All That’s Dead

39

Logan stared at the dashboard display. ‘She’s his what?’

‘Sister.’ It sounded as if Jeffers was doing his best to sound all authoritative and reliable, but couldn’t pull it off. ‘The woman you know as “Mhari Powell” is Haiden Lochhead’s sister and “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead’s daughter.’

King looked from the display to Logan, mouth hanging open. ‘But... we saw her get into the car with Haiden and snog the arse off him. It was all caught on CCTV. And the visiting room at HMP Grampian. They were all over each other!’

‘We couldn’t get an exact match, because she’s not on the system, but soon as I opened the search up I found the familial ones. You see, I don’t really do DNA, I’m more of a—’

‘Fingerprint man. Yes.’ Logan reached for the button to end the call. ‘Thanks, Jeffers: you did good today.’ He hung up. ‘She’s Haiden’s sister.’

King whistled. ‘Wow. Talk about the family that plays together, lays together, and slays together.’

‘It doesn’t change anything, though.’

‘I mean, everyone knows the PASL, SPLA, SFFRF, and the rest of them were kinda incestuous, but Gaelic Gary’s kids are humping each other? No wonder we never get independence...’ King checked his watch. ‘Backup should be here by now.’ Drummed his fingers on the dashboard. ‘What if we’ve got this wrong?’

‘Then we look like a pair of idiots and the press sink their fangs in our backsides.’ Which was probably going to happen anyway. ‘Besides, where else would Haiden and Mhari be?’

‘Hmmm... How about that painting on Gaelic Gary’s wall? The stone circle. Haiden’s ex said the whole family were obsessed with stone circles.’

Dear Lord, that was stupid.

‘So, what: they’re keeping their victims in abandoned fridge freezers in the middle of a stone circle?’

‘Yeah, now you say it out loud.’ He checked his watch again. ‘Where the hell are our Thugs?’

And, as if by magic, Steel’s MX-5 appeared in the rear-view mirror. Closely followed by a pair of patrol cars — blue-and-whites flickering off as they climbed the hill. No sirens.

‘Ha!’ King faced front again. ‘OK, the cavalry has arrived. Can we go do this now?’

‘With pleasure.’ Logan put the Audi in gear and hared down the track, slithering to a halt on the parched grass in front of the rusty Mini. Scrambled out of the car with King close behind.

He tried the front door: locked.

King stuck his hand out. ‘Keys.’

‘Why would I have keys for their house? Are you—’

‘Car keys! Wheel brace in the boot, remember?’

‘Right.’ He tossed them over and King sprinted back to the Audi, popping the boot as Logan braced himself and slammed his foot into the front door, right beside the lock. The whole thing bounced and shuddered, letting loose an echoing BOOM. But it didn’t fly open.

He had another go.

Answer the phone. Answer the phone. Answer the bloody phone...

Haiden sags against the dirty linoleum. Lying on his side in a slowly expanding puddle of red.

Please, answer the phone...

Please...

Every breath is a short, spiky thing, getting colder with each gurgling lungful.

And then her voice comes from the phone’s speaker. ‘Who is this?’ Cindy.

He tries to tell her, but the only sound that comes out is the crackle of popping blood bubbles.

‘Oh very, funny. A dirty phone call with heavy breathing. Well you can take your pitiful little cock and shove it right up your—’

‘Cindy.’ Forcing the word out. ‘Cindy it’s... it’s me.’

‘Haiden.’ She says his name with all the warmth of a frozen turd. ‘What have I told you about calling me?’

A muffled boom comes from somewhere round the front of the house, but it’s too late to worry about that now. Far too late. For everything.

‘Is... is Marty... there?’

‘You threw away your visiting rights when you started seeing that Mhari bitch. You threw them away when you got arrested again!’

Tears fill his eyes, making the kitchen blur. ‘Cindy... Cindy, please.’

‘Have you been drinking?’ A sniff. ‘You know what? I don’t care. You can cry and beg and whine all you want: you’re not going to infect my son with your lies and failure and garbage.’

Another boom.

The phone slithers out of his hand, clunks onto the blood-slicked linoleum beside his head. Can’t pick it up again — his hands don’t work any more. Nothing does.

‘Please... please, Cindy...’

Her voice is faint, but still there, sneering out of the phone’s speaker ‘You’re weak. You’ve always been weak. You’re pathetic. Enjoy France, you useless bastard.’

‘Tell Marty... tell Marty... I love...’

The screen flashes ‘CALL ENDED’ at him. She’s hung up.

Hot tears roll down Haiden’s cheek, the word barely a whisper: ‘Him.’

Another boom from the front of the house, this one ringed with splintering woody noises.

Maybe it’s time? Yeah. Maybe it’s...

The frame finally gave way and the door bounced off its hinges, tumbling down into the hallway.

Logan stepped aside and King rushed the entrance, wheel brace held up, over his shoulder, as if it was an extendable baton. Ready to crack someone.

He followed, pushing through a tiny porch into a hallway-cum-living-room with tired green wallpaper and an exhausted brown couch. A saltire flag pinned up above the fireplace, a rampant lion on the wall opposite. No TV. A bookcase full of Oor Wullie and The Broons annuals. And a thick line of dark red along the carpet by the wall, emerging from the open bedroom door and disappearing into the open kitchen one.

That was a lot of blood.

King did a quick three-sixty, checking the living room. ‘Clear!’

Logan checked the bedroom — old-fashioned and dear God that was a huge puddle of blood by the window. He ducked down and checked under the bed. No one there. ‘Clear!’

‘Logan!’ King’s voice. ‘Logan it’s Haiden Lochhead! He’s been stabbed. Jesus...’

Out into the living room again.

King’s feet were visible through the open kitchen door, the soles shiny with blood. ‘Haiden? Can you hear me?’

OK, King had the kitchen; that left two more rooms. Logan threw open the door to a small bathroom — chipped enamel tub, stained avocado toilet, a threadbare towel. ‘Clear!’

The last door opened in another bedroom, this one with wooden bunkbeds, the mattresses naked and stained tobacco-brown with sweat. ‘Clear!’

He joined King in the kitchen. Wood panelling lined the walls, painted a revolting shade of spearmint green, and playing host to about a dozen framed photos of chickens and pigs — the colours faded to muddy orange. A rickety table with the Audi’s wheel brace sitting on top of it. An old white fridge and ancient electric cooker. A door lying open, showing the fiery yellow broom and crystal blue sky. Haiden lay on his side in front of it, completely naked, one leg curled up, the other stretched out, face pale and shiny where it wasn’t stained dark red.

His back was clarted in gore, a black slit, about two inches wide, below his right shoulder blade. More blood around his mouth and down his chin. And then bubbles popped between Haiden’s lips... He was still alive.

‘Haiden?’ King stared up at Logan — his suit scarlet-soaked all down the sleeves — then down at the bleeding body. Grabbing his waxy shoulder and shaking it. ‘Haiden, stay with me, buddy, OK?’

Logan pulled out his phone and dialled Control. ‘I need an ambulance, and I need it now!’

‘Haiden? Can you hear me?’

‘Roger that, Inspector, where do you need it?’

‘Haiden? You’re going to be all right.’ King was getting louder. ‘We’re getting help, OK, Haiden?’

Logan stuck a finger in his ear and retreated to the living room. ‘Ceanntràigh Cottage, Cruden Bay. We’ve got an I–C-One male, stab wound, heavy blood loss.’

‘One second... Right we—’

Whatever came next was drowned out by King, shouting now: ‘WHERE ARE THEY, HAIDEN? WHERE DID YOU HIDE PROFESSOR WILSON AND THE OTHERS?’

Logan made for the far side of the room, where three small windows looked out over the curl of parched grass and the North Sea beyond. ‘Say again?’

‘They’ve dispatched the air ambulance, it’ll be with you soon as they can.’

He glanced at the kitchen: King was bent over Haiden, ear pressed close to the burbling scarlet froth coming out of Haiden’s mouth, as if he was taking a final confession.

‘Tell them to hurry.’

The hole where the front door used to be rattled as Steel and Tufty burst into the room, stabproofs on, truncheons and pepper spray at the ready.

Steel slithered to a halt, teeth bared. ‘Where is the daft wee shite?’

Tufty swept the room. ‘Clear!’

As if Logan and King hadn’t already done that.

Four uniformed officers battered in after them, kitted out in full riot-police body armour, complete with gauntlets, shin and elbow guards, helmets with face shields, batons drawn. They pretty much filled every available inch of the living room. Stubby and her Thugs.

Stubby flipped up her face shield and peered into the bloody kitchen. Then furrowed her dark hairy eyebrows at Logan. ‘Is the property secure?’

‘Mhari Powell’s missing.’

Tufty stuck his head into the bathroom. ‘Clear!’

Logan pointed out through the little windows. ‘Search the clifftops, she can’t have gone far. And watch out: she’s armed!’

A nod from Stubby. ‘Greeny: you and Ted, out front. Glen: you’re with me.’ And with that they thundered off again.

Tufty tried the spare bedroom. ‘Clea— Ow!’

Steel hit him again. ‘Cut it out, you prawn-flavoured arsemagnet.’

‘Only doing my job.’ Rubbing his arm. ‘And that hurt, thank you very much.’

She stood in the kitchen doorway, looking down at King and Haiden. ‘What a cocking mess.’

Now there was an understatement.

Then King sat back on his haunches, shook his head, and stood. ‘He’s dead.’

Logan closed his eyes, massaging the ache growing in his forehead. ‘Sodding hell.’ So close. If they’d kicked the door in five minutes earlier, they might have saved Haiden. Instead, they were all royally screwed.

When Logan opened his eyes again, King was wiping his bloody hands on his shirt.

He stood there, staring down at Haiden’s body, then huffed out a shuddering breath, picked up the wheel brace, face a sickly green-grey colour as he turned and stumbled out through the door, into the sunshine.

Couldn’t blame him: someone dying in your arms like that? Wasn’t easy. Didn’t matter how much of a scumbag they’d been...

Steel sighed. ‘Aye, Kingy’ll be off spewing his ring again.’ She leaned against the kitchen door frame, half-hanging into the room, frowning at Haiden’s naked corpse. ‘It true they were brother and sister?’

‘Mhari can’t have gone far — Haiden would’ve been...’

Wait a minute, was that an engine revving? It was — coming from the front of the cottage.

Logan marched for the battered-open front door, just in time to see the Audi’s four wheels spinning on the grass, then grabbing hold. The car shot forward with King in the driving seat. ‘Hey!’ He ran outside, waving both arms above his head. ‘COME BACK HERE!’

But the Audi didn’t come back here, it roared away up the track, leaving nothing but a trail of dust behind.

‘Damn it!’ Logan hurried inside.

Steel was thumbing away at something on her phone while Tufty had his head buried in an Oor Wullie annual. The pair of them standing about like the useless sods they were.

‘King’s nicked my car!’ He jabbed a hand at Steel. ‘Give me your keys.’

She didn’t even look up. ‘Aye, that’ll be shining.’

‘Oh for... He’s up to something! He was asking Haiden where the bodies were, then he rushed out of here and stole — my — bloody — car!’

‘Pffff...’ She stuck her phone in her pocket. Then pointed at Tufty. ‘You: Oor Wanky, secure the locus. Pretend you’re a crime-scene manager, or something. No one in or out, access log, blah, blah, blah.’

A grin. ‘Cool.’

Steel cricked her head from side to side, flexing her shoulders as she sauntered for the door. Cracked her knuckles like a concert pianist. Nodded at Logan. ‘Well, come on then. It’s hot pursuit time.’

Keys out, she slid behind the wheel of her MX-5, Logan scrambling into the passenger seat as the engine started with a throaty growl.

‘Right.’ Steel flicked open the car’s roof catch. ‘Before we do this, can you confirm to me that you’re commandeering this vehicle for the benefit of Professional Standards in the pursuance of an ongoing investigation?’

Seriously?

‘Will you put your foot down?’

She pressed a button on the dashboard, and the folding roof whirred down. ‘And that any damage sustained by my vehicle will be covered and remediated by Police Scotland at their expense?’

‘Yes, fine. Whatever. Now go!’

A grin. ‘Hold tight.’ The Mx-5’s engine bellowed, the rear end slithering from side to side, wheels spinning, like a terrier winding up, then the tyres gripped and the wee car shot forward, hammered between the parked patrol cars, and out onto the dirt track. ‘YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-HAW!’

Fields flashed past the car windows, much faster than they seemed to when Logan was driving. The dust King had kicked up in the Audi was thinning, caught by the offshore breeze, which at least meant they could see where they were going. But, given the way Steel was driving, maybe wasn’t such a great idea.

Logan gritted his teeth, holding onto the seatbelt with one hand and the seat with the other as she threw the car into a warren of tight bends at ludicrous speed. He closed his eyes. Maybe the inevitable crash would hurt less that way?

She shouted at him, over the roar of the engine. ‘Don’t be such a Jessie!’

OK. OK...

He forced his eyes open, dragged out his phone, brought up his contacts list, and called King.

It rang twice, then: ‘What?’

‘What the hell are you playing at? You stole my bloody car!’

‘I’m doing my best, OK? You heard Hardie — I’m treading water with sharks here. I can’t afford to screw this up!’

‘Then don’t be stupid! We’ll—’

‘This is my last chance, Logan. I need this.’

‘You can’t charge off without...’ Logan pulled the phone from his ear and frowned at the screen: ‘CALL ENDED’. Oh no you sodding don’t. He poked the icon to redial.

The MX-5 slithered around a hard right, shoving Logan against the door as the phone rang.

‘Dear God, what now?’

‘What did Haiden tell you? Where are Matt Lansdale and—’

What sounded like a horn blared out from King’s end. ‘Jesus!’

‘Where are—’

A screeching noise.

‘Do you want me to crash your car? Is that what you want?’

‘No!’

‘Then stop calling while I’m driving!’

The MX-5 fishtailed as Steel wrenched them into a sharp left, leaving the tarmac for a moment as they flew over a bump.

Logan jammed his legs against the walls of the footwell, holding himself in place. ‘Don’t be a...’ Complete silence from the other end. When he checked the screen, there it was again: ‘CALL ENDED’. He scowled across the car at Steel. ‘Bloody King keeps hanging up on me.’

She hurled the car around the next bend. The road stretched ahead of them, long and straight. No sign of Logan’s Audi. ‘Ah...’

‘Please don’t tell me you’ve lost him!’

‘I’ve no’ lost-lost him, I just... don’t know where he is. A wee bit.’ Steel hammered it along the straight, worrying at her bottom lip, her frown growing deeper with every small side road they passed. Whin and broom crowded in on either side of the MX-5, blocking out the world.

‘We’re slowing down.’ Logan turned in his seat. ‘Why are we slowing down?’

‘Could’ve turned off anywhere.’

‘Oh for God’s sake!’

She raised herself in her seat, peering over the top of the windscreen. ‘Can you see him? I can’t see him.’

‘AAAAAAARRRGH!’ Logan stabbed a finger down on the redial button.

It rang as the MX-5 drifted to a halt. Then, ‘You’ve reached Detective Inspector King. I can’t answer the phone right now, so please leave a message.’ Followed by a hard electronic bleeeeeep.

‘WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU?’ He hung up and sat there, seething at the gorse-flamed drystane dyke sitting next to the passenger door.

Steel poked him in the shoulder. ‘Do we feel better now, after our little outburst?’

‘No.’ Difficult to imagine what would make him feel better at this point, though forcibly inserting his size nine boot up DI King’s rectum was probably a good start.

‘Out.’ She pulled on the handbrake. ‘Go stand on a wall and see if you can see him.’

Maybe both boots.

Logan climbed out of her car.

The roadside verge was a narrow strip of dry yellow grass, followed by a deep ditch, then the drystane dyke with its crown of Day-Glo-yellow flowers and spiky thorns. About ten foot down the road was a patch of bare stone and he scrambled up onto it.

