This House of Burning Bones

3

Logan stopped dead, squinting up at the hard blue sky, phone pressed to his sweaty ear. ‘He’s dead?’

A relentless sun baked the car park behind Tillydrone Library, making the sticky tarmac shimmer, the grass a thirsty shade of yellowy green. Trees drooping under the onslaught of an unholy Aberdonian summer. That peppery smell of roasting dust.

Detective Chief Superintendent Pine grunted down the phone at him. ‘Given his injuries? Surprised he lasted this long. Lucky he never regained consciousness, to be honest.’

Not much of a bright side...

It wasn’t bad, as car parks went, with the wooden-clad rear of the library on one side, four-storey blocks of flats on another, and the arse-end of a McColl’s on the third. A stand of tower blocks in the middle distance, their windows glowing like daggers in the punishing light.

Logan unhooked one side of his clip-on tie and undid his top button. Should’ve worn the pale-grey fighting suit, today. Too sodding hot for a dark-blue one.

The sound of a local radio station burbled through the lazy air, mingling with a bumblebee’s buzz and the whine of a petrol strimmer. While off in the distance, the distinctive tinkly ‘Greensleeves’ of an ice-cream van beckoned.

And his phone was silent, so either they’d been cut off, or Pine was expecting him to say something.

‘Yes, ma-am.’

That seemed to do the trick.

‘I want this bastard caught, Logan. Operation Iowa is officially a murder investigation, as of fifteen minutes ago.’

‘Yes, ma-am.’

‘No cock-ups.’

‘No, ma-am.’

A dozen or so cars were parked behind the library: hatchbacks mostly, with makeshift visors shading their interiors from the sun — cardboard boxes and old bed-sheets, giving them a boarded-up feel — but an unwashed police van sat off to one side, in the shade of a wilting tree, with its riot grille up, and every door and window wide open. Trying to lure in the non-existent breeze.

‘The media are going full-on Bampot Junction. Let’s give the buggers some good news for the evening bulletins, OK?’

‘We’ll do our best.’

‘Good. Keep me informed.’ And with that, she was gone.

Logan scuffed his way back to the grubby van, the radio getting louder with every step. So much for following orders.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, his team of ‘crack police officers’ were sitting inside, in the full Method of Entry Gear: blue overalls; stabproof vests; hard plastic guards on their elbows, wrists, knees, and shins. Only they’d removed their riot helmets and gauntlets to enjoy a variety of ice lollies.

Ice lollies.

The song on the radio clattered to a halt, and a broad Doric DJ boomed out instead:

‘Richt, that wis “Twist and Wallop” by The Mighty Beetroot, and this next een’s fer Alice Muchty, fae Rhynie, fa says, “Aye, aye, Dougie, can ye dee us a favour and play oanything by the Rolling Stones for oor Cathy, who’s sitting her driving test the day—”’

Logan clambered up into the passenger seat and switched the radio off — to an instant chorus of disapproval from the team.

Well, tough.

‘No radio.’ He dumped his phone on the dashboard. Which was like a sodding frying pan, so he snatched it up again, before the electronics cooked. ‘Bloody hell...’

A voice from the back: ‘Oh come on!’

Logan turned around, scowling at the useless sweaty lumps masquerading as police officers.

Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel scowled back at him from the driver’s seat, with her mad grey hair, chain-smoker’s wrinkles, and strawberry Cornetto.

In the next row of seats sulked Detective Constable Veronica Lund — pageboy cut, cheeks starting to jowl a bit, little pink eyes, white chocolate Magnum — and DC David Barrett — a blond, rabbity-looking kind of guy, whose head brushed the van’s ceiling. Sort of a pooka made flesh. Nobbly Bobbly.

The second row featured a pile of everyone’s bowling-ball crash helmets and DC Owen Harmsworth — far too chubby to ever pass a bleep test — with a receding hairline, saggy face, and permanently disappointed look: Solero.

And at the back lurked the team’s resident shortarse: DC Stewart ‘Tufty’ Quirrel — his thin pointy face beaming out beneath a buzz-cut — Lolly Gobble Choc Bomb.

Steel clicked the radio back on. ‘Don’t be a dick.’ And ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ ripped out of the van’s speakers for the whole three seconds it took Logan to switch it off again.

‘No radio when we’re on an op. You know that.’ Pointing at the lot of them. ‘Supposed to be paying attention.’ Prompting assorted whinging and moaning from the back of the van.

‘I don’t care! And where did you get the lollies? You can’t just send someone trotting off at the first sniff of an ice-cream van!’ At least Barrett and Lund had the decency to blush at that one. Logan gestured out towards the sweltering afternoon. ‘They could give us the “go” at any minute. You want to miss it, cos you’re listening to this rubbish and scoffing ice cream? Everyone else is rushing to the dunt, and you’re sat here like steamed farts while one of you’s waiting in line for...’ gritting his teeth, ‘for a sodding choc ice?’

Harmsworth shuffled his bum in its seat. ‘Yeah, but—’

‘No radio! No more lollies! And that’s final.’

Which was the cue for a lot of pouty posturing and folded arms.

Fine: let them stew in sweaty sulky silence. See if Logan cared.

Steel lowered her voice and leaned across from the driver’s side. ‘Thanks for motivating the team, Inspector. Really appreciate it.’

Logan stared back. ‘One of our victims died fifteen minutes ago. It’s murder now.’

She closed her eyes and sagged. ‘Son of a...’ A sigh. ‘Great.’

‘That enough motivation for you?’

Logan checked the dashboard clock. Four thirty-two, and still waiting for the shout.

At least the general funk of communal sulking had eased a bit. But that radio was staying off.

Pfff...

He huffed out a breath and slipped free of his fighting suit’s jacket. It was like a sodding kiln in here. And the open van doors made no difference at all.

Didn’t help he was on the sunny side of the vehicle.

Steel, on the other hand, had a wee battery-powered fan on the go, wafting her shiny face as she perused that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner, holding it up as a kind of barrier between their seats. Because unlike the rest of her team, Roberta Steel sulked professionally.

The front page blared ‘SICKO RACISTS TORCH MIGRANT HOTEL’ above a photo of last night’s blaze on Broomhill Road, with the subheading ‘SLEEPING REFUGEES AWAKE TO FIND ROOMS ABLAZE IN MIDDLE OF NIGHT’. Because apparently people were sodding horrible now.

Steel looked up from page three — thankfully free of half-naked glamour models, or she’d be letching all over them — ‘PROTEIN THIEF TAKES A POWDER’ starring a sports shop’s shattered front window and a man in a tight polo shirt miming disappointment at the empty shelves. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

A lone cat wandered across the library car park, tail in the air as a butterfly flittered by. The cat cocked its head for a moment, as if contemplating giving chase, before deciding it couldn’t be arsed in this heat.

Steel turned the page: ‘OPEN BORDERS “BRINGING NHS TO ITS KNEES” SAYS TORY PEER’ next to a pinch-faced photograph of a baldy twat. A sniff. ‘Wouldn’t think it was thunder and lightning all last week.’

So, at least she was talking to him again.

Logan watched the cat wander off and flump down in the shade of a bush. ‘That’s climate change for you.’

‘Rained so much, could’ve sworn I’d got mildew in my “intimate feminine areas”.’ She grinned as he gagged a little. ‘And how am I supposed to get rid of my tan lines if I can’t lounge about the garden in the nip? Airing out my fusty bits?’

‘Urgh, please...’

‘If it helps, you can imagine Susan smearing me all over with factor twenty?’

No. No, it did not help at all.

A wee brown bird landed on the van’s bonnet, hopping up onto a windscreen wiper to peer in through the window as if the occupants were a bunch of dafties.

Maybe it had a point?

Stuck in here, wilting in the stifling warmth of a stuffy police van. Half the team were half asleep, and the other half were on their way to the full snooze. All except for one.

Tufty sat forward in his seat, eager as a spaniel. ‘You know, there’s one thing the Americans got right.’

At which, everyone woke up enough to groan.

A sigh from Barrett. ‘Come on then.’

Steel pulled down the driver’s sun visor and tapped the sign mounted on the back: ‘DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM!’ Scowling in the rear-view. ‘You know the rules.’

Lund twisted around, so she was facing the daft wee spud. ‘Tell us, oh Guru of the Tremulous Wingwang, what have Americans “got right”?’

‘Oh, in the name of the hairy... spudge.’

‘Pants.’ Tufty nodded, as if that was the most insightful thing anyone had ever said. ‘They’re right about pants.’ Reaching into his overalls to ping his own elastic. ‘I mean these are underpants, right? They go under pants. They’re not undertrousers, are they.’

‘Thank you very much.’ Steel massaged her forehead, rearranging the wrinkles. ‘What part of “don’t encourage him” do you scrunkfudgers not get?’

Harmsworth shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me: I remember what happened last time.’

‘Yeah,’ Barrett turned around too, ‘but maybe they’re pants that go under your trousers. Ergo: underpants. Pants that go under.’

Tufty’s eyebrows shot upwards. ‘Ooh, good point!’

Logan hissed the words out the side of his mouth: ‘Is it always like this?’

Steel just poked the sign, face creased in pain.

Harmsworth shrugged again. ‘That’s why we usually have the radio on.’

‘No radio.’ Logan checked the dashboard clock again — nearly quarter to five and still no shout. ‘What the hell’s the hold-up?’

‘Aha! Now,’ Lund wagged a finger, ‘did you know “trousers” is Scottish? Comes from the Gaelic “triubhas”, AKA: trews. Something else we invented.’

Steel banged the flat of her palm against the sign.

Barrett nodded. ‘And it’s a pair of trousers, cos you used to have one for each leg. Separate, like.’

There was a moment’s silence, as everyone contemplated that. Then Tufty spread his hands, laying down the wisdom of the ancients: ‘Like assless chaps, only without the built-in belt, and Y.M.C.A. disco vibes.’

Steel’s face scrunched like a baby’s fist. ‘AAAAAAARGH!’

Yeah...

Maybe Harmsworth had a point.

Logan switched the radio back on.

A happy song burbled out of the van’s speakers, as the six-person team sat and steamed in their four-wheeled microwave oven.

Barrett was slumped back in his seat, with his eyes closed and his gob open. Harmsworth had taken possession of Steel’s newspaper, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he tackled the crossword with muttered curses and much rubbing out. Lund fiddled on her phone, playing some sort of game with the sound turned down, so only the occasional electronic bing and wibble escaped. While Tufty had his head right back, trying to balance a biro on the end of his pointy nose.

‘They’ve lost him, haven’t they.’ Steel unzipped her overalls as far as the stabproof vest would allow and flapped the edges. ‘We’ve been stuck here, sweating like sex offenders in a sausage factory, and the bugger’s done a runner.’

Barrett kept his eyes closed. ‘Pound in the swear jar.’

‘Oh, go... crunk yourself.’

Logan’s thumbs ticked across his phone’s screen, tick, tick, tick-tick-tick...

SEND.

The song crumpled to a halt, and the DJ’s teuchter voice barrelled out: ‘Fit wye’s that no’ been a massive hit?’

Because it was rubbish?

‘Yer listening till Dougie In The Aifterneen, and time’s fair bangin’ oan, but we’ll squeeze in wan mair tune afore the news, then it’s “ta-ta” fae me, and “aye-aye” tae Rush-Hour Records wie Big Sandy Thomson!’

Logan’s phone dinged three times in quick succession. Incoming text messages:

BIOHAZARD BOB:

DOREEN:

SPUDGUN:

‘So, oor last request fer the day is fae a loon cried “Stewart Quirrel”—’

Tufty sat bolt upright, waving at the radio as the biro went flying. ‘Turn it up! Turn it up!’

‘He’s aifter a romantic, smoochie number, and he’s gieed us a wee notey tae read oot.’ At which point a diabetically syrupy tune faded up under the DJ. ‘“My dearest Kate,” says the boy, “would you dae me the great honour of becoming my bidie-in?”’

Tufty beamed.

Barrett gave a low whistle.

Lund: a celebratory round of applause.

Harmsworth harrumphed.

The background music swelled as a piano and guitar joined in.

‘Here’s Custard and the Vegetarians, wie “Loveshine”. Guid luck, Stewart, hope yer quine says “Aye”!’

And saccharine vocals globbed out of the speakers, sticky as golden syrup:

‘Jesus.’ Steel’s nose curled. ‘That sounds like turds smell...’

Lund poked her. ‘Shut up. It’s romantic.’

Yeah...

People were weird.

Logan’s thumbs went ticking again:

SEND.

Everyone’s Airwave handset blared out three bleeps, followed by DCI Rutherford’s rasping voice:

4

The van’s occupants scrambled to slam all the doors shut, windows buzzing into place as the Transit’s engine roared.

‘Let’s catch us a murderer!’ Steel clicked on her seatbelt with one hand, zipping herself up with the other as Harmsworth handed out the crash helmets.

Tyres squealing on the library tarmac, the van leapt forward, ripping out of the car park, turning right, then right again. Accelerating past the McColl’s, lights flickering on. Siren: silent.

They wheeched past the library, where mothers with pushchairs stopped to watch them go by. Then a sharp left onto Gort Road, making the tyres screech again.

‘Hoy!’ Logan grabbed the handle above his door, holding tight as the seatbelt dug into his side. ‘Like to get there in one piece!’

A grin. ‘Don’t be such a starchy gusset...’

They shot past the bookies, juddering over the traffic control bumps, going at least double the speed limit.

A patrol car whooshed past the playing fields, heading straight towards them, lights blazing as it scraiked around the corner onto Gort Lane, just in front of the Transit.

‘Yeeehaw!’ Steel hauled the wheel hard right, following it into a canyon between two terraced rows of three-storey flats, with big communal bins outside and alternating stairwells painted blue or orange.

Another patrol car howled in from the other end of the road, followed by a Dog Unit van. Because there was nothing like swarming in mob-handed.

The second patrol car performed a handbrake sideways slide, blocking that side of the road. The one Steel was following did the same.

Putting it broadside to their speeding van.

Which was definitely going to plough straight into it...

Logan tightened his grip on the handle and said a little prayer.

And as if in answer — Steel slammed on the brakes and jerked the steering wheel right, mounting the kerb, then bouncing onto the strip of grass outside the flats as the ABS juddered. Not coming to a halt until they’d crashed into a ‘RESIDENTS PARKING ONLY’ sign and bent it flat.

She unclipped her seatbelt. ‘Everyone remember where we parked!’ Then she was out of the van and into the blistering sun, pulling on her crash helmet as she ran for the entrance to Block Four.

The patrol cars’ doors sprang open and the uniformed officers made for the same block, swiftly followed by the rest of Steel’s team. Harmsworth huffing and puffing at the back of the pack, carrying the Big Red Door Key, struggling under the mini-battering-ram’s weight.

Logan, on the other hand, took his time — strolling up the path to the stairwell door at a far more leisurely pace. After all, Steel’s team had their riot gear on — if anything nasty happened, they were dressed for it. He wasn’t.

The uniforms from the patrol car took up positions: two on either side of the door. Staying back as a saggy bloke in scruffy black cargo pants and a moth-eaten Police Scotland baseball cap appeared. PC MacLauchlan. Squint nose. Jagged little teeth. As if he’d recently crawled out from under a bridge to steal some children. And eat them.

He was being dragged towards the flats by a massive hairy Alsatian, straining at her leash, ears pricked, plumey tail wagging away as she bared every pointy tooth in her pointy head.

MacLauchlan grinned like a troll at the assembled officers. ‘Don’t worry, PD Branston doesn’t bite. Do you, girl?’

Branston let out a short-sharp bark that made it clear she did indeed bite, enjoyed doing it, and was quite ready to demonstrate her skill in this department on anyone willing to volunteer. And possibly a few people who weren’t.

Off in the middle distance, that ice-cream van tinkled its way through ‘Greensleeves’ again. Luring little kiddies for MacLauchlan and Branston to devour.

It sounded as if there were a bunch of them shrieking away behind the building, playing with something that went ‘thud-adudadududa...’ over and over again. Unaware of the hairy scary stranger danger.

The intercom beside the door had seven buttons — one for each flat, and an extra one marked ‘SERVICES’.

Barrett tapped the label for Flat E: ‘MACGARIOCH’. ‘This is us: Charles MacGarioch.’ Pronouncing it ‘Mac-Gar-eee-och’ with a gritty coffee-machine hiss for the ‘och’ as in ‘loch’.

Steel shook her head. ‘It’s “Mac-Geeee-reeee”, you spudge-nugget.’

A frown. ‘“Mac-Gee-reee”? You sure? Because—’

‘Ahem!’ Logan pointed. ‘Can we get on with this please? Before someone notices there’s a dirty big police van parked on their lawn!’

‘All right, all right. Keep your pants on.’ Steel poked a finger onto every single button, except for ‘FLAT E’, and held them down, making the intercom growl.

Everyone stared at the speaker’s dirty little grille.

Even Branston.

Then a woman’s voice crackled out: ‘What the buggering hell is it now?’

Steel put on her broadest teuchter voice. ‘Aye, aye. It’s Ina fae the cooncil. Says here yer hivin’ trouble wi some rats?’

