22 Dead Little Bodies

7

‘... OK, let me know what you come up with. And for God’s sake, someone give Guthrie a poke!’

The CID office had a full contingent of grey faces and wrinkly eyes. The four office chairs were lined up along two sides, turned towards the whiteboard for the morning briefing. Their occupants nursed tins of Irn-Bru and greasy bacon butties. Well, all except for PC Guthrie — slumped so far back in his seat that any further and he’d be on the floor. Gob open, head hanging to the side.

DS Baird leaned over and gave him a poke. ‘You’re snoring!’

Blinking, Guthrie surfaced, mouth working like a drowning fish. ‘Mwake...’

Logan folded his arms and leaned back against the filing cabinet. ‘Are we boring you, Constable?’

Wheezy Doug rolled his eyes. ‘He wasn’t even in the pub last night! No excuse.’

‘Yeah.’ DC Stone took another bite of buttie, talking with his mouth full. ‘Should change your nickname from “Sunshine” to “Lightweight”.’ A little tuft of hair clung to the tip of Stoney’s forehead, combed forward, backward, and sideways trying to hide a bald patch the size of a dinner plate. To be honest, Stoney’s head was more bald patch than hair. As if trying to draw attention away from it, a huge moustache lurked beneath his nose like a hairy troll under a bridge. ‘That right, Lightweight?’

Guthrie ran a hand over his face, scrubbing it out of shape. ‘Just knackered from shagging your mum all night.’

That got him a collective, ‘Oooh!’

Logan thumped a hand against the filing cabinet, setting it booming. ‘All right, that’s enough.’ He pointed at the yawning constable. ‘Where are we with Mrs Skinner?’

A shudder. Then Guthrie yawned. Pulled himself up in his seat. ‘Still nothing from the lookout request. And she’s not been back to the house since yesterday morning.’

‘So where is she?’

Shrug. ‘Neither set of grandparents had any idea. But, it’s Sunday, right? Maybe she’s gone to church? Or she stayed over at a friend’s house? Slumber party for the kids?’

Logan frowned out of the window. Early morning sunlight painted the side of Marischal College, making the cleaned granite glow. They’d done their best — waited for her, put out a lookout request, contacted the next of kin. Sort of. What else were they supposed to do? If Mrs Skinner didn’t want to be found, she didn’t want to be found.

Maybe she knew her husband was working up to jumping off a dirty big building and decided to get out of town before he hit?

‘Better get onto the Mire, Tayside, Highland, Fife, and Forth Valley — tell them to keep an eye out for her and the kids. Him diving off the casino roof’s going to make the news sooner or later, and...’ Logan closed his mouth.

Guthrie was shaking his head.

‘What?’

The constable stood and crossed to one of the ancient computers. ‘I wasn’t really shagging Stoney’s mum all last night, I was checking the internet.’ He thumped away at the keyboard. ‘Three people loaded the footage up onto YouTube by midnight. I reported them, but it’s already out there. See?’ The screen filled with shaky cameraphone footage, looking up from Exchequer Row. The casino was five storeys of darkened windows, separated by strips of grey cladding. A figure stood on the roof — too far away to make out any detail on his face — arms by his sides, head down.

Muffled voices crackled from the speakers, ‘Oh my God...’, ‘Look at him...’, ‘Is he going to jump?’, ‘Where? What are we looking at?’, ‘Oh my God...’, ‘Is that a knife?’, ‘Someone call the police!’, ‘Oh my God...’

The scene swirled left, capturing the crowd. Most of them had their phones out, cameras pointing up at John Skinner as he wobbled on the edge.

Bloody vultures. Whatever happened to good Samaritans?

‘There’s someone else up there!’, ‘Oh my God...’

A seasick lurch and the screen filled with the casino again as Logan inched his way out onto the ledge.

In real life, Logan pointed at the video. ‘I want this taken down.’

‘Oh my God...’ A collective gasp as the green plastic bag from Markies kamikazed down to the cobbles, a bomb of crisps and sandwiches that exploded on impact. ‘Someone has to call the police!’, ‘Oh my God...’, ‘This is so cool, it—’

Logan jabbed at the mouse and the image froze. ‘Get it deleted off the internet.’

