All That’s Dead

16

The word ‘Enter’ grudged itself out through the wood.

Logan let himself into Hardie’s office.

The room had probably been designed to give an authoritative air of efficiency and probity, with its six filing cabinets, six whiteboards covered in ongoing cases, a top-spec computer, and a portrait of the Queen, but it came off a bit... sad instead. Lacking in character. Oh, he’d added some personal touches — a couple of citations, three or four photos of Hardie with various bigwigs... But they always seemed staged and uncomfortable, as if they were trying very hard to remember his name and whether or not he owed them money.

King glanced over his shoulder from one of the visitors’ chairs, wearing that same uncomfortable look. He gave Logan a quick grimace, then faced front again. Sitting in the other chair, Jane McGrath humphed at him.

Logan nodded at the florid-faced Hardie, sat behind his desk like an angry toad. ‘You wanted to see me, Boss?’

Mr Toad glowered. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Following up some leads.’

‘How am I supposed to strategise for this sodding press conference with you off gallivanting? You’re meant to be supporting this investigation.’

Tosser.

‘That’s exactly what I am doing.’ Logan closed the door and leaned against it. ‘So go on then: “strategise”.’

Hardie pointed at Jane. ‘Well?’

She folded her arms. ‘We need to get our statement out about DI King’s involvement with his terrorist cell.’

‘It wasn’t a terrorist cell!’ King turned to face her. ‘And I wasn’t involved, I went to a couple of meetings to impress a girl. That’s all.’

‘I still can’t figure out why the Scottish Daily Post didn’t expose you yesterday... but I can assure you they’re going to do it today. We need to break this before they do. Steal their thunder.’

Logan made a rocking gesture with one hand. ‘Maybe. But I don’t think Barwell’s going to drop that bomb today.’

They all stared at him as if he’d grown horns.

Then Hardie put on a speaking-to-stupid-people voice. ‘Professor Wilson’s hands turned up in the post, Logan.’ He held his own up and wiggled the fingers. ‘His hands.’

‘Yes, but we’ve got a suspect: we’ve got CCTV footage of the man who posted the hands to the BBC. We’re making progress.’

Jane sighed. ‘That doesn’t change—’

‘If you’re Edward Barwell, when are you going to put the boot in: when the investigation’s making progress, or when it’s stalling? Because all investigations stall at some point, we all know that. It’s how things work.’

She nodded at Hardie. ‘Even more reason to get it out there now, while we’re on top of the news cycle — not being buried by it.’

‘Hmmm...’ Mr Toad steepled his fingers. ‘Detective Inspector King?’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

Logan shifted against the door. ‘We’re trying to find out who this guy is, but it wouldn’t hurt to put out his picture and an appeal for witnesses.’

‘Witnesses?’ Jane scowled at him. ‘Now you’re just changing the subject!’

‘Exactly.’

There was silence as, hopefully, they let that sink in.

Then Hardie sat back in his chair. ‘You said you were following up leads. What leads?’

‘I’ve got Tufty trying to ID whoever sent that first tweet, and Rennie and I have been looking into Councillor Matt Lansdale’s disappearance. See if it’s linked to Professor Wilson’s.’

‘And is it?’

‘No. Lansdale’s divorced, disgraced, and depressed. Chances are he’s either embezzled council cash and done a runner, or tried to end his own life. Maybe succeeded, but the body’s not turned up yet.’

‘Hmm...’ Obviously not convinced.

‘There’s no sign of a struggle at his flat — no forced entry, no blood — and if he’d been abducted, his hands would’ve turned up in the post by now, wouldn’t they? Professor Wilson’s did.’

Jane poked Hardie’s desk. ‘This doesn’t help us with the current news cycle.’

‘No, but it means we can eliminate him from our inquiries and journalists can stop asking stupid questions that make us look like idiots for not considering it.’

Silence, as Hardie swivelled in his chair. Then he nodded. ‘We keep our statement about DI King in reserve for now. But at the very first sign of things “stalling”, you tell me and we release it, understand?’ He pointed at Logan and King. ‘Understand?’

‘Totally.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Hardie checked his watch. ‘It’s three oh seven. Press briefing is at four. And if either of you even thinks about disappearing off on a sudden “urgent mission” I’ll slap a formal complaint on your record before you’re halfway out the door.’ He jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Now go. Do something useful.’

The canteen’s dishwasher chugged and churned away to itself, the only other sound coming from the vending machine as a spotty support officer got it to give up a can of Irn-Bru. Buzzzzz, clang, rattle. Tsssssst. Glug, glug, glug. Belch. Then she gave Logan and King a wave, before sloping her way out of the canteen again.

King folded over his wax-paper cup of coffee and puffed out his cheeks. ‘You would’ve thought he’d be happy, wouldn’t you? We’ve got a suspect. On camera!’

Logan shrugged. ‘That’s what happens when you climb the greasy ladder — every rung is slick with politics and blame and potential career-ending slip-ups. Not saying that’s an excuse, mind.’ He took a sip. ‘Where do you want to start?’

‘Urgh...’ King stood. ‘Suppose we should check on the idiots interviewing Professor Wilson’s colleagues.’

‘Probably.’ Logan followed him out into the stairwell. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ve already talked to our Jiffy-bag posting scumbag?’

King grunted. Shook his head. ‘When do I ever get lucky? I tell you, it’s—’ His phone launched into ‘Fairytale of New York’ and his whole body caved in on itself, as if someone had let the air out of him. Shane MacGowan’s booze-soaked voice echoed in the stairwell.

‘You going to get that?’

‘Gah...’ He yanked his phone out. ‘WHAT?... No, I don’t have to, Gwen. I don’t have to at all. You lost that privilege when—’ He turned away from Logan. ‘Over my dead body!’

The sound of feet clattered down the stairs from somewhere above.

‘No, Gwen, you listen to me for a change: I paid for that flat and you—... Oh for God’s sake.’

The feet got louder.

‘You know what? I don’t care what your friends say.’

Rennie burst around the corner, battering towards them from the floor above, clutching a file to his chest, pink cheeked, a big grin on his face, eyes wide. ‘We got him, we got him, we got him!’

Logan stared. ‘No.’

King turned. Lowered the phone. ‘Sergeant Rennie, did you just say what I think you said?’

‘We got him.’

‘YES!’ King poked at his phone’s screen, then stuffed it in his pocket. ‘Where?’

‘Ah... Not “got him”, got him, but we know who he is. A sergeant from Highland and Islands called — recognised the guy in the hoodie from that video we sent out.’

Silence.

Logan hit him. ‘Any chance you could actually tell us?’

‘Our boy’s one Haiden Lochhead, twenty-six, Aquarius.’ Rennie held up the file. ‘Form for assault, drugs, robbery, and demanding money with menaces. And he’s on the lam — ram-raided a jewellery shop in Elgin, got six years. Did a runner from the work placement programme a month ago.’ Eyebrows up. ‘And get this: his dad? World-famous, violent, independence-at-any-cost dickhead, Gareth “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead!’

King frowned. Leaned back against the wall. ‘Like father, like son.’

And finally they had somewhere to start looking.

If Haiden Lochhead’s dad was a violent Alt-Nat tosser, maybe King was right. Maybe Haiden was just carrying on the family business?

Logan pointed. ‘Rennie: get a lookout—’

‘Already got one. Kinda redundant as our Haiden’s on a recall order, but “a belt-an’-braces stop yir brikks fae fa’in doon”, as my dear old nan used to say.’

King had his phone out again. ‘What about Gaelic Gary?’

Rennie reached into his folder and produced a sheet of paper with a magician’s flourish. ‘One address. For I am a top-of-the-range sidekick, remember?’

King grabbed it. ‘Get a car, we can—’

‘No.’ Logan dug his keys from his pocket. ‘We’ll take mine it’ll be...’ The media briefing. Four o’clock. Sodding hell. ‘We can’t. Press conference is in twenty-three minutes. You heard Hardie.’

King doubled over and strangled a scream.

Couldn’t blame him.

Logan poked Rennie. ‘Get on the grapevine — I want everything you can find about Haiden Lochhead: last-known address, acquaintances, access to property, past associates, everything. Talk to whoever did him for the ram-raid, his CJ social worker, and anyone else you can think of. And do the same for his dad too.’

‘Guv.’ Rennie turned tail and scurried away up the stairs.

‘HOY! LEAVE THE FILE, YOU TWIT!’

‘Oops.’ He scurried down again. ‘Sorry.’ Handed it over. Pulled a face. Then set off on scurry number three.

Swear that lad had been dropped on his head when he was wee. Several times.

Logan opened the folder: printouts and forms with a single photo lurking behind everything else. A mugshot from Peterhead police station, going by the ID number on the magnetic board Haiden Lochhead was holding, complete with his full name and the date. Definitely the same man from the security footage.

‘Here.’ Logan handed the photo to King. ‘Think this’ll put a smile on Hardie’s face?’

‘Let’s go find out.’

The briefing room was packed, every seat in front of the dais stuffed full of journalists, the back of the room a dark forest of camera lenses. All of them staring at Hardie as he did his little turn. Which, thankfully, meant they weren’t all looking at Logan, or King, or even Jane McGrath with her perfect makeup, hair, and suit. Her professional smile was a bit pained, though.

Someone had set up a projection screen behind the podium, showing off the Police Scotland logo as Hardie soldiered on. ‘... confirm that the human body parts delivered to the BBC Scotland offices this morning do belong to Professor Wilson.’

The hungry hordes shifted in their plastic chairs, licking their lips. Getting ready for the feeding frenzy. No wonder they called it a ‘press pack’, they looked desperate to separate someone off from the herd and tear them apart.

And knowing Logan’s luck, it wouldn’t be Detective Chief Inspector Hardie.

Look at him, sweating away up there on his hind legs, regurgitating the same bland nonsense they vomited out at every press conference: ‘We are appealing for anyone who may have seen this individual to come forward.’

That mugshot of Haiden Lochhead, from Peterhead station, appeared on the screen behind him, but cropped so you couldn’t see the board with his name on it.

The pack breathed in, tasting the air.

‘If you do see him, do not approach him. Call nine-nine-nine.’ Then Hardie nodded and sank back into his seat.

Jane stood. ‘Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector.’ She looked out at the salivating animals. ‘Any questions?’ A flurry of hands shot up and Jane pointed at one of them. ‘Yes: Anne.’

A young woman with curly blonde hair lowered her hand. ‘Anne Darlington, BBC. Do you have a name for the individual you want to talk to?

‘We do, but we’re not releasing it at this time. Donny?’

