In the Cold Dark Ground

28

‘...your nonstop Saturday love songs for the next half hour. So, let’s kick off Valentine’s Day with a bit of Lucy’s Drowning, and their big hit from last year: “The Circle of You”...’

Logan gritted his teeth and fumbled a hand out from beneath the duvet. Thumped his hand down on the snooze button. Then lay there, shivering. A puddle of sweat sat in the centre of his chest, running in lukewarm dribbles down his ribs.

God.

Someone had swapped his heart for an angry rat — it scrabbled at his insides, digging its claws into his lungs. There was another one inside his head, gnawing away on his brain with yellowed teeth.

Didn’t matter how expensive the whisky was, the hangover was just as bad as supermarket own-brand Sporran McGutRot.

He rubbed a hand across his clammy forehead and blinked at the ceiling. Allan Wright, Gavin Jones, Eddy Knowles. AKA: Smiler, Mr Teeth, and Captain ABBA.

Come on then, what was he going to do to them?

What could he do to them?

Oh it was all bravado and macho posturing last night on the phone, but now? In the cold morning light, with a raging hangover?

‘Urgh...’

A third rat clawed its way into his bladder.

Time to get up for a pee, some paracetamol, and about a pint of coffee.

Revenge would have to wait.

A puffball of white chrysanthemums scented the room, almost covering up the sickly hospital odour. They sat in a big plastic vase, at the side of Steel’s bed.

She was propped up, with a cup of tea and a scowl. At least it looked like a scowl. Difficult to tell, what with all the bruising and swelling. The strip of white gauze covering her nose was almost fluorescent against the dark-purple skin that surrounded both eyes. One of them about the size and shape of a broken orange. ‘What are you looking at?’ Her pyjama top was a pale sky-blue, with happy penguins frolicking all over it.

A couple of cards stood on the bedside unit — one was from a shop, all pink with ‘FOR MY LOVING WIFE’ on the front. The other was obviously handmade. It was covered in wobbly red hearts, bits of glued-on pasta, and enough glitter to choke a thousand fairies.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’ Logan unzipped his jacket and the hoodie underneath, then dumped the paper bag from the baker’s on the covers. ‘Got you some pies and stuff.’

As if that was going to make up for last night.

‘Head feels like someone’s scooped everything out and replaced it with a fat kid on a pogo stick.’

‘On the plus side, you sound a lot better.’ He helped himself to a rowie. ‘Where’s Susan?’

‘Give me that.’ She snatched the rowie from his hand and ripped a bite out of it. Winced. Chewed. ‘They catch those scumbags yet?’

‘Early days. Feeling any better?’

‘I’m lying in a hospital bed, wearing penguin PJs, suffering a hangover you could sand floorboards with. How do you think I’m feeling?’

The door opened and Susan shuffled in, carrying two plastic cups in a cardboard holder. She’d gone all countrified in tweed trousers and a checked shirt, like a slightly chunky Doris Day meets The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. ‘Logan!’ She crossed and put the holder next to the chrysanthemums, then wrapped him in a hug. It was warm and smelled of home.

She frowned up at him. Then stroked the gauze taped across his throat. ‘Does it hurt?’ The wrinkles around her eyes deepened.

‘Stings a bit, but other than that.’ Shrug.

‘Stings a bit?’ Steel made a strange bunged-up snorting noise, then snarled another bite out of her breakfast, talking with her mouth full. ‘I could’ve died. Don’t hear me moaning on about it, do you?’

‘Yes. All morning.’ Susan’s hand was warm against Logan’s cheek. ‘You look tired.’

‘He looks like a wannabe drug dealer. A hoodie, for God’s sake. How old are you?’

‘Don’t be rude.’ Susan bent down and kissed Steel on the forehead. ‘And I’ve talked to the doctors — you can go home after you’ve seen the consultant. Isn’t that nice?’

‘Sooner the better. I’m allergic to penguins.’

‘Well I think you look cute.’ She stroked Steel’s rampant-weasel hair. ‘Do you need anything else?’

‘My fake fag’s out of liquid. And I want a Bloody Mary. And some chips.’

‘Chips? What happened to the diet?’

‘Sod the diet.’

‘No chips. Or vodka.’ Susan stood. ‘You want anything, Logan?’

‘Thanks, but I can’t stay. Going down to Aberdeen. Thought I’d clear some stuff out of Samantha’s...’ He cleared his throat. ‘Out of the caravan.’

Susan’s hand was warm on his arm. ‘Stay and have a coffee. I know Roberta’s glad you’re here, even if she’s too rude and grumpy to say it.’

‘Hoy! I’m no’ rude and grumpy, I’m at death’s door.’

‘Keep telling yourself that.’ Another kiss, then Susan grabbed her coat and headed out the door. ‘Back soon.’

As soon as the door swung shut, the frown faded from Steel’s face leaving it lined and sagging. ‘Pfff...’

‘Sore?’

‘Ribs look like a paisley-patterned map of Russia.’

He dipped back into the paper bag and pulled out a pie. Handed it over. ‘I’m sorry.’

She waved a hand at him. ‘Wasn’t your fault.’

Yes it was.

The coffee tasted like boiled dirt, but he drank it anyway, washing down the last of his rowie as Steel got gravy all over her chin. Sitting there, the picture of innocence, with two black eyes.

There was no way she’d fitted up Jack Wallace.

Deep breath. ‘Look, this thing with Napier...’

‘He’s a dick.’

‘I know, but—’

‘He hates me, OK? Man’s got terrible taste in women.’ She shrugged and got more gravy on her face. ‘I wouldn’t toe the line in a disciplinary investigation, so he thinks I’m dodgy. Thinks I play fast and loose with the rules. I’m no’,’ she made quote bunnies with her fingers, ‘“invested in the process”. Whatever that means.’

Logan put the paper bag down. ‘What investigation?’

‘Nothing important.’

He stared at her.

She polished off the last mouthful of pie, then wiped her mouth with the corner of the bed sheet, leaving a thick brown smear. As if she’d had an embarrassing accident.

The sound of a floor polisher whubbed in the distance.

‘OK, OK.’ A sigh. ‘It was four years ago. A junkie claimed the arresting officer dangled him off the fifth storey of the Chapel Street car park.’

Oh.

Logan sat back. ‘It was Magnus Finch, wasn’t it?’

‘Doesn’t matter. What matters is Napier’s had a wasp up his backside about me ever since, because he doesn’t understand the word “loyalty”.’

‘Magnus Bloody Finch.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘He was selling heroin to schoolkids.’

‘Told you: doesn’t matter.’

‘Only they had to go to his squat to buy it. And they had to shoot up there too. He told them it was a safe environment.’

‘You got any more pies?’

‘A fifteen-year-old schoolgirl got raped. First by him, then by three of his coke-head friends.’

‘Laz, it’s—’

‘I didn’t dangle the bastard on purpose. I arrested him, there was a scuffle, and he nearly went over the edge. I just...’ Logan cleared his throat. ‘I made him give me the names of his accomplices before I pulled him back.’

Steel pulled the paper bag towards her, and went pie diving. ‘Ooh, is that a bridie? No’ had one of them for ages.’

‘You were covering for me.’

‘It’s what family do.’ She took a bite, giving herself a pastry-flake smile. ‘Mmmm.’

She’d started a four-year grudge with Napier for him. To protect him. And here he was investigating her.

Way to go, Logan.

Steel picked a bit of mince from between her teeth. ‘So come on, then: what about “this thing with Napier”?’

He forced a smile. ‘Did you know his first name’s Nigel?’

The Fiat Punto’s wheels bumped up onto the snow at the side of the road. Logan left the motor running for a bit as the snow drifted down onto the rutted surface.