Fields stretched away on either side of the road, irregular shapes and sizes that followed the features and contours of the land, instead of some ordered grid. On the right, the land fell away to the sea; a thin line of woods to the left; the little granite houses of Cruden Bay, straight ahead. Could see for miles from up here... But there was still no sign of Sodding King and Logan’s Sodding Audi.

Lots of whin and broom, though, the thieving git could be parked up almost anywhere, hidden behind a clump of it. They’d have to search every single road and track to be sure.

Deep breath. ‘AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGH!’

All emptied out, Logan slumped. He clambered his way over to the car and crumpled into the passenger seat.

Steel patted him on the leg. ‘Look on the bright side, Laz: maybe Kingy’s wrapped your car around the arse-end of some teuchter’s tractor and right now he’s little more than a big blubbering sack of bloody mince in a fancy-pants suit.’

He glowered at her. ‘You’re not funny.’

‘No’ my fault the man’s a dick.’ She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, frowning. ‘Honestly: sodding off like the Lone Ranger. Supposed to be a team, here.’ As if that had ever stopped her from doing all the crap she’d got up to over the years. A sigh, then she released the handbrake and set off down the long straight road again at a less hell-for-leather pace. ‘Come on, we’ll have a wee search for him. He’s got to be somewhere.’ Steel shook her head. ‘But between you and me: see operation King-Logan? It’s a sodding disaster.’

Yeah, he was well aware of that.

Logan got his phone out again and called Control.

‘Air Ambulance ETA is five minutes.’

‘You can cancel that — victim’s dead. Better get the Pathologist, Procurator Fiscal, and duty undertakers out instead.’

‘Oooh, OK. Will do.’

‘And while you’re at it, ping the GPS on DI King’s Airwave handset. I need to know where he is, and I need to know now.’

Steel slowed at the next side road, peering off down the track, then speeding up again.

‘OK, system says DI King is at Divisional Headquarters. Do you want me to patch you through?’

Logan covered his eyes. ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ The silly sod had left it behind, at the station.

‘If you need DI King, we can probably still find him through GPS. Which pool car does he have?’

Gah...

‘He’s not in a pool car, he’s in my car.’

Bloody Detective Bloody Inspector Frank Bloody King.

‘Sorry. If he calls in, I’ll tell him to give you a shout.’

It wasn’t easy forcing the words out between gritted teeth, but Logan did it anyway. ‘Thank you.’ Then he hung up and put his phone in his pocket. Straightened the seam in his police-issue itchy trousers. Took a nice deep breath. And bellowed a scream into the passenger footwell.

Steel sniffed. ‘Yeah... Kingy has that effect on me too.’

40

Frank parked halfway down a narrow lane. Brambles loomed on both sides, hemming the car in. He opened the door and clambered out.

Yeah... Logan wasn’t going to be very happy when he saw what had happened to his beloved Audi. A deep gouge wormed its way along the driver’s-side wing, through the door, and off to the rear wheel arch and panels, ringed with bright scrapes of raw metal where large chunks of the paintwork had come off. Dents in the wheel arches. A big one in the bonnet. And, let’s be honest, the exhaust sounded like a smoker’s lung and the engine wasn’t much better.

He reached in, turned it off, and plucked the wheel brace from the passenger seat. Creaked the door shut and limped down the lane — every step making his right knee and ribs hiss — keeping low to avoid being seen.

At the end of the lane he hunkered down behind a low wall and peered around the corner.

The two-storey house was nearly buried by the weight of ivy growing up the dirty granite walls — green tendrils reaching up beneath the eaves and into the roof. Poking out through holes in the tiles. Probably looked impressive at one point, with its bay windows and portico, but not now it’d decayed to a crumbling wreck.

A rusty grey Transit van sat next to it, its bodywork slowly succumbing to green and black mould. Marooned in a sea of brambles. Didn’t look as if it’d moved in years.

Right. He tightened his grip on the wheel brace and limp-jogged across the tussocked grass to the front door. Flattened himself against the wall. So far so good. If he could—

His phone launched into its generic ringtone.

Sodding hell...

He fumbled it from his pocket, fast as possible before it started ramping up the volume. The words, ‘INSP. MCRAE’ filled the screen. Of all the stupid times to call.

He hit ‘IGNORE’.

And just to be safe, switched it off as well. Stuffed it deep in his pocket.

Trying to get him killed.

Honestly.

Frank stood on his tiptoes and peeked in through the nearest window.

A bedroom — collapsed metal bedframe and the decayed remains of what used to be a mattress. Holes in the walls and ceiling. No sign of a knife-wielding maniac.

The window on the other side of the door was too buried in bramble-barbed-wire to look inside. Which left only one option: the door.

He crept up the stairs.

Huffed out a breath.

This was definitely the right place — no one installed six shiny Yale locks on an abandoned building unless there was something inside they wanted to hide. The wood was wasp-eaten and bloated. Probably wouldn’t take much to boot it in. But then Mhari Powell would know he was there and going by what she’d done to her brother, that wasn’t a great idea.

A brass plaque sat above the letterbox, the metal pitted and stained: the words ‘RENFIELD HOUSE’ half consumed and obscured by verdigris. Someone had a sense of humour, naming their house after Dracula’s bug-eating minion, when Slains Castle was just over the hill there. Oh yes, Whitby might claim Bram Stoker wrote and set the whole thing down there, but that was the English for you, wasn’t it? Always stealing what was rightfully Scotland’s.

He reached for the door handle. After all, you never knew your...

The door swung open as he touched it.

Six Yales and not one of them locked.

About time his luck changed.

Frank slipped inside.

Gloomy in here, even with the evening sun beating down outside. Cool too. The air tasted grey with dust and mould, the sharp mucky scent of rodents. A hole in the plasterwork showed off the room he couldn’t look into from outside — a fusty kitchen with sagging units and a broken table. Straight ahead: a bathroom with black-and-white tiles littered with jagged chunks of collapsed plaster. A staircase off to one side, reaching up to the first floor, the wood rotten and treacherous, untouched beneath a thick film of pristine dust.

Which left the cupboard under the stairs and—

He froze.

Was that singing?

It was — a woman’s voice with no accompaniment:

It was coming from down the corridor, on the right.

He inched his way over, sticking to the wall.

There was a door at the far end, its paintwork blistered and peeling. The singing was coming from the other side.

He stuck his ear against the door.

OK, she definitely hadn’t heard him coming — wouldn’t be singing away to herself otherwise. He raised the wheel brace, took hold of the door handle, and burst through into what was probably once a living room, looking out over the cliffs towards the sea. Should have been bright in here, with the sun blaring down outside, but somehow it made the room gloomier. The view through the broken windows like a vision from a past life.

What?

There was no one here, just five chest freezers, three of which were smeared with dried blood, one of which was switched on, all of which had words spray-painted on them in bright-red gloss. The stomach-clenching scent of rotting meat. The droning buzz of great big shiny bluebottles. And the singing, of course.

It was coming from a mobile phone, perched on top of the chest freezer with ‘WALLACE’ on it.

He picked the phone up, slid his thumb across the screen to open it. Wasn’t locked.

Frank hit pause. Why would Mhari record...

Oh.

Something cold and sharp pressed against his throat.

The room hadn’t been empty after all — she’d been hiding behind the door. And now she was right behind him, holding a massive hunting knife.

Her breath was warm against his ear. ‘Drop the weapon.’

He did and the wheel brace clattered against the filthy floor. Returned the phone to the chest freezer’s lid. Kept his voice level and in charge. ‘OK, let’s not do anything we’ll regret.’

‘Why would I regret anything? I’m not the one about to get my throat slit.’

Don’t think about that. Don’t think about it. You’re in charge. She’s not going to kill you. You’re going to live through this.

She killed her own brother.

King swallowed. ‘It’s not too late to—’

‘How did you find me? This place? How?’

‘I... Haiden told me. Before he died. Look, this isn’t—’

‘I should’ve slit his throat too. Still, I won’t make that mistake again.’

The knife pressed harder into Frank’s neck.

Yeah, she was definitely dangerously unhinged, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t salvage this. Calm breaths. Sound like you’re still in charge, damn it. ‘Come on, Mhari, I’m not your enemy here. You’ve seen the papers, right? I was in the PASL when your dad was in charge. We were friends.’

The only sound was the hum of the working freezer and the drone of the flies.

Then, ‘Yeah, I saw the papers. You betrayed us, didn’t you?’ Spitting the words out. ‘You abandoned the cause, went to work for the enemy!’

She twisted the knife and cold pain snapped across his throat. Followed by a warm trickle.

Oh Jesus, she was going to kill him.

‘Wait! Wait...’ All pretence at being in charge gone, voice rank with the stench of panic. ‘Robert Drysdale!’

‘What about him?’

Many, Many Years Ago

The bothy lurks in darkness, all its windows panned in, the door warped and buckled. It sits in the middle of nowhere — surrounded by rough fields and ditches, the snow-capped peak of Beinn a’ Bhùird lurking in the background. The kind of place where ghosts stalk the moonlit mountainside.

Only the bothy’s about to get itself another ghost...

Frank shifts in the passenger seat, trying not to look at the silhouettes in the broken window. At the dancing torchlight as they go about their business. Belting out some old Corries song about battering the English foe.

‘Oh Jesus...’ He raises the bottle of Grouse and takes a swig, shuddering as it goes down hard and hot. Has another drag on his trembling cigarette.

He’s only sixteen, for God’s sake. Sixteen.

Should never have come here. Should never have agreed to help. Should never have had anything to do with “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead and his gang of mad bastards. But it’s too late now.

One more slug of whisky goes down like burning petrol, souring his stomach.

Maybe, he could do a runner? Climb out of the Land Rover and bugger off into the night. Scarper back to civilisation and never, ever—

A monstrous face appears at the passenger window, teeth bared, eyes wide. Hideous and terrifying. A wee scream bursts its way out of Frank’s throat.

Gaelic Gary grins at him, torch held under his chin to make him look like even more Hammer House of Horror than he already does. ‘Come on, wee man, you’re missing all the fun!’

Frank’s words don’t come out right, bumping into each other in their rush to escape. ‘I... I don’t think... It, it, it’s not... I can’t—’

‘No!’ Gary yanks the passenger door open and grabs a handful of Frank’s jumper, pulling him closer, voice a hard dark snarl. ‘You get your arse out this car and in there, or you’ll be next.’ He tightens his grip and hauls Frank and his whisky bottle out into the night. Their breath mists in the torchlight as he shoves Frank towards the bothy.

Then Gary wraps his arm around his shoulder, voice all warm again. Like they’re best of friends. ‘See, there’s no passengers in a civil war, wee man. You’re either driving, or you’re being knocked down. You don’t wanna be roadkill, do you?’

‘Course not!’

‘Good.’ A squeeze of that massive, powerful arm. ‘Come on, this’ll be the stuff of legends!’ Gary propels him through the bothy door into a manky wee hallway. A bunch of the floorboards are missing and drifts of bird crap lie beneath the house martin nests dotted around the walls, up by the sagging ceiling.

There’s a door straight ahead and Gary boots it open. Pushes Frank over the threshold and into hell.

Oh Jesus. Jesus. Jesus...

Hell is a grubby room, devoid of furniture, with scrawled graffiti on the peeling wallpaper. A broken Belfast sink and rusting old range cooker. Most of the ceiling’s caved in, leaving the roof beams exposed, all the way up to the roof above. But that’s not what makes it hell. Nor is it the pair of singing bastards — both of them heavyset and powerful. Both of them in kilts, hiking boots, and Scotland rugby tops. Both of them singing and laughing. Both of them reeking of whisky. Both of them swinging their torches around like it’s a disco.

No, what makes it Hell is the man.

The man hanging from the rope that’s been looped over a beam in the middle of the room. Face darkening as his legs kick and his body sways. Turning slow as a lump of doner meat in a kebab shop window.

One of the kilts takes a swig from a bottle of Bell’s and roars in the man’s face. Spits in it. Grins. ‘No’ so bloody clever now, are we, Robert?’

Gary gives Frank a push, sending him stumbling against the hanging man. ‘BOYS! LOOK WHO I FOUND!’

A ragged cheer goes up from the kilts.

The spitter turns his grin towards Frank, eyes big and dark like a shark about to bite. ‘Go-an yerself, wee man! ’Bout time!’

His mate shakes a can of spray paint and graffitis a big red capital ‘J’ on the wall — the letter thick, paint dribbling down like fresh blood. Then a ‘U’.

Gary reaches into his coat and pulls out a hammer. Dips his other hand in and produces a plastic bag that jingles and rattles as he bounces it in his palm.

A ‘D’ joins the two spray-painted letters.

‘Hoy, Frank...’ Gary tosses the bag at him.

It bounces off his chest and Frank has to scrabble to grab it before it hits the floor. The contents are jagged and rough. Sharp against his skin. He looks down at the bag.

Oh Jesus.

It’s full of nails. Each of them about as long as his little finger, with a big round flat head.

A wink from Gary. ‘One at a time, eh?’

Oh. Jesus.

The whisky boils in his stomach, threatening to rush up his throat and spatter everywhere.

He can’t do this. He can’t.

But if he doesn’t, Gaelic Gary will kill him. You don’t wanna be roadkill, do you?

He’s only sixteen.

He doesn’t have a choice...

So Frank swallows it down. Forces it to stay there with another swig of Grouse. Shudders. Hauls in a deep shaking breath. Then nods. Opens the packet.

An ‘A’ gets sprayed on the wall as Frank fumbles one of the nails from the bag and holds it out. Tries his best to keep his hand steady.

The final letter, ‘S’, makes the word complete.

‘Good boy.’ Gary takes the nail from him then turns to the man struggling at the end of the rope. The man who, up until ten o’clock this morning, had been a trusted member of the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation. The man whose last half hour on earth was going to involve a lot of screaming.

Now

Frank licked his lips and pulled his chin up an inch, but the blade in Mhari’s hand stayed right where it was. ‘I was there! I was... I helped, OK? I passed your dad the nails. Please don’t do this!’

‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

‘I’m on your side!’ Voice going up an octave, the words stumbling over each other just like they’d done all those years ago. ‘I am. I promise! I came here on my own, didn’t I? I didn’t tell anyone where you were. I’m on your side!’

‘Hmm...’ She took the knife from Frank’s throat.

He was still alive.

Oh thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus, thank you Jesus.

Frank collapsed to his knees, both hands clutching his bleeding neck. Blinking tears and sweat from his eyes. ‘I can help you. We can help each other...’

She stood over him, the knife glittering in the dim light. ‘Start talking.’

41

‘No, but what I would call it is a complete and utter balls-up.’ Logan paced towards the cottage again, phone against his ear, sweat prickling between his shoulder blades.

The Scene Examiners’ Transit was parked next to the one remaining patrol car, Steel’s dust-covered MX-5, and the duty undertaker’s discreet grey van — its rear doors lying wide open. Waiting.

All they needed now was the Procurator Fiscal, Pathologist, and six tons of hostile media coverage to make today complete.

Superintendent Bevan’s New Zealand accent was perfect for sounding incredulous. ‘And there’s no sign of him anywhere?’

‘I’ve got a lookout request on King and the car, the entire team’s going door-to-door in Cruden Bay, patrol cars out searching the roads...’ He made it as far as the living room window — where the SE team were clearly visible photographing and fingerprinting and sampling everything — turned around and paced towards the cliffs again. ‘I don’t know what else we can do.’

‘Logan, it’s DCI Hardie.’

Oh great, Bevan had him on speakerphone.

Logan made a silent wanking gesture. ‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ You miserable useless git.

‘Are we saying this is connected to the revelations in today’s paper?’