Donny looked as if he’d dressed in the dark, forgotten to shave, and might have died sometime in the last thirty-six hours. ‘Donald Renlinson, Scottish Independent Tribune. DCI Hardie, is it true that Professor Wilson’s disappearance is linked to that of sext-scandal councillor, Matt Lansdale?’

Hardie pulled up his chin. ‘Our officers have looked into this and we can confirm that there’s no connection between the two men. We are, however, concerned for Councillor Lansdale’s safety and urge him to get in touch.’

And then Edward Barwell raised his hand, a smug smile on his smug face. It went with his smug haircut and Rupert Bear waistcoat. Everyone on the dais stared at him.

Jane cleared her throat and moved her finger somewhere less dangerous. ‘Yes: Muriel.’

If being passed over bothered Barwell, he didn’t show it. If anything, his smile got smugger.

Yeah, that wasn’t a good sign.

‘Muriel Kirk, BBC Radio Scotland.’ She’d swapped her joggy bottoms and ‘I RAN THE MELDRUM MARATHON!’ T-shirt for a sober suit. ‘There was a note with the hands, “The Devil makes work”. Have you identified why the killer included it? What was the significance of sending Professor Wilson’s hands to me at the studio?’ Milking it.

King took that one: ‘We think it was to gain as much media attention as possible. So I think it’s safe to say that you’ve helped him achieve his goal.’

Muriel narrowed her eyes at that. But before she could open her mouth, Jane’s magic finger had moved on again:

‘Yes: Phil.’

‘Phil Patterson, Sky News.’ Small and hairy, like someone had shrunk a Royal Navy Action Man in the wash, only without the baggy sailor suit. ‘Can you tell us if this individual has killed before? Is he a danger to the public?’

‘We can’t comment on any previous convictions.’

Hardie nodded. ‘But I would like to repeat — if you see him, do not approach him, call nine-nine-nine.’

Barwell still had his hand up.

Jane sighed. ‘Edward?’

Here we go...

‘Edward Barwell, Scottish Daily Post.’ Dramatic pause. ‘DCI Hardie, clearly the investigation is going well. Does this mean that Detective Inspector Frank King has your complete confidence and support?’

Silence from the table. Hardie shifted in his seat.

Yeah, because that didn’t speak volumes, did it?

Barwell raised an eyebrow. ‘Detective Chief Inspector?’

Logan poked his elbow into Hardie’s side, hissing the words out the side of his mouth as quietly as possible. ‘Say something!’

Pink flushed across Hardie’s cheeks. ‘All my officers have my confidence and support, Mr Barwell. What a ridiculous question. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have an investigation to run.’ He stood, motioning for Logan and King to join him as he marched away. Throwing a ‘Thank you’ over his shoulder at the assembled journalists.

Jane clapped her hands together. ‘Thank you, everyone. See me after for photographs of the man we want to talk to.’

The squeal of seats scraping against the grey terrazzo floor filled the room as people got to their feet, conversations breaking out between the press pack, everyone staring at Logan and King and Hardie as they pushed through the door into the police-only part of the station again.

Soon as the door shut, Hardie curled his hands into fists, keeping his voice down, even though they were the only ones in the corridor. ‘Bloody hell!’

Logan leaned against the wall. ‘Not wanting to criticise, or anything, but there’s no way they’re not going read volumes into that big long pause.’

His cheeks darkened. ‘Well what was I supposed to do?’ Then Hardie stomped away a couple of paces, turned around and stomped back again. ‘That wee shite Barwell was playing me! I don’t signal my support, I’m undermining King and the investigation. I do and he can batter us about the head with it when he makes his big terrorist-cell reveal!’

King grimaced at the ceiling tiles. ‘It wasn’t a terrorist cell!’

Hardie stared at him. ‘I think you’re probably best keeping your mouth shut at this moment in time, don’t you?’ A deep breath. ‘Logan, we need to find this Haiden Lochhead and we need to find him now. I’ll free up more men. You can have an extra block of overtime, but — I — want — him — found!’ And with that, Hardie stormed off, muttering to himself.

A uniformed PC stepped out from one of the doors further down the corridor, right in front of him.

Hardie threw his arms in the air. ‘Out the bloody way!’

The PC flattened herself against the wall, forcing an ingratiating smile as Hardie stormed past and out through the doors at the far end. Soon as they’d slammed shut behind him, she turned to Logan and King, hooked a thumb at the closed door, and made a wanking gesture with her other hand.

Then her eyes went wide, presumably because she’d finally realised who Logan was, and making wanking gestures about senior officers was probably frowned upon by Professional Standards. ‘Sorry.’ She made herself scarce.

‘Arrgh...’ King covered his face with his hands. ‘Hardie’s right: it was a trap.’

Of course it was.

‘Then let’s finish this thing before he springs it.’ Logan turned and marched off in the opposite direction to Hardie. Through the double doors and into the stairwell.

King followed him. At least, he did as far as the gents’ toilet. Stopped outside with one hand on the door. ‘I’ll catch up. Nature calls.’

Nature, or the two half-bottles of vodka he bought in Westhill?

Logan shook his head and kept walking.

17

North Anderson drive crawled past the Audi’s windows. Half four and the rush hour was already in full swing. What the hell happened to people working till five o’clock? Lazy sods should still be hard at it, not clogging up the bloody road system.

Was going to take forever to get to Dyce at this rate.

King scowled out from the passenger seat, crunching his way through yet more extra-strong mints, his face a little pinker than it had been back at the station. Eyes a little pinker too. ‘And you know what makes it even worse?’

Oh God, not this again.

‘You’ve got to let it go, Frank, there’s nothing you can do about it.’

‘What makes it worse is that now, if we put out the statement, it’ll look like we’re only doing it because Edward Barwell’s got us scared.’

They crept forward another car’s length.

‘He has got us scared.’

‘That’s not the point, he’s—’ The opening bars from ‘Fairytale of New York’ burst out of King’s pocket and he bared his teeth. Let the song belt out for a bit. Then sighed and answered it. ‘Gwen.’ He screwed his face closed, one hand coming up to cover his eyes. ‘Oh you have got to be kidding me... No... No, I didn’t... Because I didn’t.’

Yeah, it wasn’t easy pretending not to listen in, because what else was Logan supposed to do — get out and walk?

Mind you, might be quicker than sitting in rush-hour sodding traffic.

Anyway, don’t look at him. Eyes on the road.

‘For God’s sake, Gwen, I’m at work!... No!...’ Getting louder. ‘You know what? I’m not the one having the bloody affair, that’s why!’ He jerked the phone from his ear and hammered his finger into the screen. Slammed the phone down on the seat between his legs. Fumed at the passenger window.

She was having an affair. Well that explained all the angry phone calls.

Logan kept his voice neutral. ‘You want to talk about it?’

Please say no. Please say no. Please say—

‘No I sodding don’t.’

Phew.

The car crawled forward another couple of lengths. Six more and they’d get their turn at the Horrible Haudagain Roundabout.

King rolled his shoulders. ‘She’s sleeping with someone at work. And not someone at her work, someone at mine. Which she takes great bloody pleasure telling me at every bloody opportunity.’

Ooh... Ouch.

‘Any normal woman would run off and be with lover boy, but apparently that’s not vicious enough for her!’ He smacked a fist down on his leg. ‘No, it’s much more fun to call me up every five minutes and jab it in my face.’

‘Do you know who she’s—’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Whoever they are, they’re welcome to her.’

Fair enough.

According to the sign out front, Ravendale Sheltered Living Facility was ‘A HOME FROM HOME, WHEN PEOPLE NEED A HELPING HAND’. With its bland grey-and-brown blockwork and patches of beige harling, it looked more like a cross between a primary school and a bus station. The car park was ‘surprisingly’ free of cars, as if the residents’ relatives didn’t actually need to visit, because, you know, it wouldn’t do to interfere...

Logan pulled into a parking space as far away from the handful of other vehicles as possible. No point risking someone scratching his Audi’s bodywork with a carelessly opened door. That was the thing about car parks — people turned into animals.

He pulled on the handbrake, killed the engine, grabbed his peaked cap and Rennie’s file, then climbed out into the roasting sunshine. Within two breaths, sweat prickled across his shoulders, the heat grabbing at his lungs.

All that time spent moaning about last winter and all the ice. Could do with some of that now. Be nice to feel a bit less like a sodding ready meal.

He closed his door as King got out.

‘You OK to do this?’

King didn’t look at him. ‘I’m fine.’

Aye, right.

‘Because I can easily—’

‘I said I’m fine!’ And he marched off, across the car park to the reception doors. Yanking them open and barging inside.

Great.

Logan puffed out a long breath, grimaced, then followed him.

Ravendale’s reception area was every bit as bland as its exterior, only with more pot plants. The sound of some moronic game show oozed out through an archway marked ‘RESIDENTS LOUNGE’, showing a woeful ignorance of the possessive apostrophe. Someone else that looked as if they suffered from the same affliction sat behind the reception desk. Bland and grey, like the room, in a baggy cardigan and a comb-over that wasn’t fooling anyone but its owner.

He looked up and smiled a denture-perfect smile. ‘Welcome to Ravendale. How can I—’

King slapped his warrant card on the desk. ‘I need to speak to Gary Lochhead.’

Captain Comb-Over spluttered and fidgeted for a bit, squinting down at the ID. Then, ‘Ah. Right.’ He pulled on a pair of glasses and peered at it. ‘He’ll probably be in the residents’ lounge, so...’ His mouth closed with a plastic-on-plastic click as King marched off. ‘Oh, you’re going to see yourself there. Right.’

Logan gave Captain Comb-Over an apologetic wave and followed King into the residents’ lounge.

They’d clearly tried to tart the place up, make it homely and welcoming, but it hadn’t really worked. Horrible paintings besmirched the magnolia walls, created by someone with about as much artistic talent as a drunken horse. A beige carpet, mottled with stains. Dusty plastic pot plants. A ceiling-mounted projector casting a slightly fuzzy game show onto one wall, the red and green not really lining up the way they should — subtitles barely legible. The cloying scent of air freshener trying to cover something sharp and yellow. The unmistakable hot wintergreen scent of Ralgex chewing at the edges.

About two dozen residents were more or less present, none of them a day under eighty-five. Some trembling away in wheelchairs, others hooked up to oxygen tanks and/or drips, bags dangling from their chair frames. A woman in the corner was busying herself at an easel, daubing it with oil paint, no doubt producing another ‘masterpiece’ for the lounge’s walls. A bald man weeping into his knitting. A balding woman shouting the answers at the fuzzy projected contestants. ‘Lusitania, you moron! Lusitania!’