Guthrie screwed up one side of his face. ‘It’s kinda gone viral, Guv. Copies popping up all over the place.’

‘Then get out there and find me John Skinner’s wife. Now!’

‘I see.’ Superintendent Young folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in the visitor’s chair. He’d forgone his usual Police-Scotland-ninja-outfit for a pair of blue jeans and chunky trainers. A red T-shirt with ‘SKELETON BOB IS MY COPILOT’ on it under a grey hoodie. As if he was fourteen instead of forty. Forty something. Probably nearer fifty. ‘And is Justin Robson going to pursue this?’

Logan shuffled a mess of paperwork into a stack and popped it in the out-tray. ‘You didn’t have to come in on your day off, Guv. I’m sure we can cope till Monday.’

‘It’s this, or clearing out the garage.’ A shrug. ‘Call me dedicated. So: Robson?’

‘Well, it’s civil, rather than criminal, so he’d have to take her to court. But he’s got her bang to rights for defamation. Posters up all over the area saying he’s a drug dealer? No way she’ll wriggle out of it.’

‘Hmm...’ Young stuck his legs out and crossed his ankles, head back, looking up at the stained ceiling. ‘On the one hand, if he does sue her it’ll serve her right. Maybe make her rethink her obsession. On the other hand, it could tip her off the deep end.’

‘Either way she’s going to end up a bigger pain in our backsides.’

‘True.’ A shrug. ‘Anything else you need my help with? This suicide victim’s missing wife thing?’

Logan bared his teeth. ‘Thanks, Guv, but I think you’ve helped enough.’

‘Ah well, if you’re sure.’ Young stood. Stretched. Slumped. ‘Suppose I’d better go clear out the garage. No rest for the saintly.’ He paused, with one hand on the door. ‘I hear you had a run in with Gordy Taylor yesterday?’

‘Wants to drop the charges in exchange for two litres of whisky.’

‘And so we support those brave souls who fight in our name...’ A sigh. ‘Right. Well, drop me a text or something.’ Another pause. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else?’

Logan did his best to smile. ‘Not unless you want to buy a one-bedroom flat?’

Logan licked his top lip. Stared down at his mobile phone. Couldn’t put it off any longer. Well, he could, but it probably wasn’t a great idea. He dug his thumbs into the back panel and slid the cover off. Prised out the battery and replaced the SIM card with a cheapy pay-as-you-go from the supermarket checkout loaded up with a whole fiver’s worth of calls. Clicked everything back into place.

‘Guv?’

When he looked up, Wheezy Doug was standing in the doorway, clutching a manila folder to his chest.

‘Is it quick?’

A nod. Then a cough. Then a gargly clearing of the throat. ‘Got the lookout request extended across all of Police Scotland. And the Media Office want clearance on a press release and poster.’ He dug into the folder and came out with two sheets of paper. ‘You want to OK them?’

Logan gave them a quick once-over, then handed both back. ‘If they can figure out how to spell “Saturday” properly, tell them to run it.’

‘Guv.’ He put the sheets away. ‘You hear they turfed Gordy Taylor out of hospital last night? Shouting and swearing and making an arse of himself.’

What a shock. ‘Nothing broken when he got himself run over, then?’

‘Nah. Lurched out the door and found himself some more booze. Uniform got a dozen complaints from Harlaw Road about him staggering about, knocking over bins and doing pretty much the same thing he’d been doing up at the hospital.’ Wheezy sooked on his teeth for a bit. Then shook his head. ‘I knew his dad. Decent enough bloke. Bit racist, with a drink in him, but other than that...’

‘OK. Let me know if anyone spots Mrs Skinner.’

‘Guv.’

Soon as Wheezy was gone, Logan grabbed his phone and headed out.

Sunlight sparkled back from the white granity mass of Marischal College, caught the wheeling seagulls and set them glowing against the blue sky. A taxi grumbled by, followed by a fat man on a bicycle wearing nowhere near enough Lycra to keep everything under control.