‘No. Maybe. I doubt it.’ He stopped at the edge of the cliffs, where a line of blue-and-white tape cordoned off a path down through the gorse and broom to the beach below. Not that they’d get a lot of joy from the beach — the tide was nearly all the way in, stealing any footprints and trace evidence Mhari Powell would have left behind. Sunlight sparkling gold off the deep blue water. ‘Actually, you know what? Yes, it is. He’s out there taking risks because someone threatened his job this morning. Thin ice, treading water, sharks. Remember that?’

Hardie cleared his throat. ‘Yes... Well... I’m sure there were faults on all sides.’ The defensive tone got replaced by something altogether more belligerent. ‘But if he’s got nothing to hide, why hasn’t he called in?’

Moron.

‘How are we getting on with a warrant for his mobile phone’s location?’

‘Logan? It’s me again.’ Bevan. ‘They’re rushing it through now. But if he’s got his phone switched off...’

Which, given that every time Logan called the thing it went straight through to voicemail, he probably had. Idiot. ‘I’m worried he’s caught up with Mhari Powell and she’s done the same thing to him that she did to her brother.’

Hardie made a strange growling sound. ‘Well, if no one else is going to say the obvious conclusion, I will: what if he’s joined her?’

Oh, that deserved another wanking gesture. ‘With all due respect—’

‘He was in a nationalist terrorist cell when he was younger, what’s to stop him being in an Alt-Nat one now?’

‘But—’

‘Are you saying it’s impossible?’

Oh for God’s sake.

Logan sagged. Ran a hand over his face. ‘No. But why would he pick—’

A new voice joined the call, clipped, tight, and far too loud. ‘We’ve got a press conference in fifteen minutes, what exactly am I supposed to tell them?’

Logan held the phone away from his head, so she wouldn’t hear him groan. Then forced a smile into his voice: ‘Jane. Didn’t know you were there.’

‘The media are already ripping our backside wide open with this one, can you imagine what they’re going to shove up it when we tell them that A: we still have no clue who Mhari Powell actually is. B: she’s killed her brother, Haiden Lochhead, who, by the way, we told everyone was the criminal mastermind here.’ Jane got even louder, till she was almost shouting. ‘And C: DI King, who’s all over the papers as a former bloody terrorist, might have run away to join forces with MHARI SODDING POWELL!’ A small scream of rage belted down the phone. ‘Did I miss anything out, in this cavalcade of cocking disasters?’

‘Yes.’ Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘That I’m an inspector with Professional Standards and I don’t take kindly to people yelling at me!’

Bevan stepped in again. ‘All right, all right. Things are a bit heated right now, but let’s take a deep breath and remember we’re on the same team here. All right?’

No one said anything.

‘All right.’

He turned away from the cliffs and started towards the cottage again. ‘You can’t tell them King’s joined forces with Mhari Powell. Superintendent Bevan?’

‘Logan’s right.’ She could’ve put a bit more conviction in her voice, but at least she was on his side. ‘There’s no proof the Detective Inspector’s done anything of the sort.’

Jane groaned. ‘It’s a lovely thought, Superintendent, but trust me: that’s not how the media works. This isn’t about proof, it’s about perception. If we try to spin this like he’s a hero and it turns out he’s run off to join his terrorist mates, the media will crucify us.’

‘So don’t tell them anything.’

‘Then, when it comes out, they’ll crucify us for trying to cover it up!’

Well, there was no point arguing with Jane — Media Liaison Officers were like bulldogs, only less flexible — maybe Superintendent Bevan could be the voice of reason? Worth a go, anyway.

‘Boss? You’re the senior officer here.’

‘We can’t lie to the press, Logan. And we can’t lie by omission either.’ A sigh. ‘Besides, if you’re swamping Cruden Bay with officers flashing DI King’s photo, someone’s going to connect the dots.’

‘Probably all over social media as we... Yup. Here, look at this.’ Scrunching noises came from Jane’s end. ‘Look at it!’

Then a grunt from Hardie. ‘Oh sodding hell. That’s all we need.’

‘Now we have to make a statement.’ Jane’s voice got louder, as if she was looming over the speakerphone. ‘You listen to me, Inspector McRae: you — need — to — find — him. OK? You need to find him now, before this utter cluster-wanking disaster gets any worse!’

‘I’m doing my best.’ He hung up, stuffed his phone away. Shook his head.

Oh, it was easy shouting the odds and making demands from the safety of Divisional Headquarters, wasn’t it? Didn’t see any of them out here trying to actually make a bloody difference.

The duty undertakers emerged from the cottage, carrying a silver-grey plastic coffin. Looked heavy.

What the hell did everyone expect him to do: magic a result out of thin air? ‘Izzy Wizzy, Let’s Get Busy!’ wasn’t going to cut it this time.

Sodding DI Sodding Frank Sodding King. Why did he have to go make everything worse?

The duty undertakers levered the coffin into their van and clunked the doors shut. Goodbye Haiden Lochhead.

Come on, Logan. Finger out. Let’s go find DI King.

And kick his backside for him.

Hard.

Steel leaned back and draped her elbows over the metal handrail, face turned to the setting sun. Basking in all her wrinkly glory. E-cigarette poking out the side of her mouth, making thin plumes of fruity fog. Pineapple, going by the smell.

Logan scowled down at the river below, where it disappeared under the bridge, its summer-drought level augmented by the high tide. ‘They still there?’

‘Hud oan, I’ll check.’ She tutted a couple of times. ‘So far we’ve got about two dozen journos, five camera crews, and five outside broadcast vans too.’ Another puff of pineapple vapour. ‘I stand corrected — six, outside broadcast vans. That’s Sky News turned up.’

‘Great.’ Logan banged his hand on the railing, setting it ringing like a miserable bell. ‘How could he just disappear?’

Steel shifted, turning so she was next to him, facing the coast. ‘Longest day of the year, today.’

‘Bloody feels like it.’

‘Oh, no, wait, that was yesterday. It’s Friday today?’

Logan straightened up. Risked a glance across the river at the Kilmarnock Arms Hotel, with its besieging horde of the nation’s press. ‘If he’s lying dead in a ditch somewhere...’

A pineapple-scented sigh. ‘Look, there’s bugger-all we can do the now, right? Till we find Kingy, or your car, we might as well go grab a bite to eat. I’m starving, are you starving? I’m starving.’ She pushed away from the railings and wandered off, in the opposite direction to the cameras. ‘Starving, starving, starving.’

How could she even think about food right now?

What if they couldn’t find King? What if Mhari had him? What if—

‘HOY, LAZ: FINGER OUT, EH?’

Logan scrunched up his face. Nodded. Then followed her.

The sky deepened overhead, fading to a heady purple at the horizon. Stars twinkling away out to sea. No sign of the sun, from here — it was hidden behind the old-fashioned Scottish houses that lined the easternmost edge of Boddam — but its light still painted that side of the heavens with pale blue and gold.

‘Come on, Laz, eat up.’ Steel stuffed a chunk of battered haddock in her gob and worried at it. ‘Had to pull strings to get you that. Chippy was meant to be shut.’

She’d parked her MX-5 next to a sandstone shed thing that had a slate roof, a Scottish Water Authority sign, and a view out over the wee bridge to a cheery red-and-white salt-shaker of a lighthouse, gilded and glowing in the setting sun.

Logan picked at a pale-yellow chip. ‘Not really hungry.’

‘Fish supper, pickled onions, tin of Irn-Bru, and a Mars Bar for dessert — all of which I’m claiming on expenses, by the way.’ She popped a chip of her own, chewing with her mouth open. ‘Besides, it’s a beautiful evening. What’s no’ to love?’

‘How about the fact that our colleague might be dead?’

A sigh. ‘You’ve got to compartmentalise, Laz. If you’re full-on, weight-of-the-world, bleeding-heart, troubled-cop-tastic the whole time, all you’re gonna get is ulcers, depression, and an early slot at the crematorium. There’s nothing we can do right now.’ Another chunk of fish disappeared. ‘Might as well keep your strength up.’

‘Not the point.’ He scowled down at his congealing fish. ‘And you can’t claim this on expenses — I paid for it.’

‘Kingy will be fine. Stop wetting yourself: he’s a big boy. He was in the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation, wasn’t he?’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘There you go, then. Mhari Powell’s no’ going to hurt one of her own, is she?’

Logan stared at Steel as she gnawed lumps out of a pickled onion. ‘Mhari Powell literally stabbed her brother in the back.’

Steel frowned. ‘Ah. There is that.’ A shrug. ‘Now shut up. You’re putting me off my chips.’

Steel stamped on the brakes and hauled her MX-5 off the main road and into a potholed car park. It wasn’t huge: only a dozen spaces, each one marked out by logs. A lone patrol car sat sideways across the far corner, blocking the track that led away across the landscape to Slains Castle.

The ruins were visible in the distance, lurking at the end of the world, where the land fell into the North Sea. Broken walls sticking up like jagged teeth. Other than that, the countryside was a lumpy plain. Fields of wheat and grass. A flock of sheep nibbling away in one littered with big round straw bales.

The sun had finally given up on the day, leaving it to the pale-blue glow of twilight as night took hold. Quarter past ten, so they’d have about an hour to search for DI Vanishing Bastard King before they’d have to break out the torches.

Steel killed the engine and scrambled out, Logan following close behind.

A uniformed officer appeared from the patrol car, pulling his peaked cap on. One of Stubby’s Thugs — Greeny, wasn’t it? Mid-twenties, with a hint of quarter-past-ten-o’clock shadow, his hair all floppy on top and buzz-cut at the sides. He nodded at Logan. ‘Inspector.’ Then led the way, down the track, towards the castle. ‘A wee wifie called it in. White Audi, abandoned on a side road about midway between here and Dracula’s house.’

Steel grimaced. ‘That’s at least half a mile. I’m no’ walking all the way over there!’

‘Nah, only about a quarter. Be there in no time.’

Logan caught up with him. ‘When was this?’

‘About fifteen minutes ago? Glen’s gone down the castle to check it out. I stayed here to block stuff: vehicles and that, you know?’

‘Can we no’ drive down instead?’

‘Need the patrol car for a roadblock.’ Greeny pointed over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Stubbs is on her way. Think we should cordon off all the access points before she gets here?’

Logan nodded. ‘Couldn’t hurt.’

‘Oh aye, because that won’t tip the press off, will it? You’re a pair of morons.’

‘She’s got a point, Guv.’

‘Course I do.’ Steel pulled out her e-cigarette and puffed up a cloud. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got first, eh? Might be nothing. Just cos it’s an Audi, doesn’t mean it’s Laz’s, right? Could be anyone’s.’

They tromped down the track, then up a small hill.

From here, Slains Castle looked more like a ruined country house. A massive tumbledown one, but the big windows and thin walls didn’t have that air of solid, dingy... castliness that Dunottar, Fyvie, and Crathes had.

Logan kept going... Then stopped.

A small lane snaked away off the track to the right, partially hidden by a frozen explosion of brambles. And there, abandoned a hundred yards along it, was Logan’s Audi.

He scuffed his feet down the lane, staring at what was left of his poor car.

All those years wanting a nice car of his own. A proper one. A new one. One where bits of it weren’t held on with duct tape and prayer. And now look at it.

‘Noooo...’

Scratches, dents, gouges. The rear bumper buckled and hanging off. The exhaust battered and dragging on the ground.

‘My car...’

More dents and a huge scrape down the driver’s side.

‘Bloody King!’

Logan grabbed the driver’s door and hauled it open, but there was no one inside.

‘I’ll sodding kill him!’ He poked the boot release and it clunked open. But when he checked, there was nothing in there either. Well, except for the pair of high-viz vests King had turned his nose up at.

Logan slammed the boot shut and leaned on it, scowling down at the damage. The chipped paint. The huge dents. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Steel stuck her hands in her pockets. ‘You need a moment? Maybe have yourself a wee weep?’

He marched around to the front of the car and tested the bonnet. ‘It’s cold.’

‘Aha!’ A nod from PC Greeny. ‘Been here a while, then.’

Steel hit him. ‘Aye, thank you, Constable Obvious.’

The lane twisted away to the left, the brambles blocking out whatever it led to. Logan took a couple of steps in that direction, then stopped and turned to Greeny. ‘Where’s your mate... Greg?’

‘Glen. He went up the castle.’ Greeny took hold of the Airwave handset fixed to his stabproof vest, pressed the button and talked into his own shoulder. ‘PC Low, safe to talk?’

A tinny voice, amplified by the handset’s speaker: ‘Aye, aye, Greeny.’

‘Any sign of DI King?’

‘Give us a chance, min. Any idea how big Slains Castle is? Gar-sodding-gantuan, that’s how big.’

Logan pointed off down the lane. ‘Where does this go?’

A sniff from Steel. ‘Somewhere sharny, is my bet.’

Probably.

He waved for Greeny’s attention. ‘Go, back your mate up. But if you find something, you don’t take any risks, OK? Mhari Powell’s armed and extremely dangerous.’

The constable nodded, then loped off, down the road towards the castle, talking into his shoulder again. ‘Hold fire, Greg, I’m coming to give you a hand...’

Right. Let’s try this way then.

Logan followed the lane, between the towering waves of spiny brambles.

There was a big pantomime sigh, then Steel shuffled after him. ‘I could be home eating pickled onion Monster Munch and drinking ice-cold Chardonnay...’

‘Well, you’re not. Now earn your fish supper and call Control. I want a dog unit, firearms team, and anything else they can give us, ASAFP.’

She rolled her eyes at him, then dug out her phone. ‘Aye, Shuggie?... Steel... Listen up, I’m after Dogs, Thugs, Guns, and anything else you can get me. Top priority.’

They kept going, past the remains of an agricultural building that had succumbed to time and gravity.

‘Well I don’t know, do I?... Get your finger out and do it, you wee turd!... Thank you.’ She hung up. ‘Shuggie’s on it.’

‘He give you an ETA?’

‘If they floor it out here with lights and music? Half an hour? Maybe forty minutes?’

‘Great. That’s... marvellous.’ The sky was darkening, the shadows on either side of the lane growing deeper and bluer with every minute that passed.

‘So, you want to wait for them in the car?’

‘Yes.’ Logan pulled in a deep breath and sighed it out. ‘But if King’s in trouble—’

‘Aye, which he better be, after all this.’

‘If he’s in trouble, half an hour could be too late. Could be bleeding to death right now, like Haiden did.’

The lane curled around a stand of trees, the canopy thick and dark above their heads.

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought too.’ Steel pulled the corners of her mouth out and down, like an angry toad. ‘But see if he’s no’ dying when we find him? Bags I get first go kicking him in the nadgers till they pop out his lugs.’

‘After what he did to my Audi? Join the queue.’

They emerged from the trees and stopped. A rundown house lurked straight ahead: two storeys of crumbling dirt-streaked granite in the process of being digested by ivy and brambles. House martins wheeled and curled out from the eaves, chasing the evening’s bugs in simulated dogfights. Elegant feathered arrows, out hunting in the dusk. No cars. No sign of life.

The house’s dead windows stared out at them from its grey and green face.

Steel grabbed Logan’s arm and pulled him to a stop. ‘Promise me you’ll no get stabbed this time.’

‘Promise.’ He pulled out a pair of blue nitrile gloves and snapped them on, dropping his voice to a whisper as they started towards the house again. ‘Just checking: you’ve got your pepper spray on you?’

‘Course I have. And no: you can’t.’ She snapped on gloves of her own. ‘Should’ve come prepared, shouldn’t you?’

‘Fine.’

He picked up a fallen branch from the edge of the trees. About the size of a baseball-bat, only less elegant and more lumpy. Heavy enough to cave someone’s head in.

Hopefully...

42

Logan hunched over and scurried across the rutted lumpy grass, battering-branch clutched in both gloved hands.

Steel hurried along beside him, keeping her voice down. ‘You want front or back?’

Probably both as bad as the other, but at least this side was closer. ‘Front.’

‘King better appreciate this...’ She crouch-jogged away, around the side of the house and out of sight.