King raised his voice over hers, ‘Gary Lochhead?’

The woman committing art crimes waved at them, then pointed her brush at a hunched figure in an electric wheelchair parked over by the windows, his back to the room.

King marched over. ‘You Gary Lochhead?’

No reply.

Logan joined them, looking out across the road, through the chain-link-and-razor-wire fence at the gubbins of Aberdeen Airport. On the far side of the runways, the control tower was barely visible. A big orange 737 taxied past in the middle distance.

He put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘Gary? We need to talk to you about Haiden.’

A tremor ran through the saggy skin as Gary Lochhead turned his face towards Logan. He’d been a big lad, once, you could see that in the length of his limbs and span of his shoulders, but the arms and legs had withered to sticks, his chest and stomach swollen up so they poked out of his dressing gown. Surgical support stockings. Baldy head playing host to a couple of white tufts in need of a trim. He blinked at Logan, the oxygen line taped to his nose shifting as his dry lips twitched. When the words appeared, they were strangely high and effeminate. ‘You want to talk about Haiden?’

Logan nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Then you can sod right off, can’t you?’

King pulled out his warrant card again. ‘Police.’

‘Yeah, believe it or not, your big-eared mate’s uniform was kinda the giveaway there.’ His throat twitched, his face darkened, then a gargling cough rattled his whole body, shaking it back and forth as he hacked away. Then spat something dark into a handkerchief, clutched in one shaking liver-spotted hand. Emerging breathless at the other end. ‘I don’t... know... where... he is... I don’t know... what he’s doing... And I don’t... care.’ Sagging into his chair.

Logan tried for supportive and understanding. ‘He’s your son.’

‘Tell him that. Ungrateful wee sod’s never been to see me. Not in prison, not here.’ The other hand came up, curled into an arthritic claw. ‘Far as I’m concerned, Haiden can go to hell and stay there. And so can you.’

King opened his mouth, but Logan shook his head at him and he shut it again.

Gary Lochhead glowered out at the 737 as it pulled away and roared up into the bright blue sky. ‘Eighteen years I was banged up. Eighteen years for what?’

‘You executed a property developer in the Inverness Asda car park.’

Gary waved that away with his claw. ‘He wanted planning permission to build three hundred houses at the Peel of Lumphanan. Bloody cultural vandalism.’

Nope, no idea. And going by the expression on King’s face, he didn’t know either.

A sigh as Gary looked at them in turn. ‘It was where Macbeth died, you ignorant tossers. The real one, not the regicidal monster from Shakespeare’s play — lying Tudor propaganda-spreading bastard. It’s part of our cultural birthright, and they were going to build three hundred houses on it?’ He curled his lip. ‘That’s the trouble with you kids today: you don’t learn your country’s history. It’s all World War One poetry and crop rotation in the sixteenth bloody century. You know why? Because the English control the curriculum and they don’t want you to know we used to be a proud, independent nation!’

He jabbed at his wheelchair’s controls, sending it lurching around through 180 degrees, then whirrrrring off towards the exit at a sedate walking pace.

They followed him.

Logan checked Rennie’s file. ‘What about that heist in Edinburgh? Two point six million in gold bullion, you and your mates got away with, wasn’t it?’

A smile. ‘No idea what you’re on about. I was never charged with that and neither was anyone else.’ The smile grew. ‘Shame.’

The old man with the knitting lowered his needles and embarked on a maudlin tune in a thin wobbly baritone. ‘Oh my love is lost to me, my heart is nevermore...’ Then trailed away into silent tears again.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Would you say Haiden was a bright lad, Gary?’

The wheelchair came to a sudden halt. ‘With the amount of weed his mother smoked when she was pregnant with him?’ Another bout of coughing left him gasping. ‘Look... at this... hovel... Four months... to live... and this is where... they stick me... What’s compassionate... about that?’

King looked across Gary’s bald head. ‘This is a waste of time.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Gary Lochhead narrowed his eyes, squinting up at King. ‘Do I know you? You look... familiar. And I never forget a—’

‘I’LL KILL YOU!’ An older man in a blue cardigan launched himself across the lounge at the crying knitter, fists swinging. He battered into him, tipping Knitter’s chair over backwards, the pair of them hitting the beige carpet in a barrage of snarling. Balding pates shining in the sunlight as they punched and bit and kicked. Hard and fast.

The woman with the paintbrush screamed.

Logan snapped his mouth closed and charged over. ‘STOP! POLICE!’

King was faster, launching himself into the melee, grunting as a cardiganed elbow caught him in the face. Logan grabbed Knitter, pulling him away — still kicking and screaming.

‘YOU’RE AN ARSEHOLE, BILL! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN AN ARSEHOLE!’ Blood popping from his split lip and scarlet mouth.

‘YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY ZOE!’ Cardigan struggled in King’s grip, lashing out with a foot — the slipper on the end flying off to bounce in the middle of an out-of-focus gameshow contestant.

‘Enough!’ King hauled Cardigan away.

Two burly women in pink scrubs burst in through the archway, the pair of them looking as if they could probably bench-press Logan’s Audi.

The bigger of the two pointed at Cardigan. ‘Mr Barnes! What have we told you about attacking Mr Foster?’

And at that, Knitter went limp and dissolved in tears once more.

Cardigan looked around, frowning. As if trying to work out where he was.

The nurses led the pair of them away.

Gary Lochhead shook his head. ‘Silly sods. They’re at it two, three times a week. Fighting over a woman who’s been dead twenty years. That’s dementia for you.’ He started his wheelchair up again, following them out through the archway.

Left, past reception and into a bland corridor lined with beige doors that matched the beige linoleum. Plaques on every door with things like, ‘MRS S BLAKE ~ “THE LAURELS”’ and ‘MR H PEARSON ~ “DUNTAXIN”’ on them. More horrible oil paintings.

Logan caught up with the wheelchair. ‘It’s really important we talk to Haiden, Gary. Any help you can—’

‘What’s he done?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t—’ Another coughing fit wracked that barrel chest. ‘What’s... he... done?’ Lochhead howched up something brown and spat it into his handkerchief. ‘You know... what?... Don’t... care.’

He turned his wheelchair hard right, bumping open a door marked, ‘MR G LOCHHEAD ~ “SAOR ALBA”’.

The room was small but clean, the open blinds flooding the room with light. A hospital bed took up most of the available space, leaving just enough for a couple of plastic visitors’ chairs and a tiny bedside locker. A wilting bunch of flowers sitting on top.

A big oil painting had pride of place on the wall opposite the bed. Big. At least four foot across, maybe more: a recumbent stone circle, surrounded by pine trees, in vibrant tones of green and blue and purple. And about a million times more accomplished than the rubbish hanging outside in the corridor and residents’ lounge.

Lochhead’s wheelchair buzzed to a halt in front of the window, so he could scowl out at another view of Aberdeen Airport’s back end.

Logan stared at the painting. The more he looked at it, the better it got. The texture in the brushstrokes, the way the light dappled the trees, the subtle shades and forms... ‘Don’t think I know that stone circle, but the colours are—’

‘If you’re thinking we’ll bond over art appreciation, you can save it.’ Lochhead whacked the arm of his wheelchair with his claw. ‘Yes, I painted it. No, I don’t want to be your friend. No, I don’t trust you.’

Logan pointed. ‘You painted this?’

‘The only good thing about doing sixteen years is Barlinnie’s got an excellent arts programme and there’s plenty of time to practise.’ The claw came up again, trembling in a small circle. ‘Now go away. I haven’t seen Haiden and I don’t want to.’

King prodded at his left cheek, the skin already beginning to swell where Cardigan’s elbow had made contact. ‘He’s involved in the abduction of someone from Aberdeen University.’

Silence.

Then Lochhead turned his wheelchair around, a smile pulling at his sallow cheeks. ‘It’s that prick Wilson, isn’t it? The professor with the hacked-off hands?’

‘It’s vital we speak to—’

‘Haiden did that? Good.’ His voice swelled with pride. ‘Might be some hope for the wee shite, yet.’ Followed by a hacking laugh. ‘You can bugger off then. Even if I knew anything, no way I’d tell you now.’ Lochhead’s wheelchair burrrred around to face the window again.

Their audience was over.

18

After the relative cool of the care home, the car park outside was like being wrapped in a freshly boiled duvet. Sunlight jabbed back from car windscreens; Logan pulled on his peaked cap, but it didn’t really make much difference.

Gah... Whose bright idea was it to ditch the white shirts for black T-shirts? Did they all sit around trying to decide how to make life worse for police officers? Bet they were the ones responsible for the official-issue itchy trousers, too.

King loosened his tie. ‘Well that was a waste of sodding time.’

‘Look on the bright side — we’ve got a new mystery.’

‘We’ve got bugger all.’ He pulled out his mobile.

‘If Haiden’s as thick as his dad thinks, how come he managed to abduct Professor Wilson without leaving a single forensic trace? How did he manage to hack off, package, and post Wilson’s hands to the BBC and not get a single bit of his own DNA on any of it?’

‘He got caught on CCTV at the shopping centre, so he’s not that bright.’

‘Yes, but the camera he got caught on was only installed the day before. I’ll bet he chose that route to the Post Office because he’d scoped it out in advance. That sound like a moron to you? He’s methodical. He’s planned all this out.’

But King wasn’t listening, he was wandering off, phone to his ear. ‘Milky? Where are we with that lookout request?... Come on, I said I was sorry, didn’t I?... No, I don’t want to drive the English out of Scotland, I just want to know where we are with the lookout request... Uh-huh... Uh-huh.’

A familiar gravelly voice growled out behind Logan. ‘Speaking of “morons”.’

Steel was lounging against someone’s Range Rover, her jacket draped over the bonnet, rolled-up shirtsleeves showing off the kind of pasty white flesh only achievable after many generations of Scottish ancestors. She licked a dribble from the side of what looked like a strawberry Mivvi.

‘What are you doing here?’

She took a big bite. ‘Might be playing hookie and eating iced lollies. Or I might be using some of that world-renowned initiative of mine.’

One of those hessian bag-for-lifes sat open at her feet.

Logan peered at it. ‘Got any more lollies?’

Steel reached into her bag and pulled out a box of six. Sooked the last chunk off her lolly stick and pinged it in through the Range Rover’s open sunroof. ‘Depends.’

Typical. He pulled on his most deadpan of voices. ‘Oh, do pray demonstrate the fruits of your world-renowned initiative, Detective Sergeant.’