‘Rats? Ghhhaaaagh... We’ve got rats?’

The door buzzed, then clicked.

Steel shoved it open. ‘Cheers, min!’ Then let go of the buttons and waved Harmsworth through. ‘You waiting for an engraved invitation?’

Harmsworth hefted the Big Red Door Key and lurched into the building, followed by Steel and her team, then PD Branston and PC MacLauchlan.

Good.

Logan thumbed the button on his Airwave. ‘Entered main property.’ Then nodded at the uniformed officers, and stepped into the manky stairwell.

Not piddly manky, but manky nonetheless.

The stairs doglegged around between each floor, and the first landing made a small cupboard-like space on the ground level, where residents had abandoned three knackered bicycles, a broken pushchair, and a doorless washing machine stuffed full of junk mail. That kind of manky.

The scrum bustled up the stairs, with Steel second from front — whipping Harmsworth before her. ‘Come on, Lumps-And-Bumps, shift it!’

Logan jogged up the steps behind them, not stopping on the first floor with its pronounced sharp fug of uncleaned litter tray.

Rutherford’s voice fizzed through the Airwave again. ‘Eyes open, people — we want a result here.’

Around the landing and on, up to the top floor, where Harmsworth was already going a sweaty-beetroot shade of red. Meaning his complexion clashed with his mini-battering-ram.

‘And no heroics! We know this guy’s dangerous.’

The rest of the team crowded into the narrow balcony, leaving Logan loitering on the top step, contemplating a strange little shrine, erected in the corner, outside Flat F — complete with joss sticks and drippy candles. Only instead of a Buddha, Madonna, or statue of Shiva, there was a plastic Gary Lineker being worshipped by a semicircle of garden gnomes.

Steel smacked a hand down on Harmsworth’s shoulder. ‘Dunt it.’

Everyone else shuffled back a couple of feet, giving him enough room to swing the Big Red Door Key.

The first blow boomed into the door, setting the whole stairwell ringing like a bass drum. The second rattled it in its frame. And the third swing smashed the whole thing free, sending it tumbling into the flat with a crackle of splintering wood.

Job done, Harmsworth collapsed back against the wall, breathing like a leaky space hopper as the team rushed inside. Followed by a very excited PD Branston and her hobgoblin handler.

Logan stepped away from the shrine as shouts echoed out from the ruined doorway.

Steel: ‘POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!’

Barrett: ‘YOU! ON THE FLOOR! ON THE FLOOR NOW!... COME BACK HERE!’

Followed by some enthusiastic barking.

Then an old lady’s voice screeching obscenities, somewhere inside.

Tufty: ‘LEFT! LEFT! LEFT!’

Harmsworth wiped a heavy leather glove across his soggy strawberry face and grimaced at Logan. ‘When... when are... the sodding... Operational Support... Units... coming back... to work?’

‘When they’re feeling better. Now:’ making shooing gestures, ‘in you go.’

A groan, a droop, then Harmsworth dropped the Big Red Door Key, and staggered inside.

Tufty: ‘SARGE! SARGE, HE’S IN HERE!’

Logan followed Harmsworth into a short hallway that probably hadn’t been redecorated since the Coronation. And not the latest one. Faded Union Jack bunting drooped in disappointed-grey strands, criss-crossing the ceiling, which gave the place a birthday-party-in-a-funeral-home kind of vibe, but really set off all the framed portraits of the late Queen on the walls. Some with Phil, some with other family members.

Not sure Her Majesty would’ve approved of the old-lady filth howling from the first room on the right, though.

Logan peered in through the open door, and there was Lund: standing in an Antiques Roadshow bedroom, complete with Union Flag duvet cover and a big photo of the King over the bed.

‘OK: it’s OK.’ Lund had both hands out, doing her best to sound calming and authoritative while being subjected to a torrent of OAP-flavoured abuse. ‘Everything’s going to be OK. I need you to put the stick down, Victoria.’

Victoria had to be in her mid-eighties, but that didn’t stop her swearing like a drunken soccer casual — swinging an NHS-issue walking stick about like Excalibur, trying to take Mordred’s head off. And you could tell she was up for the fight, because she’d rolled up the sleeves of her brown cardigan, exposing the thin, pale, tattooed arms beneath.

Down at the end of the hall, Steel’s voice was just audible between Victoria’s bouts of profanity and anatomically impossible instructions: ‘So get him out.’

Tufty: ‘Yeah, but the door’s locked or something.’

‘Then break it down! HARMSWORTH! Where’s that useless fat snudge?’

Well, it looked as if Lund had everything under control here — as the walking stick made another decapitatory attempt — so Logan left her to it.

He wandered past a small bathroom, and a galley kitchen, stepping into a living room even more old-fashioned than the hall, with antimacassars on the furniture and yet more royal portraits on the wall. A throw-covered armchair had pride of place in front of the telly, with a heaped ashtray balanced on one arm, next to a heavy, dark-wood sideboard that was home to a vast collection of china cat figurines. So the sweary Victoria couldn’t be all bad.

It hadn’t been a big room to start with, but cramming in four police officers wearing the full MOE kit; another in plainclothes; a scruffy wee ogre, and his gargantuan Alsatian, made it seem positively minute.

Tufty was hauling at the doorknob through to what presumably was the flat’s second bedroom, twisting and turning it, heaving away to no avail while PD Branston had a jolly good sniff at the gap beneath the door. Making excited doggy noises.

Meanwhile, Steel glared at a sheepish Harmsworth. ‘What do you mean, you “left it on the landing”?’

A proper whine weaselled into Harmsworth’s voice. ‘Well, how was I supposed to know you wanted—’

‘Go!’ Jabbing a finger in his sweaty face. ‘Go get it! Now!’

They all had to shift sideways so Harmsworth could lumber from the room.

Logan watched him go. ‘Trouble?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ Tufty hooked a thumb. ‘Charles MacGarioch hoofed it inside; locked the door.’

‘So kick it in. It’s only an internal partition.’

That got him a grin. ‘I does has being an action hero!’

Then Tufty took a couple of steps back and put some welly behind it — his boot slamming into the door, right beside the lock.

The whole thing boomed inwards, first go, and PD Branston surged inside, barking her furry-missile head off as Tufty scrambled after her. Then Steel. Then Logan.

Charles MacGarioch’s bedroom was much more modern than the old lady’s, with matt-black paint on the walls and lots and lots of posters: pop-star ladies in bikinis; Aberdeen Football Club; a bunch advertising video games like ‘DiRT 6’, ‘ASSASSINS’ CREED 5’, and ‘GTA: LONDON RAMPAGE’.

A trio of monitors hovered on arms above a small desk, with a PlayStation 4 and a complete steering-wheel~gearstick~pedals-under-the-desk setup. Single bed beneath the window. A little bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks. More on the windowsill.

And the almost cloying citrusy-woody fug of a young man who uses far too much deodorant.

The room also featured a man’s backside, disappearing through the open window. Not a good idea on the top floor of a three-storey building.

Charles Mountbatten MacGarioch had clearly suffered a haircut since the photo in the briefing notes was taken, swapping a perfectly sensible short-back-and-sides for a number-two fade with a go-faster stripe above each ear. Leaving the spots polka-dotting the back of his neck on full display.

He turned to look back at the police officers and big barky dog that had just invaded his childhood bedroom, giving them a good look at his wispy sideburns and beginner’s moustache-and-soul-patch kit. Which gave him the air of a cut-priced Starlord from Guardians of the Galaxy. Ripped jeans; red-and-white leather jacket; black, 4 Mechanical Mice T-shirt. Tears in his eyes.

Oh shite. He was going to jump wasn’t he.

Logan lunged forwards. ‘NO!’

Charles MacGarioch faced outward again, snatched a deep breath, and jumped. Screaming, all the way down...

Logan clambered up onto the single bed, sticking his head out the window just in time to see Charles hit the ground.

Only instead of going SPLAT!, he bounced — almost as high as he’d jumped. Still screaming. Arms and legs pinwheeling as he soared away from the building, clearing a washing-festooned whirly by at least ten feet, before crashing into a tree.

Branches and twigs snap-crackled as he tumbled through it, then thumped to earth, facedown, in a shivering blanket of falling leaves.

Tufty’s head appeared alongside Logan’s, then PD Branston joined in — tongue lolling as she grinned.

‘Wow...’ Tufty pointed. ‘Did you see that?’

Logan blinked. ‘But...?’

How was that even possible?

He stared down the back of the building and there was the answer: a large children’s trampoline, about twelve feet off to the right. That explained the ‘thud-adudadududa...’ noise. And the shrieking kids.

The kids were silent now, though. All standing around on the communal back lawn, staring at the tree Charles MacGarioch had just crashed through. Then up at the flat, and at the heads of Logan, Tufty, and Branson poking out of the window.

Actually hitting the trampoline from this distance, instead of the ground, had to be a one-in-a-hundred shot. Charles was bloody lucky he didn’t break his neck, and every other bone in his body.

Why did young men always think they were sodding invincible? Right up until the moment they got proved fatally wrong.

Tufty’s eyes were wide as soup bowls. ‘How cool was that?’

Charles MacGarioch wasn’t moving, though. So maybe not so lucky after all...

No — wait a minute.

There was a bit of a struggle, then he rolled over onto his back and lay there, grimacing up at the blue sky.

‘Boing!’ Tufty bounced on the mattress, making the bed frame creak. ‘From the top floor!’

Charles struggled to his knees, then his feet. Blinking and shaking his head — sending bits of tree tumbling out of his stupid haircut.

He’d landed just the other side of a shoulder-high fence that enclosed the back gardens, separating them from the path that ran behind a little shopping area and some small old-fashioned houses.

One hand against the chain link, he staggered off, breaking into a limping run.

‘Bloody hell.’ Logan scrambled off the bed and out of the room. ‘He’s getting away!’

5

Logan barged out of MacGarioch’s bedroom into the lounge, not slowing down. ‘GET THE VAN!’

Steel, MacLauchlan, and Barrett stared as he charged straight through into the hall.

‘NOW!’

Harmsworth was on his way back with the Big Red Door Key — so presumably he’d taken the sodding long way round. He let out a little ‘Eeek!’ and flattened himself against the wall to let Logan hammer past. ‘What? Where are we... Eeek!’

Steel’s voice bellowed as she sprinted after him. ‘SECURE THE SCENE!’

The sound of a mini-battering-ram hitting carpet clattered out, followed by a ‘Bumholes...’

And Logan wheeched around the balustrades and onto the stairs. Taking them two at a time. Then leaping whole flights in the rush to the ground floor, closely followed by PD Branston, who seemed to be having the Best Day At Work Ever!

Tufty scrambled along after her, then Steel, Barrett, and PC MacLauchlan — waving Branston’s lead about as if that was going to curtail her enthusiasm. ‘Wait up, wait up!’

Logan swung around the last flight and there were the uniformed PCs, milling about at the bottom, like wet farts.

He barrelled straight past them, making for the front door. ‘You four: out the back! He’s getting away!’

And off they jolly-well buggered.

The door boomed wide, and Logan exploded into the baking sun, slithering to a halt on the parched grass in front of the badly parked police van.

No keys.

Tufty burst from the building’s door, hoofing around to the driver’s side — plipping the locks and clambering inside. ‘Which way?’

Good question.

Logan scrambled into the passenger seat, sweat popping between his shoulder blades, because the whole van was at gas-mark six. But before he could haul the door shut, PD Branston leapt over him and into the middle seat. Sitting there between the two of them, with her gob open, tongue lolling, very pleased with herself.

The engine roared.

‘Sarge?’

Logan clicked his seatbelt on. Pointed left. ‘Step on it!’

The police van scrunked backwards, off the ‘RESIDENTS PARKING ONLY’ sign and onto the tarmac, turning hard so it was facing down Gort Lane, as Steel, Barrett, and MacLauchlan stumbled out of Block Four.

They hauled open the side door and all three of them piled in.

Steel dove into a seat. ‘Don’t just fudging sit there: go!’

‘We has a hot pursuit!’ Tufty put his foot down, making the tyres squeal, sending blue smoke billowing into the hot afternoon air — then the van shot forward, clumping up onto the pavement to get around the patrol car blocking the road. Nearly losing a wing mirror to a communal recycling bin, then clumping back onto the tarmac again, soon as they’d passed the second roadblock vehicle.

At the bottom of the lane, Tufty gave the wheel a hard twist to the right, and the van’s back end kicked out, leaving smears of burnt rubber on the sun-baked tarmac — curling in the wing mirror as they fishtailed onto Gordon’s Mills Road. Narrowly missing a bluebottle-green Škoda.

Yeah...

Disco time.

Logan hit the dashboard button, and the van’s siren wailed, blue lights flickering and swirling as they roared back towards town.

They’d just wheeched through the pedestrian crossing when Barrett banged on the roof. ‘That’s him!’ turning to point through the back windows. ‘That’s him there!’

Tufty slammed on the brakes and the ABS kicked in, juddering the van to a halt as Charles MacGarioch hurple-jogged across the road in the rear-view mirror. ‘Got it!’

He whacked the gearstick into reverse, and they were whining backwards, at speed. Past the bus stop, where a lone auld mannie ogled at them. Stopping halfway across the pedestrian crossing.

Logan threw the passenger door open and tumbled out. ‘HOY!’ Sprinting towards the tree-battered figure scrambling his way over the chest-high wall at the side of the road.

Barrett rumbled the side door back, leaping free of the van, handcuffs at the ready... but they were both too slow. Charles MacGarioch disappeared straight down. For the second time that day.

Logan peered over the wall. ‘Sod.’

A twenty-foot drop, not quite vertical — the steep slope densely overgrown with elder and hawthorn and jaggedy-sharp brambles.

Down there, on the road below, a red Kia’s hazards flashed, security system wailing as the driver blundered out into the hot afternoon to gawp at the large new dent in her car’s roof. The windscreen all cracked and opaque.

The car alarm clashed with the more familiar jingly tinkle of ‘Greensleeves’ coming from the mysterious ice-cream van that had haunted the afternoon — it was parked outside a modern block of flats, with a line of kids gathered by the serving hatch. Others already munching on their purchase and staring at the accident. A bit of theatre to go with their Pokey Hats and Funny Feet.

A cavalcade of copyright-infringing cartoon characters frolicked all over the van, along with the words ‘MR FREEZYWHIP’S ICEALICIOUS TREATS!’ in bright cheerful letters. And perched on top: an eight-foot-long fibreglass 99 cone, complete with red sauce.

Charles MacGarioch limped into view, glancing over his shoulder at Logan and Barrett, his face covered in scrapes and scratches from the recent trampoline-tree trauma and downhill bramble scramble.

Logan stood on his tiptoes, scanning the slope for an easier / less painful way down. The main road had a turn-off about four hundred feet further along, that doglegged around onto Papermill Gardens, where Charles MacGarioch was limping his way towards Mr FreezyWhip’s ice-cream van.

OK.

‘HOY!’ Logan waved at Tufty, then pointed at the junction. ‘That way! We’ll cut him off!’ He slapped Barrett on the shoulder and clambered over the wall, crackling and snapping and shoving and half-falling his way down the steep drop and out onto the road below, emerging next to the wailing Kia.

Up on Gordon’s Mills Road, the police van Dopplered away.

MacGarioch yanked open Mr FreezyWhip’s driver’s door and clambered in behind the wheel.

‘Gah...’ Barrett staggered out of the undergrowth, looking as if he’d been pulled through several hedges sideways. Spitting out spiders’ webs and bits of leaves. He curled a mocking lip at the ice-cream van. ‘Well, he’s not going to get very far in that, is he. Probably only does about ten miles an hour.’

Mr FreezyWhip’s engine snarled into life and the chimes grew louder. Then the kids scattered as the van leapt forward, bouncing through a shrubbery border, and across another bit of the car park, slaloming between parked hatchbacks, onto the tarmac and hammering it off into the distance.

Sod...

Logan sprinted after it.

He’d barely gone half a dozen paces before the police van appeared at the far end of the road, roaring towards them as Mr FreezyWhip accelerated away. On a collision course.

The silly buggers were going to play chicken, weren’t they.

Because young men were thick and invincible.

Till they fatally weren’t.

Thankfully, someone more sensible than Tufty must’ve intervened, because the police van swerved at the last moment, stomping on its brakes to avoid wrapping itself around a lamp-post.

Unsurprisingly, Mr FreezyWhip didn’t stop.

Logan and Barrett ran for the police van, scrambling inside just as Tufty completed his three-point turn.

PD Branston was still in the centre seat, beaming away as if this was the most fun she’d had in years.

Useless sod. What was the point of having a police dog if it didn’t chase and bite the bad guy?

‘Where the hell were you?’

Branston barked a happy bark, not in the least bit bothered.

Then everyone got shoved back into their seats as Tufty floored it again.

Up ahead, Mr FreezyWhip performed an expert drift around from Papermill Gardens onto Papermill Drive, then opposite lock onto Gordon’s Mills Road — smooth as a classic Magnum.

