’

‘Thanks.’ He went back to the phone. ‘Sorry, got to go. If you remember anything, give me a shout, OK?’

‘Will do.’

Logan hung up and stood. Curled a finger in Rennie’s direction. ‘Come on then, let’s see what kind of lies Norman Clifton’s got for us this time.’

35

Norman Clifton had swapped the sniffing and eye wiping for tiny silent sobs, bottom lip wobbling. Which might have been due to the amount of trouble he was in, or it might have been down to the bright pink handprint swelling up on his left cheek.

His solicitor sat all prim and proper next to him, cardigan buttoned all the way up to her neck.

Logan nodded at Norman. ‘In your own time.’

Norman sat there, not making eye contact. Digging away at a mole on his right wrist with his fingernails. Worrying at it till tiny drops of scarlet stained the pale surrounding skin.

Mrs Cardigan sniffed. ‘My client wishes to make the following statement.’ She picked a sheet of handwritten paper from the table in front of her, reading out loud. ‘“I want to apologise for not being completely honest with you earlier. I was worried that you would jump to the wrong conclusion if I told you that I had seen Mrs Chalmers’ body after she had died.”’

Rennie snorted. ‘Wrong conclusions? Us? Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘“I let myself into the Chalmers’ household using one of the spare keys my mother holds for them, as has been my habit over the last eight months.”’ She paused and directed a foul look at Norman. ‘“I like to be in the house when they are both asleep. I find it peaceful and... stimulating.”’

‘Ooh, I see.’ Rennie leaned forward, voice all conspiratorial. ‘Is that a polite way of saying you have a bit of a wank?’

Tears welled up in Norman’s eyes, making them glisten. A tiny bubble of snot popped from one nostril.

‘“I realise now that this was misguided and that I need professional help.”’

‘Oh it’s too late for—’

‘Look,’ she lowered the statement and glared at him, ‘do you think we could do without the snarky running commentary?’

‘Sorry.’

‘“When I entered the premises at two in the morning I could not see Mrs Chalmers in her bedroom. Searching the house I discovered her body in the garage. I was traumatised by this and left immediately, returning home.”’ Mrs Cardigan cleared her throat. ‘“Where, reflecting on what I had seen, I became... stimulated. Afterwards, I revisited the garage and was again... stimulated.”’ A warm pink flush spread up her neck and into her cheeks. ‘“It was then that I inadvertently licked Mrs Chalmers’ face while trying to comfort her remains with a kiss.”’

Norman’s shoulders jerked as a massive sob burst free.

His solicitor dug a hanky out from the sleeve of her cardigan and thrust it at him. ‘“I realise that this was a severe error of judgement on my part and would like to offer my sincere condolences and apologies to Mr Chalmers.”’ She placed the statement down in front of him and folded her arms.

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Finished?’

‘Finished. I have advised my client to respond to any further questions with “no comment” until we can have him assessed by a mental-health professional.’

Rennie curled his top lip. ‘Well... he certainly needs one.’

Another snot bubble burst, but Norman didn’t wipe it away, he sat there sobbing, tears shining on his cheeks, eyes as pink and swollen as the handprint on his cheek. ‘I’m sorry... I’m sorry I... I didn’t... didn’t mean to...’ He looked at Logan for the first time since they’d sat down. ‘I just... just wanted to taste her dying tears...’

Rennie leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper. ‘You think he did it? Killed her, I mean.’ He made a big show of pantomime glancing at the custody desk, where Mrs Angry Cardigan was in conversation with Aberdeen’s answer to inbreeding — Sergeant Downie.

A fiver said he had gills and a vestigial tail.

And speaking of weirdos: Norman Clifton’s sobs echoed out from behind a closed cell door. Huge and deep and wracking. Which served the wee sod right.

Logan shrugged. ‘Pfff... Maybe he sneaks into the house and he finds Chalmers doped up on antidepressants and booze? Thinks this is going to be his one opportunity to watch someone die, carries her into the garage, and hangs her. Or maybe he finds her trying to kill herself and decides to lend a hand? Or maybe he’s telling the truth and all he did was get turned on by a dead woman?’

A shiver. ‘Creepy little pervert.’

‘Better organise a search warrant for his mum’s house. You don’t get to be that weird without leaving traces.’

‘Guv.’ Rennie hurried off as Mrs Cardigan stepped away from the custody desk, glowered, stuck her nose in the air, and stomped over.

She stopped right in front of Logan, hands on her hips. ‘You’re not really charging him with murder, are you?’

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.’

‘I’ve known Norman since he was a baby; I was at school with his mother.’ The nose went up another inch. ‘He’s always been a bit... odd. But this? Killing someone?’

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Didn’t torture any family pets as a kid, did he?’

She cleared her throat. Looked away. ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to discuss this case any further until Norman has received the help that he needs.’ And she was off, thundering out through the custody suite doors like a bowling ball in a brown cardigan.

Yeah, Norman Chalmers was definitely a pet torturer.

Logan put his notebook back in his pocket on the way to the stairwell. Grinding to a halt as the Addams Family theme tune belted out of his phone. He pushed through the doors and answered it. ‘Sheila.’

‘Professor McAllister requests the pleasure of your company at our humble mortuary. And if you wouldn’t mind getting a shift on, that would be grand. It’s late and some of us have love lives to struggle through.’ She hung up.

Great. Summoned like a small child or an errant dog.

He stared at the screen for a moment. Then turned and thumped through the doors again. Muttering to himself. ‘Thought the whole point of being an inspector was people ran about after you, not the other way around.’

The extractor fans roared. Not that it achieved very much, the mortuary still stank. The source of the smell lurked on the cutting table, caught in the glare of half a dozen working lights. All glistening and greasy, like it’d been carved from rancid butter.

That thick layer of adipocere had smoothed away most of the detail, leaving a sort of revolting jelly-baby shape behind.

Isobel stood beside it, an SOC suit on over her usual mortuary scrubs, complete with booties, full-facemask, gloves, wellies, and a green plastic apron over the top. What every well-dressed pathologist was wearing this season. She’d arranged all the cutting tools on a stainless-steel trolley, everything looking clean and unused.

Sheila Dalrymple was dressed exactly the same, her face creased with concentration as she wrestled a digital X-ray machine into place over the body’s jelly-baby head, aligning the machinery for a sideways view.

Logan stayed where he was — in the doorway. SOC suit or not, that was the kind of smell that oozed into your hair and clothes and skin. And no amount of scrubbing would get rid of it.

‘Right.’ Dalrymple pulled a remote control from the equipment and fiddled with it. ‘Anyone not wanting a dose of X-rays should retire to the other room.’

Oh thank God for that.

He backed into the prep room: all work surfaces and cupboards, a couple of plastic chairs standing guard over a stack of boxes at the far end.

Isobel followed him, carrying a laptop. She stuck it down on the worktop and turned it to face him. ‘You need to see this.’

The X-ray of a knee filled the screen in shades of white and grey. Not a good knee, though. There was something wrong with the way it fitted together.

Dalrymple appeared, holding the remote control. She pointed it into the cutting room and the X-ray machine bleeped. A nod, then she marched back inside again.

Isobel traced a purple finger along the screen. ‘The light areas are bone, the dark areas tissue.’

Lovely.

‘I have seen an X-ray before, I’m not completely stupid.’

‘Good. Then I won’t need to tell you what these are.’ Her finger traced along one of the twisted grey lines that clustered around the kneecap.

He leaned in and squinted at them. They looked a bit like worms, but that probably wasn’t the right answer. ‘Nope. No idea.’

‘They’re distorted now, but if you can imagine the knee bent at ninety degrees, as if the victim was sitting, they would be perfectly straight. And approximately sixty millimetres long.’

‘OK. Still no.’

A long-suffering sigh. ‘Imagine taking a drill to someone’s kneecaps.’

He winced. ‘Please tell me it was accidental.’

‘The first time? Perhaps. But not the eighteen other ones. Both knees, both elbows, both ankles, shoulders... Four in the bottom jaw alone.’

Something heavy congealed in Logan’s stomach. ‘He was tortured.’

It was bad enough finding out DI Bell was a murderer, but this?

Dalrymple appeared from the cutting room again. Stood with her legs apart and her hands hanging by her side, Wild West gunslinger-style. Then she snatched the remote control up. Fast. Beep.

She blew across the end of the remote, mimed slipping it into a holster, then sashayed through the cutting room door as if it was the entrance to a saloon.

Isobel ignored her, fiddling with the laptop instead so a fractured clavicle appeared on the screen. ‘Then there are the percussive injuries. Possibly a hammer.’

‘God.’ Logan huffed out a breath. ‘DI Bell tortured him...’

‘And last, but not least, there are nicks in the ribs.’ A section of ribcage appeared, small dark Vs marring the white curves. ‘See how they line up in pairs? That’s consistent with multiple stab wounds to the chest from a double-edged blade. Going by the pattern and number, most likely a frenzied attack.’

Wonderful.

Just. Sodding. Great.

Logan sank down into one of the plastic seats. ‘Any idea who our victim is?’

She stared at him, face as dead as her patient’s.

He shrugged. ‘Because if you don’t, then I’ve got a suggestion you could look into?’

Dalrymple moseyed out into the prep room and stood there, facing away from the door... then snapped around holding the remote in one hand and mashing the button with the palm of her other in one swift seamless motion. Beep.

Another blow across the ‘barrel’, then she spun the remote and holstered it. ‘Aaaaand, we’re done, pardners.’

Isobel didn’t move. ‘We don’t do nominative investigations here, Inspector McRae. We follow the evidence.’

‘Which is great, but you might find it leads you to Fred Albert Marshall. DI Bell was convinced Marshall killed Sally MacAuley’s husband and abducted her son. He was obsessed with it.’

Still nothing.

Logan stood and backed towards the exit, both hands up. ‘OK, I can take a hint.’

She strode into the cutting room. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

‘Y’all come back, now.’ Dalrymple tipped an imaginary Stetson at him, then cowboyed off after Isobel, leaving him on his own.

‘Only trying to help.’ Logan stripped off his SOC get-up, chucked it in the bin, and got the hell out of there. Along the corridor, through the doors, up the stairs, and onto the rear podium car park.

OK, so it was raining, but at least he wasn’t enveloped in that horrible stench any more.

You could add that to the list of ‘Reasons Why It Is Not A Good Idea To Sleep With Pathologists’. Very difficult to get amorous when the object of your affections smelled like rotting cadavers.

He hurried across the car park and in through the rear doors. Shook the rain from his shoulders and trouser legs. Pulled out his phone and called Rennie on the way to the stairwell.

Rennie picked up with a sigh. ‘Guv.’

‘Have you got that warrant sorted for Rod Lawson’s medical records?’

Through the double doors.

‘The Sheriff won’t give us one till he’s read the post mortem report. I emailed it over, but he says it’s nearly nine on a Sunday night and we should know better.’

Typical.

‘What about the search warrant for Norman Clifton’s mother’s house?’

‘Same. Only he used fewer words. Three of which were quite rude.’

Logan headed up the stairs. ‘You told him this is a murdered police officer we’re talking about?’

‘No, I left that bit out, because clearly I’m some sort of bum-sniffing moron!’ A groan. Then another sigh. ‘Sorry, Guv. Been a long day.’

‘Yeah.’ Logan stopped on the landing. ‘Look, pack up, sign out, and go home. Spend some time with your family.’

‘Donna will be in bed by—’

‘And tell Tufty and Steel they can sod off too. But I want everyone back here tomorrow — seven sharp.’

‘Half seven for cash?’

‘Don’t push it.’ Logan hung up. Sagged for a moment. ‘Right. One more stop to make and we’re done for the night.’

Hardie stared at him, mouth hanging open.

Logan shifted in his seat.

It was a bit like facing down a goldfish. A goldfish in an ugly suit. That needed a shave.

Then finally, Hardie’s mouth clicked shut. A blink. ‘He was tortured?’

‘That was pretty much my reaction.’

DI Fraser stretched in her seat, stifled a yawn. ‘The media’s going to love this.’

‘How could Ding-Dong torture someone? I was at his twenty-first wedding anniversary...’

‘I’ve sent the team home for the night. Can’t do much else till the warrants come in.’

Fraser nodded. ‘Good idea. My lot are stumbling about like half-shut knives too. Maybe it is time to pack up for the night?’

Hardie rubbed at his face. ‘We’ve got two missing girls; an ex-police-officer who was stabbed to death; an exhumed murder victim no one can identify; a serving police officer who’s been hanged; and now you say the body you dug up in the middle of nowhere wasn’t just murdered, it was tortured first!’ He pressed his palms into his eye sockets and made a muffled screaming noise.

Logan and Fraser grimaced at each other.

Then she stood and put a hand on Hardie’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Boss, you’re tired. We all are.’ She gave the shoulder a squeeze. ‘Inspector McRae’s right. Time to pack up and go home for the night. Get some rest. Things will look a lot better in the morning.’

Hardie’s shoulders slumped even further. ‘You’re right, Kim. Of course you’re right. I didn’t mean to...’ His head fell back and he stared at the ceiling tiles. ‘God, I hate being a police officer.’

‘Then do what I do — go home, make yourself a nice big vodka-and-Diet-Coke, and soak in the bath till you look like an elephant’s knee.’

‘How come you don’t do kebabs?’ The wee loon in the Man United tracksuit and expensive trainers stuck his bottom lip out.

Idiot.

Logan settled onto the windowsill, next to an avalanche of yesterday’s red-top tabloids. ‘JUNGLE LIZZY IN UNDERWEAR HORROR’, ‘POLICE SCANDAL SUICIDE SHOCKER’, ‘MUM’S TEARFUL PLEA: “LET MY BOY DIE!”’, ‘SCOTTISH YOBBOS’ W.T.O. RAMPAGE’, ‘CANDLELIT VIGIL FOR MISSING MILLIE’.

The takeaway wasn’t that busy. Just Logan; a woman waiting for salt-and-pepper squid, chicken chow mein, beef in black bean sauce, and a prawn-fried rice; the grim-faced auld wifie behind the counter; and Little Lord Kebab.

Who turned and flounced out of the Chinese takeaway, ramming a baseball hat on his head. ‘You’re getting a one-star on TripAdvisor!’

Logan pulled out his phone and sent Tara a text:

SEND.

Ding.

TS TARA:

Hmm...

SEND.

Mrs Salt-and-Pepper-Squid kept sneaking glances at him. Sitting there in his Police Scotland fleece, itchy trousers and muddy boots. And every time he caught her looking, she developed a sudden overwhelming interest in the menu mounted on the wall.

He thumbed out another message:

SEND.

Ding.

Well, she was replying straight away, so that was a good sign. Wasn’t it?

Ah. Maybe not so good.

Mrs Salt-and-Pepper-Squid was at it again.

Logan smiled at her. ‘Can I help you?’

Her cheeks flushed and her nose went up. ‘Why aren’t you out there trying to find that wee girl?’

Great.

‘I can assure you we’re doing all we can.’

‘You’re not! You’re sitting there, ordering Chinese takeaway and playing on your phone!’

The miserable old lady behind the counter dinged a small bell. ‘Order for McRae.’

Logan stood. Bit back the reply.

What was the bloody point?

Pfff...