‘That’s more like it.’ She unwrapped a blackcurrant one — already starting to sag in the heat. ‘Haiden Lochhead was done for ram-raiding a jeweller’s shop in Elgin, right? Do you know why he did it?’

‘The money.’

‘You know that statue of the Duke of Sutherland the Alt-Nats are always moaning about? A teeny-weeny birdy tells me he was after buying an arse-load of explosives to blow it up. Never came out at the trial, shock horror.’

‘Then how do you know?’

‘Initiative.’ She took a big bite, getting purple melt on her chin. ‘I called up HMP Grampian and spoke to one of Haiden’s cellblock buddies. Seems the wee turd was forever banging on about how much he hated the English.’

‘And, let me guess: your teeny-weeny birdy didn’t like that. Because he was English?’

Steel smiled and held out the box. ‘Good boy. You may have a lolly.’

‘Ta.’ He took one and unwrapped it. The pineapple coating was melting, but the ice cream inside was still cold and delicious. ‘And did Teeny-Weeny Tweetie Pie say anything else interesting?’

‘Oh yes. He said our boy Haiden had a regular visitor.’

King reappeared, no sign of his phone. ‘Who had a regular visitor?’ He stopped and frowned at Steel as she sooked an escaped dribble from her forearm. ‘Why are you here? Thought I gave you work to do!’

‘Well, if you don’t want me using my initiative...’ She dumped the lolly box in her bag-for-life and sauntered off. ‘Give my regards to DCI Hardie, next time you see him.’

King made a worried face at Logan, then hurried after her. ‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. Tell me about this visitor.’

She grinned at him. ‘We’ll take Laz’s car.’

Vast swathes of brittle-looking barley spread out on either side of the Audi as Logan hammered up the A90. Steel slouched in the passenger seat, picking at her teeth with a scarlet fingernail.

King leaned through from the back. ‘You know what bugs me?’

She pulled her finger out. ‘Tough: I called shotgun.’ Then went in for another dig.

‘No. What bugs me is that we’ve not had a ransom note. “The Devil Makes Work” doesn’t count — where are the demands?’

True.

Logan accelerated, pulling out to overtake a milk lorry on a lovely long straight bit of road. ‘Maybe he doesn’t want anything.’

‘Of course he wants something. Everyone wants something. He didn’t abduct Professor Wilson for fun.’

Steel gave up on her molars. ‘Hate to say it, but I think Kingy’s right: our boy wants something. It’s just not something we can give him.’

That was true too.

Logan pulled into the left-hand lane again. ‘I know we can’t negotiate with—’

Steel reached across the car and punched Logan on the arm. ‘Don’t be damp. I’m no’ meaning that. He’s an Alt-Nat-Nut, right? What he wants is to punish the English for being English. He wants his wee campaign to be on the news. He wants English people worrying they might be next. He wants fear.’

‘He’s not doing too badly, then. And stop hitting people.’

‘There won’t be a ransom note, because he doesn’t need one to get what he’s after, he just needs to do horrible things and for everyone to talk about it.’

King nodded. ‘Which is why he sent Professor Wilson’s hands to the BBC.’

‘Aye.’ She stuck her finger in for another rummage, the words coming out all misshapen and slushy: ‘So the real question is: what bit is he going to send next?’

Logan pulled the Audi into a space in the far corner. The car park was bounded on one side by the high stone wall that enclosed the old Victorian lump of Peterhead Prison. A much higher metal barrier ran along the opposite side, surrounding the newer HMP Grampian, which looked more like a secondary school than a state-of-the-art penal institution.

Good view from here, though. Well, as long as you enjoyed supply boats, warehouses, a patch of scabby grass and the North Sea. Which, today, was a deep shade of sparkling sapphire, beneath a lid of glowing blue.

Steel sniffed. ‘Could you have parked further away from the entrance if you tried?’

Nope.

‘Walk will do you good.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and climbed out into the roasting heat. You’d think there’d be a sea breeze or something to cut it down a bit, but it was stifling. Like wading through burning treacle. Which the car park tarmac was beginning to resemble.

It screlched beneath his feet as he marched towards the entrance, Steel and King lumbering along behind him.

‘Urgh...’ She caught up, both arms held out from her sides. ‘Going to be Sweat Central under my boobs in five, four, three... Oh there it is.’

King grimaced. ‘Do you have to?’

Logan shuddered. ‘Please don’t talk about your breasts in the prison. People here are suffering enough.’

‘Cheeky sod.’

The entrance was a huge wall of tinted glass, with ‘HMP & YOI GRAMPIAN’ in white letters above it. Very grand. The main door slid open and a young man wheeled a pushchair out into the glaring sunlight. He had tattoos up his neck, a spider’s web by his eye, bruising all over his face, a toddler in the chair and a three-year-old on reins. Sniffling back tears as he marched past them.

Logan turned to watch him go. Then stepped through into the blissful embrace of air conditioning.

The reception area was double height, complete with balcony, a waiting room off to one side, a bank of lockers, a wooden-slatted desk like the prow of a square ship flanked by matching pairs of turnstiles, airport-security-style X-ray machines, and metal-detecting arches. One set marked ‘STAFF’, the other ‘VISITORS’. Two prison officers sat behind the desk: an angular woman reading a manual, while her lumpy male colleague slurped tea from a ‘WORLD’S SEXIEST GRANDAD’ mug.

A tall thin man leaned against the ‘STAFF’ turnstile — pastel-yellow shirt, dark-blue tie, grey suit trousers and unbelievably shiny shoes — smiling as he walked towards Logan and his dysfunctional little team. There was something weirdly cat-like about him. Maybe it was the almond-shaped green eyes, or maybe it was the pointy sharp-toothed smile. Hopefully he’d leave off purring and licking his own bum until they’d gone.

He stuck his paw out for shaking. ‘Inspector McRae? Daniel Sabre, such a pleasure. I followed your story in the papers — I hope you’re feeling better now?’

‘This is DI King and DS Steel.’

Sabre let go of Logan’s hand and took Steel’s instead. ‘Yes, we spoke on the phone.’ He did the same with King, then turned and gestured towards the metal detectors. ‘Shall we? I just need you to empty your pockets for security first...’

The Main Street rang with the sound of prisoners moving from one part of HMP Grampian to the other. A clattery rabble of men in their uniform blue sweatshirts and navy joggy bottoms slouched past on the lower level — Sabre leaned over the safety rail and waved. ‘Archie!’

A spotty man with a cratered face and Incredible Hulk muscles stopped and looked up at them. Raised a hand of his own. ‘Mr Sabre?’

‘Congratulations on your National Five English! Very proud of you.’

A big grin. ‘Cheers, Mr Sabre.’

They kept going, past a couple of inmates touching up scuff marks on the walls with lime-green paint.

Sabre shook his head at Logan. ‘Haiden’s disappearance was completely unexpected — which, I know, goes without saying. If we’d expected him to run off we wouldn’t have allowed him out on work placement. But still...’ He waved at a wee scrote with one leg in a cast hobbling along on a pair of crutches. ‘Afternoon, Jimmy, how’s the leg?’

‘Aye, no’ bad, Mr Sabre. Itchy, like.’

And they were past.

‘What’s worse is that Haiden had been doing so well up to that point. Model resident, never on a charge, went through the in-house catering programme with flying colours. Could whip up a broccoli-cheese soufflé you’d give your mother’s ears for.’ Sabre shook his head. ‘We got him on a work programme — three days learning how to make pies and pasties at a local baker’s — and boom: disappears through a back window. No trace.’

Sabre led them off the Main Street into a more modest corridor. Through a security door. ‘To be honest, I was shocked Haiden could even fit through the window. Like many of our offenders, he spent most of his spare time in the gym, bulking up. Came in a twelve-stone weakling, went out looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger.’

Another corridor, this one a plain magnolia.

‘What’s really strange is he’d made it halfway through his six-year sentence without a single incident. He was eligible for early release on licence in September — that’s why he was on the bakery programme — so why throw it all away for the sake of six weeks?’

Maybe he found out about his dad dying of lung cancer?

But then, Gary Lochhead said Haiden hadn’t visited him in years. Not in prison, not in Ravendale.

Assuming “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead was telling the truth.

Have to get someone to look into that.

One last turn and they stood in front of a closed office door. ‘This is us.’ Mr Sabre unlocked it and ushered them inside.

A medium-sized room, with two desks against opposite walls. The ubiquitous filing cabinets. One motivational poster with a mountain top and ‘TAKE IT ONE STEP AT A TIME AND YOU CAN SCALE ANY PEAK!’ on it, and another with a kitten in a teacup: ‘YOU’RE DOING GRRRRREAT!’

Wankity, wank, wank, wank.

The window overlooked the exercise yard, where a trio of topless inmates were picking up litter in the sunshine. Arms, chests, and backs turning an angry shade of scarlet.

Sabre pointed at a couple of ratty plastic chairs. ‘Sit, sit.’ He pulled out a swivel chair and parked himself on it as King and Steel sank into the creaky plastic ones. Smiled. ‘Now, you wanted to know about Haiden’s visitors. I checked the logs and, other than his Criminal Justice Social Worker, only five people have come to see him since he arrived here.’ A photo appeared from Sabre’s in-tray. He handed it to Logan — a smiling wrinkled face, with bright-yellow hair and a two-inch line of grey roots. ‘One was old Mrs Hogarth — she likes to adopt a different offender every year. Knits them things. Comes in once a month. Between you and me, she’s been lonely since her husband died.’

Another photo — this one a boot-faced woman in her mid-twenties, red hair pulled back from her face in a punishing ponytail. A big wide face and ruddy complexion, scowling at the camera as if the photographer had just insulted her dad’s tractor. A proper farmer’s quine — big and bracing. ‘Haiden’s wife and son visit from time to time, though, to be honest, they act more like complete strangers than family.’

Photo number three: An old man with very little hair on the top of his head, but lots poking out of his nose and ears. ‘He’s an ex-teacher of Haiden’s. Comes here every couple of months to express his disappointment at the way Haiden turned out.’

Strange.

Logan frowned down at Captain Hairy Nostrils. ‘Why did Haiden put up with that?’

‘Said something about it “only being fair”. No idea why, though.’ Sabre dug out a young woman. The word ‘mousy’ could’ve been invented specially for her. Dishwater-blonde hair, glasses, grey cardigan, a crucifix on a chain, not making eye-contact with the camera, but looking off to one side with worried little creases between her pale eyebrows. If Haiden’s ex was angry at everything, this one was scared of it. ‘By far Haiden’s most frequent visitor: Mhari Canonach Powell. That’s “Mhari” spelled the Gaelic way. She was here once, sometimes twice a week.’