Tufty wasn’t quite so slick, and the police van squealed and lurched through the two turns, wallowing like a speedboat, throwing the occupants against the van’s walls, seatbelts, and each other.

It looked as if Charles MacGarioch hadn’t been wasting his time, playing all those rally and driving games — weaving Mr FreezyWhip in and out of the traffic, both oncoming and outgoing, sometimes up onto the pavement, sometimes roaring into the empty gaps. But always absolutely pelting it as ‘Greensleeves’ tinkled out.

Tufty was having a tough job keeping up, and it was sodding boiling in here, so Logan buzzed the window down to let in a roar of air and sirens.

There was an appreciative woof, and PD Branston lumped her paws into Logan’s lap so she could stick her head out of the window, partially blocking his view of the road with her big hairy back, tail wagging away inches from Tufty’s face.

A much greyer head popped forwards from the back of the van: Steel, Airwave handset in her hand. Pressing the button as they raced past bungalows and a startled minibus full of boy scouts. ‘Alpha Charlie Six to Control — we are in pursuit of an ice-cream van, heading north on Gordon’s Mills Road. Request backup ASA-fiddling-P!’

There was a pause, then a distorted voice crackled from the little speaker, ‘Hud oan: an ice-creamvan?’

‘Backup! Get us some sodding backup before someone dies!’ She let go of the button, and thumped Logan. ‘This is what happens when we don’t have a buggering helicopter.’

Barrett held up a hand. ‘That’s another two quid in the swear jar.’

She turned and gave him the middle-finger salute.

Up ahead, just visible through Branston’s brown-and-black fur, an old lady with an ancient Labrador was three-quarters of the way across the pedestrian crossing by Tillydrone Play Park. Standing there, like a statue, eyes wide, clutching the dog’s lead as Charles MacGarioch jinked Mr FreezyWhip into the oncoming traffic to avoid battering straight through her.

Tufty did the same, and the driver of a plumber’s van had to jam on his brakes to avoid becoming a hood ornament.

The Labrador watched Branston whoosh by — tongue flapping like a soggy windsock — unperturbed by the whole near-death experience.

Looked as if a couple of wee boys on their bikes, slowly rolling across the entrance to Gordon Brae, weren’t going to be so lucky.

Tufty thumped the horn and the siren ponk-honked, but instead of hurrying out of the way, the idiots rolled to a stop and stared at the ice-cream van barrelling towards them.

Jesus, this was going to be a complete blood—

At the last moment, Mr FreezyWhip screeched hard left, almost losing control as the van skewed up onto two wheels... then thudded down again — shimmying its way along the heat-rippled tarmac, following the river.

Tufty hauled the police van around the same corner, past grubby grey boxes and monolithic tower blocks on one side; trees, scrubland, and the ever-steepening slope down to the swollen River Don on the other.

Logan checked the rear-view mirror.

The kids just shrugged and cycled on, as if they hadn’t been moments away from knowing what steak tartare felt like.

Now that they were on the straight, the police van’s bigger engine was closing the gap.

Steel thumbed the Airwave’s button again. ‘Still on Gordon’s Mills Road. Heading west now. Repeat: west!’

Down to the right, sunlight flared off the river, strobing through gaps between the trees and bushes. A slab of Communist-grey flats on the left.

Getting closer.

And closer.

Mr WhippyFreeze swung out, clipping the edge of a speed lump, sending up a shower of sparks from whatever part of its undercarriage clipped the raised patch on the way down again. Tyres shrieking as MacGarioch went hard left, leaving a scorched-rubber graffiti tag behind, into a quiet residential street — nice little semi-detached bungalows, with steeply pitched roofs and dormer windows. Neat wee gardens. Hatchback country.

Tufty barely made the turn, coming within a pube’s width of ending the chase buried axle-deep in a VW Polo.

Steel grabbed the seatback, steadying herself as they raced after the ice-cream van. ‘South on Donbank Terrace!’

A groan from Barrett. ‘We’re all going to die, aren’t we.’

As the road climbed the hill, it narrowed, parked cars crowding in on both sides. Because, shockingly enough, it hadn’t been designed with high-speed pursuits in mind.

Steel poked Logan’s shoulder. ‘Who’re the useless tits in the bunnets?’

A Volvo’s wing mirror burst in a shower of glass-and-plastic shrapnel as Mr FreezyWhip clipped it.

Logan flinched as the debris clattered against the police van’s windscreen. ‘Don’t know — they’re DS Marshall’s.’

Up ahead, the ice-cream van performed a perfect drift around onto Don Street.

‘Well, why aren’t they...’ Her eyes went wide.

And so did everyone else’s.

Then screams rang out as Tufty rammed on the brakes to avoid whanging straight into an Amazon delivery truck. The police van shuddered and skidded, nose dipping.

Barrett was right: they were all going to die.

Logan grabbed Branston in a double-armed hug, cos the silly hairy sod wasn’t wearing a seatbelt and this was going to be sudden, violent, and messy...

He closed his eyes, bracing for impact, only to be hurled against the passenger door as Tufty spun the wheel and accelerated after Mr FreezyWhip again.

How the hell did he pull that one off?

Logan peeled one eye open, and there was Branston, looking a little confused at the sudden bout of physical attention, but happy enough to go along with it.

Granite bungalows lined the right side of the road, but the ground disappeared on the left — down a steep embankment to the railway line, with more grey-and-beige houses beyond. A blue-and-yellow Scotrail train clattered along the track in a smoky diesel drone, heading for the city centre. The passengers staring out the windows as the police van rocketed past. Some even waved.

Steel swallowed, no doubt glad to still be alive, given she wasn’t wearing a seatbelt either. ‘North on Don Street.’ She gave herself a little shake and poked a badge number into her Airwave’s keypad, snarling into the microphone. ‘Biohazard, you useless glob of titspunk! If I don’t see your uniforms in their patrol cars right now, I’m jamming my boot so far up your arse I can use your nostrils for lace holes!’

Barrett sniffed. ‘That’s another—’

‘I don’t care!’

The road veered right, and so did Tufty, nearly clipping a green Clio. More bungalow semis on the right, terraced wee one-up-one-downs on the left, both reaching off down the hill, back towards the river.

Mr FreezyWhip had grown his lead again, while they were dicking about, almost dying in the fiery wreckage of a side-on collision with the Amazon van, and now MacGarioch was whizzing downhill, towards what looked suspiciously like a dead end and trees.

The default ringtone blared out of Logan’s phone — Beethoven’s ‘Symphony No. 9’ — and he let go of Branston long enough to check the caller display: ‘CHIEF SUPT. PINE’.

Yeah. Maybe not.

The ‘Ode To Joy’ went on and on and on and on... Clashing with the siren.

Up ahead, Mr FreezyWhip’s brake lights glowed, tyres leaving snaking lines of black behind as the ice-cream van slid sideways into a messy four-way junction, causing a taxi to swerve bang into a lamp-post.

It probably would’ve been easier going right, onto Gordon’s Mills Road again and back the way they’d come, or first left and up onto Don Terrace, but instead Charles MacGarioch took the second left, roaring away down into the darkness between the trees.

‘Ha!’ Steel banged the back of Logan’s seat. ‘Got the bastard now! We—’

Screaming belted out from the back of the van, yells of terror from the front, as Tufty tried to make the same turn — passenger-side wheels bouncing over the weird sticky-out chunk of pavement that protruded beyond the end of Don Street.

The whole van parted company with the ground: going airborne, an Unintended Flying Object heading straight for a flimsy set of bright-orange, temporary, plastic barriers and a fifty/sixty-foot plummet into the river beyond.

6

Tufty held on tight to the steering wheel, knuckles white with the strain, eyes wide, eyebrows trying to clamber their way to safety. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!’

Logan grabbed hold of Branston.

Barrett babbled away in the background, battering out the words as quickly as possible: ‘Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb... JESUS!’

Her womb-fruit must’ve been smiling on them, because at the very last moment the van’s wheels thumped down on the teeny chunk of tarmac left, giving them a bit of grip before the granite setts began.

Hurling them down into darkness, past a cluster of signs: ‘WEAK BRIDGE AHEAD ~ 3 TON G.V.W.’, ‘WARNING NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT ~ BARRIER CONTROL OPERATION 300 YDS ~ RESTRICTED TURNING FACILITIES’ and a no-entry-to-cars-and-motorbikes ‘EXCEPT FOR ACCESS’. Which wasn’t exactly inviting...

The setts burrrrrred and rumbled beneath the police van’s tortured tyres, making everything vibrate.

Stone walls leapt up on the left, holding the embankment back as the road sank deeper and deeper to a tight right turn — rushing towards them at ever increasing pace.

Even though it hadn’t rained for a week, the van still slithered on the little rectangular blocks, arse-end skittering out as they tried to make the corner, rear wing striking sparks against the granite wall.

But they’d made it to the bottom of the hill alive, and there was Mr FreezyWhip, just ahead.

Steel grabbed her Airwave handset. ‘Grandholm Bridge: heading north!’ A cruel grin snarled across her face as they clattered over the narrow bridge. ‘There’s bollards at the end here. He’s toast.’

An almighty BANG sounded up ahead.

From the look of things, Mr FreezyWhip had rear-ended a bright-red hatchback, presumably as it was in the process of lowering the bollards that kept the vulgar public from accessing the residents-only areas.

The ice-cream van bulldozed across the barrier, while the bollards were down, but the things were already sprouting up from the ground again, ready to catch a poor unsuspecting police van unawares.

Tufty took one hand off the wheel to pull down the sun visor, but all he found there was the sign: ‘DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM!’ He flipped it up and down again, as if that would change anything. ‘Oh noes!’ Looking more and more panicked with every passing second. ‘Where’s the police pass? WHERE’S THE POLICE PASS?’

Too late.

The van’s front wheels got past the barrier OK, but the rest of the vehicle wasn’t so lucky. A rising bollard must’ve clipped the underside about two-thirds of the way back, because the back end jerked into the air in an agonised screech of metal-on-metal.

And everyone was screaming again.

The rear wheels thudded down against the setts and Tufty hauled the wheel to the right, to avoid ploughing straight into that rear-ended hatchback, flinging everyone sideways. Then they raced along the mill road: parkland on one side; a line of trees on the other, with the River Don just beyond.

Only now an alarming grinding noise came from somewhere under the van, and the exhaust howled and roared like a werewolf locked in a train-station toilet.

They snarled along beneath the spreading branches, through the dappled pools of shimmering light.

Technically, they should’ve been gaining on Mr FreezyWhip, but whatever the bollards had done to the drive chain it wasn’t good. The van was slowing down. And a quick glance in the rear-view mirror revealed clouds of greasy blue smoke filling the leafy lane.

But instead of making good his escape, Charles MacGarioch slammed on Mr FreezyWhip’s brakes — the front end dipping as the tyres slithered on the setts.

The ice-cream van lurched right, leaving the road and crashing between the trees at the side of the river, through the bushes. Momentarily flying — like a big, fat, rectangular swan — before diving nose-down into the River Don in a huge whoosh of spray.

A wrinkly clutch of old ladies stood in the middle of the road, staring as the ice-cream van bobbed in the fast-flowing water. Most of them had ancient dogs on the leash, except for one who appeared to be walking her husband. And he was the only one who seemed oblivious to the fact that if MacGarioch hadn’t swerved into the river, he would’ve ploughed through them like brittle meaty skittles.

Tufty whacked his brakes on too, and the police van shuddered to a stop — right next to the hole that Mr FreezyWhip punched through the undergrowth.

The doors flew open, and everyone piled out.

Logan scrambled over to the riverbank, the rest of the team hot on his heels.

The ice-cream van drifted downstream a dozen feet or so, sinking and turning as it went — that open serving hatch not helping with the buoyancy. Then it must’ve hit something below the surface, because there was a metallic thunk and the whole thing keeled over sideways in the swollen river until all four wheels were in the air. Followed by a muffled bang as it wedged against a rock and stayed there, with everything but the wheels and undercarriage fully submerged.

No sign of Charles MacGarioch. And no sign of whoever was selling ice cream to the kids, back in Tillydrone.

Crap.

That was all they needed — two dead, drowned bodies to round off a perfect sodding day.

Steel dragged her eyes from the van to Logan, mouth stretched out and down, like a worried frog.

‘Stand back!’ Tufty strode towards the water’s edge. ‘Tufty to the rescue!’

The silly wee sod was just about to leap in when Barrett grabbed him by the back of the stabproof — hauling him up short. ‘Don’t be a divot!’

‘But the ice-cream man...?’

Logan stripped off his jacket and clip-on tie. ‘You’ll sink like an anvil, with all that gear on.’ Then struggled his way out of his shoes, gave himself a nod, and jumped into the river.

Bloody hell...

The day might’ve been roasting, but the water wasn’t — swollen by all of last week’s rain, it was like an ice bath, only fast flowing, and with the occasional bit of tree being swept downstream.

Come on, you idiot: swim.

He struck out towards Mr FreezyWhip.

Branston trotted along the riverbank beside him for five or six feet, then leapt in with a hairy sploosh. Because as far as a huge police Alsatian was concerned, today just kept getting better and better!

Steel had her Airwave out again: ‘Target vehicle has crashed into the river. Officer has gone in to rescue civilian. Now where’s my bastarding backup?’

As she paced the riverbank, Tufty and Barrett stripped off their heavy stabproof vests and massive utility belts.

Good.

Why should Logan be the only one getting soaked?

He reached the overturned, sunken van — grabbing a tyre to stop being swept away. Which seemed to be the last straw for the vehicle, because everything left above the water sank with a glooomp.

Logan hauled in a deep breath and dived down after it.

Visibility wasn’t great beneath the surface — silt, stirred up by the swollen river and caught in the blistering sunshine, turned everything milky, meaning most of the van faded into the glowing murk.

He pulled himself along to the upside-down serving hatch.

Sod.

A figure floated inside, facedown and immobile, in green-and-white-striped dungarees. Heavyset with a combover that had floated free from his bald pate. He hung, suspended in the water, surrounded by bobbing wrapped lollies and disintegrating cones. Scarlet blooming out from a gash across his forehead.

Good job the River Don was relatively shark-free.

Logan grabbed a stripy-dungaree shoulder-strap and pulled, wrestling him out of his drowned vehicle and back to the surface.

Hauling the ice-cream man’s head above the water, and keeping it there.

The fast-flowing river pinned them against one of Mr FreezyWhip’s tyres. Stopping them from being swept off downstream.

Branston, on the other hand, seemed to have found some weird eddy current on top of the inverted ice-cream van. Doggy-paddling around in lazy circles. Happy as a toddler in a paddling pool.

Barrett swam up, treading water as he looked around. ‘Where’s Charles MacGarioch?’

‘Give us a chance!’

Tufty wasn’t far behind. ‘I’ll find him.’ And under he went, Spider-Man socks flashing in the sunshine before the murky river swallowed him whole.

‘Urgh...’ Barrett grimaced. ‘This is a stupid game.’ Then followed Tufty into the depths.

Over on the bank, Steel hurried towards a bright-orange lifebuoy, mounted at the side of the road. Still giving someone a hard time on her Airwave. ‘Yes, but three of them have gone in now, OK? SO DO SOMETHING!’ She yanked and tugged at the ring, snarling and roaring till it popped out of its mount, then dragged it back to the rescue scene. Fiddling one end of the attached rope free and standing on it, before flinging the buoy, one-handed, upstream of Logan. ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Coastguard, fire brigade...’ She scooped up the spare end of rope. ‘Any bugger with a boat would do!’

The ring was swept straight towards Logan, and he grabbed it — wrestling the thing over the unconscious man’s head and shoulders.

Tufty popped up from the murky deep with a gasp. ‘Nope!’ Then disappeared underwater again.

A spluttering Barrett surfaced next, blinking and coughing. ‘Sodding fudgemuggers...’ He pulled his way along the sunken van. ‘MacGarioch’s gone.’ Wiping the water from his face. ‘Don’t know if he’s washed away, or what, but there’s zero sign of him.’

Great.

Tufty resurfaced a second time. ‘More nope.’ He took a big breath and bobbed up, ready to have another go.

‘Hoy!’ Barrett waved at him. ‘Stop, you daft...’

But Tufty was gone again.

‘Seriously?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Logan shoved the ice-cream man at Barrett. ‘Get him back to shore.’

A confused look. ‘Where are you—’

‘To find the daft wee loon.’ Logan ducked under the water, half-swimming, half-pulling himself along the side of Mr FreezyWhip, hunting idiots. Past the serving hatch and on to the passenger door.

At least the window was open.

The driver’s one too — letting the current barge through the van’s interior, making a pair of ice-cream-cone-shaped furry dice bob and twist above the inverted rear-view mirror.

The windscreen was cracked, but from the look of things it was because of the large boulder the van had wedged itself against, rather than Charles MacGarioch’s head.

There was no sign of him, though. And no sign of Tufty either.

Logan turned, squinting into the milky water, but neither idiot was upstream of Mr FreezyWhip.

So he poked his head through the open passenger window.

The cab was definitely empty.