OK.

He slunk up the steps to the front door. Had to be half a dozen Yale locks there, the brass fronts all new and shiny... But the door wasn’t even shut — it hung open an inch, letting out the grimy scent of mildew and rotting wood.

He nudged the door with his stick. It swung open, creaking and moaning on ancient hinges.

The scent of decay got thicker as he stepped over the threshold.

Dark in here. Shockingly enough, what with it being after sunset.

Should’ve brought a torch, you idiot.

Yeah, well it was too late for that. He’d have to improvise.

Logan dug his phone out and opened the torch app. Swept its pale grey glow around the grubby hallway. Not great, but it would have to do.

He crept forward.

A floorboard creaked under his feet.

God, it was manky in here: the whole place filthy and crumbling. Holes in the floorboards, the foul black Tic-Tac shapes of rat droppings scattered along the skirting. Drifts of leaves had blown in through the broken windows, gathering in the corners like trolls. What was left of the wallpaper peeled off in sagging curls. Dry and brittle after the hottest June on record.

He peered through a hole in the wall to what must have been the kitchen — collapsing units and curling linoleum. No King.

OK, try the open doorway on the right.

It led into a bedroom. Childish drawings scrawled their way across the walls in ancient crayon, a sagging metal-framed double bed rusting against the wall, its mattress little more than decaying skin and spring bones. No King.

Logan turned back towards the hall and a thundering clatter erupted in his face. Forcing him backwards. Stumbling. Battering down against the ancient floorboards, hands raised in self-defence, heart thudding like a blowout on the motorway, phone skittering away.

The house martin squeaked, wings crackling as it did a circuit of the gloomy room, then swooped out through the broken window.

Oh God...

He shuddered, forcing his breathing to slow down. ‘Bloody hell.’

It was only a bird. Not Mhari Powell with her dirty big knife.

Still alive.

He pushed himself up to his knees. Then his feet. Pulse pounding at the base of his throat as he bent to pick up his phone. Cracks spidered out from one corner, reaching across the screen. ‘Wonderful.’ Because the car getting ruined wasn’t bad enough. Things had to get worse.

He crept into the hall again. Opened the door to the kitchen, just in case. Still no King.

A filthy bathroom at the far end.

Stairs — the treads rotten and blistered as they reached up into the darkness. Sod that. Besides, there was no way King had climbed them. Anything heavier than a small terrier would probably go straight through the wood and crash down into the basement. Plus: no footprints in the dust.

Which left the door at the end of the hall. Only this one was closed.

Logan stuffed his cracked phone in his pocket, raised his battering-branch, and reached for the handle. Took another deep breath.

In three, two, one...

He threw the door open and charged inside.

A cloud of bluebottles growled into the air as he staggered to a halt in the middle of what must have been the living room. Maybe ‘living’ was the wrong word for it. A collection of five chest freezers lurked in the dark, little green lights down by the base of the units showing that they were on, accompanied by a low gurgling hummmmmmmmm.

Logan dug out his phone again and played its wheezy glow across the chest freezers. They all had one of Mhari’s horrible messages spray-painted on them. The only one not switched on was ‘WALLACE’.

The room’s windows looked out over the cliffs to the North Sea, everything reduced to shadows and silhouettes as the night grew. The air warm, and... sickly, smelling of hot metal and rancid meat.

No King.

One by one, the flies settled onto the blood-smeared lid of the freezer marked ‘JUDAS’. It wasn’t the only freezer with stains on it, but the blood on ‘THREE MONKEYS’, ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’, and ‘SPITE’ had dried to dark muddy brown. ‘JUDAS’ shone a fresh bright red.

Logan stepped towards it and his foot skidded forward.

Aaaaaaa...

He braced himself, arms out, swinging them to keep upright.

Lurched to a stop. Then stared down at whatever it was he’d stood in. It glittered in a wide puddle that stretched from here to the base of ‘JUDAS’. Yeah, that was definitely blood.

‘Jesus.’

Every fridge freezer except for ‘WALLACE’ was padlocked, but for some reason ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’ and ‘SPITE’ had chains wrapped around them too — an extra brass padlock securing each in place. As if there was something in them that Mhari really didn’t want getting out.

Logan inched his way closer.

Closer.

Bluebottles staggered through the fetid air, buzzing around his head, glittering in the phone’s glow.

Closer.

He licked his lips.

Closer.

Reached for the chain and—

A pale face appeared in the broken window behind the freezer, ghostly and horrible and it screamed at him and he screamed back and they both flinched away. Then Steel clicked on a wee torch and shone it through the window. ‘You trying to give us a heart attack?’

‘Don’t do that!’

‘Nearly crapped myself, there...’ She puffed out a breath and lowered her torch. ‘Kingy’s no’ out here.’

Logan looked around the room again: the chest freezers with their spray-painted words. ‘Think I might have found Professor Wilson, Councillor Lansdale, and Scott Meyrick.’ He leaned on ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’ and frowned at her through the window. ‘We’re going to need a whole heap of SE techs to—’

A something thumped into the lid beneath his hands and he flinched away.

Steel let out another wee shriek. Then, ‘What?’

Holy buggering hell. Logan backed away from the chest freezer; there was someone in there. Someone—

His left foot hit something and he staggered again, nearly crashing down into the puddle of blood. Whatever he’d stepped on, it clanged and rattled against the floorboards.

Another thump from ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’. Then another. And another — the whole thing rocking and shaking. Muffled screams coming from inside.

Logan grabbed the padlock holding the lid shut and twisted. Yanked at it. But it was solid. Break it. Break it off. He raised the battering-branch, swinging it overhead and down on the padlock, setting it rattling. ‘CAN YOU HEAR ME? THIS IS THE POLICE!’

The thumping got louder. So did the screaming.

Logan hammered at the lock again. Twice. Three times... The branch snapped in his hand, its top half spiralling away to thunk against something in the darkness.

Sodding...

He swept the phone’s half-arsed glow across the floor.

There — the thing he almost fell over — the wheel brace from his Audi.

Logan grabbed it and smashed it down onto the padlock. Didn’t do anything to the padlock, but the bit of fridge freezer it was attached to snapped clean off.

The lid banged up as far as the chain would allow and a sliver of cold-white blared into the room as the internal light came on. A pair of eyes stared through the gap, breath seeping out in a cloud of pale grey. ‘HELP ME! PLEASE! HELP ME!’

Professor Wilson — it had to be. No mistaking that plummy voice, even under all the panic.

Wilson shoved the lid up again and again, rattling the chains, making the internal light pulse off and on. Causing the room to strobe. ‘HELP ME!’

The living room door banged open again and Steel marched in. ‘What the bloody—’

Logan pointed the wheel brace at her. ‘Switch them off! Switch them all off.’

‘GET ME OUT OF HERE!’

He stared at the chain, then at the next chest freezer in line: ‘SPITE’. It was padlocked too.

Steel dropped to her knees, torch clasped between her teeth as she fumbled about behind ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’.

Logan marched over to ‘SPITE’, tightened his grip on the wheel brace.

‘NO! DON’T LEAVE ME!’ Wilson’s voice cracked on the last word. ‘Get me out!’

He battered the lock twice, denting and deforming it. But the third go snapped the padlock off. Logan yanked the lid up as far as the chain would let him and the internal light bloomed its hard white glow. Difficult to see what was inside, because of the angle, but the interior was smeared with more dried blood. ‘Hello?’

Professor Wilson broke into sobs. Getting quieter and quieter, as if he’d used up the last of whatever he had left. ‘Please! Please... get me... get me out... of here.’

Was that groaning coming from inside ‘SPITE’? Difficult to tell with Wilson making all that racket, but it definitely sounded like groaning.

Logan grabbed the fallen padlock and wedged it into the gap — propping the chest freezer’s lid open.

Then turned to ‘JUDAS’.

No chain on this one, just the padlock. He battered it off and threw the lid open.

The internal light burst out into the gloom. Logan shielded his eyes, peering inside. Swore.

Detective Inspector King lay naked in the bottom of the chest freezer, curled up on his side, covered in blood.

Oh God...

She’d killed him.

Mhari Powell had killed Detective Inspector Frank King. Dozens and dozens of flat round nailheads glittered in the light, each one sticking out of King’s flesh on a short metal stalk. And they were everywhere: hammered into his arms, legs, chest, head. One poking out of his closed left eye.

‘Get me out, get me out, get me out.’

A faint curl of white fog oozed out from King’s bloody lips.

He was breathing.

He was alive.

Logan turned to Steel. ‘He’s still alive!’

‘Please, please, please, please, please...’

Steel must have finally found the plug, because the light inside ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’ died, leaving its occupant in darkness.

‘You have to let me out!’

She picked her way past the pool of blood on the floor and peered into ‘JUDAS’. Blinked. Shook her head. ‘Holy mother of...’

‘Please!’

Logan looked across the room to ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’, down at the wheel brace in his hands, then marched over there and rammed the metal rod between the chain and the freezer, turning it like a ship’s wheel, tightening the chain. It pulled the lid shut, sealing in Professor Wilson’s sobs.

Come on...

He leaned into it, pushing, twisting, teeth gritting, the muscles in his arms screaming at him, the scar tissue across his stomach joining in. Getting louder. Another heave, putting all his weight into it. Still nothing.

He glanced at Steel. ‘Little... help?’

She grabbed one end and he took the other, the pair of them straining and straining and straining until between them they’d managed to bend the wheel brace.

‘Buggering flaps of sharny shite!’ Steel staggered off a couple of paces, panting.

More thumping from inside the chest freezer as Professor Wilson started screaming again — but the lid remained securely closed, held there by the tightened chain.

She wiped a hand across her forehead and pointed at ‘THREE MONKEYS’. ‘We not going to open that one?’

Three Monkeys: that had to be Councillor Lansdale. Missing for the longest. And Mhari hadn’t bothered to put a chain on his chest freezer. Yeah, no prizes for guessing what they’d find in there.

Logan huffed out a breath. ‘Suppose we’d better.’

He unwound the wheel brace from the chain around ‘THE DEVIL MAKES WORK’.

Professor Wilson must’ve found a last reserve of panicked energy, because the lid bounced up again. ‘GET ME OUT OF HERE! I DEMAND YOU GET ME OUT OF HERE!’ Screaming and crying. ‘PLEASE!’

Steel grimaced at Logan. ‘He never shuts up, does he?’

Logan raised the bent wheel brace and hammered the padlock off the last chest freezer. Raised the lid. Cold white light spilled out of ‘THREE MONKEYS’.

She stepped up beside him and stared down at the twisted, bloody shape at the bottom of the chest freezer. Lansdale: skin a pale candle-wax yellow, where it wasn’t bright red, all of it covered in a thin sheen of jagged frost, partially wrapped in the remains of a shower curtain.

Logan closed the lid.

43

The world exploded with light and noise as the Air Ambulance howled from the field behind the building. Its search beams swept across Renfield House as it turned, then they were gone, fading with the bellowing roar of the helicopter’s engines.

Logan watched it disappear.

Then shook his head and started back towards the front door.

The SE Transit was parked right outside, a line of white-suited figures making their way in and out of the building. Carrying things in blue plastic evidence crates. A diesel generator grumbled in the background, work lights blazing away behind the house’s broken windows.

PC Greeny’s patrol car was parked there too, its blue-and-whites casting flickering shadows in the brambles and ivy.

Steel scuffed her way through the front door and down the steps. Stuck her e-cigarette in her gob and her hands in her pockets as she lumped across the grass to Logan. Vaping up a storm. ‘Any news?’

‘They’re not hopeful.’

‘Aye...’ She nodded. Looked away. ‘And before you say anything: don’t. You never think it’s going to happen, do you? Not to people you know.’

‘Not even if those people are “dicks”?’

‘Oh, you can hope it happens, but see when it does?’ A shudder rippled its way through her. Then she jerked her head towards the house. ‘Still, could be worse, I suppose.’

A uniformed officer led a shuffling figure down the steps and over to the patrol car. Scott Meyrick, wrapped in a crinkly golden space blanket. Crying, head down, one hand covering his face as he was helped inside.

Steel puffed out a thick bank of strawberry fog. ‘Meyrick’s in shock, but he’ll keep till the regular ambulance gets here, long as Greeny remembers to crank up the car’s heater.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Shirley says Lansdale’s frozen to the bottom of the chest freezer. All that blood. They’ll have to cart the whole thing off to Aberdeen, if they can get a spare van with enough room.’

‘Meyrick say anything?’

‘Pfff... They attacked him in his house, battered him over the head. Next thing he knows, he’s waking up in a chest freezer — it’s chained shut, but they’ve left him enough slack to let air in. Then, about two, three hours ago he hears screaming. After that, Mhari padlocks the freezers and turns them on. Leaves him to die.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Yup.’ She pointed in a vague southward direction, where the helicopter had gone. ‘What about Wilson?’

‘Tough as old boots. He’ll live.’ Logan scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘You know who Hardie and the rest are going to blame, don’t you?’

‘Hardie? He’s one of them dicks we were talking about.’ She pulled the e-cigarette from her mouth and spat into the long grass. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’

Probably.

‘The fifth chest freezer, the empty one — “Wallace”?’

‘Aye: Mhari Powell’s no’ finished yet.’

A low throbbing hum infused Aberdeen Royal Infirmary’s High-Dependency Unit. The lights were dimmed, blanketing the ward in a sticky warm gloom that marked the boundary between the living and the not dead yet. The clinging on and fighting.

Hopefully.

Logan leaned against the corridor wall, looking in through the window to one of the darkened rooms.

They’d given King the hospital bed nearest the wall, not that he knew it. He lay there, still as a corpse, as a team of three nurses hooked him up to machines and bags. Wires and pipes and tubes everywhere. Most of the nails had been removed — replaced by blood-spotted gauze patches and the occasional section of fibreglass cast — but the ones in his head still glittered in the bedside light. Whatever antiseptic they’d swabbed him down with had left mottled orange-brown blotches on his pale skin, like a botched fake tan.

Logan checked his watch: five past three.

Four hours in surgery didn’t seem a lot, considering. Yet there King was. Still breathing.

‘Inspector McRae?’

Logan turned.

A woman stood in the middle of the corridor, in blood-smeared scrubs and hospital clogs, hairnet on her head, bags beneath her drooping eyes. Facemask dangling under her chin. A name badge with ‘MR KATE HILLS’ on it. ‘I’ve seen some things in my time, but this?’ She shook her head. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. We’re pushing fluids. Will it make a difference?’ A shrug.

‘Is he going to...?’

She took off her hairnet and sagged even further. ‘The irony is, if it wasn’t for the chest freezer he’d probably be dead already. Yes, you’ve got an air-tight seal, but the cold lowers your metabolic rate so you don’t consume so much oxygen, and you don’t bleed out so fast. Which means more time for clotting to occur. But still.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out a plastic box — about the size of a takeaway container. When she held it up to the light, the galvanised clout nails inside glimmered a dull red. ‘Seventy-five millimetres long, that’s about three inches in old money. You can cause a lot of internal damage with thirty of them.’ She handed it to him. ‘You’ll need to sign for that.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I don’t even want to touch the ones in his skull till he’s stronger. Assuming he survives the night.’

Logan raised his eyebrows at her and she shrugged again.

‘Thirty / seventy. At best.’

The same chance they had of finding Mhari and Haiden at Ceanntràigh Cottage.

She gave Logan a pained smile. ‘To be honest, he’s lucky he made it this far.’

Scott Meyrick’s hospital room wasn’t as cluttered as King’s — no cortege of nurses fussing around, no bank of machinery to bleep and ping and flash warning lights. He was on his own, sitting up in his bed, with an IV in his arm. Eyes screwed shut, tears spilling down his cheeks, shoulders heaving as he sobbed.

A large gauze pad sat in the middle of his face, held there by a cordon of surgical tape. Red and yellow dots stained the pad’s centre, where his nose should have been.