Steel leaned forward in her chair, making it creak. ‘Bit of a mouthful.’ She snatched the photo from Logan’s hands. ‘I’m all for playing Kinky Librarian and the Overdue Book, but there are limits, eh? Mind you,’ she nudged King in the ribs, ‘bet she’s a filthy minx when she lets herself go. That sort always is.’

Mr Sabre retrieved the photo. ‘Quite. I took the liberty of calling up the security footage from her last visit before Haiden disappeared.’ He fiddled with his computer, setting a video playing on the screen, then scooted his chair to one side so they could get a better look.

The camera must’ve been ceiling mounted, going by the angle, looking down on a small round table, with four chairs arranged around it. Haiden was facing the camera, staring straight across at his visitor as if he was a starving Labrador and she was a whole packet of pork-and-stilton sausages. Mhari Canonach Powell’s pale-beige hair hung in a veil in front of her face, and she tucked it behind her ears before lunging forward to snog the living hell out of Haiden. Full-on face-eating snogged him.

Steel grinned. ‘Told you: Julie Andrews in the streets, Stormy Daniels in the sheets.’

Then a prison officer moved in to break it up, making them sit in their respective seats.

Sabre pointed as Mhari composed herself again. ‘It’s the oldest trick in the inmate handbook. Significant other pays a visit, concealing drugs about their person. Passes it over during a passionate kiss, and the offender either swallows it or palms it — hand into the pants, and up his, or her, bum it goes for retrieval later.’

Steel winked at King. ‘That’s called “cheeking” in polite society.’

‘Only, every time we strip-searched Haiden, he was clean. They weren’t passing contraband, it genuinely was just kissing.’ A shrug. ‘Now that might not seem like a big deal to you, but I’ve lost count of the number of mother-son tonguing sessions we see on a weekly basis. So it rather stood out.’

King produced a Police Scotland business card and snapped it onto Sabre’s desk. ‘Can you email that footage to me?’

‘Of course.’ He pocketed the card. ‘Now, is there anything else we can help you with? At HMP Grampian we believe in—’

‘Fairytale of New York’ blared out of King’s pocket. ‘Oh for God’s sake, what now?’

Sabre stared at him, mouth pinched. ‘You’re not supposed to have that in here: all phones have to be left at reception. I told you that when we came through security!’

‘Sorry. Sorry.’ He dug it out and killed the call. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘We take security very seriously here! It’s a prison.’ Voice cold and aloof, nothing like the man who’d congratulated Archie on achieving a National 5.

King put his phone away, pink rushing up his cheeks. ‘I must’ve grabbed it from the tray after the X-ray machine. Force of habit.’ A pained smile and a shrug. ‘Sorry.’

Logan tried hard not to sigh. ‘Do you have an address for Mhari?’

Sabre produced a sheet of A4 from his in-tray. ‘I took the liberty of listing everyone’s addresses from the visitors’ book.’ He gave the printout to Logan and a withering look to King. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get someone to escort you back to reception. I have work to do.’

And it had all been going so well.

19

A large prison officer waved them off, as Logan, King, and Steel stepped out through the front doors and into the early evening sun.

The only sounds were the raucous skirl of the seagulls and the drone of supply vessels making for the harbour exit.

King stopped, throwing his hands out to the sides. ‘I forgot I had it on me, OK?’

Steel shook her head. ‘Kingy, Kingy, Kingy...’

Which was a lot more polite than Logan would’ve been. He pointed at her. ‘Go run a PNC check on Mhari, see if she’s got prior with Haiden. And then get on to the care home — I want to know if anyone matching Haiden’s description has visited Gary Lochhead in the last couple of weeks.’

‘Gah...’ She stomped off, pulling out her phone. ‘Slave-driving tosspot cock-muppet...’

Logan marched back to the car.

King hurried to catch up. ‘Honestly, it was a simple mistake anyone could’ve made.’

You keep telling yourself that.

Logan checked the printout. ‘Closest is the old lady, lives locally. The schoolteacher is just outside Fraserburgh. Ex-wife’s in Stonehaven. Girlfriend’s in Pitmedden.’

‘Only one worth rattling: the girlfriend. Think our boy Haiden’s hiding out at her house?’

‘Only if his dad’s right and he really is an idiot. Always bound to be the first place we’d check...’ A shrug. ‘Worth a go, though. But if there’s even a tiny chance he’s there, we have to call for backup.’

‘True.’ King turned to squint out at the huge orange-and-white supply vessels. ‘Mind you, if he’s bright enough to leave a forensically neutral crime scene, is he really going to be moronic enough to hide out at his girlfriend’s? Be a huge waste of time and resources getting a dog team and OSU and all the rest involved. Never mind the paperwork.’

‘You want to risk it? Because speaking as a member of Professional Standards...’

‘Yeah. You’re probably right.’ King dug out his contraband phone and poked at the screen, wandering onto the yellowy grass as he held it to his ear. ‘Milky?... No, it’s me... How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?... Milky—... No, Milky—... Look, can you get me the number for Ellon police station... Please.’

Yeah, good luck with that. Knowing Milky, she wouldn’t be letting him in off that particular high ledge for a long time. If there was one thing Yorkshiremen and Yorkshirewomen excelled at, it was holding a grudge.

Steel wandered over, her shirt unbuttoned down to the bra line, flapping both sides to get some air circulating around her...

Logan closed his eyes and shuddered. Best not to think about it. When he opened them again she was standing right in front of him, still flapping.

She nodded at King — pacing about in the middle distance. ‘Can you believe that numpty?’

‘What did the Police National Computer say?’

‘Imagine smuggling a phone into prison. Everyone knows heroin’s where the big money is. Lot easier on the bumhole too.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Any idea how hard it’d be to get a charger up there?’

‘Leave DI King alone, he’s having a hard enough time as it is.’

‘You meaning the Alt-Nat terrorism thing, or the cheating wife thing?’

How on earth did she know?

‘Oh don’t look at me like that.’ Steel untucked her shirt and gave the sides an extra-strong flap, exposing pale belly skin as well. ‘I used to be a Detective Chief Inspector, remember? Course I know things.’ A couple more flaps. ‘PNC says: Mhari Canonach Powell, twenty-two, arrested during an anti-Trump rally in Newcastle last year.’

‘Which one?’

‘Who can remember? Got off with a fine in any case. Other than that, she’s a model citizen. DVLA says she’s got an ancient white Nissan Micra registered at her address in Pitmedden — never had a speeding or parking ticket.’ An unwholesome smile slithered its way onto Steel’s shiny face. ‘Too good to be true, to be honest. Needs dirtying up a bit.’

‘Just don’t, OK?’ Logan pulled his peaked cap down, shading his eyes. ‘What about Gary Lochhead’s visitors?’

‘Didn’t have any. Not a one. Well, no’ unless you count his CJ social worker, but she’s a woman and she’s only been twice. And before you ask — no, it wasn’t Haiden in a dress. Gaelic Gary’s got nae mates.’

So they were no further forward on the ‘why now?’ front.

King returned from his sticky tarmac pacing. ‘Sergeant Winston can give us a patrol car now, but if we want an Operational Support Unit we’re going to have to wait till nine at the earliest.’

Nine?

‘Suppose we could hang around till then.’ Not exactly ideal, though. Logan unlocked the car and climbed in. Cranked up the air conditioning.

King got in the back. ‘What if he’s been and gone, by then? What if he hears we were at the prison?’

‘He’ll do a runner. Unless we go down there and stake her house out? Assuming he’s even there.’

Steel groaned her way into the passenger seat, shirt held open over the blowers as they pumped cold air into the car. ‘You lumpies are kidding, right? We’re no’ sodding about outside some manky wee house in Pit-bloody-medden till nine!’

‘At the earliest.’ King fastened his seatbelt, voice dripping with condescension. ‘This is what police work is like, Detective Sergeant Steel. Waiting. Watching. That’s how we catch people.’

She curled her lip at him. ‘Don’t patronise me, Kingy. I was running murder investigations while you were still in short trousers, sucking your mummy’s—’

‘All right,’ Logan held up a hand, ‘that’s enough. We’re staking out Mhari Powell’s house till backup arrives, and that’s an end to it.’

‘Nooo...’ She slumped in her seat. ‘Nine o’clock...’ A groan. ‘For the record: I hate the pair of you.’

In the rear-view mirror, King scowled. ‘Join the queue.’

Logan pulled up, two doors down, behind a half-empty skip, and killed the engine. Mhari Powell’s house was a bland cut-and-paste bungalow, hidden away in a curling cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Pitmedden. Brown-grey harling on the walls; grey, lichen-acned tiles on the roofs; satellite dishes like drooping mushrooms; backing onto woods and flanked by fields of brittle yellow barley.

King peered through from the back seat. ‘Which house?’

‘Number sixteen.’ Steel pointed. ‘The one with the dog rose and all the heathers.’

‘Hmm...’ He sniffed. ‘What kind of car was it again?’

‘God’s sake, try and pay attention, Kingy. White Nissan Micra.’ She swung her finger around to point at a rattletrap speckled with dents, parked on the lock-block drive. Orange-brown patches blistered through the paintwork all around the wheel arches. A ‘DON’T BLAME ME, I VOTED SNP!’ sticker on the boot. ‘That one. Now, does anyone have any more stupid questions?’

Logan checked his watch. ‘Ten past seven.’

‘Urgh...’ She slumped. ‘Two hours...’

‘At the earliest.’ King gave her a cold smile in the rear-view mirror. ‘Settle in, Sergeant, we’re here for the long haul.’

And at that, Steel curled forward and thunked her head off the dashboard. ‘Knew I should’ve gone into organised crime instead of the police.’

Logan thumped her arm. ‘Don’t whinge, we’re all doing it, aren’t we?’

‘Urgh!’

‘Oh let her sulk.’ King sat back again. ‘I wonder what happened to the rest of the bullion Gaelic Gary and his mates nicked. Two point six million... Course, you’d probably have to deduct the thirty-two grand of heroin they were going to buy machineguns with.’

‘If I’d gone into organised crime, I could be breaking someone’s kneecaps right now. Or snorting coke off a stripper’s pert buttocks.’

Logan stared at Steel. ‘Hello? Professional Standards, remember?’

‘Oh, like you’ve never dreamed about it.’

‘Certainly not.’ Well, that was at least half true.