Logan nipped across the road, past the council headquarters and along Broad Street. Kept going onto the Gallowgate. Nice and casual. Up the hill, and right into the council car park in front of the squat DVLA building.

Nice and out of the way.

He pulled out his phone and dialled Wee Hamish’s number. Listened to it ring.

And ring.

And ring.

That brittle, gravelly voice: ‘Hello?’

‘Hamish. It’s Logan McRae.’

‘Ah, Logan. Yes. Good. How are you? How’s that young lady of yours?’

‘Still in a coma.’ Strange how it didn’t hurt to say that any more. Perhaps four years was long enough for it to scab over? ‘What can I do for you, Hamish?’

‘Is she getting all the help she needs, do you think?’

Logan wandered across the car park. ‘The doctors and nurses are very good.’

‘Oh I’ve got nothing but admiration for the NHS, believe me. They were very kind to my Juliette those last few months. But... Maybe a private hospital would provide a more individual service? Where there’s not so much pressure to meet performance targets.’

A path ran along the back of the car park, bordered by a wall. Logan leaned on it, looking down the hill to the dual carriageway and the big Morrisons. ‘We got knocked back from Sunny Glen. No places.’ A small laugh clawed its way out of his throat. ‘Not that we can afford it. Anyway, it’s too far away. I couldn’t get all the way up to Banff to visit her every day. What’s the point of that?’

‘Hmm... I hear you’re still trying to sell the flat. Any luck?’

‘Hamish, you said you wanted to talk about Reuben.’

‘Are you in financial difficulties, Logan, because if you are I’d be more than happy to lend—’

‘No. I’m fine. I just... felt like selling the flat, that’s all.’

‘I thought you loved it there. Nice central location. And it’s very convenient for work.’

‘It’s got memories I don’t need.’ Down below, an ambulance skirled its way along the dual carriageway, all lights blazing. ‘Time for a change.’

‘I understand.’ There was a small pause, filled with a hissing noise, as if Wee Hamish was taking a hit from an aqualung. ‘Would you like me to put in a word for you? There are a couple of neurology specialists I know who could help you find a place. Somewhere Samantha can get the individual attention she deserves. Let me see what I can do.’

Logan tightened his grip on the phone. Puffed out a breath. ‘What about you? How are you feeling?’

‘I’ve been thinking about us a lot recently. You, me, and Reuben. When I’m gone, he’ll come after you. You’re too big a threat for him to ignore.’

‘I’m not a threat! I keep telling—’

‘It doesn’t matter if you turn down the mantle or not, Logan. To Reuben you’ll always be a threat.’ Another hisssssssss. ‘Would you like me to kill him for you?’

All the moisture evaporated from Logan’s mouth. ‘What?’

‘It would pain me, of course — he’s been my right-hand man for a long, long time — but sometimes you have to sacrifice a rook to keep the game going.’

‘Now, hold on—’

‘Oh, it won’t be until I’m gone. The least I can do is let him come to the funeral. But after that. Before he’s had time to move against you...’

Logan turned away from the road. Squinted up at the DVLA’s windows. No one looked back at him. Thank God. ‘Hamish, I’m a police officer: I can’t be part of a plot to murder someone! Not even Reuben.’

‘Are you sure? He’s more dangerous than you think.’ This time, the hiss-filled pause stretched out into silence. Then: ‘Well, perhaps that would be best. After all, if you’re taking over the company, the staff will respect you more if you get rid of him yourself.’

‘That’s not what I meant! It—’

‘Don’t leave it too long, Logan. When I die, the clock starts ticking.’

‘You OK, Guv?’ Guthrie lowered his pale eyebrows, making little wrinkles between them.

Logan sank into one of the CID office chairs. ‘I nearly fell off a roof yesterday, my suit smells of drunk tramp, I’m dealing with a tree festooned with dog turds, I can’t sell my flat, and I had an early-morning run-in with Professional Standards. I’ve had better days.’

A smile. ‘Then I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up.’

‘Is it midget porn again? Because I’ve told you about that already.’