A gap between the front seats led through to the back of the van — sectioned off by a beaded curtain that undulated like a forest of multicoloured kelp.

Bracing himself against the wing mirror, Logan swung around to the leeward side of the van. Nothing but more rocks and the skeletal frame of a dead bicycle. Maybe MacGarioch had been thrown clear in the crash? If so, he was long gone — swept away downriver. Might even be halfway to the North Sea by now...

And still no sodding Tufty.

Lungs burning, Logan struggled back up, like a breaching whale, bringing a huge spray of water with him. Coughing and gasping, because this underwater-rescue stuff was a shit-load harder than they made it look on TV.

A hand grabbed his arm, hauling him up onto the underside of Mr FreezyWhip, where the water was only thigh deep. And Branston was still slowly twirling.

Tufty pounded Logan on the back a couple of times. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

Over on the riverbank, most of the old ladies had their phones out — some filming Logan’s attempts at deep-sea rescue, the others recording as Barrett and PC MacLauchlan performed CPR on the ice-cream man, while Steel looked on. Issuing instructions, as she paced back and forth in front of the knackered police van. Giving someone a bollocking on her Airwave at the same time.

The throat-shredding cough hacked its way to a halt, leaving Logan slumped and wheezing. But at least he had enough breath to give Tufty a good hard thump on the arm. ‘Thought you’d drowned!’

‘Nah. I does has an advanced swimming certificate. And a lifesaving badge.’

Logan thumped him again. ‘You tried to jump in with the full kit on!’

‘Yeah. But they made us rescue rubber bricks in our pyjamas, so I was kinda working on instinct. I is a lifesaving dude.’

Idiot.

So Logan thumped him one more time, for luck.

Extra hard, this time.

vii

Harsh sunlight streamed through the ratty venetian blinds as Colin Miller (56) — world-class journalist, snappy dresser, first-rate husband, brilliant father, and total legend, by the way — frowned at the printout in his leather gloved hands. ‘HERO COP STOPS SICK “LIVESTOCK MARKET”’ complete with photo of a burning cattle shed and some pretty bloody great writing.

Definitely good enough for the portfolio. So it got a quick visit to Mr Hole Punch, then snapped into Mr Ring Binder.

The Aberdeen Examiner’s bullpen was an anaemic photocopy of its former self. Aye, the big open-plan space still had loads of cubicles, with their tatty blood-red walls, but the wee personal touches had been stripped away, packed into cardboard boxes for that sad final trudge to the pub: goodbye speech, platter of supermarket sausage rolls, and empty promises to keep in touch. Leaving nothing but an empty desk behind, now covered in file boxes and dust.

Most of the chairs had gone too — pillaged by the handful of remaining staff to replace their own knackered ones.

Oh, the signs still hung from the ceiling, marking out the different sections: like ‘PICTURE DESK’ and ‘OBITUARIES’, but no one worked there any more.

Instead, the chair thieves sat at scattered desks, keeping their heads down, poking away at laptops and phones, hoping they weren’t going to be next...

But while everyone else had opted for the try to-no’-be-too-visible approach, Colin had built himself a wee fort out of file boxes and box files, walling off this corner of the bullpen.

He plucked another printout from the pile.

‘BODIES FOUND IN CLIFFTOP-COTTAGE FREEZER’ with the subheading, ‘MISSING UNIONISTS “TORTURED TO DEATH” SAYS SHOCKED PARAMEDIC’.

Aye... maybe no’ his finest hour.

That one went in the bin.

‘“CROOKED COP FRAMED ME” CLAIMS LOCAL BUSINESSMAN’, subheading: ‘OFFICER PLANTS CHILD PORNOGRAPHY ON SUSPECT’S COMPUTER AS—’

‘Hoy, Grandad.’ There was a knock on his file-box wall, and Tamsin Johnson (21) sauntered into his inner keep. She had a boy’s haircut, Numbered Onions T-shirt, ripped jeans, and grubby Hi-Tops. Tattoos all down one arm. Spots. Enough piercings in both ears to pick up a decent FM signal.

‘Who you calling “Grandad”?’ Colin sat up a wee bitty straighter, so she could drink in the fitted, pink, Ralph Lauren shirt, top three buttons open to show off some tasty gold chains and manly chest hair. Even if it was going a little grey. And there was slightly more of it than there was on top of his head.

‘Be still my beating.’ Voice flat as her chest. She peered at the ring binder. ‘Not done your homework for teacher, yet?’

Colin punched two holes in the printout and added it to the binder. ‘Waste of bloody time.’

‘And can you not do all this digitally?’ Perching her wee flat bum on the edge of his desk. ‘God, you’re such a dinosaur.’

Cheeky sod.

‘Haven’t you got a listicle to write? “Top ten reasons cellulite is the new margarine!”, or some shite.’

‘Print’s dead, Daddy-O.’ Tamsin hooked a thumb at the door. ‘Quitting time. We’re hitting Dodgy Pete’s for some scoofage: you want?’

He snatched another sheet from the pile — ‘POLISH SHOPKEEPER BLINDED IN HORROR ATTACK’ — scowling at the photo of Victoria Road in Torry. ‘And who the hell does she think she is? You got any idea how many scoops I’ve written?’ Waving his printout at the newsroom walls, and all the framed front pages hanging there. ‘Seventy percent of these buggers are mine! Probably more like eighty.’ But did that matter? Did it hell. ‘Making me audition for my own spot on the bloody paper...’

Over in the opposite corner, the office printer squealed and clunked like someone was battering mice with a wooden mallet.

Tamsin shrugged. ‘Yeah, it’s a diabolical liberty, so it is.’ She pointed at the door again. ‘Now: Dodgy Pete’s, yes or no?’

‘Trouble is, most of this stuff’s ancient.’ He thumped his collection of scoops and exclusives. ‘Could really do with a juicy new story to show off the old magic touch.’

‘You’ll be lucky. Nothing interesting’s happened in this arsehole city for years.’

Colin stared at her. ‘Someone just set fire to a migrant hostel with actual people in it!’

‘Racists is as racists does.’ She picked up the folder and flicked through his printouts. ‘Your generation gets a stiffy for that kinda National Front crap, doesn’t it? Assuming you can tear yourselves away from all the misogyny, ableism, and homophobia.’

‘Aye, thanks for that.’ He plucked the next potential front page from the pile. ‘THE FACE OF EVIL’ ~ ‘SERIAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN AS CANNIBAL TERROR RETURNS TO ABERDEEN’.

Now that was a story.

Tamsin handed his portfolio back, her voice losing the cynical-teenager edge for something a lot kinder. ‘Don’t sweat it, OK? I had my review yesterday and she was fine. You’ll ace it.’ Then nodded towards the exit. ‘Last call for a pint?’

Aye, she was probably right.

He gave her a wee wince. ‘Getting too old to go back on the dole...’ He added the Flesher story to his folder and stood. ‘If you’re still there when I’ve finished with our new Lord and Mistress, I might pop in for a swift one.’

Colin did up his top three shirt buttons — not easy with black leather gloves on, and four prosthetic digits — flipped up his collar, and tied a Windsor knot in the burgundy tie from his drawer. Rolled down his sleeves. Pulled on the linen jacket that completed the suit. And gave his neck a wee stretch.

Cos if you were off to get fired, might as well look good while you did it.

He tucked the ring binder under his arm and sashayed across the bullpen to the double doors.

Paused to examine his reflection in one of the framed front pages. His byline of course, from 2011: ‘TOE TERROR OF BRAVE JENNY — KIDNAPPERS PROVE IT’S NO HOAX’ above a smiling photo of Jenny McGregor (6) with her curly red hair and freckles singing her little heart out during her last ever appearance on Britain’s Next Big Star. Poor wee sod.

He straightened his tie.

Then frowned, running a finger through the furry layer of dust that’d built up on the frame. Making a wee hairy caterpillar.

Was a time when the cleaners would’ve dusted and polished every single one of these, each morning. Now you were lucky if the office got hoovered once a quarter.

He shoved the door open and marched out into the corridor.

Which needed more than a quick once-over with a feather duster. The carpet tiles were festooned with coffee stains — like the floor was staging a dirty protest — the plastic pot plants drooped under the weight of furry grey grime, and the paintwork needed at least three coats to cover up the scrapes, scores, and greasy scuffs.

The only clean things out here, were the framed front pages. But unlike in the newsroom, these weren’t from the Aberdeen Examiner, they were the worst kind of red-top tabloid: the Scottish Daily Post, with its lurid headlines and paparazzi photos. Female stars getting out of cars with their pants on show; unflattering beach bodies; posed underwear shots; cheesy smiles and Bisto tans. All displayed in brand-new frames — courtesy of their brand-new boss.

As if this shite was anything to aspire to.

Colin put a bit of swagger in his walk as he passed doors marked ‘ADVERTISING / SALES’ and ‘ACCOUNTS’ and ‘DISTRIBUTION’ and ‘ARCHIVE’, taking a right at the dogleg, pausing to gaze out over Altens Industrial Estate with its ‘inspiring’ collection of warehouses, lorry parks, fabrication yards, storage yards, offices, and yet more sodding warehouses. All in depressing shades of grey, grime, and blue.

And the paper’s car park, of course. Where Tamsin and a couple of the other interns performed the loose-limbed amble, on their way to Dodgy Pete’s for an after-work pint or three.

Lucky sods.

Anyway, this wasn’t getting the monkey strangled, was it.

He sauntered past ‘LEGAL’ and the boardroom, to the corridor’s end: the editor’s lair.

The previous incumbent — Malcolm J Morrison (64), three heart attacks, double bypass, dedicated gambler, and cigar fiend — had decorated the door with stickers and dynamo labels, proclaiming things like ‘ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER’, ‘IDIOTS NEED NOT APPLY!’, and ‘I AM A CRUEL & VENGEFUL GOD!’ Instead of ‘EDITOR’ the brass sign screwed to the wood said, ‘THE MONSTER IS:’ with a slidy bit for ‘IN’ and ‘OUT’, though it was jammed between the two options.

A lone, squeaky, plastic chair sat outside the door for those seeking an audience with The Monster. It was occupied by Louis Garfield (26): a bearded wee lad, with dark bags under his eyes and a black-and-white stripy top. Like a nervous burglar. Only instead of a stocking mask it was a pair of big round glasses, far too many tatty friendship bracelets, and a pair of American ‘sneakers’ — one of which bounced against the floor in time with his jiggling knee.

Louis was clutching a half-dozen sheets of black mountboard to his weedy chest. Because the Art Department loved sticking shite to bits of cardboard like that.

‘Dear oh dear.’ Colin leaned against the scuffed wall, opposite. ‘You’re no’ telling me the great Natasha Agapova, forty-eight, editor to the stars, panderer to the great unwashed, is running late?’

‘We’re having a redesign. Need to get “stakeholder input”.’

‘Oh aye?’ Crossing his stylishly trousered legs at the ankles, showing off the polished tan shoes. ‘Come on then, I’m a stakeholder. See’s a looky.’

‘Right. Yes.’ Louis turned the mock-ups, so they faced Colin, working his way through them one by one.

Bloody hell.

From the look of it, the Aberdeen Examiner was about to abandon all pretence of being a serious grown-up paper and embrace running about with a bucket on its head and trousers round its ankles instead. Each one of the four new designs were full-on tabloid tribute acts: complete with bikini-shots, crap about celebrity diets, garish banners, and big screechy headlines. ‘OUR HEROES NEED YOUR SUPPORT!’, ‘MIGRANT CRIME RAMPAGE BLIGHTS BRITAIN!’, ‘LEFTY JUDGES PLOT TO CRIPPLE COUNTRY!’, and ‘LOONY PROBATION POLICY FREES PAEDO PERV!’

Colin whistled. ‘Fuck me...’

‘Really?’ A small pout. ‘I thought they were quite good.’ Louis turned the mock-ups around again, staring at his own work. ‘I was going for more of a Scottish-Daily-Post feel. You know, because she was editor there?’

Time to give the wee jobby a bit of advice.

‘One: never, ever stick exclamation marks in a headline — it’s called a “dog’s cock” for a reason. Two: since when did we become a right-wing rag?’ Leaning across the corridor to thump the mountboard. ‘This really where we’re going?’

Louis nodded. Then checked his watch. ‘Do you think I could go for a pee? I want to go for a pee, but what if she calls me in and I’m off peeing?’ Twisting one leg over the other, presumably to stop anything leaking out. ‘Not a great first impression, is it?’

‘God’s sake.’

Kids these days...

Colin rapped his knuckles against the door. Gave it a count of five, then tried the handle.

Locked.

Aye, thought as much.

He gave the door a good thumping — just in case she was hiding in there.

Still nothing.

‘She’s no’ in.’ A sniff and a shrug. Then a wee sing-song voice for: ‘Ah well, what a pity, better luck next time.’ Colin turned on his stylish heel and marched off. Pausing outside Legal, to have a squint back down the corridor.

The numpty hadn’t moved, just sat there with his mock-ups, knees trembling like his bladder was about to pop.

‘She’s no’ in, you idiot! Go pee. Go home. Go find a top that doesnae make you look like a zebra crossing.’ Jabbing a finger in his direction. ‘And stop it with the exclamation marks!’

Louis wrapped his sneakers around each other, upping the pressure. ‘But what if she turns up and I’m not here?’

‘She was at that SME charity-auction dinner bollocks last night. Probably still hungover, or got her legs wrapped around some poor prick from a downhole drilling company. Getting her “downhole” drilled. Honestly—’

Was as far as he got, before his phone launched into Green Day’s ‘American Idiot’. Which meant someone was calling the number they stuck on his columns for anonymous tip-offs. He answered it — one finger raised to silence Louis, just in case. ‘Colin Miller.’

A woman’s voice, bit teuchtery, calling from mobile: ‘Aye: you the boy writes that stuff in the papers? Cos I got a story for you...’

8

Logan shifted sideways, until his phone was shaded by the tree he’d hung his socks on, bare feet slapping against the warm setts. Shoes sitting on the riverbank. Trousers now uncomfortably damp, rather than sopping wet. Shirt no longer see-through. Which was just as well, because there were only so many Roberta Steel ‘jokes’ about your nipples one man could take.

The knackered police van had been joined by two patrol cars and an ambulance — lights swirling as a paramedic thunked the door shut. A whoop from the ambulance’s siren, and off it went. Helped through the cordon of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape by a moist Barrett.

The cordon stretched across the road, along the side of the parkland, and back to the river again — with its tail end tied to the metal pole where Steel had found the lifebuoy. Making a little rectangle of sanity in a world gone absolutely bonkers.

Take the group of old ladies who’d been out walking their assorted dogs and the token husband. For some unfathomable reason, they’d each been given one of those silvery ‘marathon runner’ blankets, even though it was hot enough out here to bake them like potatoes. Glinting away as a couple of uniforms took their statements.

Madness.

Logan moved around a bit further, till he could see the phone’s screen properly.

TARA:

Excellent idea.

He thumbed out a reply:

Was as far as he got, because as the ambulance disappeared over the bridge, a short-arse wee hardman in a linen suit strolled into view, hands in his pockets. Like he was out for an early evening constitutional.

Colin Miller.

Logan groaned, put his phone away, then padded over, bare footed, to intercept him at the cordon.

‘Aye, aye.’ Colin gave a big Weegie grin. ‘Hear you went for a wee swim.’

‘How? It only happened twenty minutes ago. Who told you?’

‘Gotta protect my sources, and all that.’ He stood on his tiptoes, peering at the crime scene. ‘So... you got something juicy for me?’

Logan returned the smile. ‘No. Feel free to sod off.’

‘That any way to talk to an old friend?’ Digging into the suit jacket with a leather-gloved hand, he produced a much fancier phone than Logan’s. Holding it out, so the screen was visible.

A sort of slideshow was playing, only instead of stills it was made up of short video files — shaky and a bit grainy, clearly taken on mobile phones — of Mr FreezyWhip being chased all over Tillydrone by the police van. Five bits of footage, none of which lasted more than a couple of seconds, on a loop.

Colin gave his phone a waggle. ‘Thought it’s doughnuts youse bastards are obsessed with?’ Then put it away and had another peer at the collection of old folk. ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with that fire last night, would it?’

‘No comment.’

A tut. ‘Hell of a thing. What kinda racist wanker torches a hotel for migrants? Lucky no one died, but.’

Logan kept his face completely still.

Colin blinked. ‘Oh, you’re kidding me!’

So much for styling it out. ‘Strictly off the record. Soban Yūsuf died of his injuries an hour and a half ago.’

‘Christ.’ Shaking his head. ‘That who you were chasing: our xenophobic arsonist arsehole? You know, as we’re “off the record”, like.’

‘Should you not be back at the office, currying favour with the new boss?’ Logan pulled on his best American accent: ‘Hold the front page! We got eight new ways to blast belly fat and you ain’t gonna believe number six!’