Poor sod.

Logan settled on the edge of the bed. ‘How are you?’

Meyrick turned his face away, one hand coming up to hide the padding. His voice was strange — hollow, flat and thin. Jagged with crying. ‘They... turned... me into... a monster... I’m a monster!’

Logan put a hand on his leg through the covers. ‘The reconstructive surgeons are very good here. Some of the best in the country.’

‘I was going... to be on... Strictly.’

‘Did they say anything to you, Scott? When they grabbed you, or when you were in the... in the freezer? Anything at all?’

He dropped his hand and stared at Logan. ‘Look at me.’

‘Doesn’t matter how small a thing it was, anything you can tell us might help us catch her.’

‘LOOK AT ME!’ He grabbed at the gauze pad and ripped it down, exposing two narrow slits. Raw and bloody. All that was left of his nose. Mhari had carved it away, right down to the bone. ‘Look at me...’

Logan picked the gauze pad up from the scratchy NHS sheets and placed it over those two bloody slits again, smoothing the sticking strips down. Doing his best to sound as if he knew what he was talking about: ‘It’ll be OK. I know this all seems horrific and overwhelming, and that’s because it is. It will get better, though. You have to give it time.’

‘I was... I was... going to be... someone!’

Oh God.

He wrapped his arms around Scott Meyrick and held him as he sobbed.

What was it about the paintings lining the hospital corridors? You’d think, after all this time, they’d have lost their ability to dredge up the past, but every time he saw them it was the same. The boredom of limping up and down for months. The vague nausea that accompanied every gelatinous overcooked glob of beige cauliflower cheese. The tugging, nagging pain of stitches. And yet another vow never to get stabbed again.

He turned the corner into the Monitoring Ward — the paintings swapped for corkboards covered in memos, notices, and the odd thank you card.

A uniformed PC sat on a plastic chair, parked outside one of the private rooms. Small and dark-haired, the sleeves of her Police Scotland T-shirt stretched tight by huge biceps. She looked up from her celebrity gossip magazine as Logan approached, and smiled. ‘Guv, I heard you were back. How’s the stomach?’

‘Slightly less stabby.’ He pointed at the observation window behind her. ‘What about our friend, Professor Wilson?’

She grimaced. ‘DS Steel’s in with him now.’ Then lowered her magazine. ‘If I’d known I was going to be stuck here all shift I’d have brought a book.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Oh he’s said lots of things, mostly about how incompetent Police Scotland are and how he’s going to sue us for not rescuing him earlier.’

Of course he was. Because no one said thank you any more, did they? No, it was all lawsuits this and formal complaints that.

Logan looked in through the window — all the lights were on in the room, showing Steel, sitting in one of the visitors’ chairs with her feet up on the bed. Professor Wilson was slumped against the pillows, the stumps of his wrists covered in fresh bandages. Two IV lines hooked up to one arm.

Odd.

‘I thought there would be more... shouting.’

The constable nodded. ‘Oh, there was to start with, but she’s calmed him down somehow.’

‘Probably doubled the morphine going into his drip.’ The smile faded on Logan’s face. ‘You don’t think she’d do that, would she?’

‘With Steel, who can tell?’

He knocked on the glass and the Wrinkly Horror looked up. Nodded at him.

Two minutes later, the door opened and Steel slouched out, cracking a huge yawn. Then a shudder. And a sigh. ‘Pffff...’

Logan stepped in front of her. ‘Have you fiddled with Professor Wilson’s morphine?’

‘Course no’.’ Scuffing past. ‘But you’ll be happy to know he’s no’ threatening to sue us any more.’

Really?

She wandered off down the corridor.

He turned and looked through the window again. Professor Wilson sat there, with his stumps in his lap, face pinched, shoulders trembling as he cried. OK...

Logan hurried after her. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘You really don’t want to know. How’s Kingy?’

‘Not good.’

Another yawn. ‘Told you this whole thing was an utter disaster.’

The car park opposite the hospital’s main entrance was lit up like a very ugly Christmas present that had been wrapped by an undertaker.

According to Logan’s watch it wasn’t even twenty to four yet, but faint blue was already creeping into the dark violet sky. Marking the coming dawn.

A wee auld mannie sat hunched in his wheelchair, beneath the portico lights, sooking away on a roll-up, holding the smoke down as if it was more vital to his health than the oxygen tank he was hooked up to.

Steel stepped out into the night air, pulled out her e-cigarette and vaped up a cumulonimbus of watermelon steam. ‘You can’t blame yourself, you know that, don’t you?’

Logan leaned against one of the bollards. ‘Yes. But I still do.’

A sigh. ‘Yeah, me too.’ She had a good industrial-strength sniff. ‘Who do you think this “Wallace” is?’

‘Been wondering that myself.’ As if they didn’t have enough imponderables on this sodding case. ‘I’ll get Nightshift to go through the HOLMES data, see if anyone called Wallace has cropped up anywhere.’

‘Mind you, there wasn’t an actual “Judas”, was there? Maybe...’ She stopped, turned, and stared at the little old man. ‘What the hell you think you’re looking at, Grandad?’

The grey wrinkly chin came up. ‘Havin’ a fag.’

‘Aye, well sod off and do it somewhere else, this is police business.’

He scowled at her. ‘That’s no’—’

‘Go on, hop it. Before I do you for loitering with intent.’

He stubbed his cigarette out and grumbled away on his wheelchair. Muttering about fascists and living in a police state.

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that really necessary?’

‘He’s on an oxygen tank. Silly sod shouldn’t be smoking anyway.’ Steel took an extra hard drag on her e-cigarette as if to emphasise the point. Then blew it all out at Logan. ‘As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, maybe “Wallace” represents an idea instead?’

Maybe.

‘Like “Three Monkeys”?’

‘Aye: ears, eyes, tongue; “Devil Makes Work” is hands; “Spite” is nose; “Judas” is thirty pieces of silver. Well, thirty galvanised seventy-five-mill clout nails, but it’s the thought that counts.’

‘So what the hell is “Wallace”?’

She frowned out at the pre-dawn light for a bit, puffing away at her personal storm cloud. Then shook her head. ‘Buggered if I know.’ Another huge yawn shuddered through her. ‘Lovely Roberta needs her bed. And maybe a nightcap.’ She jiggled one leg. ‘And I wouldn’t mind a wee, either.’

So much for that.

Logan patted her on the shoulder. ‘Go home, I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘What about you? You look like something Mr Rumpole sicked up.’

Felt like it too.

‘Nah, I want to check in with the team first.’ He pointed away towards the car park. ‘Go on, away with you. I’ll get someone to run me back to HQ.’

‘Fair enoughski.’ She sauntered across the road, leaving a steam-train cloud of vapour in her wake.

Logan waited till she’d climbed the stairs and disappeared inside, then sighed. Turned around and went in search of a lift.

Their MIT office... well, Logan’s MIT office now — at least until the top brass came in at seven and assigned someone to replace DI King — was virtually empty. A couple of saggy-faced support staff hammered away at the HOLMES suite, adding in details from Ceanntràigh Cottage and Renfield House to the database.

The rest of Divisional Headquarters was like a mausoleum, though, not even the distant dubstep whub-whub-whub of a floor polisher to break the sepulchral silence.

Logan perched on the edge of a vacated desk and frowned up at the whiteboard nearest the door. The one he’d printed the word ‘WALLACE?’ on in big green letters.

Who, or what was ‘Wallace’?

One of the support staff got up from behind her desk, stretched, and slouched over to the laser printer as it burrrred and chugged. Picked a sheet of paper from the output tray. Handed it to Logan.

She didn’t do a very good job of stifling her yawn. ‘There’s no one called Wallace come up in the investigation — searched for first and last names, aliases, and addresses. Did every variant spelling and potential typo I could think of too. Sorry.’

Bugger it.

Logan nodded. ‘Thanks.’

She shrugged and went back to her computer, leaving him with the piece of paper that said exactly what she’d just told him, only in fewer words: ‘NO MATCH FOR “WALLACE” IN SYSTEM.’

He dumped it in the wastepaper basket and frowned up at the whiteboard again.

Wallace.

It wasn’t a random word, it couldn’t be. It meant something to Mhari Powell.

But what?

Maybe she meant William Wallace?

But he was a national Scottish hero. Three Monkeys, The Devil Makes Work, Spite, Judas — they were all pejoratives. Betrayals and punishments. No way she’d lump William Wallace in with that lot.

So ‘Wallace’ had to mean something else.

Wallace. Wallace. Wallace...

‘Who are you?’

44

The Transit van rattles and pings as Mhari pulls into the car park and switches off the headlights. This time of night, the only other vehicles belong to the overnight staff — going by the manky Citroën Picasso and the tricked-out Renault Clio, that would be Stupid Steven and Grandma Mags — abandoned near the main doors for a quick getaway when their shifts end.

Mhari takes the ancient Transit and parks it in the corner nearest the residents’ wing. Where Grandma Mags won’t be able to see it from reception.

She pulls on her black leather gloves and slips out into the warm night. Dressing like a ninja probably isn’t necessary, but it’s traditional, isn’t it?

Not as if Mags pays any attention though. Could drive a herd of buffalo through here and she wouldn’t notice.

Look at her, sitting behind the desk with her head buried in a breeze-block sized Stephen King, all lit up by the reception lights, because she doesn’t see why she should have to sit there in the dark. Not that it’s all that dark. Four in the morning, but the sky’s already slipping from navy to eggshell blue. Be sunup soon.

Better get a shift on.

Mhari jogs along the side of the building, past the dark windows of the residents’ lounge and around the corner. Pauses at the staff break room. The window’s open a crack, letting a faux-Scottish accent ooze out. One with more than a hint of the down-under about it. Banging on about freedom and battering the English army.

She peers in through the window and there’s Stupid Steve — big and burly, with a spade-shaped forehead, slouched in an armchair in front of the telly, one hand tucked into the waistband of his trousers, mouth moving silently as he recites the words in time with the film. Hollywood karaoke, for the permanent wanker.

Mhari keeps going, around the rear of the building, till she finds the fire exit she wants. The one that’s just down the corridor from where she needs to be. The one that’s never alarmed.

She jimmies it open with a wee wrecking bar in about thirty seconds and slips inside.

Course the other benefit to using this particular fire exit is that the nearest security camera faces the other way. And it’s not like they splurged on a fancy one that moves, either.

A wheelchair sits in a small recess opposite, blocking the door marked ‘LINEN CLOSET’. She wheels it down the corridor to her dad’s room: ‘SAOR ALBA’ even thought it should be ‘ALBA SHAOR’. Still, that’s men for you.

She lets herself in.

The reading light is on above the bed, bathing its occupant in warm golden light.

He’s asleep, flat on his back, with an oxygen mask on his face. Much paler than last time. Skin like paper stretched over a thin bone frame, tinged blue and purple and yellow. As if his whole body’s one big bruise, fading out of life. Even his tartan pyjamas look ready to die.

Mhari reaches out and takes hold of his foot. Gives it a soft shoogle. Keeping her voice down. ‘Dad? You ready to go?’

‘Mnnnghnn...’ He shifts a bit, then settles into the pillows again.

She gives him another shoogle. ‘It’s time, Dad.’

He blinks, fumbles his way to consciousness. Face pinched, looking around like he’s never seen the room before. ‘Gnnn...? I’m... What?’

Poor old soul.

‘I understand, Dad. Come on, we’ll get you sorted.’

She pulls the horrible blue blankets off of him and piles them up on one of the visitors’ chairs, positions the wheelchair by the bed, sticks the brakes on, then scoops her arms around his chest — under his arms. Up close he smells sour and sickly sweet, all at the same time.

In his heyday, “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead was a huge man, powerful, terrifying. But there’s so little of him left, it’s like he’s made of balsa wood. She lifts him into the wheelchair and covers him up with the blankets again. Clips the oxygen tank onto the support struts. Does the same with the morphine drip.

‘Haiden? Haiden, are we going home?’

‘No, Dad.’ She kisses him on his papery forehead. ‘We’re going somewhere much, much better, remember?’

He nods, eyelids drooping as she makes him comfortable. And soon his breathing is shallow, but regular. She wheels him out through the door.

Down the corridor.

Turn at the emergency exit and...

Damn it.

Stupid Steve is right outside the door, standing there, facing away from the building, smoking a joint and fiddling with his phone. Paying no attention to anything but himself.

Mhari sets the brakes on Dad’s wheelchair again and slips her hunting knife from its sheath. Sharp and glittering. Then creeps across to the other side of the emergency exit and flattens herself against the wall.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Stupid Steve finishes his joint, pinching out the tiny roach and sticking it in a wee metal tin — the kind you get breath mints in. He puts his phone away, spits out into the dawn, turns and steps inside again.

Stops dead and frowns down at the wheelchair and its occupant. ‘How did you get out here?’ A sigh. A shake of the head. ‘Bloody crips. Crips and old farts, far as the eye can see. Pfff... Come on then, you old git, let’s get you—’

She steps up behind him and puts the knife to his throat. Twists it a little, so he knows what it is.

Gets a wee squeak in return.

Probably working his way up to wetting himself.

Mhari leans in close to Stupid Steve’s ear. ‘That “old git” is more of a man than you’ll ever be, Steven. He’s a hero. What are you again?’

‘M... Mary?’ His voice trembles. ‘Have you lost your—’

She gives the knife another twist and he lets out a tiny strangled scream. There’s the sound of water hitting the lino and the scent of warm fresh piss.

‘There are civilian casualties in every war. Do you want to be one of them?’

‘No!’

‘Then turn around. Slowly.’

Stupid Steve puts his hands up. ‘Please don’t kill me! Please don’t—’

‘Turn around, or I will kill you.’

And he does: cheeks wet with tears, blood trickling down his neck and into the collar of his nurse’s whites, bottom lip trembling. Aw, shame. Poor wee thing.

She smashes the hilt of her knife into his forehead, hard. His knees wobble, eyes rolling back, then he collapses like a bag of wet laundry into the puddle of his own making. Should rub his nose in it. But instead she hooks her hands under his armpits and drags him over to the door marked ‘Linen Closet’. Unlocks it with the keys hanging from his belt. Bundles him inside.

Hmm...

Stupid Steve’s a bit too big to fit in the narrow space — what with all the shelves full of towels and bedding and the like. Never mind, she can make it work. Mhari shoves and kicks until everything but one arm is stuffed in there. Bad luck, Steve: she stomps on it till the bones snap and his arm bends enough to get the door shut.

Mhari turns the key, then breaks it off in the lock.

Well, wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.

‘Come on, Dad.’ She clicks off the wheelchair’s brake and pushes him out through the emergency exit and into the dawn.

Only been a few minutes, but it’s already brighter out here. Birds warming up for the dawn chorus. Some lights flickering on in the airport way beyond the chain-link fence.

‘It’s OK, Dad. The plan’s changed, but everything’s going to be fine.’ She wheels him down the side of the building, towards her ancient Transit van, a smile pulling her face wide. ‘Trust me.’

45

The canteen vending machines buzzed and gurgled in the gloom. Yes, officially the sun had risen, but it hadn’t climbed high enough to clear the grey granite walls of King Street yet, so gloom it was. Especially as Logan hadn’t bothered to switch on the lights.

After all, when you were trying to force down a plastic cup of ‘Instant Brown Horrible’ from the machine, not being able to see it was probably a bonus. How did they manage to get coffee to taste like that? As if someone had set fire to a used nappy and then boiled the blackened remains for three and a half—

The overhead lights bing-ed and flickered, warming up to a soulless white glow.

Tufty let the door swing shut behind him as he squeaked across the canteen. Yawning. Bags under his eyes. But dressed in his full Police Scotland black. He gave Logan a wee wave: ‘Sarge.’

‘What are you doing in at...’ Logan checked his watch. ‘half four in the morning?’

