This House of Burning Bones

13

Something went ‘Gnnnnnnnnnnnnn!’... ‘Gnnnnnnnnnnnnn!’ in the darkness. Then David Bowie barged into Logan’s bedroom and tried to radio an astronaut.

Urgh...

Logan cracked open one eye and squinted up at the ceiling. Blinked a few times. Smacked his lips, because apparently the Jobbie Fairy had paid his mouth a visit sometime during the night. Shame it hadn’t tidied up before leaving, because the room was a bit of a mess: hardback books piled up by the chest of drawers, clothes piled up on the wicker chair in the corner, shoeboxes and assorted gubbins piled up on top of the freestanding wardrobes, and seventy-five percent of the duvet piled up on top of Tara. Because she was a thieving sod.

Leaving all of Logan’s naked bits on show.

The curtains were drawn, but bright light spilled in around the edges, making the walls glow a cheery yellow.

And still ‘Space Oddity’ wibbled on.

God’s sake.

Logan’s hand quested across his bedside cabinet, past the lamp and the alarm-clock radio, to grab the mobile phone making all the racket. Stabbing the button with his thumb. ‘What?’

Silence.

Then a wee whispery voice: ‘Sarge? It’s Tufty. Erm... Where are you?’

‘About to jam a cactus up your Large Hadron Collider!’ Glowering at the clock. ‘It’s five past seven!’

‘Yeah. And Morning Prayers start at seven, and you’re—’

‘Having a long lie!’

At which point, Tara rolled over, peering out from Fort Duvet, nose all wrinkled, mouth pinched tight, hair frizzing every-which-way like a ruptured gonk. ‘Don’t make me kill someone!’

‘It’s bloody Tufty.’ Back to the phone. ‘What — do — you — want?’

‘Only DCI Rutherford’s a no-show and we’re all kinda twiddling our thumbs, wondering what we’re meant to do today. You know: Operation Iowa?’

Wonderful.

No prizes for guessing why Rutherford hadn’t turned up this morning. After all that coughing yesterday? The bugger was off sick.

‘I thought maybe The Princess Of Darkness would take charge, but she does has a feet up on the table and reading the paper. Oh and a scratching under the bra.’

Logan scrunched his eyes shut again. ‘Who else is there?’

‘We’ve got Harmsworth, and Lund, and Barrett, and—’

‘Senior officers, you corrugated Fraggle. Anyone over the rank of sergeant?’

A wee fuzzy monster hopped up onto the end of the bed, big floofy tail pluming in the air as she padded along the sliver of duvet Tara hadn’t annexed yet. Cthulhu clambered onto Logan’s scar-scrambled stomach. Pausing to blink at him with lovely amber eyes. Before tiptoeing across his chest and headbutting his chin. Purring all the way.

‘Oh, I see... No. It’s like a haunted pirate ship here this morning. Arrrrrrr... Avast, me absent hearties!’

Cthulhu rubbed her cheek against Logan’s phone, claiming it as her own, then gnawed at his wrist to make him put down her property. And those cat teeth were sharp.

‘Ow! You little horror...’

Tufty’s voice drooped. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

‘No, not...’ Logan swapped his phone to the other hand — out of biting range — and ruffled the fluff between Cthulhu’s ears.

More purring.

Suppose there was no point pretending this would all go away: someone had to take charge.

He let a big sigh rattle free. ‘Better put her on: The Evil Empress Of Poopland.’

‘Thanks, Sarge.’ There was a scrunching noise, and Tufty went all muffled. ‘Sarge? It’s the sarge, for you.’

Steel groaned in the background. ‘Oh aye? What’s that lazy buntfumper want now?’

‘He’s in bed.’

‘Give.’ More scrunching, then Steel came through loud and sleazy. ‘You having a breakfast knee-trembler, and need some advice how to satisfy Ginger McHotpants, there?’

‘Where’s DCI McCulloch?’

‘I generally find nibbling the inside of a thigh to be a good starting point, especially if—’

‘McCulloch: where is he?’

‘What am I, his mum?’ Something on her end went hisssssss, then whooomph. Which probably meant she was puffing away on that stupid vape again. ‘Got to say, it’s pretty unprofessional: skiving off Morning Prayers for whatever squelchy deviance you heterosexuals get up to of a morning. Some of us have been here for hours.’

Cthulhu jumped down from his chest and did a bit of cat yoga — showing everyone her bumhole in Downward Dog.

Logan swung his legs out of bed, then sat there, yawning. Ratcheting the heel of his free hand into one eye socket. ‘Get someone round Rutherford’s house and make sure he’s OK. Then I want everyone doing something useful: search teams back out there; door-to-doors in Bridge of Don, Tillydrone and Hillhead; and someone needs to canvass every A-and-E and minor-injuries unit in the northeast. See if Charles MacGarioch’s turned up looking for treatment.’ He blinked at the bedside clock — 07:08 — then yawned again. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen.’

‘Yes, your Majesty, three bags full.’ Hisssssss... whooomph. ‘Anything else? Want me to polish your bumhole while I’m at it?’

‘And no vaping in the office!’

He hung up and sagged for a moment.

Before hauling his naked, unpolished, arse out of bed.

Nearly half an hour later, Logan marched into the office, with a takeaway coffee in one hand and a rowie in the other.

Tufty had been right — it was like a ghost ship in here, only with fewer parrots and no rum. And more in the way of desks and cubicles and whiteboards and filing cabinets and office chairs. So maybe not quite so piratey after all.

A small knot of support staff crewed the phones and HOLMES suite, but one of them sounded as if she was trying to expel a lung. But that was it as far as the dayshift was concerned. Everyone else was out.

Logan picked his way between the desks to the corner where DCI Rutherford and his team usually sat — the snotty heart of Operation Iowa.

No one there, of course.

He took a bite of rowie, chewing on salty-fatty-stodgy goodness as he picked through Rutherford’s in-box. Which seemed to be the usual depressing mix of memos and circulars and reports and—

‘DI McRae.’ A hard voice, right behind him. Pronouncing his name like some form of venereal disease.

Logan turned, nice and slow, not making any sudden movements, and there was Chief Superintendent Pine with her arms folded, and jaw set. Eyes pinched.

Oh joy.

He swallowed. ‘Boss.’

She made a big thing of checking the office clock. ‘Morning Prayers?’

‘DCI Rutherford told me to skip them and come in at nine. It’d been a long day.’

‘I see.’ Pine unfolded her arms as a bit of the chill seeped away. But only a bit. ‘We need a result on this one by close of play, Logan.’

You never knew your luck.

‘Do our best, ma-am.’

‘Especially after yesterday’s fiasco.’ She jerked her head towards Rutherford’s desk. ‘I take it you’ve seen the papers?’

A copy of the Aberdeen Examiner sat in front of the monitor, unfolded so the front page was on full view: ‘SUNDAE DRIVER IN CITY CENTRE CAR CHASE CARNAGE’ with a big photo of Mr FreezyWhip being hauled out of the river by that crane. Then two small pics from someone’s mobile phone showing the chase, and a map illustrating the route.

Logan puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well... I’d hardly call Tillydrone the “city centre”, but—’

‘You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve arranged for another eight officers to join us from P and Q Divisions — for the protest this weekend.’ Parking her bum against the desk and smiling at him as if they were the best of chums.

Which was suspicious.

‘Will I?’ He pulled his chin in. ‘In a general sense or...?’

‘With Rutherford off on the sick, I’ll need someone to take the reins.’

Aristotle strikes again.

‘Yeah... With respect, Boss, that kind of public-order operation is way above my pay grade, so—’

‘You’ll be equally pleased to hear that you’re now officially acting up: Detective Chief Inspector McRae.’

Oh God, it got worse.

He forced a smile. ‘I see.’

‘Given the rate of attrition round here, you’d better select a couple of acting DIs as well. Delegation is the key to a healthy work — life balance, after all.’

And worse.

He tried not to wince, he really did. ‘Ma-am.’

Her voice softened. ‘I know. But what choice do we have? I’m trying to find us more officers, but everyone’s got the same problem. And while I’d love to issue a statement asking members of the public to stop breaking the law till we’re all feeling better, I worry the criminal element might take that as an invitation to go on a spree.’ Pine gave his fighting suit the once-over with a critical eye. ‘Which reminds me — I want everyone in uniform till the staffing crisis is over. Let’s at least pretend we’ve got more officers out there than we do.’ Pointing. ‘That includes you and your team.’

And even worse again.

‘Ma-am.’

‘Excellent.’ She hopped down from the desk. ‘Now, I’m away to bully Dumfries-and-Galloway into giving us a few bodies. Till then, try to find Charles Sodding MacGarioch.’ And away she marched. ‘And for Christ’s sake, don’t let anyone else get sick!’

He waited till she was gone, before folding over, covering his face with his hands, and boinking his head off the desk.

Should’ve stayed in bloody bed...

Abandoning DCI Rutherford’s plague pit of bad news and extra responsibility, Logan sat at his own desk, with his own cartoons and holiday-planner pinned to his cubicle walls, and a photo of Tara and Elizabeth in a wee Lego frame, and mountains and mountains of paperwork — liberated from Rutherford’s so-called filing system.

Only instead of working his way diligently through it, like a responsible acting detective chief inspector, Logan was frowning away at that copy of the Aberdeen Examiner Pine had been nodding at.

Which wasn’t exactly making his morning any happier.

A familiar voice gravelled its way over the cubicle wall. ‘Oh aye? This what they call working now, is it?’ Steel.

Logan didn’t bother looking up, just turned the page. ‘It is when they’re writing about my case, yes.’

In addition to that horrible front page, the Examiner had devoted an entire centre-page spread to ‘ARE OUR COPS OUT OF CONTROL?’ with a photo of the police van being towed away from yesterday’s crash site, and a blurred snap of Mr FreezyWhip swerving to avoid the kids on bikes.

Another section screamed ‘POLICE PURSUIT “COULD HAVE KILLED US” SAY PANICKED PENSIONERS’ above a group-shot of the oldies in their tinfoil blankets.

While a third went with, ‘“INNOCENT BOY” HUNTED BY “CRUEL COPS” CLAIMS GRANDMOTHER’ featuring a picture of Charles MacGarioch, standing outside the flat on Gort Lane, with his arm around his much smaller nan.

Which was such a load of bollocks.

Steel peered at the article, lip curled like she’d accidentally eaten something nasty. ‘Surprised they ID’d the racist wee shite.’

‘Hard not to — every bugger for three miles saw us chasing him.’

Logan turned the page.

And there, nestled between articles on a council scandal and a local ‘business tycoon’ being done for historical sex offences, was ‘POLICE APPEAL FOR HELP FINDING MISSING TEENAGER’. And there was Charles MacGarioch again, this time looking angelic in his school uniform.

The text that went with it didn’t help.

Logan gave the paper a wee shake, then read out loud: ‘“The popular teenager from Tillydrone, who regularly volunteers at his local foodbank,” of course he sodding does, “took a job at Gillmore’s Fish and Chips, on Tillydrone Avenue, to support his disabled grandmother after her benefits were cruelly cut during the first round of austerity...”’ A snort. ‘He sets fire to a hotel with people in it, and they’re trying to make out he’s some sort of Mother Teresa! They’re going to look bloody silly when we charge the bastard.’

Steel snatched the paper from Logan’s hands, elbows propped on the cubicle wall as she skimmed it. ‘So, tell them. Put out a statement — “Dear Journalist Morons: Charles MacGarioch is a rancid, bigoted, arsonist pish-wank, who tried to murder a bunch of asylum seekers. Stop chrome-plating his bumhole and tell the sodding truth for a change, you pricks.”’

He tried to grab the paper back. ‘Have you not got work to do?’

But she danced backwards clear of his hands. ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Still reading. ‘I hear Chief Soupy Perky-Pine wants a couple of acting DIs.’ Steel gazed nobly at the ceiling. ‘Just saying: while I do not seek office, if my country needs me, I am prepared to put my personal wishes aside and accept this great responsibility.’

Bet she was. It...

Hang on.

‘How did you know? Only told me five minutes ago.’

‘I have my sources.’ Smiling like a Cheshire cat full of cream. And sparrows.

‘Good for you.’ Logan gathered up a bunch of Rutherford’s Operation Iowa files and plonked them on the paper in Steel’s hands. ‘Meanwhile: you can go through the HOLMES actions and get some of your lazy buggers to start ticking them off.’ Then made himself scarce, before she could say anything...

14

The path scrunched beneath Logan’s shoes, and he descended through the woods towards the riverbank. Air gritty with the scent of wild garlic that had gone past its best. That slightly sour taste lingering with every breath.

Surprised the students hadn’t smoked it all, to be honest.

Kids these days, with their clean living and learning things...

The River Don had calmed down a bit since yesterday and entered its meandering phase, coiling like a glistening intestine around the Hillhead halls of residence. Couldn’t see the accommodation blocks from down here, but someone was blasting rap music through an open window, somewhere above. Which was a bit of a shock, seeing as it was only five past eight on a Wednesday morning. Surely most of the buggers would be fast asleep till noon?

And yes, that was a terrible stereotype, but sod them. If Logan had to be up at sparrow’s-fart o’clock, why should anyone else get a long lie?

Up ahead, four SOC-suited figures picked their way along the water’s edge, poking away with their poking sticks. Surrounded by clouds of glowing midges as sunlight poured like chip fat through gaps in the tree canopy. Making everything sizzle and wilt.

The river was only a stone’s throw across at this point, and DS Marshall’s team searched the opposite bank. Their SOC suits shining uncomfortably bright.

Blinking after the relative shade of the woods, Logan stepped into the deep-fried light, off the path and down onto a teeny-tiny beach — just about big enough for a single person to lie on. As long as they didn’t mind their towel getting wet.

Both teams searched on, completely ignoring him.

‘Hello?’

Everyone looked up, but only one of them waded out of the shallows, and onto the tiny beach.

Doreen peeled back her hood and unhooked one side of her mask, letting it dangle free from her other ear. Face all red and drippy. ‘Please tell me you found the scumbag, and we can stop looking.’ She lowered the suit’s zip, exposing pasty-white sweaty skin and a cast-iron sports bra. ‘Only been at it half an hour, and my Smurf suit’s like a fish tank.’ Flapping the open side of it to cool down. ‘And where’s this flipping drone from Tayside we were promised?’

Good question.

Logan scanned the riverbank. ‘MacGarioch must’ve clambered out somewhere.’

‘Gah...’ More flapping. ‘I’m seriously considering “accidentally” falling in, for a cool down.’

‘You hear about Rutherford?’

‘Off on the sick? Lucky sod.’

‘Which means I’m now, officially, acting up.’

She gave him a sympathetic grimace.

Time to spread the love. ‘So, by the powers vested in me, I hereby anoint you: Acting Detective Inspector Taylor.’ Logan made the sign of the cross. ‘God bless you and all who sail in you.’ Then hooked a thumb across the river. ‘Biohazard too.’

But instead of groaning and complaining, Doreen actually smiled. Stood up a little taller. ‘Does that mean I can ditch the search?’

‘Nope.’ Pointing at her team. ‘You’re down one body already. Can’t afford to lose anyone else.’

And the smile turned into a grimace again. ‘How am I supposed to Detective Inspector things if I’m stuck in a sweat-soggy Tyvek onesie with squelchy wellies? This is—’

‘HOY! OVER HERE!’

They both turned, and there was DS Marshall’s team, jumping up and down on the other side of the river, waving their arms about like idiots.

‘WHAT?’

Doreen’s Airwave gave three bleeps. She dug the sweaty handset from her SOC suit and pressed the button. ‘Safe to talk.’

DS Marshall’s voice crackled out of the speaker. ‘Think you owe me a pint; we’ve got something.’

Hallelujah.

She flashed a grin at Logan, then lowered the handset for a bit of old-school shouting across the water instead. ‘BIOHAZARD: I COULD KISS YOU!’ Going much quieter for, ‘If you weren’t so ugly. And farty. And Bob-like.’

Logan waded his way through the waist-deep undergrowth on the other side of the river, doing his chicken-wings impersonation again to keep his hands away from anything stingy, scratchy, or covered in yuck.

The bank was a lot steeper over here too, meaning every step carried the risk of a humiliating and painful plummet into the river below.

He navigated his way downhill, step by careful step, towards the clump of excited SOC suits.

Doreen’s team stood about on the opposite bank, watching and waiting. And, more importantly, not doing anything.

Logan shoved his way through a clump of particularly amorous brambles and staggered to a halt, two inches away from pitching head-first into the river.

Detective Sergeant Robert Marshall, AKA: Biohazard Bob, was waiting for him. A thick-set bloke with big, sticky-out, taxi-door ears; a massive bald patch; and a furrowed monobrow; all perched on an unsolved-Rubik’s-Cube head.

Like Doreen, he’d unzipped his SOC suit to the waist, only instead of a sports bra he’d opted for a T-shirt. ‘TIMMY & THE TIMEONAUTS ~ DUCKING ABOUT IN SPACE AND TIME’ with his nips clearly visible through the soggy white material. A sniff. ‘Took your time.’

‘Bloody right I did: got no intention of going for a sploosh for your entertainment.’ Logan scanned the slippery riverbank. ‘What you got?’

‘Over here.’ He led the way to a cluster of rocks and dead branches that reached about seven feet out into the water.

It looked a bit like a half-arsed beavers’ dam, made of crud washed downstream on the swollen river. A flash of bright-red-and-white leather glimmered at the far end, caught on a branch. There was more of it submerged below — but the silt-stirred water blurred the outline, making anything more than six inches beneath the surface fade from view.

One of Biohazard’s team stood on the bank, clickity-clacking away with a large digital camera. Recording the scene.

Logan frowned out at the dam. ‘Body?’

‘’Bout to find out.’ He jerked his thumb towards the patch of mystery leather. ‘You want to?’

Maybe yes, maybe no.

‘Should really get Scenes down here first: tape off the area, common approach path, organise a diving team, health-and-safety audit, hazard report, risk-analysis briefing...’

‘By which time it’ll be half-past next Friday.’

And it might not even be anything.

Given how short they were on people and resources, doubt the Chief Super would be pleased if he wasted hundreds of man-hours on a red-and-white-leather herring.

Logan nodded. ‘Give us your wellies.’

He wobbled his way along the accidental beavers’ dam, arms out for balance, shirtsleeves rolled up, borrowed wellies on his feet, nitrile gloves on his hands, and that huge digital camera slung around his neck. Gritting his teeth, because the chunks of branch and bits of stick were not exactly stable.

Both teams watched him from their own side of the river, no doubt praying for Logan to fall in. Because people were bastards.

Halfway along, and they were going to get their wish, because the branch beneath his boot gave a rice-crispy bout of snap-crackle-and-pop, bits crumbling off it as it rolled out from under him, leaving Logan stumbling forward, arms cartwheeling, camera dragging him down. Then crash and splash as the branch hit and floated off downstream.