Trees surrounded the car, stretching off into the gloom on either side, lining the forestry road, their branches drooping with thick layers of white. Further in, there was nothing but grey.

He killed the engine and climbed out of the car. Walked around to the passenger side and fished about under the seat for the polished wooden box. Snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, pulled out the semiautomatic pistol and checked it. Magazine was full. Safety catch was on.

Logan screwed the silencer into place, and slipped the gun into a carrier bag. Then he went back into the footwell for the cheap green cagoule he’d picked up in Banff. Pulled it on, and headed off into the woods.

The oak and beech at the roadside gave way to ordered rows of pine, all standing to attention like soldiers on parade. Fifteen to twenty feet in, there was no sign of snow. It hadn’t managed to penetrate the canopy overhead, leaving his boots to scuff through drifts of discarded needles. Everything smelled of mushrooms and earth, and the bitter-tar tang of pine.

He picked his way over fallen branches, around the towering shields of roots at the base of fallen trees, past drainage ditches and clumps of jagged gorse.

Should be far enough from anywhere now.

That was the great thing about Forestry Commission land: everyone stuck to the official paths, and there were none for miles around here.

He stopped in the lee of a great fallen spruce — its flat pan of roots still full of dirt and stones — and pulled up the cagoule’s hood. Tightened the drawstrings. Then opened the carrier bag, reached in and took hold of the handgrip. Clicked off the safety catch with his thumb. Wrapped the bag’s handles around his wrist.

Before, when it was him versus Reuben, one-on-one, shooting the fat bastard would’ve been murder. But now? After what happened to Steel? After the threats to Jasmine and Naomi?

There wasn’t a choice any more.

‘OK.’ Logan raised the gun and aimed at the trunk of a wooden soldier, left hand cupping the right, pulling with one arm, pushing with the other. Then squeezed the trigger.

Phut.

It kicked, jerking up through thirty degrees, the plastic bag billowing out with the escaping gas from the explosion. A shower of bark burst from the tree, and the bag sagged around his hand — dragged down by the weight of the ejected cartridge.

Another squeeze.

Phut.

The kick didn’t seem so bad this time. Another shower of bark. Another empty cartridge rolled about in the bottom of the saggy carrier bag.

One last time for luck.

Phut.

The cartridges clinked against each other as he picked his way through the trees to the victim. Three bullets, all within a circle of about four inches. Good enough.

Reuben was easily twice as wide as the trunk.

Logan placed the carrier bag on the needle-strewn forest floor, there was a ragged hole where the bullet had torn its way through the thin plastic, but other than that, it was untouched. Blackened a bit by the gunshot residue, perhaps, but it was better in there and on the sleeves of the cagoule than all over him. He peeled off the cagoule, turned it inside out and wrapped it around the bag.

The plasticky package went in another carrier, along with the discarded blue nitrile gloves.

All set.

Even with all the windows open, the place smelled of neglect. How long had it been — six months since he was last here? Eight? Something like that.

Snow blanketed the thin strip of woods behind the caravan park, broken by the thick grey mass of the River Don where it wound its way between here and the sewage works, before twisting away under the bridge, off past Tesco’s and out of sight.

The sound of traffic growled in through the windows — everyone crawling around the Mugiemoss Roundabout, getting ready to do battle with the Haudagain. Poor sods.

Logan placed another armful of horror novels in the cardboard box. Stephen Kings mostly, with a smattering of H. P. Lovecraft and some James Herbert thrown in for good measure. The living room was full of the things: lined up on shelves, piled up in corners. Another trip turned up some Dean Koontz and Clive Barkers.

He folded the box lid in on itself and printed ‘BOOKS’ across it in thick marker-pen letters. Carried the thing through into the hall and stacked it with the other two.

Stuck the next empty box in the middle of the living room carpet.

Right, videos.

His phone rang between I Spit on Your Grave and Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

‘McRae?’ He tucked it under his chin and grabbed Cannibal Holocaust and Night of the Living Dead.

‘Sergeant McRae, it’s Detective Superintendent Harper.’

Wonderful.

‘Sir.’ Friday the Thirteenth Part III and The Thing.

‘You didn’t turn up for your shift today.’

‘That’s because I’m not meant to be on shift today.’ An American Werewolf in London and Student Bodies. They went in the box.

No reply.

Wolfen, The Howling, Videodrome, Children of the Corn, A Nightmare on Elm Street. Never let it be said that Samantha didn’t find a theme and stick with it.

‘Logan, I heard what happened last night.’

Oh, so he was ‘Logan’ now, was he?

‘I know. Rennie called you.’ Razorback, Day of the Dead, Fright Night. The cases clattered on top of the ones already in the box. Not that anyone would want them down the charity shop. Who watched videos any more? Who even had a video player?

‘Anyway, I wanted you to know that we’ve got a guard on DCI Steel’s room. She’s going to be fine. And when they release her, there’ll be a car outside her house too.’

Yes, Harper the Harpy was a pain in the backside — and an idiot for thinking this was anything to do with Malcolm McLennan — but at least she was looking after Steel. Had to give her credit for that. ‘Might be an idea to get that car outside her house soon as possible. They might go after her family. Maybe get someone to keep an eye on Jasmine at school?’

In case Reuben decided to send another ‘message’.

‘Right. Good idea.’

This time the pause went on for a while.

Eaten Alive!, The Watcher in the Woods, The New York Ripper, Poltergeist.

‘Logan, I meant what I said. You and I: we got off on the wrong foot.’

He dumped the videos in the box and settled onto the mildewed couch. ‘You’ve got a file on me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

The shelves were full of ornaments too. Dragons, and skeletons, and ankhs, and incense burners, and trolls. The tackier the better, as far as Samantha was concerned. As long as it was a bit gothic, she loved it. Logan reached out and picked a snowglobe off the windowsill. It was a replica of the graveyard in The Frighteners — mounted on a genuine chunk of New Zealand rock — where the snow was made from tiny skull-and-crossbones. He gave it a shake, making the crypt doors open and pale hands reach out. She’d been so chuffed when he’d bought it for her. Gave it pride of place on the mantelpiece, until she’d found that replica Jason Voorhees hockey mask on eBay.

He dumped the original black-and-white version of The Haunting in with the other videos.

OK, if Harper didn’t say anything in the next ten seconds he was hanging up. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six—

‘I’ve been following your career for years. The Mastrick Monster, the Flesher, Jenny and Alison McGregor, Richard Knox... It’s been very colourful.’

‘You still haven’t answered the question.’

‘All these dramatic high-profile cases; anyone would think you’d be a superintendent by now, chief inspector at the very least. Instead, you’re wearing sergeant’s stripes in some God-forsaken Aberdeenshire backwater.’

His chin came up. ‘Maybe I like being a sergeant. Maybe I like Banff. Maybe I don’t want to be a glorified administrator, slash, project-manager, slash, HR stooge? Running investigations at arm’s length and never actually doing anything.’

She laughed at him, then sighed. ‘When are you back at work?’

Logan put the snowglobe down. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Good.’ She hung up.

God save us.

He huffed out a breath. Then went back to the videos.

‘No, no idea. Hold on.’ Logan rested the box on top of the Punto, and opened the boot — keeping the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder. He slid the box of clothes in on top of one marked ‘ORNAMENTS’.

With the passenger seat as far forward as it would go, and the back seats folded down there was probably room for another two boxes.

Call it one and a half loads to the charity shop, one to the tip... ‘Maybe three o’clock? Four? Depends on the traffic.’

From where he stood there was a great view of the tailback grinding up to the Mugiemoss Roundabout. The snow might have stopped, but everyone was still driving like they’d forgotten their Zimmer frame.

Steel’s voice got all muffled. ‘He’s saying about four-ish... What?... OK.’ Then she was back at full volume again. ‘Susan says it’s roast chicken and dumplings.’