Tufty grimaced and plonked himself down on the chair opposite. ‘I’ve got alerts set up so if someone posts certain “somethings” it pops up on my phone.’ He dug his mobile out, poked at the screen, and slid the thing across the tabletop. ‘Woke up to this.’

Pale pink filled the screen, then a galvanised nail appeared — long and dark, with a round flat head, clutched between a couple of fingers. A hammer slid in from the other side.

Logan flinched away from Tufty’s phone. ‘Please tell me that isn’t...’

The point of the nail rested against the pink and the hammer battered down on the head, driving straight in. Blood welled up around the nail shaft as the hammer swung in again and screaming bellowed out from the speakers. The footage shaky, going in and out of focus as the hammer battered into shot again and again and again.

The instant coffee turned to battery acid in Logan’s stomach.

‘Jesus...’ He pushed the phone away. ‘Get it taken down. Get it taken down, now!’

Tufty paused the video. ‘I’m trying. But soon as it went up it got spread across the Alt-Nat message boards like Marmite.’ A long deep sigh. ‘Not sure if it’s bots, or people in the US, or what spreading it, but you’d think all our home-grown nutters would be asleep right now.’ He curled his top lip and turned the phone screen-side down on the tabletop. ‘Some people are sick.’

Logan groaned.

They were screwed. Completely and utterly screwed.

‘It’ll be all over the morning news, won’t it?’

Just when things couldn’t get any worse: they did.

‘Sorry, Sarge. Don’t know if this means we missed the Scotty Meyrick video, or if Mhari didn’t bother posting it, because this one was better.’

He thunked his head on the table, making his plastic coffee jiggle. ‘Steel was right: I should’ve gone home to bed!’

‘Yeah... Erm, Sarge? I bumped into Bouncer on my way in. From Scene Examination? Wanted me to give you this.’ Tufty held out an Audi key fob. ‘Said they’ve finished doing the swabbing and taping and photographing and you can have your car back now.’

Logan closed his eyes and groaned again.

‘They’ve parked what’s left of it in the Rear Podium car park.’ A pause. ‘He says sorry about all the fingerprint powder, but they didn’t have time to clear it up, what with everything going on out at Renfield House.’

Even better.

Logan sagged in his seat. ‘I hate this job.’

Tufty tried for a smile. ‘Anyway...’ He picked up his phone and poked at the screen again. ‘I’m still not having any joy finding out who the fake Mhari Powell really is. Her social media profile twists like an eel in a tumble dryer, and it’s got all these weird layers to it too. Loads of different aliases and usernames, but they’re all definitely her.’ More poking. ‘Some of her accounts are screamingly Alt-Nat, some of them are rabid Alt-Brit-Nat. Sometimes she starts flame wars with herself, then goes quiet and lurks as everyone else piles in. Poking the bear every now and then.’ Tufty frowned as he scrolled. ‘It’s weird.’

‘You’ve got nothing at all?’

‘Only that she’s been using “Mhari Powell” as an alias for about two years.’ He scooted forward in his seat. ‘But you’ll like this: I does has a hypothesis! The real Mhari Powell works in a psychiatric facility, so maybe that’s where the fake Mhari Powell met her? Maybe we should try sending the fake Mhari’s photo to the real Mhari and see if she rings any alarm bells?’

What?

Logan tried to keep his voice level. ‘Are you telling me no one’s actually done that yet?’

‘Nope.’

Oh for God’s sake, he was working with MORONS.

He covered his face with his hands and strangled a small scream.

How could King not get that organised? How could he be so sodding...

Lying, unconscious, in a hospital bed, with nails sticking out of his head.

Gah...

Logan stared up at the ceiling tiles.

Steel was right: the whole thing was a complete and utter cocking disaster.

‘Erm, Sarge? Does that mean you want me to try?’

He forced the word out between gritted teeth. ‘Please.’

‘Okeydoke.’ More fiddling with his phone. ‘Done. Emailed it off to that bloke at Northumbria Police with the warty nose.’

Though, knowing their luck, it would be a complete dead end. As per.

Logan sagged even further. ‘What does “Wallace” mean to you?’

‘And Gromit?’ A pause — and swear to God, you could actually see the hamster wheel inside Tufty’s head spinning until he finally got it. ‘Oh, from the chest freezer. Right. Yeah. Probably not “and Gromit” then. So...’ He wrapped one arm around himself, the other hand tapping at his forehead. Then his eyes widened. ‘Ooh, ooh, I know: William Wallace!’

Well, asking Tufty had always been a long shot. It wasn’t as if he was renowned for his Sherlock-Holmes-style steel-trap intellect, was it? He wasn’t completely thick — the boy was great on sci-fi trivia, so if Star Trek, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, or Battlestar Galactica came up at a pub quiz, he was your man — but actual police work? Might as well ask a drunken hedgehog to fill out your tax return.

‘Nope: already thought of that. Wallace is a hero to her, the other chest freezers are named after punishments. Betrayals. It doesn’t fit.’

Tufty rolled his eyes. ‘No, listen, Sarge: they captured him at the battle of thingummy and took him down to London, didn’t they? Hanged, drawn, and quartered him.’ Wrinkles appeared on that hollow forehead. ‘Though technically it should be drawn, hanged, and quartered. A lot of people think drawing was taking out your inside bits, but it was really them dragging you through the streets to your place of execution. And if we’re being pedantically technical, it should be drawn, hanged, castrated, disembowelled, and dismembered. Cos they hack you into more than four bits and they’re not of equal size, so—’

‘OK! I get it: Wallace is a hero and a punishment.’ Logan held up a hand. ‘You can stop talking now.’

‘Oh, and after they cut off your gentleman’s relish they burn it in a fire, right in front of you. Then do the same with your intestines: the world’s most horrible barbecue.’ A nod. ‘You should ask Rennie about it. He’s the history buff. I only know this stuff cos it was in a game of Dungeons and Dragons.’ Tufty smiled, eyebrows up. Eager. ‘Have you played?’

‘No, genuinely: stop talking.’

‘Honestly, it’s not just for kids, you should try it!’

Logan covered his face with his hands again. ‘Kill me now.’

‘I’m playing a dwarf called Tuftin Oakenbeard and she’s got this enchanted axe that—’

The canteen door banged open and a uniformed PC bustled in, red-faced and breathless. Lanky, with a prominent nose, like a human ice axe. She had a quick scan of the empty room then hurried over. ‘Inspector McRae!’

‘Oh, thank God.’ Saved.

‘Been trying to get you on your Airwave. And I was up and down them stairs a million times looking for you! I’m absolutely—’

‘Can we skip straight to the message, please?’

‘Oh, right.’ PC Godsend pouted a little, as if she’d been rehearsing her moan and now didn’t have anyone to perform it for. ‘OK, well, there’s been a break-in at that Ravendale Sheltered Living Facility. Someone’s abducted “Gaelic Gary” Lochhead.’

Logan stared at her, then at Tufty.

Tufty’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

Then they were both on their feet, running for the door.

Bang: out into the stairwell.

Tufty screeched to a halt on the grey terrazzo flooring, arms pinwheeling to keep himself upright. ‘Wait, wait: stabproof!’ He turned and scurried off down the stairs, voice echoing against the concrete. ‘I’ll catch up; don’t go without me!’

A couple of security lights broke through the grey shadows that swamped the Rear Podium, reflected in the windscreens of half a dozen parked patrol cars. And what was left of Logan’s Audi.

Overhead, the sky was already heading towards a bright cheery blue, but down here it was definitely bloody horrible.

His poor car...

Sitting there, exposed in the security light’s merciless glow, it actually looked worse than it had when he’d found it abandoned near Renfield House. More battered and scraped. More falling to bits.

He was still staring at it, mourning, when Tufty lurched up, struggling under the weight of two stabproof vests and a pair of utility belts.

‘Argh... Heavy, heavy, heavy!’

Logan popped the boot and Tufty dumped the lot inside with a grunt.

Then staggered away a couple of paces, wiping at his shiny face. ‘I nicked one off the rack for you too, and a full Belt-O’-Many-Things as well. Don’t tell anyone, but I might have forgot to sign for it, OK?’

‘Promise.’ Logan clunked the boot shut and climbed in behind the wheel.

The inside was dusty with fingerprint powder — making it look even more grey in the dim light — and turning the key set the engine rattling and groaning like a tractor. His lovely Audi was not a well car.

Tufty got in the passenger side, mouth stretched wide and down, eyebrows pinched up in the middle. ‘Oh dear.’

It backfired twice as Logan reversed it out of the space, and again on the way down the ramp onto Queen Street. He frowned: there was something buzzing and squeaking that didn’t buzz or squeak before.

‘Erm, no offence, Sarge, but maybe we should take a pool car instead?’

Logan glowered at him. ‘Oh... shut up.’

A patrol car sat outside Ravendale’s main door, sideways, taking up four parking spaces. Logan pulled up next to it in his groaning growling squeal-and-rattle Audi. Switching off the engine was a bit like a mercy killing.

Soon as he hauled on the handbrake, Tufty was out, scurrying around to the boot, phone clamped to his ear. ‘I know, but according to the Many-Worlds theory, you were already awake in a parallel universe, so it’s not that bad is it?’

He held the phone away from his ear, grimacing as Logan walked around to the boot and popped the lid. Tufty helped himself to one of the stabproof vests — scrrretching a Velcro side panel open. ‘No, Sarge... Yes, Sarge... Sorry, Sarge. But Inspector McRae says—’ His eyes widened and pink rushed up his cheeks as he wriggled into his vest. ‘I’m not telling him that, Sarge!’

Tufty grabbed a utility belt and Logan thunked the boot shut again — headed for reception.

‘No, Sarge...’ Phone pinned between his ear and his epaulettes as he followed, hooking himself into the belt. ‘Yes... OK... It’s not my fault! I’m only—’

Logan grabbed Tufty’s mobile, talking into it as he pushed through the main doors. ‘Listen up: I want a nationwide manhunt organised. Alert every station in the country, ports, airports, bus stations, motorway service stations, and everything in between. Now get your hairy backside out of bed and into DHQ, you useless sack of cat jobbies!’ He handed the phone back. ‘Don’t let Rennie bully you.’

All the colour vanished from Tufty’s cheeks. ‘Yeah... That’s not Sergeant Rennie on the phone, it’s DS Steel.’

Oh sod.

Still, too late now. ‘Tell her to get her arse in gear, then.’

It wasn’t the usual bland grey-and-beige man behind the reception desk — he’d been replaced by an older lady in a brown cardigan and oversized spectacles, fussing over a big lump of a man in a nurse’s uniform. Holding an ice pack to his forehead as he squirmed.

His right arm was in a sling, the fingers poking out the end like mouldy sausages, all purple and swollen. He was working on a pretty stunning pair of black eyes too.

No sign of whoever turned up in the badly parked patrol car.

Logan marched over to the desk and nodded at Nurse Black Eyes. ‘Are you the one who called it in?’

Black Eyes had barely got his mouth open before Granny Cardigan jumped in. ‘Naw, that was me. Heard crying and banging coming from the linen cupboard and thought one of our residents had got a bit lost.’

‘I wasn’t crying, I was calling for—’

‘Key was snapped off in the lock. Had to kick the door in.’ She didn’t look capable of kicking the skin off a bowl of custard, so God alone knew how she’d managed that. ‘And there he was.’

‘I wasn’t crying!’

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Did you see who took Gary Lochhead?’

The black eyes narrowed. ‘Oh I saw her all right. She—’

‘It was that Mary Sievewright. Can you believe it?’

The nurse turned a squinty glower at her. ‘Can I tell—’

‘She was such a nice wee thing when she worked here. Never said boo to a duck.’

Wait a minute: ‘Mary Sievewright? Who’s Mary—’

‘She hit me!’ Black Eyes slapped Granny Cardigan’s hand away and she lowered the ice pack, revealing a round circle of red, about the size of a golf ball, bruised into the skin between his bloodshot eyes. ‘Could’ve fractured my skull!’

Tufty wandered over, stuffing his phone into his pocket. ‘DS Steel’s on her way, Sarge. So’s Sergeant Rennie.’

Logan nodded at him. ‘Have you heard of a Mary Sievewright?’

‘Sievewright?’ Tufty pulled his phone out again and poked at it. ‘Sievewright, Sievewright... Yup. Mary Sievewright’s one of her social media aliases.’ He handed it to Logan.

A Facebook page filled the screen. The username might have been ‘MARY SIEVEWRIGHT’ but the profile pic was definitely Mhari Powell, only blonde and wearing glasses.

Tufty pointed at his phone. ‘Alt-Brit-Nat account. Very sweary.’

‘Sweary?’ Granny Cardigan pulled her chin in. ‘Oh, that doesn’t sound like our Mary at all. She made a lovely sticky toffee pudding.’

A harrumph from Nurse Black Eyes. ‘Bet I’ve got concussion now.’

Logan showed him the profile pic. ‘This her?’

‘Bitch. She snuck up on me! Otherwise...’ He mimed strangling someone.

Yeah, he looked the type.

Logan turned the phone’s screen so Granny Cardigan could see it. ‘I need her employment records.’

46

PC Guthrie leaned against the wall of Gary Lochhead’s room, hands tucked into the armholes of his stabproof vest. Smiling like a cheerful potato, with a number two haircut and a big sex-offender moustache in various shades of grey. ‘She got in through the fire door down the corridor.’

‘Hmm...’ Logan flipped through Mary Sievewright’s file again. No disciplinary notes, always on time for work, excellent rating for her six-month appraisal.

‘The duty nurse keeps the alarm turned off so he can sneak out for a,’ Guthrie gave Logan a knowing wink, ‘“cigarette” whenever he fancies. She nicks a wheelchair and bashes Mr Nursey on the forehead with the heel of her knife.’

Top marks on the internal training courses. Commendation for saving a resident’s life by administering CPR.

Guthrie sniffed. ‘He’s lucky she didn’t use the stabby end.’

Logan stared at him and he shrugged.

‘No offence, Guv.’

‘Mhari’s face has been on every news broadcast and front page for days. How come Nurse Black Eyes didn’t recognise her?’

‘Nurse...? Ah, OK, you mean the dick with the broken arm. There’s a very good reason for that: he works nights and is a bit thick.’

Tufty appeared in the doorway and gave Guthrie a wee wave. ‘Hey, Al.’ Then slouched over. ‘I did a search for “Mary Sievewright”: no criminal record and the address she gave the care home is a rental bedsit in Stoneywood.’ He pulled a face. ‘The current tenant was not chuffed with me phoning at ten past five in the morning.’

‘Current tenant?’

‘Been there two months.’

Logan closed the file. ‘So about the same time Mhari stopped working here.’

‘Yup. It’s like she adopts a new persona every time she needs something, then ditches it and moves on to the next. Well, except online. She collects those.’

Hmmm...

On the other side of Gary Lochhead’s window, through the chain-link fence, Aberdeen Airport was winding up for its first flight of the day. Wee trucks bumbling about, people in high-viz doing their best to look busy. Logan watched a couple of them manoeuvre what had to be a fuel tanker alongside a 747. ‘Why would Mhari abduct her own father?’

Guthrie held up a finger. ‘Ah, but maybe she doesn’t know he’s her dad.’

‘Bit of a coincidence if she doesn’t.’

‘Ooh!’ Tufty’s turn. ‘Maybe it’s an escape attempt?’

Behind them, someone cleared their throat. Everyone turned to face the door.

Nurse Black Eyes stood there, with his ice pack, sling, and scowl. ‘Janice wants to know if you want tea or coffee. Like I’m a sodding tea boy.’ He tucked the ice pack under his arm and fingered the lump growing between his eyes. ‘And it can’t have been an escape, cos there’s nothing to escape from. Gary Lochhead’s free to go at any point — he’s not being detained here, it’s palliative care. At the taxpayer’s expense, by the way.’