One of Biohazard’s team waved at him. ‘Watch the camera! Watch the camera!’

Sod the bloody camera.

Logan stumbled headlong, grabbing at random sticks and lumps of wood and... thump. His knee hit a rock, stinging like an absolute wanker. But it was enough to stop him following the branch into the Don.

He stayed where he was, eyes closed, breath hissing between clenched teeth. ‘Stupid, bloody, idiotic...’ Ow. He gave it a count of five.

Doreen’s voice wafted across the river. ‘You OK?’

‘Of course I’m not O-sodding-K!’ He struggled into a bent-back crouch, glowering at that stupid chunk of traitorous leather. Muttering away to himself as he inched along the rickety dam. ‘Bet it’s not even him. Bet it’s just a... seat cushion or some shite...’ Going much slower now, testing every foothold before trusting his weight on it.

All the way to the far end.

OK.

Wedging his wellies in place, Logan switched on the camera and clacked-off half a dozen shots. Zooming in on the red-and-white patch, visible through the silty water.

This time it was Biohazard’s turn, using his hands as loudhailers: ‘SEE ANYTHING?’

‘Give us a bloody chance!’

If they thought this was so sodding easy, they should come out here and try it themselves.

Logan squatted down as far as possible, one welly jammed against a weed-slimy rock, just beneath the surface, the other into the gap between two branches. And reached...

And reached...

And stretched...

And was going for a swim in the river, wasn’t he. Ruining a perfectly good fighting suit and digital camera along the way...

And finally, his fingertips latch onto the leather whatever-it-was.

Thank Christ for that.

He pulled, but nothing happened.

Oh, come on.

He tightened his grip, hauling and heaving, then tugging and jerking, then straining and swearing, bracing himself as best he could against the wobbly branches and slimy rock, and really yanking the bloody thing towards him. Until the whole thing wrenched free in a gunfire crackle of snapping twigs and splintering wood and Logan nearly went in the river again.

There was a whoosh of water, spattering out of the red-and-white leather as it burst into the air. The thing had sleeves, so definitely not a seat cushion — a jacket, identical to the one Charles MacGarioch was wearing when he jumped out his bedroom window.

Biohazard tutted. ‘Is that it?’

A chorus of moans and whinges rose from the search teams on both sides of the river.

Not sure if they were disappointed because there wasn’t a body attached, or because Logan wasn’t currently floating downstream towards the North Sea.

Logan leaned forward again, still holding the jacket in one hand as he stared into the underwater hole it had occupied.

No body lurking there, either.

Sod.

Logan shuffled around in his hunched-over crouch, and picked his way back along the dam to the shore, where he tossed the jacket to Biohazard.

‘Gah...!’ He caught it, but the thing was still piddling water, so Biohazard had to dance backwards, scooting uphill and holding the thing out at arm’s length to keep his socks dry. Because that’s what happens when you’ve lent your wellington boots to someone. ‘Did you have to?’

‘Yup.’ While it was hanging there, Logan searched the jacket’s pockets: one waterlogged mobile phone; one pack-of-three, fruit-flavoured, ribbed-for-her-pleasure, go-longer-numbing-gel condoms; one ruined 20-pack of cigarettes; and one set of car keys, with a plastic 99-cone key ring that looked an awful lot like the one on top of Mr FreezyWhip.

He held up the keys, jiggling them so they sparkled. ‘And you definitely didn’t find any sign of him getting out further upstream?’

‘Naw. You’d leave signs, wouldn’t you?’ Biohazard glanced up the bank. ‘Footprints in the mud, crushed vegetation, wading through the long grass... Stuff like that.’

‘Then MacGarioch’s still alive.’

Biohazard turned and waved at one of his team — anonymous in their SOC suit and mask. ‘Bernie: chuck us a big evidence bag. Waterproof.’ Then back to Logan. ‘And how do you deduce that, Oh Great One?’

Logan jiggled the keys again. ‘He took these out of the van’s ignition and stuck them in his pocket on the way downstream. You don’t do that if you’re drowning.’ Watching as the jacket was bagged-up. ‘He planked his leathers here, because a bright-red-and-white jacket’s going to stick out like an infected toe. And Charles MacGarioch wants to stay as invisible as possible.’

Logan held out the keys and Bernie bagged those too. ‘Keep looking. He clambered ashore somewhere between here and the sea — and if we’re lucky, someone saw him.’

Biohazard seemed to think about that for a minute, then rolled his eyes. ‘Fine. But I want my wellies back!’

xv

Didn’t matter how much sunshine there was, an industrial estate was an industrial estate was an industrial estate. Or, in layman’s terms: the view was shite.

Colin Miller (56) shoved his way out of the newsroom and strutted down the corridor, rocking a dark-blue linen suit today. Grey shirt. Orange tie. Because real men weren’t afraid of a little colour. No portfolio of stories clutched under his arm this time — nah, Mr Ring Binder had stayed home, on the desk — instead he was armed with a notepad and a mug of Colombia’s finest clutched in his stiff-fingered black-leather hands.

Aye, that’s coffee, no’ cocaine.

He turned the corner and blinked at the silly bastard sat on his arse outside the editor’s office. Again.

Louis from the Art Department (26), wearing the same stripy jumper, sneakers, and Poundland jeans as yesterday. Complete with his collection of mountboards.

Still, at least he hadn’t pished himself.

Colin made for the door marked ‘LEGAL’, cos the buggers got all gastrointestinal when he published anything that might get the paper sued. ‘Hoy, Louis: you better no’ still be here from last night.’

The beardy wee shite jerked upright in his seat, swivelling around. ‘Erm... No?’

Aye...

Colin abandoned Legal for a minute, and marched up to the editor’s door instead. Gave it a wee knock. Wiggled the handle — locked. Then a proper thump with the side of his fist, putting a bit of welly into it. ‘WAKEY-WAKEY!’ Really pounding on it now. ‘POOR LOUIS NEEDS A SLASH!’

Poor Louis jumped to his feet. ‘Don’t tell her that!’

Daft bastard.

‘IS IT OK IF HE DOES IT OUT HERE, OR WOULD YOU RATHER HE PISSES THROUGH YOUR KEYHOLE?’

‘God’s sake, Colin!’

A grin. Abandoning the performance to lean back against her door instead. ‘Relax: she’s no’ in, yet.’ Nodding at the car park. ‘Her Majesty’s Porsche still hasnae arrived.’

‘Oh...’ Louis sank into his seat again.

‘See that’s the problem with editors today: nae work ethic. Aye, they’re stuffed up the bahookie with management-speak and buzzword-salad, but see doing some actual work? There’s no’ a single one of the buggers knows a “mutton” from a “nut” or an “orphan” from a “running turn”.’

Cluelessness radiated off the useless fud. ‘Sorry?’

‘Have youse even tried calling her at home? Maybe asking nicely if she’s planning on gracing us with her presence any time before the next ice age?’

‘Oh...’

Course he hadn’t.

No wonder the whole Newspaper Industry was going down the crapper — naebody had a sodding clue.

‘Away with you!’ Colin pointed off down the corridor. ‘The great Natasha Agapova isnae in; go design us something better than a right-wing shite-rag knock-off, ya stripy wee fanny.’

Pink riding high in his cheeks, Louis got to his sneakered feet and shuffled off, with many a backward look. Cos the boy was about as cool as a bucket of burning jobbies.

Colin gave him a wee wave, then, soon as Louis was gone, rolled his eyes and knocked on Legal’s door.

Kids today...

16

‘...to tell us all about her new book, PC Munro and the Beekeeper’s Crypt, which is a great read if you’re the kind of person who likes books...’

‘Grandholm Drive’ always sounded so much grander than it really was. Probably because it had the word ‘grand’, right there in the title. But it didn’t have fancy houses, or imposing buildings, or buildings of any kind — just trees and scrub and weeds, either side of the patched tarmac.

Which was just as well, because technically Logan was committing an offence under Section 3 of the Road Traffic Act 1988, by holding a printout against the steering wheel while driving. Making for the bridge back into Tillydrone. Eyes flicking down to check the list of Charles MacGarioch’s known associates, complete with contact details and any recorded offences.

The question was: which one to interview first?

Visit the nearest address, then spiral outwards, or work through them alphabetically, one by one?

‘...coming up in the last twenty minutes of the show! So stick around for that.’

Off to the left, the high-rise blocks of Tillydrone poked into the air, like the pins on an upturned plug, sunlight sparkling off their windows. But according to Logan’s list, none of MacGarioch’s mates lived there.

Which was odd. You’d think he’d have made at least one local friend growing up.

‘Now, here’s a blast from the past for all you old rockers out there. It’s Twenty-Five Cartridges and their 1973 number one chart-smasher: “Lovehammer”!’

The Gordon Brae bridge appeared between the trees, its modern slab of concrete hovering above a hot-pink sea of rosebay willowherb. Some of which was still half-drowned after last week’s rains.

Power-chords whanged out of the car’s speakers, joined by a thumping drumbeat and a whirling synthesiser. Building until the singer barged in over the top, aggressive and adenoidal:

Logan’s phone triggered the car’s Bluetooth hands-free thing, cutting the song off mid-unsubtle-sexual-reference. He poked the green button. ‘Hello?’

‘Sarge? It is I: Tufty!’

Idiot.

‘Told you to stop doing that.’

A sort of pre-bridge faded into view, like a damp underpass, choked with drooping weeds. Docken and ragwort ran rampant, up and down the embankment, in swathes of sickly green and fire-bomb yellow.

‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Not sounding it in the least. ‘The Empress of Pokey Filth said you wanted someone to do the hospital rounds? I does has an results for you.’

Logan pulled up at the junction, waiting for a line of traffic to pass. ‘If you’re expecting a drum roll, you’ve called the wrong person.’

‘Oh, right.’ Some rustling noises crinkled out of the car’s speakers. ‘Well, first I thought about getting in touch with all the GP practices too — because they sometimes treat people, don’t they — but then I remembered that most don’t open till nine, so MacGarioch couldn’t—’

‘While we’re still young, Tufty.’

OK: gap in the traffic, time to pull...

It was that bloody clown car again, heading north towards Danestone, but this time the driver had another clown in the passenger seat. All done up in the full regalia, complete with bright-red honkable nose. And an expression you could sour milk with from three hundred paces.

Going by the grim-faced glares, maybe they were on their way to murder someone?

Mind you, not sure you could take hitmen seriously if they dressed like that. Suppose, with all the make-up, it’d be harder to identify who was underneath though, so it made sense from an anonymity / getting-away-with-it point of view.

But then clowns registered their ‘look’, didn’t they — there was a BBC Two documentary about it — painting their face on an egg, so no one copied it. There was even a central registry in Wookey Hole and a place in London...

The clown car ‘backfired’, letting free a wee cloud of baby-blue smoke as it puttered away up the road.

Wonder if assassin clowns would do the same? Made sense, didn’t it? Couldn’t have someone else claiming credit for your kills. Wouldn’t be sporting.

‘...asked everyone to keep their eyes to the ground and their ears peeled.’

What?

No idea what the wee loon had been wanging on about.

Logan gave himself a shake and turned left, across the pre-bridge, making for Tillydrone. ‘Sorry — lost you there. Went through a tunnel.’

‘I said, “Charles MacGarioch did not has a going to hospital.” Or, if he did, he didn’t match the description or photo I emailed out. But I asked them—’

‘To keep an eye out. I know. I heard.’

And finally it was time for the main-course bridge, spanning the swollen River Don. Silty grey water flashing like a welder’s arc in the morning glare — sharp and stinging. Logan narrowed his eyes and flipped down the sun visor.

‘Saa-aarge?’

‘Acting Detective Chief Inspector McRae, to you.’

‘That’s what I wanted to ask, Sarge. See, I know you’ve had this big promotion and you does therefore has need of: An Sidekick!’

Now that he was closer, those tower blocks looked more like stacked electronic components than an upturned plug. Part of some vast crackling impersonal machine.

Up ahead, the bridge ended at the junction where Charles MacGarioch almost smashed through those gormless boys on their bikes. The road now bore two sets of tyre marks, tattooed in black across the greying tarmac, where Mr FreezyWhip and the police van screeched around the corner and up the hill.

‘Sarge? You still there?’

‘Thought you were DS Steel’s sidekick.’

‘Please, Sarge. You know what she’s like. And I’d make a perfect Dr Watson! I could drive the car and get you coffee and be all impressed by your detective-ing.’ He swapped the wheedling whine for on an old-man doctor voice: ‘“Good grief, Chief Inspector,” I ejaculated, “how the devil did you deduce that?”’

‘Abso-sodding-lutely not.’

‘But you does has to has a sidekick: it’s the law! And—’

‘Go do something useful. Like chase up Sweeny in the Media Office — we need a press-release drafted on the search for MacGarioch before the buggers start screaming for one.’ What else? ‘And then go poke Forensic IT: I want Charles MacGarioch’s digital world gone through with a rotary cultivator. Oh, and while you’re at it: call Tayside. What’s happened to the drone operator they promised us?’ That should keep Tufty busy for a while. ‘Well? Off you trot.’

Then Logan hung up on him, before he could complain or whinge some more.

Bluetooth-connection-thingy over, the radio faded up again, on a whanging-guitar chorus:

The entrance to Gort Lane was just up ahead, and Logan nipped through a gap in the traffic onto the road where Charles MacGarioch grew up — apparently friendless. Somehow, without all the rushing about and police dogs and sirens, it looked a bit... smaller than yesterday.

Which was the drummer’s cue to launch into a bang-and-crash-wallop solo. Which was a bit of a relief after all the screechy nasal roaring, to be honest.

Logan headed up the road, to Block Four, where the ‘RESIDENTS PARKING ONLY’ still lay bent flat against the sun-bleached grass, as Captain Adenoidal started up again:

‘Nope.’ Logan killed the engine and blessed silence returned.

He climbed out into the dusty heat, clunked the car door shut, plipped the locks, and headed into the relative cool of the stairwell.

The rear door was propped open, letting a tiny hint of a breeze waft in, bringing with it the shriek-and-giggle of happy wee kids, and the ‘thud-adudadududa...’ of that life-saving trampoline.

He was halfway up the first flight of stairs when his phone ding-buzzed with an incoming text.

COLIN MILLER:

How the hell did he find out so quickly? Like a sodding psychic.

Logan’s thumbs rattled a reply:

SEND.

He’d barely made it to the first floor when the reply came ding-buzzing back.

COLIN MILLER:

No chance.

Logan stuck his phone back in his pocket and kept on climbing.

Hard to believe that a police search team had ransacked the place yesterday — normally they left places looking like a tipped-out wheelie bin, but clearly Mrs Victoria MacGarioch was the houseproud type, so every doily, antimacassar, and creepy little cat ornament was back in its place. No sign of fingerprint powder or size-eleven bootprints.

The lady of the house was ensconced in her armchair, in front of the telly, wearing the same grey-tracksuit-and-brown-cardigan as yesterday. Squinting through milk-bottle-bottom glasses at some antiques / attic / reality / competition programme — puffing away on a cigarette as Logan bumped through the door.

Doing his best not to spill anything.

Been a while since he’d last made tea in a pot. Let alone one with Princess Diana’s face plastered all over the outside.

Mrs MacGarioch pointed her walking stick at the sideboard, and Logan eased the tray into a wee gap between the feline figurines. Most of which were remarkably ugly.

‘Here we go.’ He poured tea into a delicate china cup that featured King Charles’s regal mug. Nodding at the collection of maudlin moggies. ‘See you’re a cat person? All the best people are.’

She sniffed, eyes fixed on the TV screen. ‘Can’t stand animals. They’re parasites, eating your food and piddling everywhere.’

OK...

He added milk from the jug: Queen Elizabeth, and sugar from the bowl: Prince Philip. ‘It can’t have been easy, raising Charles all on your own.’

‘And they shed hair all over the place.’ Accepting the proffered cup without so much as a thank you. ‘His dad was no use. Feckless. Lazy. Took off, first sign our Diana was pregnant.’ Mrs MacGarioch gazed up at a framed photo of all the Windsors on a balcony at Buckingham Palace, doing a bit of ceremonial waving. ‘No sense of family. No sense of duty.’

Logan helped himself to a cup: Princess Margaret, with a splash of the Queen and no Royal Consort.

‘Not that Diana was much better.’ Mrs MacGarioch glowered into her tea. ‘Dropped Charles off here for what she swore was just a long weekend, so she could go on holiday with her friends to Ibiza.’ Back to the TV. ‘That was sixteen years ago.’

Ooh — potential line of inquiry alert.

Logan kept his voice casual. ‘Does she keep in touch? With Charles.’

‘Not unless he’s got a Ouija board under the bed.’ Taking a big sook on her cigarette. ‘Got herself killed in a car crash on Corfu. That’s one of the Greek islands.’ A proud, smoky sniff. ‘Prince Philip was born there.’

As if that somehow made her daughter’s death worthwhile...

‘Any other family?’

The wrinkles around Mrs MacGarioch’s mouth deepened. ‘I told that... fat, ugly policeman all this. The sweaty one.’

That would be Harmsworth. ‘Yes, but you know what fat ugly people are like. Can’t trust them.’

She pursed her lips for a moment, rearranging the creases. Then nodded. ‘I had a brother once, but he got cancer in his... downstairs.’

‘What about Charles’s dad? Or maybe his dad’s side of the family?’

‘They moved to Australia. “Moved.”’ A snort. ‘Ran away, more like. Don’t know which bit, don’t care. Nineteen years and he’s never sent my Charles so much as a birthday card!’

‘How about—’

‘What kind of father does that? Just abandons his kid? Dumps him, like yesterday’s rubbish and sods off to start a new family somewhere else?’

Good question. And a bit of a sore point. But Logan just took another sip of tea and moved on. ‘Girlfriend? Boyfriend?’

Mrs MacGarioch sat up straight, wattles wobbling. ‘Not under this roof! And my Charles isn’t some sort of nancy gayboy, thank you very much!’

‘That’s—’

‘The very idea. With all those pictures of half-naked women on his walls? And he had a girlfriend, for your information.’ The proud sniff was back. ‘But I put a stop to that. You can tell when someone’s no good. Like that horrible Markle woman.’

‘You didn’t approve?’

‘Coming between a son and his father; poisoning Harry with all this woke, American, “mental health” nonsense. We never had “mental health” in my day, we kept calm and carried on!’

As if she’d ever been in the war. She was, what... seventy? Seventy-five, tops.

‘“Mental health.”’ Mrs MacGarioch ground her cigarette out on the bones of its fallen comrades. ‘They should bring back National Service!’

Logan produced his notebook. ‘I’m going to need her details.’

‘I don’t know, do I. “Keira” something. And don’t ask me what she looks like, because they all look alike.’

Right...

He closed the notebook again, because there was no way he’d be writing that down. ‘I’ll just take a look in Charles’s room, then. Leave you to...’ pointing at the TV, ‘whatever that is.’