‘Look, I can’t promise anything, I’ve still got all this—’

‘No excuses. You’re seeing your kids whether you like it or no’.’

He clunked the boot shut. ‘If I turn up and the pair of you sneak off to the cinema, I will not be happy.’

‘Oh come on, we only did that one time.’

‘One time? What about when you disappeared to Edinburgh for the night? Or when you went to see Rigoletto? Or Cats? You invited me round for a barbecue then tiptoed away to see Bill Bailey at the Music Hall, remember that?’ He stamped back into the caravan.

‘Well, maybe no’ one time, but—’

‘I am not your unpaid emergency babysitter.’ He grabbed another box of clothes.

‘Come on Laz, don’t be a big whinge. Going to be a lovely evening — good food, family. Do you the world of good. Might even have a knees-up round the old piano, so Jasmine—’

‘OK, I’m hanging up now.’

‘You’re such a—’

He hung up, braced the box against the doorframe, and stuck the phone in his pocket.

Honestly, the woman was a nightmare.

The box of clothes snagged on the lip of the boot, but he put his shoulder to it and forced it past the black rubber strip. One more box to go.

Mind you, it might be nice to see the kids again. Make sure they were OK. And Susan did cook a damn tasty roast chicken.

Yeah, why not.

Even having to put up with Jasmine practising for her grade three piano might not be so bad. At least it’d be more than wonky scales and tortured nursery rhymes this time.

He closed the car boot and headed back inside.

That CLAN charity shop in Dyce was probably the best bet — cut along the back way, past where the paper mill used to be, across the road, under the dual carriage way and through the housing estate. At least that way...

Logan froze.

A noise came from the open doorway to the living room. Like something had fallen over.

But it was all in boxes. There was nothing left to fall over.

He stepped through into the room.

29

A blur in the corner of his eye, then someone slammed into Logan’s side. They crashed into the caravan wall and bounced. Then banged against the wall again.

A thick hand grabbed at Logan’s face, grinding it into the wallpaper as a fist battered into his ribs. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then the room flipped — ceiling, carpet, then ceiling again.

Logan smashed onto the floor.

Lay there, flat on his back, struggling to haul in a breath. Fire ripped up and down his side where the punches landed.

Argh...

A weight landed on his chest, cutting short the jagged breathing, and when he opened his eyes there was a man sitting on him — knees pinning Logan’s arms to his sides. A wee man, with big blonde sideburns and a wide greasy smile. Captain ABBA, AKA: Eddy Knowles.

‘Not so big now, are you?’ Eddy’s fist jabbed forward, cracking into Logan’s cheek, bashing his head off the carpet. Another.

Logan thrashed, legs kicking out. ‘GET OFF ME!’

The next punch brought searing yellow blobs and a high-pitched whine riding on a wave of frozen barbed wire.

‘GET OFF, YOU WEE—’ Logan’s head snapped hard to the left, lips burning. Hot copper and salt seeped across his tongue.

Eddy Knowles sat back, reached behind him, and pulled out an eight-inch hunting knife. ‘Remember this?’ He held it in front of Logan’s eyes, twisting it so the blade caught the light. ‘Jonesy and Al say, “Hi,” by the way.’

A knife. Why did it have to be a knife?

Knots twisted in Logan’s stomach as the scar-lines cried out in protest.

‘Gnnnt ffffmmm...’ Mouth wasn’t working. Everything tasted of blood.

The knife traced its way down Logan’s cheek, cold and scratching — not deep enough to break the skin.

‘Shame it had to turn out like this. But, well, you know what Reuben’s like when he gets an idea in his head.’

‘Gnnnnnfffffmmmm...’

Captain ABBA swam in and out of focus.

DON’T JUST LIE THERE, DO SOMETHING!

What?

What the hell was he supposed to do?

‘Was only a warning last night. A wee something to show you who’s boss. But Reuben’s changed his mind again.’ He leaned forward. ‘Nothing personal, but I got to make an example of you.’ Eddy placed the knife against the skin under Logan’s eye. ‘You understand.’

‘Fffffk yyyu.’

‘Yeah, not so much.’ The knife rose into the air, point down.

Logan grabbed two handfuls of Captain ABBA’s buttocks and heaved, digging in with his heels, thrusting his hips upwards in a desperate parody of a sexual act. Trying to not get screwed.

Eddy’s eyes went wide as he lurched forwards, caught off balance, sprawling on top of him.

Logan shoved him off, grabbed the back of his neck and battered his head into the carpet.

The knife went clattering away across the floor, under the couch.

An elbow cracked back into Logan’s ribs.

They rolled on the floor, punching, gouging, snarling. Bang into the wall beneath the window. A rain of ornaments crashed down around them.

A fist cracked into Logan’s jaw. He rammed his forehead into Eddy’s nose.

Grunting, swearing.

His leg caught the edge of the couch, sending it scraping back across the floor, exposing the knife.

Eddy Knowles lunged for it, blood spattering down from his broken face.

And Logan grabbed the first thing he could find — a solid lump of plastic and rock — and swung it at Eddy’s head.

Thunk.

He stuttered forward. Then snatched the knife up. Twisted around.

Thunk.

His head battered sideways.

Thunk.

The blade flashed out, leaving a searing line across Logan’s stomach.

‘AAAAAAGH...’ Logan swung the snowglobe again, teeth bared.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

And Eddy wasn’t moving any more.

Logan slumped back against the wall, fingers fluttering at the front of his T-shirt. Red seeped through the slashed fabric of his hoodie.

Not again. Please, not again.

He unzipped it to the point where the knife had cut clean through and peeled the sides apart. A dark-scarlet line stretched across his stomach, joining up several of the puckered ghosts of another knife.

Please...

Logan prodded the wound, wincing. It had broken the skin, but that was about it. A lot of blood, but not too much damage.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

Thank God.

Deep breaths. Not dead. Not dead yet.

He opened his eyes again.

Eddy Knowles lay twisted on his side, mouth hanging open, eyes staring off into the corner. The knife rested in his open hand, its tip buried in the carpet. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Oh no.

Logan looked down at the blunt weapon, lying beside him, and picked it up again. It was the snowglobe of The Frighteners. The chunk of genuine New Zealand rock was smeared with dark red. Stained clumps of hair stuck to the rough surface.

No.

He dropped it and it rolled away, snow falling, the crypts giving up their ghosts.

No, no, no, no, NO!

‘Don’t be dead, don’t be dead...’ Logan scrambled across the dusty carpet and pressed two fingers against Eddy’s throat, just below the ear. The skin was slick with scarlet. No pulse.

‘BASTARD!’ He shoved him over onto his back, clenched both hands together in a single fist and pressed down on the breastbone. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand.

Nothing.

Logan tilted the guy’s head back and pinched the twisted mass of bloody gristle masquerading as a nose, sealing the nostrils. Took a deep breath, covered Eddy’s mouth with his own and blew. Went back to the chest compressions. Another breath. Compressions. Breath. Compressions...

Then sat back on his haunches.

The body lay there, motionless, spread out on the floor.

Logan grabbed the lip of the toilet bowl, hunching his back as his stomach tried to turn itself inside out. Retching and heaving until there was nothing coming out but bitter reeking strings of yellow bile.

His hands left sticky scarlet smears on the porcelain.

He was screwed. Completely and utterly screwed. Never mind standing there, doing nothing to stop Tony Evans getting murdered, he’d killed someone.

Killed them.

Jesus.

The caravan floor creaked beneath Logan’s feet as he paced back and forth, between the bedroom and the living room. The not living room. The death room.

Oh dear Jesus.

The water was cold, sputtering from the tap in the bathroom, sending pink spiralling down the sink. So cold it burned.

Logan scrubbed with the soap, working it into a bloody froth.