Interesting. ‘How palliative is palliative?’

‘If he’s not snuggled down in his coffin by next week, it’ll be the week after. I’ve seen enough OAPs kick the bin to know “end-stage” when I see it.’

Heartless little sod.

Logan gave him a cold smile. ‘In that case, we’ll have two teas and a coffee. Milk in all three, two sugars in the coffee. And see if you can rustle up a packet of biscuits, eh? Constable Guthrie is partial to Jaffa Cakes.’

The scowl deepened, then Black Eyes turned and stomped off. ‘Like I’m a sodding tea boy; I’m badly injured here...’

Tufty puffed out his cheeks. ‘Nice to see compassion is alive and well in the private healthcare sector.’

A nod from Guthrie. ‘Told you the man’s a dick.’

Logan waved a finger around the room. ‘You searched all this yet?’

‘Not so much as a porn mag under the mattress, Guv. That’s the problem with the internet, it’s killed the joy of discovering unexpected boobs, willies, and exciting combinations thereof.’

Damn.

Logan did a slow three-sixty: door, en suite shower room, bedside locker, hospital bed, visitors’ chairs, wheelie-table thing, window, and last, but not least, Gary Lochhead’s painting of that recumbent stone circle. ‘What about this? Did you search it?’

‘Funny you should say that, Guv,’ all innocent, ‘but I was just about to when you came in.’

‘I’ll bet you were.’ He reached up and unhooked the painting from the wall.

Nothing hidden behind it. So he turned it the other way around. Nothing tucked into the frame either. ‘LOUDON WOOD STONE CIRCLE’ was printed on the bare canvas in black Sharpie, above Gary Lochhead’s signature, a Saint Andrew’s cross, the word ‘BARLINNIE’, and ‘4TH MAY 2016’ — presumably the date it was painted. So no sodding use at all.

Worth a try.

Logan hung it on the wall again.

Guthrie raised an eyebrow. ‘No porn?’

‘If you’re Mhari Powell, and you’ve abducted your terminally ill father, where do you take him?’

‘Ah, now you’re asking.’ A big happy potato smile. ‘I’ve always fancied going back to Padova.’ Sigh. ‘There’s this wee restaurant, Corte dei Leoni, does a gnocchi in salsa di formaggio that’s—’

Tufty hit him. ‘Meanwhile, in the real world: Gary Lochhead’s dying, right? Maybe he wants to do it somewhere special? Maybe that’s why Mhari got him out of here? I mean, most people want to die at home, right? Only he can’t, because he doesn’t have one any more, but maybe...’

There was something about the painting. Not just the colours, or the light. Something special.

‘Sarge?’

Otherwise why would Gary Lochhead keep it there all these years?

Tufty tugged on his arm. ‘If you like it, don’t think anyone would mind if we took it in as evidence.’

A nod from Guthrie. ‘It’s pretty good, really. Not Gustav Klimt good, but as paintings go?’

‘Ooh, it’d look great in the incident room! DHQ could do with a bit of brightening up.’

All these months, lying there looking up at a painting he’d done years ago in a Glasgow prison.

‘Sarge? Earth to Planet Sarge? Come in, Planet Sarge.’

Logan turned and grabbed Tufty by the shoulders. ‘You, my geeky little friend, are a genius!’

Tufty stuck his arms in the air. ‘Yay!’ Then lowered them as Logan barged out through the door. ‘Wait, what did I do this time?’

Logan’s Audi roared and spluttered its way across Dyce, the siren sounding as if it was trapped underwater. Only one of the blues worked, flickering off and on like a demented Christmas tree as they made for the nearest on-ramp to join the ring road.

Tufty fiddled with his phone, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he clicked and scrolled. At least it kept him quiet, which was more than you could say about Steel.

Her voice groaned through the hands-free kit. ‘Are you kidding me?’

‘I know it’s a stretch, but—’

‘I only got into the sodding office two minutes ago — after about an hour’s sleep, by the way, thank you very much — and you want me to go out again? I’m organising a major buggering womanhunt here!’

He threw the Audi around the roundabout. Accelerating out of it in the gravelly growl of a broken exhaust pipe. ‘It’s not—’

‘And Rennie’s getting me a coffee. Can I at least drink my coffee?’

‘Mhari’s been building up to something and she needs a big finale. Her “Wallace”.’

The dual carriageway lay empty in front of them as the speedometer crept up to seventy, the engine sounding like a slow-motion explosion in a tuba factory. The steering wheel juddering in Logan’s hands.

‘Aye, and what about backup? You remember what happened last time? Assuming this isn’t all some huge spud-funting waste of time.’

She’d walked right into that one.

‘Well, since you’re volunteering: sort out a firearms team, dog unit, OSU, and everything else you can get out to Loudon Wood Stone Circle. And do it quick: we’re on our way there now.’

‘Oh, in the name of God’s sharny—’

He poked the ‘END CALL’ button before she could get going.

‘Err, Sarge?’ Tufty waved at him from the passenger seat. ‘Shouldn’t we get King’s team involved too? They’ve kinda got a vested interest.’

True.

‘Go on then.’

Tufty took out his phone and dialled. ‘Sergeant Gallacher? It’s Tufty.’ A pause as he smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, I do know what time it is, thanks.’

The needle nudged eighty and the noise got worse. With any luck the car would make it as far as Loudon Wood before the engine managed to eat itself...

The sky shone a brilliant blue as they hammered up the A90.

‘Sarge?’ Tufty poked away at his phone, face all scrunched up. ‘I has a worry that this stone circle is going to be an absolute bumhole to find. All the websites say it’s buried away in the woods.’

‘If Mhari can find it, we can find it.’

Traffic was getting heavier, as the morning commute from Ellon to Aberdeen kicked off. All those lucky sods who didn’t have to be at work till six, when Logan was still there from seven o’clock the previous sodding morning.

‘Yeah, but what if we get lost in the woods, Hansel and Gretel style?’

‘You’ve got GPS on your phone, you idiot.’

‘I know that. But it’s the woods. And it’s dark. And in the middle of nowhere. And there’s probably Druids lurking with sickles waiting to sacrifice nubile young police officers to the ancient bloodthirsty gods.’

Logan overtook a bread van. ‘Thought you said it was two minutes outside Mintlaw?’

‘That just means the Druids have a shorter commute.’

Mind you, the proximity to Mintlaw wasn’t a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all. ‘Traffic Unit’s based there — give them a call and see if they’ll lend us some officers. They’ve got to have someone on nightshift.’

‘Okeydoke.’ He pressed the button on his Airwave. ‘Control? Can you put me through to whoever’s in charge of the Divisional Road Policing Unit nightshift?’

A bored voice crackled out of the handset’s speaker. ‘Connecting you now.’

It was replaced by a wailing siren overlaid on the sound of a racing engine and a woman shouting over their combined racket. ‘THAT YOU, TUFTY?’

‘Sergeant North? Dude! Well, Lady-Dude. Er... I mean: safe to talk?’

‘NOT HUGELY, CHASING A BMW ON THE A947 NORTH OF FYVIE. MAN’S DOING NINETY!’

‘Have you got anyone we could borrow? We need to chase down a murder suspect in the woods outside Mintlaw.’

‘GOT ONE CAR IN PETERHEAD, AND THE OTHER’S IN PORTSOY. WHICH WOODS?’

‘Loudon.’

The racing engine noises got louder. ‘LEAVE IT WITH ME. GOTTA GO!’

‘Thanks, Sarge.’

But she’d already hung up.

Tufty let go of his Airwave and grimaced at Logan. ‘No way they’re going to get to us in time. Not from Peterhead, Portsoy, and Fyvie.’

Logan tightened his grip on the shuddering wheel. ‘Then it’s you and me, isn’t it?’

‘In the woods. With the Druids.’

47

The Audi made a gurgling, grinding noise as Logan wrestled it along the twisting road, west out of Mintlaw. Sheep and barley — caught in the early morning sunshine — no longer streaked past the car windows, because no matter how hard he tried, the damn thing wouldn’t go faster than forty any more.

Tufty hunched over his phone, staring at the map. ‘Soon...’

Great chunks of Forestry Commission pines marched across the landscape, curling over the hilltops or standing in gloomy regiments — breaking up the patchwork blanket of fields.

Heather’s voice fizzed and crackled out of the car’s speakers. ‘About a mile south of Ellon, blues-and-twos all the way.’

‘Thanks, H.’

Tufty pointed through the windscreen at a road sign not-so-rapidly approaching on the left-hand side of the road. ‘SKILLYMARNO’, ‘STRICHEN’, ‘WHITE COW WOOD FOREST WALKS’, ‘WHITE COW WOOD CAIRN’, and most importantly: ‘LOUDEN WOOD STONE CIRCLE 2 ½’.

The wee lad bounced in the passenger seat. ‘There! Take a right.’

Logan stamped on the brakes and threw the Audi around the turn. Tyres squealing. Something clanging ominously under the bonnet as if it was in the process of falling off.

‘Guv? DI King, is he...?’

Good question. ‘They’re doing everything they can.’

‘OK. Well, then, it’s up to us, isn’t it?’ One of the chunks of forestry pines loomed up on the right. ‘Guv? If you see her — don’t let her get away this time. Run her over if you have to. But she spends the rest of her life in jail.’ There was a pause. ‘And take a care, OK?’

‘We’ll do our best.’ He ended the call.

Tufty looked up from his phone. ‘Not far now.’

The road twisted and turned, skirting the edge of the woods.

‘OK, Sarge, should be a right coming up... there!’

Logan slammed on the brakes again and the Audi slithered past the entrance to a dirt-and-gravel track down the side of a converted bungalow. He stuck it in reverse, getting a horrible grinding noise for his trouble before the gears finally meshed. Front nose dipping as he wheeched backwards. Then into first again to ease around onto the track. Killing the gurgling siren and what was left of the lights.

The trees closed in on either side of the car.

Tufty grimaced at the canopy above them and shuddered. ‘Not meaning to put the jinx on it or anything, but last time you and I went for a drive in the woods, things didn’t end so well.’

‘Yes, thank you, Officer Quirrel, for bringing that up.’

‘What I mean is we should be extra-super careful this time.’

‘You keep this up and it won’t be Mhari Powell or rabid Druids you have to worry about. It’ll be me.’

The car lurched and rolled along the uneven track, suspension making ominous thunking noises with every pothole. Heading deeper into the dark-green forest depths.

Even with the morning sun blaring down, it was dark in here — the light blocked by thick layers of leaves overhead. On either side of the track, the earth was a blanket of pale grey needles, spread between the trunks. Blaeberry bushes lurking in the shadows.

The car’s speakers crackled and burred for a bit, announcing an incoming call as the word ‘CONTROL’ appeared on the display. Logan hit the button. ‘What’s happening with my Thugs, Dogs, and Guns?’

‘Inspector McRae, safe to talk?’

‘Are they on their way?’

‘OK, so I spoke to the Duty Superintendent and she wants to know why you haven’t done a risk assessment, resource allocation request, and filed a—’

‘Because it’s an evolving situation! Because I’m trying to catch a killer.’ Getting louder. ‘And because Mhari Powell isn’t going to sit on her backside waiting for me to fill out four tons of bloody paperwork!’

There was a pause, then, ‘I see. And you’d like me to pass that on to the Superintendent, would you?’

‘Yes. And feel free to add some expletives!’ He stabbed the ‘END CALL’ button. ‘AAAAAAARGH!’

Tufty grimaced. ‘So they’re not on their way?’

A fork in the track up ahead.

‘Left or right?’

Tufty consulted his phone. ‘Left.’ He fidgeted in his seat. ‘You know, maybe we should wait for backup?’

‘Be irresponsible not to.’

‘Only I don’t want Mhari Powell capturing me, cutting bits off, and posting them to the BBC. I need my bits. All my bits. They’re very nice bits. Kate’s quite fond of some of them.’

‘No one’s cutting bits off anyone.’ A sigh. ‘But if we sit on our thumbs, waiting for backup, and she kills Gary Lochhead...?’

‘I know. “Blundering on regardless” it is.’

The woods opened up on the right, turning into a patchy scrub of felled stumps and bushes. A fox hopped out from them, onto the track, and froze, staring at the approaching wreck of Logan’s Audi, before padding across and away into the wood on the other side.

Logan put on a reassuring voice. ‘Besides: Steel’s right. We’re probably wasting our time. There’ll be nothing here.’

‘Ooh, and that means we can go for great big breakfast butties at...’ His face did a distressed-frog impersonation. ‘Oh dear.’

A filthy Transit van sat at the side of the track, two wheels up on the needle-strewn verge. Rusty, streaked with mould. The kind of van you found dismembered body parts in.

Tufty licked his lips. ‘Is it me, or does that look hella ominous? I think it looks ominous. It looks ominous, right?’

Logan parked behind the ominous van and killed the Audi’s engine. Well, put it out of its misery anyway. ‘Might not be hers.’

‘Yeah, right, right. Maybe it’s just Druids? They like stone circles, don’t they? Like in Asterix and Obelix? Nice, friendly Druids.’

‘Thought you said Druids were going to sacrifice us to the elder gods?’ Logan climbed out into the morning heat. Barely gone six and it had to be at least eighteen degrees — the warm air thrumming with the sound of insects and birds.

Tufty emerged from the car, talking into his Airwave handset. ‘I need a PNC check on a white Transit...’

Logan left him to it and picked his way over to the van instead. The side door lay open, but the only things inside were two empty cardboard boxes — one for a camera tripod, the other for a phone-mount, going by the packaging.

He turned.

A path led away into the woods, right in front of the van’s open door, narrowing as it went. Swallowed by the gloom.

Logan checked the van’s cab: nothing but an empty Twix wrapper and a crumpled tin of Irn-Bru. When he stepped down onto the track, Tufty was waiting for him.

‘Van belongs to one Jeffrey Moncrief — same guy who owns Ceanntràigh Cottage. No valid tax, insurance, or MOT.’ Tufty kicked the front wheel. ‘Tyres are bald too.’

He took a step towards the path, then stopped. ‘Tufty? No risks, OK? If it all goes wrong, you don’t play the hero, you get the hell out of there and wait for backup.’

‘OK. But only if you put on that stabproof vest and Belt-O’-Many-Things I got you.’ He held up a hand before Logan could say anything. ‘No point me stealing it, otherwise, is there?’ A small cough. ‘Well, not stealing, stealing: borrowing. You know, what with you being Professional Standards and all. Borrowing. Definitely not stealing.’

‘Deal.’

The path into the woods barely deserved the name, it was so overgrown and lumpy. Outside, in the real world, the sun was blazing down, but in here gloom ruled. The scent of pine sap, sticky and thick in the dusty air.

Four feet from the ‘path’, the forest floor was shrouded in a darkness that swallowed everything. And they’d only been in here a minute.

But at least they knew they were going the right way: a pair of parallel indentations scoured the tracks through the fallen needles beneath their feet — thin and about a metre apart. The kind of marks you’d make with a wheelchair.

Tufty sniffed. ‘Course it might not be.’

Logan kept going, slow and careful. ‘Shut up.’

‘Might be a couple of kids out on their bikes.’

Something moved in the shadows off to the right and they froze. Maybe it was that fox again? Or a homicidal maniac with a dirty big knife... The sound faded. Tufty puffed out a long, slow breath.

Onward.

A clump of blueberry bushes beside of the path, the fruit a hard, unripened green. A wheelchair lay on its side, abandoned next to it.

‘Kids on bikes?’ Logan pulled the wheelchair upright. Across the back, in big white letters, were the words, ‘PROPERTY OF RAVENDALE ~ DO NOT REMOVE FROM SITE’. Bit late for that.

Drag marks led from the chair away into the woods proper.

Tufty shuffled his feet. ‘Should I check on our backup, Sarge?’

‘We did that ninety seconds ago, you muppet.’

