In a Place of Darkness

2

The patrol car turned the corner onto Balvenie Row.

‘Bloody hell.’ Its driver pushed herself back in the seat, arms braced against the steering wheel. ‘Feeding-frenzy time.’

A spotty PC, all elbows and Adam’s apple, squirmed in the passenger seat. ‘Not liking that, Colly. Not liking that one little bit.’

Sitting in the back — behind the driver, away from the dreaded ‘piddle patch’ — Angus leaned over to peer between the front seats and out at the windswept scene.

Row after row of identical, teeny terraced houses marched down the left-hand side of the road, facing a railway embankment covered in weeds and speckled with litter. Looking like the kind of community a kid would build if they didn’t have enough Lego for something decent.

About halfway down, the road was blocked with journalists and camera crews and outside-broadcast units and rubberneckers — all people who thrived on human misery, either professionally or vicariously. There was even a wee cluster of nutters with placards: ‘PROSECUTE VACCINE MURDERERS!!!!’, ‘THE END IS NIGH ~ MARK 13 IS COME TRUE!’, and ‘BEWARE THE GREAT RESET!!!!!’ Doing their best to get in the background as people did pieces to camera, because God forbid their whack-job personal crusades didn’t get rammed down the public’s throat every five minutes.

Bouquets, football scarves, and teddy bears smothered the street sign, leaving only the ‘ALV’ and ‘OW’ visible.

On the other side of the mob, the top half of a grubby scene examiners’ Transit van poked up into the grey sky. A similar chunk of white plastic marquee did the same — attached to the front of the house, hiding the front door. But everything else O Division had deployed was hidden behind the milling crowd.

PC Collier sniffed. She didn’t look comfortable in the full Police Scotland black, an impression not helped by a stab-proof vest that was two sizes too big. Her neck poked out the top like a turtle from its shell, bobbed dishwater curls stuffed into a sagging hairnet. ‘We’re never getting through all that.’ She pulled in behind a lumpy van with a satellite dish on the roof and the Channel 4 logo down the side. ‘A’biddy oot.’

Took a bit of shuffling, but Angus unfolded himself from the back seat and wriggled out into the blustery morning. Stretching his spine from side to side to free the knots.

PC Collier looked up at him towering over her. ‘Right, King Kong, you’re on your own from here. Me and the boy are door-to-dooring. Try no’ break anything, OK?’

‘Do my best.’

They set off, back towards the junction, clutching their clipboards and high-vis jackets.

Rather them than him. No more slogging around housing estates, trying to convince members of the public to tell the truth, for Angus. Not any more. He’d moved up to the Premier League.

He straightened his brand-new fighting suit — dark grey, machine washable, from Asda — and marched along the pavement. Past the outermost fringes of the media encampment, where a beefy-faced posh boy clutched a BBC Scotland microphone, looking serious for the camera.

‘That’s right, Siobhan, but sources close to the investigation have expressed their frustration at the lack of tangible leads.’

Behind the reporter, a youngish woman with shoulder-length black hair, dyed pink at the tips, hefted her placard: ‘PROSECUTE VACCINE MURDERERS!!!!’ She was pretty. Smoky eyeshadow with wing tips, pouty lips and an upturned nose. Lots of earrings. Black leather biker’s jacket, tight V-neck top, and combat trousers. Kinda—

Angus walked right into an old mannie in a hand-knitted duffel coat.

‘Whit the hell do you think you’re—’

‘Sorry! Sorry. My fault.’ Sidestepping around him, cheeks instantly hot. ‘Sorry.’

Keeping his head down, Angus marched on — the reporter’s voice fading into the background:

‘...showing no sign of abating, one thing’s for certain: everyone expects the killer to strike again.’

Angus waded into the crowd, making for the cordon. ‘Excuse me. Sorry. Thank you. Can I just...? Thanks.’

A hand grabbed his sleeve. ‘Hoy!’

Sod.

He pulled on his professional face and turned, ready to apologize for standing on whoever-it-was’ toes, but instead of an outraged civilian, the person looking up at him beamed.

‘You going to lumber past and not say “Hi”?’ Ellie — bundled up in a thick, bright-orange duvet jacket, with a woolly hat, pink ears, and a red nose. She hoiked a thumb at number twenty-one, with its crime-scene marquee. ‘Bit of a cock-up, isn’t it? Three sets of victims in just six weeks. The Daily Standard’s going with “Fortnight Killer”, which, in my humble opinion, is a load of old wank. Don’t you think it’s a load of old wank? You’re right: it’s a load of old wank. I’m going to come up with something much better, you watch.’

‘Morning, Ellie.’

‘And look at you, in a brand-new suit!’ She fussed with his lapels, brushed some invisible dust from his shoulders. ‘All grown up and detective-constabling. Bit of a step-up from eating worms at playtime. First-day nerves?’

His cheeks flushed hot again. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Course you are.’ Her eyes drifted skyward as a large drone snarled by overhead, shredding the grey air like an angry, oversized wasp. ‘Don’t let them push you about, OK? Anyone messes with my Angus they answer to me.’ She produced her phone and pointed the microphone at his face, putting on an OTT American accent: ‘Ellie Nottingham, Castle News and Post.’ Cheesy wink. ‘Constable MacVicar, what do you have to tell our readers about this horrible murder?’

He pursed his lips. Raised an eyebrow. ‘Can I...?’ Pointing over her shoulder. ‘Cos I’m going to be late.’

Ellie lowered her phone, the smile slipping away. ‘I worked with him on a couple of stories: Kevin Healey-Hyphen-Robinson. And, yeah, he could be a bit of a wanker, but mostly he was one of the decent ones.’ Her eyes narrowed as she looked out over the crowd. ‘Unlike some people.’

Angus followed her gaze to an older man — chunky with wide shoulders, thick sideburns, and frameless glasses. Dundas Grammar School tie at half-mast, the top two shirt buttons open, exposing one end of a thick pink scar. A photographer stood beside him, snapping pictures of the crowd with an oversized digital camera.

Angus turned to Ellie again. ‘Your Mr Healey-Robinson, how come nobody from the paper reported him missing till now? Twelve days. You’d think someone would’ve noticed.’

‘It’s cos he’d just been beaten to this massive corruption exposé by Slosser the Tosser’ — jerking her chin at the bloke with the bypass scar — ‘and if there’s one thing Kevin loves—’ Ellie stopped. Licked her lip. ‘Loved.’ She looked away. ‘He made a big thing of storming off in a huff whenever stuff didn’t go his way. Honestly — like a wee kid. You wouldn’t hear a thing from him for ages. Not till the next deadline. And when he missed that...’ A big, long breath. ‘So, here we are.’

‘Yeah.’

She gave herself a little shake. ‘Anyway, come on: make with the exclusive.’

‘Got to go.’

‘Hey! I shared with you.’

Angus gave her a pantomime shrug. ‘First day on the case, remember?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ She watched him wade into the scrum again. ‘Give ’em hell, Tiger.’

‘Bye, Ellie.’ Making for the cordon.

Her voice cut through the general hubbub behind him. ‘I can still make you eat worms, you know!’

Yeah, probably.

At the far edge of the crowd, Angus flashed his warrant card at the PC guarding the double line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape, behind which lurked a couple of manky patrol cars, that SE Transit, and the Healey-Robinson crime scene.

Angus ducked beneath the cordon.

No idea why, but for some reason things always felt different on this side of the line. As if the simple act of bobbing under a ribbon of plastic was the same as stepping through a magic mirror, or an enchanted wardrobe, into a world that most people would never experience.

If they were lucky.

He nodded at someone in the full SOC kit — no idea who, could be anyone, but better safe than sorry — then slipped into the marquee.

Inside, the light was thinner. Meaner. Dampening everything down. Even Abir didn’t look his usual vibrant self, despite the tartan turban and greying beard. Overseeing his miserable kingdom.

Which today consisted of two folding tables, a collection of cardboard boxes, and a pair of camping chairs.

‘Hey, Abir. DCI Monroe about?’

‘Inside.’ Abir raised his clipboard, blocking the way. ‘You gotta sign in first.’ He hooked a thumb at the nearest table. ‘Smurf suits is over there.’

Angus scrawled his signature in the appropriate place. ‘Any news?’

‘Aye — rather you than me. Take a deeeeeeep breath before you go in.’

‘OK...’ Ominous and not in the least bit helpful.

Angus wriggled his way into an XXL SOC oversuit, the white Tyvek material crinkling and rustling as it strangled his bits and armpits. ‘Any chance we can get some of these big enough for normal-sized people, Abir?’ Looking down at the bunched-up crotch. ‘Might want to have kids someday.’

‘Now there’s a horrible thought.’

The suit was joined by a pair of blue plastic booties, a facemask, safety goggles, and a double set of purple nitrile gloves.

Right.

Time to go in there and show them what he was made of.

Angus huffed out a breath, pulled his shoulders back, stood up tall — winced as the suit tried to nip his balls off — hunched over again, and finally pulled the plastic sheeting to one side, exposing the front door.

Keeping his voice low. ‘You can do this...’

He opened the door and stepped through into a small hallway, painted an electric shade of blue that emphasized the fridge-like temperature. Even with the mask on, Angus’s breath steamed in the chilly air. Every inhale brought with it the stench of decay and the taste of tainted meat. Not sure which was worse.

He popped his head through the first open door.

Living room: burnt-umber walls; lots of framed photos; big TV; impressive stack of audio equipment; a whole bookcase full of LPs; and three SE techs in their crunchy SOC suits, taking photographs, lifting fingerprints, searching for fibres and DNA...

Next up: downstairs toilet — a tiny space painted orc-green.

He paused at the foot of the stairs as muffled voices pulsed down from above. Too low to make out any real words, but the tone was clear enough. Serious. Worried.

The last door was shut, but opening it revealed a small kitchen with a space at one end for a wee wooden table and four matching chairs. That cloying stench of meat long past its sell-by date avalanched out into the hallway.

Good job he’d not stopped for breakfast this morning.

The SE team had set up another marquee in the back garden — probably to stop the press and lookie-loos from having a good ogle through the kitchen window and patio doors. Because nothing sells newspapers like a pixelated bloodbath. The back-garden marquee wasn’t white like the one out front, though: it was blue. Giving the light a mourning, underwater feel.

As if the whole house had drowned.

Over by the table, a lone SOC-suited figure womanhandled another huge digital camera, the clack and whine of the flash sending jittery shadows racing around the room as she shifted a ruler-for-scale and took another shot.

Someone had laid out a common approach path — an elevated walkway of skateboard-sized metal rectangles, on short little legs that clanged as Angus stepped up onto the one nearest the door. Keeping him from treading in the evidence.

And there was a lot of it.

What was clearly blood had dried to a sticky Marmite brown — spattered and smeared across the collection of holiday photographs that covered the wall behind the table. More dried blood had puddled on the tabletop, caught in congealed drips around the rim. A vast loch of the stuff spread across the floor.

The taste of decay mingled with the sharp-yellow scent of a pub urinal.

Maybe best not to breathe too deeply in here.

Angus followed the path, past the butcher’s table and into the kitchen area. A collection of jars and bottles sat on the draining board, a hessian bag in the sink: stained dark purple, but flecked with green mould. Fingerprint dust covered the worktops and units. Turned a fancy chromed coffee maker dull and matt. But it looked as if all the horrible stuff happened in the dining part of the room.

He picked his way back along the walkway, frowning down at the tabletop.

The SE tech lowered her camera and raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s where the vic was.’ She snapped another pic. ‘You new?’

‘First day on the team.’

A little snort. ‘Well, you picked a good one to start with. Wanna see what you missed?’ She fiddled with the camera, then held it out, turned so the screen on the back was facing him.

Angus leaned in.

It was a wide shot of the kitchen table, taken from the corner beside the patio doors. Only now, the seat nearest the kitchen, where all the blood was, had someone in it. Male... probably. They’d been stripped to the waist, but the skin was so discoloured and swollen that it was difficult to be sure. Black, purple, blue, grey, the dark yawning holes of what might be knife wounds, the deformed shapes that spoke of shattered bones, all wrapped in a revolting khaki-green tinsel where the mould had spread. Both hands were fixed to the bloodstained wood with what looked like wood screws.

Whoever it was, they hadn’t died an easy death.

A stained yellow Post-it had been nailed to their forehead — though the camera’s screen was too small to make out the words — and their eyes were no more than thin black slits.

Angus swallowed. ‘Jesus... They cut out his eyes?’

‘What?’ She turned the camera around the right way again, squinting at the picture. ‘No. What kind of sick sod would do that? No, your eyeballs are one of the first bits to go. Bacteria love a tasty jelly-filled feast.’ A sniff. ‘Nearly two weeks, just sitting there, decomposing. We’re lucky someone switched the central heating off, or we’d be scraping the poor sod off the kitchen floor.’

Now there was a lovely thought.

He pointed at the tabletop, where half a dozen small circular holes punctured the wood either side of where their victim sat. Three on the left, three on the right. ‘What about these?’

The SE tech lowered her camera. ‘Eighty-mill self-tapping wood screws.’

Another half-dozen screw holes marred the table, directly opposite. ‘Same again?’

‘Just like the other two crime scenes: all the way through the table and out the other side.’ A blue nitrile glove hovered above one of them. ‘See how there’s nowhere near as much blood on this—’

A man’s voice groaned across the kitchen — sounding as if all the energy had been battered out of it. ‘Detective Sergeant Massie, please, for the love of all that’s holy, explain why there’s an unauthorized hulking-great lump wandering around my crime scene.’

Ah...

That would be Detective Chief Inspector Monroe.

Angus stood up straight, ready to snap off a salute as he turned.

A thin, rustling, SOC-suited shape slumped in the doorway. What with the facemask and goggles it was impossible to see the expression on Monroe’s face, but he still radiated disappointment.

Behind him, a second figure looked over Monroe’s shoulder at Angus and the SE tech. DS Massie tilted her head to one side, as if that would make the answer any clearer. ‘I... er...’

Time to make a good impression.

Angus stuck his hand out. ‘Detective Constable Angus MacVicar, reporting for duty.’

The man frowned at the proffered hand, then at Angus. ‘No offence, but you have heard of cross-contamination, haven’t you... Allan, is it?’

‘Oh.’ Heat swarmed up his neck yet again. ‘Yes. Of course. Sorry.’ He lowered his hand. ‘And it’s Angus. Angus MacVicar. Sorry.’ Cleared his throat. ‘We were just—’

‘Rhona, how many times do we have to go over this? Only people on the list get into crime scenes. You’re killing me here.’

DS Massie’s shoulders drooped. ‘I was with you the whole time, Boss!’ Before holding her hand up. ‘But I’ll have a word with whoever’s on the door. Refresher course, et cetera. All that stuff.’

‘I need a clean crime scene, Rhona. What if someone compromises evidence? Then where will we be?’

That hand went on her heart. ‘I’ll have a word. I swear.’

The SE tech put her camera away. ‘Actually, we’re all finished in here. You can call in the crime-scene cleaners, if you like.’ A hopeful lilt slid into her voice. ‘Unless you’d like us to give it another once-over?’

‘And double my Forensics bill?’ Monroe gave a wee snort. ‘I’ll pass.’

‘Fair enough. Pics will be on the server in an hour — if you put a rush on the DNA you could probably get it tomorrow. But it’ll—’

‘Cost me. I know.’ He stared at the gore-soaked table. ‘Do it. If this really is a pattern, our killer will be gunning for his next pair of victims day after tomorrow. I want that DNA on my desk today.’

The SE tech blinked at him. ‘Today?’

‘Today.’ He tilted his head towards DS Massie, then looked up at a blood-free section of wall. ‘What do you think of this colour for the new kitchen?’

‘Bit lairy, Boss.’

‘Hmmm...’ Monroe turned to Angus. ‘And as for you—’

‘I got an email!’ Backing away, sticking to the common approach path, cos falling off would only make things worse. ‘This morning. I was meant to be joining CID, but I got an email, and it said to come here straight away, and report to you, and... It’s—’

‘Ah-ha!’ DS Massie jabbed a finger in his direction. ‘He’s Bonnie’s replacement, while she’s on that crime-scene-management course.’

‘Oh, the irony.’ Monroe looked Angus up and down. ‘Angus MacVicar: any relation?’

‘Well, I live with my mum, but—’

‘To the writer.’

OK, today just wasn’t going well at all. ‘Ah, right, yes. No. No relation.’

Monroe shook his head. ‘Pity.’ He swivelled on his blue plastic booties. ‘Well, if you’re the new Bonnie, you might as well tag along.’ Heading off down the corridor. ‘Gather the posse, Rhona: War Room in the lounge, ten minutes.’

‘Boss.’ And she was off as well, leaving Angus all alone in the blood-drenched room that stank of death.

He slapped his palms against his legs.

Looked around at the torture table, and the marquee, and the drowning light, and the mouldy bag in the sink...

Huffed out a long breath.

‘Great.’

The scene examiners had finished in the living room too, leaving every surface liberally coated with globs of white and black fingerprint powder.

There were only three people in here, but the place was already getting crowded.

Angus took up as little space as possible by standing in the corner, while DS Massie perched herself on the arm of the red leather sofa. Scoofing from a tin of Irn-Bru. She’d peeled off the top half of her forensic oversuit, tying the arms around her waist. Without the facemask and safety goggles, her face was frog-belly pale, thick grey teeth with a lot of gum on show. A weird, curly, bobbed haircut, turned lank after its stint in her personal SOC-suit sauna.

DI Cohen was the shortest officer here, but bulky with it — muscle, rather than fat. Black, semi-bouffant hair, streaked with white above the ears. He’d stripped down to his real clothes, sweat staining the back of his pink shirt as he perused the Healey-Robinsons’ record collection. Hairy fingers walking along the LPs’ spines. ‘Told you so.’

Rhona grimaced. ‘Blah, blah, blah.’

He paused, somewhere between Nirvana and Muse. ‘Don’t “blah, blah, blah” me: you’re setting a bad example for the wee loon.’ Back to the record collection. ‘Always be nice to detective inspectors, Angus, cause we can be a vindictive bunch of bastards when we put our minds to it.’ Then DI Cohen’s finger came up to point at DS Massie. ‘Besides, I did tell you so.’

‘I never said it wasn’t a serial killer. Three sets of victims, two weeks apart: of course it’s a serial killer. Any idiot could see that.’

‘And yet, there was everyone wanging on about a homicidal lovers’ tryst. I — told — you — so.’ He slipped an LP from the shelf. ‘Isn’t that right, Angus?’

Angus stood up a little bit straighter. ‘Don’t know, Guv: I only joined the team today.’

DI Cohen’s mouth tightened. ‘What did I say about “vindictive bastards”, Constable?’

‘Yes, Guv. You definitely said it was a serial killer.’

Another scoof of Irn-Bru. ‘Leave the boy alone, Badger, he’s in enough trouble as it is. Trampling all over the crime scene.’

What?

‘But I got an email...’

‘Aye, I know you did. I sent it.’ Suppressing a little burp. ‘Didn’t say to come galumphing in like a pissed-up cave troll, though, did it?’

‘It said to report to DCI Monroe ASAP!’

She shook her head. ‘Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus...’ Sigh. ‘You turn up at the SOC-entrance tent and you ask to see the Boss.’

Yeah, when you put it like that.

‘Sorry.’

DS Massie narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Thanks to your great, clumsy meanderthalling the Boss called me “Detective Sergeant Massie”. Hasn’t used my Sunday name since I accidentally set fire to that patrol car...’

A snort from DI Cohen. ‘“Accidentally”.’

The living-room door swung open and in rustled DCI Monroe, putting his phone away. ‘Good news — our forensic psychologist lands at Heathrow in an hour, and he’ll be on the next flight up.’

Everyone else seemed to know what that meant, so Angus didn’t ask. No point making a tit of himself twice in one day.

Monroe took off his facemask and pulled back his SOC suit’s hood — exposing an angular face with a sharp nose and sharper chin. No-nonsense short-back-and-sides, military moustache. He turned to Angus. ‘The Chief Super’s got us an FBI serial-killer specialist.’ Unzipped his suit. ‘I know: sounds expensive, but he was coming over for a forensic conference in London next week anyway, so we only have to fork out business class to Oldcastle and back.’

DS Massie rolled her eyes. ‘About bloody time! That hairy idiot from Tulliallan was about as much use as barbed-wire toilet paper. “Murderous love triangle”, my tattered arse.’

Cohen stuck the album back on the shelf. ‘I said that.’

‘Of course you did.’ Monroe sagged his bum against the dusted couch, making his SOC suit crackle. ‘The guy’s got some weird preconditions, but he’s helped catch a lot of killers, so you’ — pointing at Rhona — ‘and you’ — pointing at DI Cohen — ‘will make sure no one pisses him off, OK? As of today we need all the help we can get.’ He snapped off his gloves and rubbed at his face. ‘Anything on the door-to-doors?’

Massie bared those grey teeth. ‘Work in progress, Boss.’

‘Badger?’

One shoulder rose then fell. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Trouble with Oldcastle is we’ve got about seventeen trillion different places to dump a corpse.’

Monroe unzipped his suit and wafted the edges. Turned to Angus again. ‘Victims are always in pairs: he kills one and leaves the body at the scene. The other gets tortured and then... Who knows? He’s got to dump the remains somewhere.’

DI Cohen plucked another LP from the shelf. ‘Could spend a decade combing Moncuir Wood with cadaver dogs and still not get close.’

Silence as Monroe peeled himself like an albino banana, then bundled up the rumpled suit. ‘Come on, Angus: you’re new. Any insights you want to share with us? First impressions? Wild hunches? Beginner’s luck?’

‘Er...’ Angus licked his lips. Nothing like being put on the spot. ‘Are we sure the other victims are dead? Maybe he’s keeping them alive somewhere?’

DS Massie shuddered. ‘There speaks a man who’s never seen the crime-scene photographs.’