Something heavy was sitting on his chest — didn’t matter how hard he breathed, he couldn’t get any oxygen into his lungs.

Why wouldn’t it wash away?

He dragged a hand towel from the box in the hall and folded it lengthways a couple of times then pressed it against the slash across his stomach. Hunched over the kitchen worktop, pushing it into his skin.

A thick strip of fabric, ripped off an old sheet, made a bandage to hold it in place.

Logan folded forward until his cheek rested on the cool worktop.

He could do this.

He could.

He had to.

Eddy Knowles lay spread out in front of the couch, one arm up reaching above his head as if forever frozen in the middle of hailing a taxi.

Sodding bastarding hell.

Well, it wasn’t as if he’d have got up and walked off, was it?

Logan grimaced. Smelled like a butcher’s shop in here.

The body’s forehead was lumpen and dented on one side, nearly caved in. Around his head, the carpet was dark and wet — glinting in the cold afternoon light that filtered in through the grubby windows.

Logan’s eyes widened. What if someone looked in? What if someone saw him?

He picked his way across the living room, inching his way around the stain.

God, there was a lot of blood.

The curtains rattled as he dragged them shut.

Cold water spilled down his chin as he drained the glass. Then filled it again, standing in the galley kitchen. The glass clicked and skittered against the stainless-steel draining board, threatening to jerk free of his hand.

Call the police.

They’d understand, wouldn’t they? It was self-defence, he didn’t have any choice. The guy had a dirty big knife and orders to make an example of him.

Yeah, because no one would ask why, would they? They wouldn’t want to know what a gangster was doing with orders to carve Logan into little chunks. Wouldn’t impound the car. Wouldn’t do a thorough search.

What’s this under your passenger seat, Sergeant McRae? Why it’s an illegal handgun, and it appears to have been fired recently. Who have you been shooting, Sergeant McRae?

That would end well.

Logan raised the trembling glass to his lips and drank.

Didn’t matter how it ended, it was what had to happen. He’d killed someone.

He let out a long jittery breath.

Or maybe there was another way? Go out to the car, get the gun, come back and put a bullet through his own head. Bang. Every problem solved with one squeeze of the trigger. No more worry. No more guilt. No more grief. No more—

The doorbell rang out loud and sharp in the cold air.

Too late.

Logan lowered the glass.

Should have phoned the police when he had the chance.

He wiped a hand across his chin, getting rid of the water. Deep breath. Hauled his shoulders back. Then answered the door.

But it wasn’t a concerned neighbour who’d witnessed everything, or a uniformed officer with a warrant for his arrest. It was John Urquhart.

His face was flushed and shiny, beads of sweat trickling down his cheeks. ‘Oh thank... thank God...’ Urquhart folded over, grabbed his knees and panted. ‘Thought I’d... Argh... Had to abandon the... the car at... Tesco and leg it...’ A coughing spasm rippled through him and he abandoned his knees to clutch at the doorframe. ‘Traffic...’

Logan looked over his shoulder at the car park. A familiar, dented Transit van sat next to his manky wee Punto.

‘Mr McRae, you need... you need to get... to get out, OK?’ Urquhart peered up at him. ‘Reuben’s sent someone... someone to kill... Oh.’ A frown. He pointed at Logan’s face. ‘Is that blood?’

He pushed past, into the caravan. A pause, then the sound of swearing belted out from inside.

Logan found him in the living room, hands on his hips, staring at the body on the floor.

Urquhart got to the end of his rant and sagged. Shook his head. Glanced back at Logan. ‘I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear, but I’m impressed, dude. Eddy?’ He nudged the body’s leg with a shoe. ‘He’s killed six guys I know of. Cut the nose right off one of them, and posted it to his wife. Mind you, she was running a drug ring in Cults, so, you know.’ As if that made it all right.

‘It was an accident.’

‘You accidentally battered his head into the carpet? Nah, credit where it’s due, Mr McRae. I thought you’d be...’ A shrug. ‘Nice to see you’re still alive.’

Logan leaned back against the wall. His knees wouldn’t work properly. The guilt was too heavy for them.

‘Mind you, that’s some lump you’ve got there.’ Urquhart pointed.

‘Where?’ He reached up and brushed his fingers across the hair above his ear. A bump the size of a Creme Egg throbbed as he touched it. His fingertips came away red and sticky. ‘Oh.’

The ringing noise got louder. Was someone else at the door?

Why didn’t Urquhart answer it?

‘Mr McRae? Are you OK?’

Only it wasn’t the doorbell, was it? It was inside Logan’s head.

‘Mr McRae?’ Urquhart didn’t seem to cross the intervening space. One second he was standing over Eddy and the next he was standing over Logan. Looking down.

How did he end up on the floor?

Logan blinked. Shook his head. It only made the ringing worse.

Urquhart squatted down. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

Three... no four fingers swam in front of his face. ‘Four?’

‘Yeah, that’s probably a concussion.’

Oh good.

‘Come on, let’s get you onto the sofa.’ Urquhart hauled him up by the armpits and walked him over to the mildewed couch. Lowered him down. Then produced a hipflask from an inside pocket and held it out. ‘Here.’

Logan fumbled with the cap and took a swig. Sweet fire spread down his throat and across his stomach.

Urquhart took it back, wiped his palm across the neck and took a jolt of his own. ‘It’s all going to hell, Mr McRae. All going to hell. Reuben’s...’ He settled on the arm of the couch. ‘Remember those meetings I had to set up? Didn’t go well.’

‘What a surprise.’

‘Reuben got into a fight with Ma Campbell’s representative. Hacked off both his hands and sent him home with them in a Jiffy bag. The whole thing’s racing to rat-shit in a handbasket. Going to be war.’ He sniffed, curled his top lip. ‘Man, it stinks in here.’

‘...you OK?’ Urquhart was right in front of him again, peering into his eyes.

‘Get off me.’ Logan pushed him away, but there wasn’t any force to it.

‘What you doing here anyway? Having a clear out?’

‘It’s all going to the charity shop. Or the tip.’ Logan’s stomach took a lurch to the left. ‘The person who owned it died.’

‘That’s too bad.’ He looked around. ‘Nothing here you want to keep? You know, sentimental value and that?’

Saliva flooded his mouth. He swallowed. Shuddered. ‘Think I’m going to be sick again.’

‘Yeah, come on, let’s get you on your feet.’

Dry heaves crashed through him like a punch in the stomach, leaving him coughing and gagging over the open toilet bowl. He spat out another glob of foul yellow bile.

Urquhart sat on the edge of the bath, one leg swinging back and forward. ‘Course, we can’t really leave Eddy lying there. And we can’t call it in. You imagine how much trouble that’d bring?’

Another heave. Logan’s fingers dug into the blood-smeared porcelain.

‘Nah, we’ll have to get rid of him. Still, not to worry, wouldn’t be the first, won’t be the last.’ He gave a short, snorted laugh. ‘That’s the great thing about pigs: always hungry. It’ll be fine.’

Logan rested his forehead against the cool toilet rim. ‘No. No pigs. We can’t... Oh, God.’ More bile. The retch echoed back at him, amplified by the bowl.

‘It’s OK. Don’t sweat it. You don’t want Eddy going pigward, that’s cool with me. You’re the boss.’

He spat. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then flushed the toilet.

The rushing water pulled in cool air, chilling the sweat on the back of his neck.

‘You all right to stand, Mr McRae? Need help?’

‘I’m fine...’ No he wasn’t. Logan pulled himself up the side of the bath, holding on to it until the world settled down a bit. Then wobbled over to the sink and splashed water on his face. Rinsed out his foul-tasting mouth.