‘Aye, you think you’re joking?’ Colin pointed off towards Altens. ‘See back in the good old days: that newsroom was thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of ink and cheap coffee, clattering with typewriters... Now it’s just me, and a handful of sodding children.’ Scowling out at the glittering water. ‘Work experience and unpaid interns. Like it’s sodding bob-a-job week!’ Throwing his gloved hands in the air, because the wee sod could never resist a bit of melodrama. ‘And these kids got no nose for a story. If you can’t nick it off Twatter, ThickTok, or FacePuke it’s too much work!’

Logan nodded. ‘Yup.’

He puffed out his cheeks. Looked away. ‘So come on, big man — dees a favour and support local journalism.’

Maybe he was right? Maybe the press could help for a change, instead of making everything worse? And it wouldn’t hurt to have the Aberdeen Examiner owing them a favour. So maybe just a tiny bit of...

Sod.

A sleek black Mercedes appeared over the Grandholm bridge, then turned onto the riverside road. Making straight for the cordon.

Logan stood up a little straighter. ‘Here we go...’

‘Oh aye?’

Barrett snapped to attention, then raised the ‘POLICE’ tape to let the Merc through.

Colin lowered his voice. ‘Won’t be long till the numpties arrive with their outside broadcast vans and their camera crews.’ He produced a packet of extra-strong mints, proffering the open end to Logan, as if that was going to be an effective bribe. ‘Maybe you and me can do a deal? Back scratching, like.’

Logan tried not to grimace, he really did. ‘Just... I’ll think about it, OK? Now make yourself scarce — don’t want the boss thinking I’m a fifth columnist for the fourth estate.’ Then marched towards the Mercedes.

The driver’s door opened and out climbed the Chief Super’s sidekick, all done up in Police Scotland black. Sergeant Brookminster. Thin, and efficient-looking. The kind of man who could carry off a side parting and a David Niven moustache without looking like a sex offender. He jerked his rugged chin at Logan, then marched smartly around the car to open its rear passenger door.

There was a pause, then Chief Superintendent Pine climbed out — dressed all in black, like her sidekick, only with a lot more decoration on the epaulettes. Phone pressed to her ear as she pulled her peaked cap on, followed by a pair of sunglasses. ‘Yes... I understand that... Look, I appreciate your concern, First Minister, but I assure you my officers are proceeding with the utmost professionalism.’ She pressed the phone against her chest and grimaced at Logan — dropping her voice to a hard-edged whisper. ‘What the buggering hell is going on here?’

‘Sorry, ma-am.’

Back to the phone. ‘I have to go: duty calls... Yes, First Minister... OK, love to Ellie and the kids... Bye.’ She hung up, then sagged.

Logan stayed where he was and kept his mouth shut.

A drone sizzled through the air, with the Sky News logo on the side and a dirty-big gimbal camera mounted underneath. Performing a slow, panning pass of the crash scene for the viewers at home.

Nosey bastards.

Pine rubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘Where’s Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford?’

‘Supervising the search of Charles MacGarioch’s flat, ma-am. We’re hoping there might be some clue about where he’s—’

‘Why,’ squeezing the words out as if every one of them was physically painful, ‘in the name of all that’s holy, was there no one watching the rear of the property?’

‘It’s—’

‘Did no one think he might do a runner?’

‘Don’t be daft.’ — Steel’s voice, right behind them.

Pine flinched. Logan winced.

Then they both turned and there she was, overalls unzipped to her waist, belly button on show where her ‘SexWeasels!’ T-shirt had ridden up. Pale and worrying. Like a zombie’s eye... Steel gave it a scratch. ‘The wee scrunk-bag lives on the top floor. What was he going to do, sprout wings and fly?’

‘Sprout wings?’ The Chief Super stared at her, then performed a slow three-sixty with her arms out, indicating the high degree of fuckupitude on display at this location and beyond. ‘Well, he’s doing a damned good impersonation of it!’

‘Don’t worry: we’ll find him.’ Stopping scratching for long enough to dig a vape out of her overalls. ‘Roberta Steel always gets her man. Or woman.’ A wink. ‘And may I say you’re looking particularly fetching today in that nice tight T-shirt? Really brings out the swell of your—’

‘That’s quite enough of that.’ Pointing off towards the knackered van. ‘Away and do something useful. Before I bust you down to the Friday Night Vomit Squad.’

That got her a lazy salute as Steel took a long drag on the vape and released a sticky-sweet cloud of strawberry shortcake. ‘Ah, I love it when you’re all take-chargey.’ Another wink, then she sauntered off, puffing away. ‘But if you change your mind...’

‘And no vaping on duty!’ Pine scowled at Logan. ‘I swear to God that woman is itching for a constructive dismissal.’

‘Her thirty’s up next month. She’ll be long gone by the time HR get the disciplinary paperwork sorted.’ He shifted his feet on the warm setts. ‘But she’s right: we were on the top floor. The only reason Charles MacGarioch isn’t on his way to the mortuary right now is he managed to hit a trampoline instead of the ground. Pure blind luck. By rights he should be splattered all over the dried-up grass in his nan’s back garden.’

Pine grimaced out at the scene for a bit: from the silvered oldies and the ruined police van; to the lifesaving ring — currently bobbing in the river, because Logan had tied it to one of Mr FreezyWhip’s tyres. Marking the site of the wreck.

‘We haven’t had a cock-up of this magnitude for ages.’

‘Sorry, ma-am.’ He shrugged. ‘Everyone’s doing their best. Turns out: being an Operational Support Unit isn’t as easy as Sergeant Mitchell and his thugs make it look.’

‘Urgh...’ She headed for the riverbank. ‘Ice-cream van’s owner?’

‘Ian Rawlings. DC Barrett and PC MacLauchlan performed CPR till the ambulance got here. It was close, but they think he’ll be OK.’

‘That’s something, at least.’ She aimed a kick at a clump of weeds, clipping the puffy seedhead off a dandelion, making it explode. ‘I take it we’re working on the assumption that Charles MacGarioch survived the crash?’

‘Unless his body washes up further downstream. Assuming he’s not been swept out to sea, of course.’

She sagged some more. ‘Oh you do know how to cheer a girl up, don’t you.’

‘We’ve circulated a lookout request.’

Mottled spots of sunlight swirled around them as a breeze caressed the leaves above. Out on the churning river, a confused-looking duck swept past. Someone coughed...

Pine stuck her chin out. ‘I don’t like racist, murdering, arsonous, wee bastards running around on my patch, Logan.’ Then a sigh. ‘I understand your desire to cover for DCI Rutherford, but planning the dunt was his responsibility. He should’ve had people positioned out back.’

‘It was the top floor—’

‘I appreciate the loyalty, but...’ Another dandelion met the executioner’s boot. ‘I need to know if he’s up to the job.’

Well, that didn’t put Logan in a difficult position at all.

At the far end of the cordon, Colin Miller was making his way towards the OAPs in their baked-tattie tinfoil blankets. Ready to whip up a story.

That Sky News drone made another pass.

Chief Superintendent Pine grunted. ‘Not that I can do much about it. We’re understaffed as it is: who am I going to replace him with?’ Dandelion number three lost its head. ‘Still waiting on an answer, by the way.’

‘It’s...’ Deep breath. ‘Everyone’s just a bit stressed-out and frazzled right now. Having to pick up the slack from all the other departments.’

‘Middle of a sodding heatwave and half the division’s off with “Man Flu”.’ Victim number four died in a puff of teeny gossamer umbrellas. ‘I want Charles MacGarioch in custody by close of play tomorrow at the latest. Custody or the mortuary — don’t care which.’ She held her hand up as Logan winced. ‘If he’s drowned. Either way we’re diffusing this issue before that stupid protest march. No point giving the mob something else to stick on their bloody placards.’

‘Ma-am.’

Out of dandelions, her killing spree moved on to booting small stones into the river instead. ‘Media briefing at seven. I want you there, prepped and ready to explain...’ waving her arms again, ‘this.’

Ah.

‘I can’t. It’s parent-teacher night at Lizzie’s school, and we’re—’

‘Oh, you should’ve said.’ All smiles. ‘Right. Well, we’ll just ask the assembled camera crews, TV broadcasters, newspapers, journalists, newsreaders, and podcasters not to talk about the story till you’re free. How does Wednesday sound? Or is Thursday better for you?’

Heat prickled the skin on Logan’s cheeks. ‘Ma-am.’

‘Good man.’ The smile tightened as she patted him on the arm. ‘Knew I could rely on you.’ Then turned and marched back towards her waiting Merc. ‘Press are going to crap in our stovies over this one, Logan. And I’m shit-out of brown sauce.’

Sergeant Brookminster opened the rear passenger door for her, but she didn’t even acknowledge him — already on another call.

‘Nigel.’ Slipping into her seat. ‘No... Will you shut up for two minutes and listen? It’s—’

Her sidekick clunked the door shut. Then gave Logan a sort of cross between a salute and a wave, then climbed in behind the wheel.

The Mercedes swung around in a scrunchy three-point turn. Slowing so Barrett could raise the cordon once more. And off they went.

A voice at Logan’s shoulder: ‘Nice arse.’

‘Arrgh!’ He spun around, and there was Steel, letching as the Chief Super’s car rumbled onto the bridge. ‘Stop sneaking up on people!’

Steel produced another cloud of strawberry shortcake. ‘Yeah, she’s a bit stuck-up, but I like a challenge.’ A good long puff. ‘You got a crane sorted yet?’

A what?

He stared at her. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘To get the ice-cream truck out the river. Or are you planning on leaving it there? Cos I can tell you for a fact: Scenes are gonna bitch and whinge if you make them take fingerprints underwater.’

Oh, for God’s sake.

The horror had a point.

And what was worse: he should’ve thought of it.

Logan sagged, grimacing up at the swaying leaves and rippling light. ‘Great.’

Steel patted his other arm. ‘Don’t worry about MacGarioch: the wanker won’t get far. His days as a murderous arsoning wee shite are over.’ A big sook on her vape, and she enveloped them both in another cloying fruity cloud. ‘Till then: call a crane.’

9

Now that Charles MacGarioch’s living room wasn’t stuffed full of police officers and a happy barky dog it looked larger. But not much.

DCI Rutherford slumped on the sofa, in a suit so sharp you could shave with it. Which would probably help, because a heavy seven-o’clock shadow rampaged across his miserable face. Hair tussled at the front and fanned out at the back, where it pressed against a starched antimacassar. Bags under his eyes. Looking stretched, knackered, and defeated.

Logan turned to look out the window instead.

A handful of kids were out, playing on their scooters, pretending not to watch as a forensic tech from ‘Scenes’ lugged a blue plastic evidence crate to the grubby Transit.

They weren’t the only ones keeping an eye on things — two photographers had their cameras out, snapping away, while a lone TV news crew filmed a bloke in a suit.

Had a perfect view of his bald spot from up here.

All shiny and strawberry-coloured in the baking sun.

‘Just...’ Logan glanced back at Rutherford, ‘forewarned, OK?’

The DCI slapped both hands over his face. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. We’re on the top floor!’

‘That’s what I told her.’

A groan, followed by more slumping.

Rutherford didn’t look as if he’d be surfacing anytime soon, so Logan pulled out his phone and checked his text messages instead. Scrolling back to where he was so rudely interrupted earlier.

TARA:

Followed by his unsent reply:

He deleted the whole thing and tried again — tick-tick-tickticktick:

SEND.

That would go down well. Like a condom full of sick at a balloon-modelling party.

Rutherford still hadn’t moved.

‘You OK?’

There was a teeny whimpering sound, then a muffled, ‘Do you have any idea how many cases I’m juggling right now?’

One of the many joys of climbing the greasy pole — higher up you got, the more crap they made you carry.

Logan leaned back against the windowsill. ‘Assuming Charles MacGarioch made it out of the ice-cream van alive, and he swam ashore, what do we think: other side of Gordon Brae bridge? Or would you tread water till Hillhead? Put a bit of distance between you and the crash?’

‘First DI Vine comes down with the lurgie, so I get his cases. Then it’s Evans. And McPherson. And Findlay. So I get theirs too!’ Really pressing those hands into his face as a frustrated howl rang out. Followed by a little cough.

‘I’ve called for a search team, but we’ll be lucky if we get half a dozen bodies. Everyone’s stretched thin.’

‘Thin? I’m bloody anorexic here!’ Rutherford’s arms flopped sideways. ‘Could sleep for a week.’

‘Thought we were meant to get backup from other divisions?’

‘Ha! They’ve all got the sodding plague too.’ He levered himself forward, sagged, then smothered a couple more coughs. ‘We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.’ Pointing at Charles MacGarioch’s bedroom. ‘They’ve got his computer in for analysis — I want you up their arseholes like a pineapple suppository till they find something. And we need to interview all known associates. And...’ He frowned. ‘What am I forgetting?’

‘Chasing up the Fire Investigation Unit?’

Rutherford nodded. ‘OK — consider yourself volunteered.’

Great.

That’s what Logan got for being helpful.

‘And there’s the press conference at seven.’ Logan checked his watch — 18:34. ‘Better get moving.’

‘Yeah...’ Another groan as Rutherford levered himself out of the racist old lady’s couch. ‘Because apparently this crap isn’t hard enough.’

Logan finished the last sentence from his prepared statement. ‘...a full recovery, thanks to the quick actions of officers on the scene.’

‘No. No, no, no, no, no.’ PC Nigel Sweeny bustled around the media liaison office, grabbing sheets of paper from the printer and whacking staples into them. ‘Never say someone’ll “make a full recovery”. What if he comes down with MRSA, or something? Or has a stroke?’ His mean little mouth crunched its way through yet another Gaviscon tablet as he gathered his papers into a six-inch-thick pile. The wee mouth didn’t really go with the over-generous nose and enthusiastic chin, sort of Mr Punch Joins the Police Force. He grimaced. ‘Way my luck’s going, our ice-cream man will be dead just in time for Breakfast News.’

The office wasn’t much bigger than MacGarioch’s living room. Only instead of portraits of the King, shelves crowded in from every wall — making the room feel even smaller — jam-packed with folders and lever-arch files. Piles and piles of newspapers. There was barely room for the three desks, or the trio of flatscreen TVs. Each one tuned to a different twenty-four-hour rolling-news channel.

Two of them were covering a ‘Vision For Britain’ rally in Trafalgar Square — chinless wankers with beer guts and poorly spelled placards — while Sky News featured drone footage of the River Don as Steel’s crane lifted a waterlogged Mr FreezyWhip from the depths.

Sweeny grabbed another antacid from the pack. ‘Tell them he’s “doing well” and doctors are “pleased with his progress”. That way, if he snuffs it, it’s their fault not ours.’ Then rammed a peaked cap on his head, and stuck a manila folder on top of his stapled pile, pausing for a moment to check his own reflection in a little mirror mounted by the office door. ‘Come on, Nige — only six more months and you’re back in CID.’ Popping one last Gaviscon, before hurrying out into the corridor, leaving Logan to catch up.

He scurried across the open-plan space, with its little warren of cubicles and desks, checking his watch every thirty seconds on the way to the double doors at the end. ‘Late, late, late, late, late...’

A handful of cubicles were populated by wilted officers and support staff, grinding their way through a back shift. Off in the distance, someone sneezed. Someone else coughed.

‘Like a bloody ghost town in here, isn’t it?’ Sweeny fumbled with his folder. ‘What was wrong with the old place? Lots of lovely hideyholes in Queen Street. Not like this... panopticon bollocks.’

They thumped out through the doors into a bland corridor, with a smoked-glass view of Broad Street and lots of cheery motivational posters about ‘PROFESSIONALISM’ and ‘PUBLIC SERVICE’.

Sweeny checked his watch again, swore, and scurried faster. ‘If any of the buggers ask about the protest march this weekend, don’t engage, OK?’ Battering into the stairwell. ‘We’re officially on lockdown till the Boss decides what the hell we’re doing for bodies to police the bloody thing.’

Clattering down the steps, ignoring the posters demanding ‘INTEGRITY’ and ‘HONESTY’.

Shoving through the doors at the bottom as his phone boomed out the BBC News theme tune. He juggled his papers and answered it as they strode across the short corridor, to the security-controlled entrance to the main lobby. ‘Boss! How—... Yes, yes: I know it starts at seven.’ A grimace as he poked the keycode into the lock. ‘I know... Yes... I’ve been working on DI McRae’s—’ Pink bloomed in his cheeks. ‘Yes, Boss... Sorry.’

Logan followed him across the Police Scotland crest set into the lobby floor — the words ‘SEMPER VIGILO’ already getting a bit scuffed by all the foot traffic.

‘We’re on our way now... Yes, Boss... Just about to walk through the door.’ Sweeny performed a bit of human origami to pin the folder and papers to his chest and the phone to his ear as he fumbled with his lanyard — bending almost double to clack it against the automatic turnstile beside the reception desk. ‘Honestly. We’re like right there.’

The gate glowed green and beeped.

Sweeny shoved through, marching fast. ‘I know I said—... Yes, Boss... Sorry, Boss. But it’s—’ Disappearing through the door marked ‘CONFERENCE SUITES’.

Logan shared a nod with Big Gary — perched behind the desk, like an evil Buddha, with a sudoku book — and beeped himself through the turnstile.