‘Given what he does to the ones he leaves behind? There’s no way they’re still alive.’ Monroe wiped his hands down the front of his jacket. ‘Not after that.’

Going by the photo of the most recent victim, he had a point.

Silence settled in again.

A deep breath, then: ‘Right.’ Monroe pushed himself off the couch. ‘Rhona: clear up here, then back to the shop — I need an office for our new profiler. And get someone to pick him up from the airport; flight gets in at three forty-seven.’

‘Boss.’ She wrote that down. ‘We got a photo?’

‘Nope. Remember those “weird preconditions”? Our guy’s notoriously camera shy. No pictures; no press coverage; completely incognito.’ Monroe tucked the crumpled SOC suit under his arm. ‘Badger: liaise with the Media Office. We need some sort of expectation management that makes everyone think we actually know what we’re doing.’

A nod. ‘Boss.’

‘Just make sure they keep our American friend’s name out of it, OK? Actually, far as they’re concerned, he’s not even here.’ Monroe checked his watch. ‘Meanwhile, I need to chase up Forensics.’

Angus stood to attention. ‘What about me, Boss?’

‘Rhona?’

She took one last swig from her Irn-Bru, then tossed the empty can to Angus. He caught it, like a pro.

If that impressed her, it didn’t show. ‘Go see Mags: tell her I said you could help with the door-to-doors. Just make sure you’re back at the station for the four-o’clock.’

So much for the Premier League.

Angus crushed the can in one huge fist. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘And remember: no initiative! Leave that for the grown-ups.’

3

Mrs Anita Clarkson: 30 Macallan Avenue — 12:50

‘OK, thanks. Bye.’ Angus clutched his standard-issue clipboard, with its stack of badly photocopied witness forms, and marched down the path again. Back to the pavement. In the rain.

Well, technically it was drizzle, but it was cold and wet and that’s all that counted.

Forty minutes of freezing his arse off...

A second officer stomped their way from door to door on the other side of Macallan Avenue, doing the odd numbers, but the lucky sod was in the full padded-waterproof-high-vis-and-peaked-cap outfit. Insulated from the wind that ripped along the street like an angry polar bear.

Balvenie Row was barely visible from here — just a hint of the terrace’s backside, glimpsed between the cloned semis opposite — with the railway embankment looming behind as yet another freight train rumbled by, hauling a long line of rusty carriages behind it. The rattling soundtrack of diesel and metal drowning out the media circus hubbub.

Angus watched it go.

Scrunched up his face.

Come on: at least he was doing something.

Making progress.

Well, maybe not personally, because so far no one had seen anything, but that wasn’t the point. An investigation was a team sport, and Angus was doing his bit.

Helping catch a killer.

So what if it was cold and wet?

Everyone had to be spoken to. Every avenue explored. Every lead followed up.

Still, a warmer jacket would’ve been nice.

Ms Louise Banks: 34 Macallan Avenue — 13:03

Ms Banks waved her cigarette about, gesticulating every word into being with a curl of pale grey. ‘What, them poofs over there?’

Her smoking hand jerked towards the other side of the road, in the vague direction of the crime scene.

She had another scuba-diving pull on her cigarette, enveloping Angus in smoke with: ‘Nah. Never seen nothing. Well, you don’t, do you?’ Pulling her dressing gown tighter at one o’clock in the afternoon. ‘Just in case they’re up to something unnatural...’

Mr Michael McKenna: 36 Macallan Avenue — 13:12

Mr McKenna sniffed. ‘Oy, yes, I heard. I heard. Terrible. Simply terrible.’ He had to be eighty if he was a day, with a walking stick, pale wobbly jowls, watery eyes, and a shirt and tie on under his jumper.

The drizzle had thickened, hiding the railway line in a blanket of drifting grey. Soaking through Angus’s jacket and shirt, making his hair stick to his forehead.

‘But did you see anything, Mr McKenna?’

An arthritis-twisted hand worried at the knot on the tie. ‘One worries so much these days, doesn’t one? What with all the crime and the murder and the young people in their hoodies...’

Miss Michelle Norris: 52 Macallan Avenue — 14:32

Miss Norris grimaced. ‘Sorry.’

Cloying waves of jasmine and lavender strangled the air as she stood there with her peroxide quiff and enough eyeliner, blusher, foundation, and the rest, to record a million YouTube make-up tutorials.

Angus ticked the box on the form, shielding it from the rain with his back. ‘OK, thanks anyway.’

She gave him an apologetic I’d-invite-you-in-to-dry-off-but-you-know-how-it-is smile, then shut the door in his face.

He slumped for a second, then trudged his way back to the pavement.

The drizzle had officially given way to proper actual rain about half an hour ago, driven in on that Arctic wind like galvanized nails.

Angus checked his watch — 14:33.

Another hour before he could legitimately call it quits and head back to the station for the four-o’clock briefing.

Assuming he hadn’t caught his death by—

‘Spring’ from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons sprung into life, deep within his inside pocket. He pulled out the small ziplock freezer bag his phone lived in. Because this stuff was expensive, and had to be looked after, and there was no way in hell his mum would let him spend that kind of money on another one.

Leaving it in its bag, he pressed the button.

‘DC MacVicar.’

‘Angus?’ Damn. Should’ve checked who was calling before answering. ‘You forgot your lunch! You know how important it is to eat right.’

Still, too late now. ‘Yes, Mum. Sorry, Mum.’

‘I make you a packed lunch for a reason, Angus. Do you not even care?’

‘No, I care, Mum.’ He squelched his way along the pavement towards the next house on the street. ‘It’s just... and I wanted to be early for my first day in CID, and—’

‘I don’t know why I bother, honestly I don’t. Do you have any idea how much food costs these days, Angus? Do you think we’re rich enough to just throw it away? Because we’re not rich enough, Angus, those days are long gone.’

He stopped, eyes screwed tightly shut. Keeping it out of his voice. ‘I’ll take it with me tomorrow, Mum. I promise. But I’ve got to go, the DCI’s shouting for me.’ Angus took the phone from his ear and put his clipboard between him and the microphone. ‘Be right there, sir!’

Then back to the phone.

‘Sorry, Mum: got to go. Bye. Speak to you later. Bye...’ Hanging up before she could say anything else.

Angus huffed out a breath, put the phone and its bag back in his pocket, slumped for a moment, then squished up the path to number fifty-four.

It was going to be a lonnnnnnnnnng day.

Angus shifted his bum along the radiator, steam rising from his new fighting suit’s trousers.

Everyone had congregated in the incident room, facing the front, where DCI Monroe was twenty minutes in and still going strong. One detective chief inspector, two detective inspectors, three detective sergeants, nine detective constables, four police constables, four support staff, and Angus.

And all of them were considerably drier than he was.

The room was arranged around a central well, surrounded by blue-felt-walled cubicles — each one containing a scuffed desk and a half-knackered office chair. Only most people were standing, giving the DCI their full attention as he paced in front of the twin whiteboards, adding boxes and lines and words printed in block capitals with a squeaky red marker.

A skull-and-crossbones went in the box marked ‘TOMORROW TASKS!’, joining ‘DTD’, ‘MEDIA CAMPAIGN’, and ‘VICTIM REVIEW’.

Monroe underlined his piratical addition. ‘...post-mortem’s at nine tomorrow morning. And I know the press are going to be all over us, given Kevin Healey-Robinson was one of their own, but we’re sticking with strict radio silence on this case. Operation Telegram remains a closed box to these people, OK?’

Everyone nodded.

‘Good.’ He stuck the cap back on his marker. ‘Who knows: we might actually be the first operation in O Division history that doesn’t leak like a hedgehog’s colostomy bag.’ The pen came up to point at the exit. ‘If you haven’t done it already: check the roster by the door for who your investigative buddy is. We’ve got a dozen new team members today — make sure your buddy is up to speed by Morning Prayers tomorrow.’ Pause for effect. Big smile. ‘And speaking of new people: Alasdair?’

DI Tudor took the floor. He was almost as tall as Angus, but way older, and not as broad. He looked like the kind of middle-aged man they used to advertise pro-biotic yoghurts and expensive holidays on TV, with his Peaky Blinders haircut and salt-and-pepper stubble. A chiselled jaw that wasn’t afraid to ask: Are you paying too much for your car insurance?

He gave everyone a smouldering look. ‘As of last night, we know our unsub has a two-week kill cycle. The Healey-Robinsons disappeared off the radar twelve days ago, that means our next murder-abduction is day after tomorrow.’ He wrote ‘Two Days!’ on the whiteboard. ‘To make sure we’ve got every tool at our disposal, Chief Superintendent McEwan has secured the services of a forensic psychologist.’ Tudor glanced up at the wall clock. ‘Who was supposed to be here half an hour ago. Maybe—’

The incident room door thumped open, and in strode a very short man. Or, at least, his arms and legs were short; the rest of him was regular-sized. Which meant it was achondroplasia, rather than primordial dwarfism, because Angus paid attention in school. A scruffy mop of dirty-blond curls shrouded his face and broad forehead, his chin and top lip hidden by a big, greying Vandyke. White shirt, squint tie, suit jacket, army greatcoat — which must’ve been taken up a fair bit, but was still nearly sweeping along the carpet tiles — boot-cut jeans, and a sort of cowboy-boot-platform-shoes mashup that added at least two-and-a-bit extra inches to his height.

Even then, the top of his head probably only came up to a hand’s span above Angus’s belly button.

His voice was a weird mix of Scottish hard consonants and American drawl: ‘Maybe he just knows how to make a dramatic entrance?’

Everyone stared. A couple of people muttered. After all the rumours and speculation about the hotshot FBI profiler about to join the team, they’d clearly been expecting someone a bit more Mulder-and-Scully and a lot less hangover-at-the-Hard-Rock-Café.

Their new forensic psychologist marched to the middle of the room, dug into a pocket, and tossed a USB stick to one of the support staff.

Pieman Bob fumbled the catch, eyes wide as he scrambled to stop the thing hitting the ground with his pork-sausage fingers.

‘Be a sweetheart and pop that into whatever’s hooked up to your projector. Just something I cooked up on the flight from LA.’

Finally, the Pieman got the USB stick under control, then stood there, like a damp fart, looking at DI Tudor for guidance. Who rolled his eyes, then nodded.

Off scurried Pieman Bob.

The forensic psychologist clapped his hands. ‘Now then, ladies and gentlemen, on my business cards it says “Dr Fife”, but you can call me Jonathan. Not “John”, or “Jonny” or “Jo” or “Nathan”. “John-a-than”. I shall do my best to learn your names, but I can’t promise anything.’

Monster Munch sidled up next to Angus, warming her bum on the radiator. She didn’t take up much room, being petite but solidly built, with her long dark hair wrestled into an elaborate French plait. God knew what her mum and dad were thinking of, christening her ‘Chantelle’: she was clearly much more Monster Munchy. Her skin boasted of a proud Indian heritage, her voice: one of those uncompromising Scottish accents that could sandblast granite, even at a whisper. She leaned in close. ‘Aye, Tudor wasnae kiddin’ — yer man really is a “tool”.’

The tool in question thumped a Cuban heel down like a judge’s gavel. ‘Next up: my presence here is gonna remain strictly confidential! Given how modest and shy I am, I’m more than happy for you guys to take all the credit, just as long as no one knows I’m in town, deal?’ He looked around, as if actually expecting a response, but it wasn’t a panto kind of a crowd.

Monroe put a hand on his heart. ‘I can assure you: my team will keep you out of the public eye.’

‘Cos otherwise I’m outta here and you can go back to failing on your own.’

At long last, Pieman Bob got the projector working, and a PowerPoint slide covered both whiteboards: the words ‘DR JONATHAN FIFE’ all wobbly and distorted until someone pulled the screen down.

Someone else killed the lights.

Dr Fife didn’t thank them. ‘I understand half of you are new to the team, so think of this as your orientation.’

Silence.

Nobody moved.

‘Well?’ Dr Fife clicked his fingers a couple of times. ‘Remote?’

Pieman Bob handed it over.

Dr Fife didn’t thank him either, just pointed the remote at the projector — the opening slide disappeared, replaced by a photo of a living room that had no living left. Minimalist, with blood-spattered white walls, a couple of plain, white cabinets, and the kind of dining table you buy from a catalogue.

A man sat behind it — early forties, in a replica Oldcastle Warriors football shirt that was stained almost black, his porn-star moustache thick with congealed blood, his nose flattened hard enough for shards of bone to poke through. Parallel lines of bruising reached out from the corners of his mouth, and both hands had been fixed to the tabletop with dirty-big wood screws.

Just like Douglas Healey-Robinson.

Only much fresher: the blood still neon red, rather than Bovril brown.

The killer had nailed a small yellow square of paper to his forehead, but the Post-it note was too far away and too smeared with scarlet to read.

Dr Fife tapped the screen. ‘Second of February — Michael Fordyce, forty-one, chartered accountant.’ The remote came up again and Michael Fordyce’s corpse was replaced by a cheery pic of a woman in a pink sweatshirt with kittens embroidered all over it — but the sleeves had been ripped off, revealing shot-putter’s arms that bulged with muscles. Shoulder-length blonde hair, big smile, and big round glasses. ‘Michael’s wife: Dr Sarah Fordyce; forty-nine; GP at the Blackwood Medical Centre; Oldcastle Iron-Woman finalist, three years in a row. Current whereabouts unknown.’

The slide changed, zooming in on Michael Fordyce’s dead face, so the Post-it note was centre stage: ‘DON’T BELIEVE THEIR LIES!!!’ printed in black Sharpie capital letters, just visible between the scarlet smears.

Dr Fife’s lip curled. ‘The initial investigation assumed Sarah killed him and ran away. This was, of course...’ his right hand drew small circles in the air, ‘let’s be polite and call it “ridiculously ill-informed bullshit”.’

‘Oh aye.’ Monster Munch leaned in for another whisper. ‘Tool and a fuckin’ half.’

No point rising to it: would only encourage her.

‘You guys might think that anyone with half a brain would take one look at this photo and know it wasn’t a lovers’ tiff. Look at the note: “Don’t believe their lies”.’ He paused. ‘Anyone?’

No one.

‘“Their” lies. “Don’t believe their lies”. Not “Don’t believe his lies”. “Their” lies: plural.’

‘Actually...’ DS Sharp raised a finger. She’d got herself a new pixie cut, with frosted tips, and a pair of big square glasses that exaggerated her dimples and gave her the air of someone who kept a bag of emergency sweeties about her person. Like everyone’s favourite aunty in a dark-brown fighting suit. ‘Could be non-gender specific.’

‘That’s an excellent point!’ Dr Fife slapped his forehead. ‘I’d forgotten how people always make sure they use respectful pronouns while torturing someone to death.’

DS Sharp harrumphed, the tips of her ears glowing angry pink.

‘Hmmm...’ Monster Munch nudged an elbow into Angus’s ribs. ‘I’m gonnae go out on a limb here, and promote him from “tool” to “twat”.’

The next slide was the same table, in the Fordyces’ no-longer-living room, only from the other side, zoomed in on half a dozen empty screw holes. Each one crusted in congealed blood.

‘Keep those in mind, OK?’

Up came the remote, and now everyone was looking at a swanky home office: wooden panelling to waist height, oil paintings on the wall, a bookcase full of leather-bound volumes. A large mahogany desk dominated the middle of the room, but the usual topping of monitor, keyboard, and papers had been swept onto the floor, leaving nothing between the camera and Victim Number Two.

Her long, greying hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing the necklace of bruises around her throat. She had the kind of wrinkles that implied she smiled a lot, though there was sod-all to smile about now. Someone had gone to work on her face with fists and a hammer. They’d stripped her to the waist, but there was nothing sexual about the scene — just blood and pain. She was slumped to the side in a plump leather office chair, both hands screwed to the desktop. Another Post-it nailed to her forehead.

Everyone winced.

‘Sixteenth of February — fourteen days later — Jessica Mendel, also forty-nine, heir to the “Brabingdon’s Sausages” fortune. Whatever the hell that is.’

Jessica Mendel was replaced by a grinning middle-aged man in the process of outgrowing the waistband on his best suit. Hair thinning at the front, but combed forwards in an unconvincing attempt to hide that fact. Big saggy bags under both scrunched-up eyes as he grinned for the camera.

‘Husband: Councillor Thomas “Tom” Mendel, fifty-six, Labour, on the city council since 2003. Missing.’

The image jumped to a close-up of the Post-it attached to Jessica Mendel’s forehead: ‘DON’T BELIEVE THEIR LIES!!!’

Dr Fife leaned back against a desk. ‘Now, you’d think at this point some bright spark would have put two and two together, but, alas, bright sparks seem to be in short supply round here. Which is why I was drafted in.’

Ooh, yeah. That wasn’t good.

Everyone looked at DCI Monroe, who had a wee bit of a squirm. Probably wondering if getting a forensic psychologist in, all the way from America, had been such a good idea after all. Because Monster Munch was clearly right about Dr Jonathan Fife.

She leaned in again as the slide changed to a second set of empty, bloody screw holes on the other side of the desk. ‘Told you: twat and a half.’

Kind of hard to tell if Dr Fife was oblivious to the atmosphere he’d created in the room, or if he was actively enjoying it.

‘Believe it or not, at this point it was mooted that Dr Fordyce and Councillor Mendel had colluded to murder their spouses and run off together, in order to live the high life, somewhere sunny, on Jessica Mendel’s inheritance. Staging the crime scenes to look like some psycho did it, so you wouldn’t suspect them.’ A bright smile lit up Dr Fife’s face. ‘And if anyone would like to put their hand up to that little act of genius, I’m sure we’d all love to give them a big round of applause.’

The only sound was the radiator, pinging and clicking beneath Angus and Monster Munch’s bottoms as Dr Fife looked around the room. Jaws clenched, hands tightened into fists, but nobody said a word.

‘No one? Ah, well...’ He raised the remote again.

‘Aye.’ DI Cohen folded his arms, chin down, scowling. ‘It was some fanny, drafted in from Tulliallan.’ He turned to Monroe. ‘I told him it had “serial killer” written all over it, but you know what fannies are like.’

‘Only too well.’ Monroe nodded at Dr Fife. ‘That’s why we sacked him and asked for you.’

A condescending smile. ‘Probably the only sensible thing this police department’s ever done.’ Up came the remote again. ‘Then the third victim pair turn up.’

This time the screen displayed an almost identical photo to the one Angus was shown this morning, back in the kitchen of horror.

‘Douglas Healey-Robinson, thirty-seven. Worked from home. Author of nine homo-erotic police procedurals set in Edinburgh and Glasgow. Body wasn’t discovered till eight o’clock last night, but everything points to him being attacked twelve days ago: first of March. How do we know this?’ Dr Fife picked a random PC and held a hand out, inviting a response.

Didn’t get one.

He was going to learn eventually, right?

‘We know, because his husband, Kevin, was Political-and-Lifestyle Correspondent at the Castle News and Post, and that’s the last time he was seen alive. He’s also missing.’

The mouldering body was exchanged for a full-length shot of a guy in his mid-forties, grinning away in the full kilt outfit, with a white-heather spray in his buttonhole. Pointing at the shiny ring on his left hand as if it was the most amazing thing anyone had ever seen. Swept-back hair, big eyes, perfect teeth.

He beamed down at them for a couple of breaths, then a close-up of the note nailed to his husband’s forehead appeared. Unreadable and buckled under all the dried blood.

Swiftly followed by a photograph of the extra screw holes.

Dr Fife fiddled with the remote, and a little red dot sparked into life on the far wall — sweeping it around the room like a man enticing a cat, till it came to rest on the projected holes. Drawing a wobbly swirl of ellipses around them in scarlet laser light. ‘Now, just in case we’ve got a budding Columbo in the audience, who’s gonna tell me what the significance of these is?’

Nope, he still hadn’t got it: not a panto crowd.

‘No? How about we downgrade to a Jessica Fletcher. Any takers?’

Monster Munch chewed on the inside of her cheek for a moment, but she kept her voice low: ‘Think I’d get a cheer if I went up and punched the twat one?’

One more try from Dr Fife: ‘Scooby-Doo...?’

Angus put his hand up. ‘He made them watch.’

4

‘Bless your cotton socks, yes!’ Dr Fife treated him to a big smile, as if Angus was a Labrador who’d just performed a trick. ‘He makes them watch. Let’s hear it for our oversized friend!’

Dr Fife launched into a round of applause.

Shockingly enough, no one joined in.

Heat blossomed across Angus’s shoulder blades, prickled across his scalp.

Monster Munch shook her head. ‘Rookie mistake. You never answer a twat’s questions. Just encourages mair twattishness.’

‘Our killer targets couples — he gets off on the power of torturing one while the other watches.’ Dr Fife thumbed the remote and the screw holes faded to black, then up came six head-and-shoulders portraits, lined up like a graduation yearbook: Michael Fordyce, Jessica Mendel, and Douglas Healey-Robinson on the top row; Dr Sarah Fordyce, Councillor Tom Mendel, and Kevin Healey-Robinson underneath. ‘Three victims left behind, and three victims removed from the scene. There’s a reason he does this. Something that makes sense only to him.’ Dr Fife milked a pause, one eyebrow up, deepening the creases across his brow. ‘We just need to figure out what it is.’

Angus stuck his hand up again, getting a groan and a whisper from Monster Munch:

‘You never soddin’ learn, do you?’

‘Well, well, well, aren’t we keen today, Officer...?’

‘MacVicar.’ Angus lowered his hand. ‘Is there any chance Sarah Fordyce, Tom Mendel, and Kevin Healey-Robinson are still alive?’

Monroe winced. ‘Constable MacVicar, A: we’ve been over this, and B: can we save the questions for the end, please? I’m sure Dr Fife doesn’t want—’

‘No, it’s fine. At least your resident yeti’s asked a half-decent question.’ Dr Fife fiddled with the remote and the images wheeched back through the slides until Jessica Mendel’s remains dominated the room. He stared at Angus. ‘When we look at Mrs Mendel’s body, what do we see?’