Logan hauled on the handbrake, switched off the headlights, then the windscreen wipers, killed the engine, and climbed out of the car. Sagged for a second in the darkness and drizzle. Reached into the passenger footwell for his takeaway. Plipped the locks and made for the house.

God, what a day.

He let himself in, thumped the door shut and deadbolted it.

‘Cthulhu? Daddy’s got Chinese for tea!’

Heavy-pawed thuds walloped down the stairs, then Cthulhu sashayed over — her huge plumed tail sticking straight up in the air as she purred and coiled around his ankles.

At least someone wanted to spend the evening with him.

‘Wrrrnnnggh!’ Logan sat bolt upright, the duvet crumping down around his waist, and blinked in the gloom. Heart lump-thumping like Long John Silver staggering down a staircase.

Cthulhu gave an irritated prrrrrrp and jumped down from the bed with all the delicacy of a breeze block.

Faint orange light oozed in around the curtains’ edges, the only other illumination coming from the alarm-clock-radio: 23:45

‘Urgh...’ A whole thirty-two minutes’ sleep. That’s what he got for eating all those spicy—

He froze.

A pale-yellow glow outlined the bedroom door.

Either the aliens had come to abduct him, or something a whole lot worse.

He eased over in the bed, dropped his right hand to the floor and felt about underneath. Cat fluff. Toy mouse. Discarded sock. Ah. Now that was more like it. His fingers curled around the pickaxe handle.

Right.

Let’s see how clever whoever-it-was felt when he caved their skull in.

And that’s when the door thumped open and there was Tara, looking a little dishevelled about the hair, wearing a padded jacket over a set of tartan jammies. Slippers on her feet.

She clicked off the hall light and scuffed into the room. Closed the door behind her.

Logan let go of the pickaxe handle. ‘Thought you had an early start.’

Tara hauled off her jacket, dumped it on the floor and slipped into the bed. ‘Don’t get your hopes up: this is not a bootie call.’ She helped herself to two thirds of the duvet. ‘Idiots in the flat upstairs are having a party and they — won’t — shut — up.’

‘It’s lovely to see you too.’

She turned her back to him, searching for his legs beneath the duvet with her feet. ‘No funny business.’

‘Aaargh!’ Her horrible feet were like bags of frozen peas. ‘If this is your idea of foreplay, you’ve been watching the wrong porn films!’

‘You gave me a key; this is what you get.’ Tara snuggled down. ‘Now stop wriggling and go to sleep. Some of us have work in the morning.’

36

Logan paused on the landing — health and safety first — and took a sip from his wax paper cup. Decent coffee. Proper coffee. Made by Wee Hairy Davie, instead of the Evil Vending Machine. Ahhhh...

He shifted the folder, pinning it beneath his armpit as he started up the stairs again.

The sound of stomping feet clattered down from the floor above, and Jane McGrath, Media Liaison Officer to the stars, thundered around the corner. Her hair and make-up might have been perfect, but she had a face like a wet weekend in Rhynie. She had a folder of her own too, only she was holding it in a strangling death grip.

She thumped past him. ‘Unbelievable!’

‘I think the word you were looking for was “excuse me”.’

McGrath stopped. Turned. Threw her hands in the air — waving the folder like a club. ‘Excuse me, oh great and all-powerful Professional Standards Person.’ She hurled the folder onto the stairs at her feet. ‘Did you see what they splashed all over the front page of the Aberdeen Examiner this morning?’

Oh no.

Colin Bloody Miller.

He promised!

Logan stuck his chest out. ‘I never called Russell Morton a workshy scrounger!’

Her face froze for a moment, eyebrows lowering into a frown. ‘What? No.’ She snatched up her folder and yanked out a sheet of newsprint. Unfolded it. Jabbed it towards him.

The whole front page was given over to a photo of an attractive young woman in a frock, lots of brown hair, looking flirty at the camera. An inset picture sat on the right, by her buttocks: a shed with a collapsed roof. All beneath the banner headline: ‘POLICE PERVS INJURED PEEPING ON PRETTY PAULINE’.

McGrath thrust it towards him again, making the edges crinkle. ‘Look at it. LOOK AT IT! They weren’t injured chasing a burglar: they fell through that shed roof because they were up there ogling an eighteen-year-old divinity student jigging about in her bra and pants!’

‘Ah...’ So not Colin Miller after all.

‘I told the world they were heroes! Listen to this.’ She straightened out the front page and glowered at it. ‘“At the end of a long day’s studying I like to relax by dancing about to my mum’s old Showaddywaddy records, while I get changed. I can’t believe they were out there, night after night. I feel so violated,’ sobbed Pauline, brackets, eighteen.” Eighteen!’ McGrath crushed the front page into a ball. ‘Some neighbour filmed it all on their mobile phone: crash, right through the shed roof! How am I supposed to put a positive spin on that? Police pervs!’ She hurled the front page down and stamped on it, grinding the article into the concrete as her face got darker and darker. ‘Aaaaaaaargh! Why do I bother? Why do I sodding bother?’

Wow.

Logan licked his lips. ‘Erm...’

She stood there, glaring at everything, shoulders heaving, eyes bugging, teeth bared.

PC Guthrie appeared on the landing behind her, smiling up at Logan like a happy potato in a police uniform. ‘Inspector McRae? Have you got a minute? There’s an auld mannie in reception, wants to see you.’

‘Yes. Right.’ He gave McGrath a sympathetic smile and picked his way past her on the stairs. Pausing to pat her on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure it’ll all blow over eventually.’

She took a deep breath and screwed her eyes shut. ‘AAAAAAAAAA‌AAAAAAARGH!’

Dear Lord, what was that smell? Sharp, filthy, and dirty all at the same time. Like someone had piddled in a bucket of mud then left it on a hot radiator all day.

Logan blinked. Breathed through his mouth. And lowered himself into the seat opposite, keeping as far back as he could. ‘So, Mr...’ he checked Guthrie’s Post-it note, ‘Seafield. The Desk Sergeant tells me you’ve got some information?’

Mr Seafield was hunched in the other seat, shoulders curled forwards as if he were afraid someone was going to steal the tank-top-and-tie combination he had on under his suit jacket. A pointy nose stretched out from his jowly face; no hair on top of his head, lots of it growing out of his ears; big round glasses; teeth so white and straight they had to be falsies.

He nodded at the ancient border terrier snuffling away at his feet. ‘It’s not me, it’s Gomez.’

OK. So he was one of those. Great.

Logan’s smile got a bit more difficult to maintain. ‘Your dog has information for me?’

‘No: the smell. Dirty wee sod likes to run under bigger dogs while they’re having a pee.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Slapped it down on the tabletop. ‘I wouldn’t speak to any of those other fannies because they don’t know, do they?’

‘Know what, Mr Seafield?’

Mr Seafield slid the paper across.

Logan unfolded it. Stared.

It was a printout from the Aberdeen Examiner website: ‘HEARTLESS POLICE SLANDER ELLIE’S DAD’ complete with the wee photo of Logan and its subheading, ‘POLICE HERO TURNS CRUEL COP’.

He promised. The dirty, two-faced, lying—

‘That’s right.’ Mr Seafield thumped a hand down on the table. ‘Workshy scroungers, the lot of them!’

‘I never said this!’

‘Course you did, and you know why?’ He leaned forward, bringing with him the sweet woody scent of pipe smoke. ‘Cos it’s true. Russell Morton is a workshy bastard — pardon my French — wouldn’t know an honest day’s graft if it bit his arse for him! Him and that whore of his, living there, right next to decent God-fearing folks. With their parties and their drugs, and their loud bloody music at all bloody hours!’ He bared his false teeth. ‘Scroungers! And it’s about time someone had the guts to say it.’

Logan folded the printout in half, then half again. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘I’ve been complaining about the Mortons for years, but would anyone listen?’ He pointed at the folded paper. ‘Soon as I saw that on the internet I said to my Avril, I said, “Finally! Here’s someone who says it like it is! I’m going down there right now to shake that man’s hand.”’ To prove it, he stuck his hand out, an expectant look on his face.

Urgh...

Logan shook it, the skin dry and sandpapery. ‘It wasn’t—’

‘You want to know what happened to little Ellie? That poor wee girl, growing up with those... animals? He sold her. Russell Morton sold her to buy drugs.’

Of course he did. And thirteen bacon butties were flittering their way over Divisional Headquarters at that very moment. Logan had been right the first time: Mr Seafield was a nutter.

‘He sold her.’ Logan kept his voice nice and neutral. ‘Russell Morton sold his stepdaughter.’

‘To buy drugs.’ Mr Seafield’s eyes were bright as buttons.

Gomez made whimpering yowling noises beneath the table.

A mad man and his stinky dog.

‘Right. Yes. I see. Well, we’ll definitely look into that.’

‘I know you will, because you’re not one of these PC idiots running about mollycoddling scroungers and layabouts.’

Logan stood. ‘Thank you for bringing it to my attention. We better not take up any more of your valuable time.’ AKA: bugger off.

Logan smiled through the safety glass panel as Mr Seafield and his arthritic stinkhound turned and hobbled across the reception area and away through the main doors.

Soon as the doors closed, Logan hauled out his phone and stabbed at the screen. Listened to it ring.

‘Colin Miller.’

‘What the bloody hell are you playing at? I thought we had a deal!’

There was a thump and a faint buzzing noise. ‘Can’t a man have a wee prowl through his colleagues’ packed lunches without police harassment?’

‘You promised me you’d spike the story! You bloody promised me!’

‘And I did. Did you see it on the front page? No, you didn’t. Because I got my hands on a juicy wee exposé about a couple of pervert coppers who—’

‘Then why, Colin,’ getting louder as he unfolded the sheet of paper, ‘why am I holding a printout of the thing from your piece-of-crap website?’

‘Moi? Nah, that wasn’t me, that was the system. Automatically flags articles to publish online. Me? I deleted it, but you know what newspapers are like these days: Wee Shuggy Public is desperate for content! Blogs, tweets, feeds, podcasts—’

Logan forced the words out through gritted teeth. ‘I will personally...’ Ram a photocopier up his backside? Slam his head in the fridge he was raiding? Rip the rest of his fingers off? Deep breath. Calm. Calm. ‘Get it off the internet, Colin. Get it off NOW!’

‘What’s this I spy in lovely Tupperware? Is that leftover pie?’ The crunk of a plastic lid being removed. ‘Ooh, payday.’

‘Colin, I’m serious!’

‘Aye, aye, keep yer frilly lace panties on.’ What sounded like a microwave door opening was followed by it slamming shut and some beeping. ‘I’ll get it deleted off the website. But favours begat favours, right?’

‘Gah!’ Logan hung up. Stood there, trembling. Gripping his phone like a stone ripe for the hurling. Then turned on his heel and stormed off down the corridor. ‘They don’t have to put up with this in North Korea! They’d just execute the bloody lot of them...’

He thumped through the office door. Bloody Colin Miller. Bloody Colin Scumbag Lying Tosspot Miller!

Tufty was bent over a laptop, fiddling away at the keyboard. He’d put his uniform on today, so looking a lot less scruffy. Rennie waded through a box of manila folders, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie tucked in between two buttons, the jacket of his used-car-salesman suit draped over the back of his chair.

And then there was Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel, scuffed boots in need of a clean and up on her desk. A silk shirt with what looked like egg stains on the front. Holding the phone to her ear with one hand and rummaging about in her cleavage with the other. ‘No, Barry, I’m no’ being unreasonable... No.’

Because why set a good example when you could set a bad one instead?

Logan thumped the door shut and scowled at her.

She gave him a cheery wave in return. ‘You think this is unreasonable, you wait till I get started.’

He raised his voice to the room in general. ‘Anything?’

Rennie looked up from his box. ‘Sheriff’s working on our search warrant for Norman Clifton’s mum’s house. Says to give it an hour. So I’m going through Ding-Dong’s old cases again: see if we missed anything.’

‘You think?’ A nasty chuckle from Steel. ‘Oh I’ll do you one better, Barry: I’ll come down there myself, and see when I do?’

‘I need you to try getting hold of Fred Marshall’s dental and medical records again. If he’s what we dug up yesterday, I want to know for sure.’

‘Again.’ Rennie sagged. ‘Oh joy of joys.’

‘Oh aye? Think I won’t? You just try me, Barry.’

Logan crossed his arms. ‘And while we’re at it: what’s happening about dragging Chalmers’ husband in for questioning?’

‘He’s having a dirty weekend in Glencoe with an account controller called Stephanie from Kennethmont. I’ve asked Northern to send a car round. See if we can’t spoil the lovebirds’ mood a bit.’

‘Good. Now: dental records. Go.’

‘Guv.’ Rennie grabbed his jacket and hurried out the door.

Tufty looked up from his laptop. ‘Sarge? Do you want those—’

‘You: dig up whatever you can on one Mr Graeme Seafield. Says he’s been complaining about Russell Morton for years.’

The lazy wee sod pulled on a spanked puppy-dog face. ‘But I made—’

‘Now, Constable.’

‘Eek...’ He turned and battered away at his keyboard.

Logan paced the room — pausing only to glare at Steel on the way past.

She gave him a wink in return. ‘Oh, you better believe it. Like a ton of the proverbial, Barry. With hobnail boots on.’

‘Okeydokey.’ Tufty scrolled through the search results he’d got back from the Police National Computer. ‘Graeme Seafield... Ooh, he’s been busy.’ Then silence.

‘Well?’

‘There’s a massive catalogue of complaints he’s made against the Mortons. Everything from putting out their wheelie bin on the wrong day to... Wow: “Undertaking satanic child-sex rituals in the back garden.” Uniform investigated — apparently it was a kids’ Halloween party.’

And that was why you always went on your first impression.

‘So he’s a nutter.’

‘Like a squirrel’s underpants.’ Tufty spun around in his seat. ‘Now, do you want to see these maps I made?’

‘Maps?’

‘From the GPS on DS Chalmers’ phone? I did has a genius, remember?’

Steel raised her heels an inch, then thumped them down on her desk. ‘Oh aye... That’s right. With both boots.’

‘Go on then.’ Logan held out his hand and Tufty dug a folder from his desk, produced half a dozen sheets of paper and passed them over. Each one had a screenshot from Google Maps on it, printed in colour, with little red, green, and blue lines crisscrossing Aberdeen city and shire — peppered with tiny arrows.

‘See, most people don’t know their phones store GPS data, but if you access—’

‘Are these in any sort of order?’

‘I dated them in the top corner and put arrows on the lines so you can see which direction she was going in and when. See?’

Logan spread the maps out on the desk.

‘No, thank you, Barry. Been a pleasure doing business with you... Aye, and the same to you with knobs on.’

Tufty scooted his chair over and sorted the maps into date order. ‘So this is yesterday — her phone basically stays at home in Kingswells till I arrest Naughty Naked Norman Clifton.’ He poked the sheet of paper next to it. ‘Saturday: all day at Kingswells.’ The next sheet. ‘This is the day she died.’

It was a larger scale map than the others, the lines tracing back and forth across Aberdeen, out to Kingswells...

‘You’ve got the arrows going both ways here.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Tufty traced the route with his finger. ‘That’s because she went out to this industrial estate, then came all the way across town to here and stopped at this pub, then went home, then went off to the industrial estate again.’