King kept muttering away to himself. ‘Call it another eight grand in sundry expenses...’

‘OK, forget the cocaine.’ Steel waggled her eyebrows. ‘Have you ever dreamed about licking cheese spread off Ginger McHotpants’s pert buttocks?’

‘No! And stop calling her that.’

‘Primula’s good. But no’ the stuff with ham or prawns in it. The wee bits get places you’re no’ supposed to have wee bits.’

‘Can you please stop talking now?’

King chuntered on in the ensuing silence. ‘Even then, that leaves two point one million pounds. Wonder what that’d be in today’s money?’ He got his phone out and fiddled with it.

‘OK, so you’re no’ into squeezy cheese. How about Nutella? You could—’

‘No!’

‘Gah!’ Steel folded her arms. ‘Two hours stuck in a car with Police Scotland’s answer to root-canal surgery.’

More silence.

‘Wow... It’d be worth over eight million today.’ King leaned through from the back again and tapped Logan on the shoulder. ‘And they never found it? Not any of it?’

‘Not a penny.’

‘Well, if I’m no’ allowed to talk about squeezy cheese, buttocks, or Nutella, why don’t we discuss how much of a waste of my sodding time it is sitting in this car with you pair of bumnuggets?’

King glowered at her. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel, if you’re not prepared to behave like an adult, why don’t we all just sit here in awkward silence?’

‘Suits me.’

Oh joy.

Pff...

So far, the only exciting thing that’d happened was a little old lady taking her Great Dane for a walk. Other than that, sod all for the last — Logan checked his watch — thirty-five minutes? Was that all? It felt like hours. And hours. And hours.

Steel was slumped in the reclined passenger seat, eyes closed, mouth open, making the occasional snuffling grunt.

King loosened his tie and sighed.

Thirty-five minutes.

Logan turned and stuck a hand between the front seats at King. ‘Lend us your jacket, Frank: I’m going to check on our backup.’

There was a pause, then King shrugged, picked up his jacket and passed it forward.

Steel didn’t even open her eyes as Logan climbed out into the evening warmth: ‘Get me some fizzy juice while you’re out. And crisps. And some sort of dirty magazine!’

No chance.

Logan clunked the door shut.

A lone buzzard screamed out its cry overhead, circling in the rich blue of the sky.

He pulled King’s jacket on, hiding the Police-Scotland-issue black T-shirt with its epaulettes and inspector’s pips. Not the greatest of disguises — a bit baggy and long in the sleeves, to be honest — but it would do.

Not walking too fast, or too slow, as if he was just an ordinary member of the public, out for a stroll in an ill-fitting borrowed suit jacket.

He took a left at the end of the street, onto another road lined with bungalow clones in shades of brown and grey. Not rundown yet, but heading that way.

A Yorkshire terrier scampered past, going in the other direction, chased by a young boy with his hair in pigtails, an X-Men T-shirt, and a cape that looked as if it’d been improvised from a bath towel.

Odds on, Tufty dressed like that most weekends.

A right at the junction with the main road and there was the patrol car Ellon had lent them. A pair of uniforms were relaxing in the front seats, stabproofs off and piled up in the back with their equipment belts, windows rolled down, one scoofing from a tin of Irn-Bru, the other eating a chocolate bar.

Nice for some.

Logan knocked on the car’s roof, then peered in through the passenger window. ‘You lot Sergeant Winston’s?’

The guy in the driving seat lowered his Fruit & Nut. ‘Oh aye. Inspector McRae? I seen youse in the papers.’ A toothy smile. ‘Fit like the day?’

‘Not meaning to be funny or anything, but if our boy’s not home already, do you think he’s going to toddle past you pair without noticing? In your big shiny patrol car? With the big lights on the roof? And the word “Police” down the side in big shiny letters?’

Pink rushed up PC Fruit & Nut’s cheeks. ‘Ah...’

His partner in the passenger seat shook her head. ‘Told you.’

‘Sorry, Inspector.’

She waggled her can at him. ‘“Shut up and drink your Irn-Bru.” Remember that?’

‘Shut up!’ PC Fruit & Nut leaned across from the driver’s seat and grimaced up at Logan. ‘We’ll go park somewhere a wee bittie less oot in the open.’

‘You do that. Thanks.’ He patted the patrol car’s roof, then turned and walked back the way he’d come as they pulled away.

Pair of Muppets.

The rich smoky scent of a distant barbecue wafted in through the open window, curling its way around Logan’s nose, making his stomach growl as he reclined his seat a bit and put his peaked cap over his face. Replacing the scent of burning sausages with the musty-hair smell of the inside of his hat.

No one ever washed police hats, did they? Not as if you could chuck one in the washing machine, was it? Or could you? Have to check the instructions.

He stretched out his legs and crossed his arms, vampire-style across his chest.

Comfortable and warm.

Could go a snooze right now.

Well, he could if King and Steel weren’t still nipping at each other like a pair of yappy dogs:

‘That’s no’ what I said, I said, “These Alt-Nat nutjobs need castrating.” No’ the same thing.’

A contemptuous snort from King. ‘You Unionistas are all the same.’

‘Hoy! I voted “Yes”, thank you very much! Unionista, my sharny arse!’

‘Then why are you so anti-independence?’

‘I’m no’ anti-independence, I’m anti-people-being-dicks-about-it. I’m anti-harassment. Anti-burning-people’s-houses-down. Anti-blowing-stuff-up. Anti-hating-people-just-because-they’re-English!’

Pause.

‘Oh. That’s OK then.’ King poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘What about you?’

Logan stayed where he was. ‘No politics in the car. No religion either. Go back to playing I-spy.’

Something that sounded suspiciously like... rummaging came from the passenger seat. No way Logan was taking the hat off his face to see what she was up to, though. Seen quite enough of her bra-fiddling to last three lifetimes, thank you very much.

King sighed in the back, the pik, pik, pik, of his mobile phone marking time with him sending a text or something.

‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ bounced into the car, getting louder and louder, then it fell silent, replaced by Steel’s gravelly tones: ‘Who dares disturb my rummaging?... Uh-huh... Uh-huh.’ Sniff. ‘And why didn’t you phone him instead of me?... Oh, I see... No, you’re a coward... Yeah, I suppose he is a bit Nosferatuy. You’re still a coward, though.’

Logan raised his peaked cap a bit and peered out. ‘Who’s “Nosferatuy”?’

‘That was Sergeant Winston from Ellon station: we’ve lost our backup.’ She put her phone away, then dug a hand into her pocket, far deeper than it should have been able to go. ‘They’ve had a shout on a grade-one flag: on their way now with lights and music blaring. Apparently some auld wifie’s tried to kill her husband three times this year, and she’s hoping fourth time’s the charm.’

‘Great. And what are we supposed to do?’

Steel stuck her tongue out one side of her mouth. ‘On the bright side...’ Her hand re-emerged, clutching a packet of Polos, bringing a small cascade of fluff with it. ‘We now have sweeties! There’s a hole in my pocket, so they were stuck down in the lining. Bit hairy, but still sookable.’

King’s left hand appeared between the seats, holding a full packet of extra-strong mints. ‘You should have said: I’ve got about three packets of these.’

‘Oh for...’ She slammed her hairy Polos down on the dashboard. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Logan settled back and put the cap over his face again. ‘No eating in the car.’

Rennie’s voice groaned in his ear. ‘Sorry Guv, haven’t had time yet. And it’s my turn to pick Donna up from swimming. I’m kinda running late as it is.’

Logan sighed. ‘OK. But do it first thing tomorrow.’

‘Guv.’

He hung up. Shook his head. ‘So we still don’t have Haiden Lochhead’s known associates.’

Steel tutted. ‘Cos Rennie, and I mean this with all due respect, is goat-buggeringly useless.’

Harsh but true.

Logan adopted his snoozing vampire position once more. Well, it passed the time...

Maybe he should take his hat to the dry cleaner? That would get rid of the slightly funky smell, wouldn’t it?

Still, it was better than making conversation with Captain Broken Record and Her Royal Wrinkliness.

King was on the phone again, sounding as if he’d just slammed his willy in the car door. ‘How long?... Oh for goodness’ sake!... No, I know... OK, well, do what you can... Yeah. Thanks.’ A growly sigh, then a thud.

The passenger door clicked open and clunked shut as Steel got back in again. ‘I miss anything exciting?’

King gave a little strangled scream.

Steel did some sniffing. ‘Laz hasn’t farted again, has he?’

A finger jabbed into Logan’s shoulder. ‘Sergeant Winston says we’ve lost our Operational Support Unit too. They’ve been rerouted to a bar brawl in Peterhead. Going to be at least another hour and a half.’

Great. Wonderful.

Another hour and a half with the Chuckleless Brothers.

He pulled the hat off his face. ‘Well, what choice do we have?’

Steel’s face darkened, mouth working on something bitter. Then, ‘No. Sod that. Sod them. And sod this whole sloth-buggering wankfest.’ She clambered out again, slamming the passenger door behind her.

Logan sat up, staring as she marched off, past the skip and down the road towards Mhari Powell’s bungalow.

King poked him again. ‘Logan, Logan, Logan!’

Oh no. She wouldn’t.

Would she?

She bloody well would.

20

They scrambled from the car, Logan plipping the Audi’s locks as they hurried after her.

Not fast enough, though: Steel had too much of a lead. She banged through the garden gate and was reaching for Mhari Powell’s doorbell by the time King caught up with her.

He grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t!’

But she jammed her thumb down on the bell anyway.

King hauled her back a step. ‘Are you insane?’

She looked down at his hand, then up at his face. ‘You can either move that, or I’ll make you glove-puppet yourself.’ Voice cold and level. ‘Right up to the sodding elbow.’

Logan pushed himself between them, forcing them apart before the punches started. ‘All right, that’s enough. You’re both supposed to know better!’ He turned to Steel. ‘And you’re...’

The front door opened and there was the small mousy woman from the prison photo. She peered up at them through a curtain of dishwater hair, shoulders hunched, her posture meek and subservient. Cowed and nervous. Which might have had something to do with the bruising at the corner of her left eye. Her voice wobbled. ‘Yes?’

King stood up straight. ‘Mhari Canonach Powell?’

And she shrank a bit further into herself. ‘Have... Have I done something wrong?’

‘It’s OK.’ Logan gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster. ‘You’ve not done anything wrong, we just want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’ He pointed past her into the bungalow. ‘Can we come in?’

‘I... no.’ She clutched the door. ‘The house is a mess. I’m...’ Her eyes turned away. ‘What’s this about?’