Then got the hell out of there.

17

It looked as if Mrs MacGarioch had worked her magic in Charles’s room as well, clearing up after the search team’s ‘enthusiastic rummaging’. She’d changed the bed, picked everything up off the floor, and tidied the desk — though there were obvious holes where the computer, games console, and every single game had been confiscated.

With any luck they’d be getting analysed right now, rather than played with.

Just in case the search team had missed something, Logan snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and had a wee peek under the mattress.

Nothing there.

There was nothing interesting in the rolling-drawer things under the bed, either. Unless you were fascinated by neatly folded T-shirts, ironed pants, and paired socks.

So Logan tried the bedside cabinet — checking behind and beneath it. Then did the same with every drawer.

Nope.

The wardrobe was full of shirts, trousers, and jackets; a scuffed mountain of trainers; and an open six-pack of Lynx Africa. Three were missing, so Charles had already squirted his way through half the packet. Probably all in one day, going by how much it honked in here when they broke the door down yesterday.

One last place to try: Logan squatted down in each of the room’s four corners and tugged at the carpet, but it was all securely nailed down. No access to loose floorboards and secret hidey-holes.

Pfff...

He opened the window, leaned on the sill, and peered out.

There was the trampoline, two storeys below, with a half a dozen little kids boinging up and down on it.

God knew how Charles MacGarioch managed to make it all the way from here. And, OK, the ‘second floor’ didn’t sound very high, but the ground was a long, long, long way down.

Splat.

Logan plonked himself on the edge of Charles’s bed, looking around at the posters and children’s books. No adult books. Not meaning ‘dirty’ books — doubt his granny would approve of anything racier than a Catherine Cookson — but books for grown-ups. These were all for kids, and teenagers.

Mind you, MacGarioch was only nineteen.

Hell of an age to kill someone.

Maybe—

A ding-buzz sounded from Logan’s pocket, and when he pulled his phone out, ‘IT’S TUFTALICIOUS!’ glowed in the middle of the screen. The little sod had done something to his phone again.

Great. So much for a ‘pineapple suppository’.

Ding-buzz.

TUFTY-DOODLE-DOOOOO!:

Oh, for goodness’ sake...

Logan flopped back on Charles’s bed, with his feet still on the floor.

What were they supposed to do now?

No drone, no forensic IT, and no idea where Charles MacGarioch had disappeared to.

It was odd, seeing the room from this angle. The video game posters were OK, but there was something slightly obscene about the female popstars — looming over him in their bikinis and/or underwear.

One, near the head of the bed, was particularly pneumatic: in her early twenties; blonde hair; and a bikini that was more straps than fabric, festooned with sequins. She was kneeling on a beach, while a lake of fire burned behind her. Oiled-up and pouting. Coming off as ‘creepy and predatory’ when she’d probably been aiming for ‘sultry and alluring’.

Maybe Charles MacGarioch liked that kind of thing, though?

She’d been Sellotaped to the wallpaper — like all the other posters in here — but Miss Bikini-Pop-Star must’ve been there a while, because the tape on the corner nearest the pillows had curled away from the wall a bit.

Lying there, half on the bed, Logan reached up and smoothed it back into place.

Hmm...

Parallel lines marred the surface of the poster, just above the tape, where the ink had flaked away. Hard to see, because of the flame-lit beach, but definitely there.

Wasn’t easy, what with the blue nitrile gloves and everything, but after a bit of fiddling, he peeled the Sellotape away from the wallpaper again, slipped a finger under the poster’s edge, and eased the other side off too.

Most of Miss Bikini-Pop-Star’s right leg curved out from the wall, revealing a photo hidden underneath. Six by four — the kind you could get printed out on a self-service machine at most supermarkets.

It was Charles MacGarioch and a young woman, the pair of them posing for a selfie on the dodgems at some travelling funfair. Can’t have been the permanent one, down the beach, because there were trees off to one side and what looked like a big out-of-focus stripy Union Jack thing in the background.

Charles was grinning away as she planted a duck’s-arse-pout kiss on his cheek. They were much the same age, both with a smattering of plukes about the forehead, only while he was pale as cheap vanilla ice cream, she was a rich salted caramel, with long wavy black hair, a button nose, and disco eye make-up.

The photo was held in place with Blu Tack, rather than tape, and when Logan popped it free an acne rash of little greasy spots marked the wallpaper underneath. As if it’d been taken down many times, then hidden away again.

Logan smoothed Miss Bikini-Pop-Star’s poster back into place, then turned the photo over.

‘CHARLIE & KEIRA 4 EVA!’ and a love heart with an arrow through it.

He frowned at the photo again.

So, this was the mysterious Keira.

Seemed like an odd romantic partner for someone who’d just carried out a horrific, racially motivated attack.

Oh for God’s sake. So that’s what his granny meant — ‘they all look alike’ — she was being a rancid racist shiteflap.

Might be a motive? Charles falls in love; his racist nan throws a bucket of cold water over it; he breaks up with Keira; they fight, things are said; Charles lashes out and gets a sort of twisted revenge-by-proxy at the Balmain House Hotel...?

Made sense, in a teenaged-boys-are-sodding-insane kind of way. Worth having a word with her, anyway.

But as Keira wasn’t on the list of known associates, they’d have to find out who she was first.

Logan pulled out his phone and took a snap of the photograph, then slipped the original into a small evidence bag.

Right, time to get out of here.

He stepped back through into the living room, where the property-attic-auction bollocks had been replaced by a house-makeover reality thing, featuring a glamorous American couple with hard hats and sledgehammers, whacking the crap out of a partition wall.

A voiceover accompanied the footage — woman’s voice, spiced with the crayfish vowels of the deep south. ‘...and if there’s one thing we’ve learned from doing gazillions of these projects, it’s: don’t count your cockroaches till they’ve hatched...’

Logan thumped the bedroom door shut, a little louder than was strictly necessary. ‘Mrs MacGarioch, this girl you didn’t approve of, the one who was leading Charles astray. I need her surname.’

Because it was worth another try, while he was here.

Onscreen, the woman’s sledgehammer battered through a rusty old pipe, and a deluge of bugs cascaded into the room — screams ringing out as both presenters danced away from the skittering waterfall in a barrage of swear-concealing bleeps.

Victoria MacGarioch smiled at the telly, clearly enjoying the cockroach rodeo. ‘What?’

‘Charles’s girlfriend: Keira, what was her last name?’

‘Told you: don’t know, do I.’ She shifted in her armchair, as if those bugs were crawling up her spine. ‘Something ethnic.’ Then grabbed the remote and cranked up the volume, not looking at him even once.

A man’s voice, dripping with Mom’s apple pie and non-existent gun control boomed out of the TV, loud enough to be physically painful: ‘I mean, we seen roaches before, but nothing like this. It’s like a gosh-darn creepy-crawly sea of the things!’

‘“Ethnic” in what way?’

No reply.

‘Mrs MacGarioch?’

The couple on the telly scrambled from the room, then out of the house. Bursting through the front door to jiggle about in the front yard, brushing real and imagined bugs from their clothes. High-stepping over a ‘TRUMP PENCE 2020 ~ KEEP AMERICA GREAT!’ lawn sign, while a grubby Stars-and-Stripes flew overhead.

‘Mrs MacGarioch?’

She lit a fresh cigarette and hissed a cloud of smoke at the screen. As if he wasn’t even there.

Looked as if the audience was over.

‘OK... Thanks for your time.’

He let himself out.

The council had given the flat a temporary-replacement front door, that was barely a step up from boarding the place up, but Logan made sure it was closed and secure, before heading downstairs.

He’d almost made it to the ground floor, when his phone launched into ‘Ode To Joy’ which wasn’t really appropriate today.

‘Hello?’

‘Where are you?’

He checked the caller ID — ‘CHIEF SUPT. PINE’. Oh joy.

‘Just paid Charles MacGarioch’s granny a visit, Boss. Might have a lead that’s worth chasing if—’

‘No: why aren’t you here? The meeting started five minutes ago.’

He stepped out into the lobby and stopped. ‘Meeting?’

‘MAPPA meeting about the protest this weekend. You’re supposed to be chairing it.’

‘What? No one told me about any—’

‘Honestly, Logan, I expect you to be across your responsibilities, now you’re an acting chief inspector.’

He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘With all due respect, Boss, I’m not psychic! I can’t just magically know what—’

‘We’re in Conference Room One. I’m prepared to hold the fort till you get here, but put a rocket under it. I’ve got better things to do than cover for you.’

‘But...’

She’d hung up.

Wonderful.

Logan sagged like a discarded sock, staring up at the underside of the stairs above.

Because who didn’t want to spend hours and hours and hours wasting their life away in a Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements meeting?

Being an acting chief inspector sucked arse.

Up above, the sky was completely blue and shiny, and the river sparkled in the baking sunshine. More like Benidorm or Ibiza than a little pebble beach on the side of the River Dee, a stiletto’s throw from Duthie Park, in the shadow of the railway bridge.

Shame about the bloody seagulls, though. A pair of the useless fat bastards wheeled overhead, scrawwwwwwking away, which was going to make the sound so much more difficult to fix in the edit.

Carol checked her reflection in a pocket mirror.

Looking great, babe: gorgeous fake eyelashes; contoured blusher; anything blotchy well hidden beneath a good layer of pancake foundation; perfect blonde hair with just a hint of dark roots on show, cos that was dead trendy right now; and bright-fuchsia lipstick. And OK, the six-inch heels made walking on all these pebbles kinda risky, but they made her legs and bum look spectacular.

Carol practised her ‘Hello Boys’ pout, then popped the mirror back in the pocket of her ankle-length trench coat. Nearly went on her arse, as her heels slipped on the stupid rocks. ‘Could we no’ve gone down the beach? Break my sodding ankle on this shite...’

Kyle grinned back at her. ‘Nah, come on, Caz; be brilliant, this.’ She should dump him really. I mean, a twenty-two-year-old should be a man, not a glekit wee nyaff. She deserved to be with... a muscle-bound high-flying hunk, not some scarecrow-in-a-tracksuit who looked as if his lightbulb wasn’t entirely screwed in.

But she needed a cameraman, and he had his own laptop to do the editing, so there you go.

Kyle fiddled with the handheld gimbal mount, fixing his iPhone into place. Poking away at the screen, then holding the thing up, ready to go. ‘You wanna rehearse or something?’

Cheeky sod.

‘You saying I don’t know my business? I know my business. Cos I’m a professional.’ Treating him to a contemptuous hair flick. ‘Let’s do this.’

She unbuttoned her trench coat, revealing a lime-green bikini skimpy enough to give the Pope palpitations, slipped out of the coat, and laid it carefully out of shot, on the bank, amongst the weeds. ‘Make sure you get me and the river and the bridge.’ Pointing across the river. ‘No one wants to see that bloody sports club, or football pitch, or care home.’

‘Gotcha.’ Kyle shifted about, framing the scene.

Carol wobbled along the pebbles a bit, arms out for balance, because she was definitely going to break an ankle in these bloody heels.

Catwalk turn.

Hands on hips.

Sassy pose.

Pouty lips.

Girly voice — because God forbid men should have to deal with an actual grown-up confident woman: ‘Hey, lovely subscribers, it’s your favourite Only Fans sensation, Penny Thistle, with...’

Oh, for Christ’s sake.

Kyle was waving at her.

She dropped the sugar-and-spice shit. ‘What?’

‘Wasn’t recording. Gotta wait till I say “action”, yeah?’

‘Gahhh! I was perfect!’ But she gave herself a little shake, resumed opening positions — back to the camera, arms by her sides — because she was a professional. ‘Well? Go on then!’

‘Aaaaaaaaaaand... action!’

Turn, pose, pout — girly voice: ‘Hey, lovely subscribers, it’s your favourite Only Fans sensation, Penny Thistle, with another video just...’

Cheesy organ music blared out from the road above, as some inconsiderate bastard drove past.

She glared up the riverbank, past the rippling pink sea of rosebay willowherb, to where a multicoloured car was puttering past, going ‘bang’ and letting out puffs of pink and blue smoke.

Then a loudhailer added to the din: ‘Roll up! Roll up! The greatest show on Earth: for two more nights only, in Westburn Park!’

Carol stomped a high-heeled foot. ‘OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE!’

Kyle lowered the camera. ‘Cut.’

She clenched her entire body and howled it at whatever clowns were ruining her scene: ‘WE’RE TRYING TO SHOOT A VIDEO HERE, YA BUNCH OF PRICKWANKS!’

‘Come see the Rumplington Brothers’ Circus of Delights! All the fun of the fair!’

Carol jammed both middle fingers up towards the disappearing car, teeth bared, everything trembling as the last puffs of baby blue and pale pink faded away.

Then a snarl.

And a grunt.

Shake it off.

‘I’m a professional. I’m a professional.’ Deep breath. She turned her back on the camera again. Act one beginners: positions, please. ‘OK.’

Kyle gave her a moment, then: ‘Aaaaaand... action!’

Sodding turn, frigging pose, shitting pout, and girly bastarding voice: ‘Hey, lovely subscribers, it’s your favourite Only Fans sensation, Penny Thistle! With another video just for you.’ Carol bit her lip and squeezed out a giggle, setting everything jiggling. ‘Hope you like it.’

She turned and wobbled out into the water — which wasn’t easy because A: heels, and B: even on a hot summer’s day, the river was still barely above freezing.

Carol did a playful sweep around, grin fixed on her face like the bloody thing was welded there, splashing water at the camera, then scooping up a handful and pouring it across her chest.

GOD SAKE THAT WAS COLD!

Smile, Carol: give the punters what they want.

At least now her nipples jutted out like fruit pastels. The dirty bastards would love that.

Another giggle.

Then a saucy look left and right, to make sure ‘no one’s watching’. Even though that was the whole point of filming it. Hamming it up like something off one of them old-fashioned silent movies:

Oh, am I all on my own?

But it’s so hot in the sunshine.

Too hot for little old me.

Carol unhooked the catch at the front of her bikini top and slowwwwwwwwwwwly peeled it open. Teasing as she eye-fucked the camera.

Three, two, one:

She pulled both sides wide open, exposing her pierced assets.

Kyle gawped. ‘Bloody hell...’

‘Oh for Christ’s... frigging... CUT!’ Carol stomped a foot at the stupid bastard with his stupid haircut and his stupid bloody tracksuit. ‘You’re not supposed to talk! It spoils it for the subscribers if they’re mid-wank and your stupid man-voice blares in their ear!’

He lowered the camera and stared. ‘It’s... but...’ Pointing, eyes wide. ‘Ohhh...’

‘They’re just breasts, Kyle. You’ve seen them before!’ She pulled them in and up, sunlight glinting off the twin piercings. ‘I mean, obviously I’m flattered, but—’

‘No! Look.’ Still with his finger trained on her chest.

Only it wasn’t really, was it. He wasn’t looking at them, he was looking through her.

Bloody rude.

She turned, and there was the Edinburgh train, rumbling onto the bridge, making for Aberdeen station. A whole host of people peered out the windows, ogling as she basically flashed the whole train.

Carol flinched and slapped her hands over her naked breasts, because...

Actually, why bother?

All publicity was good publicity, right?

So let the people see a bit of flesh. House prices were through the sodding roof, and every new subscriber put her one step closer to escaping Mum and Dad’s place.

Made sound financial sense, when you thought about it.

She let go of her boobs and gave the train a wave, throwing in a jiggle for good measure. ‘FIRST TASTE’S FREE!’ Smile, pout, pose. Lowering her voice, even though there’s no way anyone would’ve heard over the huge diesel engines. ‘The rest you have to pay for.’

Kyle made a revolting hl-urking noise. ‘Think I’m gonna hurl...’

‘It’s called advertising, Kyle. Jesus you’re such a...’

Wait a minute — what he’d been pointing at: it was a man.

Carol covered her breasts again, sharpish. Taking a slippery step backwards, her heel catching between two stones and sending her crashing down on her backside in the river. Sending up an explosion of spray that glittered and sparkled in the sun.

Sitting there, holding her boobs, staring at the man.

But he wasn’t staring back, because he was facedown in the water. His legs were stranded on the bank, but his top half floated — left arm stretched out towards the sea, right folded under his face. Dressed all in black, like a ninja or something.

The back of his head was one big raw wound, hair sticky with dark-crimson blood around the edges of a great big dip. About the size of a soup bowl. With flashes of pink and grey poking through the soggy mess.

Probably startled by the splash, one of the seagulls got its courage back, swooping down to land on the body’s back, right between the shoulder blades. Cocking its head as it eyed up the chunks of gore.

Then that big yellow beak stabbed forward and helped itself to a tasty, glistening treat.

At which point Kyle was loudly and prodigiously sick.

‘Oh, well that’s just great.’ Carol glowered at the seagull as it went in for another beakful. ‘Knew we should’ve gone down the bloody beach.’

19

In Dante’s Divine Comedy, there are nine circles of Hell.

The first is Limbo: home to people who aren’t Christians, so they can’t get into Heaven, but weren’t dicks when they were alive so can’t be punished in Hell. Level Two is for the lustful. Three is stuffed full of gluttons. Four is where the avaricious are held to account. Five is all the angry sods. Six: heretics. Seven seethes with violent bastards — though Dante is a bit of a wanker when it comes to defining what ‘violence’ actually means. Eight is slick with fraudsters. And the ninth circle is a frozen lake, where traitors spend eternity with only their heads poking out of the ice...

But what Dante didn’t know was that if you took a dirty big drill, and bored your way through the ice, down, down, down a thousand feet or more, you would eventually come to a small stuffy cavern, where lies the tenth and final circle of Hell. Also known as the MAPPA meeting on this Saturday’s upcoming protest march.

Oh, it might’ve looked a lot like the room where Logan and Pine and Rutherford and Sweeny had grimaced their way through a post-press-conference debrief, but it was full of demons, all hell-bent on making Logan’s afterlife a sodding misery.

One of them was on his feet now — a baldy prick in black-rimmed glasses, with ‘KEITH LONGFELLOW ~ ABERDEEN CITY COUNCIL LIAISON MANAGEMENT SERVICES’ on his name badge — wanging on about key performance indicators and stakeholder engagement.

Every seat in the place was packed with some other poor sod, in their shirtsleeves and lanyards, listening to Keith drone on.

Like Jessica, from the Road Department — frizzy-haired with a splodge of ketchup on her top — who kept trying to say something, but Keith was in full monologue-mode with no intention of ceding the floor to anyone.

So they all sat there, wilting in the stale meeting-room air, with their mugs of nasty coffee and plates of disappointing biscuits.

To start with, Logan had taken down everyone’s names and which department they represented: Fire, Ambulance, Public Transport, Traffic Wardens, Licensed Premises, Waste & Recycling, the business community, etc. etc. etc... Full of good intentions — planning to make detailed notes on their various flipchart and PowerPoint presentations.