Steel stretched out in her seat, hands behind her head, eggy shirt riding up to expose a yoghurt-pale slash of belly. ‘You may all now bask in the glory of my magnificence.’

Logan picked up the map and peered at it.

The scale was so large it was hard to make out exact details, but the bit Tufty called ‘this pub’ looked familiar. ‘That’s Huge Gay Bill’s Bar and Grill, isn’t it? Chalmers was in the pub toilets when I tracked her down.’

Tufty glanced at Steel, his face all shifty and puckered. Trying to keep his voice innocent. ‘And I didn’t help you with that at all. You found her all on your own.’

Steel frowned at the pair of them. ‘Well, don’t all rush at once!’

Logan followed the line to Northfield. That shonky green duck shape underneath it looked like Allan Douglas Park. Which meant Chalmers had been...

Sod.

He grabbed his fleece from the coatstand. ‘Tufty — get the car!’

‘Guv.’ Tufty snatched up the printouts, his stabproof vest, and equipment belt, jamming his peaked cap on his head as he bolted from the room. Logan hurried after him.

‘Oh for...’ Steel’s voice rang out into the corridor. ‘Does no one want to bask in my sodding magnificence?’

37

Tufty stopped at the junction with Broad Street. Morning rush-hour traffic crawled past: buses, cars, taxis, vans, and lorries full of miserable-looking people trying to get to work for nine. And probably failing. The new development loomed on the other side of the street — a massive block of grey and glass — Satan’s Rubik’s cube, all streaked and gloomy in the rain. Marischal College squared up opposite it, façade like a cathedral in granite with spikes and turrety bits.

Tufty sat forward, pulling his seatbelt tight. ‘Where to, Sarge?’

‘“Inspector”, you muppet.’ Logan took out his wallet and selected Raymond Hacker’s business card from the dog-eared collection of social workers, lawyers, senior officers, and other assorted layabouts.

A small off-white rectangle with the ram’s-head logo on it, ‘ABERRAD INVESTIGATION SERVICES LTD.’, and the company address, website, and Twitter handle underneath. Complete with Hacker’s mobile and office number.

According to the info printed on the back they were open Wednesday to Sunday, ten till half six. Which was sod-all use at twenty to nine on a Monday morning.

Logan called Hacker’s mobile.

It picked up on the fourth ring. ‘Yup?’

‘Mr Hacker, it’s Inspector McRae. We met on Saturday.’

‘McRae? Oh right. Yes. You wanted to know about Ding-Dong.’

‘I need to ask you a couple of follow-up questions. Tell you what, give me your address and we’ll come to you.’

‘Ah...’ There was a faint whirr, click, whirr, click noise in the background and was that someone whistling? ‘Sorry, the office is shut till Wednesday and I’m out of town. Working.’

Aye, right.

‘Oops, sorry, can you hold on for a second, my DS wants something...’ Logan pressed ‘MUTE’ and stuck out his hand at Tufty. ‘I need your phone.’

Tufty unlocked his mobile and handed it over.

Logan pressed ‘MUTE’ again. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Hacker. You know what the Job’s like. Monday mornings, eh?’ Logan thumbed the AberRAD office number into Tufty’s phone.

‘Right, well, I’ll get in touch with you next time I’m in Aberdeen.’

The office number rang on Tufty’s mobile. And, in a weird unforeseeable coincidence, a phone rang in the background of Logan’s call to Hacker. Strange that. It was almost as if he’d lied about being away on business.

Logan smiled. ‘If you would, that would be very much appreciated, Mr Hacker. Enjoy your trip.’ He hung up both phones. Returned Tufty’s. ‘Northfield. And step on it. I want to get there before Hacker realises we’re on our way.’

‘Oooh, lights, camera, action!’ Tufty hit the button on the dashboard and the blue-and-whites hidden behind the pool car’s front grille flickered into the rain, accompanied by the siren’s mournful wail.

The rush-hour traffic parted... and they were off.

Anderson Drive ruined their winning streak. Even with the lights and sirens on, the traffic was thick as day-old porridge. Why did no one get out of the bloody way any more?

So Logan killed the lights-and-music, then moved on to the next GPS map from Chalmers’ phone.

The windscreen wipers protested their way across the glass, clearing greasy arcs in the rain.

Tufty reached a hand for the car radio, fingers hovering over the controls. ‘Can I...?’

‘Why not?’

‘Groovy.’ He clicked it on and something upbeat and jangly bounced out of the speakers. ‘Ooh, I like this one.’

Logan pointed at a high-level map that extended all the way south to Stonehaven. ‘She was at Nairhillock Farm five days ago.’ He pulled out another one that extended north to Dufftown. ‘Four days ago she visited Ben Rinnes.’

‘And never said a word about it, either. Sodding sloped off when she was meant to be helping me and DS Steel interview people about Ellie Morton.’ He shook his head. ‘Not exactly a team player.’

Tufty took the first left at the roundabout, onto Provost Fraser Drive. Strange little houses drifted by on the left, the red-brick penitentiary of Northfield Academy on the right.

‘OK.’ Logan shuffled the maps into an orderly stack. ‘What else did you get off the phone? You said texts... and?’

‘Photos. And there’s printouts of her call history in the folder.’

Logan reached behind him and plucked the folder off the back seat. Flicked through the contents. ‘Where’s the photographs?’

That got him a smirk. ‘You’re kidding, right? Had to upload the photos to my phone, there’s loads and loads and loads of them.’

‘Hmmm...’ He pulled the call history from the folder. Tufty had married up all known numbers with their contact name in Chalmers’ phone, printing everything out in a table with number called, time, duration of the call, and whether it was outgoing or incoming.

Logan’s own number appeared a fair few times, each instance tied to the contact, ‘MCRAE: AVOID!!!’ Charming. ‘What about fingerprints?’

‘On the phone? Mix of Chalmers and Norman Clifton.’

They passed more strange little houses. A fenced-off area. Then a row of bungalows. All brown and bleak in the rain.

The Granite Hill Transmitter loomed in the middle distance, huge and ominous, warning lights shining red against the heavy dark clouds. Like a massive angry Dalek.

Logan frowned at the list. ‘Why would she delete everything except the Samaritans call? Doesn’t make any sense, does it? Even if there’s something incriminating in here, what do you care? You’re killing yourself anyway.’

A cheery mishmash of guitars and drums and saxophones brought the song to an end and the DJ blared out instead. ‘Kitten-Heel Pirates there, with their latest single: “Onion Boy”!’

Tufty turned right onto Kettlehills Crescent. ‘Maybe she was covering for someone?’

‘Maybe...’ Didn’t feel right, though.

‘Don’t forget we’re helping raise money for Ellie Morton’s family all week here on Silver City FM.’

They drove past a wall of bushes.

‘And I’m delighted to announce that in addition to putting up a reward for any information, local company Whytedug Facilitation Services Limited have pledged a thousand pounds to the fund!’

Past the swimming pool.

‘Aha!’ Tufty held up a finger. ‘Maybe it wasn’t her! Maybe Naughty Norman deleted it?’

‘No. He’d want to keep every last thing he could. That way he can sit in his bedroom reading Chalmers’ texts and “stimulating” himself.’

‘—delighted to say that Jerry Whyte, CEO of Whytedug, is on the line with us now. Hello, Jerry!’

There were a lot of numbers with no contacts next to them. ‘Did you reverse look-up any of these?’

Jerry Whyte’s voice smugged out of the radio. ‘Hi, Tina, great to talk to you.’

‘Ah...’ Tufty pulled his chin in and his eyebrows up. ‘Sorry?’

‘What matters is making sure we get little Ellie Morton back. It’s—’

‘Then we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.’

‘—and I know, if we all pull together, we can—’

Logan clicked the radio off, pulled out his phone and dialled the last number on the list:

‘10:22 → 15 MINS → OUTGOING.’ The one to the Samaritans. It rang and rang and rang.

Then, ‘Hello, Samaritans, how can I help you?’ A friendly voice, like someone’s grandad.

‘Hi, this is the police. I need to talk to whoever answered a call at ten twenty-two on Friday night, from mobile number: zero seven eight—’

‘I’m sorry, but we can’t do that.’

Oh really?

‘I can get a warrant.’

Clumps of terraced housing sulked in the rain on the left, reaching away into deepest darkest Northfield. On the right: a wide expanse of featureless grass, shut away behind a high chain-link fence, trapped beneath the thick grey clouds. And still the angry Dalek loomed.

‘I know, but that probably won’t help. The volunteers who answer the phones don’t see the caller’s phone number. We don’t record calls. And unless the caller chooses to give us their details, it’s a hundred percent anonymous.’

‘The woman who called is dead.’

A disappointed sigh. ‘I’m sorry for her family’s loss. But we still can’t give you any details without a warrant, assuming we have any. Even after death.’

‘Oh.’ So much for that.

The car rocked its way through a set of speed humps.

‘Now, is there something I can help you with? I’m not trying to tout for business or anything, but it can’t be easy being a police officer these days. Must be very stressful.’

Logan blinked. ‘Me? No. Er... No, thank you.’

‘OK. If you’re sure...?’

He hung up and scribbled the words ‘SAMARITANS: WARRANT?!?’ next to the number he’d just rung.

Tufty frowned at him across the car. ‘No joy?’

‘No joy.’

Second last entry on the list was ‘BLOODY BRIAN’, so Logan skipped that one and moved on to the third last. Poked in the number.

It rang. On and on and on.

Maybe there was nobody—

‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice: thin and nervous. Familiar, but not familiar enough to put a name to. The sound of a small dog, yapping in the background. A whining baby.

‘Hello? Who am I speaking to?’

‘Craig isn’t here.’

‘My name’s Inspector Logan McRae, I’m looking for...’ Oh. He put the phone down. ‘She hung up.’

He tried the number again. Only this time it went straight through to an automated voice. ‘THE NUMBER YOU ARE CALLING IS NOT AVAILABLE, PLEASE TRY LATER.’

Oh, don’t worry: he would.

Tufty pointed through the windscreen. ‘Nearly there.’

A small industrial estate appeared through a break in the hedges — little more than a row of big metal sheds in matching shades of grey.

The next number on the list was: ‘McRae: AVOID!!!’

Tufty took a right at the junction.

The number after that looked like... He pulled out Raymond Hacker’s business card again. Yup. It was the office number.

The pool car stopped at the junction with Quarry Road, waiting as a dirty big removals van rumbled by.

Logan dialled, listened to it ring.

‘AberRAD Investigation Services Limited?’ That sounded like the woman who was going to kick Rennie’s backside for him. Danielle? Something like that anyway. ‘Can I help you?’

The pool car nipped across the road once the van had passed, and into the industrial estate.

‘Hi. Is Raymond Hacker about?’

Tufty parked outside the AberRAD Investigations Portakabin.

‘Hold on, I’ll get him. Who’s talking?’

Logan leaned across the car and thumped his palm down on the horn. A harsh ‘Brrrrrrrrr‌eeeeeeeeee‌eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’ blared out.

Danielle’s face appeared at the window, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised.

He waved. ‘I am.’

Logan smiled across the desk. ‘How nice of you to cut your trip short for us.’

Hacker took another sip of coffee, face blank. ‘We like to be civic-minded.’

The fish tank gurgled and hissed. Tufty hovered in front of it, bent over, staring in at the multicoloured inhabitants with a big smile on his face. ‘Oooh...’

Other than that, the only noise was the rain, thumping down on the Portakabin roof.

Danielle appeared in the open doorway and knocked on the frame. Shoulders back, chin up. Like a particularly unhappy bouncer. She nodded at Hacker. ‘That thing? Just got a text: it’s tonight.’

‘Thanks, Danners. Do us a favour and tell Andy he can head off home soon as he’s finished that report on Mrs Floyd, OK? Want to make sure he’s nice and fresh.’

‘Guv.’ But she didn’t move. She stayed where she was. On guard.

Hacker turned a thin smile on Logan. ‘Not that it isn’t nice to see you again, Inspector... Mackay, wasn’t it?’

‘McRae.’

‘Sorry. Inspector McRae.’ The smile warmed a bit. ‘But we don’t usually work on a Monday. Had a long weekend photographing cheating spouses and insurance fraudsters. You know how it is: guy claims he’s got crippling whiplash from a rear-end shunt and next thing you know we’re snapping him having a threesome with a dinner lady and someone dressed as a kangaroo.’ A shrug. ‘And it all needs written up.’

The tank gurgled.

The rain thumped.

Logan opened the folder from the car and pulled out one of the phone logs. ‘When we spoke on Saturday, you didn’t tell me you’d already met with a colleague of mine.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘Detective Sergeant Lorna Chalmers. She was here on Friday. Twice.’

Hacker raised his eyebrows. ‘Was she?’ Look at me, I’m so innocent, I never done nuffink wrong, Officer.’

‘And she phoned your business number,’ he held up the printout, ‘at nine fifteen that evening.’

‘We close at six.’

‘The call lasted five minutes.’

No reply.

Logan had another go: ‘Why was she here?’

‘Danners, you remember a DS called Chalmers?’

Danielle made a big show of thinking about it. Then. ‘About yay tall with spaniel-perm hair? Yeah, she came past a couple of times looking for the boss.’ Shrug. ‘He was out. Told her to come back later.’

No one said anything.

No one moved.

‘I love tropical fish.’ Tufty shuffled closer to the tank. ‘Did you know the scientific name for Angelfish is Pterophyllum? It’s from the Greek for “winged leaf”.’

Logan returned the phone log to the folder. ‘And when Chalmers turned up again?’

The pair of them shared a look. Then Hacker gave Danielle a small nod. As if he was granting permission.

‘She wanted to ask about DI Ding-Dong Bell. Same as you did.’

The tank went on gurgling.

Outside, a van did a six-point turn, bleeping every time it reversed.

For goodness’ sake. Logan gritted his teeth. ‘This would go much quicker if I wasn’t having to play dentist, here.’

Hacker sighed. Made an ‘after you’ gesture with one hand. ‘It’s OK, Danners.’

‘She was flapping her top lip about how Ding-Dong was running round the countryside, acting all Batman and Robin. Course we tried to tell her she was off her head — Ding-Dong died ages ago. I was at his funeral, so were Andy and Ray. But she wasn’t having any of it. Got a bit rowdy, so Andy and I had to... calm her down a bit.’ Danielle shook her head. ‘Of course, the next day it’s all over the news that DI Bell’s turned up stabbed to death in a crashed car, but we weren’t to know that, were we? Lorna...’ A small smile, then Danielle cleared her throat. ‘Chalmers sounded insane at the time.’

Tufty pointed at the tank. ‘Angelfish breed for life. They’re like albatrosses, or my Great Aunt Effie. Once their mate dies, that’s it — might as well not even have genitals.’

She glowered at him. ‘Will you shut up about fish?

‘Sorry. I was wondering about fidelity: what with you guys specialising in cheating-spouse cases and DS Chalmers’ husband being at it with someone from work?’

‘You want to know if she was a client? Pff... We can’t confirm or deny that without a warrant. Data protection. Isn’t that right, Guv?’

Hacker nodded.

Funny how people like that were so keen on the law when it suited them.