King loomed. ‘Your boyfriend, Haiden Lochhead. Where is he?’

‘I don’t...’ She shrank away from them. ‘I have to go.’

She went to close the door, but Logan got his foot into the gap before it could shut.

‘You’re not in any trouble, I promise.’

‘Please, I have to go.’ On the verge of tears. ‘I haven’t done anything.’

Steel elbowed Logan and King out of the way. ‘Shift it, you pair of turdhats.’ Then shrugged at Mhari Powell. ‘Never mind them, they’re men. And men are morons.’ She turned and made shooing motions. ‘Bit of privacy while we girls have a chat?’ And when they didn’t move, ‘Go. Away. Sod in the direction of off.’

As if she was somehow the saviour in the cock-up she’d created.

Logan sighed, shook his head. Then walked down the path to the pavement.

It took a couple of beats before King did the same.

Steel leaned in close to Mhari Powell for a muttered conversation that was too quiet to make out from the roadside, nothing but the vague tones of consolation, resignation, and wheedling.

King kept going, across the road to the other side, out of earshot. Stood there, gesturing until Logan joined him. Kept his voice down and nodded towards the house. ‘Did you see those bruises?’

‘Maybe Haiden’s a hands-on kind of boyfriend?’

‘She definitely knows something she’s not telling us. Along with everyone else.’ King pulled out his phone and poked at it. ‘Heather? It’s Frank. Get someone to look into Haiden Lochhead’s known associates... Uh-huh...’ He wandered off, feet scuffing along the kerb. ‘How about Milky, is she still sulk—... Thought she might be... I apologised!... Uh-huh...’ Voice fading as he disappeared behind the skip.

Logan turned and looked across the road, where Steel was still huddling with Mhari Powell and puffed out a breath. ‘“A nice easy case,” she said. “Something to ease you back into work,” she said. Aye, right.’ He pulled out his phone and checked for text messages, scrolling through the usual barrage of rubbish from Tufty, Rennie, and—

A crash sounded somewhere behind Mhari Powell’s house, wooden and splintery, with lots of swearing in a hard-core Ellon accent.

King poked his head out from behind the skip, stared at Mhari’s house, then at Logan. Then he was stuffing his phone into his pocket as he sprinted across the road.

Logan limped after King, a small knot in his stomach hissing at him with every step. That was the great thing about stab wounds — the gift that kept on giving. He gritted his teeth and limped faster. Broke into a run.

King disappeared around the side of the bungalow and Mhari pushed past Steel, waving her hands at them. ‘Where are you going? No! You can’t go in there! You can’t!’

Tough.

Logan pushed harder, squeezing the hissing knot down, bursting into the back garden just in time to see the last boards of what used to be a shed collapsing onto the grass.

Three paces and King launched himself at the fence. Scrambled up it. Looked left and right. Deep breath. ‘STOP! POLICE!’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘It’s him!’ Then King wriggled over the top and dropped down the other side, disappearing from view. ‘I SAID STOP!’

No way Logan was assault-coursing over an eight-foot fence.

He stopped at the remains of the shed: spade, rake, hoe, an open bag of potting compost, tiny orange Flymo... Ah, there!

Logan dug the stepladder out of the wreckage and clacked it open. Rammed the feet into a flowerbed and clambered up, one hand on the aluminium and the other on the fence. Paused at the top.

A weedy overgrown path ran along behind the gardens, between the line of fencing and a drystane dyke that marked the edge of a thin band of woodland with more barley on the other side. No sign of Haiden, but King was just visible — fading into the distance.

No ladder for the other side, so the only choice was...

Logan hopped over the top and dropped onto the path. That knot went from hissing to bellowing, coils of frozen wire jabbing all the way through to his spine. Yeah, let’s not do that again.

Pulling out his phone, he run-hobbled after King. Breathing hard. Thumbing through the on-screen menus till he got to the contact entry stored as ‘HORRIBLE Steel!’ Poked the call icon. Ran past a slimy drift of grass clippings someone had dumped over their fence.

And finally she picked up. ‘What the hell was—’

‘It’s Haiden! Get your backside in the car and see if you can cut him off!’

‘Sodding...’ A scrunch-whurch-scrunch noise, which was probably her hurrying away from Mhari’s house. ‘Which way?’

‘Right, towards the main road.’ The motion was doing his scar tissue a bit of good, loosening it up. That or it was the adrenaline.

The path turned, following the woods as it skirted the houses of the next street over. ‘First left you can take!’

‘OK, I’m at the car...’

Logan dodged another impromptu compost heap of rotten grass clippings and bits of hedge. A hard right as the path turned again. Every laboured breath tasted of dust. ‘He’s making for the... for the main road!... I think... If you hurry... you can still catch him!’

‘Where’s the sodding car keys?’

‘Oh you have got... to be kidding me!’ They were in his pocket. Of course they sodding were.

‘You want me to break a window and hotwire it?’

‘Don’t you dare!’

Around another corner and—

Brakes! Brakes! Brakes!

Logan skidded to a halt, inches away from crashing into King. Silly sod was just standing there, panting, looking left and right along the line of painted fencing, where the path split in two, one side following the woods and drystane dyke, the other curving its way between two sets of rear gardens, disappearing into the overhanging darkness of spreading trees.

King grabbed his knees, hauling in breaths. ‘I don’t... don’t know... which... which way.’

‘You go left, I’ll go right.’

A sweaty-faced nod and King puffed away, along the side of the woods.

Logan limp-hobbled down the other path, into the shadows cast by those backyard branches.

Steel’s voice crackled out of the phone. ‘Aye, wee word of advice?’

As if he had enough breath for a sodding lecture. ‘Can we not—’

‘See if you do catch up with Haiden Lochhead? Let Kingy do the tackling, fighting, and arresting, eh? Haiden’s liable to be violent and I’d rather no’ lose my resident babysitter.’

This time, getting up any speed was a struggle. His legs were full of burning sand, feet full of concrete, lungs full of boiling mud. ‘I’ll... do my... do my... best...’

The path opened up and Logan burst out between the fences and onto a strip of short dying grass, then a path, then the main road. He stopped, both hands on his stomach, dragging in claggy evening air as he turned on the spot.

Nothing.

No cars, no people, and no Haiden Lochhead, just blue sky and sticky tarmac.

They’d lost him.

Logan limped down the road. Long shadows reached out from the houses on either side, the light growing gold and orange as the sun sank towards the horizon.

King joined him at the junction with Mhari Powell’s street, hobbling along, one hand clutching his side, face all pink and sweaty where it wasn’t smeared with dark brown and green. More on his shirt. He’d torn his trouser leg too. Breathing hard. ‘Remind me why we thought it was a good idea to join the police?’

‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘Positive. Well, not positive. But... kind of. I didn’t see his face, but who else could it be?’

Logan wiped a hand across his forehead, it came away dripping.

They passed Logan’s Audi, then the skip, emerging from the other side to a slow handclap: Steel was waiting for them at Mhari’s garden gate.

‘Oh aye. Very impressive. Well done.’

King’s face darkened a shade. ‘And where the hell were you?’

‘I was supervising, Kingy.’

‘We wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t gone off half-cocked in the first place!’

‘Oh aye?’ She stepped closer, chin out. ‘Don’t blame me. No’ my fault you couldn’t catch syphilis in a brothel.’

King’s eyes bugged. ‘In a...?’ He threw his arms out. ‘YOU BLEW THIS WHOLE THING! YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE GONE TO THE HOUSE!’ Then he shoved her, hard enough to send her staggering back a couple of paces. ‘YOU SHOULD’VE STAYED IN THE BLOODY CAR LIKE YOU WERE ORDERED!’

Oh even more joy.

Steel surged at him, fists curled. ‘That’s it, you’re getting—’

Logan stepped between them. Again. ‘All right, enough!’ He poked King in the chest. ‘You: go stand over there and cool down.’ Then poked Steel too. ‘You’re out of order, Detective Sergeant! Threatening a senior officer? Are you trying to get busted down to constable? Wasn’t the last demotion enough?’

She glowered at him. Then at King. Then sniffed. Stuck her hands in her pockets and her bottom lip out. Looked away. ‘He started it.’

‘I don’t care who—’

‘He pushed me.’

‘You’re a police officer, not a six-year-old!’ God’s sake. Logan marched up the path to the front door, where Mhari was still cowering just inside, one hand clutching her throat. Eyes wide as she bit her bottom lip.

He stopped in front of her and had a go at firm-but-reasonable. ‘I don’t want to arrest you, I really don’t. But if you harbour an escaped prisoner...’ Sigh. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

Her face puckered, eyes shining as the tears threatened. ‘I can’t... I’m sorry. You don’t know what he’s like. Please.’

‘Then help me to help you. He’s violent, isn’t he?’ Because men like Haiden always were. ‘He hit you — I can see the bruises.’

She lowered her eyes. ‘He loves me.’

And you know what? Maybe he did. Maybe Haiden really did love her in his own twisted fashion. But that wouldn’t stop him beating her to a pulp for looking at him the wrong way, or contradicting him, or burning the toast, or just because his football team lost. Dickheads like him thought it was their right.

‘I know it’s not easy, but there are things we can do: support, women’s shelters. Better yet, we can put him in prison again, where he belongs.’

Tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘Please don’t ask me that. I can’t. I can’t.’

And maybe next time Haiden would put her in the hospital. Or the mortuary.

God, this job was depressing sometimes.

Logan nodded, then slipped a Police Scotland business card out of his wallet — printing his mobile number in biro on the front. ‘Here. You can call me any time, day or night. You don’t have to live in fear of him, Mhari. We can help.’

She took the card, still not meeting his eyes.

‘And if Haiden tries to get in touch again, tell him we’re watching the house. That’ll keep him away.’

She wiped a palm across her face, sniffed, then closed the door on them.

And that was that.

Logan turned away from the bungalow and marched over to where Steel was sulking. ‘I can’t even begin to describe how much trouble you’re in right now.’

Steel shrugged. ‘Come on, don’t be like—’

‘If you hadn’t charged off on your own because you couldn’t be arsed waiting, Haiden Lochhead wouldn’t have got away!’

She just stared at him.

Well, you know what? She wasn’t wriggling out of it this time.

‘What do you think the media are going to make of it? What do you think the top brass are going to do?’

‘I was only trying to—’

‘Professor Wilson could die because of this!’ Putting a bit of force behind it.

She pursed her lips. Stared down at her boots. ‘I’m sorry.’

Yeah, that probably wasn’t going to cut it this time.