But it’d been nearly an hour and a half now and he’d already started doodling skulls and kittens on his conference notepad, as Keith tried to break the World Record for Most Boring Arsehole In The World.

There weren’t even any biscuits left.

No decent ones, anyway.

Chocolate bourbons.

Which looked more like dog biscuits than people ones. Ironic, given that chocolate was poisonous to dogs and—

Logan’s phone ding-buzzed, skittering slightly on the tabletop as the caller ID flashed up: ‘IT’S TUFTY TIME!’

It wasn’t enough to distract Keith, though. ‘...and we have to maintain that draw factor long after all these protestors have gone away. We should be embracing this as an opportunity to showcase Aberdeen as a destination not just for protest, but for fine dining, and culture, and recreational activities...’

Ding-buzz.

This time, ‘MMMM... TUFTALICIOUS!’ glowed away in the middle of the screen.

How?

How did the little sod manage to make Logan’s phone change caller ID every time? All the texts came from the same bloody number.

‘...tangible benefits to key stakeholders that will remain long after the placards have been put away...’

Oliver, from Waste and Recycling, helped himself to the second-last bourbon. He was one of those young go-getter types, with a slick short-back-and-sides, ratty little nose, and a mole on his cheek big as a badger. ‘This is all well and good, Frank, but have you any idea how much crap’s going to be left behind after the march? How am I supposed to clean that up without extra funds?’

Jessica banged the table. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to say!’

Keith smiled at them both, as if they were boisterous but well-meaning children. ‘You have to see the bigger picture, people. With all eyes on Aberdeen this is our chance to showcase the city in a positive and cooperative light. I propose setting up an engagement committee to explore—’

‘What if we just cancel it?’

Everyone turned to stare at Logan, as if he’d grown antlers.

‘Think about it:’ counting the points off on his fingers, ‘it’s going to cost a fortune, it’s going to disrupt the city for hours, it’s going to leave a massive mess, it’s going to be a nightmare to police, and it’s got several potential flashpoints for violence, public disorder, and property damage.’

Silence.

Mouths actually fell open.

‘Look, it’s—’

Which is when his phone decided to launch into Bowie’s ‘Space Oddity’ as ‘BEHOLD THE MAGNIFICENT TUFTY!’ filled the screen. And the wee shite knew he was in a meeting.

Logan stabbed ‘DECLINE’.

Keith clutched his lanyard, like a string of pearls. ‘This isn’t a police state, Chief Inspector! We don’t ban peaceful protest in this country, though God knows the previous government tried their best. It’s simply—’

‘Here we go,’ Oliver from Waste and Recycling threw his hands in the air, ‘typical nationalist bias. I think you’ll find it’s the SNP who’ve been in power for—’

‘—suggestion. How can we call ourselves a democratic nation if we curtail the public’s right to—’

‘Don’t be a prick, Oliver.’ Jessica from the Roads Department was on her feet, fists clenched. ‘You know as well as I do that the Scottish Government’s powers are restricted by Westminster’s repressive grip on—’

‘—matter of civic pride, Chief Inspector. And I insist that no move be taken to curtail those inalienable rights!’

Logan held his hands up. ‘I just asked the question, OK? It’s not as if I’m—’

Then the door clattered open and an out-of-breath Tufty stumbled into the room, bringing himself up short before he crashed into Jessica’s back. ‘Eek...’

Keith stuck his nose in the air. ‘Excuse me, but I think you’ll find we’ve got this meeting room booked till twelve, so—’

‘Sarge!’ Tufty pulled a face at Logan. ‘Sarge, we’ve got a hot one. On the riverbank.’ Raising his eyebrows for an ominous pause. ‘Something’s washed up...’

Something...?

That could only mean one thing: Charles MacGarioch’s body.

And an excuse to escape The Tenth Circle of Hades.

Logan grabbed his notes, and phone, and pen, and the last forlorn bourbon biscuit, definitely not grinning as he hurried for the door. ‘Sorry everyone: duty calls.’

‘But, Chief Inspector, what about our—’

He clunked the door shut behind him, and got the hell out of there...

The pool car skirled along Market Street, siren wailing, blue lights flashing, as Detective Sergeant Simon Rennie drove like a coked-up squirrel.

His peroxide-hedgehog hair stood to attention at the front, but was deserting its post at the back. He’d put on a bit of weight since the third kid, but had tried to compensate for the extra chin with a little bleached Vandyke beard. Which was a bit... mid-life-crisis-ish. As if Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer had awoken one morning to discover he’d somehow turned into Guy Fieri.

Tufty sat in the back, munching away on the rescued bourbon biscuit as a reward for rescuing Logan from the MAPPA Meeting Of Doom.

Which left Logan in the passenger seat, one hand wrapped around his Airwave handset, the other around the grab handle above the door as Rennie threw them around the four-way junction at the end of the road — narrowly missing a massive articulated lorry hauling offshore containers away from the harbour — and roared off down North Esplanade West.

‘Will you slow down! Already got one corpse on the go today, don’t need another three.’ Logan pressed the Airwave’s button again, voice raised above the siren. ‘I don’t care if they found the body or not, they don’t get to film the bloody thing: keep them back. We need that scene secured!’

Offices and industrial units flashed by on the right, a line of trees and the shining ribbon of the River Dee on the left — with the granite-grey mass of Torry lurking behind it.

Steel’s voice grated through the Airwave. ‘Oh, aye, thanks for pointing that out. Here was me selling tickets and letting everyone take selfies with the remains. What a silly-billy I am!’

‘We got an ETA on the Procurator Fiscal, or the Pathologist yet?’

‘How the buggerlumping hell would I know?’

Tufty sooked air through his biscuity teeth. ‘That’s a quid in the jar.’

The pool car flashed through the lights outside the big Jewsons in a blare of angry horns.

A bunch of fish workers were out lounging on the riverbank, still dressed in their overalls, blood-and-guts aprons, hairnets, and wellies. Enjoying a tea break in the sunshine. They sat up to watch the car go by.

Tufty gave them a cheery wave.

‘No’ my job to do the managerial stuff, remember? I’m just a lowly Sergeant.’

‘Can you grow up and do your job?’

The car wheeched on, past a bunch of glass-and-concrete office blocks with their glittering modern facades, trying to kid on there weren’t fish-processing units hidden in the little side streets behind them. With big plastic bins full of fish guts, heads, and bones for the seagulls to feast upon.

Mind you, suppose they were a dying breed, these days. Back when Logan was a humble probationer, patrolling the streets with Big Annie Dunbar to stop him doing anything stupid.

Wonder what happened to her...

The traffic thickened up ahead — anticipating the approaching roundabout — cars and trucks and lorries creeping down the left lane, while the right was clogged by some tit in a black BMW. The driver more interested in dawdling along, contemplating his bumhole, than getting the hell out of the way of a patrol car with its lights and siren blaring.

And still nothing back from Steel.

Logan pressed the button again. ‘Hello?’

‘You made Doreen and bloody Biohazard acting DIs, and not me!’

‘It was their turn.’

Rennie leaned on the horn. ‘COME ON: MOVE IT!’

‘I’m the only bastard here with the experience! I’ve been a Detective Chief Inspector, for pricking cock’s sake! And—’

‘And look what happened last time!’

Either the BMW driver had finally woken up, or realised he wasn’t the centre of the sodding universe, but his indicators flashed left, then right, then left again. No one was letting him in, though, so in the end — still indicating the wrong way — he bumped up onto the central reservation.

Rennie accelerated into the gap.

The pool car roared past warehouses and the BP garage, then out onto the roundabout, cutting across the nose of a skip lorry, and onto Riverside Drive.

Then the road dipped beneath the old Wellington Bridge, following the river inland...

And still not a peep from Steel.

Logan sighed. ‘OK. Sorry. That was... But it’s your own fault for being a pain in my hoop.’

No reply: just the car’s roaring engine and wailing siren.

A series of pseudo-art-deco office blocks whisked by on the right. On the other side of the river, up a steep forty/fifty-foot embankment, sat a neat row of granite tenements, then a bunch of flats where Craiginches Prison used to be. Because nothing in this sodding city could ever stay the same.

‘You there?’

The pseudo-art-deco offices gave way to an eight-storey block of pseudo-art-deco flats, then a pseudo-art-deco warehouse. Because Riverside Drive liked to pick a theme and stick with it.

They whooshed beneath the railway bridge, and the eastmost edge of Duthie Park appeared — a playground area with shrieking kids, bored mums, and an over-excited spaniel.

Still no response from Steel.

Tufty leaned through from the back of the car. ‘She doesn’t like people talking about “The Great Fall From Grace”, Sarge. Gets her all... dark and bitey.’ He patted Rennie’s shoulder, and pointed. ‘That’s us over there.’

Rennie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, thank you, Constable, I did manage to work it out for myself.’

Would be hard not to: a pair of patrol cars blocked off the lay-by and two uniformed officers were busy erecting a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. Cordoning off access to the crime scene.

They weren’t the only cars parked there, though — a ratty Honda Civic festered between them, its rear driver’s-side wing held on by what looked like cable-ties.

Rennie double parked, blocking it in, and killed the engine. Radiating smugness. ‘In record time.’

Idiot.

Logan climbed out into the hammering sun, one hand making a visor above his eyes to cut the glare down a bit.

Green exploded everywhere. Trees in full leaf, bushes in full... bush. Weeds running rampant all the way down the bank to the water’s edge. The south entrance to Duthie Park sat on the other side of the road, with its fancy granite chess-piece gateposts, and lacy wrought-iron railings. Which was probably going to cause problems later. But for now, Logan tipped a nod at the PCs erecting the outer cordon and marched across the lay-by, past a vandalised phone box, and over to the much plainer railings — there to keep stupid people from tumbling downhill into the river.

From up here, there was an almost uninterrupted view of the water below. Bramble, nettles, and rosebay willowherb choked the steep bank, partially hiding a narrow pebble beach below. But the main action was thirty-odd feet off to the left, downriver, where another pair of uniforms did battle with a roll of black-and-yellow tape: ‘CRIME SCENE — DO NOT ENTER’. Trying to erect an inner cordon. With nothing convenient to tie it to, they’d stuck a pair of orange traffic cones on the bank and fixed one side to them. God knows why, but instead of leaving it there, they’d decided to enclose the crime scene by wading out into the water with great-big sticks they could jam into the riverbed.

Because when you were thick as mince, health-and-safety didn’t count.

What they were trying to enclose floated facedown in the water — legs up on the bank. Dressed all in black and definitely dead. A huge feathery seagull swooped down onto the body, but one of the PCs yelled and waved their arms at the thing till it flapped into the air again. Screaming avian obscenities as it climbed. Circling overhead. No doubt waiting for another chance and plotting revenge.

Upriver, a familiar rumpled figure was talking to a bare-footed woman in a trench coat and an emaciated baboon in a tracksuit. That would be WhatsHerFace and Thingumy — the couple who discovered the body.

Steel might’ve been sulking, but at least she was doing something.

Logan snapped on a pair of gloves and leaned out over the railings, scanning the undergrowth.

‘Guv?’ Rennie sidled up, keeping his voice low. Presumably so Tufty wouldn’t hear. ‘What we looking for?’

‘Unless he jumped off a train, someone must’ve chucked the body in from somewhere.’

‘Eh?’ Chin in, making that ridiculous bleached Vandyke bristle. ‘But he was... Nah: Charles MacGarioch went in the water, remember? When the ice-cream van crashed?’

Just when you thought Rennie couldn’t get any thicker...

‘That was the River Don, you vulcanised Flump! This,’ putting on a singsong lilt, to really sell the sarcasm, ‘is the River Dee. Dee — Don. Don — Dee.’ Logan treated him to a withering scowl. ‘What: you think he got swept out to sea, then back again, all the way through the harbour, and a mile-and-a-half upriver? Like he’s been on a wee cruise trip for corpses?’ Waving a hand at the half-floating body. ‘Oh, and did he stop off somewhere along the way to change into completely different clothes? Or did the little fishies help him with that?’

At least Rennie had the decency to blush as he peered at the remains. ‘Ah...’

‘Exactly.’ Logan turned to Tufty. ‘Where’s the common approach path?’

‘Erm...’ The wee loon bounced on his tiptoes, scanning the riverbank, then pointed. ‘That way, Sarge.’

One last wither for the Idiot Rennie. ‘“Charles MacGarioch”...’ Then Logan followed Tufty’s finger, to where twin lines of yellow-and-black tape bordered a trampled path through the weeds, all the way down to the pebbled beach. Climbing over the railing, he took his time, moving sideways like a worried goat, or a cautious haggis, because it was nearly vertical here — arms out to keep his balance on the descent, because there was nothing the lower ranks loved more than a stuck-up DCI tobogganing through nettles on his arse.

20

Logan stepped out onto the click-clatter of little round stones, blinking at the bitter-sharp parmesan stink of fresh vomit.

He skirted the half-chewed spatter, and across the slithery beach, to the traffic cones. Staying behind the glaring-yellow strip of tape as the two uniforms wanked about with the other ends.

PC Ferguson was a nondescript bloke with an underwhelming moustache and all the grace of a tumble-dryer. PC Greig: a good six inches shorter, with a pageboy haircut, sharp little nose, and blinky eyes — making her look as if one of The Beatles had sex with a sparrow.

Ferguson and Greig were both knee-deep in the river, wobbling about, trying to get their Gandalf’s staffs to stay upright in the fast-flowing water. And failing.

‘Hoy!’ Logan waved at the pair of them. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

PC Greig shoogled her stick. ‘Inner cordon, Guv.’

‘Who are you protecting the body from, mermaids? Get out of the bloody water, before you fall in and drown.’

While they splish-splashed back to shore, Logan had a good frown at the body. Back of the guy’s head looked like half a pound of raw stewing steak, mixed with strawberry Angel Delight.

So that’s what the seagull had been after.

Which probably explained the vomit.

Ferguson waded ashore, ‘Hi, Guv. It’s—’ and promptly fell over on the beach. Sending pebbles rattling. ‘Buggering...’

‘You’re bloody hopeless.’ Greig rolled her eyes and hauled him to his feet. Then nodded at Logan. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘Better get the road closed — you can see all this from the lay-by. No entry to Riverside Drive from the Duthie Park Roundabout and... other side of the railway bridge. And get on to the park — I want those gates shut and padlocked.’ He looked up at the bright blue sky and its hungry, circling seagulls. ‘We need a crime-scene tent down here ASAP too, before the TV people turn up with their sodding drones.’

‘Guv.’ And away she wobbled, keeping a firm grip on Ferguson, in case he went Alpha Oscar Tango again.

Soon as they were gone, Rennie slithered over, with Tufty in tow. The peroxide idiot pouted at the body. ‘So if it isn’t MacGarioch, who is it?’

As if Logan was supposed to know.

Time for another withering Paddington scowl.

Tufty held a hand up. ‘I has chased-up Scenes, Sarge. They is on their way, but did give an ETA of twenty minutes, on account of Ernie has-ing the squits.’

‘Make sure he’s got bicycle clips on his SOC suit then.’ Logan looked out at the shining river. They weren’t that far from the harbour, here. Less than a mile, for sure. Which meant something else to deal with: ‘Is the tide coming in or going out?’

‘On it.’ Tufty whipped out his phone and wandered off, poking away with his tongue sticking out.

Rennie made a show of getting his mobile out too. ‘And I’ll get cracking on the misper list: see if anyone’s lost a...’ squinting at the body, ‘six-foot, IC-one, male, dark hair, undercut, last seen wearing black cargo pants, black boots, and a black sweatshirt.’

‘Hmm...’ Logan stepped right up to the cordon. All in black: the guy was even wearing black nitrile gloves — like the ones tattoo artists used. So not wanting to be seen, or leave any fingerprints. Dressed for cat-burglaring. ‘While you’re at it, see if there’s been a string of thefts-by-housebreaking anywhere around here. Could be our victim picked on the wrong property? Householder fights back, things get out of hand, “oh no”, panics, dumps the body.’ Turning to look uphill, at the trees towering above. ‘Which probably means within three or four streets of the park. You don’t take the guy you just accidentally killed on a magical mystery tour.’

‘Unless you’re in some sort of fugue state, cos of the shock?’

That was true.

Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Better make it all of Aberdeen, then.’

Which was when Rennie realised that he’d just vastly increased his workload. A groan, a sag, and off he sodded.

Over in the middle distance, Tufty waved. ‘SARGE!’ Jumping up and down to attract attention. ‘TIDE’S COMING IN!’

Of course it sodding was.

Scenes better get here quick then, or he’d have to compromise the crime scene to secure the body. And the Procurator Fiscal would love that. Not to mention their horror-show Pathologist. But they’d love it even less if he let the remains float away.

Maybe—

‘Hoy.’ A gravelly voice, right behind him.

‘Jesus!’ Logan skittered sideways. Turned. ‘Don’t do that! Sneaking up on people...’

‘I called in Scenes, by the way.’ Steel glowered up at him. ‘And the PF, and Dr Death, even though it’s no’ my spudging job.’

‘How can you creep about on this stuff?’ Just moving his feet set pebbles rattling. ‘Like a horrible terrier-haired ninja.’

The scowl deepened.

Not far up the pebble beach, Tufty was turning slowly in place, with his phone out. Probably taking panoramic crime-scene photos that had better not end up on Twitter. Then the phone rang in his hands, making him jump and drop it with a high-pitched ‘Eeep!’ Scrambling to catch the thing before it shattered on the stones. He stuck a finger in his ear, and answered it, waving at WhatsHerFace and Thingumy as he passed.

The seagulls circled high above, like albino vultures.

The river flowed.

The sun shone.

And Steel just stood there, regarding Logan with a look cold enough to reverse global warming in a single glance.

Sigh. ‘If this is about Doreen and Biohazard being acting DIs, don’t.’

She stuck her nose in the air. ‘Oh aye: like I care.’

One of the gulls broke away from its mate, swooping down at the remains, hoping for another tasty gobbet.

Steel snatched a golf-ball-sized lump of rock from the beach and hurled it — the stone wheeching off on a perfect intercept course.

Almost got it too, but the feathery velociraptor jinked clear a heartbeat before the pebble hit. Flapping away from the gory buffet in an explosion of scrawking and kee-ow~kee-ow~kee-ow...

‘Nah.’ Steel brushed grit off her hands. ‘All the extra responsibility and work for none of the extra pay?’ Turning and slouching away. ‘Kiss my sharny arse.’

Because no one sulked like Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel.

As if they didn’t have more than enough to worry about.

Like the unidentified body with its head bashed in. And if that was an accidental death, Logan’s bum was made of cheese.

This was murder.

He dug out his Airwave handset and pressed the button. ‘DCI McRae to Control: better tell the Chief Super we’ve got another problem...’