‘Nope.’ He held up his notebook. ‘One dark-green Honda Jazz, parked on Newburgh Road, Bridge of Don. It’s Emma Skinner’s.’

Logan stood. ‘Well, what are you sitting there for? Get a pool car!’

Newburgh Road was a twisting warren of identikit houses, buried away amongst all the other identikit housing developments on this side of the river. Some residents had added porches, or garages, but the same bland boxy stereotype shone through regardless.

Guthrie pointed through the windscreen at the blocky back end of a dark-green hatchback. ‘Patrol car was out cruising for a pervert — been stealing knickers off washing lines — when the Honda pinged up on the ANPR.’

They parked behind it.

Logan climbed out into the sun and did a slow three-sixty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just more beige architecture, the harling greyed by weather. ‘Any idea which house?’

Guthrie locked up. ‘Thought we’d door-to-door it. Can’t be that far, can it?’

‘Pffff...’ Logan leaned back against a low garden wall and wiped a hand across his forehead. It came away damp. ‘You sure that’s her car?’

Guthrie took out his notebook and checked again. ‘Number plate matches.’

‘Then where the sodding hell is she?’

‘Well, maybe—’

‘Forty minutes! Wandering round like a pair of idiots, knocking on doors.’ The scent of charring meat oozed out from a garden somewhere near, making his stomach growl. ‘Starving now.’

Guthrie gave a big theatrical shrug. ‘I don’t get it. It’s not like it’d be hard to find a parking space here, is it? You’d dump your car right outside the person you’re visiting, right?’

‘Unless you weren’t supposed to be here. Didn’t want people to see your car...’ Logan pushed off the wall. ‘We keep looking.’

‘OK, thanks anyway.’

As soon as the auld mannie in the faded ‘BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR’ T-shirt had closed the door, Logan stepped into the shade of a box hedge.

He ran a hand across the nape of his neck and wiped it dry on his trousers. Checked his watch. That was an hour they’d been at it now. Slogging their way along the road in the baking sun. Knocking on doors. Asking questions. Showing people the photo of Emma Skinner that Guthrie had found on Facebook. A selfie of Emma and her two kids, grinning away like lunatics, the background blocked out by the three of them. She had her blonde hair pulled back from her face, a half-inch of brown roots showing. A silver ring in her left nostril. An easy smile. Two small children with chocolate smudges covering half of their faces.

Logan loosened his tie.

A whole hour of shoving the photo under people’s noses.

And still nothing.

Maybe she hadn’t been visiting someone here after all? Maybe this was simply a convenient place to dump the car? Somewhere to keep it hidden.

Why? Why would she want to hide?

‘Guv?’ One house over, Guthrie was backing away from the door — a hand scrabbling at the Airwave clipped to his stabproof vest. ‘Guv!’

Logan hopped the low garden wall and hurried across a manicured lawn ringed with nasturtiums. ‘Someone spotted her?’

Guthrie stopped in the middle of the path and pointed at the house. ‘In there...’

OK.

He walked over to the front window. It was too bright outside, and too dark inside to see anything other than the reflected street scene. Logan cupped his hands either side of his eyes and pressed his forehead against the glass.

A high-heeled shoe lay in front of a glass-topped coffee table. On its side. The foot it belonged to poked out from behind the couch. Skin pale, a thick line of purple running horizontal with the ground where the blood had settled. More blood on the oatmeal-coloured carpet. Little dots and splashes. Dozens of them. More streaking up the walls, making scarlet spatters across a print of the New York skyline.

Definitely dead.

8

‘Got you ham-cheese-and-mustard, and a tin of Lilt.’ Guthrie held out a Tesco carrier bag.

Sitting back against the pool car, Logan dipped into the bag. ‘Crisps?’

‘Cheese-and-onion.’

Better than nothing. ‘Thanks.’

A cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape cut across Newburgh Road, keeping the scene secure — enclosing the house, a patrol car, and the Scenes Examination Branch’s dirty transit van. At least someone’d had the brains to scrub a hand through the filthier bits of finger graffiti.