The ‘Conference Suites’ door opened on yet another corridor, where a row of portraits displayed every Chief Constable from the old Grampian Police days, then every Chief Superintendent since Police Scotland came in and spoiled all the fun.

Down at the end, Sweeny was disappearing through into the main conference room. ‘Yes, Boss... No, Boss... Honestly: I’m here, I’m here.’

Logan stopped outside the door. Straightened his suit jacket. Then his shoulders. Took a deep breath. And pushed into Bedlam.

A sea of journalists and cameras stared at the three of them, sat at the front of the conference room — the chatter falling silent as DCI Rutherford stood to address the mob.

He’d had a shave and combed his hair, put on a fresh shirt and tie, looking every bit the professional police officer. Almost unrecognisable from the wrung-out, despondent lump, drooping away on MacGarioch’s sofa.

He was flanked by Sweeny on one side and Logan on the other, while Chief Superintendent Pine was nowhere to be seen. Having buggered off at the first available opportunity; putting a bit of distance between herself and whatever omnishambles was about to unfold. Because it wasn’t going to be easy spinning this as anything less than a monumental cluster-wank.

Cameras click-click-click-clicked, flashguns flickering as Rutherford muffled a cough. Then pulled his chin up. ‘Two days ago, nine people were injured, four of them seriously, when the Balmain House Hotel on Broomhill Road was deliberately set on fire. Earlier today, we learned that, sadly, Soban Yūsuf has died from his injuries.’

An outbreak of murmuring rippled through the press pack, accompanied by a fresh strobe of camera flashes.

‘Our thoughts and sympathies are with his family at this terrible time.’

A bunch of hands went up, but Rutherford ignored them.

Had a wee cough instead, while the hubbub died down.

‘Soban acted as a translator for British forces in Helmand Province, and then later in Kabul. He leaves behind a wife, Zahra, and two children: Kamnoosh, thirteen; and Shahmeer, eight. All of whom suffered from smoke inhalation during this cowardly and racially motivated attack.’

Another bout of coughing. As if in sympathy with the family.

‘Excuse me.’ Clearing his throat again. ‘This afternoon — following information from a member of the public — we attended an address in the city’s Tillydrone area. Officers attempted to serve a warrant on an individual suspected of being involved in the arson attack.’

More hands shot into the air.

But instead of taking questions, Rutherford turned to Logan instead. ‘Detective Inspector McRae?’

‘Thank you.’ And it was Logan’s turn to get up on his hind legs and face the hordes. He treated them to a long hard serious look — what Elizabeth called his ‘Paddington Stare’ — then a curt nod. ‘Today, just after five p.m., I and a team of officers forced entry to the suspect’s flat...’

Meeting Room Two was a lot less ‘Out-Of-Town Convention Centre’ than where they’d held the media briefing, but every bit as magnolia and impersonal. Windowless. With two whiteboard walls covered in marker-pen scribbles: lists and lists of officers’ names with arrows and dates and various ongoing investigations. As if someone had been trying to brainstorm their way through the staffing crisis.

Good luck with that.

Now that the briefing was over, Rutherford was back to looking like squeezed crap again, grimacing at the cheap mug of cheap coffee in his hand, which came with an even cheaper biscuit on the side. Sweeny offered the tin to Pine, who demurred, and Logan. Who helped himself to a custard cream and gingersnap.

Maybe they’d make the coffee drinkable?

Biscuit duty over, Sweeny popped another antacid and crunched, face almost as miserable as Rutherford’s. ‘Could’ve been worse, I suppose.’

His partner in gloom grunted. ‘And what’s with all the stupid questions? “Are you certain this was a racist attack, Detective Chief Inspector?” Course we bloody are, you sodding halfwit! They firebombed a hotel full of asylum seekers — what the bloody hell did you think it was: performance art?’ He turned to the Boss. ‘Anything from the search team while we were in there?’

Pine sniffed at her coffee, as if it might be caustic. ‘Not so much as a cocktail weeny. If MacGarioch clawed his way out of the Don, he didn’t do it before Seaton Park.’ She risked a sip. Shuddered. Put the mug down. ‘And there’s no point looking at me like a kicked puppy — we’ve got miles of riverbank to search and not enough people to search it.’

‘Well...’ you could almost hear the gears in Sweeny’s head, creaking, ‘maybe we could do an appeal for members of the public to help?’

Pine pursed her lips. Rutherford opted for a withering look.

Sweeny crunched down another Gaviscon.

‘Anyway,’ the Boss turned towards the whiteboard wall with its lists of officers, ‘D Division are lending us a drone operator, but not till tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Rutherford’s face soured a little more. ‘MacGarioch will have scarpered halfway to Benidorm by then. That or been washed up on the Norwegian coastline.’

Time for Logan to inject a bit of cheer to the proceedings:

‘Maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll foul on an oil rig somewhere along the way?’ Not a single smile. ‘OK... How about we get the TV news teams in and ask them to scan the riverbanks? We know Sky’s got a dirty-big drone, right? Saw it down at the crash site.’

Rutherford opened his mouth, looking ready to shoot that down, but Pine got there first:

‘Might work... if we give them an incentive. And make them sign an NDA.’ A nod. ‘Yes... Pretty sure I can sell that.’ She tapped a finger on the table. ‘Logan: I want all local hospitals, GP surgeries, chemists, and vets to keep an eye out. If MacGarioch survived, he’s probably injured and looking for treatment.’

‘Ma-am.’

‘Ron: chase the search team. With a pointy stick, if you have to. We’ve got...’ glancing at the wall clock, ‘two-and-a-bit more hours of daylight. I’ll give you every warm body I can spare, but find him.’

Rutherford did a bit more coughing. One hand covering his mouth, the other held up — till he could squeeze out a wheezy, ‘Do our best.’

‘And while you’re at it, ride Forensics like a dirty bicycle.’ Giving them all a much fiercer Paddington Stare than Logan ever managed. ‘I need to see progress, people. Progress!’

And then she was off, pushing out through the door into the corridor, phone at the ready. Already dialling as she disappeared. ‘Nigel: you’re with me!’

Sweeny grimaced, popped another antacid, then scarpered after her.

The door clunked shut and Rutherford wilted. Coughed. Sighed.

Which wasn’t exactly encouraging.

Logan gave him a wee pat on the back. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

He waved that away, grimacing at the closed door. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s an enormous tidal wave of shite coming our way?’

10

There wasn’t much left of the Balmain House Hotel — not from the front, anyway. Just a flat-faced, mid-terrace, two-storey rectangle of smoke-blackened granite blocks, with a dormer layer on the top for those swanky penthouse-suite views of a baby-scanning centre, a newsagent’s, and a dog-grooming place called ‘Pup, Pup, & Away!’

All the windows were gone: blown out by the fire. The front door was missing too. And so was most of the roof, leaving only a handful of beams and a smattering of grey slates behind.

The front garden had been paved over, making a wee parking area for a pair of... Actually, it was difficult to tell what they’d been, because now there was nothing left but their blackened, flame-stripped carcasses. Even the wheelie bins were melted blobs.

But at least the wrought-iron railings had survived. Which gave people something to fix their floral tributes, football scarves, and teddy bears to. Votive offerings for the Gods Of Tragedy And Public Displays Of Grief.

The buildings on either side seemed OK, but the box-hedges between the three properties were screwed.

Logan parked behind the Mobile Command Unit — a very fancy title for a glorified Mercedes Sprinter van, kitted out as a half-arsed office — and climbed out into the sticky, oppressive air. Watching as a pair of little girls fixed a teddy bear to the iron railings with a cable-tie around its throat. Tightening the garotte taut enough to make Teddy’s legs poke straight out.

Logan leaned back against his Audi and checked his phone, letting them finish their strangulated tribute.

Hmmm...

No reply from Tara.

That wasn’t good.

The wee girls skipped away, and Logan wandered over to the gate. A double line of ‘POLICE’ tape was tied to the railings either side, to stop stupid members of the public climbing all over the crime scene. He untied one side, opened the gate, and walked between the burnt-out cars to the burnt-out hotel and its missing front door.

Putting his hands on either side of the doorway, Logan poked his head in through the gap.

Wow.

Complete devastation.

The building’s supporting walls were granite, so they’d survived the blaze, but everything in between was reduced to a pile of charred debris. The upper floors had collapsed, offering a clear view out through the missing roof to an azure sky.

To be honest, the whole place was completely—

‘HOY!’ A hard Peterhead accent blared out behind him: ‘GET OUT OF IT!’

Logan pulled his head back, and turned to find himself the target of an angry glower.

A uniformed PC stood between the roasted corpses of both cars, fists on her hips. Pointy of nose, with dishwater-blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. A high-vis waistcoat on over her stabproof, and a deeply grumpy frown pulling at her heavy eyebrows. ‘You heard me: out!’ Jabbing a finger at the gate and its untied cordon. ‘You see that tape? That means—’

‘Where’s Steevie?’ Logan flashed his warrant card.

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh no you don’t. Let’s see that properly.’ She took the thing and gave it a good long stare. ‘Ah. OK. Ahem.’ Bit her top lip and handed it back again. ‘Inspector. Guv. Sorry. Boss.’

‘Guv is fine.’

‘Only I’m usually based out of Peterhead...’

Which explained a lot. ‘Bit of a bruiser, eh?’ Smiling as she blushed. ‘And do you have a name? Or is it a secret Bloo Tooner thing?’

‘Hilary, Guv. Kent.’

‘So, where’s Steevie?’

‘I’m just filling in, really. Because of all the... you know: off on the sick...?’

‘Constable: what have you done with Watch Commander Colins?’

She stood to attention. ‘Sorry, Boss. Guv. It’s... He’s knocked off for the night. Says “twelve hours a day is enough for any man”. Sorry.’

Logan hooked a thumb at the hotel doorway. ‘This safe to go in?’

‘I wouldn’t. There’s a basement, and the ground floor’s a bit shagged, Guv. Sorry, Inspector. I mean, “its structural integrity has been compromised by the blaze”. A chunk of the dining room caved in this morning.’

Sod that.

He took a step back, in case anything decided to collapse. ‘Talk me through it.’

‘Erm...’ She checked her notebook. ‘OK: At approximately zero-three-hundred hours on Monday the ninth of June, an accelerant was introduced to the premises via an aperture on the building’s primary entrance—’

‘Stop, stop, stop: you’re not giving evidence in court. Just tell me what happened like a normal human being.’

‘Oh.’ Hilary drooped a little, as if she’d been looking forward to giving him the complete witness-box performance. ‘Actually, I can show you if you like?’ Digging out her phone.

Now that was more like it.

‘We’ve got CCTV? How come no one mentioned—’

‘Nah. I mean, the hotel did have cameras, but the recording stuff was all inside, so it’s... melted. Bunch of drunk teenagers staggered by, on their way home. Saw the flames and called nine-nine-nine. One of them videoed the whole thing.’ Swiping and poking away at her phone’s screen. ‘Hold on, got it here somewhere...’

Well, that was something at least.

As she fiddled, Logan did a slow three-sixty: looking out over the roasted vehicles to the next-door building and the long line of grey granite stretching back up Broomhill Road towards the town centre; then the buildings opposite with their grim featureless grey facades. One of them had a drooping ‘FOR SALE’ sign in the tiny, gravelled front garden — good luck selling now, with a murder scene right across the street. Next up were more bland grey buildings as the road headed off to Kaimhill and the exotic delights of Garthdee, beyond. Then back up the granite terrace on this side, past a bus stop, and back to the incinerated shell of the Balmain House Hotel again.

And PC Kent was still fiddling.

The boy-racer’s theme tune ‘bmmm-tsh, bmmm-tsh, bmmm-tsh’ rattled out of a hatchback’s windows as it drove by, followed by a florist’s van.

A couple walked past on the other side of the street, arm in arm, fancy-dressed as pirates, swinging a carrier bag from the local off-licence.

Then a woman with a pushchair stopped to attach some sort of homemade banner to the hotel railings — her laminated A4 sheets putting up a fight, while her toddler beamed at the brightly coloured display.

There was a young man lurking behind the bus shelter, clutching a heart-shaped mylar balloon and some petrol-station flowers. Watching as the mother fixed her banner into place. Awaiting his turn to perform at the Look At Me Mourning Theatre.

OK, this was getting silly now.

Logan stepped away from the hotel. ‘If you can’t find it, maybe—’

‘Here we go.’ PC Kent held her phone out.

Something was playing, but it was barely visible in the glaring sunshine.

He leaned in, cupping his hand around the screen to cast a bit of shadow. Cutting the glare. Then took the thing from her hand, turning his back on the sun. Finally, a fizzy mess of fuzzy-pixelled darkness appeared, with a couple of white trainers in the middle.

Then the footage wheeched upright, giving a wobbly view along Broomhill Road towards a smear of bright yellow and orange.

An ‘Oh my God!’ shrieked out of the phone’s speaker, the words tinny and brittle as the video lurched into a jiggling run sprinting towards the burning hotel.

Then a figure overtook whoever was doing the filming — a girl, thirteen, maybe fourteen years old, in cargo shorts and a leather jacket. ‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’

Another girl’s voice, slurring the words. ‘Call the cops! Call the... fire cops!’

The wobbly footage came to a halt on the opposite side of the road to the Balmain House Hotel, watching it burn.

PC Kent nodded at the vacant front door. ‘Whoever set it on fire, they stuffed one of those fleecy blanket things through the letter box, followed by about ten litres of unleaded. Blanket stops the petrol leaking away — acts like a big spongy candle. You drop a lit box of matches in after it, and: instant inferno.’

‘Didn’t screw the door or windows shut, did he?’

That got him a look of horror. ‘What? Why would anyone... I mean, even think of that?’

‘You’d be surprised.’

A whooshing crash burst free of the phone as the hotel’s upper windows exploded and flames shot out, curling and twisting as they grew.

It was bright enough to blow-out the camera’s light levels, leaving the whole screen an angry shade of white that took a good five or six seconds to fade any detail back up again.

Logan whistled.

‘Oh aye.’ PC Kent leaned back against one of the burnt-out cars. ‘Lucky the place was half empty, cos the header tank flooded the front four bedrooms.’ Pointing at the empty windows. ‘No way anyone would’ve got out of there alive.’

As the image came back, a blurred figure staggered into the middle of the road, phone to her ear. Another girl, barely in her teens, and more than a little wasted. ‘Yeah, there’s a fire. Like a huge fire... Yeah... Uh-huh... It’s this hotel thing on Broomhill Road. Hurry, I can...’ She turned to the camera, eyes wide. ‘Can you hear that? Jesus, someone’s screaming!’

The camera swung up, ran along the line of buildings, clearly looking for whoever it is.

‘Someone’s screaming! You gotta get here now!’

The footage went from portrait to landscape, shrinking right down till Logan turned PC Kent’s phone sideways to catch up. But there was no sign of whoever was screaming, just gouts of black smoke billowing out, lit from below like a signpost to hell.

‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’

‘And that’s that. They keep filming till the Fire Brigade get here. Then there’s a break. Then there’s more footage of them putting it out.’

Logan straightened up, handing the phone back. ‘And they didn’t go straight to the tabloids and sell the video?’

PC Kent winced. ‘One of the girl’s dad’s a bit of an arsehole.’ Her cheeks coloured again. ‘I mean — sorry, Guv — he’s a lay preacher with a history of domestic violence and they didn’t want him finding out they’d been boozing it up and partying till three.’

Back here, in the real world, the mother with the pushchair finished wrestling with her DIY banner, took a selfie with it and the Totally Spontaneous And Not At All Cynical Public Outpouring Of Grief Diorama™ — duck pout, throwing a victory-V — then wheeled her toddler away. No doubt looking forward to all the comments about how kind and thoughtful she was.

Logan watched her go. ‘Give me this lay preacher’s name and I’ll see he gets a little visit. Without mentioning the girls, of course.’

‘Aye...’ PC Kent bared her top teeth. ‘No disrespect, Guv, but sometimes that just makes the bastards worse. Winds them up — then they go looking for an excuse to take it out on their wife. Or kid.’ A shrug. ‘Speaking from experience.’

Because no good deed ever went unpunished.

Logan sighed. Then nodded. ‘OK. In that case, we probably better...’

Hang on a minute.

The young bloke with the mylar balloon was still lurking by the bus shelter. You’d think, now that the mother had gone, he’d be scuttling up here to take his turn, but he hadn’t budged. Just stood there. Looking shifty. And disturbingly hairy. In blue jeans and a denim jacket.

Logan turned, so Mr Hairy was just visible in the corner of his eye. Keeping his voice down. ‘You see what I see?’

PC Kent snuck a quick peek, then acted as if she was more interested in her phone. Matching Logan’s whispery volume. ‘Bloke like a half-shaved Sasquatch in a Torry Tuxedo? Yeah. Been hanging around off-and-on all day.’ A wee smile. ‘Think he’s been working up the courage to ask me out?’

‘Maybe I should play Cupid?’ Heading for the gate. ‘Give me two minutes, then go say hello.’