A lot had changed in the last two-and-a-bit hours. The patrol cars had been joined by Scenes’ grubby Transit van, a mud-spattered black Range Rover, and two unmarked Vauxhalls that looked as if a strong sneeze would make bits fall off.

With the road closed from the roundabout to the railway bridge, they weren’t restricted to the lay-by, so they’d spread out along the front of Duthie Park. Where the gates were locked and secured with a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.

And because the road was shut, the usual collection of Outside Broadcast Units were nowhere to be seen. So were all the press vehicles. Which made a nice change.

It also meant that the media scrum was trapped behind the park’s fancy iron railings. Penned in like nosy zoo animals, poking their cameras over the bars.

A small crowd of lookie-loos had joined in — after all, it was a lovely day, so why go picnic in the park with your loved ones, when you could gawp at a bit of human tragedy?

Logan shifted his phone from one side to the other, ducking behind Scenes’ Transit, out of the cameras’ glare. ‘Biohazard? You still there?’

There was a wee pause, then: ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yup.’

He leaned on the railing.

The river was higher now, raised by the incoming tide, but Scenes had still managed to get a blue-plastic marquee erected over the riverbank, extending out into the water. A couple of SOC-suited figures headed inside, carrying a body bag. Good luck to them, with the sun beating down it had to be like a kiln in there.

‘And you’re definitely not shitting with me?’

‘Doreen’s now officially in sole charge of the search. Get your farty arse back to the ranch and commandeer an incident room. I want a Murder Board, HOLMES instance, and some bodies ready to go by the time I get there.’

Suspicion scuttled down the phone. ‘But I’m running the team, right?’

‘Reporting to me, but yeah: you’re running the team.’

A drone whined past overhead, its dead gimbal eye taking in the scene, ‘SKY NEWS’ emblazoned down the side.

Tempting to flip it the Vs, but that probably wouldn’t go down well back at headquarters.

Biohazard barked out a wee laugh. ‘Only been acting DI a couple of hours and I’m already leading a murder case!’

‘The Chief Super still has to OK it.’

‘Doreen’s gonna poop breeze blocks when she finds out!’ You could almost hear him rubbing his hands. ‘There’s me swanking about the air-conditioned office, while she’s stuck here sweating her boobs off in a Tyvek romper suit.’

‘Don’t wind her up, it’s not nice. You’re—’

‘Hold on, I can see her on the other side of the river...’ There was a scrunching sound, and everything got a bit muffled. ‘HOY! DOREEN! GUESS WHO’S OUTTA HERE? ME!’ Followed by a jagged burst of maniacal laughter. ‘I GOT A MURDER TO RUN!... THAT’S RIGHT! THE SEARCH IS ALLLL YOURS, BABY!’ Then Biohazard was back on the phone again. ‘Ooh, she does not look happy.’ Giggling away to himself. Then: ‘How big a team do I get to lord it over, Guv? A dozen? Two dozen?’

‘You’ll be sodding lucky. Do the best you can, OK?’

Going by today’s staffing crisis, that would probably be three officers, a stapler, and a bottle of Tipp-Ex.

Tufty appeared from somewhere behind Scenes’ Transit, bearing two large wax-paper cups. Somehow, he’d managed to swap his fighting suit for the full Police-Scotland-uniform black, complete with peaked cap, stabproof vest, high-vis waistcoat, and overstuffed utility belt.

‘Got to go. Official duties call.’ Logan hung up, then frowned at Tufty. ‘How did you...?’

The wee spud did a wiggly turn, showing off his new outfit. ‘The Monstrous Mildewed Maiden made me fetch a bunch of stuff from the station, and I always keep a spare T-shirt and trousers in my locker. That and clean socks. And pants.’ A sage nod. ‘In this job, you never know when clean pants might come in handy.’ A pause. A blink. ‘Oh, and:’ he held out one of the cups, ‘ta-daaaa!’

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘If this is meant to be a bribe, you can stop right there. Rennie’s my sidekick.’

That made him deflate a bit. ‘Oh...’

‘Mind you,’ Logan accepted the cup, ‘shame to waste it.’ Taking a sip of iced coffee far nicer than anything they served in the tenth circle of Hell.

Then the pair of them stood there, drinking their drinks, while not very much happened on the riverbank down below.

The Sky News drone whined past again, doing a slow pan this time.

Tufty produced his phone. ‘DS Rennie did get me to dig out details on everyone reported missing since last Sunday.’

Course he did.

‘Lazy sod.’

A pout. ‘But I did work hard!’ Holding out the phone. ‘Look I did make maps and graphs and everything!’

‘Not you: Rennie.’

The pout turned into a smile. ‘Oh. That’s OK then.’ Tufty poked at the screen. ‘I did also research every burglary in the Greater Aberdeen Area for the last six months. In case our victim is of the cat-stealing variety. Then I did a geographical analysis, cos you can totes profile someone based on where they dump a body. Did you know most people won’t cross running water to do it? Like they is witches or something.’

‘Are you getting to the point, or do I have to beat you to death with your own truncheon?’

‘Right: results.’ He scrolled and scrolled and scrolled some more. ‘Here we go. Missing persons is a dead end: we’ve got a schoolteacher — female; a bus driver — in his sixties; a fifteen-year-old girl; a violinist — five foot four; and a mother of two. None of them matches our victim.’

‘Anyone work in a tattoo parlour?’

‘No. Should they?’

So much for the gloves being a clue. ‘Apparently not.’

‘Oh, OK. Which leads us onto burglaries.’ Poke, scroll, fiddle. ‘There’s heaps and heaps of shopliftings, but we can discount all of those, cos people don’t usually do it in the middle of the night. And the only places still open are twenty-four-hour supermarkets, casinos, clubs, and all-night petrol stations. And they ain’t gonna kill someone for robbing them.’

Oh, to be a naive wee PC again.

‘Yeah...’ Logan took a scoof of chilled coffee. ‘Remind me to introduce you to the guys who own Secret Service, on Windmill Brae. Steal from their club and we’re fishing you out of Rubislaw Quarry. In bits.’

‘And then I did a pattern analysis to see when and where the break-ins happened, cos I was told to look for our victim going on a spree. And that does give us these.’ He held his phone out again, showing a map of Aberdeen with clusters of red dots superimposed over it. ‘Biggest splodges are multiple hits on the same night.’

Not a massive amount of help.

‘Suppose it’s a start.’

‘And then I did put my Thinking Head on.’

A pair of figures emerged from the marquee, not wearing the standard white SOC Tyvek suits, but pale blue ones. Or ‘going the full Smurf’ as it was known.

‘And my Thinking Head did ask: “Who else does wear all black, Lovely Tufty, but does not burglarise cats?”’

The lead Smurf stopped, just inside the cordon, and threw back her hood. Took off her safety goggles and mask, then shook her hair free. Which didn’t help much, because it was stringy with sweat. Isobel needed her roots done, too — the greys were beginning to show. But the crows’ feet and laughter lines didn’t change the fact that she was still a very attractive woman. Until you got to know her.

‘And I said, “I does has no idea, Mr Thinking Head. Who?” And my Thinking Head did go: “Muggers!”’

Smurf Number Two performed the same unhooding procedure, only with far less catwalk-model poise. But then Sheila Dalrymple was one of those tall, thin, angular people, who seemed to be constructed entirely out of coat-hangers; with trendy glasses and a wide flat face. Carrying their mobile pathology kit in a blue plastic evidence crate.

‘And I did said, “That’s a very clever point, Mr Thinking Head.” Because Mr Thinking Head is very clever indeed.’

Isobel said something to one of the Scenes team, pointing back towards town.

They nodded, then scuttled off to make a phone call.

Tufty held out his phone again, where a couple of small dots were superimposed on a map of Duthie Park. ‘So I did a search on muggings in the vicinity, because if you mug someone you mug them when they’re on foot, right? Cos it’s hard to mug someone who’s in a car. They can just drive away.’

Instructions issued, Isobel scrunched her way across the pebbles to the common approach path.

‘Only there wasn’t a lot of them, when I checked. I think muggers want somewhere with more foot traffic after dark, and the park isn’t really a shortcut to or from anywhere.’ A wee shrug. ‘Sorry.’

Isobel clambered up the steep bank to the lay-by, with Sheila struggling along behind her — having a lot more difficulty, carrying that crate.

Logan lowered his voice to a whisper and sidled closer to Tufty. ‘Try to not say anything stupid, OK?’

Isobel pulled herself over the railing, snapped off her purple nitrile gloves, and nodded at the pair of them. ‘Acting Detective Chief Inspector, Constable.’

A wave from Tufty. ‘Hi, Doc.’

She gave him a scowl in return. ‘That’s Professor McAllister.’ Then started towards her filthy Range Rover, but Logan held up a hand, blocking her way. Politely.

‘Anything you can tell us?’

‘Of course.’ She regarded his hand with disdain. ‘I can tell you that we do post-mortem examinations in this city, rather than indulge in random guesswork.’

Helpful.

‘Isobel, you must’ve noticed something. Come on, we won’t hold you to it. Just... any idea on time of death?’

There was a long, imperious pause.

‘You do know how we estimate time of death, don’t you? With a rectal thermometer and some complicated mathematics. Which we do back at the mortuary, not knee-deep in a river.’

Logan pinched his eyebrows in and up, in a sort of spanked-puppy-dog look.

Her mouth pinched. Then a breath hissed out. ‘But I suppose I can speculate that the remains have been in the water for a number of hours — probably overnight, going by the lividity and level of predation by marine fauna. Cause of death is yet to be determined, but if he was alive when the trauma to the back of the head occurred, he wouldn’t be for long.’

Sheila Dalrymple struggled over the railings and staggered to a halt, joining the congregation. ‘Verily, ’twas a mighty blow he suffered. Near rent his skull in twain, it did.’

Everyone stared at her.

‘Don’t do that.’ Logan turned back to Isobel. ‘What about ID? When you went through the guy’s pockets: driver’s licence, credit card, library membership...?’ He got nothing back but a flat, dead stare. ‘Fine: how quickly can you get fingerprints and DNA?’

Her eyes narrowed, in a way that suggested she was about to tell them to fornicate somewhere far from here. Then: ‘DNA will depend on the lab. But don’t expect miracles — everyone’s got the flu, so they’re woefully understaffed. As for fingerprints? Wait until the body’s dried out, then we’ll see.’

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a photo of his face? Pocket contents?’

A tut from Sheila. ‘I’ faith, some villain had plundered our fallen friend’s possessions long afore we lay our hands upon his damp apparel.’

‘What?’

Isobel sighed. ‘The victim’s pockets were all inside out. Are we to assume you weren’t responsible? It’s not uncommon for police officers to conveniently “forget” the importance of crime-scene management.’

‘We didn’t touch him!’

‘Then ’twas truly a villain that performed the vile search—’ Sheila leaned in for a conspiratorial wink, ‘perhaps even the miscreant you and your stout fellows seek!’

Isobel massaged her temples. ‘Sheila, I need you to chase up the duty undertakers. Make sure they’re on their way to collect the remains, OK? Please.’

A nod. ‘Be of good cheer, my lady, for I shall stir their sluggardly pot!’ And off she stalked, taking her crate with her.

Soon as she was gone, Isobel let loose a long-suffering breath. ‘Someone gave her a box-set of romantasy novels. That Diana Gabaldon has a lot to answer for.’ She undid her SOC-suit zip, revealing a sweaty grey shirt and purple tie. ‘We took some reference shots before putting the remains in a body bag. Sheila will email them to you. But I doubt they’ll help with identification — going by the extensive edemata and ecchymosis, he was severely beaten for an extended period.’

Tufty binged upright. ‘Rapist!’

Eh?

Isobel peered at him. ‘Your constable appears to have Tourette’s.’

‘No, no, no, no.’ The wee loon shook his head. ‘We were playing “Who Dresses All In Black In The Dead Of Night?”’

‘I don’t think that’s a very funny game, Constable.’

Logan stepped in, before she eviscerated the daft sod. ‘It isn’t meant to be. And Constable Quirrel’s got a point; see if you can light a bonfire under the lab — I need to know if our victim’s DNA matches any rape kits.’

She stood there, frowning for a moment. Then pulled her shoulders back. ‘I require a favour.’

‘Do you now?’

‘I understand you’re having a gathering on Sunday. A barbecue. I want you to invite Colin.’

‘Ah...’ Logan grimaced. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely appropriate, with—’

‘For goodness’ sake, it’s been twenty years! If Colin can get over the fact you and I used to be sexually intimate, surely you can too.’

Wow.

OK.

He tried again. ‘It might not be appropriate, because half the guests are police officers and your Colin spends most of his time writing articles about how useless we are!’

‘Oh. I see.’ Isobel didn’t even blush. ‘Well, I want you to invite him anyway. All his work friends have been made redundant, and he needs some sort of outside interest.’ She rustled off, without so much as a ‘thank you’.

‘Fine. But I want those DNA results ASAP!’

If she heard that, it didn’t show. Instead she climbed into the Range Rover, started the engine, and growled away into the scorching afternoon.

‘Sa-arge,’ Tufty fluttered his eyelashes, ‘about that barbecue...?’

‘No. Now go find me some rapists.’

21

‘...denies all involvement and says he looks forward to clearing his name when the case comes to court in September.’

The pool car puttered up Holburn Street, stuck behind an extremely large man on a bicycle, doing five miles per hour in a drench of sweat and soggy Lycra cycling shorts.

Silly sod.

Had to be thirty degrees out there. And everyone knew Scottish people started melting if it got above eighteen.

Rennie’s hand kept twitching towards the horn, as if that would make their rolling roadblock go any faster. But then he’d been in a grump since they’d left the lay-by. What with doing all the driving while Tufty lounged in the back. Making him little more than a bleached-blond chauffeur.

‘...revelations that NHS trusts across Scotland are declaring a state of emergency, as admissions hit an all-time high for the year...’

Logan went back to gazing out the window.

This bit of Holburn Street was a bit on the shabby side, to be honest. But it could’ve been worse. At least it wasn’t all charity shops, vape shops, phone shops, bookies, and boarded-up units, like Union Street.

Tufty leaned through from the back. ‘Do you know what I think?’

‘Hmmph.’ Rennie glowered across the car at Logan. ‘Did you have to bring him?’

‘Couldn’t exactly leave the wee loon behind. Imagine the trouble he’d get into.’

‘...struggling to keep up with the number of patients. Joanna Parkinson, leader of the Scottish Conservatives, has blamed “decades of SNP underinvestment” for the situation...’

‘Yeah, but he should be Biohazard’s problem, now. Not ours.’

‘No, but listen,’ Tufty tapped both headrests, ‘I think we should go back to the station, because it’ll be way easier to cross-reference sexual assaults and offender profiles within geographically specific parameters.’ He bit his bottom lip and grinned at the same time, making him look like a demented hamster. ‘And I does has leftover Chicken Jalfrezi and naan bread in the CID fridge for lunch. We did get a celebratory curry last night, because Kate said... yes!’ Bouncing up and down in his seat. ‘I does has a bidie-in! How cool is that?’ Serious face. ‘But mostly the sexual assaults thing.’

‘...Fordyce, MSP for Aberdeen South and North Kincardine invited her to “awa and bile her heid”.’

Logan smiled. ‘Congratulations.’

Rennie just humphed again.

The lights were with them, for a change, and they crawled across the three-way junction where Holburn Street crashed into the tail end of Alford Place and the start of Union Street.

Back in the day, Aberdeen’s main thoroughfare was vibrant and alive, now it was all grey and moribund. Seemed as if every day there was something else closing down, or ‘TO LET, MAY SELL’.

‘...following a riot at her concert in Glasgow. The American pop star, and vocal Trump critic, has received numerous death threats...’

Still stuck behind their one-man Tour de France, Rennie’s thumb stroked back and forth across the car’s horn. As if he was trying to arouse it. ‘We’re not going back to the station. Call the support team: get one of them to do it. We’ve got bigger haddock to batter.’

Which was true.

After all, Charles MacGarioch’s friends weren’t going to interview themselves. And every single one of them would need talking to.

Tufty’s bottom lip poked out, no doubt mourning that leftover curry, then he whumped back in his seat, and pulled out his phone. Noodling away at the screen. Probably playing some daft game. Because no one could just sit quietly any more, could they. They always had to be entertained.

Rennie glared in the rear-view mirror. ‘Constable! I said call the—’

‘Has-ing a bash at it online, Sarge.’ Poking and scrolling. ‘Searchity search, search, search...’

‘...and three people were stabbed. The First Minister has called for calm, calling the outbreak of violence this week “a cowardly and racist attack”...’

Logan unfolded the list of Charles MacGarioch’s known associates and scanned down it for the closest address. Then pointed at the traffic lights. ‘Left here.’

Rennie switched lanes, accelerating past Mr Soggy Spandex, then wheeching around the corner onto Rose Street with its collection of takeaways and sitty-ins. Each one a siren’s call to Logan’s empty stomach.

Well, it was a long time since breakfast, and a couple of mouldy meeting-room custard creams did not count as tenses.

‘...claim the arson attack on the refugee support centre, in Edinburgh’s Cowgate last night, was inspired by the burning of a hotel housing migrants in Aberdeen.’

There was a sports shop on the junction with Thistle Street, where two women in overalls were removing a big sheet of plywood from a shattered window. Presumably to replace it with one of the units strapped on the back of their tartan van — the one with ‘Auchterturra Glazing Company Ltd’ down the side.

‘Though most politicians have condemned the events, Ian Wilson-Vale, of Vision for Britain, said:’

A full-on twat bloviated out of the car’s speakers. Like a fart made flesh. ‘People are angry that our proud country doesn’t feel like it’s theirs any more. These are legitimate concerns, and the government isn’t helping by pretending everyone who feels that way is somehow “racist” or part of the “far right”.’

Sitting in the back, Tufty noodled on. ‘Doodley, dooodley, searchity poo...’

‘Following his comments, Marion Lewis — minister for Culture, Media and Sport — is facing calls to resign after she was picked up on a live microphone after her interview with BBC Breakfast News this morning:’

A tired female voice grumbled out of the radio, the audio muffled and crackling: ‘Christ, that man’s a bigoted moron. The real question is: why would anyone elect a racist [BLEEP]-wit [BLEEP]-[BLEEP]ing [BLEEP] like Ian [BLEEP]-For-Brains Witless-Vile?’

‘The minister wasn’t available for comment. But her department did issue the following statement:’

‘Searchity, bingity, bongity, boo, spidgity, spodgity, spudge...’

Rennie rolled his eyes. ‘The idiot’s right about one thing: we should drop him off at the station.’ Nodding in agreement with himself. ‘Biohazard’s going to need all the help he can get. I mean, how are we supposed to set up yet another murder inquiry with no flipping officers to staff it?’

With difficulty.

Logan pointed. ‘Straight through at Skene Street.’

‘“...for calm, rather than seeking to divide our country by stoking the flames of isolationism, xenophobia, and hatred.”’