This time, Monster Munch put a bit of force into her elbow. ‘Don’t you dare.’

Angus shifted his bum on the radiator, and kept his big gob shut.

‘No?’ A disappointed sigh. ‘He’s a planner: he worms his way into his victims’ homes; he establishes and manages his crime scene; he screws their hands to the table so they can’t move while he gets to work. It’s all controlled, measured, contained. But, soon as the torture starts, all that self-discipline evaporates like spilled petrol.’ Dr Fife abandoned Angus and spoke to the whole room instead. ‘Given the levels of violence on display, I’d put fifty bucks on Mr Mendel lasting a day, maybe two, tops. Assuming he even survived the initial encounter. You see—’

A pounding guitar rhythm ripped free as Motörhead’s ‘Ace Of Spades’ got going. DS Massie pulled out her phone, answering it just as Lemmy asked if anyone wanted to gamble. She stuck a finger in her ear and wandered off into the corner, away from the gathering.

Dr Fife watched her go. ‘No, please: don’t mind me. I’m only giving you the benefit of my twenty-plus years’ experience.’

Clearly, DS Sharp decided to run interference. ‘So: there’s going to be more victims.’

He stared at her as if that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. ‘Of course there are. He’s got away with it three times already; the police are clueless and their investigation’s floundering; why would he stop now?’

DS Sharp’s face darkened, her mouth pinching as she stepped forward to have a go. But one look from Monroe and she retreated to her desk. Folded her arms like DI Cohen. Glowered.

‘Anyway: in two days’ time, there’s going to be another corpse in the morgue, and one more missing. We—’

‘Mortuary.’ She stuck her nose in the air. ‘We don’t have “morgues” in this country, we have mortuaries.’

‘Isn’t that interesting.’ Making it sound anything but. Dr Fife clicked forward through the slides again. ‘You’ll have to excuse me... Officer Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I’m more accustomed to catching serial killers for the FBI: Seattle Strangler, KTR Killer, Nashville Ripper, Rocky Mountain Murderer, Detroit Cannibal...’ The smile couldn’t have been more patronizing if it tried. ‘But I won’t bore you with the full list.’

The words ‘PRIORITY QUESTIONS’ sat at the top of the projection screen, with a gap, then four empty bullet points below.

‘Now, who wants to guess what questions we need to answer?’

Still reaching for the panto crowd.

Still getting nothing back.

‘WHAT? WHY? WHO?’ appeared on the slide.

‘One.’ Dr Fife pointed the remote again, reading out each bullet point as it popped up on the list: ‘“What does our Killer do?” Two: “Why does he do it?” Three: “How does he select his victims?” And by answering these questions, we solve the big one. Four: “Who is he?”’

Monster Munch let out a wet, hissing tut. ‘Aye, and we needed some American twat to tell us that?’

The bullet points vanished, then the words: ‘Remember: Dr Jonathan Fife IS NOT HERE!’ appeared in big red letters.

A sniff from Monster Munch. ‘Is that it?’

One last press of the remote and they were all left in darkness.

‘Like I say, this is just what I threw together on the flight over. We’ll need to sift through everything if we’re gonna get a proper profile.’

The lights flickered on.

Monroe didn’t say anything, but he looked as if someone had kicked his puppy.

Dr Fife shrugged. ‘It’s not like TV, where “whoosh!” the forensic psychologist gets visions from the great beyond — this stuff takes time and brainpower. We don’t even know how he transports the missing victims when he’s finished butchering their other halves. Could be weeks before we make a proper breakthrough, so—’

‘Boss?’ DS Massie hurried back from her corner, phone pressed against her chest. ‘Think we’ve got something!’

Monroe looked up from the printout, swivelling back and forth in his office chair. ‘From the door-to-doors?’

The room thrummed as Operation Telegram got on with tidying up before the end of shift. Making last-minute telephone calls, printing off actions on the rattling printer, holding murmured conversations — probably about what a wanker Dr Fife turned out to be.

While they got on with that, DI Tudor, DS Massie, and a yawning Dr Fife gathered around Monroe’s desk.

Angus hovered on the periphery of the little group, partly out of nosiness, but mostly because no one had given him anything else to do.

Monroe had decorated his cubicle with a couple of pinned-up cartoons, cut from the Castle News & Post; a handful of family photographs; and three pages out of some Better Homes and Kitchens magazine, showing unfeasibly happy middle-aged couples enjoying polished granite worktops and genuine oak cabinets.

DS Massie perched her bum on the edge of Monroe’s desk. ‘I was going through the daily reports, as you do, and there’s this line that bugged me — a guy who lives at number seventeen, two doors down from the Healey-Robinsons, moaning about how he had to park miles away the night of the murder, because, and I quote: “Some inconsiderate bastard abandoned a dirty-big self-drive Luton van” outside his house.’

Tudor crinkled his eyes. ‘Yes, but that’s hardly—’

‘But the thing is: none of the other door-to-doors mentions a Luton van. So I got ’Tash to check with everyone on Balvenie Row again: a couple of the neighbours spotted it, but no one hired it.’

Now that made Monroe sit up. ‘Rhona: please tell me you’ve got a number plate.’

She produced another sheet of A4, slapping it down on the desk. ‘We’re not that lucky. But the van’s livery was pretty distinctive, so I tracked down the hire company: Toucan Youcan. Based in Shortstaine. They had four Luton vans rented out when the Healey-Robinsons were killed. One on its way to Sheffield, one headed for Inverness, two local.’ She tapped the sheet with a ragged fingernail. ‘Hirers’ names, addresses, and PNC checks. Local hires are highlighted in yellow.’ She waggled her eyebrows at him. ‘Notice anything?’

Angus leaned in for a squint, but Monroe wheeched the printout off the desk and had one of his own.

‘Let’s see...’ Mouth pursing as he read. ‘Francis McCurdy: project manager, six points for speeding, bunch of parking tickets, half a dozen complaints from the neighbours about excessive noise.’ Monroe’s eyes widened. ‘Better yet: Patrick Crombie! Three years for rape, two for sexual assault, eight months for illegal imprisonment. You wee beauty!’ Leaping to his feet. ‘Right, I’m on the warrant. And we’ll need backup.’ Raising his voice, cutting across the bustling room. ‘BADGER, I WANT AN OSU TEAM, ASAP!’

DI Cohen grabbed his phone. ‘ON IT, BOSS.’

‘LAURA, GET ME A DOG UNIT!’

DS Sharp was halfway through a Tunnock’s tea cake, but she ditched it. ‘ONE DOG UNIT, COMING UP...’

‘BYRON, YOU’RE WITH GEORGE. TAKE A POOL CAR AND STAKE OUT...’ Monroe checked the paperwork again, ‘SEVENTEEN MUCHAN ROAD, JUST IN CASE. MONSTER MUNCH, PAUL, MAGS — YOU’RE WITH KATHERINE, COLLY, AND ’TASH. TWO TO A CAR, FULL M.O.E. GEAR. WE’LL BRIEF ON THE WAY.’ Clapping his hands. ‘LET’S MOVE, PEOPLE!’

The room exploded into action — everyone scrambling to their allotted tasks as Monroe marched for the door, with DS Massie hot on his heels.

Angus just stood there. Unneeded, unwanted, and un—

‘Well?’ Monroe threw the words over his shoulder. ‘Don’t just stand there, Constable, we’re going hunting!’

‘Yes, Boss!’ Snapping to attention.

The DCI came to a halt and turned, hauling on his jacket. ‘Consider this a mentoring opportunity.’ He looked Angus up and down. ‘Besides, you’re huge: if something kicks off we can all hide behind you.’

The dual carriageway crawled by the pool car’s windows, all four lanes stuffed with people who thought they’d make a break for it before rush hour started, but left it far too late. Now it was one minute to five, and they were stuck like everyone else. Miserable faces glooming out at the rain and a snaking ribbon of brake lights.

DS Massie sat behind the wheel, jaw clenched, fingers tightening and relaxing and tightening and relaxing, keeping a constant eight feet between them and the patrol car in front. Windscreen wipers going full pelt. Monroe: in the passenger seat, on his phone — one finger in his ear to block out the engine-and-wiper noise. Angus and Dr Fife in the back.

The forensic psychologist sagged in his seat, releasing the occasional deep sigh, the corners of his mouth turned down so far they pulled his Vandyke out of shape. As if Operation Telegram wasn’t on its way to dunt in a serial killer’s door.

He’d taken Patrick Crombie’s criminal records with him, flicking through the file as they crawled along Camburn Drive with the soggy rush-hour traffic.

Angus turned in his seat, sneaking a look out the back window, where the rest of the convoy crept along behind. Two more pool cars, then a Dog Unit, an Operational Support Unit in its minibus/van hybrid, another patrol car, and a scene examiners’ Transit that not even the torrential rain could wash clean.

‘What?... No.’ Monroe curled to one side, as if that would improve his mobile reception. ‘Fifty-two Breechfield Crescent. Breech-field. Bravo, Romeo, Echo, Echo, Charlie, Hotel—... Yes, I know it’s not normal procedure, Marjory, but this is urgent.’

‘Urgh...’ Dr Fife looked up from his file. ‘Does it normally take this long?’

Angus swivelled frontwards again, glancing down at the printouts in Dr Fife’s lap. Patrick Crombie’s latest mugshot glowered back.

Mid-twenties, bulked up from the prison gym, shaved head, close-trimmed beard. Sticky-out ears. The kind of guy who’d glass you for looking at his pint funny.

DS Massie gave the rear-view mirror the same kind of look. ‘You didn’t have to come.’

‘Yes.’ Monroe nodded. ‘That’s right: we’ve reason to suspect Mr Crombie is responsible for six murders, possibly more...’

A small snort broke free, as Fife turned the page. ‘Only when you’re used to helicopters, and SWAT teams with machine guns, this is all a little... tame.’

‘Well, I’m sorry we can’t give you a bit more razzmatazz!’

‘...on our way there now. You know the media’s gone full-on feeding frenzy here, Marjory, imagine if we miss the chance to catch him before he kills someone else... Yes... Of course I’ll hold.’

Dr Fife grimaced. ‘The risk assessment was a particular highlight. I’ve never done one in the back of a slow-moving vehicle before.’

‘Do you want me to pull over and let you out?’

‘And miss the grand finale?’ He turned the page again, voice like a bored teenager. ‘How ever would I live with myself?’

Monroe twisted around to address the car, phone against his chest. ‘I’m on hold.’ Then faced front again, mobile clamped to one ear, finger jammed in the other.

Dr Fife leaned forward and poked DS Massie’s shoulder. ‘And why does it take till tomorrow to line up an autopsy? Do you guys do everything at half speed?’

The rear-view got another glare. ‘It’s not an “autopsy”, it’s a post-mortem. This isn’t the United States of Unable to Speak the Language Properly.’

‘How terribly gauche of me.’

‘There’s a backlog at the mortuary, OK? We’re already jumping the queue.’ Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. ‘If you’re just going to complain, you should’ve stayed back at the station.’

The windscreen wipers squealed and thunked.

Rain crackled on the car roof, like handfuls of gravel.

They crept forwards, coming to the end of Castle Hill, the dark mass of Camburn Woods looming up ahead. Ready to swallow them.

And still no one said anything.

Angus cleared his throat. ‘So... what do you think Crombie does with the bodies? Of the partners, I mean.’

Dr Fife sat forward and poked DS Massie again. ‘Besides, I had to come. What if there’s a hostage situation and you need someone who isn’t a moron to negotiate with your Patrick Crombie?’

‘Have you always been this big an arsehole?’ Soon as the words left her mouth, a tsunami of pink rushed up her cheeks. She bit her lips. And this time it wasn’t a glare she gave the rear-view mirror.

Dr Fife raised an eyebrow, staring back.

Camburn Woods opened its maw and wolfed them down.

‘I... When I said “this big an arsehole”... That... It wasn’t meant to be a comment about your disability.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘Just the amount of arseholeishness you bring to any situation.’

‘None taken.’ He went back to the file. ‘And for the record: disabled or not, I can still fight, drink, and fuck with the best of them.’

Because things weren’t tense and uncomfortable enough.

The dark woods wrapped around the dual carriageway, the canopy cover thick enough to shut out much of the downpour and shroud the slow-moving traffic in gloom.

One by one, car headlights bloomed.

Angus shifted in his seat.

Come on, say something.

Yeah, but what?

Monroe nodded. ‘Yes, I’m still holding.’

‘As for “assholeishness”’ — the barest hint of a smile toyed with one side of Dr Fife’s mouth — ‘it depends who I’m with. Some people deserve it more than others.’

DS Massie rolled her shoulders. ‘Well, you better dial it back a bit or “some people” are liable to twat you one.’

God, it was getting worse.

OK, how about this:

Angus held up a hand. ‘Do you think he took them as trophies? Patrick Crombie. Or is it more like a Dennis Nilsen situation? Or maybe Jeffrey Dahmer?’ Trying not to sound too hopeful. ‘Can’t turn on the telly or open a book without some serial killer eating their victims.’

That hint of a smile became a definite suggestion. ‘Are you usually this forthright, DS Massie?’

But Angus wasn’t giving up that easily. ‘Because Crombie’s got to be doing something with the bodies, right? Otherwise he wouldn’t go to all the trouble of hiring a van.’

Massie sniffed. ‘“Depends who I’m with. Some people deserve it more than others.”’

And with that, Dr Fife broke into a proper smile. ‘Why, Detective Sergeant, are you flirting with me?’

‘No!’

Actually, that was a really good point, wasn’t it: about Crombie hiring a full-sized removal vehicle. Angus held up a finger. ‘You know, a Luton van’s huge: you could get dozens of bodies in there, right? I mean, an estate car would probably—’

‘Marjory?’ Monroe sat up straight. ‘What’s the—... Excellent. Thank you!’

Dr Fife put a bit of honey in his voice. ‘Are you sure? Because it really sounds like—’

‘Oh, I’m absolutely sodding positive.’

‘No, that’s great... Cheers, Marjory, I owe you one.’ Monroe hung up. Slumped back in his seat, completely oblivious to the atmosphere in the car. Huffed out a long breath. ‘Thank God for that: we would’ve looked a right bunch of pricks, otherwise.’ He produced his Airwave and poked at the keypad.

Right on cue, both Angus and DS Massie’s handsets gave three answering bleeps as Monroe broadcast to the team.

His voice echoed out of their Airwaves, about a second out of sync.

‘All right, everyone, Sheriff Barland’s given us the thumbs up. We have our warrant. Let’s rock!’

DS Massie hit the button on the steering column and the pool car’s siren yowled into life, the lights hidden behind the radiator grille flickering blue and white against the vehicle in front.

The patrol car’s light swirled on too, then the whole convoy was at it. Well, except for the grubby SE Transit van.

As the howling sirens rose, the cars in front parted, creating a temporary middle lane that the lead patrol car accelerated into.

DS Massie followed them, hands tightening on the wheel. Her grin shone in the rear-view mirror. ‘God, I love this bit...’

The pool car was back to walking pace again, drifting around Breechfield Crescent — a circle of two-storey houses in grey harling with faux-stone details, brown pantiles, and rust-flecked satellite dishes. The gardens weren’t huge, but they were still bigger than the ones on Balvenie Row. Older too; more lived in. But every bit as soulless.

The convoy had reordered itself, with the OSU taking point, followed by the Dog Unit and two patrol cars. And last, but not least, Angus, Monroe, Dr Fife, and DS Massie.

Her Airwave bleeped, then Monster Munch’s delicate tones crackled out into the car.

‘That’s us in the back garden, Sarge. Ready when you are.’

Massie pressed the button. ‘Any sign of Crombie?’

‘Naw. But someone’s home: can hear their shite music pounding out through the walls.’

DS Massie shared a look with Monroe.

He nodded. Grabbed his handset off the dashboard. ‘And we’re GO, GO, GO!’

Everyone floored it — vans and patrol cars leaping forward, around the last arc of Breechfield Crescent.

Right up ahead, a lurid lime-green Luton Transit was parked in the driveway outside number fifty-two. A cheesy advert covered the near-side panels: ‘TOMMY THE TOUCAN SAYS YOUCAN DRIVE THIS VAN TOU!’ featuring a grinning cartoon mascot with a massive multicoloured beak.

The OSU van screeched to a halt, blocking the driveway, its side clattered open and a team of absolute bruisers piled out into the rain, so big they made Angus look weedy. They were dressed for rioting — shin guards, gloves, pads, helmets, overalls, boots, stabproof vests. Extendable batons at full mast...

They swarmed towards the house, parting around the hire van, and meeting up on the other side, where they flattened out into a single line along the front of number fifty-two. Keeping clear of the windows.

A particularly huge officer bustled her way to the front, carrying the big red door key.

One of her colleagues tried the door handle, shook his head, then got out of the way fast as the big red door key battered into the door, rattling the UPVC in its frame.

Once, twice, three times...

Behind them, the Dog Unit pulled up, half on the kerb.

Out came the driver, followed by the biggest, hairiest Alsatian the world had ever seen. Police Dog Bawheid strained at the end of his leash, dragging his handler towards the scrum.

Then it was the two patrol cars, blocking the road, disgorging their officers to set up a cordon and move into defensive positions.

DS Massie slammed on the brakes, and everyone clambered out into the rain. Everyone except Dr Fife.

Number fifty-two’s front door exploded inwards, the whole frame tearing free of the wall in a shatter of white plastic. It crashed down, like an inverted drawbridge, and the OSU team charged inside, pursued by PD Bawheid, who seemed to be having a terrific time of it and looking forward to biting someone.

Dr Fife buzzed down his window and looked up at Angus. ‘You do know that it’s raining, right?’

Voices thundered out from the ruined doorway:

‘POLICE!’

‘NOBODY MOVE!’

Accompanied by a lot of barking.

Angus dragged his eyes from the dunt. ‘We just caught the Fortnight Killer.’

That seemed to amuse Fife. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

‘CLEAR!’

‘CHECK THE BATHROOM!’

Monroe shifted from foot to foot, fists clenching and unclenching as he stared at the house. Talking to himself. ‘Come on. Come on...’

Angus curled his lip. ‘What do you mean, “wait and see”?’

‘Well — and this is just me speaking from twenty-plus years of experience — crimes like this usually take a bit longer to solve.’

Eh?

‘You think this isn’t our guy?’

‘CLEAR!’

‘IF YOU’RE IN THERE, COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!’

‘Look at it this way:’ Dr Fife held up the file. ‘Patrick Crombie starts out molesting women in his local supermarket: gets slung in jail for two years. Six months after he’s released, he rapes a single mother in a city park: does another three years. He’s still on parole when he lures his social worker to his house, chains her up, and locks her in the bathroom. Claimed he was “teaching her a lesson” because she “disrespected him” in front of her team.’

‘POLICE!’

‘CLEAR!’

‘That’s a classic path of escalation. You can bet he woulda raped her too, if the cops hadn’t got to him first.’ The file went back on the seat. ‘Maybe he spent his time in jail working out where he went wrong? He’s spent nearly six years behind bars — rehearsing the fantasy over and over. Getting bolder every time they let him out.’

Well, there you go then.

Angus nodded. ‘So he’s definitely our man.’

Glad that was settled.

‘CLEAR!’

‘Hmmm...’ Dr Fife made a see-saw gesture with one hand. ‘It’s a big jump from there to torturing six people to death. Plus there’s the whole “sex problem”. When Crombie—’

‘YOU! ON THE GROUND!’

‘DON’T MOVE!’

‘ON THE GROUND, NOW!’

‘Ha!’ Monroe bounced on the balls of his feet. ‘Here we go...’

The barking was interrupted by an almighty crash, followed by a banging echo, what sounded like shattering glass, then a familiar hard Scottish accent blared out behind the house:

‘COME BACK HERE, YA WEE SHITE!’ Definitely Monster Munch.

A look of horror smothered Monroe’s face. He snatched up his Airwave. ‘What the hell’s going on in there?’

A wee scream from the back garden, then a howl of pain.

‘OFFICER DOWN!’

‘AYA BASTARD!’

DS Massie covered her face. ‘Oh, for God’s sake...’

‘HE’S HOPPED THE FENCE! GOING RIGHT, GOING RIGHT!’

DS Sharp sprinted for the house on the right — number fifty — with Massie and Monroe hard behind her.

Nope.

Angus went left instead, towards the final house in the street: number fifty-four. Hurdling the little hedge between the properties, and hammering up the lock-block driveway. Running down the far side of the house. A seven-foot-high wooden fence blocked the way, but he leapt, put a foot on the recycling bin, and heaved himself over the top.

It was time to show DCI Monroe he was more than just something to hide behind.

5

Angus staggered to a halt in the back garden.

Rain drummed on the roof of a plastic Wendy house; a weeny shed; and a metal whirly that bore one lonely, sodden bright-pink sock. A yellow dumper truck, about the size of a breeze block, lay on its side beneath a leafless fruit tree.

The garden was enclosed by more tall wooden fencing, with a small veg plot planted along the boundary between here and number fifty-two. Green knobbly stalks of Brussels sprouts protected by a cage of bamboo canes and green netting — everything else dug over and ready for the spring to properly kick in. A rake, spade, and hoe propped against the fence.

No sign of Patrick Crombie.

Sod.

A pair of glazed patio doors showed off an open-plan kitchen/dining area/living room. At the small table, a frazzled woman tried to get a pair of blue-and-pink twins to eat their peas by doing ‘the aeroplane thing’. Going by the slick of little green pellets on the floor, it wasn’t working.

She looked up to refuel the plane, and her eyes went wide, mouth falling open as she spotted Angus. More peas tipped off the spoon, bouncing off the tiles as she stared.