Logan stepped out onto the pavement, shutting the gate behind him. Which was when he finally saw the tribute of sympathy and support that Mummy Dearest had left.

The banner was made up of eight laminated A4 sheets, with a simple message printed across them in bright, bold, colourful letters: ‘NO MORE MIGRANTS: SCOTLAND’S FULL!!!’

‘Oh for...’ He ripped the whole lot down, bundling it up — which wasn’t easy with the stiff, plastic-coated paper. Then pulled out his phone and marched across the road. Kidding on he was actually talking to someone. ‘Tara?... Yeah... No, it’s me... Did she?’ Fake laugh. ‘Yeah, yeah.’

Turning right, he strolled along the pavement, making for the junction those girls must’ve emerged from, going by where the burning hotel had been on the footage. ‘I know... No!’ Another laugh, camping it up a little. ‘God, the woman’s a nightmare, she really is...’

Mr Hairy barely glanced at Logan as he sauntered past, then went back to watching the hotel again.

Good.

Logan sped up a bit, dropping the fake-call routine now it was clear Mr Hairy wasn’t interested.

Soon as he reached the junction, Logan turned to nip back across the road. And stopped. Staring as a clown car puttered out from Balmoral Place.

A one hundred percent, genuine, bona fide, multicoloured, clown car — with big googly headlights and a polka-dot bowtie on the radiator grille. It even had one of those oversized manual honka-honka horns, and a man in the full make-up driving. Only instead of grinning and waving custard pies about, he was grim-faced, puffing away on a fag as his car ‘backfired’. Producing a puff of bright-pink smoke that drifted away into the baby-blue sky.

Now there was something you didn’t see every day.

The car crossed Broomhill Road and puttered away into the distance. Letting out another Barbie fart every hundred foot or so.

OK...

Logan gave himself a wee shake and hurried across the road, stuffing Mummy Dearest’s shitty banner into the bin outside the corner newsagent’s — ‘M.C. GIBBONS Est. 1936’ — almost falling over the A-frame headline board plonked outside it: ‘PROTEST ORGANISERS CALL FOR “DAY OF DISRUPTION”’.

Well, they could sod right off.

He loped back along the pavement, heading for the bus stop. Like. A. Ninja.

Mr Hairy was still there, shifting from foot to foot, clutching his balloon and his flowers. Facing the burnt-out hotel as PC Kent stepped out of the gate.

She marched straight towards him.

He shuffled a bit faster. Clearly trying to figure out what to do next. Stay, or leg-it?

Leg-it must’ve won, but when he turned to make himself scarce, Logan was right behind him.

Mr Hairy flinched so hard his wee feet left the ground for a second, his heart-shaped balloon escaping from his startled hand. He spun around, scrambling for the string, but the Mylar Gods must’ve been smiling on him today, because the balloon wafted in under the bus shelter’s canopy. So instead of floating off into the great blue yonder, it was trapped beneath the Perspex roof. Bobbing there, as if it was beating.

PC Kent reached out and caught hold of the string.

Catastrophe averted.

Logan thumped a hand down on Mr Hairy’s shoulder, making him flinch again. ‘I think we need to talk.’

11

There was a fly, trapped somewhere inside the Mobile Command Unit, buzzing away. Banging its head against the van’s walls.

Which pretty much summed up Logan’s day so far.

A bulkhead separated the driver and passenger seats from the rest of the vehicle, meaning the only natural light in this bit came through a frosted skylight. Because ‘no windows’ meant the paparazzi couldn’t stick their lenses against the glass, hoping for a juicy shot to sell to the tabloids. And even heavily tinted glazing was transparent if the buggers had a flash bright enough.

A fold-down table took up a big chunk of space, flanked by a pair of manky office chairs, beneath a triptych of wall-mounted whiteboards — bearing various diagrams of the crime scene in shonky marker pen. To add a touch of four-star luxury, someone had installed a teeny section of worktop, with a cupboard underneath, and a battered kettle the colour of smokers’ teeth.

Mr Hairy sat at the table, hunched into himself, as if he was scared to touch anything. Fidgeting with his forecourt flowers as the sweat-bitter scents of beer and fruit oozed out of him.

Logan had the other chair, sitting directly across from Mr Hairy while PC Kent loomed. Mind you, she was still holding that heart-shaped mylar balloon, bobbing away on the end of its string, which rather undermined the sense of menace...

‘I see.’ Logan stretched back in his seat. ‘And is there a reason you don’t want to give us your name?’

Mr Hairy didn’t look up from his flowers. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘Should you be?’

The bouquet’s lone chrysanthemum lost a petal to those jittery fingers. ‘I don’t have to give you my name or anything else unless you inform me why I’m being detained and questioned.’

‘We’re not detaining you, Mr...?’

Silence.

Apparently Mr Hairy wasn’t falling for that one.

OK. Logan made a show of looking around the grubby, cramped, faux office. ‘We invited you into our nice cool Mobile Command Unit for a chat. And you accepted our invitation.’ Reassuring smile. ‘My colleague was just a little concerned about your wellbeing. What with you hanging around a murder scene, in the blazing sun all day. Wanted to make sure you were OK.’

The fly buzzed.

The jolly red balloon swayed.

The chrysanthemum suffered: pluck, pluck, pluck.

Mr Hairy scrunched one shoulder. ‘It’s... difficult, OK?’

Logan let the silence stretch, and grow, and fester into something truly uncomfortable.

Until Mr Hairy couldn’t take it any longer. ‘I mean, I read the papers, yeah? I stay informed about stuff.’ He looked up from his tormented flower. ‘We’re such a small country, but they keep cramming more and more people in. Health service is fucked, transport’s fucked, council’s fucked... You try getting a dentist’s appointment, or a decent job! There’s — no — more — room.’ He sat forward. ‘I’m not saying it’s OK to burn them out, but... something, yeah?’ Pointing towards the hotel. ‘But not... I mean, there were kids in there. Kids!’ Then went back to torturing that poor chrysanthemum. ‘You don’t do shit like that.’

‘Do you know something about the fire? Or who set it?’

‘I know they burned kids.’ Mr Hairy poked the table. ‘How can anyone do that and pretend they’re not monsters? Should string them up.’

Logan tipped his head to one side, like a curious cat regarding a bird. ‘So, why were you hanging about all day?’

‘Wasn’t. Came out to look. Went off to the pub for a bit. Came back. Had a bit of a think. Bought some flowers and a balloon...’ Another couple of petals fluttered to the van’s floor. ‘They keep telling us we’ve got to take more and more people.’ Pick. Pick. Pick. ‘But they were kids...’

Time to try again: ‘Sure you don’t want to give us your name?’

‘Darryl. Darryl Merickson. I stay with my nan in Headland Court. On account of Dad being a man with “strong opinions” and Mum being dead with cancer.’

Logan leaned back against the iron railings, checking his phone as an elderly lady laid a small wreath of paper flowers outside Balmain House Hotel.

TARA:

Well, she was still speaking to him, so that was good.

He thumbed out a reply:

SEND.

PC Kent emerged from the MCU, wafting her face with a leaflet on ‘HOW TO SPOT A TERRORIST’. ‘PNC checks out. Darryl Merickson, 423 Headland Court, no priors, lives with his grandmother.’ She jerked her head in the vague direction of town. ‘Had a sneaky look at his dad. Talk about “a man of strong opinions” — currently doing four years for assault. Didn’t like the way an Asian gentleman “barged in” at karaoke to sing “Livin’ On A Prayer”. Cos apparently that’s his song.’ Her expression soured. ‘Oh, aye: Dad’s got “strong opinions” all right.’

Logan frowned at the van. ‘What do we think about Darryl’s story?’

She looked both ways, then leaned in, voice all whispery, as if she was about to share a massive secret. ‘Just between me and you, Guv, I think we might be witnessing a racist tosser coming to terms with the fact that brown people don’t deserve to be firebombed.’ Then back to normal again, in the shadow of a burnt-out hotel. ‘Just a shame it took ten litres of unleaded, one dead, and eight injured to get there.’

‘Urgh... Why does tragedy bring out all the damaged people? If it’s not kids with abusive dads, it’s racists and wanknuggets. Sometimes all three.’

‘That’s moths for you.’ She did a bit more wafting. ‘You want me to let him go?’

Logan’s phone ding-buzzed in his hand.

TARA:

‘Sod.’

‘Guv?’ PC Kent was staring at him. ‘What do you want me to do about Darryl Merickson?’

‘Hmm...? Oh, right. Well, it’s not like we’re holding him, or anything. Free to go any time he likes.’

A nod. ‘Guv.’

She disappeared into the MCU again, and Logan had a bash at composing a reply to Tara’s text.

His thumbs stopped as little hairs pricked across the back of his neck.

Someone was watching.

Logan raised his eyes from the screen.

There — on the other side of the road — another young man, but unlike Mr Hairy, AKA: Darryl Merickson, this one wasn’t armed with a bouquet of cheap flowers and a mylar party balloon. Instead he had a carrier bag from the same off-licence as those pirates, earlier. And muscles. Lots of them. Showing them off in a tight wife-beater vest with ‘HARRY’S PROTEIN SUPPLEMENTS’ on it. Arms like tattooed anacondas. And one of those halfwit haircuts, where it’s shaved at the sides and shaped like a bunnet on top. Plus moustache.

Strangely, even with the all the muscles, tattoos, and facial hair, he somehow managed to look like a primary schoolboy. Assuming the school had a very lax policy about steroids.

But he wasn’t actually looking at Logan — he was staring up at what was left of the hotel.

Fair enough.

The Mobile Command Unit’s side door popped open and out lumbered Darryl, with his balloon and half-bald flowers, followed by PC Kent.

It must’ve been the sound of the door clunking shut again, but Mr Muscles glanced towards the MCU, caught Logan’s eyes, and gave a wee start.

And now he was staring at Logan.

The Number 2 bus grumbled down Broomhill Road, heading for ‘AUCHINYELL & RGU’, partially blocking Logan’s view as Mr Muscles flickered between the passengers, through the windows.

Still staring. Eyes are getting wider.

Darryl Merickson frowned. Looking out into the street, as if he was missing something important here. ‘What?’

But when the Number 2 had passed, Mr Muscles wasn’t there any more. Vanished. Gone. Flushed away.

Logan stepped out into the road... and there he was, running after the bus. Waving. Trying to attract the driver’s attention.

Nothing suspicious about it all.

And while that haircut should’ve been illegal, it probably wasn’t an arrestable offence. More a cry for help.

Anyway...

Logan returned to the pavement. ‘Right, thank you for your time, Mr Merickson.’

Darryl went up on his tiptoes, peering after the Number 2 as it shrank into the distance. ‘What?’

‘Nothing to worry about. You take care, OK?’

He stayed where he was, looking from Logan to the road and back again. Shrugged. Then squatted in front of the hotel railings and added his drooping flowers to the growing mass of tributes, tying his balloon next to that strangled teddy bear.

Then stepped back to take it all in. Closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Kids...’

Maybe this was one of those ‘teachable moments’? But given that Darryl clearly wasn’t the sharpest spoon in the cutlery drawer, it was probably best to lay it on a bit thick.

Logan made a big show of looking up at the hotel’s blackened remains. ‘This is what happens when someone thinks it’s OK to hate people based on the colour of their skin. Or their religion. Or their sexuality, gender, nationality, football team: whatever it is they don’t like.’ Pointing at the ruins. ‘Convince yourself that they’re lesser than you and you can commit atrocities.’ Dramatic pause... ‘Even kill kids.’

Darryl’s face hardened, then a nod. A grunt. And off he stomped.

Hopefully to be a bit less of a prick.

PC Kent scrunched up one side of her face. ‘Not exactly subtle, Guv.’

‘Some people don’t work well with nuance.’

‘Suppose.’ She had a good peer down the road, where the Number 2 was little more than a little red lump. ‘So, what was that all about?’

‘Just some guy missed his bus.’ So there’d been no need to go charging out into the road, like an idiot.

But it’d been a long day.

Know what? Steevie was right: a twelve-hour shift was enough for any man, and Logan had been at this for fourteen, so it was time to sod-this-for-a-game-of-soldiers, sign out, and be home in time to read Elizabeth that gory story about the little skeleton boy she liked so much.

Because kids were weird.

But yeah: enough was—

Logan’s phone ding-buzzed. Probably Tara.

He pulled it out and sagged. Not Tara.

DCI RUTHERFORD:

Wonderful.

So much for getting home anytime soon.

A fat yellow sun skimmed the horizon, casting long blue shadows and a warm golden light that sparkled across the swollen river. Making the fog-banks of midges glow.

DS Doreen Taylor had thrown caution to the wind and stripped her SOC suit to the waist, showing off a damp ‘KERMIT FOR PRESIDENT’ T-shirt that clung to her rounded tummy and industrial bra. Wilting perm held back in a sweat-stringed ponytail. Perspiration actually dripping off her as she chugged a bottle of water. Standing hip-deep in a forest of nettles at the side of the River Don.

The rest of her four-person team waded their way along the riverbank behind her, wearing thick red rubber gauntlets as they poked and shoved at the stinging undergrowth.

Out in the middle of the river, DS Marshall’s team picked their way through an archipelago of reeds. Bracing themselves against the current with big search poles.

Someone had clearly taken a Health-and-Safety course, because all four of them were roped together and wearing bright-orange life jackets. Because it was better to look like a right numpty than get washed out to sea.

Doreen drained the last dregs from her bottle and surfaced with a gasp. ‘Jings...’ Wiping a damp hand across her shiny face. Then wafting the hem of her soggy T-shirt. ‘Like a sauna in here.’

Hard not to smile at that. ‘Did you actually say “Jings”?’

‘And the midges! Don’t believe them when they say these bloody suits are bug-proof. Little sods are eating me alive!’ Scratching, scratching, scratching.

‘I’m guessing you haven’t found anything?’

‘If we had, we wouldn’t keep it to ourselves, trust me! Sooner I’m out of this one-woman, bug-infested sweat-lodge the better.’ She kicked at the nettles with a black welly boot. ‘This is a massive jamboree of jobbies. A carnival of crap. A...’ She frowned, then sagged. ‘Nope: that’s all I’ve got the energy for.’

‘Parade of poop?’

Doreen grimaced out at the shining clouds of vampiric bugs. ‘By my reckoning we’ve got... maybe forty minutes? before it’s black as a politician’s heart out here. Don’t fancy searching this stuff by torchlight. Not with the river at full whoosh.’

‘Just do what you can, OK?’ Hand up. ‘I know, I know: it’s horrible, but if some dog-walker finds Charles MacGarioch’s mouldering corpse tomorrow morning, washed up on the riverbank, we’ll never hear the end of it.’

‘Not going to happen: your boy’s long gone. Body wouldn’t even have made it past the weir.’ Doreen tossed the empty bottle to Logan. ‘He’s made us look like a right... tombola of turds.’ Then she wrestled her wet arms back into her squelchy sleeves, pulled her zip up, did the same with her hood, and waded out into the ocean of nettles again. Leaving Logan alone on the bank.

She was right — there was no point risking officers’ lives searching the river in the dark. But the media were still going to crucify them for it.

He turned around, elbows and hands raised to shoulder height as he shuffled his way back to the path, doing his best to avoid brushing any of the vicious plants. Because an SOC suit might be nettle-resistant, but his fighting one most certainly wasn’t.

Soon as he was back on sting-free tarmac, Logan pulled out his phone and called Rutherford.

It rang and rang and rang and rang as he marched back towards the car, but finally the DCI’s voice slumped out of the speaker. Sounding about as full of life as a baked jobbie. ‘Logan?’

‘Still no sign of MacGarioch?’

A cough. ‘He’s not washed up, yet?’

‘Going to be dark soon. And the river’s swollen. And I’d rather not fill in six tonnes of paperwork because we got one of the search team drowned.’

Rutherford gave a little snort. ‘You want paperwork? This protest march I’ve inherited from Hardie is an utter buggerfest. Bad enough when it was just hand-knitted lefties campaigning against climate change, but now I’ve got a bunch of far-right prickwanks holding an anti-migrant rally too. And both lots of bastards want to do it right down the middle of Union Street!’ A fit of coughing rattled down the phone. Followed by some heavy breathing. Then: ‘You got any idea how much paperwork that generates?’

‘Not a competition, Guv.’

There was a groan, then more coughing. ‘Sorry. Been one of those days.’ Poor sod sounded as if he was about ready for a post mortem. ‘Speaking of which: how long you been on for?’

Logan checked his watch. ‘Since half six.’

‘Look, we don’t need you for Morning Prayers tomorrow. Have a long lie; just make sure you’re in for nine, all right?’ The call went silent for a moment, then an almighty barrage of coughs blasted in Logan’s ear, going on and on and on — the salvo finishing with a wheezing whimper.

‘You OK?’

Nothing from the other end.

Logan kept walking, following the river upstream towards the car park. ‘Guv?’

Nope.

He turned around, peering back towards the search team — just visible in the distance, their outlines growing indistinct in the dying light.

‘Guv, are you OK?’