They crossed just as the lights changed, onto Esslemont Avenue, with the austere granite lump of Aberdeen Grammar School on one side and a long run of grim-grey tenement flats on the other.

Rennie slowed to avoid mowing down a middle-aged man with a shark’s fin haircut. ‘Suppose we could get officers to double up, but you know what the press are gonna say if they find out we’re half-arsing it. Unless it turns out our victim was a rapey pervert. Then they’ll probably give the killer a medal.’

‘What a time to be alive.’

‘...sex scandal engulfing American politics as a third Republican senator is questioned by the FBI...’

Tufty looked up from his phone. ‘Do you want the depressing news, or the depressinger news? One hundred and sixty-three unsolved rapes still on the books.’

‘Christ...’

Rennie boinked a fist off the steering wheel. ‘You know what we should do? Mandatory DNA database for every male in the country. And anyone entering the country too. Soon as you set foot on Scottish soil: DNA swab, thank you very much; into the database you go.’ Sniff. ‘Fingerprints too. That’d help the clear-up rate.’

‘Oooh...’ Tufty scooted forwards again. ‘Maybe you could fit everyone with ankle monitors as well? Or tracker chips? Make sure you know where they are at all of the times.’

‘Good idea!’

Logan thumped Rennie on the arm. ‘He’s being sarcastic, you coagulated Moomin.’

A scowl. ‘Doesn’t stop it being a good idea.’

Soon as they passed the Grammar School, Esslemont Avenue narrowed to a grey trench — four-storey tenements on both sides, facing off across the road. The ones on the right were armed with satellite dishes, all pointing their antenna spears back towards the town centre, but the left was completely unarmed.

Now there was a metaphor...

Logan folded the list and stuck it back in his pocket. ‘Anywhere you can find a space.’

Rennie squeezed the pool car in behind a pair of huge communal black bins, tightly sealed against the brain-eating seagull menace.

‘Right.’ Logan scrunched around in his seat. ‘You find any rapes in Duthie Park?’

‘Doing my best, Sarge.’ Poking and frowning away at the phone’s screen. ‘Location fields aren’t searchable by geographic proximity... you can only list addresses alphabetically. Who coded this? The API’s rubbish!’ Poke, poke, poke. ‘See, this is why I wanted to go back to DHQ... That and the curry.’

Rennie climbed out of the car, then poked his head back in, smiling like a hungry wolf. ‘Then you’d better sit here and go through them, one by one, hadn’t you, Constable.’ He held up a paw. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll crack a window for you. Wouldn’t want someone calling the RSPCA on me.’ Then thunked his door shut, leaving Logan and Tufty alone in the car.

‘Sa-arge?’ The wee loon curled his top lip. ‘Is he always this much of a snudge?’

‘No barking at passers-by. And try not to chew the upholstery.’ Logan slipped out onto the pavement, wagging a finger through the open door. ‘Stay...’

Clunk.

Bloody hell...

The riverbank had been hot, but it was nothing compared to this. All that granite must’ve spent the last few days soaking up the heat, and now the tenements were like massive radiators, pounding out even more warmth as the sun baked down.

Other than the satellite dishes, and occasional downpipe, the flats were devoid of fancy ornamentation. Here and there, windows lay wide open, trying to coax in the non-existent breeze, letting music and TV shows ooze out into the sticky air.

Rennie turned around a couple of times, a Labrador in an ill-fitting suit, looking up at the buildings. ‘Where we going, Guv?’

‘Go easy on the wee loon.’ Heading across the road. ‘Not his fault you’re jealous.’

‘Not jealous.’ Rennie scurried after him. ‘If anyone’s jealous, it’s him. Because I’m so great.’

Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.

‘And the RSPCA don’t operate in Scotland — it’s the SSPCA up here. If you’re going to make fun of people, at least get your references right.’ Logan stopped outside number sixty-five. Checked the paperwork again. ‘Jericho McQueen: one of Charles MacGarioch’s little friends. We start here then we work our way through the list. Someone’s got to know where the racist wee shite’s hiding. We’re...’

The main door to number sixty-five swung open and an auld mannie in baggy jeans and a polo shirt scuffed out, bald as a boiled egg, hauling a tartan shopping trolley behind him.

‘Here.’ Logan stepped forward, catching the door before it bit into the trolley’s flanks. ‘Let me get that for you.’

Mr Bald-And-Baggy wrestled his trolley free, then gave the pair of them a good squint. ‘You Jehovah’s Witnesses or cops?’ Waving that away before they could answer. ‘Don’t care, long as you give that idiot in Two B a hard time. He’s an ASBO waiting to happen. And a wanker. That’s a sin, right: wanking?’ He waved that away too. ‘Course it is. Everything’s a sin with you miserable bastards.’

With those kind parting words, he shambled off, hiding that shiny head beneath a green woolly bunnet.

‘That was lucky.’ Logan stepped into the building’s lobby, which was nice enough if you liked brown. Brown woodwork, brown tiles on the floor, chocolate-mousse-coloured paint on the walls. A framed picture of a teeny kitten in a teacup hung at the foot of the stairs — a nugget of sweetcorn in a four-storey jobbie.

He popped his head outside again. ‘You just going to stand there gawping, or can we get on with this?’

Rennie stared after the old man. ‘Rude auld bugger. I mean, do I look like a Jehovah’s Witness?’

Not unless they’d really let themselves go.

‘Anyway,’ Rennie joined Logan in the lobby, ‘before we start: who’s playing “good cop”; and who’s the crazy, nothing-to-lose, loose-cannon that doesn’t take any shit and won’t stop till he gets a result?’

‘How about we play “professional cop”, “other professional cop”? You know, for a change.’ Heading upstairs.

Rennie trotted along behind him. ‘You’ve no respect for tradition, that’s your problem.’

‘No, my problem is that I’m surrounded by idiots.’

‘And halfwits?’

‘Halfwits?’ Logan snorted. ‘I dream of being lucky enough to work with halfwits.’

The first-floor landing was another study in turd-brown, this time featuring a picture of a baby rabbit, sitting in the middle of a salad bowl, eating the lettuce.

And on they climbed.

‘I’d need three of you mooshed together to count as a halfwit.’

Rennie grinned. ‘I miss our little talks, Guv. We should work together more often.’

The second floor had a duckling peeking out of a shoe, and yet more brown. And the armpit-sweaty fug of cannabis hanging in the air.

Not Logan’s problem.

One floor to go.

‘Guv?’ Rennie dawdled a bit at the back. ‘We still on for Sunday? Unless the city’s like something off Mad Max after the protest, of course. Welcome to the Teuchterdome!’

‘Emma bringing her tattie salad?’

‘Coleslaw. And I’ve got two of those big things of beer from Costco. Like a mini keg?’

The top landing boasted a puppy wearing a bowtie and a soppy expression to enliven the poop-inspired decor.

Logan stopped outside Jericho McQueen’s flat, and pointed at the door.

Rennie gave it a knock. ‘Anything I should know before we go in?’

‘I like her tattie salad better. Oh, and Steel’s bringing, and I quote, “homemade lesbian sausages”.’

‘Urgh...’

The door opened an inch and a wrinkled face peered out — narrowing her eyes as she clocked their fighting suits. ‘If yer here tae ask aboot my eternal soul: I gied it tae a wee mannie wie a forky tail and horns twa wicks ago.’

‘Is Jericho in?’ Logan held up his hands. ‘He’s not in any trouble, we just need to have a word about one of his friends.’

Suspicion seeped onto the landing, thicker than the smell of weed downstairs. ‘Oh, aye?’

Silence.

Then a sigh.

And the door swung open all the way.

The wrinkled face belonged to a woman in her mid-eighties, with a tan corduroy skirt, Sex-Pistols T-shirt, thick-rimmed glasses, and a red cardigan. ‘Suppose ye’d better come in. But wipe yer mochit feet!’

It was always nice to feel wanted...

22

The living room struggled under the weight of a dark wooden table, bookcase, and mantelpiece stuffed full of ugly ceramic angels. Which made a change from ugly china cats. But unlike Victoria MacGarioch’s flat, there wasn’t a single photo of the royal family on display. Or anyone else, come to that. Instead, a brass urn had pride of place on the mahogany sideboard, in a wreath of white plastic roses.

A ridiculously large TV took up one whole corner, the screen filled with some sort of be-jumpered Scandi crime drama — paused mid-gruesome discovery.

Logan shifted on the saggy, striped couch, not drinking the tea they hadn’t been offered.

Why did no one on the telly have the faintest clue about crime-scene management? Never mind an SOC suit, Politisjefinspectør Melancholy Ugly-Sweatersdóttir wasn’t even wearing gloves.

Rennie stood in front of the window, looking out and down at the street below. Presumably lording it over Tufty.

Which left Mrs McQueen: sitting in pinched stillness on the room’s only armchair as the clock ticked.

Yup: great to feel wanted.

Finally, the living-room door opened and in slouched a young man whose DIY beard kit fluffed out from a puppy-fat face. It went with little pink eyes and a nose that looked as if it’d been broken more than once. He hadn’t bothered to dress for company, scuffing his way to the couch in a Lego Ninjago T-shirt, Spider-Man boxer shorts, and nothing else. Collapsing into the seat beside Logan, with a yawn and a scratch, hair sticking out in all directions.

And even though his skin was pale and lumpy as a tub of cottage cheese, his accent sounded like a wobbly Detroit-gang-banger-from-the-projects knock-off: ‘Go see’s a Coke, Gran.’

‘Get it yersel, ya lazy wee gype. Staggerin’ in at aw hours.’

‘Gra-aaaa-annnn...’ Whining and whinging.

‘Oh, in the name o’ the hairy Christ...’ She levered herself out of her armchair and lumbered from the room.

Rennie got his notebook out — pen at the ready.

‘Jericho.’ Logan put on his best non-threatening-we’re-all-friends-here voice. ‘You’re one of Charles MacGarioch’s mates, right?’

‘Might be. Don’t mean I’ve done nothing. Even if he has. Which he hasn’t.’

‘Any idea where he might’ve got to?’

A lopsided shrug. ‘Dunno: at his nan’s or his bitch’s, innit? I ain’t his keeper, bro.’

Logan kept his face perfectly still, because giving the wee shite a bollocking for referring to women as ‘bitches’ wouldn’t help catch Charles MacGarioch. And Soban Yūsuf deserved better than that. ‘Sure you didn’t see him yesterday? Or maybe he popped past early this morning, when everyone else was asleep?’

‘Nah: whatever you’s trying to pin on Charlie is sod all to do with me. Jericho was working all night.’ He mimed playing twin turntables, while holding imaginary headphones to his ear. As if talking about himself in the third person, in a borrowed accent, didn’t make him enough of a tosser. ‘Got me, like, a hunnerd-an-fifty witnesses, innit?’

‘That’s cool.’ Logan leaned in, as if he was about to share a secret: ‘Where’s he hiding?’

‘Don’t know. Wouldn’t tell you if I did. Cos Jericho don’t clype on his homies.’

Time to try concerned-parent mode. ‘It’s only going to get worse for him, Jericho. The longer Charlie’s in the wind, the harder they’re going to crack down when they find him. Help us to help him.’

Jericho stiffened. ‘You deaf, bro? Jericho — don’t — clype.’

‘I can respect that.’ OK, so concerned-parent didn’t work, how about gossipy-mate? ‘How long have you two known each other?’

‘Since. You know?’ He looked across the room, at the urn sitting on the sideboard. ‘We was in that support thing, for kids that didn’t have no mums and dads. Growed up with our nans or grandads... aunties, that kinda shit.’

‘Must’ve been tough.’

‘Nah.’ Jericho looked over his shoulder at the door, a wee smile on his face. ‘She’s a daft old bitch, and her taste in music is well crap, but I love her, you know? She bin good to me all these years. Jericho would fuckin’ die for that woman.’

Fair enough.

Logan produced his phone and called up the photo he’d found in MacGarioch’s bedroom. ‘Charlie found himself someone to love too.’ Holding the screen out.

‘Yeah, he’s a lucky guy.’ Jericho did that stupid finger-clack thing rappers used to do about a decade ago. ‘She is unjustifiably hot. Spicy trembles, you know what I’m saying?’

Not even vaguely.

Turning the phone back the right way, Logan frowned at the screen. Ooh, look at me: being all confused. ‘Keira still lives at home, doesn’t she?’

‘Nah, man. She’s got her own place in Powis, innit. Sharing with them vegans and shit.’

A nod. ‘Sweet.’ Now all they needed was a last name and an address.

‘Totally.’ His grin pulled that horrible ratty pseudo-beard even further out of shape. ‘Likes to mess with them, cos she brings home, you know leftover steak from the restaurant and leaves it in the fridge for them to freak out about.’ Jericho waved his hands about and put on a hippy voice. ‘“It’s a dead animal, man! I’m like totally shocked and offended!” Ha!’

‘Yeah. Of course. She works at the...’ Logan scrunched his face up, throwing in a little shake of the head. ‘I always forget the name of the place.’

‘“The Star-Sprinkled Heavens”. Which is well wanky, but you gotta make wedge, right?’

Rennie did a little squint-shouldered pose. ‘You got that right, bruv.’ Making devil’s horns with both hands and half-folding his arms so they pointed at forty-five degrees, as he launched into a rap:

Oh, for God’s sake.

Jericho stared at him, as if the daft bastard had just grown an erect penis in the middle of his forehead. Which might have been less embarrassing.

‘Ah, nah.’ Jericho shook his head. ‘Nah, nah, nah.’ Jumping to his feet and jabbing a finger at Rennie’s stupid face. ‘You bastards is playing me! Like I is some sort of fuckin’ idiot!’

Logan poured on the oil. ‘Forget about him, he’s the idiot. It’s OK: you and me were just chatting and—’

‘Jericho ain’t no clype!’ The pointing finger swung around to the living-room door. ‘Get yo lying police asses out my nan’s crib!’

At which point that very door swung open and in scuffed Mrs McQueen, carrying an ice-filled glass in one hand and a can of off-brand Coke in the other.

She took one look at her grandson, then Rennie, then Logan. ‘What?’

‘It’s nothing.’ Logan stood, making soothing gestures. ‘We’re cool. Everyone just needs to calm down and we can—’

‘Gran, these police wankers is trying to get us to clype on Charlie! I want them gone, like.’

Her mouth pinched — tight as a tourniquet. ‘You heard the boy: out.’

‘Well... how was I supposed to know?’ Rennie stumbled out onto the pavement, courtesy of a not-too-subtle shove.

Logan followed him into the sun-baked street. The glare almost blinding after the brown gloom of the stairwell. ‘A rap? Are you insane?’

‘It’s not... He’s...’ Sulky pout. ‘Wasn’t going to cooperate anyway.’

‘He was cooperating! Till you did your Slim Shifty impersonation.’ Logan stomped off towards the pool car.

‘At least we found out where MacGarioch’s girlfriend works, right? They’ll give us her last name, and Bob’s your wingwang.’

Idiot.

‘Jericho McQueen’s probably up there, right now, on the phone, warning Keira that we’re looking for her boyfriend!’

Rennie loped around to the driver’s side, casting a pitying look across the roof as if Logan was the one who’s daft. ‘It’s literally in all the papers. Charles MacGarioch’s face was on the morning TV news bulletins. Trust me: she knows.’

‘You’re still an idiot.’ Logan hauled open the passenger door and thumped into a four-wheeled air-fryer. Peeling off his jacket before he reached medium-rare. ‘Now she knows we know about her and Charles.’

Tufty was still in the back seat, still poking away at his phone, and still wearing the full Police-Scotland-black outfit with stabproof and high-vis. Little sod must’ve been sweltering, but there wasn’t even a drop of sweat on his pointy face.

He’d nicked the map from the pool car’s glove box and spread it across his knees — Aberdeen, laid out in all its sprawling glory — only now the city was peppered with teeny tags made of torn-up Post-it notes. Two colours: yellow, and pink.

Rennie whumped in behind the wheel. ‘Yeah, but does that really matter?’ Digging out his own phone and fiddling with it. ‘They’re not an item any more — you said the racist old-bag grandma broke them up.’ He held the phone to his ear. ‘Might make this “Keira” a bit bitter and ready to dob her ex in. I mean, what kind of tit doesn’t stand up for his woman, when some rancid—’ He sat forward, putting on a polite, slightly plummy voice. ‘Hello, yes, is that the Star-Sprinkled Heavens?... Good... Yes... Lovely, thank you... Can I ask, I know it’s a bit cheeky, but is Keira working this lunchtime? She’s my wife’s favourite... Now, that is a shame... Oh, she will?’ Flashing a thumbs-up at Logan. ‘Smashing... Tell you what, let me check with my wife and I’ll phone you back about booking that table... OK, thanks... Thanks... Bye.’ He hung up. ‘The mysterious Keira won’t be in till this evening.’

‘Subtle.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Rennie gave his head a wee shoogle. ‘This isn’t my first dance recital.’ Then he stuck a hand into the back of the car, snapping his fingers like a prick. ‘You finished yet?’

Tufty applied another nib of torn yellow Post-it. ‘Almost.’ Then sat back and peered at the map.

A sniff. ‘Told you he was useless.’

The wee loon pulled a face. ‘See, I’m thinking there’s maybe a case for not reporting it.’ Running a finger around the map. ‘If you’ve just accidentally-on-purpose killed the guy who broke into your house to rape you — or your wife, girlfriend, mother, child — do you ditch the body in the river then call the police to say “Help! We’ve been attacked!”?’

True. ‘Not if you wanted to get away with it.’

Another yellow nib. ‘So maybe you don’t report it at all? Or maybe you report it as something else, cos you need a crime number for the insurance? Which is why I did go back to the housebreakings again.’

Logan sat up. ‘Anything for last night?’

‘Near Duthie Park?’

‘Preferably.’

‘No.’ Tufty tore a teeny square of yellow from a Post-it and stuck it down near the airport. ‘Last night we’ve got three in Rubislaw, one in Northfield, one in Stoneywood, and two in Danestone.’ Tapping each location in turn. ‘Busy night for thieves of a cat-like nature.’

‘Then we start in Rosemount and work our way out.’ Logan thumped Rennie. ‘Drive.’

A groan. ‘Should we not be leaving this to Biohazard?’

‘Where’s your team spirit? Besides, like you say: Keira won’t be at work till this evening. Maybe we can get this thing solved before then?’

After all, you never knew your luck...

23

Logan stepped out of the front door of number eighty-six, into a fancy portico with granite pillars, because the houses in this bit of Rubislaw weren’t exactly modest. Big flash homes with big flash gardens and big flash cars parked outside.

Mr Copeland followed him out into the sunshine — wringing his hands. Mid-seventies, in a ‘LOCHSKIAN HOTEL’ polo shirt, shorts, baldy head, and hairy knees. ‘It’s all quite distressing, really.’