Guthrie got stuck into an egg-and-cress, making mayonnaise smears either side of his mouth. ‘Starving...’

Logan clicked the ring-pull off his fizzy juice, and chased down a mouthful of sandwich. Then wiggled the can towards the house. ‘Looks like we’re on.’

A pair of figures stepped out of the front door, both done up in full SOC Smurf outfits — blue booties, white Tyvek suit, blue nitrile gloves, facemasks, and eye goggles. Smurf One was tall and lanky, Smurf Two shorter with an itchy bum. Smurf Two dug and scratched away at its backside as the pair of them made their way across to the pool car.

Logan took another bite, talking with his mouth full. ‘Well?’

DI Steel peeled her suit’s hood back, then pulled off the mask and let it dangle beneath her chin. ‘Sodding roasting...’ Her face was a florid shade of red, the skin streaked with glistening lines of sweat. She stuck out her gloved hands, groping for Logan’s Lilt. ‘Give.’ Then glugged away at it as Smurf One unfurled his suit and tied the arms around his waist.

Detective Sergeant Simon Rennie puffed out his cheeks and sagged. Wafted a hand in front of his flushed shiny face. Being inside the hood had done something terrible to his hair, leaving the blond mop sticking out at all angles, like a confused hedgehog. ‘Gah...’

Logan tried again. ‘Is it her?’

Steel gulped. Puffed out a long breath. Then burped. ‘God, that’s better.’

Rennie held out the picture Guthrie found on Facebook. ‘It’s her. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen — and I mean multiple. Has to be at least forty.’ He rubbed a forearm across his face, blotting away the sweat. ‘Don’t have another tin of juice, do you?’

Steel handed him whatever was left of Logan’s. ‘There’s a naked bloke in the bedroom too. Throat cut from ear to ear. Place looks like something out of a B-movie slasher; it’s dripping from the ceiling and everything.’

A sigh escaped from Logan’s chest. ‘Let me guess — she’s naked too.’

‘Nope: kinky bra with matching thong.’

Which explained why Emma Skinner had parked so far away. Didn’t want anyone to see her visiting her lover.

Mr Suicide’s voice trembled, not much more than a broken whisper. ‘How could she do that?’ It explained that as well.

The lover had to die, but the wife had to be punished.

‘We’ve had the murder weapon since yesterday.’ Logan pointed towards the house. ‘Anyone want to bet you’ll find John Skinner’s fingerprints all over the place? He follows her here, he catches her in the act, slits the lover’s throat, then goes berserk with the knife. Can’t live with what he’s done, so he chucks himself off the casino roof, still clutching the knife.’

‘Aye, well done Jonathan Creek.’ Steel snatched the Lilt back from Rennie and tipped her head back. Frowned. Shook the can a couple of times. ‘You greedy little sod!’

‘You didn’t say I couldn’t finish it.’

‘You don’t glug back the last of someone else’s drink. Everyone knows that.’ She unzipped her SOC suit. ‘Idiot.’ Then snapped off her gloves. ‘Got sweat trickling right down the crack of my—’

‘What about the kids?’ Logan nodded towards the picture in Rennie’s hand. Those two chocolatey faces. ‘Mrs Skinner takes them to their school clubs, Saturday morning, drives over here to see her lover. Her husband follows her and kills the pair of them, then drives back into town and jumps off the casino roof. Where are the kids?’

Steel closed her eyes. ‘Crap.’ She massaged her forehead for a moment. Then straightened up. ‘Right, finding the kids is now everyone’s number one priority. I want lookout requests, I want posters, I want media appeals...’ She frowned. ‘What?’

Logan popped his half-eaten sandwich back in the packet. ‘Already done it. Media office are holding off till you’ve delivered the death message, but other than that they’re ready to go.’

‘Oh.’ A sniff. ‘In that case: Laz, you get started on the paperwork, and I’ll—’

‘Oh no you don’t.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘You took the case over, remember? Turned up here all lights blazing and said it was too complicated for us thickies in CID — this was a job for the Major Investigation Team. Remember that?’