The seat creaked beneath Logan as he turned to Hacker. ‘What else did Chalmers want?’

‘She thought Ding-Dong was caught up with these so-called “Livestock Marts”.’

‘And was he?’

‘If they even exist. Bunch of sketchy paedophiles getting together to sell-on abducted kids? Been hearing rumours ever since I joined the Job, but...’ Hacker shrugged. ‘Don’t know if I believe it. I mean, if you’re that kinda guy, why take the risk?’

Interesting.

Sometimes, what wasn’t said was more telling than what was.

‘You didn’t answer the question.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘You work for Sally MacAuley. Her husband was killed trying to stop their son being abducted.’ Logan sat forward, setting the chair creaking again. ‘You know what I think? I think someone was paid a lot of money to snatch Aiden MacAuley. I think killing Kenneth MacAuley made Aiden even more saleable. All that controversy?’

‘No one’s ever proved the Livestock Mart even exists.’

‘Are you saying you’ve been working this case for three years and you never looked into it? Sounds to me as if Sally MacAuley needs to get better private detectives, because you and your useless bunch of idiots are taking her money and doing sod-all.’

Pink flushed up Hacker’s neck, darkening his cheeks. ‘We are doing everything possible!’

‘You’re ripping her off!’

He shoved himself upright, looming over the desk. ‘We will get Aiden back!’

‘Oh, I’m sure the three of you are great at taking bribes, nicking stuff, and beating up motorists, but actual detecting?’ Laying it on thick.

‘What do you bloody know? Three years and you haven’t got anywhere near these people, while...’ A light must have flickered on somewhere inside Hacker’s brain because he clamped his mouth shut. Took a deep breath. Lowered himself into his seat again. All calm and collected. ‘I see what you’re doing. Very good.’

‘“Not got anywhere near these people, while” what, Mr Hacker?’

‘When I was a DS, Force Headquarters was awash with stories about the great Detective Sergeant Logan “Lazarus” McRae. How you were the brains behind that wrinkly disaster area Steel. That you solved all those cases, not her...’ Hacker stuck his feet up on his desk, coffee mug held against his chest. ‘After all that, you’d think they’d at least have made you Assistant Chief Constable. But here you are, nothing more than a lowly inspector.’

‘Keeps me humble.’

He toasted Logan with his mug. ‘AberRAD Investigation Services are committed to bringing Aiden MacAuley home to his mother. We haven’t billed her a penny in two years. We — will — bring — him — home.’ A broad smile. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me: Danielle will see you out. I’ve got work to do.’

Rain spattered up from the drenched tarmac as Danielle held the Portakabin door open for them.

Tufty smiled at her. ‘Thanks.’

‘Keep walking, Skinny Malinky Short Legs.’

Logan dug out one of his Police Scotland business cards. ‘In case you remember anything else.’

‘Oh right. Yes.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. Then tore the card up and sprinkled it into the nearest wastepaper basket like seasoning. ‘Now, if you don’t mind — it’s meant to be my day off and I’d like to go home.’ She shooed them out of the door and into the pounding rain. ‘Go on. Away. Sod off.’

As soon as they stepped outside she slammed the door shut and flipped the sign to ‘SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED’.

Logan hurried over to the car, jumping in as soon as Tufty plipped the locks. ‘Urgh.’ Absolutely drenched. Again.

Tufty clambered in behind the wheel. Shuddered. Turned and frowned out of the passenger window. ‘They were... nice.’

Danielle rattled down the blinds, one by one, until there was nothing to see.

‘You know what, Guv? I get the feeling that they didn’t has a truthful.’

Logan clicked on his seatbelt. ‘They discovered something about the Livestock Mart and Chalmers found out about it. Possibly DI Bell too.’

‘Maybe that’s why they were killed?’

‘And if Chalmers can find out, so can we.’

Tufty started the car, driving away from the Portakabins — headlights on, windscreen wipers at max. He drifted to a halt at the junction. ‘Back to the station?’

Maybe there was another way to go about this?

‘If you were Raymond Hacker, and you were getting close, would you tell your client?’

‘Sally MacAuley? Don’t see why not, after all...’ He puckered his lips, eyes narrowed. ‘Actually: no. No, I wouldn’t. You’d be getting her hopes up, wouldn’t you? What happens if it doesn’t pan out? She thinks her son’s coming home, but he isn’t.’

‘True.’ Still: might be worth a try.

Difficult to see how to do it without tipping them off, though.

A white Clio pulled up alongside the pool car, Danielle Smith behind the wheel. She revved the engine a couple of times, giving Logan the cold hard stare. Bared her teeth at him. Then drove off.

Logan watched the Clio disappear into the rain. ‘Is it just me, or would you not trust Hacker and his merry band further than you could spit them?’

‘Nope.’

‘Me neither.’

38

‘Thanks for your help.’ Logan hung up and wrote ‘ARGOS’ next to the number he’d just dialled.

The office was quiet — nobody but him and his phone.

He called the next one on the list.

An over-the-top cheery voice belted out of the earpiece. ‘Sparkles! Your hair is our flair! How may I assist you on the road to your fabulous best today?’

You could dial it down about three notches.

‘I need to speak to someone about Lorna Chalmers.’

‘One moment.’ Some flappy, clacky typing sounded in the background. ‘Yes indeed. Lorna’s coming in to see us on Tuesday at six for a cut and colour. Does she need to change her appointment?’

‘Well, she died on Friday night, so I don’t think she’ll be able to make it.’

‘But we confirmed it with her on Thursday?’ As if that was going to make any difference to the situation.

‘I can check, but I’m pretty sure she’ll still be dead.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Every bit as cheerful. ‘Well never mind, that’s that cancelled now.’ A bleep. ‘Please hold, I have a caller on line two.’

No chance.

Logan hung up. Wrote ‘HAIRDRESSER’ next to the number.

Well, that settled things, didn’t it? People planning on killing themselves didn’t make appointments to get their roots done.

Right: next number.

‘Yeah, about a week ago?’ There was a muffled voice in the background. ‘Ooh, hang on a second, I think our man’s come out of the... No. Sorry, it’s not him.’

Logan swivelled in his chair. ‘What did she want?’

A knock on the door and DI Fraser stuck her head into the room. ‘You about ready?’

He pointed at the phone in his other hand, then mouthed ‘Two minutes.’ at her.

‘It was weird. Chalmers calls us up, completely out of the blue, like, wanting intel on Fred Marshall. Last known whereabouts, associates, home address, outstanding warrants etc.’

‘She say why she wanted it?’

‘Nah, but you know what Chalmers is... was like. Never wanted to share anything with anyone. She... Ooh! That’s definitely him this time. Got to go.’ The clunk of a car door opening. ‘HOY! YOU! STAND—’ Silence. He’d hung up.

Logan wrote ‘DC OWEN’ next to his number. Stuck the list in the ‘pending’ tray, grabbed the case report and an A4 notepad. Stood. ‘Right. Shall we?’

‘Yes, because nothing lifts the spirits like sitting in a three-hour ongoing-cases meeting when we could be out, oh, I don’t know...’ she rolled her eyes, ‘actually solving crimes?’

‘So if you turn to page seventeen in your briefing you’ll see the numbers.’ DI Vine wheeched his laser pointer across the screen, circling the pie chart. ‘Car crime is a particular concern, especially in zones E through H...’

Logan turned the page and nodded. Then went back to doodling in the margins of his pad.

It wasn’t that Vine was boring — though he really, really was — it was just very difficult to get excited about car crime when there were murder investigations to get on with.

‘You’ll note that vandalism is on the up in zone B as well...’

The meeting room was packed — a dozen officers sitting there with their piles of briefing notes, printouts of PowerPoint slides, notebooks, glasses of water, cups of terrible tea and nastier coffee, waiting for their turn with the laser pointer, all doing their best to look interested. Most of them failing.

And still Vine droned on. And on. Standing there, like a heavyweight boxer with his broken nose, squinty eyes. A massive forehead that ended in a pointy black widow’s peak.

‘Page eighteen.’ The slide on the screen changed to a bar graph. ‘Antisocial Behaviour Orders.’

Pff...

Of course, the real question was: how did Chalmers find out about DI Bell in the first place? She’d been to the pig farm where he’d buried the body, she’d been to the mountainside where he’d reburied it last week, she’d even been to the crash site where they’d found Bell’s body in the car.

But how did she know?

Maybe she’d seen him somewhere? Recognised him, realised he wasn’t dead, and started digging.

‘...that right, Inspector McRae?’

Or was she looking into something else and somehow managed to stumble across him that way?

There had to be a connection. All Logan had to do was figure out what it—

‘Inspector McRae?’

Someone nudged him.

He blinked.

The whole room was staring at him.

Sod.

No idea what the question was. So Logan nodded, pulling his face into a thinking frown as if he were actually considering it. ‘In what way?’

DI Fraser nudged him again, hooking her thumb at the screen where his name was projected in big block capitals above the words, ‘INVESTIGATION INTO EX-DI DUNCAN BELL’S FALSIFIED SUICIDE. INVESTIGATION INTO LORNA CHALMERS’ ALLEGED SUICIDE.’

Ah. Right. It was his turn with the laser pointer.

DI Fraser stuffed her stack of briefings, printouts, and other assorted nonsense into her massive handbag as the rest of the room filed out. Keeping her voice down. ‘Three and a half hours. Three and a half.’ She smiled and waved at Hardie as he lumbered away, already on his phone. ‘Did you see the colour Hardie went when McCulloch kept talking over the top of him?’

Logan gathered up his papers. ‘Would’ve gone a lot quicker if that idiot McPherson hadn’t broken the projector.’

‘What do you expect: it’s McPherson.’

He followed her out into the corridor. ‘True.’

‘Think we’re too late to get something from the canteen?’

‘Mushroom stroganoff today. That or breaded haddock.’

‘Blearg. Mushrooms are the devil’s bumfungus. And so are fish.’ She did a quick turn, the hem of her black skirt-dress flaring out, and stared towards the stairs. ‘Come on then: how much of your briefing was a load of old testicles?’

He smiled. ‘Don’t know what you mean, Kim. Why, how about yours?’

‘Twenty, maybe twenty-five percent.’ A sigh. ‘In real life we’ve no idea who stabbed Ding-Dong or why. Would help if we had an ID on the body you dug up.’

‘You think it was a revenge attack? DI Bell killed their friend, so they killed him?’

She pushed into the stairwell. ‘Makes sense. He comes back from Spain, digs up the guy he tortured to death, and reburies him. Then a couple of days later someone parks their knife in Ding-Dong’s side.’ She gave Logan a sideways glance as they started down the stairs. ‘You sure you don’t know who it is?’

‘A hundred percent? No. And the last time I suggested who it might be, I got my head bitten off by our delightful pathologist.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Ever heard of a thug-for-hire called Fred Marshall? We’re trying to get hold of his dental and medical records for comparison.’

‘Fred Marshall... Fred Marshall...’ Fraser stopped on the landing and frowned. ‘Wait, wasn’t he one of Crowbar Craig Simpson’s cronies?’

‘Yes, but a knife’s not really Crowbar’s style, is it?’

‘People change.’ A smile spread across her face. ‘I might go pay Mr Simpson a social call. See if I can’t rattle something out of him.’

‘You’re in luck — we arrested him on Saturday morning. He’s not up before the Sheriff till half four, so if you hurry...?’

‘Now you see me.’ And she was off again, clattering away downstairs on her three-inch heels.

Logan watched her go. Oh to be young and enthusiastic again.

He used his elbow to turn the handle and pushed through into the temporary office, both hands tied up with a fish-finger buttie on a paper plate and a wax-paper cup of proper coffee.

Tufty looked up from his computer and stretched, mouth wide open in a huge yawn. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of Logan’s plate and smiled. ‘Why yes, I’d love a little smackerel of something.’

‘Get your own. This is my lunch.’ He plonked the plate and the cup on his desk, then dipped into his fleece pocket for the half dozen plastic sachets of tomato sauce and mayonnaise. ‘Where’s Stinky and Wrinkles?’

‘DS Rennie’s away picking up medical and dental records for Fred Marshall and Rod Lawson, while the esteemed DS Steel has an appointment with a search team and Naughty Norman Clifton’s mum’s house. And I...’ he did a small drumroll on the desk with his fingers, ‘have gone through and reverse look-up’d all the numbers in Chalmers’ call history. It’s in your in-tray, and are you sure none of that buttie’s for me?’

‘Positive.’ Logan opened it and slathered the fish fingers inside with red and white blobs. Took a big crunchy bite. Hot and fishy and delicious. Talking with his mouth full. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear that Hardie’s putting DI Vine in charge of you bunch of miscreants. As of tomorrow morning, you’re his problem.’

‘Not DI Vine!’ Tufty’s face sagged. ‘He’s the police equivalent of having your verrucas and eating them.’

Another bite of buttie, washed down with coffee. Logan held his hand out. ‘Give me your phone.’

‘My phone?’

‘You said you’d copied all of Chalmers’ photos onto it.’

‘Oh, my phone!’ Tufty dug it out. Looked at Logan’s sauce-smeared fingers. ‘Yeah. Maybe after you’re a bit less... sticky?’

Such a baby.

Logan polished off his buttie and scrubbed his hands clean on a wee individual moist towelette pilfered from last night’s takeaway. ‘Happy now?’

‘Cool.’ Tufty scooted his chair over, cradling his phone as if it were a tiny baby and he the proud father. ‘I fitted an extra-large SD card: two hundred and fifty-six gig. Utterly massive storage capacity.’ He laid it on the desk with careful reverence. ‘There’s rumours they’re working on a one terabyte micro SD card, how mind-blowing’s that? I know, right? A thousand gigabytes in something smaller than your—’

‘I’m waiting for the passcode, you idiot.’

‘Ah. Six, six, two, six. If you need an easy reminder it’s the first four digits of Planck’s Constant.’

Weirdos and freaks...

Logan punched the four digits into the smartphone’s screen, then poked the icon for its photo gallery. A folder right at the top was marked, ‘CHALMERS’ PHONE PICS!!!’

He selected it and the screen filled with thumbnails.

‘These in any sort of order?’

‘By date, oldest to newest.’

He scrolled through them with his finger. Flicking faster and faster. There were hundreds and hundreds of the bloody things. Who took that many photos on their mobile phone?

Finally, the screen wouldn’t scroll any more. He’d reached the end of the list.

‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’ He tapped the last thumbnail and a pig ark filled the screen. It was the one from Nairhillock Farm — the rectangle of stunted lime-green grass was clearly visible next to it.

Scrolling backwards produced another eight or nine photos of the same sty, and another dozen of various bits of the farm. The picture after that — or before it, chronologically — was a selfie of Chalmers, staring out across Aberdeen Beach towards the North Sea. Brooding and moody. Auburn hair tangled by the wind.

Next up: three pics of a chicken Caesar salad.

And after that... ‘Oh for God’s sake.’

It was DI Bell, sitting behind the wheel of his Trans-Buchan Automotive Rentals car, parked somewhere in the Bridge of Don, by the look of. The next one was the same. And the one after that.

Logan turned the screen to face Tufty. ‘She found DI Bell days ago! If she’d bothered her backside to tell someone, we could’ve brought him in and he’d still be alive!’