Grunting and thumping came from next door, then clunk and the scramble of feet on wood as Patrick Crombie’s shaven head and neat wee beard appeared over the fence. They were followed by arms and legs, and finally the rest of him — tumbling down to crash through the green netting. Snapping bamboo canes and Brussels stalks. Flailing limbs as he struggled free.

Mud clung to his grey joggy-bots and white T-shirt; both arms thick with muscle and clarted in tattoos; shiny white trainers not so shiny any more.

Angus stepped in front of him, one hand up, barring the way. ‘Patrick Crombie, I’m arresting you under Section—’

‘GRAAAAAAAAAAA!’ He charged, head down, arms out, slamming into Angus’s chest and lifting him clear off the ground — then thump, flat on his back in the soggy grass with Crombie on top.

Angus jerked his knees up, rolling with it, keeping the momentum going, flipping Crombie up and over.

The tattooed lump was briefly airborne, before clattering, upside down, into the whirly, setting the metal pole ringing as water cascaded off the drooping lines.

They both scrambled to their feet.

This time when Crombie attacked, Angus dodged left, and he went stumbling by — brought up short by the fence. Sending the abandoned gardening implements clang-rattle-crashing.

‘Come on, Patrick, be reasonable.’

Instead, Crombie grabbed the fallen rake, yanked it free of the netting, and took a double-handed grip on the haft. Swinging the thing like a battle-axe. Bellowing as he lunged.

The rake ripped through the damp air — metal tines flashing a hand’s breadth from Angus’s face.

Yeah, this wasn’t good.

Angus rolled, going right this time, and the rake slammed into the grass, burying itself a good four inches.

Only now Angus was within arm’s reach of the remaining gardening tools. He grasped the spade’s handle and leapt up, clutching it like a muddy broadsword — pointed at Crombie’s ugly mug. ‘Where were we?’

Crombie swung his battle-axe again.

Angus parried it. ‘Ah, right: Patrick Crombie, I am arresting you under Section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016—’

Another bellow and the axe returned at speed.

Angus knocked it to the side, lunged, and the flat, back side of the spade pannnnged against Crombie’s skull. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to make a point.

Crombie stumbled sideways.

‘—for the murder of Douglas and Kevin Healey-Robinson.’

He shook his head, as if trying to get the metallic ringing noise out of it. Blinking. A wee bit unsteady on his pins.

‘The reason for your arrest is that I suspect that you have committed an offence—’

And Crombie was at it again, teeth bared, spittle flying as he wheeched the rake towards Angus’s cranium.

Block. Counterstrike.

Only this time Crombie was fast enough to get his faux axe up to stop the spade making contact.

Angus repeated the move: pannnng...

A woman’s voice slashed through the rain. ‘COME BACK HERE!’ Then another face appeared over the fence. PC Urpeth clambered up until she was perched on top, one leg dangling on either side. Her dirty-blonde hair was coming loose from its prison of hairpins, her stabproof vest and high-vis all smeared with grass stains. She’d lost her peaked cap somewhere along the way, and a fresh scrape grazed across one cheek. Her eyes were large at the best of times, but now they were positively owlish as she took in the scene.

Crombie went for an overhead strike.

Angus caught the rake halfway down with the spade, stopping it dead, then stepped forward, twisting as he went, swinging the spade to thump flat against Crombie’s backside.

Well, now that he had an audience, might as well make it look good.

Crombie staggered forwards a couple of paces, then whipped the rake around, backhand.

Nope.

Swap the spade from right to left.

Block.

Step back to open up a bit of space.

‘—and I believe that keeping you in custody is necessary and proportionate for the purposes of bringing you before a court—’

Double-handed swing from Crombie, slashing down left to right.

Feint left.

Twist.

Spin the spade, like Conan the Barbarian.

Pannnng...

This time Crombie battered into the shed.

More blinking and shaking. ‘Bastard...’

‘—or otherwise dealing with you in accordance with the law. Do you understand?’

An incoherent snarl burst free and Crombie launched himself at Angus, swirling the rake round and around, ‘KILL YOU!’

Time to end with a flourish.

Angus blocked the not-axe’s arc, setting the wooden haft juddering, then made a tight circle with the spade, over the haft, then under, twisting the thing out of Crombie’s grasp. It sailed away to clunk against the Wendy house.

Two steps back, twirling the spade from side to side — once, twice, three, four, five, six, seven, eight — then spinning it around his back, into his left hand. And both hands together, in full Conan pose.

Crombie glared at him.

Spat.

Growled.

Here we go...

And charged.

Pannnnnnnnnnnng...

Crombie spiralled sideways, feet slipping out from under him, crumping face-first into the soggy grass and skidding on his front about a foot and a half, till his head boinked to a stop against that discarded dumper truck.

Angus ditched the spade-sword and pinned him there — twisting his right arm into a full lock.

‘GET OFF ME! HELP! POLICE BRUTALITY!’

The cuffs ratcheted into place as PC Urpeth thumped down into the veg patch. Squashing anything that had survived Crombie’s landing.

The woman with twins-and-peas was still staring, so Angus gave her a cheery thumbs up. Community policing, and all that.

Soon as the cuffs were on, Crombie wriggled and thrashed. ‘HELP! POLICE BRUTALITY! CALL THE PAPERS! I WANT MY LAWYER! HELP!’

A scowl from Urpeth. ‘Shut up.’ She frowned at Angus’s discarded weapon. ‘Where’d you learn to swing a spade like that?’

‘HELP! I’M INNOCENT! POLICE BRUTALITY!’

‘Ill-spent youth.’ Modest shrug. ‘You OK?’

She prodded her scraped cheek with a fingertip. Winced. ‘Little sod broke Monster Munch’s nose.’

‘HE ASSAULTED ME! I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING! POLICE BRUTALITY!’

She nudged him with her mud-and-Brussels-sprouted boot. ‘If you don’t shut up I’ll “police brutality” you. Want a faceful of pelargonic acid vanillylamide?’

Crombie twisted his head around, glaring through the patio doors at the woman who’d pea’d all over the floor. ‘THIS SLAG THREATENED ME! YOU HEARD IT! POLICE BRUTALITY!’

Angus shook his head. ‘We don’t PAVA people in custody.’

‘Speak for yourself: I’m not built like a Sherman tank.’

‘POLICE BRUTALITY!’

Between them, they hauled Crombie to his feet. Where he kicked off again, struggling hard as they frogmarched him down the side of the house. ‘POLICE BRUTALITY! POLICE BRUTALITY!’

The householder, mouth like a goldfish, watched them go.

Luckily, the gate opened from the inside so they personhandled him through it.

The streetlights flickered into life, warming from a feverish orange to sickly yellow.

From here, halfway up the valley wall, you could see them blooming all over Oldcastle, stars against the gloom, twinkling through the rain. Above the rim of the valley, on the north side of the river, a sliver of sky shimmered with vibrant bloody red as the sun slowly died.

They marched Crombie towards the driveway, but before they’d cleared the house he lurched to one side, body-slamming Angus into the wall. Hard enough to strip the breath from Angus’s lungs and loosen his grip. Knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling.

Crombie twisted around and slammed his forehead into Urpeth’s face.

A meaty thunk and she went over backwards, leaving an arc of blood sparkling in the streetlights’ glow.

And Crombie was off — running for it.

Lying on his side, back pressed against the house wall, Angus jabbed an arm up and out, snatching a fistful of Crombie’s grass-and-mud-stained joggy-bots.

His grip on the soggy grey material was enough to pull the jogging bottoms down past Crombie’s knees, tangling the nasty wee sod’s ankles and sending him toppling forwards.

With both hands still cuffed behind his back.

No way to break his fall.

There was just time for a panicked scream, before the lock-block driveway rushed up to meet his face with a resounding crack. Followed by a stunned silence. Then a howl of pain.

PC Urpeth clambered up the recycling bin, and lurched over there on stiff legs. Fumbling out her canister of PAVA. ‘SPRAY!!!’

On the TV, this kind of thing was always depicted as an exciting whoosh of orange gas, but in real life the special effects were a lot less impressive: like a wee squirty water pistol, sending a spoot of clear liquid into Crombie’s face.

He screamed again — eyes clenched shut like angry sphincters. Tears streaming down his face.

They joined the blood pulsing out from what was left of his nose. Looked as if he’d lost a couple of front teeth as well.

Angus huffed his way to his knees. ‘Was that really necessary?’

Urpeth wiped a dribble of fresh scarlet from her swollen lip and adopted the standard giving-evidence-in-court voice: ‘The prisoner was violent and refusing to cooperate. Having assessed the situation, I deemed it appropriate to deploy my PAVA spray to protect myself and my colleague from further attack.’ She put the canister away. ‘Now you going to help me get him up, or what?’

They dragged Crombie to his feet again, where he stood all loose and dangly, whimpering and crying, with his joggy-bots round his ankles.

Angus pointed. ‘Should we not...?’

‘Nah. Might stop the bugger running away again.’

They shuffled him down the driveway and out onto the road, heading for the nearest patrol car.

By the time they got there, Monroe and DS Massie were emerging from number fifty — the pair of them on their Airwaves, making urgent worried noises that trailed off as they clapped eyes on Angus, Urpeth, and their prisoner.

Then their eyes widened as they took in the bloody, battered state of Patrick Crombie.

Monroe came to a halt, just in front of them. ‘What did... It’s...’

Crombie let loose a bubble of pink frothy snot, inflated by a wee sob. ‘Help... call the papers... police brutality... police brutality...’

Less than twenty feet away, Dr Fife watched them from the back seat of their pool car. Smiling as if this was all kind of funny, but not laugh-out-loud.

Monroe grimaced at PC Urpeth. ‘Katherine?’

She dabbed at her lip again. ‘He fell over.’

The only sounds were the rain, pattering on the patrol car roof, and Crombie’s gurgling snivels.

‘OK.’ Monroe nodded. ‘Excellent work, Katherine.’

‘Don’t look at me, Boss.’ She patted Angus on the back. ‘It was all Godzilla here.’

‘Good lad. See? I said all that bulk would come in handy.’ Monroe pulled out his Airwave. ‘Gary? House is clear: let’s get the team in.’

A nasal voice crackled from the handset: ‘On our way.’

‘Right.’ Monroe squared up to the prisoner. ‘I’ll give you one chance, Patrick: what did you do with Tom Mendel, Sarah Fordyce, and Kevin Healey-Robinson?’ Pointing the Airwave at the house. ‘We going to find them under the floorboards? Buried in the back garden? Where are their bodies?’

Crombie spattered out a frothy pink gobbet of phlegm. It fell just short of Monroe’s shoes. ‘Never touched them. Never even heard of them.’ He stood up straight, bloody chin in the air. ‘And I’m saying nothing else without my lawyer.’

The last scrapings of daylight had long gone, the sour-yellow streetlights robbing everything else of colour. Well, everything other than number fifty-two, where a ring of four industrial spotlights were hooked up to growling diesel generators. Bathing the house and garden in harsh white.

A row of scene examiners worked their way across the squelchy grass on their hands and knees, doing a fingertip search.

Behind them, a blue plastic marquee had been set up over the front door, hiding the investigation’s comings and goings. Every curtain and blind in the property: shut.

A lone PC stood on this side of the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ cordon, looking drookit and dreich in his sodden high-vis and peaked cap, keeping the crowds at bay.

The media, nutters, and lookie-loos, bustled on the other side of the tape: a swarm of people, with their cameras, brollies, microphones, mobile phones, and placards. That morning’s trio of protestors were back, and they’d brought a new friend with them: ‘5G GENOCIDE! WAKE UP!!!’ Jostling for position as several of the camera crews did live broadcasts for the six o’clock news.

Sheltering in the lee of Patrick Crombie’s garage, Angus shifted from one soggy foot to the other — little bubbles of water squishing through the lace holes.

Still hadn’t dried out from last time.

DS Sharp was on the pavement in front of the house, pacing back and forth with her head down, umbrella in one hand, mobile in the other. Her voice had that frustrated-mother tone to it: cajoling, annoyed, peacemaking. ‘I know that... I know... Look, I said I’ll get it for you, and I will!’

OK, so he could march out there and barge past her, but it seemed a little rude.

He waved, but she kept going.

‘Because I always have, haven’t I? Have I ever let you down? No.’

Angus cleared his throat.

No joy.

‘I’ll get it... Because I said I will.’

He tried again, much louder.

DS Sharp looked up from beneath her brolly. Made a face. ‘OK... I promise... Got to go.’ She put her phone away, then sagged. Hissed out a long breath. Gave Angus a small, sad smile. ‘I love my dad to bits, but Alzheimer’s can bugger right off.’

He stepped out from the garage’s rain shadow. ‘Sorry.’

She ran a hand across her face and sagged a little more. ‘No, I’m sorry, Angus. I know your dad...’ One shoulder twitched. ‘At least I’ve still got mine. I should be grateful.’ She raised her brolly, inviting him in. ‘Found anything yet?’

He scurried in beside her, hunching over to stay beneath the thrumming fabric dome. ‘Still searching, Sarge. Any word on the interview?’

‘Crombie’s in with his brief, last I heard: coordinating lies. He’ll read out some bollocks prepared statement, then it’ll be “no comment” this, and “no comment” that, till we have to charge him or let him go.’ She glanced over at the pool car, where Dr Fife should’ve been, only there was no sign of him. ‘Think our dwarf friend can rig the interview? Trick Crombie into confessing?’

‘Actually, Sarge, people with achondroplasia don’t like being called “dwarfs”.’

She stared at him. ‘Achrondo...?’

‘There was a girl with it in my year at school, so we all had to do a project. She’d clype on any kid who made fun of her condition, then wait till home time and beat the living shit out of them.’ Frown. ‘Think she’s a barrister now.’

DS Sharp blinked at him for a bit, then shook her head. ‘Anyway, we’ll need Dr Fife back at the ranch, helping with the interview. Drop him off on your way home.’

Home?

‘But, Sarge—’

‘On the plus side, with Crombie in custody the Fortnight Killer’s reign of terror is over.’ She kicked a wee stone across the driveway, sending it skittering into the overflowing gutter. ‘We saved two lives today, Angus. That’s not nothing. And all because you didn’t let the bastard get away.’ She patted him on the arm. ‘Proud of you.’

Heat bloomed in Angus’s ears and cheeks. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

‘Now sod off home; shift ended an hour ago.’ She pulled out a set of car keys and tossed them to him. ‘Take our friend with you.’

Angus looked back at the house. ‘You sure, Sarge?’

‘We’re going to be at this for hours, no point us all drowning...’

Fair enough.

She headed back inside, taking the umbrella with her.

Angus hurried towards the pool car, but he’d barely gone a couple of steps before his phone launched into its violiny ringtone.

When he dug it — and its protective ziplock — out, there was Ellie’s name glowing away on the screen, beneath an icon-sized photo of her sticking her tongue out.

He pressed the button. Smiled.

‘Ellie.’

She sounded as if she was trapped inside a Dalek. ‘You busy tonight? Blagged two comp tickets to that new Jumanji musical at the King James.’

The smile faded. ‘Ellie, we’ve been over this.’

‘Martyring yourself is more fun than a night at the theatre, eh?’

He stomped his way towards the pool car. ‘It’s not about “martyring” anything: it’s about accepting gifts as a police officer and—’

‘Truth, justice, integrity. Wank, wank, wank.’

She never got it. Or never wanted to.

‘The rules are there for a reason, Ellie. If I don’t follow them, how can we expect anyone else to?’

‘You’re a big, daft, damp, lump of gristle, aren’t you.’

Possibly.

‘Besides, Mum’s making a special tea — celebrate my first day in plainclothes. Can’t be late.’

‘Yeah...’ Ellie dragged the word out, seasoning it with foreboding. ‘I’ve been on the receiving end of your mum’s celebratory teas. Love her to bits, but macaroni cheese needs to have some actual cheese in it.’

A whistle screeched out across the cul-de-sac, one high note, one low.

‘Well? Give us a wave.’

What?

He did a slow three-sixty — the houses opposite with light glowing in their windows, number fifty-four at the end of the street with its slick of blood slowly washing away in the rain, number fifty-two with its spotlights and active crime scene—

‘Over here, you numpty.’

Angus turned to scan the mob of reporters, journalists, and... Ellie, standing out from the crowd in her big, orange, padded waterproof jacket. Hood up. Phone pressed to her ear as she waved at him.

‘Peekaboo.’

Damn.

Because he’d been this close to getting out of the rain and back to the station.

‘Come on, you love Jumanji. Karen Gillan running around for two hours with her bellybutton out? Thought you were going to faint with the excitement.’

He squish-squelched towards the cordon. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I can’t, OK? Sorry.’

‘Honestly, I swear you wouldn’t know fun if it got up and spanked your pert, fuzzy bottom.’ A sigh huffed from the speaker, slightly muffled by the plastic bag. ‘I’m definitely making you eat worms next time I see you, Angus MacVicar. And it’ll serve you right for being a miserable sod.’

By the time he’d got there, Ellie had made her way to the far edge of the cordon — beneath the lamppost, away from the other journos.

He put his phone away. ‘Do you ever get tired of being horrible to me?’

She hung up. Grinned. ‘Nope.’

Behind her, one of the protestors shuffled over to the cordon, still clutching her placard: ‘PROSECUTE VACCINE MURDERERS!!!’ It was her, from this morning: the pretty one with the smoky eyeshadow and the pouty lips. Though the pink tips on her black hair had lost their colour in the streetlight’s septic glow, hanging lank and wet from the brim of her rain-soaked bobble hat.

Angus pulled on his professional smile. ‘Can I help you, miss?’

‘Sorry.’ Up close, her breath smelled of strawberries and roses, carried on a soft, lilting, Highlands-and-Islands accent. Her cheeks flushed, and so did the tip of her little upturned nose. ‘I was just...’ She pointed at Ellie.

Ellie dug her hands deep into the padded jacket’s pockets. ‘Gillian and I had a nice chat about murder investigations, and pandemics, and how some newly appointed detective constables are complete killjoys. Didn’t we, Gillian.’

Those smoky eyes widened. ‘I’ve never been interviewed for a major newspaper before.’

Angus didn’t move.

Didn’t say a single word.

Ellie thumped him anyway. ‘Shut up. The Castle News and Post does so count.’

Hard not to stare at that placard.

He frowned. ‘Is this all vaccines, or is there any one in particular? With the “Murderers”.’

Gillian hugged the wooden support tighter. ‘It’s... Just it wasn’t even a vaccine, it was an experimental gene therapy, and people died from it.’

Angus nodded, kept his voice nice and neutral. ‘Wow.’

‘Only you never hear about it, because the mainstream media always suppresses anything that contradicts the establishment’s narrative. They lie to us all the time!’ Waving her hand at the assembled press. ‘The world’s drowning in misinformation and conspiracy and stupidity, and instead of throwing us a lifebelt, the media’s punching holes in the boat and cheering on the bloody crocodiles!’ She winced. Then gave Ellie’s arm a squeeze. ‘Not you, of course. You’re one of the few honest ones.’

‘Darn tootin’.’

‘See’ — Gillian turned back to Angus — ‘how are people supposed to give informed consent if the media won’t tell the truth about all the people who died? That’s why I’m here: getting the message across.’

‘Right. Gotcha.’ Difficult to know how to put this without sounding condescending, but: ‘Is this about them putting teeny computer chips in the vaccine to track people?’

The placard drooped and she stared at him, eyebrows pinched, lips squeezed in a hurt pout. ‘See what I mean? The Bill Gates Microchip Plot’s nothing more than a false-flag disinformation campaign promulgated online by the Global Elite to discredit free thinkers and make us look like delusional weirdos.’ All said with one hundred percent complete conviction.

‘Well... I’m glad it’s not true, anyway.’

‘My friend’s dad died from the vaccine. It damaged his brain, and he got dementia, and then he died.’ The placard drooped a little more. ‘Only it was lockdown, so they couldn’t even have a proper funeral.’

God knew far too much of that went on, back in the day.

Mrs Farooq had been forced to say goodbye to her husband, Kabir, on a borrowed iPad. She’d cried for months — sobs racking through the building’s thin walls until Wee Hamish whimpered in sympathy.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

Because what else could you say?

Gillian placed her free hand against her chest, fingers splayed, biting her bottom lip as she blinked up at him. Eyes shimmering. Though that might’ve been the rain. Mouthing the words ‘Thank you’.

The other journalists finally seemed to notice that there was something going on over here, because a handful were working their way through the crowd towards them. Cameras and microphones at the ready.

Time to escape.

‘Well, it’s been lovely talking to you, but I better get back to work.’ Angus turned to go, but Ellie grabbed his sleeve.

‘Speaking of work...’ She produced her phone, thumbing the ‘RECORD’ button. ‘I hear you’ve got yourself a swanky American FBI profiler on the team now.’

Sod.

Angus pulled on his nonchalant voice. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘Oooh...’ Gillian’s placard got a sudden shot of Viagra. ‘An FBI profiler? Like in the movies?’

Yeah.

He glanced back at the pool car.

Not like in the movies at all.

Ellie tugged at his sleeve. ‘Well? Come on, then: was he instrumental in identifying Patrick Crombie? Bet he was. Did his profile lead you straight to the Fortnight Killer’s door? When are Police Scotland going to release a copy of it? The Knap’s readers have a right to know.’ She stuck her phone in his face, the little red light winking away on its screen. ‘In your own time.’

‘“Knap”?’

‘Castle News and Post. Keep up, Grandad.’

He gave her a little smile and wriggled free. ‘Bye, Ellie.’ Waved at Gillian. Then turned and got the hell out of there. Striding across the puddled tarmac.

Ellie’s voice rang out behind him: ‘Come on, Angus, at least give me the guy’s name!’

Nope.

‘Angus!’

Still nope.

‘IT’S DOUBLE WORMS FOR YOU NEXT TIME, MISTER!’