She shuffled her feet. Looked off into the distance. ‘Yeah, well, I may have been a bit overenthusiastic with—’

‘Do your own sodding paperwork.’

‘You’re no’ still sulking, are you?’ Steel leaned against Logan’s office doorway, arms folded, a ‘WORLD’S GREATEST LESBIAN’ mug dangling from the fingers of one hand.

He turned back to the duty roster, typing in the team’s work plan for the next shift. ‘Away and boil your head.’

‘You’re going to have to learn to share, Laz.’

‘Share?’ He thumped away at the keyboard, making it suffer. ‘You turn up, you tell us we’re crap, then you take the case away — even though we’ve already solved it — and grab all the sodding credit.’

A sniff. ‘Yeah, but I had to do all the paperwork.’

He stared at her. ‘Did you really? Or did you get Rennie to do it?’

A little blush coloured her cheeks. ‘I supervised.’

Back to the roster. ‘Feel free to sod off any time you like.’

She did. But she was back three minutes later with a steaming mug in each hand, a packet of biscuits tucked under her arm, and a Jaffa Cake poking out of her mouth. ‘Mmmnnphh, gnnnph, mmmmnph?’

One of the mugs got placed on the desk in front of him. Then the biscuits.

He scowled at them. ‘What’s this?’

‘Peace offering.’ She sank into one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘Between friends.’

‘What are you after?’

‘Me? Nothing.’ A shrug and a smile. ‘Can’t two old friends share a cuppa and a digestive biscuit or two?’

He picked up the mug and sniffed. It smelled like tea, but it looked like coffee. ‘What happened to the Jaffa Cakes?’

‘Yeah, they’re all gone.’ She plonked her feet up on his desk. ‘So, double murder solved in an hour and a half. Not bad going.’

‘Are you seriously sitting there gloating about solving a case that I solved for you?’

‘Moan, bitch, whinge.’ She crunched a bite out of her digestive, getting crumbs all down the front of her shirt. ‘You’re such a princess.’

‘I am not a sodding princess.’

‘Whatever you say, Your Majesty.’ More crumbs. Steel stared out of the window, then her shoulders dropped a little. ‘Still no sign of the kids.’

‘Early days yet.’

‘Got a press conference at half six, going out live on the news. No’ exactly looking forward to that. Come Monday morning, going to be like a siege out there.’ She took a slurp of tea. Finished her biscuit. Offered him the packet. ‘So... You busy Tuesday night?’

‘Here we go.’

‘Only it’s Susan and me’s anniversary, and if you’re no’ too busy sitting at home like a sad sack, you could look after Jasmine for the night. Be nice for you to spend a bit more time with your daughter.’

Logan saved the file, then closed down the computer. ‘How come you only think I need to spend more time with Jasmine when you need a free babysitter?’

‘Think of it — I’m going to wheech Susan off to a swanky hotel, get room service to deliver champagne and strawberries, put a bit of porn on the telly, then shag her brains out.’ Steel flicked biscuit crumbs out of her own cleavage. ‘Very romantic.’

‘I’m busy Tuesday.’

‘No you’re no’.’

‘Yes I am.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I’ve got... a viewing. Someone’s coming round to look at the flat.’

‘No they’re no’. You’re going to be sitting at home, watching The Little Mermaid, in your pants, with your cat. Nipping off for a touch of onanism when singing along to “Part of Your World” gets you a bit horny.’

A knock on the door and Wheezy Doug stuck his head in.

Oh thank God.

‘Guv? It’s Mrs Black — just called nine-nine-nine.’

Maybe not. Logan folded forwards until his forehead rested on the keyboard. ‘It’s home time.’

‘Yeah, but she says her neighbour’s trying to kill her with a cleaver.’

The siren shredded the early evening air as their pool car slewed around onto Pitmedden Court.

Steel latched onto the grab handle above the passenger door as the front wheels hit a speed bump, wheeching them into the air like something off the Streets of San Francisco. ‘Yeeeeeeee-ha!’

The car slammed down onto the tarmac again, with a grinding groan.