Urquhart took hold of his arm. ‘No wonder you’re feeling a bit ropey. See most people? If they went up against Eddy they’d be the ones lying flat on their backs in a pool of blood.’ He led Logan out into the hall, then through into the bedroom.

The wardrobes hung open and empty, but there were still sheets and a duvet on the bed. The duvet cover had been black with red skulls once, but mildew had spread green tendrils out across the fabric. No point packing them for the charity shop, the whole lot was going to landfill.

‘Here you go.’ Urquhart grabbed a corner and threw the duvet back, setting loose an explosion of gritty peppery stench. Then helped Logan sit on the bed. ‘Lie down. I’ll get a cold cloth for that bump.’

‘Don’t need to lie down.’ But he couldn’t stay upright.

Maybe just for a minute. Until the room stopped spinning.

Should probably go to Accident and Emergency.

Instead Logan lowered his head to the mould-bleached pillow.

Not for long. Get up in a minute. Sixty seconds to catch his breath. Wasn’t too much to ask for...

Urquhart appeared, holding a tea towel. Knelt beside the bed and pressed it against the hair above Logan’s ear. Cold and damp. Soothing the fire. ‘Shhh. It’ll all be OK. You trust me, don’t you?’

No.

And the world went away.

30

‘Gnnnph...’ Logan sat bolt upright, blinking in the gloom.

Caravan. He was in the caravan. In the bed, the duvet rucked around his waist. It was dark.

He fumbled his phone from his pocket. Quarter to four.

Urquhart must have drawn the curtains.

Logan swung his legs over the side and wobbled to his feet. Stood there with one hand on the wall, holding him up.

That gritty mildew smell had gone, replaced by the acerbic chemical stink of bleach.

He picked his way through the caravan to the living room, where the smell was strongest.

Great.

Eddy Knowles’s body was gone. Splotches of orangey grey marked the floor where he’d died, surrounded by the carpet’s original dark-red colour. More bleached patches over by the windowsill. A big stain of it on the couch.

Logan reached up and touched the lump above his ear. Flinched. Then poked at it again. Swelling was going down a bit. It had stopped bleeding too.

Not that it mattered.

Might as well have died in his sleep as wake up to this.

So what if Reuben dobbed him in for taking money from Wee Hamish Mowat’s estate? John Urquhart had him on a murder. He had the body and, seeing as how the Frighteners snowglobe was nowhere to be seen, the murder weapon too.

Logan dragged out his phone, squinting at the screen as it refused to stay in focus. He picked Urquhart’s number from his call history and listened to it ring. And ring. And then it clicked over to voicemail.

‘Hi, this is John’s phone. He’s not here right now, but leave a message, OK?’

He opened his mouth... then shut it again. What was he going to do: leave recorded evidence asking what happened to the body of the man he’d killed? No chance. He hung up.

Should’ve called the police when he had the chance. Cut a deal.

At least that way he’d have been out in three or four years. But now?

Maybe the plan to go home and blow his own brains out wasn’t so bad? Wasn’t as if he had anything else going for him right now. Head home, crack open that bottle of Balvenie, and phut.

He leaned back against the wall. But then who would look after Cthulhu?

Steel and Susan? Nah, their Mr Rumpole was far too old and too grumpy to accept another cat into the household.

He rubbed a hand across his face. Then flinched as his phone blared out the ‘Imperial March’ from Star Wars.

And everyone thought Friday the thirteenth was bad.

Logan took the call. ‘I can’t.’

On the other end, Steel was barely audible over the sound of loud music and shouting in the background — as if she was standing in the middle of a nightclub. ‘What? Hold on.’ She’d obviously turned away from the phone. ‘WILL YOU SHUT THAT RACKET UP? I’M TRYING TO TALK TO YOUR DAD!’ The music died away. ‘Thank you.’

He turned his back on the room and limped out into the hall.

‘Sorry about that. Wee hooligan’s going through her heavy metal phase.’

‘I said, “I can’t”.’ He opened the front door and stepped into the snow.

‘Can’t what? What can you no’—’

‘Dinner. The whole thing. I can’t.’ Logan locked the caravan.

The battered Transit van was gone, leaving the box-filled Punto alone in the car park, covered with about three inches of snow. More drifted down from the dirty grey sky.

‘You got any idea how much trouble Susan’s gone to, you ungrateful wee sod?’

‘I can’t.’ He groaned his way into the driver’s seat. Slammed the door shut.

‘Don’t you “can’t” me, you get your backside—’

‘I’m not feeling well, OK? Been sick twice. And my head hurts. And my stomach.’ Which was an understatement. It was as if someone had sewn fire ants under the skin, leaving them to bite and sting all the way across his abdomen.

He turned the key, treadling the accelerator until the engine caught. Clicked on the windscreen wipers. They ground their way through the snow.

Steel cleared her throat. ‘Hey, I had a hangover today too: don’t be such a whinge.’

‘It’s not a hangover.’

He stuck the car in reverse, the wheels slithered then caught.

‘Aye, pull the other one, it’s got sheep attached.’

‘Look...’ Logan bit his lip. Winced. Then caught a good look at himself in the rear-view mirror. His mouth was swollen and cracked, a good spread of bruises growing over his cheekbone and temple.

There had to be some way to get her to leave him alone. Something that’d wind her up till she stormed off in a huff. Of course there was: ‘The kiddie porn on Jack Wallace’s computer, it was buried away. So how come you managed to find it?’

‘Aye, nice try, Hannibal Lecter, but you’re no’ changing the subject that easy. You want to cancel on your kids, you can do it yourself.’

‘Oh come on, you can barely work the microwave, how are you suddenly a computer hacker?’

He got the Punto facing the right way and crawled out of the caravan park and onto Mugiemoss Road, past the huge ugly grey sheds of the industrial estate.

His stomach churned and gurgled, keeping time with the thumping waves of warm gravel that filled his skull. Probably got a concussion. Probably shouldn’t be driving. But what was he supposed to do, hang about in the caravan till Reuben sent someone else after him?

And then Steel was back. ‘You really want to know? Fine.’ Some rustling, then the sound of a door closing.

The road was a dirty black, fringed with brown slush — wavy lines of grit clearly visible.

‘I went to tell him to stay the hell away from Claudia Boroditsky. Grimy little sod had form for leaning on witnesses and victims. Liked to throw his weight about like a big man. And there she is, all of a sudden, saying she was confused, it wasn’t him. Really?’

Tiny flecks of snow drifted down, clinging to the walls of the new flats and bookshelf houses.

‘He’s giving it, “Told you I never even saw her — nothing to do with me,” when the phone goes. And soon as he nips off to answer it, I have myself a wee wander. Didn’t have to do any hacking — the laptop was in the study, and the pictures were right there, bold as brass. He’d got it set on slideshow.’

An eighteen wheeler grumbled past on the opposite side of the road, sending up a wake of muddy sludge.

‘And we’re talking some sick stuff here. Really horrible. Arrogant git hadn’t even shut the laptop when I rang the bell. Left it sitting right there.’ She sniffed. ‘Probably got him all excited, talking to the police downstairs while that filth was playing away on his laptop.’

‘So you didn’t have to type in a password or anything like that?’

‘Course what I really wanted to do was chuck him down the stairs a few times. And how would I know what his password was? What am I, Derren Brown?’

Logan pulled over to the side of the road and sat there with the engine running. From here the fields were a patchwork of white and grey, bordered with thin black lines and the occasional clump of bare trees. The landscape faded as the snow swallowed the middle distance.

He huffed out a breath and ran a hand across his stomach.

The knife’s line stung beneath his fingers, like rubbing rock salt into the wound.

Steel started a four-year feud with Napier to cover for him.

And now here he was, press-ganged into investigating her for Chief Superintendent Chocolate Crispies. Somehow it was a lot easier when Napier was just a shadowy Nosferatu figure, lurking and ready to pounce.