6

Angus opened the driver’s door and thumped in behind the wheel. The seat pressed the soggy suit against his back and legs — cold and clammy and horrible.

Dr Fife was scooted down in the passenger seat, so far that even the top of his curly head didn’t poke above the bottom edge of the window. He had Crombie’s file open again, reading with the aid of a little LED pen light.

He looked up. ‘Did you swim here?’

Angus wiped the rain from his face, shook the droplets into the footwell. ‘Thought you weren’t hanging around.’

His hooded eyes drifted up to the rear-view mirror, narrowing as he watched the assembled press reflected there. ‘I’ve got sex on my mind, Andrew.’

Great.

‘Angus.’

Those bushy eyebrows raised. ‘Really? Oh.’

‘And I’m flattered, but you’re not my type.’

‘Not me, you idiot: Patrick Crombie.’ He tapped the file. ‘Crombie’s a sex offender; most serial killers are. Oh, maybe not on the surface — maybe they’ll claim God or aliens made them do it, or they’re getting their own back on their mother, but in the end it’s all about the fantasy. The thing that keeps them up all night, stiff on the power of what they’ve done. And what they’re going to do next time.’

Now there was an image.

‘So... he’s abducting the victims’ partners for sex?’

Dr Fife’s eyes drifted back to the mirror. ‘That’s what worries me.’ Tapping the file again. ‘You see, I read this and I think to myself: is Patrick Crombie the kind of guy who gets his kicks torturing men, and women, in front of their partners?’ The frown deepened. ‘Because he doesn’t feel the type to me.’

Bloody Americans.

‘He’s got convictions for abduction, rape, and sexual—’

‘Yes, I know that. But there’s a big difference between raping someone, and fixing them and their partner to the kitchen table with three-inch wood screws then torturing them to death.’ He held up a hand. ‘Which is not to downplay the seriousness of rape, or the need to stick all rapey sons-a-bitches in prison and kick them in the nuts till their dicks fall off.’ His eyes remained fixed on the reflected mass of journalists and cameras. ‘It’s just different.’

The rain-drenched street faded as fog spread across the car windows. Most of it rising from Angus’s soggy suit.

Dr Fife sat there, immobile as a concrete bollard.

Angus: motionless as a standing stone.

Their stillness filled the car as the outside world disappeared from view.

‘Let’s look at the evidence.’ Dr Fife smoothed a hand across the open file. ‘Three sets of victims. Each time: our killer gains access with no sign of forced entry. He controls his victims, makes it so one has to watch the other get tortured to death, then abducts whoever’s left.’

‘Assuming they’re not already dead.’

‘Which they probably are, but we’re gonna pretend they’re not, for now.’ He stared at the rear-view mirror, but the only thing reflected there was the misted back window. ‘Even if you ignore everything Ressler, Burgess, and Douglas say in Sexual Homicide Patterns and Motives, or the Crime Classification Manual, the whole set-up here just feels sexual, doesn’t it? Voyeuristic: one partner watching the other. Sex and death as performance art.’ Pause. ‘It’s like some twisted peepshow, in a skeezy strip mall, in Hell.’

Silence settled in again.

Angus struggled his way out of the wringing-wet jacket — not easy with the sleeves sticking to his soaked-through shirt.

Dr Fife closed the file. ‘The problem is Patrick Crombie. He’s got all the hallmarks of an organized, serial, sexual killer: the escalating sex offences, the increased violence, the time in prison to work on his fantasies, and yet...?’ That wide forehead crinkled into deep ruts, as if he was genuinely thinking it through rather than milking the moment. ‘Can I see him torturing women? Definitely. Can I see him torturing Michael Fordyce and making his wife watch, then abducting and raping her? Hundred percent.’ Dr Fife pursed his lips. ‘Can I see Crombie torturing Jessica Mendel to death, then killing her husband? Yes. Drunk on the power of doing that to another man’s “property”...’

Angus slipped the key into the ignition.

‘But the ultimate expression of dominance didn’t happen.’

OK, that was just stupid.

He went to say so, but Dr Fife waved it away.

‘There’s nothing in the autopsy report about her being raped.’ Back to pondering. ‘And why abduct Jessica’s husband? What does that get you?’

The starter whined three, four times, before the engine sputtered into life. ‘Maybe it is a Jeffrey Dahmer thing after all?’ He cranked the blowers up full, and stuck on the heated rear windscreen to shift the fog.

‘And finally, we have Kevin and Douglas Healey-Robinson. Crombie’s a raging misogynist, why would he find that sexually stimulating?’

It wasn’t a bad point.

Angus turned in his seat. ‘What if he’s... confused? You say he’s escalating, right? So, maybe he starts off killing the husband and abducting the wife, then tries it the other way around, likes it, then goes the whole hog and targets a gay couple?’

‘Well, that’s certainly a theory.’ Not sounding convinced at all. ‘Suppose we’ll find out when we interrogate him.’

Thin black lines appeared on the rear window, spreading as the heating elements did their thing. Giving a partial view of the press and onlookers.

Dr Fife’s eyes went back to the mirror again.

Angus twisted all the way around, staring out through the spreading bands of clear glass. ‘What?’ Facing front again. ‘What are we looking at?’

‘Have your CSI team found anything yet?’

‘CSI...? Oh. No. The scene examiners haven’t found anything.’

Dr Fife tore his eyes from the mirror to examine Angus instead. ‘When the officer round the back shouted “Crombie’s jumped the fence and gone right”, everyone else ran right, but you went left.’

‘I figured, as ’Tash was behind the house, his right would be our left.’ Shrug. ‘Seemed obvious.’

‘“’Tash”.’ Dr Fife snorted. ‘Does everyone in this half-assed police department have stupid nicknames?’

‘People in teams like nicknames.’

He sooked at his teeth for a bit, eyes drifting back to the rear-view. Until, finally: ‘Call me a pessimistic old sex god, but — given the way Crombie makes my balls itch — I think we should go have a word with the guy who hired the other van.’

Oh, for God’s sake.

‘But we caught—’

‘Then I’ll look like an asshole for dragging you off on a moron’s mission, won’t I?’ He scooted even further down in his seat, till he was well below the window level. Then pulled his greatcoat over his head. ‘Just don’t stop, OK?’

Angus sat there, staring at the complete and utter weirdo in the passenger seat. ‘Any chance you could tell me why you’re hiding in the footwell?’

‘The illusion is somewhat spoiled if they can see you talking to me.’

‘Insane...’ He wiped the side of his hand across the windscreen — clearing as much of it as he could reach. Which was quite a lot. Tears of condensation wept onto the dashboard. ‘Have you ever thought about seeing a psychiatrist?’

‘It’s not as much fun as you’d think. Now can we get going?’

Man was an absolute Topic bar.

Angus stuck the car into reverse and performed a shuffling seven-point turn in the narrow cul-de-sac, till they were facing back the way they’d come. Crawling forward — going half up on the pavement to squeeze past the patrol car that blocked the road this side of the cordon.

Then the media frenzy kicked in. Cameras up, flashes going, TV crews repositioning to get the pool car in the back of their shot.

The poor soggy sod in the dripping high-vis nodded at Angus, then waved the crowds out of the way.

Just in case, Angus kept most of his mouth shut, barely moving his lips as he smiled at the people outside. ‘This isn’t normal. You know that, don’t you?’

‘I made the rules very clear: either I’m not here, or I’m not here.’

‘Yes, but why?’

‘Because that’s the rules!’

The PC raised the line of ‘POLICE’ tape, till it was clear of the pool car’s roof, and ushered them through.

Ellie and Gillian stood on the pavement, waving as they drove past.

One last barrage of flash photography, and the car was out the other side, accelerating up to twenty, following the curve of Breechfield Crescent.

Angus gave it half a dozen houses before pulling into the kerb again.

An irate voice muffled out from beneath the greatcoat: ‘I told you not to stop!’

He hauled on the handbrake. ‘The press are all the way back there. And I’m not going any further till you put on your seatbelt.’

They drifted onto a curved residential road lined with decent-sized two-storey homes built about thirty years before Angus was born. About half had abandoned the concept of gardening, swapping lawns for gravel so boy-racer hatchbacks and school-run four-by-fours could park there.

The rain had called a truce for now, leaving the street shiny and dark in the streetlights.

Up here, on Blackwall Hill, they were pretty much opposite Patrick Crombie’s house in Shortstaine, but the other side of the valley was little more than a spider’s web of streetlights, individual details lost in the night. Castle Hill was clearer, with its swirl of old-fashioned streets and the blank black blade of granite, with the spotlit castle on top. The twin red lights, blinking atop the hospital’s incinerators as they belched steam, or smoke. And the radioactive amoeba of the old glass-roofed Victorian train station in Logansferry.

‘This is us.’ Angus pulled in behind one of O Division’s manky pool cars — easy to spot in this collection of suburban vehicles, because A: it was a Vauxhall, B: it was filthy, and C: someone had scratched the word ‘BACON!!!’ in big letters across the boot.

Two silhouettes lurked inside, smoking cigarettes and keeping tabs on number seventeen.

The rain resumed its attack, sweeping down the valley and up the other side, fizzing and sparking in the streetlights’ glow as it clattered off the car bonnet.

Dr Fife took one look at the fresh downpour and crossed his arms. ‘Go on then.’

Great.

‘Monster Munch was right about you.’ Undoing his seatbelt.

‘More stupid nicknames.’

Angus rolled his eyes, clambered out, and hurried through the deluge to the other pool car, with his soggy jacket pulled up in a makeshift umbrella.

He knocked on the driver’s roof.

The window buzzed down all the way, releasing a swarm of cigarette smoke to fly around Angus’s head, before the rain wheeched it away.

PC Gilbert smiled up at him. He was a right farmer’s loon, with his ruddy cheeks, sideburns, yellow tar-stained fingers, and receding hairline. The squint didn’t help. Nor did the full-on teuchter accent. ‘Aye, aye; it’s the boy.’

DS Kilgour leaned over from the passenger seat to look across the car. There was more than a hint of the ‘shaved bear’ about him — a broad-shouldered, rounded bulk, with huge hands and little beady glittering eyes, all topped off with a pork-pie hat. As if Paddington’s Uncle Pastuzo had an unfortunate run-in with a bucket of Nair. ‘Angus, isn’t it? We heard you handcuffed Patrick Crombie, then beat the living hell out of him. That’s what we call “Very Naughty”.’

‘I didn’t: he tripped.’

Gilbert nodded. ‘That’s progress for you. In my day, they used to “fall down the stairs”.’

‘He tripped!’

A smile spread across Kilgour’s muzzle. ‘What can we do for you, Angus the Terrible?’

Don’t rise to it, and maybe it won’t stick.

Angus pointed at number seventeen. ‘Is Francis McCurdy in? Have you spoken to him?’

Kilgour turned to his driver. ‘Have we spoken to him, George?’

‘Nope. Not so much as a word, Sarge. On account of us secretly staking the place out and that kind of thing being frowned upon.’

He mimed a big what-ya-gonna-do shrug. ‘Sorry.’

Dr Fife appeared, as if by magic. No sound, no warning, just bang — there he was, sheltering beneath a collapsible black brolly. ‘Can we get on with this, please? Oldcastle is considerably colder than California. And wetter.’ Taking a quick look around. ‘And shittier.’

PC Gilbert scowled. ‘Hey!’

‘Now, now, George.’ Kilgour held up a hand. ‘The nice forensic psychologist might be horribly rude, but he’s not wrong. Oldcastle is a shitehole.’

‘Thank you.’ Fife turned on his Cuban-heeled boots, then stopped. Turned back again. ‘If you know we caught Patrick Crombie, why are you still here?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be the first time some tit arrested the wrong man.’ The hand came up again. ‘Present company excluded, of course. I’ve just found it’s wise to keep my mind, and options, open.’

Dr Fife stared at him for a couple of breaths. Then nodded. ‘Very true.’

Kilgour stared right back. ‘And in the spirit of open-mindedness: if Patrick Crombie isn’t our man, any idea who the Fortnight Killer’s going to murder on Friday? Finding out before it happens would be what we call “Helpful”.’

‘I’m working on it.’ This time Fife clopped away through the downpour, taking his umbrella with him. ‘We’re gonna give Mr McCurdy a knock. We’ll scream if we need you.’

‘Please, don’t hesitate.’ A wink for Angus. ‘Try not to beat this one up, eh, Champ?’

‘He tripped!’ Angus stuck his nose in the air and marched after Dr Fife.

Number seventeen seemed nice enough, with a shiny red Porsche sitting in the driveway, blocking in a small sports-utility thing with oversized bull bars.

Angus reached the door a couple of steps before Dr Fife. Rang the bell. ‘Do you have to alienate everyone?’

‘I find it’s quicker. They’re gonna hate me anyway; the least I can do is give them a reason.’

Yeah. Who knew acting like a colossal dick would get people’s back up? What a total shock-horror.

He pressed the bell again. ‘Yes, but maybe they wouldn’t—’

The door jerked open, and a woman glared out at them. She was maybe late twenties? With a toddler on her hip and fierce tear-reddened eyes. Dressed in colourful, but baggy, sweatshirt and joggies. ‘What?’ Her lip curled. ‘If you’re here to complain about the bloody noise again, you can sod right off, because—’

Angus flashed his warrant card. ‘Is Francis McCurdy in? We need to have a word.’

A smile dimpled her cheeks — cold and sharp. ‘Oh, do you now? If it’s “You’re under arrest”’ — her voice jumped up a couple of decibels as she turned to hurl it over her shoulder — ‘“YOU TWO-FACED, LYING, CHEATING WANKER!”’ — back to Angus — ‘then: yes, he is. But not for long!’

Perched there on her hip, the toddler gurned and whined. Pudgy little hands grasping for her hair. ‘Shh, Baby, shhhh...’

Dr Fife peered past them, into the house. ‘Trouble in paradise?’

Angus gave him a good hard stare, because how the hell was that helpful? Then back to the householder. ‘Can we come in?’

She reversed out of the way, leaving the door wide open. Waved her hand at the stairs. ‘He’s up there. Don’t be afraid to taser the bastard.’

A whole load of crummy kid’s drawings were framed on the wall; a pair of bright-red wellies lined up with the adult shoes. The open living-room door showing off a mess of Duplo and stuffed animals.

The woman stood at the foot of the stairs, scowling after them as they climbed up to the landing. Where more horrible kid’s pictures were interspersed with family holiday snaps. For a toddler, he’d been a lot of places. None of the pictures featured Daddy, but there were gaps where frames had been — leaving nothing but the hooks and a line of dust behind.

Four doors off the landing, but only one was open.

Angus poked his head in.

It was a single-bedroom-cum-study, with a wall of bookshelves, a desk, and an office chair. No sign of a computer, though.

A middle-aged man, with slicked-back hair and a weeny ponytail, was stuffing clothes into a bin bag. He’d clearly been away somewhere, because his nose and forehead were the classic Scottish shade of been-in-the-sun beetroot, the skin peeling around the edges. Dressed far too young for his age, in Levi’s, a black leather jacket, Four Mechanical Mice T-shirt, and green Vans. And, up close, it was obvious that slick-backed hairdo was doing its best to hide a spreading bald spot. A scarlet handprint marred one cheek, tears sparkling in his eyes as he rammed a cashmere sweater in with the rest.

Dr Fife wheezed his way onto the landing. Rubbing at his knees.

The man hadn’t seen them yet, or if he had, he didn’t care.

Angus cleared his throat. ‘Francis McCurdy?’

There was a high-pitched screek and he spun around, nearly leaping out of his trendy-young-person shoes. Soon as he saw Angus standing there he flinched back, one arm up to protect his face. Whimpering.

Dr Fife pushed past, into the room. ‘Looks like your reputation precedes you, Detective Constable.’

‘You’re police?’ McCurdy lowered his arm and puffed out his chest: the big man once again. He jabbed an indignant finger at the carpet. ‘Whatever she told you, it’s a lie! I never laid a hand on that...’ His mouth clamped shut, as if thinking better of what was about to plop out of it. ‘I came home today and she’d been through my wardrobe with a carving knife!’ Snatching a suit jacket from the nearest bin bag. The sleeves and back hung in clean-edged tatters. ‘Ruined!’ He rammed it back in the bag. ‘I tried to be reasonable. I did everything they tell you to in the books. I even said she could keep the house! And what did she do?’

Dr Fife tilted his head on one side. ‘Let me guess — you’ve been screwing around, haven’t you, Francis?’

He stuck his nose in the air. ‘We’ve grown apart, that’s all.’

OK, as usual, none of this was helping.

Angus pulled out his notebook and put on his official police voice. ‘Mr McCurdy, did you hire a Luton Transit van from Toucan Youcan?’

‘Lemme guess: you hit the big five-oh, and you thought — “there must be more to life than this”. Found yourself a young wife, knocked her up, but that didn’t satisfy the itch, did it?’

McCurdy stuffed a pair of extremely ripped jeans in the bag. ‘It wasn’t like that.’

Angus had another go. ‘Can we focus, please? Mr McCurdy—’

‘So you got a Viagra-substitute sports car, and a ponytail, and an even younger bit on the side.’

He wouldn’t look at them. ‘That isn’t... It wasn’t like that.’

God’s sake.

Angus towered over the pair of them. ‘Did you, or did you not, hire a van from—’

‘Only your wife, the mother of your child, discovered what you were up to, didn’t she? And she threw you out.’

‘Dr Fife, can we please—’

‘That’s why you hired the removal van. She threw you out, and now you have to move in with your side-chick.’

McCurdy bit his bottom lip, shook his head. ‘You have no idea what it’s like.’

‘EVERYONE PLEASE STOP TALKING!’

There was silence, as Dr Fife and Francis McCurdy stared at Angus as if he was the unreasonable one.

Deep breath. ‘Now, did you hire a van from—’

‘And fifty bucks says I know where she lives: not far from here, in fact. Balvenie Row.’

What, was he invisible here?

Angus opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Hold on: Balvenie Row? Where the Healey-Robinsons died?

‘How did...?’ McCurdy clutched the sides of his leather jacket shut, backing away till his arse bumped into the desk. ‘You can’t tell Denise. She’s unhinged. She’ll... I don’t know, torch the place or something. Please!’

Dr Fife sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘I suppose it depends on whether you cooperate or not.’

Angus paused on the threshold, frowning out into the rain as Mrs McCurdy told Mr McCurdy exactly how much of a shit he was. Loudly and in great detail.

DS Kilgour and PC Gilbert were right where they’d left them — smoking away in blissful ignorance, but not for long.

‘Suppose someone has to break the bad news.’

‘Good luck.’ Dr Fife popped up his collapsible brolly and scurried off towards the other, empty pool car.

‘Thanks a sodding heap.’

Might as well get it over with.

Angus marched out into the downpour.

Soon as he was outside, his phone dinged and buzzed, deep in his jacket pocket. Text message.

MUM:

He closed his eyes, rain stabbing at his rounded shoulders. Then thumbed out a reply as he shuffled over to Kilgour’s pool car.

PC Gilbert lowered his window. ‘Aye, aye; it’s the boy again.’

A smile from DS Kilgour. ‘Should I be calling an ambulance, Angus the Terrible?’

Nope: still not rising to it.

He put his phone away. ‘Francis McCurdy’s been cheating on his wife for the last six months, but she only found out two weeks ago. And the new woman lives at twenty-five Balvenie Row, two doors up from—’

‘Oh, buggering hell.’ Kilgour cringed in his seat. ‘It was his Transit. She threw him out, he hired a van, packed his stuff, and...’ The DS frowned. ‘Wait a minute: how come they didn’t cop to hiring the van when we did door-to-doors?’

‘They weren’t in. Pair of them only got back from Tenerife an hour ago.’ Hence the sunburn. ‘We’re going round now to check with the young woman. Make sure his story sticks.’

‘Bollocking shiteweasels. We could’ve been chasing down other leads!’

Hard not to sound keen about that: ‘We’ve got other leads?’

‘Course we don’t. That’s not the point.’ Kilgour jerked a thumb at Angus’s pool car. ‘What about Mr FBI? Is he the golden-arsed, shiny-genius saviour Monroe thinks he is?’

Good question.

‘Well, Dr Fife knew Patrick Crombie wasn’t the Fortnight Killer, so... kinda? Hard to tell at this point.’

‘Well, he better get his arrogant wee finger out. We’ve got...’ Kilgour pushed back his sleeve, exposing a fat digital-watch-fitness-tracker thing. ‘...less than forty-eight hours before this bastard butchers another unlucky couple. That’s what we call “Less Than Ideal”, Angus.’

Yeah...

‘There’s something else, Sarge.’ He shuffled his feet, making little ripples in a gritty puddle. ‘The press know we’ve got a hot-shot FBI profiler in from the States. They don’t know who, but they know we’ve got one.’

There was a groan. ‘Oh, you’re a little ray of sunshine in my life today, aren’t you, Constable?’ Frown. ‘Have you told the Boss?’

‘Well, no. I can’t really, not with Dr Fife in the car. He doesn’t know they know. And I didn’t want to scare him off.’ Besides, surely this was a job for more senior officers. Angus put a little wheedle into his voice. ‘Don’t suppose you’d—’

‘I’d love to, but I’m afraid this is what we call “A Teachable Moment”.’

‘But—’

‘While you’re at it, you can tell the Boss about Patrick Crombie being innocent. He’ll enjoy that.’

What?

‘But... it’s... Wouldn’t that kind of thing be better coming from—’

‘Can’t hide behind detective sergeants your whole life.’ If it was meant to be a reassuring smile, it didn’t work. ‘Besides, Monroe isn’t an ogre. He even took the heat when Rhona set fire to that patrol car.’

‘Oh aye.’ Gilbert nodded. ‘But that was totally one of them “unforeseeable accidents”.’ A grotesque twitch creased up half his face, as if he was having a seizure. ‘Wink, wink.’