21

Parched countryside rippled past the windows in shades of yellow and grey, the air shimmering above heat-hazed tarmac, as they headed towards town. Steel banished to the back seat, King sitting up front. Scowls and frowns all round.

King glowered at the rear-view mirror. ‘I still say we should’ve arrested her.’

Steel snorted. ‘Aye, and I still say you should ram it up your spudhole.’

‘Sergeant—’

‘All right!’ Logan raised a hand off the steering wheel. ‘All right. God’s sake...’ Why him? Why couldn’t they bugger off and annoy someone else instead? ‘We couldn’t arrest her, because we couldn’t prove she’d done anything wrong.’

King slapped a hand down on the dashboard. ‘She was harbouring Haiden Lochhead!’

‘And how are we going to prove that? You didn’t even see his face, could’ve been any random numpty disappearing off into the sodding sunset.’

‘It was Haiden!’

Of course it was. ‘But we can’t prove that. And if we’ve no proof, we can’t arrest her.’

King’s bottom lip pinched like a five-year-old told he wasn’t allowed any more biscuits. ‘Could’ve arrested her on suspicion.’

Steel poked her head through, between the seats. ‘Pin your lugholes in the upright and locked position, Kingy: you — can’t — arrest — victims — of domestic — violence — for being — controlled — by their — abuser. Poor cow was terrified.’

‘I’m not telling you again! We wouldn’t be in this position if it wasn’t for you.’ He turned to Logan. ‘We get an SE team and we swab her house for DNA. That’ll prove Haiden was there.’

Surely a DI should be brighter than that?

Logan did his best not to sound as if he was explaining it to that biscuit-less five-year-old. ‘Her lawyer will claim contact cross-contamination from when she visited him in prison.’

‘Then fingerprints!’

‘He’s her boyfriend. He visited her before he went into prison.’

‘What, and they’re still there three years later? She hasn’t cleaned since then?’

‘Hoy!’ Steel poked him. ‘She’s a woman so she’s got to be a house-proud wee mouse, does she? Cleaning and polishing for some man?’

Logan scowled at Steel in the rear-view mirror. ‘You would be really wise to stop talking right now. You’re in enough trouble as it is.’ He reached out and clicked on the radio and some bland happy-clappy pop tune jingled out of the speakers. ‘Can we please sit in silence till we get back to the station?’

Steel thudded into her seat, face creased, arms folded. ‘Fine.’

King turned to face the passenger window. ‘Perfect.’

Logan just sighed.

A floor polisher made dubstep noises in the corridor outside DCI Hardie’s office.

Still no sign of the man himself. Probably dragging it out, leaving Logan and King to stew in the juice of their own failure and await the coming bollocking.

King brushed a clump of dried dirt from his trouser leg. The pale beige lump burst as it hit the carpet tiles, turning to dust. He picked at another bit, not looking at Logan. ‘What’s going to happen to her?’

Good question.

‘Disciplinary hearing. If she’s lucky, she’ll get off with a suspension. If not? Demotion, fine, maybe fired. If Professor Wilson dies, definitely fired. And maybe prosecuted.’

King nodded. Then scooted his chair closer to Logan’s, keeping his voice down. ‘Can’t you just... you know?’

Logan stared at him. ‘No. I can’t just “you know”.’ Honestly... ‘Doesn’t matter how much I want to: if I do it for her — if I bend the rules for friends — I’m compromised. Can’t be trusted. I undermine the whole system.’

Silence as King frowned at the rear of Hardie’s monitor. Then a sigh. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right. But—’

‘And why do you care all of a sudden? You’ve done nothing but moan about her since this started.’

‘I know, but—’

The office door banged open and DCI Hardie stormed into the room. Face: red and sweaty. Shirt: stained down the back and under the arms. Eyebrows: furrowed. Teeth: bared. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

King sat up straight. ‘It wasn’t—’

‘Letting Haiden Lochhead get away! Have you any idea what the media are going to do to us when they find out? Pineapples! Great big sodding pineapples!’ He threw himself into his chair, the impact sending him and it trundling away, till they clunked into the wall. ‘The Chief Superintendent isn’t pleased. And when the man in charge of the whole bastarding division isn’t pleased, I am not pleased. Because he seems to think your screw-up counts as my screw-up!’ Spittle flying. ‘AND I DO NOT SCREW-UP!’ Glaring at them, eyes bulging in his flushed shiny face.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Maybe we should all take a deep breath and—’

‘Don’t interrupt me when I’m bollocking you!’ Hardie slammed a hand down on the desk. ‘Of all the half-arsed, incompetent, piss-poor excuses for police officers; you should’ve waited for backup!’

King pulled his chin up. ‘With respect, Boss, we didn’t have a choice. We had to move in when we did. I was watching the front of Mhari Powell’s house when I saw Haiden Lochhead look out of the window and spot us. Ellon had pulled our patrol car off on another job, the OSU was an hour and a half away. If we’d waited, he’d have been long gone.’

You what?

Logan stared at him. Lying little sod. Well, lying big sod, but it was still a lie.

Hardie harrumphed, a bit of the fire fading from his cheeks. ‘He’s long gone now.’

‘Yes. But at least we tried.’ King nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘We couldn’t sit there and do nothing because we didn’t have backup. Would you?’

The fire died, letting the steam leak out of Hardie in a slow disappointed hiss. He sagged in his chair. Rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry.’ A big sigh. ‘It’s not going to make tomorrow’s media briefing any easier, though. The press will spin it as a disaster and Edward Bloody Barwell will drop his bomb.’

King deflated too. ‘Then my career’s over anyway.’

Probably.

Hardie checked his watch, chewed on his lip for a bit. ‘It’s well past quitting time.’ He pointed at Logan. ‘Open the third drawer down, would you? “Historic Analysis of Traffic Offences 1985 to 1993”.’

OK. Not entirely sure what double parking and driving without due care and attention had to do with Professor Wilson and Haiden Lochhead, but probably best to play along in case Hardie was still flammable.

Logan rattled open the filing cabinet drawer. Instead of hanging files, there was a cardboard box, about the size of the ones printer paper came in. He lifted it out and stuck it on the desk.

Hardie opened it, pulling out three crystal tumblers and a decanter half-full of amber liquid. He poured a stiff measure into one of the glasses and handed it to King. Then did the same for Logan. ‘We’ll issue the statement at the start of the briefing: get Jane to put a hard positive spin on it. Play up how you almost caught Haiden Lochhead today.’ Hardie poured himself one and pointed it at King. ‘You got into a scuffle with Lochhead, right?’

‘Scuffle?’

‘The scrapes and dirt. You tackled him, but he escaped?’

King brushed away another clump of pale beige. ‘Went hammering around a corner, slipped on a pile of lawn clippings, and collided with someone’s fence. Then the ground. Think they’d been out with the hose earlier.’

Hardie’s face fell an inch. ‘Oh...’ He shrugged and raised his glass. ‘Jane will still be able to spin it. Slàinte mhath!’

King raised his. ‘Slàinte mhòr!’

Ah well, might as well join in.

Logan held his up too. ‘L’chaim.’

They clinked glasses, then King and Hardie took massive swigs while Logan barely sipped at his. A warm smoky wash of peat grabbed at his tongue, making the edges tingle and numb. Like drinking oak-aged Novocaine.

They both frowned at him. Probably wondering why he hadn’t scoofed half the glass, like they had.

‘Driving.’

Hardie shook his head. ‘Leave the car here. We’ll make a night of it. About time we did some team building!’

Yeah...

King whacked back the last of his whisky and raised the empty glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Music blared through the open toilet door, loud and clear, then fading to a muffled thump-and-grind as the door bumped shut again. The sharp rancid-vinegar of a pub gents’ mingling with the weird artificial-mango scent spritzing out of the air freshener mounted on the wall.

Logan’s knees weren’t working at full strength for some reason, making him wobble a bit as he directed the stream of wee after a lump of someone’s discarded chewing gum — chasing it up and down the trough.

The newcomer took up position at the opposite end. Belched. Did a little wobble of his own as the sound of a zip joined them at the urinal. ‘Can’t remember...’ Oh, it was King. He burped and wobbled some more. ‘Can’t remember the last time I went... went out drinking with...’ another belch, ‘anyone from work.’

‘Nope.’

The chewing gum performed a little pirouette and headed off the other way. Slippery customer.

‘That’s the trouble... with being an inspector, isn’t it? When you’re... you’re a constable, you’re one of the gang. When... you’re a sergeant, you’re the buffer between the dicks in charge and the constables, so everyone likes you.’ His voice drooped like a sad willy. ‘Then you get promoted and... and suddenly you’re one of the dicks in charge.’

‘Yup.’

The chewing gum drifted to a halt — no more pee to push it.

Logan gave PC Naughty a shake and tucked him away again. Did his zip up and stiff-legged over to the sinks. No funny business, knees!

Now wash your hands.

King’s back was reflected in the graffiti-scrawled mirror: broad shoulders and that thick mane of hair. Like he was in a commercial, or a cop show, or something. ‘And it... it wouldn’t be so bad, if it was... like the TV, or the books, and...’ belch number three, ‘and you got to go running about interviewing people and cracking cases, but it’s... it’s ninety percent paperwork and bloody meetings!’ A lurching two-step to the left, quickly rectified. ‘Briefings. Debriefings. Status reports. Stragety... I mean, strategy focus groups. Statistics...’

Logan rinsed the soap off his hands. Took care over the words, in case they got a bit squished by all that lager and the whiskies. ‘You lied to Hardie.’

‘Did I?’

‘You didn’t see Haiden in the window.’

‘Yes I did.’

He flicked water off his hands and onto the brown tiles. ‘Steel knocked on Mhari Powell’s door, because... because she has the impulse control of... a six-month-old Labrador. Not because Haiden Lochhead appeared.’

King shoogled his bum from side to side, probably finishing up. Sounding genuinely puzzled: ‘You would rather... you rather I landed her in it?’

‘I’m not saying that.’ He crossed to the hand dryer — a motion sensor setting it roaring.

‘Then what...’ King raised his voice over the blower. ‘Then what’s the problem? She screwed... screwed up. Everybody screws up sometimes. God knows... know I have. We all have! But... but we deserve a second chance, don’t we?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘It doesn’t matter now. Far as Hardie’s concerned: I saw Haiden, we went after him.’

It doesn’t matter?

‘He — got — away.’

King zipped himself up. ‘And we’re going to have to live with that.’

‘Yes.’ Logan wiped his hands dry on his trousers and headed for the door. ‘The problem is: Professor Wilson probably won’t.’