Jack Wallace was an arrogant tosser, that much was obvious from the interview footage. Sitting there impassive as everything he’d done was laid out in front of him. ‘No comment’ing all the way.

Maybe he wasn’t really a paedophile? Maybe it was all about sexual power for him and he didn’t care who he exerted that power over? As long as they were weaker than him.

And now Steel was in the firing line because Wallace fancied getting out a bit early. Oh, poor me, I’ve been set up by the nasty policewoman.

Logan pulled out his phone again and brought up the photo of Samantha at Rennie’s wedding. Rested the phone in the gap between the steering wheel and the instruments.

‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right.’

No reply.

‘You think I’m looking for excuses not to go home. Because if I go home, I’ve got to face the fact that I’m screwed.’

She was beautiful. Hair as red as fresh blood, skin as pale as the snow. The corset made the top of her breasts swell — one skeleton on either side above the leather, holding aloft a banner with ‘QUOTH THE RAVEN, “NEVERMORE”’ on it. Bare shoulders showing off the tribal tattoos, brambles, skulls and hearts and jagged swirls.

‘Come on, look at me: I can’t even kill someone in self-defence without feeling awful. It’s like there’s a lump of granite inside my chest. How am I going to kill Reuben in cold blood?’

He reached forward and zoomed in on her face.

‘She stood up for me. Least I can do is return the favour.’

The Punto’s engine pinged and clicked as it cooled.

‘I miss you.’

No reply.

He sighed, put the phone back in his pocket and started the car again. Then did a U-turn.

Sod going home.

Peterhead’s ASDA wasn’t very busy at half five on a Saturday evening. Just as well really. It meant there weren’t too many people around to stand and stare as Logan limped and shuffled his way around the clothes department.

He caught sight of himself in a full-length mirror attached to a pillar.

Talk about stop-and-search chic. His cagoule — unwrapped from the handgun in the car park — covered a multitude of sins and bloodstains, but did nothing to hide the hunched, bruised lump of a man reflected back at him.

If they had any sense, store security would be keeping an eye on him. He might as well be carrying a placard with ‘I SHOPLIFT BACON AND CHEESE!!!’ on it.

He leaned on his trolley and added a pair of jeans to the black T-shirt, blue hoodie, black socks, and grey trainers already in there. Then limped around to the pharmacy aisle and lumped in two packs of the highest-strength painkillers he could find, a pack of waterproof plasters, and an elasticated bandage.

That should do it.

A big middle-aged bloke in a black V-necked jumper and a tie followed him all the way to the checkouts. Just in case.

The prison officer held the door open, grimacing as Logan limped into the interview room.

‘Sure you don’t want to see the doctor?’

Logan hissed out a breath as he lowered himself into one of the seats. ‘I’m fine, really.’

The room was bland and anonymous. Grey floor, grey walls, grey table, grey seats. A mirrored black hemisphere sat in one corner, like a supermarket security camera, and a panic strip ran around the wall.

‘Yes, but...’ She pointed at his face.

‘Broke up a fight outside a pub at lunchtime.’ He tried for a smile. ‘You should see the other guy.’

Currently working his way through the inside of a pig. If Logan was lucky.

‘Well, OK. If you’re sure.’

‘Positive.’

A nod. ‘I’ll go get Mr Wallace.’

As soon as she was gone, Logan popped another couple of Nurofen from their blister pack and dry swallowed them. To hell with the recommended daily dosage. He slipped the packet back in the pocket of his new hoodie. Wasn’t easy, changing in the Punto’s passenger seat, in a lay-by, but at least he looked a bit less drug-dealy now.

Shame his whole body still ached. And every time he moved, the elasticated plasters pulled at the hair on his stomach.

But other than that, everything was just sodding peachy.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes before the guard was back with Jack Wallace.

Prison hadn’t put any weight on him, he was still small and thin, the red sweatshirt and grey jogging bottoms almost hanging off him. He’d kept his scraped-forward fringe, but the pencil beard had thickened to a marker pen. Probably not so easy to get precision grooming equipment when you were banged up in HMP Grampian.

The officer pointed. ‘Jack, this is Sergeant McRae, he’s here to talk to you about your allegations. For the record, again, this interview isn’t being recorded, and you’ve declined to have your solicitor present. Correct?’

Wallace nodded. He looked thin, but when he moved his head it made the skin wobble beneath his chin. As if he’d been much larger once and lost a lot of it in a hurry.

‘All right then. Sergeant McRae, I’ll be right outside if you need me.’

‘Thanks.’ Logan waited till the door clunked shut, then shifted back in his seat. Why was it impossible to find a position that didn’t hurt? He settled for something that only made the left side of his body ache and stayed there, not saying anything, letting the silence grow.

OK, so it was an old and cheap trick, but it worked. Sooner or later the person on the other side of the interview room table would—

‘I didn’t do it.’ Wallace leaned forward, hands clutched in front of him. ‘I don’t know why she says I did, but I didn’t. I mean, kids?’ He bared his teeth and shuddered. ‘That’s just sick.’

Logan stayed where he was. Mouth closed.

‘I don’t understand it. I never ever looked at a kid like that. Never.’ He sniffed, then wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. ‘I don’t belong in here. You wouldn’t believe the people I’m in with — paedos, rapists, people who shag sheep for Christ’s sake! Scum.’ His bottom lip wobbled, then got pulled in. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

Someone walked by in the corridor outside, whistling something tuneless.

‘It was that Chief Inspector Steel.’ He pronounced her name as if it were made of battery acid. ‘She set me up. She stole my laptop and she put that disgusting filth on it so she could arrest me.’ He coiled forward, elbow on the tabletop, head in his hands. ‘She’s had it in for me for years. This is her idea of a joke. But it’s my life!’

‘Why?’

Wallace looked up. ‘What?’

‘Why would she do that? Why you?’

‘I don’t know.’ He scrubbed at his eyes again. ‘If I knew, I’d tell you, but I don’t. I’ve never done anything. I haven’t.’

Logan tilted his head on one side, stretching the muscles in his neck, pulling the strip of gauze tight across his throat. ‘What about Claudia Boroditsky?’

Wallace reacted as if he’d been slapped. Sat bold upright, blinking back the tears. ‘I never touched her. Never. You ask her — it was all lies. She dropped the charges and they threw it out of court.’ He poked the table with a thin finger. ‘I should’ve sued her. Had her done for making false claims. Trying to pervert the course of justice. I’m the victim here.’

Yeah, right.

‘It’s not fair.’ He reached across the table, but Logan kept his hands out of reach. ‘I didn’t rape anyone, and I didn’t download child porn. I swear on my mother’s grave, that wrinkly old bitch set me up.’

And there it was, a flash of the real Jack Wallace: aggressive, woman-hating, outraged and martyred, sexist scumbag. Lying and weaselling. Trying to escape justice yet again.

Well not this time.

Logan stood. ‘We’re done.’

31

Logan spread out a copy of the Aberdeen Examiner on the kitchen table, then unwrapped the semiautomatic from its plastic bags. Took another hit of Balvenie, holding it in his mouth till the warm sweetness turned into numbed gums and tongue.

The cagoule was long gone, stuffed into a bin somewhere between Peterhead and Banff.

His blue nitrile gloves squeaked on the metal as he disassembled the gun, turning it into a jigsaw of metal components. Each one with its place and purpose.

He’d only fired three test shots, but the barrel was furred with soot, outside and in.

A prooping noise came from the doorway, then a small furry body wound its way between his ankles. Tail up.

He reached down to ruffle her ears then stopped.

Had anyone ever been done because the Scene of Crime lot found gunshot residue on a suspect’s cat? Probably not. But it wasn’t worth the risk either.

‘Sorry, Kittenfish, Daddy’s busy just now.’