Logan tucked his notebook away. ‘It might be an idea to get a decent padlock on your shed. You never know when thieves will strike.’

‘Oh yes, definitely. Definitely.’ Nodding so hard his wattles wobbled. ‘Thank you, Officer.’

Greasy, lying, hairy-kneed fraud that he was.

A quick nod, and Logan wandered off, down the driveway and around the corner, onto Forest Road.

How thick did he think Logan was? Someone broke into his shed and made off with a ride-on lawn mower worth three-thousand-pounds, a chainsaw, a petrol strimmer, pole saw, and over two grand’s worth of power tools?

Aye, right.

The front lawn was nowhere near big enough for a ride-on mower — most of it was lock-block parking for the two Jags and a Lexus — and the back garden had been covered in paving slabs. OK: it was a very nice patio, but doubt it needed a lot of mowing.

Should put a flag on the crime number, in case the insurance company got in touch.

Why was it, the richer some people got, the fewer morals they had?

Of course, maybe that’s how they got to be rich in the first place...

Forest Road was even swankier, with huge granite mansions, baronial palaces, Edwardian halls, and the odd Schloss thrown in for good luck. And it was lined with trees, so there was a nice bit of shade from the punishing sun.

Good for strolling along with your hands in your pockets.

Logan’s phone ding-buzzed as he took a left onto Rubislaw Den North. Which was posher still. You’d need a serious lottery win to afford anything in this part of Aberdeen. Or old family money.

Ah, a boy could dream...

He checked his phone, pulling up the new message as he wandered through the leopard-spot shade. Not a text this time, but an email.

SHEILA DALRYMPLE:

Swear to God, she was drinking on the job.

Logan clicked on the attachment, starting the download.

Over on the other side of the street, a woman jogged by in her Gucci tracksuit and Chanel sweatband, with a ridiculous-looking cockapoo trotting along beside her on an extending leash. No doubt impressed by Logan’s fighting suit, she gave him a cheery smile on the way past.

Little did she know that his entire outfit came from the big Asda in Garthdee.

But he returned her greeting anyway, the smile vanishing from his face as Sheila Dalrymple’s attachment finally appeared.

Bloody hell...

Logan leaned against the cool trunk of the nearest tree. Frowning at the screen.

It was a portrait shot: the body lay on its back on the pebbled beach. Even with the flash on, the camera hadn’t been able to adjust for the watery blue light that seeped in through the SOC-marquee walls, draining colour from the remains.

Which was probably a blessing.

The features were lopsided — barely recognisable through all the swelling. One cheek looked broken, and the eye socket above it was virtually gone too. The mouth nothing but a mess of tattered flesh. The nose almost non-existent.

It wasn’t just a beating: whoever this poor sod was, they’d been subjected to a horrific level of violence. Didn’t matter what they’d done: no one deserved that.

Because the body had been lying facedown in the river, all the blood had pooled in the lowermost tissues. Turning the skin there beetroot-purple, while everything above it was the colour of frozen butter.

Logan huffed out a long breath and scrolled through the other photos.

Number Two was a close-up of the eyes, ballooned up to scarlet slits. Number Three showed the left ear, almost completely ripped from the victim’s head. And last, Number Four. The poor sod’s right hand — with every single finger on it broken and dislocated.

Even with the sun softening the tarmac, the day had turned a lot colder.

Logan took a breath, hit ‘FORWARD’, and thumbed out an email to Biohazard.

Soon as the email registered as ‘SENT’ Logan pocketed his phone and marched up the road — it wasn’t a strolling kind of day any more.

He’d made it about halfway, when the pool car appeared, something thin and poppy piffling out of the open driver’s window.

Rennie took one look at Logan’s face and killed the radio. ‘What’s wrong?’

Could just show him the photos, but there was a risk — after the whole DNA-Test-Every-Man-In-Scotland rant — he’d want to celebrate, and that would not go well.

Logan forced a smile instead. ‘Someone “broke into” an old man’s Shed of Lies.’

‘Ah, OK.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Mine was a crotchety pair of auld farts whose home-help allegedly made off with a set of silver cutlery and two crystal decanters. Silly sods didn’t get their key back before stiffing her a month’s wages for breaking a casserole dish.’ Grin. ‘Why are rich people such twats?’

A question for the ages.

Logan climbed into the passenger seat. ‘So, if my OAP was working an insurance fiddle, and yours were—’

‘The technical term is “twats”.’

‘That just leaves the wee loon.’

Rennie put the car in gear, and off they went.

Bayview Road wasn’t as swanky as Rubislaw Den North, but then not much in Aberdeen was. It was still pretty grand, though. Even if whoever named the street was a lying sod. That or they had a massive ladder, because the only thing visible from here were the large granite houses. And even they were partially hidden behind hedges and trees.

Rennie peered through the windscreen. ‘Where is the little spud?’

‘Play nice. Or I’ll promote him to Head Sidekick and you can go help Doreen search the riverbank.’

‘God... Total shudderfest.’

Two doors down, a gate opened in a seven-foot-high hedge and out lolloped the little spud in question.

He paused on the pavement, turned, and waved back towards the house. Then closed the gate and stood there, face upturned, beaming back at the sun.

Rennie ponked the horn.

Tufty gave them a wave as well, then scurried up the road and clambered into the back. ‘Afternoon, Sarges.’ Rubbing his tummy with happy hands. ‘Mr and Mrs Knowles did has the loveliest of finger sandwiches and teeny quiches and strawberry tarts and meringues with rhubarb cream!’ Sigh. ‘Couldn’t eat another thing.’

There was a scowl from the driver’s seat, but Rennie kept his gob shut. His stomach rumbled a complaint, though.

It wasn’t wrong.

Logan gave the mirror a stare. ‘What about the break-in?’

‘Some poophead jimmied the patio door in the dead of night, and tried to make off with their DVD player.’

Interesting. ‘Tried to?’

‘They does also has a very big dog. And Captain Woofalot doesn’t like burglars.’

Rennie raised an eyebrow. ‘Bingo.’

‘No: no “bingo”. Mr Knowles is in a wheelchair, Mrs Knowles is in a leg brace, and they’re both in their eighties.’ Pausing for a chin stroke. ‘Unless she beat him to death with her walking stick, I don’t think they’re our killers. Plus, it’s difficult to dump a body when you drive a mobility scooter...’

Rennie’s face tightened, but the threat of being demoted to squelchy-riverbank-searching kept him silent.

Tufty consulted the Post-it-note map. ‘Northfield?’

‘Northfield.’ And now it was Logan’s stomach’s turn to howl. ‘But we’re stopping somewhere for lunch, first.’

Rennie took a scoof of Irn-Bru. ‘...but the thing that worries me is: what happens if it all kicks off like last time? Cos that’s what these bastards want, isn’t it — anti-migrant riots on the streets, smashing in corner-shop windows, burning people out their homes. And all the time they’re raking in the cash!’

This bit of Northfield was a lot less swanky than Rubislaw Den. Instead of granite mansions, the pool car sat between twin terraces of beige-and-brown harling. Two-storey, flat-faced, with the occasional tiny awning bolted above the front door. No mature trees, or towering green hedges here. Instead, most of the gardens had been lock-blocked, or tarmacked-over for off-street parking. Hatchbacks and vans, instead of Range Rovers and BMWs.

‘And you know what?’ Rennie took a bite of pie, chewing through the words. ‘Bet half of it comes from Russia too. Destabilising the West, one knuckle-dragging racist arsehole at a time.’

To be fair, they were very nice pies.

And it was easier to let him rant on by himself — just throwing in the occasional, ‘Uh-huh,’ every now and then to show willing — than actually pay attention to whatever it was he was wanging on about this time.

Logan shifted his pie around a little, using the paper bag as a container to keep the grease off his fingers. Steak mince. The king of pies. Hot, gristle-free, savoury, dark, and delicious, from the bakery on Byron Square.

Munch, munch, munch.

It was just the two of them in the car, the back seat lying vacant while Tufty was out doing a bit of work for a change.

That would teach the little sod to stuff himself full of fancy finger sandwiches and tasty pastries.

‘Tell you,’ Rennie swigged more Irn-Bru, ‘we should make it illegal to own a newspaper, or radio station, or any of that shite, if you don’t live and pay tax in the UK.’

Logan’s phone ding-buzzed on the dashboard. He checked it, one-handed, leaving the other free to provide another tasty munch of crisp pastry and beefy gravy.

‘And they’re forever bleating on about being “patriotic”, and “having pride in our country”! How are we supposed to be proud of it, when it’s full of wankers like Charles MacGarioch and those hostel-burning pricks in Edinburgh? What, we’re supposed to just turn a blind eye and salute the sodding King?’

TARA:

Good question.

‘And don’t get me started on the politicians!’ Rennie tore at his pie, getting flakes of pastry all down his clip-on tie. ‘Pretending they’re “men of the people” — half these tossers went to private school!’

Logan pecked out a reply with one thumb:

SEND.

‘Working class? Never done a hard day’s work in their bloody lives!’

Ding-buzz.

TARA:

Yeah... Had a feeling that wouldn’t go down well.

‘You know why they want to drag us all back to the seventies? It’s cos that’s when they were kids — no responsibilities, no worries, no mortgages, or any of that shite. Mummy looked after their every need, and you could call people “nig-nog” and get away with it.’ A grunt. Some angry chewing. ‘Bunch of fucks.’

Logan’s thumb ticked across the teeny keyboard:

And you couldn’t get a more solemn oath than that.

SEND.

The rear door creaked open and in thumped Tufty — all black and fluorescent yellow, like a radioactive liquorice allsort. ‘Mr Bhattacharjee thinks it was one of the kids from a couple of streets over. They wriggled in through the bathroom window, ransacked his mum’s bedroom — she wasn’t there, on account of being in hospital with the lurgie — and made off with her life’s savings. About two and a half grand, stashed under the mattress.’

Logan popped his phone back on the dashboard. ‘Think he might be our killer?’

‘Doesn’t drive. And it’s going to look weird if you call an Uber and ask if it’s OK to pop a body in the boot.’

True.

Logan polished off the last morsel of pie. ‘Starting to think this housebreaking idea of yours is a washout.’

‘Was only a hypothesis, Sarge.’

Rennie crammed in the final toenail-curl of pastry, chewing as he scrunched up the paper bag and lobbed it over his shoulder. Where it just missed Tufty’s head. ‘Stoneywood, ho!’

And off they went again.

24

Logan clunked the pool car’s door shut, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare as a white plane with a red-tartan tail scrambled into the sky, propellers going like the clappers.

The tiny bungalow they’d parked outside sat in the middle of a row of dilapidated wooden sheds. Isolated from the rest of the street. As if the other houses were scared of catching something.

It didn’t even have a strip of pavement outside.

This was ‘SAOR ALBA’, according to the nameplate screwed to the wall by the gate. Grey harled walls, lichen-greened slate roof, the woodwork peeling and in need of a paint. The front garden was a bit of a mess too. But the building backed onto a field of barley — rapidly losing its green tinge as it slowly baked — so at least the view was nice. If you didn’t mind being on the Aberdeen Airport flight path...

Rennie climbed out and pulled on a pair of shades. ‘Lonnnng way from Duthie Park.’

With insights like that, it was amazing he hadn’t made Inspector yet.

Logan opened the garden gate, setting it groaning and squealing like a haunted pig, then marched over to the front door. Rapping on the wood with his knuckles.

‘This is all a waste of time, isn’t it.’ Rennie scuffed down the short path, following him. ‘Stupid idea.’ Casting a scowl back towards Tufty — currently gazing out across the field, like a badly dressed garden gnome.

A muffled, ‘Hold on...’ came through the door, then it swung open and a small woman appeared. Sixty-something? With grey hair, jeans, clogs, and a lime-green sweatshirt that had ‘END OF EMPIRE’ embroidered across the chest, along with some twee thistles. Looking rumpled and a bit confused as she blinked out at Logan and Rennie... then sagged in disappointment.

Again: always nice to feel wanted.

Logan pulled on a professional smile. ‘Mrs Shaw? We’re here about your break-in.’

‘Oh?’ Peering around them at the street beyond, clearly looking for something. Or someone. It can’t have been Tufty, though, because seeing him just caused her to sag even more. ‘I thought you lot didn’t bother your backsides for anything less than a full-on murder these days.’

Logan spread his arms wide. ‘And yet: here we are.’

She let out a tut, then a long-suffering sigh. ‘You’d better come in then.’

Wow.

The tiny room looked as if someone had been through it with a petrol strimmer. Film posters hung in tatters from the walls, the bed lay on its side, the mattress slashed. Every drawer hung wide open, their contents flung about; wardrobe too.

A small desk — the kind kids were given to do their homework at was missing a leg, leaving it tipped back at a drunken angle. All its drawers were open too, but there was no sign of the contents. Nothing computery on the floor or wedged on top of other broken things.

Mrs Shaw turned in place, flapping her arms like a lime-green penguin. ‘I mean look at it! What sort of animal does this to a wee boy’s bedroom?’ Pointing at the piles of clothes. ‘All his things.’

Logan stepped back out into the hall.

It was tiny too. But then this was a tiny house.

Paintings of Scottish pastoral scenes dotted the walls, between five doors leading off. Two hung open, revealing a tidy little lounge and a tidy little kitchen.

He tried the other three: tidy little bathroom, tidy little linen closet, and a tidy little bedroom.

Hmmm...

Logan stepped back into the maelstrom, where Mrs Shaw was picking up a pair of black boxer shorts — folding them, then turning around again, trying to find somewhere tidy to put the things.

‘And they didn’t touch anything else? Just your son’s room?’

She put the boxer shorts on the wonky desk and plucked another pair of pants from the floor. ‘I don’t know what Andrew will say when he gets home. They took his new laptop!’

‘But you didn’t hear anything?’

‘Well, I was fast asleep, wasn’t I. Soon as I’ve taken my pills, I’m out like a badger.’ Her shoulders dipped. ‘Came through to see if Andrew wanted a boiled egg for his breakfast and found... this.’

Not the best start to the day.

Logan snapped on a pair of gloves. ‘And where was your son when all this happened?’

‘Oh, he was out. Probably at a girl’s house.’ A smile. ‘Thinks I don’t know, but he’s just like his father: proper ladies’ man. Well, he is very handsome.’

She rescued a photo from the messy floor and held it out: a professional headshot, eight-by-ten, of a young man with a strangely... plastic face. Tidy little beard to go with the tidy little house, black hair swept back from a perfectly smooth forehead, plucked eyebrows, teeth so white they probably glowed in the dark. Sort of handsome, in a Made-By-Mattel way.

A curly signature was superimposed over the bottom of the image, with the words ‘ANDREW WALLACE SHAW ~ AVAILABLE FOR MODELLING AND ACTING WORK’ and a mobile number.

So much for ‘wee boy’.

Mrs Shaw let out a wistful breath. ‘Not that his dad hung around for very long. Wandering eye to go with the wandering hands.’

Logan turned — surveying the wreckage again. ‘Jealous or jilted boyfriend, maybe? Or a girl he’s dumped?’

That got him a scowl. ‘My Andrew’s not some sort of... homewrecker! He’s been raised right. A good boy. I made certain of that!’

‘I’m sure he is, but we have to ask this stuff.’ Logan had a poke around in the debris. Clothes mostly, with the occasional airport paperback thrown in. ‘How did they get in? Your burglar.’

‘Don’t know. I was asleep, remember? But when I woke up the back door was lying wide open. And you can tell the insurance people I always lock it!’ She folded another pair of scattered undies. ‘All they ever do is work out ways not to pay what they owe. What’s the point of insurance if they never honour their end of it?’

‘Uh-huh.’

Something went crunch under his foot.

Logan lifted a V-neck T-shirt out of the way and frowned at what he’d stepped on. An oval tube, wide as a hardback book, but plastic, camouflage-coloured, with some sort of elasticated strapping attached to one end.

He was bending down to pick it up when his phone burst into song, blaring out ‘Ecce Homo, Qui Est Faba’. Which could only mean one thing: Biohazard.

‘Sorry: I’d better take this.’ Poking the green icon. ‘DI Marshall, what can I do for you?’

‘If you’re not safe to talk, find somewhere you are.’

Yeah... That didn’t sound good.

Logan put his hand over the microphone. ‘Wonder if I could bother you for a cup of tea, Mrs Shaw. If it’s not too much bother, of course?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘And I thought it was just lazy writing on all those TV shows.’ But she shuffled off anyway.

He closed the door behind her. ‘OK. Safe to talk.’

‘Got a rush job back from the labs: DNA on our victim. No ID as yet, but we’ve got a hit on five unsolved rapes.’

‘Shite...’ Checking the door was definitely shut. ‘Sounds as if Tufty was right.’

‘He’s a creeper — gets into people’s houses in the wee small hours. Targets single mothers.’ A grunt. ‘We’re going to need more bodies — preferably female officers — to visit the victims and check for alibis. Don’t want to add to the trauma.’

That wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Logan picked up whatever it was he’d stood on, turning it over in his hand.

Looked like a pair of binoculars, only much higher-tech. The lenses were all cracked, and so was the camouflage-green casing as if someone had stamped and stamped and stamped on it. Leaving wires poking out and bits of circuit board on show.

‘Not sure if it’ll come as a relief or not — knowing someone’s battered the bastard to death and chucked him in the river.’

‘Better not mention that bit. At least, not till we get an OK from the PF...’ Logan weighed the fancy binoculars in his hand. Looked around at the wreckage. ‘Biohazard: this creeper of yours — do the victims remember anything specific about him?’

‘Hold on...’ There were some rustling noises. ‘Dead of night... Here we go: dressed all in black, wearing a ski-mask with big sharp teeth printed on it. Like a monster’s grin. Threatens them with a dirty big knife — “Make a sound and I’ll slit your throat, then rape your kids...”’ A breath. ‘Jesus.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Whoever did for this fucker: we should throw them a parade.’

‘The victims say anything else?’

‘Only that it was dark the whole time — he never put the lights on.’

Yeah, but how did he navigate a strange house in the dark...?

Wires and circuit boards.

Maybe they weren’t binoculars? Maybe they were night-vision goggles.

And maybe Mrs Shaw’s ‘wee boy’ wasn’t such an angel after all...

Logan leaned back against the pool car, phone to his ear. ‘No comment.’

A wave of noise washed across the street as an orange-and-white jet swooped down towards the airport — roaring in over the field, then disappearing behind a block of flats at the end of the road.

Sadly, the din faded away, and Colin Miller became audible again: ‘Seems like it’s your day for finding treats from the deep, but. First it’s Charles MacGarioch’s jacket, now his body.’

‘And again: no comment.’

‘C’mon Laz, don’t be an arse. Haven’t had my meeting with the new owner, yet — assuming she ever deigns to turn up. Be nice if I had a wee scooparoonie to show off my skills, but.’