A sage nod. ‘Maybe she’d still be alive too?’

‘Gah...’

Some more photos of Bell coming out of the Netherley Arms, carrying his pickaxe and shovel.

‘This is what happens when you’re not a team player, Tufty.’

Two shots of a big bowl of mushroom tagliatelle.

Then another selfie.

‘You end up ostracised, fired, or...’

Hold on.

Logan zoomed in a bit. The selfie was Chalmers posing in a shiny black bomber jacket with ‘SECURITY’ embroidered on the left breast. Danielle Smith from AberRAD was mugging over her shoulder, sticking her chin out and one eyebrow up. She was wearing an identical jacket.

Tufty sat forward in his chair. ‘Or — dot, dot, dot — what?’

The next photo showed the pair of them again, at some sort of concert, both throwing air-guitar poses — the band an out-of-focus blur in the background. There were another five pictures at the same venue, each one showing Chalmers and Danielle. Chums. Besties. Muckers. Mates. BFFs.

Logan grabbed the desk phone and dialled.

‘Control?’

‘I need a home address for one ex-Detective-Constable Danielle Smith.’

Traffic crawled along the South Deeside Road, winding its way along the course of the River Dee, past the sprawling mass of new-build houses at Blairs. On through the trees, twisting and turning till the view opened out on the right, exposing the gargantuan earthworks where the new bridge reached across the dark and swollen river like a vast grey slab.

Ahead, tail-lights stretched into the distance, brought to a halt by temporary traffic lights and a coned-off section.

Tufty hauled on the handbrake, then slumped in dramatic-fainting-Victorian-lady mode. ‘Please can I stick the siren on?’

‘No. Anyway, it’s not going to make much difference, is it? You overtake something on a bend down here and we’ll end up in the mortuary. And I’m not keen on Isobel ever seeing me naked again.’

‘Ooooh. Is that gossip I sense?’

‘No. And shut up.’

‘Fair enough.’ He puffed out a couple of breaths, lips pursed like a duck’s bum. ‘Course, you know the trouble with this bypass, don’t you? Going to be a green light for development. Aberdeen’s going to spread and spread, till it gets stopped by the road. Like a moat of tarmac around a city state. Or a wall around a megacity from 2000 AD. Or the belt on a really, really fat man.’

Logan stared at him. ‘Honestly, feel free to shut up any time you like.’

‘We could talk about physics instead? Where do you stand on Bohmian mechanics? Cause if it’s right, it’s a totally valid mechanism for explaining wave-particle duality!’

He covered his face with his hands and muffled out a scream.

So this was what it felt like to be DCI Hardie...

A line of temporary metal fencing ran along the side of the road and down both sides of the building plot — the kind made of panels, held upright by concrete blocks, and peppered with ‘WARNING: BUILDING SITE’, ‘AUTHORISED ENTRY ONLY’, and ‘THESE PREMISES PATROLLED BY GUARD DOGS’. It sat on the edge of an older housing estate, the beginnings of a house slowly rising from the ground about thirty yards in at the end of a rough driveway. Nothing but the foundations and a few courses of breeze blocks to mark out the shape.

Stacks of more blocks sat off to one side, along with two pallets of bricks and a big pile of something covered by tarpaulins. Probably timber.

A small caravan was parked halfway down the site, partially surrounded by a wicker fence, its lights shining in the gloomy afternoon. A shadow moved across the drawn curtains. So someone was in.

Logan pointed through the windscreen. ‘Block the entrance.’

Tufty did, parking right in front of the driveway. ‘Good cop, bad cop?’

‘Good cop, silent cop. And in case you’re wondering which one you are...’ He climbed out into the rain, pulled his peaked cap on and hurried over to the line of fencing.

A padlock and chain secured one side to the other, but it was slack enough to squeeze through, so Logan did.

Tufty locked the car and scurried after him, up the driveway, past Danielle Smith’s white Clio and over to the caravan in its wickerwork enclosure.

The sound of Blink 182’s ‘Miss You’ pounded through the caravan walls, the whole thing rocking slightly as whoever was inside danced and sang along. Logan strode over to the door and did his police-officer knock: three thumps, loud and hard.

Barking bellowed out from the other side of the door as something massive slammed against it. The song clicked off. More barking, loud enough to rattle Logan’s fillings.

That dog had to be absolutely sodding huge.

He backed away from the door a couple of steps, till his legs bumped into a sodden garden table and chairs. He cleared his throat and turned to Tufty, Hissing it through clenched teeth — nice and quiet. ‘Did you bring any Bite Back?’

‘I didn’t know we’d be arresting Cujo!’

The barking faded, and Danielle’s voice boomed out instead. ‘Go away, Jason. I’m not interested!’

Logan inched forward and knocked again.

‘Don’t be a shitebag, Jason. Take the hint or I’ll set Baskerville on...’ She wrenched the caravan door open. Stood there wearing combat trousers, a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and a frown. She directed it at Logan. ‘What do you want?’

Behind her, the barking exploded into life again as a huge German Shepherd lunged forward, mouth big and red and full of teeth and oh God why didn’t they bring any Bite Back with them and they were all going to die and—

Danielle grabbed the dog’s collar, holding it back. ‘Baskerville: enough!’

Instant silence.

Logan licked his lips, not taking his eyes off the dog for a second. ‘Can we come in?’

‘You got a warrant?’

‘Do I need one?’

She stood there, staring at him, eyes narrowed. Then nodded. ‘I’m getting ready to go out. You can have five minutes.’

39

Unlike the TARDIS, Danielle Smith’s caravan was smaller on the inside. Every wall had at least one architectural drawing Sellotaped to it, the built-in shelves groaning with books on building and crime novels.

She pointed at the front of the caravan, where bench seating bracketed a foldaway table. Baskerville jumped up onto the cushions, padded to the far end, and sat with his mouth hanging open. One paw on the tabletop — as if waiting for his dinner.

Danielle stared at Logan and Tufty. ‘You two as well. Sit.’

Logan took the empty bench seat, so Tufty had to squeeze in next to the massive dog. Sitting there, staring at it. Looking about as comfortable as a mouse in a blender.

‘So...’ Logan nodded at the plans and elevations. ‘You’re building your own house? That’s got to be stressful. Builders never show up when they say they will.’

‘Dear God, it’s like I’m sharing a caravan with Sherlock Holmes!’ Sarcasm dripping from every word. ‘How ever did you deduce that?’ She opened the tiny fridge and pulled out a couple of takeaway containers. ‘Yes, I’m building my own house. What else am I going to do with a degree in mechanical engineering and a tanked oil industry?’

Now that was impressive.

‘You’re actually doing the construction yourself? Wow, that’s—’

‘Look, can we skip the fake rapport-building and get on with it? I’ve got places to be.’ She opened the containers’ lids a crack, then stuffed them both into the microwave and set it buzzing.

‘OK.’ He stretched his arms along the seat cushions. ‘When we spoke at your office, you said you didn’t know DS Lorna Chalmers.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘Who says I knew her?’

Logan pulled out Tufty’s phone and tapped at the screen... Nothing happened. Oh for God’s sake — the thing was locked again. He looked at Tufty. ‘What’s the code?’

‘Planck’s Constant?’

Nope.

Tufty rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Give it here.’ A quick flurry of fingers and he handed it over again, unlocked this time.

Logan brought up the photos and pointed the screen at Danielle. ‘That’s you and Chalmers doing security at a concert.’

She turned her back. Took a bowl from a cupboard. ‘And?’

‘There’s more pictures, if you like? The pair of you look very cosy.’

‘We worked a couple of security gigs together,’ Danielle kept her face to the wall, ‘so what?’

‘Then why pretend you didn’t know her?’

The microwave buzzed.

Nobody moved.

‘Looks as if you were friends to me.’

Her voice went all bitter. ‘Yeah, well it did to me too.’ The microwave bleeped and she opened the door, turned the containers. Slammed the door shut. Set it buzzing again.

‘So you weren’t that bothered when she “hanged herself”?’

A shrug. ‘What’s for you won’t go by you, will it?’

And the microwave kept buzzing.

Tufty fidgeted.

The dog turned to look at him.

Tufty sat perfectly still.

Then the microwave bleeped again.

Danielle’s shoulders curled forwards. ‘I met Lorna at a Fleetwood Mac tribute act. It was her first security gig. A bit green behind the lugs, but she was OK. She was Job, I was ex-Job, so we hated some of the same people. We got on.’ The containers were retrieved from the microwave and their contents tipped into the bowl. Rice first, followed by something wet and lumpy.

The warm, spiky scent of Thai green curry filled the caravan.

‘We did the Rolling Stones gig at Glasgow SECC together.’ She turned, a smile on her perfectly rouged lips. ‘Man, that was some concert. I’d have worked that one for free...’ Danielle thumped the bowl down on the table, following it up with chopsticks.

She shooed Logan over, sat, and got stuck into her food. ‘So yeah, I knew her.’

Pretty proficient with those chopsticks. Ferrying chunks of vegetables in soft green sauce from the bowl to her mouth. Scooping up chunks of rice.

She stopped and looked up. ‘What?’

‘What did she do?’

‘Let’s see... There was me, thinking she was my friend, thinking she was a decent human being, sympathising with her because her husband Brian’s a complete dickhat, but we weren’t really friends at all. It was all an act.’

Tufty waggled his eyebrows. ‘You weren’t...?’

She stared at him. ‘I will genuinely take you outside and break every single one of your bloody limbs.’

A low growling noise rumbled out of Baskerville and Tufty edged away from him.

‘Eep...’

Danielle dug into her curry again. ‘Lorna started asking all these questions about Sally MacAuley and loads of other cases we were working on at AberRAD. Next thing you know she’s wanting me to do little favours.’ Her voice changed to a pretty decent imitation of Chalmers’ Highland drawl. ‘“Introduce me to this guy.”, “Introduce me to that guy.”, “What have you found out about so-and-so?”’

‘She was using you.’ Logan sat forward. ‘Is that why you had to, how did you put it, “calm her down a bit”?’

‘Lorna kicked off when I called her out on it. I kicked back.’

‘And did you? Introduce her to all those people?’

‘Till I realised what she was doing.’

Interesting.

‘You think she joined the security team specifically to target you?’

Danielle frowned, chopsticks frozen halfway between the bowl and her mouth. ‘No. No, that came later. Wasn’t till...’ She cleared her throat. ‘Look, I’m going to have to change in a minute, so if it’s all the same with you I’d rather finish my dinner in peace.’

Logan stayed right where he was.

A big, long-suffering sigh. ‘All right, all right: she overheard me asking the other security guys about Fred Marshall.’

‘And why would they know about Fred Marshall?’

‘Because they worked for the same agency Marshall did. Why do you think I joined it in the first place: the sexy uniforms?’ She pointed at the window with her chopsticks. ‘Marshall’s out there somewhere and he knows what happened to Kenneth MacAuley. He knows where Aiden is.’

Tufty sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Yeah... You see: Fred Marshall’s—’

Logan kicked him under the table.

‘Ow!’

‘And did these security guys tell you anything?’

She plucked a chunk of baby sweetcorn from her bowl, crunching on it. ‘Marshall’s too thick to keep his gob shut. Sooner or later he’s going to make contact with someone. And when he does, we’ll get him.’

Tufty rubbed at his leg. ‘That hurt!’

‘Good.’ Logan watched Danielle polish off the last of her curry. ‘So, this gig you’ve got tonight — anything interesting?’

The chopsticks froze again. Then, ‘Nah: local-celebrity wedding anniversary party. Got to keep the riff-raff out.’

‘Don’t mean to be personal,’ Tufty pointed towards the work surface, ‘but your handbag’s vibrating.’

‘Bloody...’ She got up and rummaged through it, producing an iPhone just in time for it to fall silent. ‘Arrrgh.’ She poked at the screen and turned away from them. Put the phone to her ear. ‘Andy?... No. I know... I said I know! I’m getting ready now... Yes, I know I’m always late, but—... I’m getting ready!.. Yes, when they tell us, I’ll be there... Because you won’t get off the bloody phone!’ A nod. ‘OK, bye.’

She stuck the phone in her bag.

Logan smiled. ‘Andy from work?’

‘OK, I’m getting changed now. You’ve got thirty seconds to get out or I set Baskerville on you.’

Logan scooted down a bit in the passenger seat, watching Danielle’s building plot vanish in the wing mirror.

Tufty sniffed. ‘Why don’t dogs like me?’

‘Can’t shake the feeling that she’s up to something. You hear that pause before she said what she was doing tonight?’

‘Maybe she really is working security at a local-celebrity wedding anniversary?’

He treated Tufty to a wee scowl. ‘Don’t make me kick you again.’

‘That really hurt, by the way.’ Tufty pulled onto the main road, joining the crawling traffic. ‘Not much point going straight home to headquarters, is there? Unless you fancy getting stuck in rush hour again. What do you think: try the North Deeside Road this time?’

‘Might as well. It’s not as if—’ His phone dinged at him. A new text message.

IDIOT RENNIE:

What?

He squinted at the screen. ‘It’s like a foreign language.’

What the hell did... Aha!

He grinned at Tufty. ‘They’ve found some teeth from DI Bell’s fake-funeral pyre.’

‘Coolio.’

Logan thumbed out a reply:

SEND.

His phone was barely halfway to his pocket before it launched into ‘The Imperial March’, the words ‘HORRIBLE STEEL’ glowing in the middle of its screen.

Yes, well no thank you.

He pressed ‘IGNORE’. Stared out of the window at the tiny semidetached houses and oversized bungalows. ‘This whole thing makes me itchy, Tufty.’ He counted them off on his fingers: ‘DI Bell, Sally MacAuley, AberRAD Investigations, Fred Marshall, Lorna Chalmers, Rod Lawson — if that’s who we exhumed... Itchy.’

A bus stop drifted by on the left, populated by a gang of OAPs with their headscarves, bunnets, shopping trolleys, and wee dogs.

‘Erm,’ Tufty glanced across the car, ‘Sarge?’

‘Inspector.’

‘Yeah, but see if you ever go back to proper police work—’

‘Professional Standards is proper police work!’ Cheeky sod.

‘Yeah, but see if you do: can I be your sidekick again?’

They accelerated out through the limits, following a mud-brown baker’s van.

‘Thought you were DS Steel’s sidekick now.’

‘Yeah, but she’s mean to me. Well, she’s mean to everyone, but if you’re stuck in the car with her, you can’t escape like normal people.’

‘True.’

Fields of barley lined the road — bent, battered, and half drowned by the rain.

‘And if I was your sidekick, would it be OK if I requisitioned DI Bell’s laptop? The one they found in his hotel room? Cos we know the forensic IT Smurfs won’t get near it for weeks. Would that be OK?’

‘Don’t see why not.’

Tufty nodded. ‘Good. Good. Erm... Because I might have said you’d already OKed it. A teeny weeny bit.’

Logan stared at him. ‘You’ve been hanging round DS Steel too long, she’s starting to—’

‘The Imperial March’ started up again.

‘Oh sod off...’ He hit ‘IGNORE’.

‘Maybe it’s something important?’

Aye, right. ‘She’ll be wanting a moan. It’s all she ever does.’