‘But—’

‘See? Could be worse. Give him a call — you’ll be fine. Better he finds out now, before we waste a ton of time interviewing the slimy sex-offendering scumbag.’

Angus sagged. ‘Yes, Sarge.’ Turned. Then scuffed away towards his pool car, where Dr Fife waited, dirty-blond curls caught in the urine-tinged streetlight.

All safe and dry.

And he’d had an umbrella all this time.

Didn’t bother lending the thing to Angus, though, did he.

Monster Munch had been underselling it when she’d called him a ‘twat’: Dr Jonathan ‘Don’t Call Me Jonny’ Fife was an unapologetic, chrome-plated, total and utter—

Angus’s phone ding-buzzed with another incoming text.

He winced, but left it unread for now.

There was work to do.

7

Twenty-five Balvenie Row was almost identical to number twenty-one, only without the Mobile Incident Unit parked outside. Or the SOC marquee covering the front door. And it wasn’t cordoned off or surrounded by floral tributes.

Oh, and the homeowner was still alive.

Chloe Arbuthnot: early twenties, with an overbite and a button nose, deep-chestnut tan, long blue hair, nose ring, glaikit expression, Mr Bones T-shirt, ripped jeans, and pink Vans to go with Francis McCurdy’s green ones.

Miss Arbuthnot was clearly feeling the cold — as evidenced by the protrusions in her T-shirt. One of which appeared to be pierced.

But Angus was not staring at it. Or them. Because he wasn’t an animal.

He forced a smile. ‘OK. Thanks for your time.’ Then lumbered back down the short path as she closed the front door behind him.

The pool car was double-parked, flashers glittering in the rain. Angus crumpled in behind the wheel.

Dr Fife fiddled with his phone, not looking up as Angus slumped and sighed.

‘I was right, wasn’t I.’

The engine coughed into life, like an asthmatic smoker. ‘Ms Arbuthnot says Francis McCurdy moved most of his stuff in twelve days ago. It was a Friday night, so they had “Mickey D’s” for tea, went clubbing, got an Uber home at three, and “boinked porkies” till dawn.’

‘At his age?’ Dr Fife grimaced. ‘And did she actually say “boinked porkies”?’

How could it all go so horribly wrong?

‘DCI Monroe is going to kill me.’

‘Maybe. But try to look on the bright side: I was right, and everyone else was wrong.’ He patted Angus on the back. ‘That’s gotta be worth something.’

‘Is this supposed to help?’

‘Not really.’

Sooner today was over the better.

Angus dragged out his bagged-up phone. An unread-text icon glowed on the screen, with ‘FROM MUM’ next to it. Where it could stay. He called up his contacts instead and scrolled through to the ‘D’s, finger hovering over ‘DCI MONROE’.

So much for making a good impression on his first day.

A sigh rattled out from the passenger side. ‘Angus: it’s a setback, yes, but imagine if we hadn’t established this whole van-hire thing was a loada crap. The team scurry off, tracking down all of Crombie’s contacts, known addresses, aliases; they wade through a thousand hours of security footage trying to figure out where he dumped Sarah Fordyce, Tom Mendel, and Kevin Healey-Robinson’s bodies.’ Dr Fife raised a hand, making a sweeping gesture that somehow took in all of Oldcastle. ‘And Friday, maybe Saturday, we find another victim whose partner’s missing, and we’re right back where we started. Only two more people are dead.’

Angus stared at the phone in its ziplock bag. ‘Yeah, I guess...’ He pressed the button.

Monroe’s voice barked from the speaker. ‘Who’s this?’

Deep breath. ‘Boss? It’s Angus. DC MacVicar? From this afternoon at Patrick Crombie’s—’

‘Is this important, Angus? Only we’re a bit busy.’ The sound went all muffled, as if Monroe had put his hand over the microphone. ‘Badger? Give him a long hard stare, then ask him why he hired the van again. The bastard’s got to say something other than “no comment”, at some point.’

Angus grimaced at Dr Fife. ‘Oh God, they’re already interviewing Crombie!’

Back to full volume: ‘You still there?’

‘It’s... Dr Fife and I spoke to the other person who hired a Toucan Youcan van.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Not sounding as if he was paying all that much attention. ‘OK, pivot back to where he was the night Michael Fordyce was killed.’

‘It wasn’t Patrick Crombie’s van parked on Balvenie Row, Friday before last, it was Francis McCurdy’s. His mistress just confirmed it.’

An ominous silence radiated out of the phone.

‘Boss?’

‘He what?’

‘Sorry.’

The silence returned, and brought its friends with it.

Dr Fife raised his eyebrows.

Angus wriggled in his seat.

And still the silence roared.

More wriggling.

‘Boss?’

A pained groan. ‘Buggering hell... I thought we had him. I really thought we had him.’ A hissed breath. ‘Badger, it’s a bust. He’s not the Fortnight Killer. But he’s guilty of something: find out what.’ A muffled swearword, too low to hear. Then: ‘Got to go.’

The line went dead.

Angus put his phone away.

Slouched.

‘Back to square one.’

Dr Fife tapped the dashboard clock. ‘With less than forty-eight hours to go.’

Urgh...

For some bizarre reason, they’d decided to redecorate the boardroom at Divisional Headquarters in a sort of pastel-mushroom colour. Tins and tins of ‘WOODLAND WONDER’ were pyramided up in the corner, by a droopy wallpaper table and about a dozen rolls of lining paper. White smears of Polyfilla dotted the stripped-back walls. Cardboard and plastic on the floor, like a serial killer’s basement.

Everything smelled of dust and paint-thinner, overlain with the foul, chemical stench of floral air freshener.

Not a stick of furniture, so they all had to stand.

Monroe had the window, bum resting on the sill, arms folded. DS Massie, DIs Tudor and Cohen, and Dr Fife making a semicircle around him. With Angus steaming himself by the room’s only radiator — waiting to be sent off for coffees. Because that’s what always happened when everyone else outranked you.

DI Cohen pulled a face. ‘Crombie’s brief is screaming “false arrest”, “incompetence”, “police brutality”, and “compensation”.’

‘Perfect.’ Monroe let his head fall back to thunk against the double glazing.

‘Apparently we’ve got a vendetta against his client, and we’re engaged in a conspiracy to fit the scumbag up.’

DS Massie held her hands out, palms up, as if she was carrying a sacrificial offering. ‘We’ve still got Crombie on three counts of resisting arrest and assault, if that helps?’

‘Which we’ll probably have to drop, if we’re going to stand any chance of making this buggering prickfest go away.’ Monroe straightened up, locking eyes with Dr Fife. ‘Please tell me you know where to look next.’

‘If I had a Magic Eight Ball, I’d shake it for you, but like I said: this kinda stuff takes time. I only got the files today.’ His forehead creased. ‘Well, “today” for me. With the time difference, maybe your “last night”?’

Tudor had a go: ‘What about victims? We know he’s going to strike again, Friday: maybe if we can figure out who he’s going to kill we can get there first and stop him?’

‘Yeah...’ DS Massie dropped the invisible baby. ‘Oldcastle’s got a population of nearly a hundred and fourteen thousand, so, you know, narrowing it down a bit might help.’

‘Might it?’ Dr Fife gave her an innocent smile. ‘Well, that is good to know.’ Letting the sarcasm hang there for a bit. ‘Is there anything that links the victims? Anything at all?’ Pacing the cardboard sheeting from here to the wallpaper table and back again. ‘Did they go to the same gym? Did they go to the same school? Were they in the same book club, car pool, phone tree? Were they Freemasons, or Elks, or whatever the hell clubs you got over here?’

Cohen shook his head. ‘Not that we could find.’

‘You trace their last movements? Going back two, maybe three weeks? See if they intersected somewhere?’

‘Same.’

Dr Fife kept pacing, head down, as if the answer was scrawled on the cardboard somewhere. ‘They all crossed paths with this bastard — that didn’t just happen in a goddamn vacuum.’ Face pinched, hands clenching and unclenching as he went. Getting louder. ‘You don’t randomly draw couples out of the hat and torture them to death!’

He kicked the pile of wallpaper, sending the plastic-wrapped rolls flying to boing and poom against the wall.

Everyone looked at Monroe.

Then at Dr Fife again as he went back to pacing, snap-snap-snapping his fingers at Angus, as if he was a sleepy waiter.

Here came the coffee order.

‘OK, we got three victims. Top line: name, age, job?’

Or maybe not.

‘Erm...’ Come on, he knew this stuff. ‘OK. Michael Fordyce: forty-one; chartered accountant. Jessica Mendel: forty-nine; heiress-slash-did charity work. Douglas Healey-Robinson: thirty-seven; wrote erotic gay crime novels.’

‘Well, that’s no help.’

What else...? Ah, yes: ‘They’re all sort of middle-aged?’

‘Hey!’ DS Massie glared at him. ‘Thirty-seven is not middle-aged.’

‘Still not helping. There’s gotta be something that links them and their partners to—’ He stopped dead in the middle of the room, staring off into space, with his head on one side.

Silence.

Standing completely rigid.

Outside, a patrol car’s siren split the night, wailing and then fading as the driver gunned it off to whatever tragedy had just befallen Oldcastle.

Rain pulsed against the boardroom window.

Out in the corridor, someone sneezed.

And still Dr Fife hadn’t moved or said anything.

Maybe he’d had a stroke?

Monroe eased his bum off the windowsill. ‘Dr Fife? Are you all—’

‘Wait.’ Snapping his fingers again. ‘The partners: what did they do?’

‘Erm...’ At least this was an easy one. Angus rattled them off: ‘Sarah Fordyce was a GP, Tom Mendel was on the city council, Kevin Healey-Robinson—’

‘Lawyer!’

Nope. ‘He was a journalist. With the Castle—’

‘No, you...’ Dr Fife bit down on the missing word. ‘The next victim. It’ll be a lawyer.’ He stared at them all. ‘You’ve been running round like startled geckos, thinking the ones he kills are the targets, but they’re not. It’s the partners. That’s why he makes them watch!’

DS Massie pursed her lips. ‘So he’s targeting lawyers next?’ A shrug. ‘Could be worse.’

Monroe gave her a narrow-eyed glare. ‘Rhona!’

‘That’s what the messages mean.’ Dr Fife was pacing again. ‘“Don’t believe their lies”.’

Eh?

At least it wasn’t just Angus — everyone else looked confused too.

Dr Fife’s hand came up, fingers spread. ‘You’ve got your four pillars of the establishment’ — counting them off, one finger at a time — ‘doctors, politicians, the mainstream media, and lawyers. Our guy’s already symbolically killed each of the first three.’

Angus put his hand up too. ‘What about bankers?’

He frowned, head tilting. ‘OK: five pillars. Your next victim’s gonna be a lawyer or a banker.’

‘Or a police officer?’ Going by the expression on Dr Fife’s face, audience-participation time was over. Angus lowered his hand. ‘Sorry.’

‘Victim-choice means our guy’s probably from a lower socioeconomic background. These people have power over him — maybe he thinks they’ve abused it? They laugh at guys like him. Look down on him.’ Cuban heels thunking into the cardboard, working up a little speed now. ‘He’s teaching them a lesson by torturing their partners. They’re forced to watch the person they love die a horrible death and then they have to go through the same thing themselves.’

Angus’s hand went up once more. ‘But the sex angle—’

‘It’s about the power. He’s not jacking off to their mutilated bodies, he’s jacking off to their suffering. Because — he — has — the — power.’

Monroe settled back against the windowsill again. ‘How many bankers and lawyers do we have in Oldcastle?’

‘Can’t be more than four or five...’ DI Cohen drew the pause out, ‘...thousand.’

A snort from Tudor. ‘Don’t be daft, Badger, even Oldcastle’s not that litigious. It’ll be five hundred, tops.’

Didn’t look as if Monroe liked that answer much better. ‘Still too many to go through individually. Send round a patrol car and you’d still be at it come July.’

‘We could put an appeal out?’ DS Massie pulled in her shoulders. ‘Tell everyone who works in a bank or a law firm to... be extra careful?’ Shoogling from side to side, like a wonky metronome. ‘Try and not get themselves murdered?’

‘Better than doing nothing, I suppose.’ Monroe pointed at Tudor. ‘Alasdair: shake the Media Office out their pit. I want something drafted and ready to go on the evening news.’ The finger swung around to DS Massie. ‘Rhona: we’ll need some sort of arse-covering retraction on the Patrick Crombie fiasco too.’

‘I was only following the evidence, Boss!’

‘I know, I know. But it still needs managing.’ His finger picked on DI Cohen next. ‘Badger: send a memo to the troops — better make it everyone in O Division, just in case. Nobody takes silly risks. If this bastard thinks he can screw with a police officer, let’s make damn sure he fails. Hard.’ And finally, the finger found Dr Fife. ‘How long before you can draw up a complete profile of our killer? How do we make that happen?’

The pacing stopped, arms thrown out, as if he’d been asked to jump off a cliff. ‘I need time, OK? I keep telling everyone: I — need — time. Even a genius like me can’t just pull this stuff out my ass.’

‘Anything you need.’ Monroe bared his teeth. ‘Other than time. Because we’re looking at two more dead bodies: day after tomorrow.’

‘Sonofabitch...’ Slump. ‘Fine. Unfettered access to everything. And I mean everything.’ Dr Fife glanced in Angus’s direction. ‘And I’ll need a minion. A henchman. An underling. Some sort of slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging yokel to do all the dirty jobs.’

‘Done.’ A big smile, and Monroe clapped Angus on the back.

Eh?

‘Wait, what?’

‘Constable MacVicar would be delighted to help, wouldn’t you, Angus?’

Now wait a minute!

‘Boss?’

Dr Fife sniffed. ‘Well, he’s certainly got the “slack-jawed yokel” bit down.’

‘Angus: while Dr Fife is part of this investigation, you’re not to leave his side.’

How was that fair?

‘But, Boss, he’s... Surely I can make more of a contribution by—’

‘Then it’s settled.’ Another pat on the back. ‘And you can start by accompanying Dr Fife to the post-mortem: tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp!’

Angus stared at him, then at Tudor and Cohen and DS Massie. And not one of the buggers leapt in to save him.

He tried not to pout, he really did.

‘Yes, Boss.’

Monroe stood — shoulders back, chest out. ‘If we’re going to catch this bastard before he kills again, we need to do whatever it takes. Let’s move it, people!’

He swept from the room, with the two DIs marching along behind him.

Angus opened his mouth. Closed it again. ‘But...’

DS Massie gave his arm a squeeze. ‘Tough luck.’ Then she was gone too. Leaving him alone with Dr Fife.

The forensic psychologist ran an eye over Angus, lip curled, as if he was something to be held at arm’s length with tongs. Like a dirty nappy.

His voice was cold too. ‘I’ll need a bunch of whiteboards for that craphole “office” you morons gave me. You can sort it out while I go for a smoke.’

He pulled out a cigar and strutted off. Slamming the door behind him.

What the hell was that all about?

Now it was just Angus, the tins of paint, and those dented rolls of wallpaper.

Angus’s shoulders dipped even further.

‘Great...’

He shuffled into the room, moving nice and slow to make sure not to spill or drop anything. Two hot wax-paper cups from the canteen — no lids, because apparently they forgot to order any — which had only scalded Angus’s hands twice on the way back here; a wee stereo — about grapefruit sized — wedged under one arm; and pockets bulging with crisps, chocolate, and biscuits.

The small office lurked just down the corridor from Operation Telegram, hurriedly furnished with a squeaky filing cabinet, a scarred desk, and a trio of crappy office chairs — all the good ones having been nicked long ago. Carpet tiles that curled up at the edges. A suspended ceiling, splodged with suspicious brown stains.

Other than that, it was clean enough. But a strange... meaty smell emanated from pretty much every surface. As if someone had rubbed everything with a half-eaten doner kebab.

Oh, and the three, newish whiteboards: hunter-gathered from other offices whose occupants hadn’t thought to lock the doors before heading home for the night, and wheeled in here by Angus not twenty minutes ago. Which wasn’t even vaguely ‘stealing’, as they all belonged to Police Scotland anyway.

Dr Fife sat at the desk, accompanied by a heap of paperwork and reference books, feet propped up on a couple of file boxes. Which was probably comfier than letting them dangle over the edge of the chair. Taking notes in one of those yellow legal pads you saw in the movies.

He didn’t look up as Angus eased the door closed with an elbow.

Because why acknowledge the man who could’ve spat in your coffee? Not that Angus would ever do that. Because: urgh... But he could if he wanted to. That was the point.

Angus nudged a couple of crime-scene photos out of the way and put the cups down. Forced a bit of breeziness into his voice. ‘They don’t do “almond milk”, so I got you semi-skimmed.’ With both hands free, he removed the speaker from his armpit and popped it on top of the filing cabinet. ‘Borrowed it from Sergeant Peters.’

That earned him a quick glance, then Dr Fife went back to his files. ‘Bit small, isn’t it?’

‘Was lucky to get that.’

Dr Fife turned the page, every word an ice cube: ‘So go raid the Lost and Found. Bound to be loads of speakers in there with more oomph.’ He took a sip of coffee. Shuddered. ‘Who made this, sadists?’

‘I am not stealing things from Lost Property. They’re people’s possessions, not free resources.’ Angus dug into his pockets for a packet of cheese-and-onion, salt-and-vinegar, two Mars Bars, a Crunchie, and four wee ‘individual serving’ packets of shortbread. Followed by a handful of whiteboard markers in various colours. ‘Canteen aren’t doing any proper food till breakfast.’

Still no eye contact. ‘This really is a shithole backwater.’ He produced a scratched iPod and held the thing out. ‘Plug it in. “Profiling playlist number four”.’

Didn’t matter if Angus rolled his eyes or not — Dr Fife wasn’t looking — so he gave them a good theatrical swivel, then took the iPod. Fiddled with cables and sockets and buttons till the small round stereo made buzzing noises as he scrolled through to the playlists and poked the one marked ‘PP#4’.

The opening bars of something classical swelled from the tinny speakers — or as much as they could, given its diminutive stature.

Angus helped himself to the salt-and-vinegar, picked up his coffee, and settled into one of the manky chairs. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Sit there quietly, and try not to mess everything up. Actually: just don’t touch anything.’ Dr Fife finally looked at him, grimaced. ‘And try not to make too much noise. I’m working.’ He stayed there, staring at Angus for what felt like an hour, before going back to his papers.

Thank you for the coffee, Angus, you’ve been a great help; I don’t know what I would do without you.

Angus puffed out his cheeks.

Sagged.

Sighed.

Then ate his crisps.

Quietly.

8

God, this was boring.

Three-quarters of an hour, stuck here, not allowed to do anything, watching Dr Wanking Fife frown at bits of paper, scribble things on other bits of paper, stare off into space, scribble things on the whiteboards... Now one was completely covered in drunken-Einstein squiggles, connected with boxes and lines, while Fife stood on a wobbly office chair to scrawl more nonsense on Whiteboard Number Two, pen in one hand, legal pad in the other.

With any luck he’d fall off and break his neck.

Pfff...

Angus slumped back, watching the ceiling tiles sweep back and forth, back and forth, as he swivelled in his chair. Making shapes out of the coffee-coloured stains up there: this one looked like Norway; that one like Marilyn Monroe; the one over there: a cat with a chainsaw.

The tinny rendition of classical music turned out to be an opera — squeezing its way out of the weeny round speaker. Like angry Smurfs, fighting over something and shouting ‘Hi-Ho!’ a lot.

And. Off. To. Work. We. Don’t. Go.

Angus blinked at Norway. ‘Can I not just—’

‘I’m working!’

Pfff...

Whiteboard Number Two was now completely clarted in marker-pen scrawl, but instead of embarking on Whiteboard Number Three, Dr Fife was sticking sheets from his legal pad to the walls with wee strips of Sellotape. Which Building Services were not going to like. He’d interspersed them with photos from the crime scenes and post-mortems — adding an unwelcome splash of colour to the pale-yellow pages.

So, basically a half-arsed version of the murder board in the Operation Telegram office.

Angus sat in his office chair, with his top half slumped onto the desk, head on his folded arms, as Dr Fife taped a photograph of Douglas Healey-Robinson’s bloated remains above the radiator.

Then stepped back to squint at the horrible montage. ‘Will you stop sighing?’

For God’s sake.

Enough was enough.

Angus pushed himself off the desk, sat upright, and scowled. ‘Why do you always have to be such a dick?’

Dr Fife turned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Ever since we got back, all you’ve done is treat me like a lump of... dog turd!’

‘I’m working!’

‘And I’m sitting here like a spare fart in a brothel.’

A hand jabbed at the door. ‘Then go do something useful!’

‘What? You won’t let me do anything!’

‘Oh, don’t be so—’

Angus put on a lazy American drawl. ‘“Just sit there and shut up, Angus”, “Don’t make any noise, Angus”, “Don’t touch anything, Angus”, “Stop breathing so loudly, Angus!”’

Fife hurled his legal pad onto the desk. ‘Well, what did you expect? I could’ve had anyone for a sidekick, but I picked you. And what did you do?’

‘Sat here like a pickled prick, while—’

‘You didn’t want to be my sidekick. When Monroe offered you the job, you looked like he’d just bust a nut all over your Pop-Tart!’

Angus scowled back. ‘That’s not—’

‘I’m a forensic psychologist — a damn good one — and I know when someone clearly doesn’t want to work with me!’

They glared at each other for a bit.

OK, so he maybe had a point.

Even if he was a horrible, arrogant tosser.

‘It’s...’ Angus squeezed one shoulder up to his ear. ‘DCI Monroe doesn’t... I wasn’t...’

‘Sonofabitch.’ The hand jabbed out again. ‘After I flew halfway round the world, to this rain-drenched craphole in the ass-end of nowhere, to help pull your useless police department out the goddamn hole it dug itself into!’ His clenched fist banged into the table, setting the paperwork dancing. ‘And this is the thanks I get?’