Sitting in the back, Logan reached out and slapped Wheezy Doug over the back of the head. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘Sorry, Guv, urgent threat to life and that.’ He kept his foot down.

Mrs Black’s thick leylandii hedge appeared in the middle distance, rushing up to meet them as Wheezy screeched the car to a halt, nose in to the kerb. He grabbed a high-viz waistcoat and jumped out, struggling into the thing as he ran across the pavement.

Logan scrambled after him, charging up the path to Mrs Black’s house as Wheezy slid the front down on his body-worn video, setting it recording.

BANG — Justin Robson battered his bare foot into his neighbour’s front door. ‘YOU BITCH! YOU BLOODY VINDICTIVE BLOODY BITCH!’ His Bagpuss sweat pants billowed as he drew back for another kick, camouflage T-shirt stained beneath the armpits. The same dirty big kitchen knife as last time, clutched in one hand. ‘COME OUT HERE!’

Logan stopped, a good six foot shy of the huge blade. ‘Mr Robson? I need you to calm down for me.’

BANG. Another kick. ‘I’LL BLOODY KILL YOU!’

Wheezy dragged out a canister of CS gas. Held the other hand out in front of him, palm out. ‘Mr Robson, it’s the police. Drop the knife. Now.’

Robson turned. Chest heaving. Mouth a wet wobbly line. Glasses steamed up. ‘Did you see what that BITCH did to my car? Did you?’ Back to the house. ‘YOU RANCID, VINDICTIVE, BLOODY BITCH!’

Wheezy raised the canister. ‘Ever been gassed, Mr Robson? It’s not nice. And you’re going to find out what it feels like if you don’t drop the bloody knife!’

He looked down at the cleaver, as if seeing it for the first time. Then let go. Backed up a pace, hands up as it clattered on the paving slabs. Cleared his throat. ‘OK, OK, there’s no need for that. This is all a big misunder — ulk!’

Wheezy grabbed him by the camouflage and spun him into the closed front door. Shoved his head against the UPVC. Stuffed the canister of CS gas back where it came from as he whipped out the cuffs. Snapped them on Robson’s wrists. Dragged him away down the path.

‘Get off me!’ Robson shook his head left and right, like a dog with a rat. ‘It’s her you should be arresting, not me. Look what she did to my car!’

Logan pulled a blue nitrile glove from his pocket and snapped it on. Bent and picked up the fallen knife. Carried it out to the kerb.

‘Look at my car...’

Justin Robson’s white BMW wasn’t so white any more. What looked like gloss paint Jackson Pollocked across the roof, windscreen, and bonnet in bright splatters of pink and yellow and blue, running in rainbow tears down the wings. The words ‘Drug Dealer!!!’ were scratched into the bodywork, over and over again, gouged deep enough to crease the raw metal underneath.

‘Look at it...’

The sound of someone sooking on a tube appeared at Logan’s shoulder, followed by a puff of vapour. Steel did a slow circuit of the vandalized BMW. ‘No’ the colour I would’ve chosen, but it makes a statement.’

Logan took the knife around to the pool car’s boot, unzipped the holdall in there and pulled out a knife tube. He slipped the cleaver inside the clear plastic tube and sealed it. Marched back to where Wheezy held the sagging man. ‘Right, Justin Robson, I’m arresting you for breach of the peace, possession of a deadly weapon, attempted breaking and entering, attempted—’

‘We get it.’ Steel worked her e-cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other. Nodded at Robson. ‘You: Bagpuss. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee here tell me you’re on a feud with her next door.’

‘She’s insane.’

‘Don’t care.’ A yellowed finger pointed in Logan’s direction. ‘Tweedle Dee — get this wifie...?’

He stared back at her. ‘Marion Black.’

‘Don’t care. You get Wifie Black out here and we’ll see if Saint Roberta of Steel can’t pour some baby oil on these troubled waters. Amen, and all that.’

He didn’t even try to suppress the groan. ‘Seriously?’

‘Finger out, Laz, got bigger fish to fry than this pair of idiots.’ She checked her watch. ‘Got to be on telly in an hour. Chop, chop.’