‘But what if—’

Tufty’s pocket launched into ‘Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead’. He dug a hand in and produced his phone. Grimaced across the car at Logan. ‘Can you get it? I’m driving.’ He poked his thumb at the screen, unlocking it, then held it out. ‘Please?’

‘Like I’m his secretary...’ But Logan took it anyway. Held it up to his ear. ‘PC Quirrel’s phone?’

Steel’s voice growled out at him. ‘Oh I see. That’s how it is, is it?’

‘Urgh... It’s you.’ Well, at least that explained the ringtone.

‘Ducking my calls. Very mature. Thought you were supposed to be SIO on this one?’

He glared at Tufty. The little sod knew it was her and tricked him into answering it.

Tufty kept his face forwards, not making eye contact.

‘If you’ve phoned up to whinge, you can—’

‘You bunch of spunghammers were given the opportunity to bask in the glory of my magnificence, and did you?’

‘Moan, whinge, gripe, whine...’

‘You want to know what I dug up or no’?’

‘We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Plenty of time for you to dig out some biscuits and get the kettle—’

‘It’s happening tonight.’

Logan pulled his chin in. ‘What is?’

‘Ah, see: now you’re interested.’

More fields of ruined barley, a huge puddle of water spreading out from beneath a five-bar gate onto the road.

The baker’s van slowed, sending up big curls of dirty water.

Tufty hummed a wee song to himself as they surfed through after it.

Logan puffed out a breath. ‘And are you actually going to tell me?’

‘You were banging on about missing kids, so I spoke to a pervert of my acquaintance: Barry the Nonce. Took a bit of leaning, but he’s been away speaking to his slimy wee pals and guess what he’s just told me. Go on, you’ll no’ guess, but have a go for your Auntie Roberta.’

‘OK, I’m going to hang up now.’

‘You’re even less fun than you used to be, you know that, don’t you?’ There was another pause as she milked whatever it was. ‘It’s no’ Santa Claus that’s coming to town tonight, it’s the Livestock Mart. And I mean the Livestock Mart.’

Logan sat upright, eyes wide. Turned to Tufty. ‘Stop the car!’

‘Aaaaaaargh!’ He slammed on the brakes and the car slithered to a halt in the middle of the huge puddle. ‘What? What’s happened?’ Looking around, frantic. ‘Did I hit something?’

Behind them, someone leaned on their horn.

Logan shifted his phone to the other ear. ‘Where and when?’

‘Nah, we’re no’ that lucky. Whole thing runs on an invitation-only basis. From what Barry hears: if you make the cut, you get a text with the when so you’re ready to go and, a couple of hours later, another one with the where.’

Tufty stuck a hand against his chest and slumped in his seat. ‘Nearly gave me a heart attack!’

A Ford Escort drove around them, the driver sticking up one finger and mouthing obscenities as he passed.

‘And Barry the Nonce...?’

‘He’s no’ on the list. But it’s still happening tonight. What we gotta do is figure out where.’

So that was why Chalmers wanted him to keep DI Fraser out of her hair for seventy-two hours. She knew when the Livestock Mart was scheduled.

He turned in his seat and stared out through the rear window. The line of traffic behind them was getting shorter as each one gestured and swore their way past. They couldn’t be more than a couple of miles from Danielle Smith’s caravan. There was still time.

Logan faced front again and thumped Tufty on the arm. ‘Do a U-turn and get back to that building site ASAP. Wherever Danielle Smith’s off to: that’s where we’re going too.’

Tufty hauled the wheel around.

40

Danielle tapped her nails against the tabletop, staring at her iPhone. Hurry up and ring.

Baskerville had picked up on the tension, pacing the length of the caravan, making semi-growling noises.

Come on and ring!

She’d done her make-up twice, her hair once, changed into three different all-black outfits — before settling on cargo pants, black trainers, a black sweatshirt and a silky bomber jacket. Maybe the bomber jacket was a mistake? What if she got someone’s blood on it? How was she going to get that out of silk? Gah... No: leather jacket. And not the good biker one either, the Sixties one from the vintage shop. In case she had to burn the thing.

She stood and stripped off the bomber jacket.

Frowned.

What about the canvas night-camouflage one from—

Her phone buzzed on the tabletop and she snatched it up, unlocked it.

NUMBER WITHHELD:

Yes!

She stuck the bomber in the wardrobe again and put on the night-camouflage jacket instead. Checked herself in the mirror — definitely the right choice — loaded up the pockets with the essentials, pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, and climbed out of the caravan. ‘Baskerville: stay. Guard.’

He gawped at her, mouth hanging open, tongue dangling out like he hadn’t a brain cell in the world.

‘No, I’m not falling for the idiot look, and you’re not coming with me.’

Baskerville gave a miserable whine, then lay down with his big triangular head on his paws. Staring up at her.

‘And that’s not going to work either.’ She clunked the caravan door shut and locked it, ignoring his yowls as she jumped into her Clio and drove down to the makeshift fence / gate at the end of the drive. Did the whole unlocking-the-padlock-driving-through-and-locking-it-again routine, before punching the coordinates for ‘6F’ into the satnav and pulling out onto the road.

The car drifted past rain-drenched streets. People hurrying home from work.

The satnav was estimating forty-five minutes, but on a rainy Monday evening with rush hour in full crawl? Quarter past seven was maybe doable. As long as she considered the speed limit more of a suggestion than a rule.

She poked the icon on her dashboard screen and set the hands-free kit ringing.

The suburban streets gave way to darkened countryside.

Hacker’s voice banged out of the car’s speakers. ‘Danners? Is it in?’

‘They’ve texted through my watchpoint. It’s the far side of Bennachie. On my way now.’

‘Great! Good. You all set?’

Danielle reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the semiautomatic: Smith & Wesson, M&P 40 2.0. A thing of utter beauty. She ran a gloved thumb along the safety catch. ‘Better believe it.’

‘We’re going to get Aiden back tonight, Danners. We’re finally going to do it.’

Sally digs her fingernails into the placemat, one leg twitching under the table, staring out through the patio doors.

Raymond paces along the edge of the patio, shoulders hunched against the rain, phone clamped against his head.

Please. Please. Please. Please...

He stuffs his phone in his pocket and hurries to the doors, hauls them open and slips inside, a huge grin nearly splitting his face in half.

She swallows. ‘It’s happening?’

‘It’s happening!’

Sally grabs hold of the table and lets a huge breath rattle free. ‘It’s happening. After all these years, it’s actually happening.’

Raymond fetches the red rucksack from the cupboard under the stairs. Dumps it in front of her. ‘You need to be ready: they’ll be in touch soon.’ He marches off again.

After everything she’s gone through, it’s finally happening...

He returns with an armful of carrier bags, tipping the contents out onto the table: bundles of twenty-pound notes. A thousand pounds per bundle. Raymond counts them into the rucksack. ‘...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen...’

Fifty thousand pounds from selling her father’s house.

‘...thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four...’

The five thousand she got from the publishers for her book.

‘...fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two...’

The four thousand she’s saved over the years.

‘..sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five.’

Sixty-five? Sally frowns. ‘That’s not right, it’s meant to be—’

‘I cashed in my ISA: got us another six grand.’ He zips up the rucksack. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

She stands and holds out her arms, trembling, tears making the kitchen wobble as he wraps her in a big hug, burying his face in her neck.

She stares over his shoulder at their reflections in the patio doors. Standing there like ghosts, hovering in front of the darkened garden, the ivy-covered shed barely visible on the other side.

He kisses her forehead. ‘We’re going to get Aiden back.’

Something curdles in her lungs, making it hard to breathe. ‘What if—’

‘Hey, it’s OK.’ He kisses her again: frowning, serious. ‘You do whatever they tell you, follow all their rules... and leave everything else to me and the gang.’ Then that grin spreads again. ‘This is it!’

After all this time.

She hugs him. ‘I can’t believe it’s finally happening...’

A sliver of sky glowed a pale shimmering blue, the clouds above it painted in violent shades of pink and orange. Everything else was a dark heavy grey.

‘Don’t lose her!’

Danielle Smith’s tail-lights burned red, disappearing as the road twisted along the flank of Bennachie. Trees loomed over them, turned into scratchy inkblots by the pool car’s headlights. Dark fields. The shining windows of a farmhouse in the distance.

Tufty shifted his hands on the wheel. ‘I’m not going to lose her. I didn’t lose her on the dual carriageway, did I? Or all the way out here? No, brave Sir Tufty stuck to her like a secret sneaky sticky... stain?’

‘Be careful, OK? Can’t afford to screw this one up.’

‘How am I screwing it up? I’m doing everything it says in the manual! Regulation distance for following a vehicle on quiet roads at night is—’

‘Oh shut up.’ Logan pulled out his phone and called Steel. ‘We’ve pulled off the A96 at Port Elphinstone. Heading west on the B993. I repeat—’

‘Heard you the first time. I’m irascibly sexy, no’ deaf.’

‘Where’s Rennie?’

The sound grew echoes, the clatter of Cuban heels on stairs reverberating underneath. ‘Getting himself a pool car and hopefully some Tic Tacs. Boy’s got breath you could strip paint off the Forth Bridge with.’

‘What about my firearms team?’

‘I’ve got two words for you: “awa” and “shite”.’ More clattering.

‘Oh you’re kidding me!’

The clattering quietened down a bit, followed by the thump of a door and louder echoes. ‘Well, what did you expect? We’ve got no actual intel, we’ve got no corroboration, we’ve got no proof. We haven’t even got a sodding location. All we’ve got is your scar-puckered gut to go on.’

‘But—’

‘Course they’re no’ giving us a firearms team.’ Another thump, and the sound opened up — no more echoes. ‘So we follow this private investigator woman of yours till she leads us to the Livestock Mart, we call it in, and then we get a firearms team.’ A shrill whistle ripped out of the earpiece.

‘Aaargh!’ Logan yanked the phone away from his ear.

‘RENNIE, YOU USELESS LUMP OF BADGER SPUTUM, WHERE THE MOTHERFUNKING...’ A car horn blared in the background. ‘Oh. About time too!’

‘You nearly deafened me!’

‘Oh, boo-hoo.’ Some rustling and clunking was followed by a loud thunk and the sound of an engine starting. ‘Don’t just sit there: drive!’

Logan hung up. Stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it as he frowned out through the windscreen.

Dark. No rear lights.

‘Tufty?’ His eyes widened. ‘Where’s Danielle Smith’s car?’

‘Ah... Funny you should mention that...’

Logan crumpled forward in his seat, until the seatbelt stopped him, and covered his head with his arms. ‘Aaaaaaargh!’

‘Sorry?’

‘For God’s sake, Constable. Why didn’t you—’

‘I’m sorry! You were shouting and there was all this...’ He grabbed Logan’s arm. ‘There! Look, thar she blows! Woot! Jodrell Bank, we does has a liftoff!’

Danielle’s tail-lights snaked through the darkness up ahead, headlights casting the trees into sharp relief as she passed them.

Logan slumped back. ‘Don’t do that.’

Tufty pulled on a sickly smile. ‘Anyone can make a mistake...’

Raymond paces up and down the kitchen, hands clenching and spreading and clenching and spreading.

Sally’s mobile sits on the table in front of her, the dark screen reflecting her face: thin, bags under her eyes, the bruise on her forehead spreading out from beneath its skin-coloured sticking plaster — already starting to go green and yellow at the edges.

She clears her throat. ‘Maybe they—’

Her phone buzzes and she snatches it up, unlocking it with shaking fingers.

A text message.

NUMBER WITHHELD:

Raymond hurries over. ‘Is it them?’

‘Map coordinates.’

She copies and pastes them into the phone’s map app which churns and churns and finally fills with an unnamed road northwest of Inverurie. Pressing ‘GET DIRECTIONS’ sets it churning again. Then brings up a blue line from the croft to the designated spot with an estimated journey time of twenty-two minutes.

Sally stares at the microwave clock — ‘19:10’ — then scrambles to her feet, grabbing the rucksack and her jacket. ‘I have to go!’ Rushing into the hall.

Raymond blocks the front door. ‘Wig!’

The bloody wig! She snatches it off the coatrack and jams it on her head as she rushes out through the front door, wrenches open the Shogun’s door and throws herself in behind the wheel. Slamming the door shut as Raymond runs down the track towards the gate.

Sally dumps the rucksack in the passenger footwell, jams the key in the ignition and twists it: the engine roars into life.

She can do this. For Aiden.

Her hands shake on the steering wheel as she accelerates down the drive.

Raymond’s waiting for her, right in the middle of the track, the gate lying wide open behind him.

Get out of the bloody way!

She slams on the brakes and buzzes her window down. ‘Raymond, I—’

‘It’s going to be OK. Deep breaths. You can do this.’

‘I have to go.’

He steps up onto the running board and leans in through the window. ‘You know I’d come with you if I could.’

She nods. Blah, blah, blah.

‘We’re going to bring Aiden home tonight, Sally. That’s all that matters.’

She stares at him. ‘That’s all that’s ever mattered.’

He wraps a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her into a kiss. His lips taste of bitter coffee and Extra Strong Mints. Then he lets her go and hops back to the ground again. ‘You can do this!’

For Aiden.

She puts her foot down.

Raymond jumped away from the puddle as Sally’s four-by-four hammered out through the open gate, sending up twin walls of dirty brown spray. This was it. Succeed or fail, it was all down to her.

He pulled out his phone, dialling as he picked his way over to the side of the track, steering clear of the puddles. ‘Andy?’

Andy’s voice crackled from the earpiece, distorted and broken. ‘Guv? I can barely hear you.’

‘Are you on?’

‘Guv? Hello?... Hello?... Can you— me? Gu—’

Oh in the name of Christ. Not now. Not tonight!

‘Andy? Andy!’

Damn it. He hung up and tried again.

Straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, this is Andrew Harris. Leave a message after the bleep.’

No point. Either they were ready, or they weren’t. He’d just have to trust them.

He put his phone away. Stood there, at the gate, watching Sally’s tail-lights get smaller and smaller, then disappear.

She was a strong woman — a lot stronger than she thought. She could do this. And Danners and Andy would look after her.

Ray grabbed the gate and hauled it shut again. Clipped the hooky thing onto the chain. ‘Please, God, let it be this time. Let us finally bring Aiden home.’

What really hurt was that he couldn’t be there to help.

He sighed, shook his head, and walked back to the croft.

Danielle slowed the Clio and turned off the stereo — right in the middle of Jimmy Page’s big ‘Heartbreaker’ solo. The road stretched away into the darkness ahead, not a house in sight, not even the distant lights from a lonely farm. Nothing but trees and bushes crowding in on all sides.

The satnav’s voice broke the silence. ‘You Have Reached Your Destination.’

The only feature in sight was an unmarked track on the left, cutting deeper into the woods, wide at first, then narrowing. A black Range Rover gleamed at the edge of her headlights. It’d reversed up the track about twenty / twenty-five feet and sat there. Like a funnel-web spider. Waiting.

She pulled off the road and onto the track, parking in front of it — nose to nose. Killed the engine. Stuck the gun in her pocket again. Put on a plain baseball cap. And climbed out into the rain.

It drummed on the hat’s bill, pattering against her shoulders as she walked across to the big car. The lights were off, but the engine was running — the exhaust clouding in the cold air, drifting away into the trees.