‘Well, who’d want to be your bloody sidekick anyway? All I do is ferry you about like a glorified taxi driver, stand there while you piss everyone off, and watch you act all...’ waving both index and middle fingers about like a rabbit having a fit, ‘...Whatever weird squirrelly thing comes over you every time the press turn up!’

‘I didn’t have to come here. And I can just as easily go right back down south!’

Angus stared at him. ‘This matters, OK? People — are — dying.’

‘I know that, for God’s—’

‘This is my first day in plainclothes. My first chance to make a real difference, and I’m stuck in this shitty little room, trying not to BREATHE TOO LOUD!’

This time the silence stretched, and stretched, and stretched.

Angus looked away. ‘I’ve waited years for this.’

Dr Fife sighed, because apparently the rules on that didn’t go both ways. ‘OK. Well, now we’ve got that out in the open...’ He picked at the tabletop, widening one of the scratches. ‘So what do you want?’

‘Not being called a “slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging yokel” would be a start.’

‘Yeah. Sorry about that.’

Outside, in the corridor, something trundled past on a squeaky trolley.

The radiator sang the song of its people.

Angus glanced over, and there was Dr Fife, regarding him with those sad droopy eyes.

Fair enough.

He bobbed his chin in Dr Fife’s direction.

Fife nodded in return. Then picked one of the reference books from the small pile and tossed it across the table to him. About an inch thick, with a black cover: the title picked out in bright yellow: ‘BEHAVIORAL ANALYSIS FOR LAW-ENFORCEMENT PERSONNEL (CRIME-SCENE INDICATORS, FORENSIC RED FLAGS, & INTERVIEW GUIDANCE)’.

Sounded like a great cure for insomnia.

The pages were flared at the edges, bookmarked with dozens and dozens of little sticky notes, the spine a mass of creases and wrinkles.

‘If you really want to help, read that. Be nice if there was someone here had half a clue what they’re doing.’

Angus left it sitting where it landed.

Another big sigh from Dr Fife. ‘As for the “squirrelly” thing... I don’t like the press.’

‘But you hide it so well.’

‘OK, one time, and one time only: for the hard of thinking.’ He settled back against the empty whiteboard, arms folded. ‘I’ve spent over twenty years putting murdering assholes behind bars. Not just serial killers — mobsters, made men, cartel enforcers, zealots, terrorists, and corpse-screwing cannibals. You think I want any of them finding out where I am?’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘Don’t matter if we’re on the other side of the Atlantic, Angus, some of these guys got long, long arms. And I ain’t risking it. So I keep my name out the papers, and my face off the news.’

Well, yeah, but that still didn’t make sense though, did it.

‘You’re literally surrounded by police officers, and—’

‘I got a family, Angus. I got kids. I ain’t putting a target on their backs either.’

Suppose that was fair enough.

And they’d sort of called a truce.

In an unspoken, stilted, manly kind of way.

So Angus got up from the table, stretched the kinks out of his back. ‘You want some more coffee?’ Digging out the legendary Special VIP Card only spoken of in awed whispers. ‘The Boss gave me the canteen pass. All expenses paid.’

Dr Fife smiled. ‘Yeah... No offence, but the coffee here’s like diarrhoea spiked with Drano.’ A low rumbling grumble gurgled out into the room. He rubbed at his stomach. ‘Could murder a nice big platter of sushi, or a quinoa-and-avocado salad. They do decent ramen around here?’

In Oldcastle?

Ha.

Good luck with that.

Angus nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

The incident room didn’t so much bustle as shuffle. Most of the team had been on since seven that morning, and now that it was quarter to ten, they were all half dead. Lots of yawning and sagging going on.

Monroe sat at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, massaging his forehead with his free hand. ‘Yeah... OK... Well, put it this way, if it’s not ready for the ten o’clocks, we’re all screwed... Oh, not just a little bit screwed, comprehensively screwed.’ He must’ve sensed Angus hovering there, because he looked up and raised a finger in the universal signal to haud-yer-wheesht-a-minute. ‘Exactly. ASAP... Thanks.’ He put the phone down and creaked back in his office chair. Released a big deflating exhale. Then cricked his neck from side to side. Screwed his eyes shut. ‘Fifteen minutes till nearly every broadcaster out there goes live to the nation and there’s still no approved statement.’ He opened one up to peek at Angus. ‘Please tell me you’ve got good news?’

‘We’re working on it.’ Might as well have a go: ‘Boss, I was wondering—’

Monroe’s phone jangled out a jaunty rendition of a Gilbert and Sullivan number. He raised the wheeshting finger again. ‘Hold that thought.’ Grabbed his phone, swiped the button. ‘Irene?... I know, but I’m rather in the middle of... Uh-huh... Well, which tiles do you like?... OK... OK, look, can you hold on a sec? Someone needs me.’ He put his hand over the phone. ‘You were wondering?’

‘Erm, Dr Fife wants something to eat that doesn’t come from the canteen vending machine, and I thought, maybe, it might come under operational expenses? Cos I’m a bit...’ Angus grimaced, miming empty pockets.

A tired sigh wheezed out of Monroe as he pointed towards the back of the room, where the kettle and cheap biscuits lived. ‘Take twenty from petty cash, and get a receipt.’

‘Thanks, Boss.’

Over in the corner, someone got into an argument with the printer.

Someone else sneezed.

‘And yet: here you still are, Angus.’

‘Yeah...’ Quick look to make sure no one was lugging in. ‘Boss? I was wondering if you were going to have a word with Dr Fife, about the press knowing he’s here?’

Monroe bared his teeth. ‘Ah. No. Not as such.’

Oh dear.

‘But, Boss, he’s—’

‘I’m worried if I tell him, he’ll sod off, and Friday we’re carting another poor tortured sod back to the mortuary while Christ-knows-what happens to their other half.’ Monroe frowned at his desk. ‘Don’t want to throw away our only tactical advantage by telling Dr Fife that the one thing we promised him wouldn’t happen... has.’

Made sense, but still...

‘He won’t be happy when he finds out we knew and kept it secret.’

‘Long as he helps us catch the Fortnight Killer first? I can live with the guilt.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

An unholy rumbling growl burst free, as if some hideous beast was lurking deep within him, ready to devour them all.

Monroe pursed his lips. ‘Angus, did you get anything for your tea?’

Heat sizzled in Angus’s cheeks. ‘I’m not really hungry, Boss, it’s—’

‘Take another twenty from petty cash. But no beer-and-strippers: wholesome, deep-fried food only.’ Pointing at the tea-and-coffee-making facilities again. ‘And I want a receipt!’ Then back to the phone. ‘Irene? Sorry about that. Where were—... Well, are they going to go with the new worktops?... Uh-huh...’

Angus left him to it.

The WWI memorial offered a bit of shelter as rain lashed down from a dirty-orange sky: three bronze soldiers, with tin helmets and fixed bayonets, charging at some unseen enemy. Kilts flying out behind them, like Batman’s cape, as the angry clouds reflected back the streetlights’ sulphurous glow.

Like something out of Dante’s Inferno. Only colder.

Mind you, a borrowed, padded high-vis definitely helped.

Angus’s breath fogged around his head, fading away as he watched the crowd of reporters and nutjobs gathered outside Divisional Headquarters, getting ready for the ten o’clock news bulletins.

The ones who didn’t have to be live, on camera, in eleven minutes, sat in their vans and cars, eating fish and chips, while others huddled in wheezy knots wherever they could find refuge, smoking fags and bitching about the weather.

Even the protestors were taking some time off. That Gillian woman, the pretty one, was nowhere to be seen, but a hairy man had taken her place: ‘GLOBAL ELITE = SATANIC PAEDOS!’ He and his fellow weirdos skulked in the lee of the Sky Outside Broadcast Unit, devouring kebabs, with their placards resting against Marge Simpson’s face.

Got to wonder what would have to go wrong with your life to make you actually believe this stuff, never mind printing it out in big letters on a sheet of cardboard, and parading about on the news.

Maybe—

‘Are you OK?’

Angus gave a wee squeak, whirling around, ready to defend himself...

Gillian looked up at him. ‘Hello.’

‘Frightened the life out of me!’

She’d swapped her placard for a tatty umbrella with a broken rib, holding it in one hand while the other cupped a bundle of chippy paper. The delicious golden smells of deep-fried potato and sharp vinegar wafted out of it. ‘Sorry.’ Pink rushed up her neck and into her cheeks. ‘Only I saw you coming out of the station, and you looked... you know.’ She licked her lips with a wee pink tongue. ‘Erm... Chip?’ Holding out the bundle.

Mealie pudding supper, with salt and sauce.

Angus’s stomach growled again, like something off Jurassic Park.

‘Oh, it’s Gillian, by the way. Gillian Kilbride? We met at Breechfield Crescent, when—’

‘Gillian. Yes. I almost didn’t recognize you without your placard.’

‘Even warriors for truth have to eat sometimes.’ She offered up the chips again. ‘You know — because you were nice to me, back there. Most people treat us like we’ve got leprosy, Ebola, and gonorrhoea all rolled into one.’ She gave the paper a shoogle. ‘I haven’t licked them or anything weird. Promise.’

Which wasn’t exactly reassuring.

‘Thanks, but I can’t. It’s a police thing. Sorry. Thanks for the offer, though.’

‘Ah, OK.’ She pinned the umbrella between her shoulder and neck, freeing her hand up to take a bite of pudding. Crunching through fresh batter. Making happy noises as she chewed.

‘So...’ Angus pointed at the media congregation. ‘Ready to get the message out again?’

‘Calm before the storm.’ A chip got dunked in sauce and slipped between those pouty lips. ‘OBUs won’t be on live feed till a couple of minutes after ten — got to do the headlines first — then it’ll be lights! Camera! Action! And I’ll be in the back of every shot I can.’ Another mouthful of mealie pudding disappeared. ‘Soon as I’ve finished this.’

‘Right. Right.’ He nodded at the other protestors, still guzzling down their kebabs. ‘And your friends? Is there competition for who gets the best spot?’

‘Oh, it’s a very supportive community.’

He tried to keep his face neutral; he really did.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Look, I know people think we’re nutters — turning up every time there’s even the faintest whiff of a news crew — but if we don’t stand up for the truth, who will?’

‘The world’s run by a global paedophile ring?’ Keeping his voice kind, not threatening or mocking. ‘Sounds a bit...?’

‘I was sceptical too.’ Munching and crunching. ‘But if you think about it, is it really that farfetched? We know you can get away with anything if you’re part of the establishment. Look at Jimmy Savile: they even gave him a knighthood!’ She plucked a chip from the paper and gestured across the road with it. ‘Cameron says it’s all about adrenochroming children. They kidnap kids, then torture them, and just before they die, someone harvests the adrenaline from their spines, with great-big needles, and sells it to the highest bidder. He says millions of kids get sex trafficked for the trade every year and no one will investigate, because the Imperial Paedophile bloodlines control the media and the police.’

‘Right. I thought it was the Scottish Government who controlled us?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Exactly!’

‘OK.’ Nodding. ‘I see.’

She polished off a few more chips. ‘So... you had to let the guy go. From earlier?’

‘Yeah, I’m not really allowed to talk about an ongoing investigation.’

‘The reporters have been banging on about it, and how the police can’t catch the Fortnight Killer, and there’s going to be lots more deaths.’ The mealie pudding was almost gone now, a single drip of brown sauce making a beauty spot on her chin. ‘I thought a hotshot FBI profiler would’ve helped with that.’

‘We’re pursuing various lines of inquiry.’

‘I still think it’s super exciting.’ She popped the last nugget of pudding in her mouth and froze, mid-chew. The words came out all mumbled, flecked with batter and oatmeal. ‘Not the murders! No, but, you know, working with someone from the FBI.’ Chew, chew, chew, chew. ‘Is it like Mulder and Scully? Is he all sort of cerebral like Sherlock Holmes, or is he more... I don’t know, kicking down doors and shouting, “Freeze, motherfucker!”’ Her eyebrows shot up, fingertips covering her mouth. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’

Hard not to laugh at that. ‘It’s OK, I’m a police officer: I’ve heard much worse. Trust me.’

‘I’m such an idiot.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ He glanced across the road, not so much at the journalists, but at the small crowd of lookie-loos, drifting down Peel Place in time for the festivities. Gathering to enjoy the vicarious thrill of someone else’s misery. ‘Can I ask you a question? When you’ve been at these things, with the media — you know, about the Fortnight Killer — have you noticed anyone strange hanging about? Anyone giving off creepy vibes?’

She paused a chip on the way to its doom. ‘Creepy vibes?’

‘Someone who’s maybe not interacting with anyone, just watching things. Like all this is a spectator sport?’

‘Oooh...’ The chip got chomped. ‘Do you think they’ve got something to do with the murders?’

Shrug. ‘Never know.’

‘Gosh.’ Gillian frowned as she chewed. ‘Can’t think of anybody, sorry.’

‘But if you do see someone creepy...?’

‘You want me to rat on them?’ She plucked an escaped curl of batter from the paper and crunched on it. More frowning. ‘See, I wouldn’t normally help the cops, cos of all the corruption and being tools of the establishment, et cetera, but...’ A nod. ‘OK. You know, cos you’re one of the good guys.’

‘Thanks.’ He dug out an official Police Scotland business card — scribbling his mobile number on the back, just in case — and handed it over. ‘If you think of anything.’

‘Cool.’

They stood there as she shovelled in the last of her chips, masticating through the awkward silence. Then both spoke at the same time:

‘Well, suppose I should really get on with—’

‘Sod: they’re setting up for the ten o’clocks, I have to—’

Cue blushing and clearing of throats.

Angus’s ears were on the verge of spontaneously combusting. ‘Sorry, you first.’

She pointed at the nearest Outside Broadcast Unit, where the journalist was already posing with his microphone for the camera. ‘I’d better...’

‘Me too. Take care of yourself, OK?’

‘Do my best. And you, of course.’

They shuffled their feet. Nodded. Huffed out breaths.

Then finally went their separate ways.

Oh, yeah: Angus MacVicar, slick-talking chick magnet, strikes again...

Hangtree Road sulked in the shadow of that thick blade of granite — with the castle’s remains perched on top. Couldn’t actually see them from down here, but their multicoloured illuminations bounced off the low cloud, giving that part of the downpour a rainbows-and-unicorns edge. The curling street must’ve had a blocked drain somewhere, because it was growing its own loch, the surface churned up by the never-ending rain.

Angus trudged past a row of darkened shops: a newsagent’s with classified cards in the window; a place selling knick-knacks, featuring a ‘FOR SALE, MAY LET’ sign; and a bookies with the grilles rattled down and padlocked.

Next up, a trio of takeaways.

The first one, ‘COMRADE BORSCHT’S BEETS & BURGERS!’, didn’t look as if it’d be serving up Slavic delights anytime soon. The windows were all boarded up — the signage and stonework blackened by whatever fire had ripped through the place. Graffiti clarted the plywood sheets: ‘GENOCIDAL BASTARDS!’ and ‘REMEMBER BAKHMUT!’ and ‘PUTIN BURN IN HELL!!!’, all in different handwriting. Or was it handspraying? Either way, the crowning glory was a pretty decent stencil rendition of a huge zombie bear with exposed ribs, a Nazi-style ‘Z’ armband, and blood dripping from its teeth and claws.

Next door had escaped Molotov-cocktail hour, but ‘IT’S RAMEN MEN (HALLELUJAH)’ lay in darkness. Closed, according to the note sellotaped inside the glass door, because of a family funeral.

‘Bugger.’

So much for the best ramen in Oldcastle.

Could try that new place in Castleview, Tsuki Usagi, but that was miles away, and the food would probably be cold by the time he got it back to the station. So Dr Fife would just have to settle for Takeaway Number Three, AKA: ‘THE JADE DRAGON’S GARDEN’.

Angus pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Angus shifted his bum on the hard wooden bench seat that ran along the windowsill, leaning forward to keep his back away from the condensation misting the glass. Feet making puddles on the scuffed-lino floor.

They hadn’t exactly gone out of their way to give the small, soulless room a taste of the Orient. Two cheap paper lanterns and a waving plastic cat were the only attempts at decoration, but the walls did feature huge, blown-up pages from the menu, complete with pictures of several dishes. They’d mounted an old TV on an arm behind the counter, up near the roof, topped with a thick grey furring of dust. A serious-faced presenter was doing a piece to camera outside a bungalow somewhere in England, while crime-scene tape fluttered in the background.

The sound was off, but auto-generated subtitles blinked up on the screen:

‘DENIES ALL INVOLVEMENT IN MISS STRIKES’ DEATH’.

Over in the corner, by the door through to the kitchen, a fly-zapper glowed Cherenkov blue — buzzing as another bluebottle met its fate.

Which meant Angus was now the only living thing in here.

Up on the screen, the presenter was replaced by a senior UK politician looking very stern, nose in the air, finger jabbing at a row of microphones.

‘DONE NOTHING ILLEGAL, AND ANYONE WHO SAYS OTHERWISE WILL BE HEARING FROM MY LAWYERS. THIS IS NOTHING BUT A PART ASIAN WITCH HUNT’.

Part Asian?

Partisan.

You’d think computers would be better at this by now.

Angus went back to his phone, poking out a text to Mum.

SEND.

Onscreen, the politician was replaced by a woman in the studio, mouthing away silently, as the automated subtitles struggled to catch up — leaving her with some of his dialogue.

‘OPPOSITION SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF ITSELF. THE HUNT FOR THE FORTNIGHT KILLER, IN OLD CASTLE, SUFFERED A SETBACK TODAY AS POLICE ARRESTED THE WRONG MAN’.

Which in no way could be considered Angus’s fault.

‘EARLY EVENING RAID ON A BUN GALLOW IN THE CITY’S SHORT STRAIN AREA’.

Breechfield Crescent appeared, with Patrick Crombie’s house visible in the background and a wee gang of scene examiners on their hands and knees, searching the garden. Angus’s pool car was on the left of the screen, middle distance, no sign of Dr Fife on account of him being all scooted down in the passenger seat.

‘GO LIVE NOW, TO HEW BRIMMED, WHO’S AT OLD CASTLE DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS. HEW?’

Or ‘Hugh Brimmond’ as the chyron had him — the beefy-faced posh boy from Balvenie Row, this morning.

‘THAT’S RIGHT, SHIFFON, IT’S BEEN A DIFFICULT DAY FOR OPERATION TELEGRAM WITH GLOWING CALLS FOR SENIOR OFFICERS TO BE SUSPENDED AS’.

The door behind the counter thumped open and out stomped a boot-faced man in a white T-shirt and unbuttoned, shiny, red-and-gold shirt that was covered with dragons and Chinese characters.

‘SUSPECT RELEASED WITHOUT CHARGE. THOUGH I HAVE HEARD FROM SOURCES CLOSE TO THE INFESTATION THAT THE MAN IN QUESTION IS SUING FOR WRONGFUL ARREST AND POLICE BRUTALITY’.

A carrier bag bearing the Jade Dragon’s Garden logo was dumped on the counter — a nice big carrier bag, full of delicious food.

Hopefully.

‘Number seventeen!’

There was no one else there, but Angus still checked his receipt before heading for the counter.

The man in the shiny shirt barked out the order: ‘Sesame prawn toast, spring rolls, salt-and-pepper ribs, Kung Po chicken, Szechuan pork, boiled rice, plain fried noodles, prawn crackers.’

Angus’s stomach snarled.

‘IN A BRIEF, BUT FRAUGHT, PRESS CONFERENCE’.

DCI Monroe appeared, looking a lot calmer and more confident than he had half an hour ago, and a lot less depressed. He was flanked by DI Tudor, and the new Media Liaison Officer — slicked-back red hair and glasses, prim and schoolmarmish. The camera zoomed in on Monroe’s face, caught in the flicker-flash glare of many, many cameras. Mouth moving in complete silence.

‘I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT A PRETENDING THIS INDIVIDUAL REMAINS OUR TOP PRIORITY. WHICH IS WHY WE’RE ISSUING THE FOLLOWING WARNING TO ANYONE WORKING IN THE LEGAL OR BARKING INDUSTRIES’.

With an expression that was far more sour than sweet, the takeaway guy dipped beneath the counter, emerging moments later with a two-litre bottle of off-brand diet cola. He bashed it down next to the carrier bag.

Angus watched it fizzzzzz... ‘But I didn’t—’

‘Complimentary for spending more than thirty quid, innit.’ His voice darkened, till it was almost a threat: ‘Enjoy.’

OK.

‘VIGILANT AT THIS TIME AND REPORT ANYTHING SUSPICIOUS TO OUR DESICCATED HELPLINE’. The automatic transcript gave up for a moment as the photo-flashes increased to seizure-inducing levels.

Someone in the scrum must’ve been shouting a question, because Monroe scanned the room for them, mouth pursed.

‘[INAUDIBLE] THAT THIS RAISES SERIOUS QUESTIONS ABOUT GO DIVISION’S COMPETENCE AND ABILITY TO CARRY OUT THIS INFESTATION? MY TEAM AND I REMAIN COMMITTED TO STOPPING THIS MAN.’

Angus forced a smile, then picked up the carry-out and the bonus counterfeit Coke. ‘Thanks.’

Takeaway Guy narrowed his eyes, sniffed, then turned and stomped back through the door, leaving Angus all alone in the shop again.

‘MICHAEL SAUCER, CASTLE NEWS AND POST. ISN’T IT TIME TO ADMIT DEFEAT AND FIND SOMEONE MORE CAPABLE TO CATCH THE FORTNIGHT KILLER?’

Monroe’s face darkened.

‘WE’RE PURSUING ALL AVAILABLE AVENUES AND CONTINUE TO CONSULT WITH OUR COLLEAGUES AND SPECIALISTS IN THE AFRO PIRATE DISCIPLINES. THANK YOU FOR COMING.’