The semiautomatic came apart easily enough. Logan laid out its moving parts across a story about two school kids who’d found a homeless man floating facedown in the boating pond at Duthie Park. The photo of the pair of them — grinning away after their ‘traumatic ordeal’ — darkened with blotches of oil from the recoil spring.

Cleaning the gun only took a couple of minutes, so all that time spent on firearms training hadn’t been wasted. The gun clicked and snapped together again. Logan hauled back the slide and checked the action. All ready.

Assuming he had the guts to pull the trigger.

Shooting someone had to be easier than battering them to death with a snowglobe.

His hands trembled as he placed the semiautomatic back in its polished wooden box.

Soon find out.

He snapped off his gloves and bundled them up with the used carrier bags. Stuck the lot in another bag. Have to head out later, take a route away from the CCTV cameras mounted on the front of the police station across the road, drench them with bleach and dump them somewhere. Maybe in a dog-waste bin, or a random wheelie bin. Somewhere no one would think to look.

Then he bent down, winced, swore, and finally picked Cthulhu up. Held her warm purring body against his chest. Tried to breathe.

‘Daddy killed someone today.’

Why was it never like this in the books or movies? The hero gets attacked, the hero kills the attacker, throws out a smart one-liner, and moves on. They never looked like someone had carved a hole in their chest and filled it with frozen gravel.

He kissed the top of Cthulhu’s head. ‘Let’s get you something to eat.’

The Nurofen clicked out of their blister pack. Logan washed both of them down with some more whisky. Then dipped back into the cardboard box on the floor.

He placed Samantha’s dark-red skirt — with the black embroidered roses — on the bed, tucking it under the leather corset. Added the black-and-red striped holdups, and the knee-length kinky boots with the gold braiding that made them look like some sort of Napoleonic uniform. The black leather gloves. The only thing left was the Ziploc plastic bag containing all her rings and piercings. He placed it where Samantha’s head would have been.

‘There you go: the outfit you had on at Rennie’s wedding. You’ll look lovely in your coffin.’

He sat next to her. Took the glove as if it were her hand.

Stared at the wall. The outlines began to blur.

He laughed — short and strangled.

Ground the heel of his hand into an eye.

Laughed again.

‘I’m having a really, really, really crap week.’

Deep breath.

It trembled on the way out. Then he swore as the doorbell rang out long and heartless.

‘Yeah.’

No prizes for guessing who that would be.

The glove went back on the bed.

He knelt on the floor and pulled out the polished wooden box, took out the semiautomatic and racked a round into the chamber. Clicked the safety off.

Who cared if he got his fingerprints all over it.

The doorbell went again as he thumped down the stairs, gun up and ready.

If Reuben thought this was going to be easy, he was in for a nasty shock.

Wrench the door open, shoot him in the face.

Easy.

He could do this.

Logan’s left hand closed around the handle. He leaned forward and peered through the spyhole.

Oh.

It wasn’t Reuben, or even one of his thugs, it was Detective Superintendent Holier-Than-Thou Harper.

Perfect end to a perfect day.

The doorbell mourned.

Maybe he could pretend he wasn’t in? But then all the lights were on, and presumably you didn’t get promoted to detective superintendent by being a moron.

He tucked the gun into the pocket of his new hoodie and opened the door.

She stood on the pavement, her cheeks flushed, the tip of her nose a shiny pink — ears too. A thick padded jacket made her look about twice normal size, the collar turned up against the falling snow. Her breath streamed out in pale grey wisps. ‘Hello.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Are you going to ask me in, Sergeant?’

He stuck his hand in the pocket, obscuring the semiautomatic’s outline. ‘Do I have a choice?’

Harper flashed him a lopsided smile. ‘Detective superintendents are like vampires. We can’t come in unless you invite us.’

Oh God, she was coming on to him. Steel was right.

Not that she wasn’t attractive, in a perpetually angry, shouty, judgemental, girl-next-door, blonde, big-brown-eyed kind of way. Never really noticed how big her ears were before, but now that they were all pink and glowing they kind of—

‘Seriously, Sergeant, I’m freezing out here.’

‘Oh, right.’ He backed away and ushered her into the house. Shut the door behind her.

Harper had a good look around. ‘You live here on your own.’

Not that there was anything wrong with larger ears.

‘You want a cup of tea, or something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine.’ He pointed at the kitchen. ‘Kettle’s in there, help yourself. I’ll be down in a minute.’

She pursed her lips, then raised an eyebrow, before turning and wandering through into the kitchen.

As soon as she was gone, Logan charged upstairs and jammed the gun back in its box. Stood there for a moment, in the middle of the bedroom, staring down at Samantha’s clothes — laid out for their last hurrah. The last thing she would ever wear, forever and ever, amen.

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about Harper jumping him. Nothing killed the mood like a display of your dead girlfriend’s clothes in the middle of the bed.

The sound of cupboard doors opening and closing came up from downstairs. Either she couldn’t find the mugs, or she was having a nosy. Let her. She wasn’t going to find anything: the empty Glenfiddich bottle was safely hidden in the recycling bins behind the public toilets in Oldmeldrum, all she’d turn up were cheap dishes and cheaper tins of soup.

He headed down to the kitchen.

Harper had placed two mugs beside the grumbling kettle. She turned and frowned at him as he entered. ‘Rennie and McKenzie told me you’d been attacked last night, but they didn’t say someone had beaten the crap out of you. I thought you got away with a tiny cut?’

His hand drifted up to his face. The new collection of bruises and split lip. ‘Yeah. Had to break up a fight outside a pub this afternoon. You know what it’s like: never off duty.’

‘Hmm...’ She stepped closer, reached up and pulled his hand away. Staring straight into his eyes. Pursed her lips.

She was going to go in for a kiss.

Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad an idea to feel alive for a change.

He leaned forward.

Then she slapped him. It came from nowhere, fast and hard, leaving a stinging brand burned into his right cheek. ‘OW! What the hell was that for?’

‘You couldn’t even be bothered going to his funeral!’ She hit him again. ‘How could you be so bloody selfish?’

‘What?’ Logan backed away, out of slapping range. ‘You... Yesterday you were all pissed off because I’d gone to his funeral. You saw me there!’

‘Not Hamish Mowat, you insensitive dick, your own father!’

Logan curled his lip. ‘You’re off your head. Get out of my house.’

‘Did you just not care?’

‘Really: I want you to leave now. Before I throw you out.’

‘HE WAS YOUR FATHER!’ Harper closed the gap, hand flashing up. ‘He doted on you and you couldn’t even be bothered...’ She swung for Logan’s face. But this time he was ready for it. Grabbed the arm before anything could connect and shoved her backwards.

She stumbled and fell, thumping down against the kitchen units. Sitting flat on her bum glowering up at him. ‘Think you’re so special, don’t you?’

‘My father died when I was five, OK? Five years old. That’s why I didn’t go to his funeral. You happy now?’

She blinked up at him. ‘When you were five?’

‘Not that it’s any of your damn business, Detective Superintendent.’

‘But...’ Little creases formed at the sides of her mouth. ‘But he only died two months ago.’

And Logan was meant to be the one recovering from a concussion.

‘I think I’d remember my dad being alive for the last thirty-four years. Now get out.’

She shook her head. ‘He died two months ago, a fortnight before Christmas. I know, because he was my father too.’

Cthulhu sat on the coffee table, head tilted to one side, staring at the pair of them. They’d each taken opposite ends of the couch, a gap between them big enough to drive a motorbike through.

Harper cleared her throat. Fidgeted with the hem of her jacket. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘Look, I understand that you’re upset, but my father died when I was five. I’ve no idea who your dad was, but unless he came back from the dead they’re not the same man.’

She pulled out her phone and poked at the screen. Then held it out.