‘Ah. Right.’ He eased his extendable baton from its holster, sniffing the air. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Can you smell that?’

Logan took a deep breath... A warm, crackling smell familiar from years of bonfire parties. ‘Wood smoke.’

‘The world’s most horrible barbecue...’

Oh sodding hell.

Logan snapped out his baton. ‘We’re too late!’ Charging into the woods, shoving branches out of the way, stumbling over the uneven ground, breathing hard.

They burst out from the trees into a wide clearing full of knee-high grass and weeds. Clumps of reeds. Scrambling coils of brambles reared like frozen explosions, punctured by the vivid-green curl of ferns. And, at the centre of the clearing: a ring of stones, their grey surfaces speckled with lichen and moss. Most of them had fallen over, but a few still stood as tall as they had five thousand years ago. Ancient and feral.

The recumbent stone lay on its side at the opposite end of the circle, like an altar, flanked by a vertical on the right and a fallen stone on the left. A fire crackled beside it, coiling out pale grey wood smoke. But it was what loomed behind the altar that really caught the eye: a rough wooden tripod, fashioned from fallen trees — about twelve foot high and tapering to a point. The individual trunks weren’t that big around, barely more than you could encircle with one hand, but together they were clearly sturdy enough to support Gary Lochhead’s weight.

He dangled from the apex, dressed in a pair of tartan jammies, a noose around his neck, the rope looped over where the trunks were lashed together.

He wasn’t dead yet, though. His legs twitched, bare feet swinging, shoulders shaking, both hands behind his back, face scarlet but heading rapidly towards purple. Eyes bulging as Mhari sliced his dusty pyjama bottoms off with a huge shiny hunting knife.

Or at least, it was probably Mhari — difficult to tell with the black hood over her head, but who else could it be?

Logan broke into a run. ‘YOU THERE! STOP! POLICE!’

‘YOU HEARD HIM!’ Tufty charged through the tussocks and undergrowth, waving his baton over his head. ‘DROP THE WEAPON!’

Mhari turned, her knife glinting in the sunlight. She’d cut two eyeholes in the hood, but up close it looked more like a pillowcase. Baggy and square-cornered. ‘You’re too late.’

Closer.

‘DROP IT! DROP THE KNIFE NOW!’ Tufty peeled off, heading for the right-hand side of the recumbent stone.

Logan took the left. ‘It doesn’t have to end this way, Mhari.’

A genuine laugh. ‘Yes it does. Of course it does.’

Gary Lochhead’s struggles were getting weaker as his face darkened. Naked from the waist down.

Tufty made it behind the stone, slowing, his free hand up, palm out. ‘Come on, Mhari, he’s your dad. You can’t do this.’

She looked at the knife in her hand, then up at Gary’s body. He wasn’t struggling any more. A nod, then Mhari pulled at a slipknot and her father’s body crashed to the ground.

Oh, thank God for that.

Logan inched nearer. ‘That’s better. Now, put the knife down.’

‘I dragged him here. I hanged him till he was barely conscious.’ She tilted her black-hooded head to one side. ‘Why would I put the knife down? This is where the important bit starts.’

Tufty edged closer. ‘He’s your dad, Mhari!’

‘WHY DO YOU THINK I’M DOING IT?’ She wiped at her eyes through the hood. ‘Lung cancer.’ Jabbing the knife towards Gary’s half-naked body. ‘He’s a hero! All his life he’s been fighting for Scotland and you think he’s going to die in some crummy care home?’

Couldn’t be more than six foot between her and Logan now. He stepped around the recumbent stone — past a bright-blue duffel bag and an abandoned shovel — closing the gap. ‘Put the knife down and you can tell us all about it.’

‘Our generation needs a William Wallace moment of its own. Something relevant to the slack-jawed masses sleepwalking their way through life. Something to wake them up!’

‘Inspector McRae’s right, Mhari: butchering your dad isn’t going to do that. Come on, let us help him, yeah? Before it’s too late?’

‘Oh I’m not butchering him, “Mary Sievewright” is.’ Mhari pointed at another tripod — a smaller one this time. A smartphone was mounted on top of it, a little red light winking on the screen. ‘Mary’s doing it as revenge for Professor Wilson, Councillor Lansdale, and Scott Meyrick. Filming it and posting it to every Unionist website she can find. “LOOK WHAT I’VE DONE!” she’ll cry. “LOOK WHAT THESE SCOTTISH BASTARDS DESERVE!”’ Mhari whipped off her hood and beamed at them, eyes wide. ‘And our side will turn that into a rallying cry. The people who were asleep will answer and join us. Together, we’ll drive the English from our country like the scum they are!’ Finishing with her arms out as if expecting a round of applause.

Unbelievable.

Logan shook his head. ‘It’s too late, Mhari. They’ll know it was you who killed him.’

‘They won’t care.’ She lowered her arms and stepped towards Logan. ‘Welcome to the post-truth world, Inspector. Welcome to alternative facts and conspiracy theories, echo chambers and filter bubbles. People don’t care what’s true any more, they care about what reinforces their beliefs.’

Tufty had made it as far as Gary Lochhead. ‘Sarge? I don’t think he’s breathing.’

‘It’s over, Mhari. Put the knife down.’

‘His death can mean something. We can cast the English out of Scotland! Rise up and be the nation again!’ Hauling in a deep breath to bellow it out: ‘FREEDOM!’

Yeah...

Maybe not today.

Logan unclipped the pepper spray from his utility belt and emptied half the canister right into her face.

She spluttered, staggered away a couple of paces, eyes screwed shut, free hand coming up to wipe the liquid from her skin... Then screaming rang out across the clearing as she dropped the knife and clawed at her cheeks. Fell to her knees. Wailing.

Tufty lunged for Gary Lochhead, kneeling beside him and wrestling with the noose. Hauling it free and feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s definitely not breathing!’

‘CPR. Mouth-to-mouth. Don’t let him die!’ Logan shoved Mhari onto her front and pulled out his cuffs. ‘Mhari Powell: I am arresting you under Section One of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016, for the murders of Councillor Matthew Lansdale and Haiden Lochhead...’

48

The fire had gone from a crackling blaze to a hot red glow, perfect for cooking. But, thankfully, Gary Lochhead’s innards were no longer on the menu. A couple of paramedics knelt beside him: one working away at chest compressions and humming ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ to herself, while her partner fiddled about with a defibrillator.

‘Clear!’

Paramedic Number One stuck her hands in the air and Gary Lochhead spasmed. Then she felt for a pulse. ‘Come on, come on, come on...’

On the other side of the stone circle, Steel scuffed her feet through the long grass, vaping away and talking to someone on her mobile phone. Rennie was on his phone too, pacing around one of the upright stones, face creased. Both of them too far away to make out what they were talking about.

Not that it mattered.

Not now they had ‘Mhari Powell’ in custody.

She sat with her back against a fallen stone, her face a study in beetroot and scarlet. Cheeks glistening with tears, top lip and chin glistening with snot. The delightful aftermath of a face full of pepper spray. She glowered up at Logan through bloodshot, swollen eyes. ‘This changes nothing.’

‘Oh, I think it does.’

She sniffed and spat. ‘So you lock me up, so what? I won’t be the first political prisoner to lead a revolution from inside a jail cell.’

‘Political prisoner? You abducted and mutilated four people including a police officer. You murdered two people — maybe three if the paramedics can’t save your father. I don’t think anyone’s going to have a hard time telling you and Nelson Mandela apart.’

‘Nelson Mandela led the armed resistance, you moron: he was a founding member of Umkhonto weSizwe. So yes, like him I’ll be a martyr for my country.’

Tufty joined them at the fallen stone. ‘A nutjob for your country, more like.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, to where the paramedics were wrestling Gary Lochhead onto a stretcher. ‘They’ve got his heart going again, but can’t say if it’ll stay that way, so they’re wheeching him out of here, ASAP. Air ambulance is on its way.’

Mhari kept her puffy eyes fixed on Logan. ‘And your “police officer” had it coming.’ Her smile looked obscene on that swollen scarlet face. ‘I was going to cast Edward Barwell in the role of Judas, dirty little two-faced journalist dickbag. You know he used to be pro-independence? But soon as his paymasters changed, so did his opinion pieces.’

‘And then DI King caught up with you.’

‘He offered to “help me disappear” for a share of the gold. Can you believe that? He betrayed the PASL and he betrayed you as well.’ Her snot-slicked chin came up. ‘You should be thanking me.’

Over on the other side of the stone circle, Steel pulled the e-cigarette from her mouth and made a loudhailer with her other hand. ‘HOY! SOMEONE’S DUG A BIG HOLE HERE!’

Tufty stuck his chest out. ‘Was that where you were going to bury Gary Lochhead’s body?’

‘Bury him?’ She laughed, the sound thick and sticky with mucus. ‘I was going to quarter him and send the bits to the four corners of Scotland. Post his head to Holyrood and his heart to the First Minister. This is your early morning alarm call: rise and bloody shine, and do something instead of talking about it!’ She snorted. ‘Bury him.’

Then what was the hole for?

Logan stared at Mhari, then over at the recumbent stone. Pointed at Tufty. ‘Keep an eye on her.’ He picked his way across the rutted grass.

That bright-blue duffel bag was still there, along with the spade. He snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and undid the zip.

Inside was another bag, only this one was ancient — the leather rotting and caked with earth. Trying to open it made a chunk of bag come away in his hand, creating a gap the size of his fist.

Something inside gleamed.

Was that really...? It was.

He reached in and pulled out a gold ingot. Much, much heavier than it looked. Solid. Expensive. Wow. There was another one in there, every bit as shiny and impressive.

Steel stepped up beside him and gave a low whistle. ‘Think anyone would notice if we nicked one of them and split the proceeds?’

‘Yes.’ He slid the ingot into the crumbling bag again where it made a very satisfying clink. Then stood and marched back over to Mhari, grinning.

‘You sure we can’t nab one of them?’ Steel followed him, glancing over her shoulder at the bag. ‘Just a teeny weenie one?’

‘No.’ Logan stopped in front of Mhari. ‘Well, well, well. Looks like we’ve—’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Her angry-pink chin came up. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from. Hidden in secret caches all over Scotland. Waiting to fund the revolution. Guns, and bombs, and explosives aren’t cheap, but they’re worth every stolen penny.’

Steel squatted down in front of her. ‘See me? I’m all for independence. But I want a Scotland of the Enlightenment; a nation of fairness and equality; a nation that cares about the smallest, weakest person living here every bit as much as the biggest, richest one. A nation that welcomes everyone: aye, even the English.’ She patted Mhari on the leg. ‘What I don’t want is some sort of apartheid shitehole full of racist, moronic, ethnic-cleansing wankspasms like you.’

Rennie slumped over, face turned down at the edges, phone still clutched in his hand. ‘Guv? That was Control. The hospital say DI King passed away half an hour ago.’

Mhari looked up at Logan again. ‘Told you: you should be thanking me.’ She bared her teeth at Steel. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll save my voice for my lawyer.’

Logan pulled into the kerb, the Audi coughing and spluttering like a sixty-a-day man. Half the dashboard was dark, and the bitter smell of roasting plastic oozed out through the blowers. When he turned the key, the engine kept going for a couple of seconds, before finally grinding to a halt.

He sat there, both hands on the wheel.

The road was one long line of granite tenements, broken up by modern flats. Some sort of builder’s merchant on the other side, its yard full of bricks and racks of timber.

Black wires were draped across the front of King’s building, like an unconvincing combover, trying to hide the dirt-streaked stone and failing.

King’s flat was up there — second floor right — the windows ablaze with sunlight.

Deep breath.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel sighed and put a hand on his knee. ‘You want me to go in and tell her?’

Yes.

‘No. I should do it.’ He tried for a smile. ‘You stay here and look after the loon.’ Hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

‘Hmmm?’ Tufty didn’t look up from this phone, completely absorbed in whatever he was fiddling with.

Logan reached for his peaked cap, turning it in his hands. ‘It all went so horribly wrong.’

‘Aye. But look on the bright side: we caught Mhari Powell, or whoever the hell she really is, we saved—’

‘Ooh! Ooh!’ Tufty bounced in his seat. ‘I does has a result!’

Steel glowered over her shoulder. ‘Shut yer yap, Spongebob Crappants, the grown-ups are talking.’ She frowned at Logan. ‘Where was I? Oh, aye: we saved—’

‘No look, look!’ He poked his phone between the front seats, screen angled so they could see it. ‘Sergeant Wartynose, from Northumbria Police, has been to see the real Mhari Powell. He showed her fake Mhari’s photo and she recognised her!’

Steel snatched the phone from his hand and squinted at the screen. ‘Why have you got the font so small, how’s anyone supposed to read this?’

Tufty rolled his eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘Turns out our Mhari shared a flat with the real one years ago, when they were both training to be psychiatric nurses. Called herself “Margaret Lochleat” in those days. Apparently she was kinda obsessive and, I quote, “a bit of a weirdo”. Which is putting it mildly, given what we caught her doing.’ A grin. ‘See? I said that, didn’t I? I said she’d probably been—’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel tossed the phone over her shoulder — Tufty scrambling to catch it before it landed.

‘Hey!’

She turned to Logan again. ‘As I was saying, before I was so moronically interrupted: we caught her, we saved Gary Lochhead, and we recovered about...’ She pursed her lips. ‘About four hundred grand’s worth of stolen gold bullion? And you didn’t get stabbed this time. So I’m going to call it a win.’

Logan stared up at King’s flat again. ‘Then why does it feel like I’ve let everyone down?’

She gave his leg another squeeze. ‘Come on, we’ll get this done then head down The Questionable Gentleman for a huge fry-up and all the Stella you can drink.’

‘Can’t. The paperwork alone is—’

‘The paperwork can wait. You’ve been on since seven yesterday morning, Laz. Twenty-six and a bit hours. You did your best. Don’t make me be nice to you.’

He nodded and climbed into the morning sun.

Its heat wrapped itself around him, squeezing the air out of his lungs, pushing down on his shoulders like a heavy weight. Someone had propped the tenement’s door open with a bicycle, so he didn’t have to buzz. Instead he stepped inside and trudged up the stairs to the second floor. Stopped on the landing and straightened his uniform. Tucked his peaked cap under his arm. Shoulders back, chest out, like a police officer. Raised a hand to knock on the door, then stopped...

Voices inside. Too muffled to make out what they were saying, but one of them definitely sounded familiar. A man. His tone cheerful, even happy.

Well that was about to change. Delivering a death message tended to spoil the mood.

Logan knocked.

Took another deep breath. Rehearsing it: I’m very sorry, Mrs King, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Can I come in?

Didn’t matter how often he did it, it always felt like ripping someone’s heart out.

Mrs King? My name’s Logan McRae, I work with your husband. I’m afraid I have some bad—

The door swung open and there was Detective Chief Inspector Hardie. A bit pink in the cheeks. Smile fading on his face as he stared at Logan. He cleared his throat. ‘Inspector McRae.’

Logan blinked. ‘I... came to deliver the death message.’

‘Yes, well, I’ve already done that, so you can—’

‘Stephen?’ An English accent from somewhere inside the flat. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s all right, Gwen, I’m dealing with it.’ Hardie pulled his chin up, looking down his nose at Logan. ‘I think you’d better go now.’

A woman appeared behind him, drying her hands on a tea towel. Short and petite, with long black hair and full red lips. Strange — would’ve thought she’d be crying her eyes out in grief for her murdered husband, but hers weren’t even bloodshot. As if it didn’t matter. As if it might even have come as a bit of a relief. As if Frank King’s death wasn’t important enough to get upset about.

Logan looked from her to Hardie. The Detective Chief Inspector’s blush deepened.

She’s sleeping with someone at work. And not someone at her work, someone at mine.

So that’s how it was.

He nodded at Mrs King. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Then turned on his heel and marched away downstairs again.

The bloody pair of them deserved each other.