Fine. Wasn’t as if they didn’t have to take Mrs Black’s statement anyway.

He turned and marched back up the path. Gave the front door the policeman’s knock — three, loud and hard. ‘Mrs Black?’

A thin voice came from the other side of the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s the police.’ As if the pool car sitting out front with its blue lights flashing wasn’t enough of a clue. ‘I need you to open up.’

‘Not if he’s still out there. Is he still out there?’

‘Mr Robson is in custody at the moment, so if...’

The door sprang open. Mrs Black stood on the threshold in her dressing gown and jammies, even though it couldn’t have been much more than twenty past five. She had a fire iron in both hands, clutched against her chest. ‘He’s a menace. I told you he was dangerous!’ She grinned up at Logan. The whites were visible all the way around her bulging eyes. ‘I told you, but you wouldn’t listen. Said there wasn’t any proof.’ The words rolled out on a cloud of second-hand alcohol. She shifted from one slippered foot to the other. ‘Is this proof enough for you? Is it?’

‘I need you to come talk to the Detective Chief Inspector.’

At that, Mrs Black pulled herself up straight, shoulders back. ‘About time I got to speak to someone in authority.’ She brushed past him, shuffling up the path.

Then froze as she reached the pavement and spotted DCI Steel. ‘Where is he then? This Detective Chief Inspector?’

Steel sniffed. Howched. And spat into the gutter. ‘Bit sexist, isn’t it?’

Yeah, this was definitely going to end well.

Robson glowered out from behind his squint glasses. ‘You vicious, scheming—’

Wheezy must have done something painful to him, because his eyes screwed shut and whatever word came next got replaced by a hiss.

A nod. Then Mrs Black’s grin darkened. ‘See? He’s dangerous. He’s a drug dealer and he tried to kill me and now you’ve got to lock him up for the rest of his perverted unnatural life, and—’

‘She planned this! Can’t you see she planned it? It’s all a set-up—’

‘—prison and that’s where you belong you—’

‘—vandalized my car! She knew I loved—’

A harsh, shrill whistle ripped the air and everyone went quiet.

A handful of neighbours had drifted into their front gardens. Suddenly consumed by an overpowering need to trim their hedges, or prune a rose bush. All of them frozen by the whistle.

Steel took two fingers from her mouth and wiped them on her rumpled suit jacket. ‘Better.’ She turned a shark smile on Mrs Black. ‘Did you, or did you no’, trash this man’s car?’

The nose came up. ‘I did nothing of the sort.’

‘So, when I get my two colleagues here to search your property, they’re no’ going to find any paint tins? White spirit? Stained clothes or shoes?’

Mrs Black’s mouth pursed at that last one. She looked out across the gardens. ‘He tried to kill me.’

‘Thought so: they never get rid of the shoes.’ Steel turned the smile on Robson. ‘And did you, Justin Robson, attempt to stab Mrs Black to death?’

Pink rushed up his cheeks. He stared down at his bare feet. ‘She trashed my car, I was... only trying to... Was carving the Sunday roast when I saw what she did.’ A shrug. ‘Forgot I was holding the knife...’

‘And does anyone here present have any just reason why I shouldn’t throw the book at you pair of silly sods and let the courts decide?’ Steel made a gun out of her fingers and shot Mrs Black in the face. ‘Criminal damage.’ Then did the same to Robson. ‘Aggravated assault. Minimum eight months apiece. That what you want?’

Neither of them said anything.

‘Because if I hear so much as a whisper that you’ve been sodding about like this again, I’m going to bury the Great Leather Shoe of God in both your arses.’

Silence.

She shot Robson again. ‘Do you understand?’

He shifted his feet. Turned his head to the side. ‘I do.’

Mrs Black got another finger bullet. ‘You?’

A pause. Then she lowered her eyes and nodded. ‘Yes. Fine. No more fighting.’

Steel raised her arms, as if delivering a benediction. ‘Then by the powers vested in me by the High Heid Yins of Police Scotland, I hereby declare this feud over.’