Danielle stopped by the driver’s window and raised her hand to knock. Her knuckles hadn’t even made it that far before the window buzzed down.

Probably a man, going by the build, in a light-grey hoodie and a black leather jacket. Black leather gloves, like her own, and a featureless grey mask. No mouth hole, no nose, or decoration of any kind. A grey slab with two narrow horizontal slits for eyes.

Anonymous as hell.

She gave him a nod. ‘’Sup, Jason Voorhees?’

His voice was deep, authoritative. The kind of guy who expected people to follow orders. ‘You’re new, so you get one chance at this and one chance only. Give me your phone.’ He held out a gloved hand. Ah, why not. She passed it over and he tucked it away. ‘You’ll get it back at the end of the night.’

She better.

He produced a big brown envelope with the letter ‘A’ printed on it. ‘You stay here until you’ve passed all three clients on to the location. You don’t chat to them, you don’t remember them, you don’t let them see your face.’ He reached across to a cardboard box on the passenger seat and came out with another mask. Only this one was a dull-blue colour, with a big white ‘6’ on it. Heavier than it looked, with a thick strap to hold it in place.

OK.

Danielle took off her baseball cap and put the mask on. The world shrank to the view through the two narrow slits. She wedged her cap over the top — tight, but it fit.

‘Better. Park where I’m parked and remove your number plates. Anyone who gives you the watchword gets a card from envelope “A”. Anyone who doesn’t give you the watchword gets sent here instead for a special surprise.’ He passed her another envelope marked ‘B’, same size, same shape. ‘Fingerprints on nothing. Understand?’

She held up her gloved hands, showing them off. ‘Way ahead of you.’

‘No one gets to bring a friend. No one gets to take their mobile phone with them. No one gets to record or photograph anything. If in doubt: confiscate it. Search everyone.’ One more envelope, this one with a big ‘C’ on it. ‘When your last client is on their way, give them five minutes, then get your arse to the venue. Details in there.’ He stared at her, head tilted slightly to one side. ‘Any questions?’

It was... weird. There was something about that blank face and the calm voice that set alarm bells ringing all the way up and down her spine. Like he was a cat and she was a juicy little mouse.

She cleared her throat. ‘What do I do if someone kicks off?’

‘What do you want to do?’

That was more like it. She wasn’t the mouse, she was the attack dog. A grin spread across her face — making her cheeks brush the inside of her mask. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

He clicked the Range Rover’s headlights on and stuck it in drive.

She waved. ‘Wait: what do I call you?’

‘You don’t.’

OK.

Danielle stepped aside as the Range Rover backed up, pulled around her Clio, bumped onto the main road and drove away. She stood there till its rear lights disappeared into the rainy night. Then nodded. Took a deep breath. ‘Right. Turn the car round, then number plates...’

41

Fat yellow sycamore leaves drifted across the road, caught by the pool car’s headlights as they danced and weaved their way to the rain-rivered tarmac. Danielle’s tail-lights went in and out of focus as the windscreen wipers thunked back and forth across the glass.

Getting nearer...

Logan grabbed Tufty’s arm. ‘Kill the lights. Kill the lights!’

Tufty killed them and the car drifted to a halt in the darkness. ‘What?’

‘She’s stopped.’

‘Oooh.’ He grimaced. ‘Maybe she’s on to us?’

They sat there, in the dark, engine running.

Tufty leaned forward, peering out through the windscreen wiper’s temporary arcs. ‘Or maybe she’s trying to make sure nobody’s following her? Hiding up and waiting for us to drive by, then POW!’

Logan looked over his shoulder. The road behind them was barely visible. ‘Or maybe she’s meeting someone.’ Why else would she be out here, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night? Well, not night, but definitely early evening. ‘Get the car off the road, find a wee track or something... Up there, where the trees get thicker.’

Tufty eased the car forward, nose inches from the windscreen, bottom teeth bared. ‘Talk about your all-inclusive Stygian gloom.’

Twenty feet on, a track disappeared off into the woods on the right. Rutted and bumpy, with a thick line of grass down the middle. Tufty turned onto it, the car lurching and bumping along in slow motion. Shapes loomed in the darkness, swallowed by the rain. ‘Argh, this is horrible...’

A huge lump of whin scraped its way down one side of the car.

Logan tapped the dashboard. ‘OK. You can stop here.’

‘Oh, thank the Great Green Arkleseizure.’ He pulled on the handbrake and killed the engine.

Now the only sound was the rain, pattering against the car roof.

Tufty undid his seatbelt. ‘And now we...?’

‘One of us has to go out there and see what she’s up to.’

‘Urgh.’ He slumped in his seat. ‘Oh noes... Poor Tufty...’

‘Don’t be such a drama queen.’

‘It’s always the lowly police constable, isn’t it? Squelching about in the rain. Dying of pneumonia. Getting all chafed.’

Oh for goodness’ sake.

‘Fine! You stay with the car.’ Logan took out his phone and set it on vibrate. Then did the same with his Airwave. ‘If she drives off, you follow her. Discreetly.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and pulled it on. Then climbed out into the rain. ‘And don’t lose her this time!’

Something squished beneath his feet as he picked his way around the bonnet of the car, breath misting out around his head. He’d got as far as the driver’s side when Tufty cracked the door open and put on a big theatrical whisper:

‘Guv! You forgot your waterproof!’

‘Yes, because creeping through the woods, in the middle of the night, is so much easier in a fluorescent-yellow jacket!’

Idiot.

Logan turned and stepped off the track, and onto a slippery patch of fallen leaves. Yeah, this was going to be a barrel of laughs.

He pushed through a clump of dying nettles, ducking under the branches of a huge Scots pine and into the woods proper.

Lichen-crusted beech snatched at his black fleece, their fingers brittle and rattling.

They gave way to Forestry Commission pines, standing guard like sentries in the dark. Their trunks pale against the suffocating gloom.

He scrambled up a small ridge of needle-matted ground, then down the other side. Stepping over the drainage channel at the bottom. It was a lot darker in here, but at least the canopy kept most of the rain off. And he had to be virtually invisible in his black Police Scotland fleece, trousers, and boots.

Logan crept on, crouched over to avoid the lower branches, feet scuffing through the rolling sea of fallen needles. Every step smelled of old houses, stale bread, and pine disinfectant.

The sound of a car engine idled up ahead. Getting louder.

He stopped.

There — through the trees. Danielle Smith’s white Renault Clio. Parked down a rutted track of its own. Only she’d reversed up hers, the car sitting nose out. For a quick getaway?

Logan sneaked closer.

She was squatting down by the boot of her car, fiddling with something.

Urgh. She wasn’t having a—

No. She stood, holding the rear number plate in one hand, screwdriver in the other.

OK, so she was definitely up to something. Innocent people didn’t anonymise their motor vehicles.

He could probably get a bit nearer if he—

Logan froze as his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He dug it out — the screen was like a searchlight in the gloom. He slapped it against his chest, smothering the glow, and ducked behind a tree trunk. The word ‘TUFTY’ filled the screen.

Logan answered it, keeping his voice so low it was barely there. ‘This better be important!’

Tufty crackled on the other end. ‘Guv? There’s a... comin— Guv?... — ello?’

‘I can’t hear you.’

‘...car com—... see it? I—’

He hung up and thumbed out a text instead:

SEND.

Headlights glowed in the middle distance, coming this way.

Logan turned down the brightness on his phone and crept around to the front of the tree again. Slipped in behind a clump of jagged broom, keeping low and out of sight, then peered through its branches.

A rusty old Jaguar rolled to a halt at the junction where the track met the road and sat there, windscreen wipers click-thumping. Then eased onto the track. Stopping a couple of feet in.

Danielle Smith stood.

At least, it was probably Danielle Smith. Her face was hidden behind a smooth dull-blue mask with a big white number six on it. A baseball cap hiding her hair. She popped open the Clio’s boot and chucked the number plate inside. Thunked it shut again. Checked something in her pocket. Stood there. Still and silent.

The Jag’s driver wound down his window. Overweight with a mop of greying hair and an open-necked shirt. Sweaty and jowly, like a proper child molester. He waved at her, voice booming out, ‘HELLO?’

She didn’t reply. Instead she stood there, with her head on one side, as if trying to decide which of his bones to break first.

Logan started up the camera app on his phone and clicked off a few shots. The results were all grainy in the low light, but they were good enough to make out the Jag’s number plate. He took a few more, trying to get the driver’s face.

Sweaty McChildMolester checked his watch. ‘CAN WE GET ON WITH THIS PLEASE? I DON’T WANT TO BE LATE!’

She ran at him, from zero to a full-on sprint, covering the ground to his car in seconds, arms out, growling.

Sweaty ducked inside again, but she was too quick — before he could wind up his window her hand snapped forward, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled his head out into the rain. The other hand dipped into her jacket and when it reappeared... Great. A semiautomatic pistol. Because this whole thing wasn’t screwed-up enough.

She ground the barrel into Sweaty’s forehead.

He scrunched his eyes shut. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God...’

Logan tensed. OK, so running out there and getting between Sweaty and a bullet was a stupid thing to do, but he couldn’t sit here and watch her murder the guy.

Danielle growled it out: ‘You didn’t say the magic word.’

‘Wormwood! Wormwood! The magic word is Wormwood...’

Come on, Logan. Charge in there and save the day.

Maybe she won’t even shoot you?

Or at least, not fatally.

Maybe.

Here we go.

Deep breath.

In three. Two...

She yanked the Jag’s door open and dragged Sweaty out onto the road. Stuck the gun in her pocket.

Oh thank God for that.

Sweaty tumbled onto his back, squealing and whimpering, both hands covering his face as she searched him.

‘Where’s your phone? WHERE’S YOUR PHONE?’

She yanked it from one of his inside pockets, then shoved him over onto his front so she could check the rest of him.

Then stood.

Nodded.

And gave the car a quick search as well. Fast and efficient.

Logan tried a few more photos.

She stood over Sweaty, holding his mobile phone between two gloved fingers like a soiled nappy. ‘You can pick this up at the end of the night.’

He whimpered and curled into a ball.

‘In the car. NOW!’

Sweaty scrambled into the Jag and sat there, trembling and muddy.

‘Better.’ Danielle thumped the door shut and stepped away from the car. Then reached into her pocket and produced an envelope. Pulled a card from it and held the thing out just a tiny bit too far from the open window.

Sweaty ran a shaky hand over his dirty face. Licked his lips. Then nodded and reached for the card. Stretching for it. Podgy fingertips searching the air... almost... almost...

She let him take it. ‘Pleasure doing business with you.’

He snatched his arm in again and wound the window up. Eyes darting left and right as he reversed off the track, the scrunch of grit giving way to the squeal of tyres as he stuck his foot down and the old Jaguar roared off into the night.

Danielle waved after him, the grin obvious in her voice: ‘YOU’RE WELCOME!’

Logan cupped his hands in front of his mouth and blew a warm breath into them. Fog escaped through the gaps between his fingers as he huddled there, sitting on the forest floor, hidden from the track by a lump of broom. He clamped his knees together and leaned against a tree trunk. Wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. At least the pine needles gave a bit of insulation to his bum, everything else was half frozen.

Danielle had returned to her car, sitting in the passenger seat, still wearing her Number Six mask. Nodding away to a song belting out of the stereo: something loud with pounding drums and a bloke banging on about ‘loving this feeling’.

All right for some.

Logan’s phone buzzed and he dug it out.

TUFTY:

He poked out a reply with shivering thumbs:

SEND.

Another buzz.

Did he...?

But before he could tell Tufty what he was, the phone buzzed again.

TUFTY:

Logan peered through the bushes as a dark green Audi pulled off the road and onto the track. It wasn’t easy, holding the phone steady, but Logan took a handful of photos. Zoomed in on the car’s nose...

Sod: the Audi didn’t have any number plates.

The driver got out and stood there with her hands empty and visible. Calm, in a high-necked jumper, jeans, and trendy trainers. Dark hair tied up in a bun. All perfectly normal, except for the green snake mask that covered her whole face. And not a cheap plastic one either, it looked custom-made and expensive.

Logan took some grainy pixelated photos of it. Probably completely useless, but you never knew.

Danielle climbed out of her Clio and stalked across to Snake. Slow and menacing.

Snake didn’t move. Her accent was crisp and well spoken — one of those privately educated voices. ‘Hello, my name’s Nightshade. I’m looking for my friend, have you seen him?’

‘Arms.’ Danielle gestured with her gloves.

‘But of course.’ Snake adopted the search position, arms out, legs shoulder-width apart. ‘My phone’s in my jacket pocket — left side.’ She stood, still and quiet as Danielle searched her, didn’t complain when her phone was confiscated, didn’t so much as fidget as her car was searched.

Danielle handed her a card.

Snake nodded. ‘Thank you kindly.’ Then got in her car and drove away as if this was all perfectly normal and happened every day.

The world was full of weirdos.

Logan jammed his elbows in a little tighter, trying to hold his hands still enough to text. All ten angry-pink fingers burned and itched. Ears like someone was sandpapering them. The only plus was that his toes didn’t ache any more.

He clamped his jaws together to stop his teeth rattling.

SEND.

On the other side of the broom, Danielle was rummaging about inside a mud-spattered Toyota Hilux. No number plate on the vehicle.

Its driver stood off to the side, arms crossed, quiet and patient. About six / six-two, wearing red corduroy trousers, Cabotswood boots, a checked shirt, a green Barbour jacket, and a tiger mask. None of which photographed particularly well on Logan’s phone.

Should’ve got one with a better camera.

Might as well submit a drawing in crayon to the procurator fiscal.

His treasonous phone buzzed again.

TUFTY:

Logan’s thumbs kept hitting the wrong keys. Every shivering word had to be corrected as the Hilux’s big diesel engine rumbled into life then faded away into the distance.

Sod.

He went perfectly still, not shivering, not even breathing as the barrel of Danielle’s gun pressed against his cheek.

She tutted. ‘Well, well, well...’

OK. He had one chance at this. If he—

She pressed the gun in harder. ‘I really wouldn’t do that if I was you.’

Yeah, maybe not.

‘Danielle. You were a police officer, you don’t have to—’

‘Oh, but I do, Inspector McRae. I do.’ She backed away out of reach, face hidden by her Number Six mask, the semiautomatic pointing right at the middle of his chest. ‘Now toss the phone over here. Gently.’

‘They’re paedophiles, Danielle, they—’

‘Tell you what, I’ll swap you the phone for a bullet. How’s that sound?’

He tossed the phone onto the ground at her feet.

‘Good boy.’ She eased down, keeping the gun on him the whole way, and picked up his mobile. Swiped a thumb across the screen. Stared. Then obviously realised the screen wouldn’t react to leather-gloved fingers, because she stuck her left hand in up under her mask and pulled the glove off. Tried again. Nodded. ‘How nice, it’s still unlocked. Let’s make that permanent, shall we?’ She fiddled with the settings then nodded. ‘On your feet: you and I are going walkies.’

It took a lot of effort to get his aching legs and stiff back into position, but Logan struggled upright.

She jerked her gun towards the track and her car.

He limped around the clump of broom, arms up as far as they’d go — given the branches overhead. Ducked under the last of them and onto the track. Dirt and gravel crunched beneath his boots, the rain pattering against his peaked cap, stealing what little heat remained in his skin.