‘Have to be, don’t I.’ A pained sigh. ‘Consider yourself off duty, Inspector. Nine sharp tomorrow morning! We’re going to noise-up everyone MacGarioch’s ever met.’

Thank God for that: time to go home.

Logan let himself in through the front door, closed and locked it behind him. Sagged there for a moment, until the siren scent of his fresh fish supper dragged him upright again. Crisply rustling in its cardboard box, with ‘WEE JIMMY SWANKY’S ~ CHIPPER TO THE STARS’ printed on the top and ‘SCOTLAND’S REAL NATIONAL DISH!’ on every side.

Dark in here.

He clicked on the lights.

Sighed.

Picked the little pair of red Paddington wellies off the floor and put them in the rack with all the other shoes, boots, and trainers. Slipped out of his fighting-suit jacket and hung it up with everyone’s coats.

Because to hell with laying it by upstairs. Not when there were hot chips needing eaten.

‘Hello?’

No reply.

But familiar music thrummed out through the living-room door. Sinister and... scuttley. Which could only mean one thing.

He grimaced. Braced himself. And crept inside.

They’d closed all the curtains, shutting out the twilight, so they could bathe in the well-worn creepy glow of Witchfire on DVD. Even though, strictly speaking, the film was in no way age-appropriate for a six-year-old. Especially the ‘spiders’ scene — currently scurrying its way across the TV — which always gave Logan the willies.

Apart from that, it was a nice room: painted a cheerful yellow, with three well-stuffed bookcases, a coffee table littered with toys and magazines, and a couple of red velvety couches. One of which was occupied by The Stinkers.

Tara had taken the centre spot, sagging back with her head on a couch pillow, eyes closed, glasses squint, gob open. Looking unnaturally pale in the flickering spidery light — freckles standing out against her heart-shaped face. Strong jaw. Long, wavy, dark-red hair.

She had a book open in her lap, and a small child snuggled into her side — also asleep with the gob hanging open. It wasn’t the only thing she’d inherited from her mother. She had the same red hair and freckles, but those were definitely her daddy’s ears.

Poor wee sod.

That soppy warm fuzziness ballooned in his chest, making his wizened old heart tingle as if Tara and Elizabeth had just poured space dust all over it. And all they were doing was sitting there, snoozing it up as the film got to the really horrible bit.

Gah...

Logan grabbed the remote and killed the TV.

Of course, what he really should do is wake them up. Send them both off to do their teeth and go to bed. But they looked so peaceful.

Plus, if they were awake, they’d lay siege to his chips.

And as the great Greek philosopher Aristotle said in his fourth-century-BC treatise, Nicomachean Ethics: sod that.

Because blood might be thicker than water, but chips were thicker than both.

Twelve

Bastard.

Andrew dumped another chunk of bush into the incinerator — leaves crackling and hissing as the flames took hold. It was just one of those cheapies Asda sold from time to time: a galvanised bin with wee feet on it and holes drilled along the sides. But it did the job.

And the garden looked a lot better than it had when he’d woken up this morning. Seething.

Fucking DS Fucking Davis.

Who the hell did he think he was, making Andrew wet himself? Like he was a wee boy, back in primary six, and the bullies pinned him to the playground wall...

Bastard was lucky Andrew didn’t Release The Beast and pound the living crap out of him, right there in the kid’s bedroom. Cop or not.

Yeah...

He could’ve totally taken Davis.

Wouldn’t even have been close.

Another branch met the fire.

It was only a wee garden, round the back of their wee house, in a wee forgotten corner of Dyce, but it’d turned into a jungle these last couple of years. Well overdue a good clear-out.

At least now you could see the view — what there was of it, at this time of night — a smear of grey field with the lights of Bucksburn twinkling in the middle distance, through the trees. And up above, a sea of deep, deep indigo blue, speckled with cold indifferent stars.

The moon glared out, from just above the horizon. Septic and angry. Swollen and mocking. Because DS Davis made him piss himself.

Andrew snarled another chunk of garden into the incinerator, jamming it down, making angry orange sparks swarm into the air. Spiralling off into the night.

One caught the back of his hand, landing on the raw patch where he’d skinned his knuckles hacking branches off that stupid hedge. Stinging like a burning wasp.

‘Fucking... fuck!’ Sticking the knuckle in his mouth and sucking on the broken skin. Tasting hot iron and bitter smoke.

Should call the cops on the bastard, that’s what. Dial one of those anonymous tip-off lines and tell them all about what DS Davis did to that poor woman.

Yeah, but Davis was the cops, remember?

Who were they going to believe — their detective-sergeant buddy, or Andrew: a normal, decent, hardworking bloke?

Course they wouldn’t believe him.

They’d fit him up, just like every other poor—

‘Andy?’

He forced his face into a smile, and turned. ‘Hey, Mum.’

She shuffled out of the kitchen door, carrying a steaming mug of something. Wearing baggy jeans and a cheery-pink sweatshirt with ‘ARBROATH THIRTEEN TWENTY’ embroidered across it. Her thinning hair kept in an unflattering bob, even though he’d begged her to let him cut it properly. Because it wasn’t too much trouble. And he really did know what he was doing.

Wouldn’t let him sneak a few vials of Botox from the salon for her either. But why should a woman her age look thirty years older than she really was?

Mum handed him the mug, then beamed out at the garden. ‘Ooh, it’s lovely, Andy.’

‘It’s a start, anyway.’

‘Don’t be much longer, though. Can’t have you catching your death out here.’

On a night as hot and clammy as a tramp’s armpit?

‘It’s OK. Got the fire to keep me toasty, the smoke to keep the midges away, and you to keep me topped up with tea.’ He took a sip. ‘Mmmm, delicious. Lovely, thanks.’

‘Oh, really...’ Mum frowned at him, brushing a couple of leaves off his Mr McPork T-shirt. ‘What are you wearing that scruffy old thing for?’

He looked down at the pig mascot, with its butcher’s cleaver and ‘I’VE GOT SOME MEAT FOR YOU, BABY’ — the print all cracked and faded. ‘I’m only gardening.’

‘It’s full of holes.’ She gazed up into his eyes, like he was the most precious thing in the whole stinking world. ‘Maybe I should get you a sweater?’

Christ no.

‘Won’t be long, Mum. Promise. Just want to get this all tidied away, and maybe we can have breakfast on the patio tomorrow? I can make pancakes, if you like. Pretend we’re on holiday?’

She stood on her tippytoes and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re a good boy, looking after your old mum.’

Yeah, he was.

And that’s when the KL919 decided to spoil the mood — lighting up the sky as it came in to land at Aberdeen Airport. Its flight path didn’t take it right over the house, but the big Embraer ERJ-190 twin-jet roared over the field on the other side of the garden wall. Getting lower and lower, wheels down, ready to land. A huge blue-and-white carrion crow.

Mum’s face darkened, shooting her fist into the air with the first two fingers extended. Bellowing it out against the engines’ whine: ‘FUCK OFF BACK TO AMSTERDAM, YOU HERRING-MUNCHING DUTCH BASTARDS!’

But the pilot didn’t — they never did — he just carried on with his final descent, over the airport fence, and onto the runway.

As soon as the plane was gone, the thunder faded from Mum’s eyes. She reached up and patted Andrew’s cheek. ‘Don’t be too late.’ Then off she shuffled. A fifty-year-old woman in an eighty-year-old’s body.

How was that fair?

He waited till she was safely inside, with the door shut, before grabbing the old metal pole and ramming it into the fire. Yanking it round and round, stirring the burning sticks, sending a swarm of sparks leaping into the tacky air. Going round and round. Whipping it up. Heat building and building. Till the whole world blazed around him...

Then he fetched the bin-bag from under the patio table.

Opened it and pulled out a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal, Aberdeen Examiner, and the latest Evening Express as well. All three papers rumpled and creased where he’d been through them twice — reading and rereading every article, just to be sure.

Not one of them even mentioned Natasha Agapova.

Andrew tossed them into the incinerator, feeding the flames.

Then dipped back into the bin-bag for the two pairs of fancy panties and the lacy bra. They went into the fire, then the dirty stocking.

Quick look left and right to make sure no one was watching, and the pants from Natasha’s washing basket got one last sniff for luck before the blaze took them.

What a waste.

Next to burn was every single thing he’d been wearing last night — from the black cargo pants and hoodie, right down to his socks and pants. Fizzling and smoking, then whoomp, they finally caught — polyester turning the smoke oily black.

Then the wee rucksack.

Only two more things in the bag.

The Knife wouldn’t burn, but a thorough spraying with bleach and it would get chucked in the river tomorrow.

Which left the most damning bit of evidence.

Andrew pulled his night-vision goggles from the bag.

Only they were, like, nearly three hundred quid.

Maybe a good going over with antibacterial wipes would do it? But there was one thing he absolutely could not keep.

He popped open the small rectangular cover on the goggles’ housing, and ejected the micro SD card hidden inside.

Because even thick bastards like DS Davis’s mates might find a recording of Andrew breaking into the victim’s home a little suspicious.

He clutched the fingernail-sized card in his fist.

What if dumping it in the incinerator wasn’t enough? Police IT guys could recover all sorts of things these days. You saw them do it on the telly all the time.

Have to record over everything a few times, first... Or download one of those file shredders off the internet.

Yeah, but the card had some of his favourite creeps on it.

That didn’t sodding matter.

The choice was ‘getting away with this’ or ‘ending up in prison for the rest of his life’.

Besides, it wasn’t like this was the end of Andrew’s creeping career, was it? Could make a new video tomorrow, if he wanted...

Yeah, but maybe one last look for old-times’ sake? Before he destroyed everything.

Andrew’s bedroom was at the back of the house, meaning he had a perfect view of the garden incinerator, smouldering away, giving off an evil orange glow.

Sitting at his childhood desk, he reached out and lowered the blinds, shutting the outside world away. Because even though it was highly sodding unlikely someone would march across the field, climb the garden wall, and scramble through the hacked-back bushes, to peer in through his bedroom window and watch him sitting here in the nip, having a wank — better safe than sorry.

It wasn’t a big bedroom, but then it wasn’t a big house.

Which is why, even though he had black satin sheets, his bed was a single. Posters for the films he’d loved growing up, lined the walls: Nanny McPhee and Kung Fu Panda rubbing shoulders with The Dark Knight and Reservoir Dogs.

To start with, he’d put Post-its over their eyes, so they couldn’t see him sitting there, all naked, bashing away, but they were used to it now.

Quick check to make sure the bedroom door was locked, and Andrew fired up the laptop he’d nicked from that woman in Danestone — the one who’d stayed out all night, instead of coming home while he hid in her wardrobe.

One of his non-good-night creeps.

But then he’d needed a new computer anyway, and you’d have to be an idiot to steal something like that from a woman you’d just given a ‘treat’.

Too much risk of being tied back to the event.

So: the blinds were down, the door locked, his clothes neatly folded and put away. He had his hand lotion and his box of tissues ready. Headphones on.

But before he gave himself a ‘treat’ — probably best to check the footage from last night. Yes, it would ruin the mood, but better to get it out of the way now, rather than leaving it hanging over him.

Deep breath.

Then Andrew clicked play.

A fancy-looking garden filled the laptop’s screen. Much bigger than the one here. Better-kept as well, because rich wankers like this always had little men to do the gardening for them, didn’t they. The scene was from above, looking down at trees and bushes and the back of the house, all rendered in a sickly shade of night-vision green.

Then Andrew jumped from the fence, into a manicured border. Freezing as the security light clacked on.

Count to ten...

And the lights clacked off again.

Soon as they did, he was on the move — hoofing-it across the lawn to the back door without setting the motion sensors off again. Because people never set this stuff up properly.

There, he dropped to one knee and a gloved hand appeared on screen, holding an Electric Pick Gun. Then an angry buzzing noise as it vibrated in the lock, and the back door swung open.

You know, probably didn’t need to see the whole thing in real time.

He clicked fast-forward and the video whizzed through the utility room to the kitchen, then into the hall — focussing for a moment on the security system. A fancy bit of kit, and expensive with it. But no sodding use if you didn’t arm the thing.

The camera whooshed around the ground floor, then swept upstairs. Mirror. Empty bedroom. Box room. Then the kid’s room. Then Natasha Agapova’s boudoir.

Andrew slowed the video for the exciting underwear rummage, then sat back, chewing on his thumb as Natasha and DS Davis arrived.

‘Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss Agapova? Natasha Agapova?’

‘Go away, I’m not in the mood.’

‘No. Sorry. Yes. But I’m with the police, see? Detective Sergeant Davis. Can I come in? I’m afraid I have some bad news.’

Did he sodding ever.

Just hearing the man’s voice was enough to make Andrew’s balls clench again. He hit mute, and watched in silence as the camera scurried down the corridor to hide in the child’s bedroom, behind the door.

Holding his breath as the footage replayed the horrible scene where DS Davis almost caught him. Not daring to exhale until the vicious bastard headed back downstairs again.

Andrew sagged in his seat, willy drooping like a little wrinkly chipolata.

Maybe it’d be better to shred everything right now? Get rid of it all. Leaving nothing behind to connect him to the house, or Natasha, or the terrifying monster with the warrant card.

Onscreen, the night-vision goggles rushed to the window, peering out between the curtains. Zooming in on DS Davis as he dragged his unconscious victim to the boot of his car.

Wait a minute...

Andrew thumped the spacebar, pausing the video.

DS Davis’s Vauxhall Astra filled the laptop’s screen, and right at the bottom of the image, clearly visible and sharp as The Knife, was the car’s number plate.

Will you look at that.

A wee smile tugged at the corner of Andrew’s face.

Maybe he didn’t have to delete the footage after all?

Maybe this video was his own personal Cashline machine, and DS Davis was the banker.

And maybe the vicious, violent bastard wasn’t so scary after all.

Because how difficult could it be to track someone down from their number plate? Pretty sure there were AI tools on the dodgier bits of the internet that would do it in seconds.

Piece of cake.

Andrew cracked his knuckles and got to work...

The moon had barely risen, just skimmed its way along the horizon. It was still swollen and baleful, but now it was beautiful too. Because the night had gold in its mouth.

Andrew sidled over to the garden incinerator and peeked inside. Nothing left but ash and some blackened rubble — all of which was getting bagged up and ditched in a roadside bin somewhere, tomorrow, while he was out getting some stuff to celebrate his newfound wealth.

Maybe pick up some prawns and steak and champagne. Hell, why not a lobster too? Live a little.

Mum would like that.

But first:

Andrew settled his bum against the patio table, grinning as he tapped away at his phone — slipping into DS Davis’s DMs on a secure messaging app, because he wasn’t an idiot.

SEND.

Perfect.

Andrew took a sip of Red Bull — as if he wasn’t fizzing enough already — and settled back to wait.

Not for long though, because the reply came dinging right back.

UNKNOWN:

Oh really?

His thumbs flew across the screen.

Didn’t take more than a couple of seconds to bring up a still of DS Davis dragging Natasha out to the kerb, with a lovely view of the bastard’s face.

SEND.

And off it went, scurrying through the aether, like a bubonic rat. Bringing the plague to DS Davis’s life.

This time the reply took a lot longer.

Andrew saved the contact into his phone, giving it an inconspicuous name to avoid suspicion.

Ding.

There we go.

SEND.

Ding.

MURDERING BASTARD:

Maybe best not to give the bastard time to plot and plan.

SEND.

Well, they’d follow soon as Andrew had figured out what they were. But arranging an anonymous ransom drop had to be fairly straightforward — happened all the time in films.

Bound to be websites telling you how to do it, if you knew where to look.

Because Andrew wasn’t an idiot — after what DS Davis did to Natasha Agapova? He was taking zero risks.

Ding.

MURDERING BASTARD:

Sorry, mate.

SEND.

Out in the field, a dark, pointy shape turned into a fox, bounding through the hip-high barley, on its way towards the airport.

It paused, nose up, as if catching a whiff of just how all-conquering and impressive Andrew was.

He toasted the fox with the can of Red Bull, one predator to another.

Still nothing back from Davis.

Off in the distance, a door opened, letting a bass-pounding thump of music out, then clunked shut, leaving nothing but silence behind.

Andrew checked his phone.

Five minutes and counting.

Maybe he’d over-egged it, and twenty minutes wasn’t enough time to get that kind of cash together? Not like the banks were open, was it? And you could only take out a few hundred at a cash machine.

Yeah, this might’ve been a mistake.

Should send Davis another DM, telling him tomorrow would be—

Ding.

MURDERING BASTARD:

Oh yeah.

Andrew threw his head back and howled at the moon.

Out in the field, the fox hunkered down, disappearing into the barley, then sprinted away, leaving the stalks shivering in its wake.

DS Davis was now officially screwed, and soon as Andrew had finished bleeding him dry, he’d turn the bastard in — cos the cops couldn’t cover for him with the whole thing on video.

Or even better: bleed Davis dry, then sell the film to the papers. Get one last payday. And then the cops wouldn’t have a choice. No way they could cover this up with Davis’s face splashed all over the Daily Mail, or The Sun.

Ha!

Turned out Andrew’s visit to Natasha’s house hadn’t been such a disaster after all...