Monroe stood and the camera zoomed out to watch him stalking offstage, followed by Tudor. The pink-faced Media Liaison Officer made a big show of getting her papers into order—

And the picture jumped back to Hugh Brimmond, doing his ‘concerned’ face.

‘DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR MOSCOW THERE, CLEARLY NOT PREPARED TO ANSWER ANY FURTHER QUESTIONS AFTER ISSUING THAT A STONE WISHING WARNING TO EVERY LAWYER AND BANKER IN OLD CASTLE. IT’S NO WONDER PEOPLE HERE ARE HOLDING THEIR BREADS, WAITING FOR THE NEXT MURDER TO OCCUR. SHIFFON?’

Angus turned his back on the telly, pulled up his hood, and marched out into the rain.

9

The wet road shimmered in the headlights of passing cars and taxis, streetlights making glowing orbs of gold as the rain clattered down. Hissing as it bounced off St Jasper’s Lane, gurgling around the drains.

Angus danced back out of the way, just in time, as the number eighteen bus lurched through a huge puddle — spraying the pavement with a wall of dirt-grey water.

He paused outside the King James Theatre with its billboards screaming about how Jumanji, The Musical! was the best thing to ever happen in the entire history of mankind: FIVE STARS!!! Music oozed out through the closed doors — couldn’t really make out the tune, but there was enough bass in it to make the glass buzz.

Bet Ellie and whoever she’d taken with her were having a great time. Singing along. Ice cream at the interval...

Bastards.

He kept going, past closed shops and the Sharny Dug — where the bouncer took one look at Angus in his police high-vis, and tipped a non-existent hat. Angus returned the gesture — professional courtesy between those who dealt with drunken morons on a daily basis.

Then it was a boutique lingerie emporium that didn’t make it through the pandemic, an off-licence with a display of Buckfast and ultra-strength lager in the window, a boarded-up Post Office, two charity shops, and a bookie’s.

Angus ducked around the corner, back onto Peel Place.

Now that their evening bulletins were over, the journalists had disappeared, taking their Outside Broadcasting Units with them. And without any cameras to wave their placards in front of, the protestors had gone home as well, leaving the street to drown in peace.

Angus slowed down as he approached the WWI memorial.

A mealie pudding supper, with salt and sauce, disappearing between soft pink lips...

Blinking.

Deep breath.

He gave himself a wee shake.

Important job to do, remember?

This Chinese carry-out wasn’t going to deliver itself.

Dr Fife lay slouched over the desk, head on his arms — just like Angus had been earlier, only unlike Angus, he was snoring. Not chainsaw-in-a-bathtub snoring, more like Wee Hamish after a long walk. Or Mum after her Christmas sherry.

Of course, the kind thing would be to let him sleep: poor sod must be knackered. Surprised he’d stayed awake as long as he had, really.

On the other hand, Angus had just squelched all the way to Hangtree Road and back, so a bit of sodding recognition would be nice.

He slammed the office door shut, and raised his voice to just below a shout. ‘Dr Fife?’

The forensic psychologist flinched, then struggled upright. ‘Awake! I’m awake...’ Staring around with swivelling eyes, a line of drool glistening in his Vandyke. ‘Hello?’

Angus placed the soggy carrier bag on the spare chair. ‘Ramen place was shut, so I got Chinese.’

He rubbed at his eyes, yawned, showing off a mouth without a single filling. ‘Time is it?’ Wiping that damp patch from his hairy chin.

‘Nearly half ten.’

‘No. Not here time. Proper time.’

‘Oh.’ Angus looked it up on his phone. Seven-hour time difference, so: ‘Half three in the afternoon.’

Another yawn, followed by a bit of a scratch. ‘Is that today or tomorrow, though?’

No idea what that was supposed to mean.

So, instead of answering, Angus cleared a space on the cluttered desk and laid out the takeaway’s plastic containers.

Dr Fife drooped in his chair. ‘Was having a lovely dream, where I never agreed to come to this ass-flavoured shithole city and stayed in LA instead.’

Next up: the grease-spotted paper bags. ‘They’ve put out that statement about lawyers and bankers. Think it’ll help?’

‘Nope.’ He opened a bag and helped himself to a spring roll. ‘Not unless it scares our guy off for a bit. Makes him think it’s too risky. In which case he just lies low and waits till the heat dies down.’ Dr Fife took a bite, crunching away. It wasn’t nearly as attractive as Gillian with her battered mealie pudding. ‘But given how careful the Fortnight Killer’s been so far? He’s already got his next victims picked and lined up, all ready for the dinner party from hell.’ Crunch, crunch, crunch. ‘Maybe Monroe warning all the bankers and lawyers just adds an extra layer of spiciness?’ A pause while he ran a tongue around his teeth. ‘Speaking of which, we got any hot sauce?’

‘In the wee polystyrene tub.’ Angus opened the prawn toasts and polished one off in three bites. Nutty and savoury and delicious. ‘How you getting on with the profile?’

‘Difficult to tell.’ Dip. More crunching. ‘We need someone to troll through the target victims’ lives and see if there’s a connection.’

‘We’ve already done that.’

‘Yes, but you were looking for a connection between the victims. What you should’ve been looking for is their connection to the Fortnight Killer.’ He reached across and tried a prawn toast. Talking with his mouth full: ‘Go through Dr Fordyce’s appointments — did she have a bad experience with one of her patients? Let them down with a missed diagnosis, or something? Then you hit Councillor Mendel’s records — you’re looking for people who’ve complained to the council and feel hard done by. Finally, it’s Kevin Healey-Robinson’s turn — who did he write damning articles about? Who’s he libelled in print?’ Dr Fife opened the noodles. ‘And once you’ve done all that, you hope one name appears on all three lists.’

‘So it’s about revenge, not sex?’ Creaking the lid off the salt-and-pepper ribs.

‘If there’s one thing men can multitask on, it’s revenge and sex.’ Dr Fife opened the Kung Po chicken, and the deep dark scent filled the small room. ‘Chopsticks?’

‘Hold on.’ Back into the bag, where a couple of napkins lurked at the bottom along with their free disposable wooden eating implements. ‘Sporks.’

‘Bloody heathens...’ He took one anyway. ‘You’re gonna have to get people working on those lists.’ Staring at Angus as he plucked free a burning-hot rib. ‘I’m not kidding. Like, right now. ASAP. While we can still make a difference.’

A groan whinged free, and the rib went back in the container.

One last, longing look at the collection of cartons and bags, and Angus was on his feet, sooking his fingers on the way out the door. Because the sooner he was done, the sooner he could eat.

Dr Fife’s voice followed him, like an ungrateful crow: ‘And see if you can rustle up some decent hot sauce, not this sweet chilli shit!’

The energy levels in the incident room had picked up a bit. Now that most of the day shift had gone home, it was the back shift’s time to shine. And while there was only about half a dozen of them, at least they were awake.

Monroe stood centre stage, clapping his hands as he finished issuing the orders. ‘Quick as possible, people: find me those names!’

And off they scurried to fetch file boxes and search through HOLMES, leaving a moment of stillness behind.

Soon as they’d gone, Monroe leaned in towards Angus, keeping his voice down. ‘How confident are we with this?’

‘Dr Fife seems to think it’ll work. Probably.’

Monroe crossed fingers, eyes to the ceiling tiles. ‘Please, God, let something go right for a change...’ Then back to Angus. ‘When am I getting my profile?’

‘Work in progress, Boss.’ Took a bit of doing, but Angus stifled a massive yawn without dislocating his own jaw. ‘Sorry.’ Shake. ‘Not sure how long he’s going to last tonight. Was asleep when I got back from the takeaway.’

‘Which reminds me.’ Monroe raised his eyebrows, then stuck his hand out.

Angus nodded, then shook it.

‘No, you great, daft... Receipt.’

‘Ah. Yes, Boss, sorry.’ He dug it out, along with the change — a whole two pounds and fifteen pence — and tipped it into the offered palm. ‘Only he’s still awake from whenever he got on the plane from LA.’

Monroe chewed on his cheek for a moment, then huffed out a long, low breath. ‘Push him as far as you can, then make sure he gets back to his digs.’ He gave Angus a quick once-over. ‘After that, you’d better head home, too. Going to be a big day tomorrow.’ He closed his fist around the cash. ‘One way or another.’

Dr Fife wasn’t slumped over the desk this time. Instead, he was sparked out, sitting upright in his wonky office chair, feet up on his improvised footstool, hands loose in his lap, head down. Those snuffly Wee Hamish snores had escalated to something more like an elephant with a head cold.

Smelled lovely in here, though — all spicy and savoury.

The takeaway containers were exactly where Angus had left them. He hadn’t even made a dent in the Kung Po, before falling asleep again.

Angus thumped the door shut, but he didn’t stir.

‘DR FIFE?’ Raising his voice over the trumpeting din.

Still nothing.

He gave Dr Fife’s shoulder a wee shoogle. ‘Dr Fife?’

That jerked him into life, blinking and snorking. ‘Awake! I’m awake...’ Looking around as if he’d never seen this room before in his life. ‘Time is it?’

‘Twenty to four, your time — P.M.’

‘Urgh...’ He ground the palms of his hands into his eyes. ‘We need someone to dig into the target victims’ lives and see if there’s some sort of connection.’

‘We’ve already had this conversation. When I came back with the carry-out, remember?’

That broad forehead creased for a bit, followed by a grunt and a sigh. ‘OK. Yeah.’ He scrubbed at his face. ‘Come on, Jonathan, you can do this.’

‘You’re no use to anyone knackered.’

‘I’m awake. Everything is dandy. All I need’s some coffee. Even your canteen swill will do.’ Dr Fife opened his right hand wide and slapped himself on the cheek. Then reached for the yellow legal pad and a pen. ‘Just make sure it’s plenty hot and plenty caffeinated.’

He wrote the words ‘VICTIMOLOGY MATRIX’ at the top of a fresh sheet and blinked at it, as if trying to get the letters to stop wriggling. ‘Right.’

Angus made for the door again.

‘And maybe grab a couple energy drinks while you’re at it.’

Angus bumped back into the little office — big wax-paper cup of the canteen’s finest blend in each hand, pockets bulging.

And stopped dead.

‘Oh, for...’

Dr Fife had made a gap in the containers, and was slumped onto the table again. Eyes shut. Snores ringing out like a drunken monkey taking a hacksaw to a length of metal pipe.

Well, that was that, then.

The cups went on the table, and Angus sank into the least creaky of the two remaining chairs. Helped himself to another prawn toast.

Instead of being crisp and delicious and warm, the thing was soft, greasy, and stone cold.

He swallowed, put the remains back in the bag, then picked up the other containers, one after the other.

Everything was the same: oily and congealed.

‘Great.’

Perfect end to a perfect day.

Angus pulled the tins of Rampant Gorilla — ‘SO MUCH CAFFEINE IT’S OB-SCENE’ — from his suit pockets, slipped them into the filing cabinet’s middle drawer, and buried them under the post-mortem files. Where, if they were lucky, none of his sticky-fingered fellow officers would find them. You could leave cash, electronics, even jewellery lying around the station, and no one would touch them. But biscuits? Crisps? Fizzy drinks?

Even the most prolific of housebreakers had nothing on the officers of O Division.

Angus sipped at his horrible coffee.

Crunched on a prawn cracker.

Then cricked all the lids back onto the containers again.

Monroe had sprung for a pretty decent hotel: the Bishop’s View, on Jessop Street. Five storeys of seventeenth-century sandstone, with small windows and thick walls, sitting directly opposite St Jasper’s Cathedral.

The place could probably pass for ‘quaint’ in the daylight, but in the steetlights’ sickly glow they might as well have carved ‘ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE’ above the door.

High above, the sky was the angry, burnt-orange colour of an indicted ex-president, adding to the whole Gates-of-Hell atmosphere.

Still, at least it’d stopped raining on the short drive here from the station, leaving the road puddled and the gutters gurgling.

While Dr Fife scuffed his way up the steps to the hotel’s front door, Angus hefted the luggage from the patrol car’s boot.

A big wheelie suitcase and a much bigger, stainless-steel trunk thing. Awkward to shift, especially if you were trying not to drop a bulging carrier bag from the Jade Dragon’s Garden.

And yeah, the trunk was heavy, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

He parked it on the pavement and looked in through the open passenger window. ‘Thanks for the lift, guys.’

Tim grinned up at him with a mouthful of squint teeth — they went with his crooked nose and wonky ears. ‘Nae probs. Put Captain Sleepy-Pants to bed and we’ll give you a hurl home, if you like? Nothing else on, have we, Ronny?’

His partner in crime still looked fresh out of school, with a ratty-pube moustache and two big plukes on both cheeks. He turned in his seat and draped one arm across the steering wheel. ‘Sod, and indeed, all.’

Angus smiled back. ‘That would be great; save me a massive-long bus journey!’ He pointed at the stairs and the slowly climbing forensic psychologist. ‘I’ll just—’

The car radio bleeped, and a sharp woman’s voice crackled out of the dashboard. ‘Oscar Charlie Six from Control, safe to talk?’

Ronny grabbed the Airwave clipped to the chest of his stabproof vest. ‘Oscar Charlie Six. What’s up?’

‘Break-in in progress: Unwin and McNulty undertaker’s, one thirty-seven Hodgson Drive. Can you attend?’

Tim bared his teeth at Angus. ‘Sorry, mate.’

The patrol car’s roof lights flickered blue-and-white, strobing against the ancient buildings as Ronny hit the switch. ‘Roger that, on our way.’ He let go of his Airwave. ‘Aye, aye: someone’s nicking deid folk!’

Angus backed up as the engine revved.

The rear wheels spun on the damp setts, then off they roared — siren kicking in halfway down Jessop Street, wailing and chirruping like a huge electronic kid’s toy.

So much for a lift home.

He drooped for a moment, gathered up the luggage and cold carry-out, then followed Dr Fife inside.

They’d given him one of the swankier suites, on the third floor. Old-fashioned, in a dark-wood-and-wainscoting kind of way. And the view wasn’t bad.

OK, the windows were small and mullioned, but they looked out over the cathedral — lit up in all its spiky-granite Gothic glory.

In here: a huge TV hung on the wall, facing a leather sofa and matching armchairs. Tartan rugs on polished floorboards; a drinks cabinet, hi-fi, and sideboard bearing tastefully curated curios; a coffee table with an array of expensive magazines. There was even a nice big pot plant by the window — some sort of fern with lush green fronds — lurking beneath a brass standard lamp.

This one room was almost bigger than Angus’s entire flat. Well, Mum’s flat. And it was certainly nicer.

Three doors led off the lounge: two closed, one open — revealing an even swankier bedroom, in tasteful, muted colours with a massive bed.

Dr Fife slouched in that direction, dumping his greatcoat on the carpet as he went.

Angus placed the cases by the coffee table. ‘Don’t forget: post-mortem’s at nine tomorrow. They get really pissed off if you’re late.’

That got him a dismissive wave, over the shoulder, as Dr Fife bumped into the bedroom.

OK...

He held up the carrier bag that had promised so much but hadn’t been allowed to deliver any of it. ‘Where do you want me to put the takeaway?’

‘Bin it. Burn it. Eat it. I don’t care. I — just — want — to — sleep!’

Then the bedroom door clunked shut, leaving Angus standing there like a damp sock.

Right.

He licked his lips. Smiled. Gazed at the lovely bag full of Oriental delight. ‘Sweet.’

Angus hurried for the door, before Dr Fife could change his mind. Pausing on the threshold to switch off the lights. ‘Nine o’clock, on the dot!’

And he was free.

Why did people have to be so shitty?

Angus shuffled sideways, putting as much distance between himself and the truly gargantuan puddle of vomit that covered a large swathe of the bus-shelter floor. Whoever did it had managed to get the entire row of narrow bum-rest-shelf seats, too. And somehow, with half the world underwater, the rain had failed to wash any of it away.

Its sharp, parmesan stink filled the plastic rabbit hutch, tainting the air with a bitter metallic taste.

He checked the information banner, little orange dots glowing away up by the curved roof: ‘157 KINGSMEATH — LAST SERVICE — EXPECTED 23:41’.

Nine minutes to go.

Still, on the plus side, he had a virtually untouched Chinese carry-out to look forward to. And enough left over for Mum to have a treat tomorrow, as well.

She’d like that.

Been a long time since they’d had takeaway.

He checked his watch, then the display again: ‘157 KINGSMEATH — LAST SERVICE — EXPECTED 23:42’.

OK: call it forty minutes to the front door, takeaway in the microwave — so dinner at twenty-five past midnight? Half an hour to eat and clear up. Teeth. Bed by... one-ish? Alarm at half five.

Could be worse.

A sniff.

Then a wince as that rancid, cheesy, bitter smell filled his nose, throat, and lungs.

Jesus...

Maybe it was worth the risk, standing outside?

Out of the smell?

Yeah, but these modern bus shelters had sensors in them, didn’t they, and the number 157 might not stop if it wasn’t registering someone standing inside. Not unless a passenger was getting off here. And, given this was the last bus home, it wasn’t worth the risk.

Still, wouldn’t hurt to get a breath of fresh air, would it? Bus wasn’t expected for another... ten minutes now. Could take a five-minute break out of the pukey pong and—

The whole street lit up in a flash of bright white, followed by a deep rumble of thunder, and the heavens opened — flinging it down hard enough to bounce off the uneven paving stones.

So much for that.

It clattered against the plastic roof, ran in thick ribbons down the clear sides, and went nowhere near that vast puddle of sick.

A Volvo and a pickup truck drove by.

Then a taxi — sending up a splooosh of spray to shower against the shelter wall.

Someone hurried by on the other side of the road.

An auld mannie scurried into the shelter: short and grubby and dripping wet. It was hard to see where his ancient parka jacket ended and he began, what with the long tatty beard blending in with the matted fur collar. Filthy backpack, dirty clothes, and ancient leather boots held together with duct tape.

Newspaper stuck out of his collar and cuffs. A sad, filthy set of tabloid thermals. Towing a whippety dog on a string.

He nodded at Angus in his cosy, fluorescent-yellow ‘POLICE’ high-vis.

The brown-toothed smile hid a surprisingly posh Scottish accent. ‘Don’t mind me, Officer, just looking for a little shelter on this cold and stormy night. No pun intended.’

The dog took one look at Angus, and whimpered around behind its master, sniffing at the puddle of vomit.

Please don’t eat it. Please don’t eat it.

Angus glanced out at the frigid monsoon. ‘You’re not sleeping rough in this, are you?’

‘Alas, the hostel on Gallows Alley is full to capacity, and owing to an unfortunate misunderstanding I find myself temporarily excluded from my gentlemen’s club.’ He dug a grimy hand into his sodden parka and produced a small metal tin, winkling a roll-up from the contents.

He paused for a moment, then offered the tin to Angus. ‘Worry not, dear Officer, they contain nothing more illicit than a smidgeon of Golden Virginia. Which I almost certainly did not shoplift.’

‘Don’t smoke. But thanks.’

‘Do you mind if I...?’ He waited for Angus to shake his head before lighting up — drawing on his weeny homemade cigarette as if it was the very breath of life itself. ‘We all have our vices to bear.’ He stuck out a grimy hand, not palm-up for a donation, but sideways for shaking. ‘Dr Vincent Rayner, at your service.’

Angus shook it — the skin rough like sandpaper against his palm. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Angus. MacVicar.’

‘Angus! A fine Scottish name.’ Dr Rayner struck a pose, free hand pressed against his chest, eyes narrowed against the smoke curling out of his roll-up.

OK, that was... weird.

The recitation ended with a theatrical hand gesture, ‘Macbeth, Act Five, Scene Two,’ and the guttural growl of an empty stomach. ‘Please do excuse me. How rude to sully the Bard with such base corporeal gurgles!’

‘When did you last eat?’

He plucked the roll-up from his mouth and considered the glowing tip. ‘What, food?’ A small laugh. ‘Sadly, like the unnamed protagonist in Knut Hamsun’s Hunger, I must wander these streets unsatiated — trapped in my own personal Christiania. Though I dare say the Norwegian weather would probably be an improvement.’

Sod.

Angus frowned at the carrier bag from the Jade Dragon’s Garden, all weighed down with Kung Po chicken and noodles and ribs and Szechuan pork and rice and spring rolls and prawn crackers and those delicious prawn toasts...

Sodding, sodding sod.

He’d been so close.

‘Do you like Chinese?’ He held the bag out. ‘I was going to have it for my tea, but... well, you know.’

‘How lovely and unexpected!’ Dr Rayner beamed up at him. ‘Kind sir, I shall not insult you by refusing this magnificent gift.’ Taking the offered bag and peering inside, then sniffing the rank air in the vomity bus shelter. ‘Though I think I shall seek out slightly more salubrious surroundings to enjoy your largesse.’ Performing a small bow. ‘A thousand thank-yous.’ He patted his dog’s head. ‘Come, Dogstoyevsky!’ Hurrying out into the downpour. ‘A veritable feast for us both, old girl. A succulent Chinese meal!’

Angus watched his dinner scurry off down the street, then disappear around the corner onto Doyle Lane, never to be seen again.

Why did ‘doing the right thing’ always have to be such a kick in the nads?

His phone vibrated, announcing an incoming text message, its accompanying ding lost in the clatter of rain pounding on the shelter’s roof.

ELLIE:

There was nothing like having your nose rubbed in it.

His shoulders dipped a little further as he put his phone away — message unanswered.

The information banner flashed a couple of times, then changed from: ‘157 KINGSMEATH — LAST SERVICE — EXPECTED 23:50’ to: ‘SERVICE CANCELLED’.

Of course it was.

He closed his eyes and let his head droop.

No takeaway.

No bus.

No money for a taxi.

Which meant he’d have to walk, all the way home, in this.

Angus pulled the hood up on his high-vis.

What a great end to a spectacular day.