Logan stopped. ‘You know I’m not here on my own, don’t you, Danielle? They’ll come looking for—’

Bright white light blared out, robbing detail from the world, followed by a rushing, crashing noise. Then burning daggers slashed across the back of his head as the light faded and everything went...

Down like a bag of tatties.

Danielle stood over him for a moment. Never coldcocked someone with a gun before. Certainly seemed to work, though. As long as it hadn’t damaged the gun, of course.

She pulled on her other glove, then hunkered down next to him and went through his pockets: keys; some change; a hanky; a wallet containing a photo of a big fluffy cat, a photo of a pretty woman with bright-red hair and tattoos, twenty quid in cash, a debit card, a bunch of receipts, and some business cards; a hanky; a police-issue notebook — he could whistle for that; and an Airwave handset. He could whistle for that too. Everything else got stuffed into one of his fleece’s pockets.

Probably better get a shift on now, in case he woke up. She popped open the Clio’s boot and levered the bass board out of the way — thing weighed a ton. Then pulled out her abduction kit: a packet of thick black cable ties, a roll of bin bags, and one of duct tape. A lot of people would be surprised how often something like that came in handy.

Now: first things first.

She shoved McRae over, so he was lying face down, pulled his wrists behind his back and zipped a cable tie around them. Then did the same with his ankles. Rolled him onto his side, balled up his hanky and stuffed it into his mouth. Stuck a big strip of duct tape across his face to keep it in there. It took a couple of minutes, lining the boot with the bin bags, but it was worth it. Who wanted DNA and bloodstains all over their nice new car?

Danielle dug two hands in under McRae’s armpits and dragged him around to the Clio’s boot. Heavier than he looked. She wrestled him inside, made sure all his limbs were secured, then sealed him in with the hefty pine bass board. Lovingly handcrafted for maximum solidity.

‘Sweet dreams.’ She scooped his peaked cap up off the ground and chucked it in with him, clunked the tailgate shut, and climbed in behind the wheel. Dumped the Airwave on the passenger seat, removed her gloves, took out his phone and checked the recent text messages.

Hmm... About a dozen outbound texts and the same number of replies from that idiot sidekick of his, all about hiding in the bushes like a pervert watching her. No point deleting them — they’d be on the sidekick’s phone anyway, and more people got caught trying to cover something up than actually doing what they’d done — but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make this work for her. She killed the Clio’s engine, made sure all the lights were off. Well, except for the smartphone’s screen.

Let’s see...

She deleted the ‘Don’t be an idiot: she’s got a gun!’ text and thumbed out a reply of her own:

SEND.

And five, four, three, two...

The phone buzzed in her hand.

TUFTY:

Oh no you don’t.

SEND.

Shouldn’t be long now.

Danielle fastened her seatbelt.

Come on ‘TUFTY’ — which was a stupid nickname, by the way — soon as you like...

Ha! A manky old Vauxhall raced past the end of the track, heading east.

‘One elephant. Two elephant. Three elephant.’ She turned the engine on and crept back onto the road — look left, look right. Not a single police officer to be seen, so she turned west, clicked her headlights on, set Jimmy Page’s solo belting out of the stereo again.

After a mile, she picked the Airwave handset off the passenger seat. The Airwave with its built-in GPS and panic buttons and here-comes-the-cavalry. No thanks.

Danielle pulled into the next passing place. The ground dropped away on the left: trees and bushes clinging to the side of the hill. Good enough. She buzzed down her window, stuck her arm out, and lobbed the Airwave over the roof of the car. It sailed off into the darkness and vanished.

Even if they activated the thing’s GPS and sent out a search team it’d take them forever to find it. And by the time they did, she would be long gone.

She buzzed her window up again and drove off into the night.

Now, the big question was: what to do with Inspector McRae?

42

A single standing stone flares in her headlights — pink and notched, its surface covered in intricate swirls and knotwork — and Sally’s phone dings at her, the red circle at the end of the line flashing. This must be it.

Please still be here. Please still be here. Please...

There’s a small parking area not far from the stone, at the side of the road, with spaces for about eight vehicles, separated by fading white lines. But there’s only one car there: a single black hatchback, no number plate, engine idling. The glowing red tip of a cigarette flares to a hot orange, then fades to red again.

Sally parks two spaces away. Pulls her sunglasses on and her hoodie up, the curly ends of her wig sticking out. She takes a deep breath and climbs into the rain. Hurries over. Stands there, cold water seeping into her hoodie as the wind whips away her fogging breath. Shifts from one foot to the other.

The cigarette flares orange again.

She knocks on the passenger window. ‘Hello?’

It buzzes down, a curl of smoke escaping into the night. ‘What?’

Please...

Sally bends forward, resting her arms on the sill. ‘Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I was sent a text...’

The man in the driver’s seat is big as a nightclub bouncer, dressed all in black. For a moment it looks as if he hasn’t got a face, but he’s wearing a mask. It’s barely visible in the dull glow of the hatchback’s instrument panel: a dull-blue featureless slab, marked with a large number four. Eyes nothing but two thin slits. His huge hands covered in red leather gloves.

They match the accents on the car’s upholstery.

He places his cigarette in the ashtray and gets out of the hatchback.

Sally’s bladder clenches: he’s even bigger than he looked, cricking his neck from side to side, rolling his shoulders as he limps over and looms above her.

She shrinks against the Shogun. Everything about him radiates violence.

She clenches her hands into fists. Not to fight him — he’d kill her — but to keep them from shaking. ‘I was sent a text? They said to come here and...’

Four clenches a huge red fist of his own, snapping it up, ready to—

‘Foxglove! The password’s Foxglove!’

He nods, then beckons her forward with a finger. And when she steps towards him he slams her back against her car, hard enough to make her teeth rattle against each other. Bellowing in her face. ‘YOU’RE LATE!’

‘It was flooded outside Meikle Wartle! I had to—’

‘And where’s your mask?’

‘I didn’t—’

He grabs her hoodie, pulls her forward, and shoves her against the Shogun again.

‘Please, I didn’t—’

‘Bloody amateurs.’ Four slams a red glove down on her shoulder and spins her around, so she’s facing the car, then thumps her into it again.

Pain cracks across her ribs. ‘Aaargh!’

‘Shut it!’ He forces her legs apart with his foot, then goes through her pockets, hard and fast. Hauls her phone out of her jacket and spins her around again. ‘What’s this? You going to film us? That it? You going to call the cops? You got GPS on it?’

The tears roll down Sally’s cheeks, cold as the rain. ‘I don’t... I didn’t... Please, I don’t know what to do!’

He pockets her phone then points at the far edge of the car park, where a tarmac path leads up to the stone. ‘You stand there and you keep your pervert mouth shut.’

So she does, standing huddled into herself, arms wrapped around her aching chest, shivering in the rain as he searches her car with the kind of efficiency you’d expect of a policeman or someone from the armed forces. Even checking under the floor mats and seats.

Four pulls out the red rucksack and rummages through it.

Sally’s breath catches in her throat, but he doesn’t take anything. He nods and dumps it in the passenger footwell again. Then turns and beckons her over.

He reaches into his pocket and produces an envelope. Throws it at her with a flick of the wrist, like he doesn’t want to risk touching her again. In case he catches something. ‘Address is in there. And you’d better get your skates on — the Auctioneer isn’t as forgiving as I am when paedos are late.’

She nods. Scoops down and picks up the envelope — already starting to grey as the rain soaks into it.

Four lunges forward a step. ‘Well don’t just stand there, you snivelly bitch, MOVE!’

And Sally does, scrambling into her Shogun, jamming it into reverse, roaring out of the parking space then off into the rainy night.

The air catches in her throat, short, panting, rasping.

Sally pulls in to the side of the road and sits there with her head on the steering wheel, throat dry, everything shaking, heart like an angry man hammering on a locked door.

Breathe.

Come on: for Aiden.

She sits up and takes the damp envelope from her pocket. Sticks on the interior light. Opens the thing with trembling fingers and slips the card inside free. The words ‘BOODIEHILL FARM’ stretch across the top in big inkjet-printed letters — the text beginning to spider where the damp has got to it. And underneath that: a map and directions.

Sally nods, takes a deep shuddery breath, props the card up behind the steering wheel and pulls out onto the road again.

A sign looms out of the darkness as Sally slows for the junction: ‘BOODIEHILL FARM ~ AGRICULTURAL PROPERTY FOR SALE’. The wood it’s painted on is bloated and swollen, streaks of green and black staining the white surface like it’s been there for a long, long time.

The track beside it stretches away into the darkness, towards a cluster of large agricultural buildings, a faint glimmer of lights twinkling between them.

This is it...

She turns onto the track, accelerating. Can’t afford to be any later than she already is. But she’s barely gone a hundred yards before someone flashes their headlights at her.

Sally slows.

A hatchback sits in the entrance to a field — dark blue, with no number plates, windscreen wipers sweeping from side-to-side in the rain.

She stops in front of it, palms damp against the steering wheel, trying to calm her breathing as a large man, dressed all in black, climbs out of the hatchback and marches over. Not quite as big as Four was, but every bit as menacing in his dull-blue mask. Only this one has the number three on it.

Sally pulls on her sunglasses again, flips up her hood, and buzzes her window down.

He stoops and stares inside. ‘You looking for someone?’

‘I... Foxglove. Foxglove.’

He holds out his hand. ‘You want to make a deposit.’ Not a question, a statement.

Which makes no sense at all — she’s already given Becky to the man with the gun. ‘A deposit?’

Three shakes his head. ‘You don’t bid cash, you make a deposit and bid on account. You get back anything you don’t spend at the end, less a handling fee. Now: do you want to make a deposit?’

‘Yes! Yes, I want to make a deposit.’ She leans over, grabs the rucksack from the passenger footwell and holds it out to him. It doesn’t weigh as much as it should, given what’s in it. ‘Sixty-five thousand pounds in twenties. They’re nonconsecutive. I took them out over the course of about...’

But he’s not listening, he’s carrying the rucksack around to the hatchback’s boot. A clunk, and the tailgate swings up, bringing on the internal light. He’s got some sort of machine on the parcel shelf and one-by-one he feeds the blocks of cash into it, making notes as he goes. Then he takes something from the boot, thumps the tailgate shut, and marches over to the Shogun again. Tosses whatever it is in through the window. ‘Put that on.’

It’s a mask — green and scaly, with sharp teeth and red eyes, a snout that has flames coming out of the nostrils, all rendered in thin plastic. Slightly better quality than the sort of thing you can buy from a petrol station at Halloween, but not much. She slips it on and tightens the elastic, so it’s secure against her wig, adjusting the mask until she can see out properly.

‘Your name is “Dragon”. You do not tell anyone your real name. You do not ask them their real names. You share no personal details at all. If you do, you will be disciplined. Do you understand?’

Her voice sounds strange in her ears, deeper, more echoey. ‘I understand.’

‘You have sixty-three thousand, three hundred and seventy-five pounds to spend on the item, or items of your choice.’

‘But I gave you—’

‘Two and a half percent handling fee.’ He turns and thumps away through the rain, shaking his head. ‘Bloody newbies.’ Climbs into his car and clunks the door shut.

She looks at Dragon’s face in the rear-view mirror. Then pulls up her hoodie again, leaving fake blonde curls hanging down over her chest. Nods at her reflection.

Dragon looks back at her. ‘You can do this.’

Because what other choice does she have?

Sally puts the Shogun into drive again, headlights picking out fields of stubble and dirt on either side of the track as she goes past — all the way to the end, where it opens out into a courtyard flanked by two large metal barns with a dark farmhouse lurking at the far end. The only light comes from a handful of dim yellow fittings, fixed to the barns’ corrugated walls.

About a dozen cars are parked between the two agricultural buildings, four-by-fours, hatchbacks, estates, a new-ish Audi... All of them stripped of their number plates, except for a tatty old Jaguar.

Sally parks next to the Audi. Takes a deep breath. And steps out onto the rain-slicked concrete. The smell of sour straw and animal waste taints the air.

Muffled voices ooze through the walls of the building on the right, where a sub-door lies open — inset into a much larger sliding one.

Another big figure, dressed all in black and a dull-blue mask, stands in front of it. Tall and broad with the number two slashed across her face. Her voice is every bit as hard and aggressive as the other Numbers. ‘You’re late.’

‘Sorry. It took longer than I thought because—’

‘You’re late again, you get disciplined.’ Two sticks out her hand as Sally hurries over. ‘Car keys.’

‘What?’

‘Give me your car keys!’ Jabbing her hand forward again. ‘No one leaves till everyone leaves.’

‘Oh. I see. Yes.’ Sally digs her keys out and drops them into Two’s gloved palm.

‘Now: inside.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ She swallows, straightens her shoulders, and ducks through the door.

Warm air wafts over her, bringing with it the soft vanilla scent of cattle and the pungent brown stink of dung. Inside, the cattle court is one big open-plan space with a raised walkway down the middle, each side divided into three large pens by chest-height metal barriers. All lit from above by twin rows of buzzing strip lights.

Chunks of agricultural machinery crowd the pens on the right, but the ones on the left have been cleared down to the straw-covered floor — a stack of pallets and a dozen large round bales of haylage, wrapped in pale green plastic, lined up along one wall.

The only animals in here are people.

Eleven of them, standing in a group, none of them talking to any of the others. Mostly men, going by the clothes, all wearing masks: a rat, pig, goat, tiger, horse, chicken, monkey, rabbit, dog, some sort of lizard, and a bull. The only one of them that looks as nervous as she feels is Chicken — fat and fidgety in mud-scuffed jeans and a tatty tweed jacket. He plays with the buttons on it, twisting them in his pudgy fingers.

Two Numbers stand off to the side, talking in voices too faint to make out... Sally freezes. The bigger one is Four: the thug from the standing stone. He’s talking to someone a good foot-and-a-bit shorter than him, with a number five on his mask, Shorter, maybe, but there’s something about Five that makes the pit of Sally’s stomach crawl.

She sticks to the side of the pen furthest away from them, making her way through the gap in the barriers toward the gathering of animal masks. No one says anything, or even nods a greeting, but they turn to stare at her with their immobile plastic faces and hollow eyes. Most of their masks look a lot more expensive than hers did in the mirror, all except for muddy fidgeting Chicken.

Sally joins them, making the gathering an even dozen.

Twelve little animals, all in a row...

She wraps her arms around herself, steam rising from her damp hoodie.

A warm, confident voice booms out across the cattle court. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’

Almost as one, they turn their gaze from her to the walkway. Standing up straight. Eager. Like dogs awaiting titbits from their master.

There’s a man on the walkway, dressed in a black leather jacket, black leather gloves, a grey hoodie and a featureless grey mask. No number. He’s got a roll of clear plastic sheeting tucked under one arm and when he gets halfway down the walkway he props it up against the guardrail. ‘Now that Dragon is here, we can begin.’

Everyone shuffles forward.

That voice — it’s the man from the derelict cottage. The one who took Becky. The one with the gun. The Auctioneer.

He throws his arms wide, mask tilted towards the ceiling as he bellows it out: ‘WELCOME TO THE LIVESTOCK MART!’