A photo of a grey-haired man with a beard and performance eyebrows grinned back at him, holding up a birthday cake. ‘This him?’ Logan swiped right and another photo appeared, this one of the same guy sitting in a deck chair in a T-shirt and shorts.

‘How can you not recognize your own father?’

Logan dumped the phone on the couch between them. ‘Could be anybody.’

‘Charles Montrose McRae, born sixteenth October 1954. Check.’

‘I don’t need to check.’

‘My middle name’s Findon, because that’s where I was conceived. It’s a McRae family tradition.’

Logan frowned at the man in the deckchair, as the screen went black. ‘Mine’s Balmoral. They were on a week’s caravanning holiday...’

‘So check.’

‘We visited his grave. Every twentieth of May, my mother would bundle me and my brother into the car and we’d go lay flowers on it. He got shot trying to arrest someone for aggravated burglary.’

A short bitter laugh. ‘Oh, he got shot all right. That’s where he met my mum, recovering in hospital. She was a nurse. Three weeks later they packed up and moved down to Dumfries.’

Logan stared.

‘Then she got pregnant with me. Your mother wouldn’t give him a divorce, so they couldn’t get married. I got to be “Harper the Bastard” all through school.’ She bared her teeth. ‘I hated you so much.’

‘What the hell did I do?’

‘He never stopped banging on about what a great wee boy you were. Logan this, Logan that. Then you joined the force and that was it: “Look at all these cases your brother solved”, “Look at this serial killer your brother caught”, “Look at this bit in the papers about your brother rescuing those people off Britain’s Next Big Star, isn’t he great?”’ She stopped fidgeting with the couch and held her hand up, thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. ‘Kept all the clippings in a scrapbook this thick.’

‘This isn’t funny.’

‘Oh he thought you were perfect. Well, if you’re so all-fired wonderful, how come you’re a lowly sergeant in some Aberdeenshire sheep-shagging backwater? I’m a Superintendent. Where’s my scrapbook?’

OK, sod this. Logan pulled out his phone and called Sergeant Ashton.

It rang for a bit, then she picked up. ‘Fit like, min?’

‘Beaky? It’s Logan. I need you to look up an officer for me: Charles Montrose McRae. Date of birth: sixteenth October fifty-four.’

‘What, right down to business? No foreplay? No half-arsed stab at spickin’ the Doric?’

He put the call on speakerphone so Harper could hear herself being proved wrong. ‘Please, Beaky, it’s important.’

Sergeant Ashton sighed. ‘No one’s any fun.’ There was some clicking of keys. ‘You’ll be chuffed to hear we’ve got a full house for tomorrow night. I’m anticipating a most successful dunt with a big haul of drugs, and medals for everyone... Here we go: PC Charles McRae. Joined Grampian Police in 1977... clean record... shot in the line of duty four years later. Was he a relative?’

‘My father.’ And Detective Superintendent Harper was full of crap.

‘Aw, min. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s OK, Beaky. Thanks for—’

‘Hold the horses a minute... That’s weird: got another PC Charles Montrose McRae coming up, same D.O.B. Joined Dumfries and Galloway Constabulary, 1982. Retired in 2007, but came back as a PCSO for four and a bit years. Some people are gluttons for punishment, aren’t they?’

Sitting on the other end of the couch, Harper stuck her nose in the air.

Logan stared at his phone. ‘They’re the same person?’

‘Bit of a coincidence if they’re not. ’Specially with a name like that. Now, anything else your lordship requires, or can I get back to my eightses?’

‘Thanks, Beaky.’ He ended the call. Cleared his throat. ‘But...?’

‘See?’ Harper picked up her mug, swilling the dregs of tea round. ‘Now, we’ll still have to work together on the Shepherd investigation, so I expect you to be professional. There will be no favours or special treatment, just because we’re related. I’m still your commanding officer and I expect you to follow orders like everyone else. Are we clear?’

‘She told us he was dead!’ His bloody mother. ‘All these years. The lying, manipulative, cow!’

‘...after the tone.’

Bleeeeeep.

‘You lied!’ Logan paced back and forth, in front of the mantelpiece, phone rammed against his ear. ‘You said he was dead, and he was living in Dumfries the whole time! I grew up without a father, because you were too bloody selfish and petty and... and bloody...’ The phone case creaked in his hand. ‘We’re done. Understand? You’re not my mother. You’re nothing to me. Never call me again.’ He slammed the phone back into the cradle so hard it bounced and fell on the floor.

Logan snatched it up and slammed it down again. Stood there, glowering at it.

Sitting on the couch, Harper raised an eyebrow. ‘Feel better?’

‘No.’ He paced back to the other end of the mantelpiece. ‘How could he abandon us with that horrible woman? How? What the hell did we do to deserve that?’

A shrug. ‘He loved my mother more than yours.’

Not surprising. A rabid Alsatian would be more loveable than Rebecca McRae.

‘Thirty-four years. He could’ve got in touch!’

‘I’ve never really had a big brother before, do they normally moan this much?’

‘Moan? How would you like it? “Oh, your dad’s not dead, he just couldn’t be arsed being there your whole life?” Useless, lazy—’

‘Don’t you dare talk about my dad like that!’ She stood, fists clenched. ‘For your information, he sent letters and cards, presents every birthday and Christmas for years.’

‘We never got them.’

‘Then blame your mother.’

She glowered at him and he glowered back.

The doorbell rang.

Maybe this time it’d be Reuben, come to do them all a favour. And with any luck he’d kill Harper first and let Logan watch.

Another ring.

She folded her arms and stuck her chin out. ‘You going to get that, Sergeant?’

‘Blow it out your arse, sir.’ Logan turned and marched out into the hall. Peered through the spyhole.

Not Reuben. Calamity’s face was all distorted by the wide-angle lens. Tufty and Isla stood in the street behind her.

Oh joy.

Logan opened the door. ‘I know it’s snowing, but it’s the wrong time of year for carol singing.’

Calamity’s grin slipped as she stared at him. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘Cut myself shaving.’

‘OK... Anyway,’ she held up a bulging bag-for-life, ‘we come bearing beer and food.’

‘Right. Yes.’ He didn’t move. ‘Look, now’s really not a good—’

‘Trust me, Sarge.’ She lowered the bag. ‘I know you probably think you want to be alone after what happened with Samantha, but this is what teammates are for. It’s Valentine’s Day, you’re all alone, and we’re going to support you whether you like it or not.’

Tufty held up another bag. ‘I brought sausages!’

Because nothing said, ‘I’m sorry you had to kill your girlfriend’ like processed meat products.

He stepped back. ‘You’d better come in then.’

They bustled past him into the hall, then peeled off various scarves and jackets. Stamped their feet and blew on their hands.

Isla handed him a big lumpy bag full of what felt like tins of beer. ‘Least you won’t have to put them in the fridge. Bleeding perishing out there.’ The other two looked like normal people, out on a cold February night, but not Isla. No, she’d got all dolled up in a short tweed dress with a weird vintage collar and thick black tights. Like something off a Marks & Spencer advert. ‘Got some Southern Comfort and Bacon Frazzles too. I mean, who doesn’t love...’ She stood up straight, eyes widening. Then nodded over Logan’s shoulder. ‘Ma’am.’

Pink rushed up Calamity’s cheeks, turning them the same colour as her nose. ‘Ah. Sorry, Sarge. We didn’t know you were...’ She grabbed her bag-for-life and pointed at the front door. ‘We should probably...’

‘Constables Nicholson, Anderson, and Quirrel, this is Detective Superintendent Harper. And before you go any further down that line of thought: no. She’s my sister.’

Tufty squinted at the pair of them, then a smile blossomed on his thin face. ‘Ah, right: I see it now. You’ve both got the same ears!’