There was still no sign of Tufty or Rennie. Hopefully the pair of them were doing a decent job of pretending to be an SOC team. Only without the scrunchy white suits and grubby Transit van.

‘You should get your ears checked, Colin. Man your age — hearing’s the first thing to go. That and the willy.’

‘OK, how about this: any comment on the old dears you traumatised yesterday, chasing that ice-cream truck into the river?’

Logan scowled out at the barley. ‘No one was traumatised! No matter what crap you printed this morning.’

A rumbling howl grew louder, and an aeroplane appeared from behind the flats, outbound this time — white-and-green, with a shamrock on the tail — clawing its way into the clear blue sky. Wings shining in the blazing sun.

‘They could’a died, man. If Charles MacGarioch hadn’t swerved intae the Don, they’d be geriatric mince by now. People are saying he’s a hero, like. Sacrificing himself, instead of ploughing through them OAPs.’

A hero?

‘Ha! That’s me laughing at you. Did you hear it? Ha!’

‘Then there’s those wee boys on the bikes. Could’a driven straight through them an’ all. Didn’t, though, did he.’

‘Charles MacGarioch is not a hero. He’s a...’ Logan clamped his gob shut, before something classified fell out.

‘Oh aye?’ Colin adopted a sly, sleekit tone. ‘You know: it mighthelp yer cause if you was to tell me why youse were after him in the first place. Put his “heroism” in a wee bitty context? Especially now he’s dead — drowned as a result of your police chase.’

Logan gazed out across the barley.

The Aer Lingus flight had shrunk to little more than a shining dot in the distance.

A tortoiseshell cat bustled across the hot tarmac, tail swaying, disappearing into one of the tatty wooden sheds.

And Colin didn’t say a word. Letting him stew.

OK. Who knew — maybe it would help.

‘Strictly off the record? And I mean one hundred percent in no way for publication?’

There was a wee pause, then: ‘Agreed.’

‘The body we fished out of the Dee wasn’t Charles MacGarioch. So, if you publish that, A: you’re going to traumatise his grandmother for nothing, and B: you’ll look like an idiot when the details come out.’

No response.

Logan turned his back on the sun. ‘Isobel tells me you’re a sad lonely git with no friends.’

‘Are you positive it’s no’ him?’

‘She wants me to invite you to the barbecue at my place, Sunday.’

‘Cos if you’re screwing with me...?’

Oh, for Christ’s sake: you try to do someone a favour.

‘Of course it’s not sodding him. I’m a police officer; unlike you shifty journalist bastards, we actually tell the truth.’

Most of the time, anyway.

‘Aye, fair enough.’ A grunt. ‘And I’m no’ “sad and lonely”, I’m just a bit... Our new owner’s doing that fire-and-rehire crap, and half the guys I work with are out. Apparently, proper, trained, experienced journalists are “too expensive”. Why pay them, when you can “hire” a bunch of spotty unpaid interns to churn out click-bait instead?’

‘Yeah, well, it’s Sunday from one. Feel free to bring a bottle of something swanky.’

The bungalow’s front door swung open, and out lumbered Tufty, listing to one side under the weight of the pool car’s SOC kit — like an oversized make-up case in dented stainless steel, with a handle that was almost solid duct-tape.

Rennie was right behind him, carrying a slithery armful of evidence bags.

‘Got to go.’ Logan hung up, not waiting for a goodbye.

Mrs Shaw shuffled into the doorway, peering about again. Probably expecting her wee boy to turn up at any moment.

Seemed a bit cruel not to tell her, but until they knew for sure? No point breaking her heart for nothing.

Logan gave her a little wave instead.

She nodded back, then disappeared inside — into the gloom.

Tufty popped the boot and heaved the SOC kit inside, with Rennie tumbling his collection of evidence bags in after it.

‘Find anything?’

‘Plenty fingerprints.’ Tufty wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t know about DNA, though — been a while since I did the course.’

‘Not you, you desiccated Clanger. Simon?’

Rennie shuffled his haul. ‘Got those night-vision goggles; box of black nitrile gloves, still in the Amazon packaging; squirty thing of bleach...’ He pulled one of the bags out and held it aloft. ‘While here, we have an electric bump gun.’ Then gave Tufty a patronising smile. ‘It’s a device used for quickly picking locks.’ Back to Logan: ‘There’s also a collection of women’s lacy underwear. And one ski-mask, complete with printed-on pointy shark teeth.’ He held that one up too — a disembodied mouth grinned out at them.

So they’d have to break Mrs Shaw’s heart after all.

Logan at the bungalow, with its overgrown garden and tiny little rooms. ‘Call Scenes — I want them out here right now.’

‘Guv.’ Rennie marched away, phone out, already dialling.

‘You OK, Sarge?’ Tufty closed the boot. ‘Only you look all squinky. Thought you’d be happy.’

‘This whole thing just got a shed-heap more complicated.’ He drooped back against the car. ‘Whoever killed Andrew Shaw, they’re probably someone he tried to rape. Or someone he did rape. Or a victim’s spouse, maybe relative.’ Gesturing at the field and the street and the manky sheds. ‘But why come all the way out here to trash Shaw’s bedroom? Hardly counts as revenge if you’ve already beaten the bastard to death — you do it because you’re looking for something.’

‘Ah, I seeeeeee.’ Tufty poked the boot. ‘When I dusted the night-vision goggles for prints, I finded an empty SD card slot on the side. Maybe Shaw recorded his outings so he could “enjoy” them later?’ A grimace. ‘You know, on his own. Playing “Shuffle Mr Wibbly”.’

Probably.

Which means this wasn’t a crime of passion.

If Andrew Shaw had broken into their house and they killed him in the heat of the moment, he would’ve have had the goggles on him — there’d be no need to search his room.

No: whoever did it, they found out who he was, hunted him down, tortured and killed him. Then broke into his mum’s house and got rid of any evidence he’d brutalised their family in the first place. Which explained why the laptop and all the computer equipment were missing too.

And that pointed the finger in a very horrible direction.

Logan took a deep breath. ‘Tufty: do me a favour and go through the five rape victims’ statements. See if any of them are police officers, OK? Or related to one?’

‘Police?’ Both of Tufty’s eyebrows clambered up his pointy wee face. ‘Sarge.’ And off he trotted.

Logan let his head fall back, to stare up at the shiny blue sky.

Maybe they’d get lucky, and he’d be completely wrong about this?

Yeah...

The whirling clatter-and-thrummmmm of rotors rushed closer, then a bright red-white-and-blue Super Puma helicopter snarled overhead, whisking oil workers away to some far-distant oil field, in the middle of the North Sea.

‘Jammy sods.’

25

SOC-suited figures rustled from their manky Transit van to Andrew Shaw’s house — carting empty evidence crates one way, and full ones the other.

They weren’t the only newcomers. A patrol car had joined the party and brought a couple of rusty Vauxhalls with it. Now their occupants were going door-to-door and searching the field behind the house.

Giving them a bit of space, Logan retreated to the car park, outside the block of flats, in the scattered shade of a drooping tree.

‘A cop...’ Biohazard had clearly got the Chief Super’s memo, because he’d changed into regulation black, only without the stabproof vest and utility belt, because he was a fancy-pants DI now. His bare arms already going red as he paced the pavement — one hand massaging his forehead. ‘Oh, for Christ’s... buggering...’ He stopped and stared at Logan. ‘A cop?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Who else could track down a rapist like that? Private investigator? Journalist?’

‘But a cop?’

‘Might be worth checking the Police National Computer — see if “Andrew Wallace Shaw” has turned up in any search results lately.’

‘Nooooooo...’ Biohazard crumpled forwards, like a rumpled question mark. ‘Guv, maybe Doreen would be better as SIO on this one? I don’t mind searching the riverbank, honest I don’t. It’s quite calming really...’

Fat chance.

‘You should get someone to contact Shaw’s dentist. Whoever killed him did a number on his teeth, but you might ID the body if there’s any work intact. A fiver says he had veneers fitted. And talk to his GP surgery: we’re looking for any old broken bones or scars.’ What else? ‘See if you can find his car too: must’ve left it somewhere.’

Biohazard groaned. ‘This whole thing’s a proper sodding poisoned chalice full of... jobbies.’ He straightened up and pointed at the bungalow. ‘I catch the killer and he’s a cop: everyone hates me, horrible press, career suicide. I don’t catch the killer: everyone hates me, horrible press, career suicide.’

Logan patted him on the back. ‘That’s the spirit.’

‘But, Guv...’ Like a puppy, destined for a hessian sack and the nearest river.

But before Acting DI Marshall could start whimpering, Tufty scampered over from the pool car, holding out his Airwave handset. ‘Sarge? Got a call for you; someone called PC Kent?’

No idea why they didn’t just dial his direct number. Or even who PC Kent was. But it was that kind of day.

He took the handset and poked the button. ‘Safe to talk.’

A Peterhead accent jerked out of the speaker: ‘Sir? I mean, Boss. No: Guv. Yes. Hello? It’s Hilary. PC Kent? Watching Balmain House Hotel? Where the fire was?’

Ah, that PC Kent.

‘What can I do for you, Hilary?’

‘Yeah, Guv? I’ve got the hotel owner here, and he’s... “feelin’ nae pain”, if you get my drift. Maybe, you could... you know? Cos he’s demanding access and I’m telling him no, and he’s not taking that for an answer; and he wants to speak to whoever’s in charge; and there’s only me here; and when I asked the station for backup, they just said to call my SIO; only I don’t really have one, cos I’m on loan from Peterhead, like I said; and the owner’s becoming “agitated”; and I get the feeling everyone’s going to disapprove if I twathim one. So...?’

‘No twatting members of the public!’

Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to lend a hand.

After all, everything was under control here, Scenes would be at it for ages, yet. And Biohazard was a big boy now, and ugly enough to cope on his own.

‘We’ll be there soon as we can.’

‘Unless you secretly want me to twat him one, Guv? I can, you know. Be delighted to, actually. We Blue Tooners do “reasonable force” really well.’

‘Definitely not! Sit tight till we get there, and don’t let him into that building.’ Because today was bad enough, without some drunken sod crashing through the burnt-out hotel’s floor and killing himself.

‘Thanks, Guv.’

Logan handed the Airwave back to Tufty. Huffed out a breath. Then gave Biohazard a ‘buck-up’ thump on the arm. ‘You’ll be fine. Just make sure no one cocks anything up. We want a clean result on this one, OK?’

A grimace. ‘Oh, thanks a sodding heap.’

They left him to it — marching across the sticky tarmac to the pool car.

Rennie had all the doors wide open, but the thing was still hot as a crematorium as Logan thumped into the passenger seat.

The peroxide twit looked up from his phone. ‘Emma says she’ll do tattie salad if Tara makes whatever-it-is: with the little bits of pasta that look like maggots?’

And didn’t that sound delicious...

Logan clunked his door shut. ‘Buckle up: we’ve got a sozzled hotel owner to rescue from a Peterheadcase!’

Trees lined North Anderson Drive, their leaves: muted green, beneath a layer of summer dust. Set too far back from the dual carriageway to cast any shade.

The pool car cruised up the hill, past the fire station and some sort of council art installation featuring an endless line of orange traffic cones. Probably making a statement about the futility of human existence.

A parpy-trumpet indie-rock number tootled out of the radio, upbeat and jolly. Tufty nodding along in the back with a vacant smile on his face. Rennie tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Logan’s shoe marking time in the footwell.

Then three-beeps blared across the beat — announcing an incoming call on Logan’s Airwave as they slowed for the semi-organised chaos that was the King’s Cross Roundabout. He clicked off the radio, prompting disappointed noises from the idiots. ‘Grow up.’ And answered the call. ‘Safe to talk.’

‘Guv? It’s Doreen.’

He checked the handset’s screen: it was indeed.

‘If you’re calling to complain about the search: tough. There’s no point—’

‘We’ve found something.’

And with that, everyone sat up straighter.

‘Brig of Balgownie. Charles MacGarioch was last seen wearing a black T-shirt, right?’

‘Four Mechanical Mice.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ There were some rustling noises, then: ‘Found it caught in a shopping trolley, wedged against the bank. Ripped down the back, so looks like it was torn off.’

That didn’t sound good.

Rennie eased them closer to the roundabout, hunched over the wheel, rocking back and forward, looking for a gap in the traffic.

‘Sure he didn’t just take it off?’

‘Not unless he’s Edward Scissorhands. I’ve called Scenes — see if we can get DNA or something — but the only working van’s sodding about somewhere in Stoneywood. Any chance you can light an acting-chief-inspector-sized fire under their arses?’

‘Not really. They’ve got a serial rapist’s house to process.’

Over on the pavement, a leathery couple were out walking a sausage dog — her in a bikini, him in budgie-smugglers, both in sun hats and flip-flops. Grey haired and saggy. So it wasn’t just their feet going flip and flop.

What the hell was wrong with people?

No one wanted to see—

‘Guv?’

Logan snapped back. ‘Erm... Who’s doing door-to-doors in Hillhead?’

‘Spudgun’s team.’

Rennie flickered the car’s police lights, whooping the siren a couple of times to cheat his way into the swirl of vehicles and straight across the roundabout. Bit naughty, but at least Logan didn’t have to look at Mr and Mrs Baggy-Wrinkles any more.

‘OK. Tell Spudgun to shift focus to Bridge of Don and Seaton. Chances are, if MacGarioch’s made it ashore, naked from the waist up, he’s going to be pretty distinctive.’

‘On one of the hottest days of the year? It’s “taps-aff” weather, Guv. Half the buggers in Aberdeen will be wandering around like pre-boiled lobsters.’

As the Bikini/Budgie-Smugglers proved.

‘My money’s on him washing straight out to sea. Maybe he’s hit his head on a rock or a log or something, and it’s away to the briny deep he goes.’

Logan grimaced. ‘Yeah, thanks for that.’ But she wasn’t wrong. ‘OK: keep searching. Got to hope MacGarioch’s made it out alive. Or if he is hurt, he’s somewhere we can get to him.’

A whine slithered into Doreen’s voice. ‘Come on, Guv, I’ve gone boil-in-the-bag in this sodding SOC suit. Everything squelches!’

‘You want me to make Spudgun acting DI instead?’

She let loose a wee theatrical sob, then a massive sigh. ‘Yes, Guv. Searching it is, Guv. Thank you, Guv.’

Should think so too.

Outside the Balmain House Hotel, that mass of tribute teddy bears and grief bouquets had spread along the railings like a gaily coloured cancer.

Rennie parked behind the Mobile Command Unit, which didn’t look so mobile any more, because someone had slashed the tyres.

Weren’t people lovely?

A couple of young men finished off cable-tying a replica Aberdeen FC shirt to the railings, with the front facing the scorched remains, so the world could see that they’d had ‘YO¯SUF’ printed across the back.

They posed for a couple of selfies — bent-knees-and-victory-Vs — in front of the maudlin display. Grinning away like the morons they were.

Photos taken, they sloped off, leaving the crime scene dead and deserted. No sign of a drunken hotel owner or PC Kent.

Not sure if that was a good thing or not...

Logan climbed out into the furnace afternoon.

Soon as his foot hit the pavement, Kent emerged from the MCU — her brown-blonde hair looking a lot more dishevelled than yesterday. ‘Guv.’ She nodded at Tufty and Rennie as they shuffled up. ‘Other people.’

The knuckles on her right hand were scuffed, and a little swollen patch reddened across her chin.

‘Hilary, when you said, “reasonable force” how reasonable was it?’

A happy sigh. ‘Very reasonable.’ Kent hooked a thumb at the No-Longer-Mobile Command Unit. ‘He’s inside, having a wee rest, if you want?’

‘Might as well. As we’ve come all this way...’

Logan followed her into a stuffy funk of stale booze, unwashed clothes, and warm dust. Which probably had something to do with the man slumped across the table. Eyes closed and gob wide open, snorking away as a puddle of drool spread. A half-drunk mug of something brown sitting beside his head.

Kent plucked the mug from the tabletop, then banged her hand down hard. ‘WAKEY, WAKEY, MR MURRAY!’

‘Gnnnnggffff...?’ He jerked upright, then collapsed back into his seat. Blinking. A string of dribble still connecting his mouth to the tabletop like a fleshy balloon. Mid-fifties, maybe? With double bags under his eyes and a proper soup-strainer moustache. Scrapes on his left cheek and forehead. His polo shirt was all rumpled too, collar half-up, half-down; stains on his chinos — hole in one knee.

He wobbled a bit, as if the MCU was driving down a rutted track. One eye screwed shut as he peered around at the four of them. Or possibly eight, depending on how drunk he was.

Rennie and Tufty stationed themselves by the kettle, looking hopeful, as PC Kent loomed over their guest.

Meanwhile, Logan clunked the door shut and locked the thing, before leaning back against it — because you only made that mistake once — and folded his arms.

Kent wobbled the mug. ‘Thought I’d sober him up a bit, before deciding whether to charge him or not. Isn’t that right, Mr Murray?’

He answered with a rattling belch, filling the van with a rancid miasma of garlic and old whisky.

Logan coughed, one hand windscreen-wipering in an attempt to waft it away. ‘Didn’t drive here, did he?’

‘Only lives across the road. Lucky he didn’t get squashed by a builder’s lorry on the way, though.’ She clicked her fingers under the man’s nose a few times. ‘Mr Murray? Mr Murray: you wanted to talk to someone in charge — this is Detective Chief Inspector McRae.’

A baleful one-eyed glare turned in Logan’s direction. ‘Wanna make... Wanna make a complaint... Police... brutality.’

Logan tutted. ‘Is this true, Officer Kent?’

‘Mr Murray became a little “boisterous” when I wouldn’t let him into the crime scene.’ She produced her notebook, flicking through to the relevant page. ‘He felt the exclusion order shouldn’t apply to him, on account of it being his “bloody buggering hotel in the first bloody place” and that we’re “a bunch of buggering wanks” if we think we can keep him “bloody out” of his own “bloody buggering hotel”. Guv.’ She tapped the plastic rectangle fixed to her stabproof vest. ‘I got the whole thing on camera, if it helps?’ Because sometimes Body-Worn Video was your friend. ‘Oh, and he got the scratches-and-scrapes tripping over the kerb, before I even spoke to him. That’s on film too.’

A sigh. ‘Oh dear, Mr Murray: that doesn’t sound very good, does it? In fact, it kind of sounds as if Officer Kent here should charge you with a number of offences.’

Mr Murray waved a trembling hand in the vague direction of the ruins. ‘Do you... unnerstand... unnerstand someone... died?... In my hotel!... Someone died...’ His pink eyes shimmered. ‘I only tried... It’s not... not fair.’ And tears rolled down his injured cheek.

Poor sod.

Logan swapped the stern-police-officer act for a much kinder tone. ‘But I think, if you apologised, she might be persuaded not to arrest you. Isn’t that right, Officer Kent?’

‘Hmmm... Don’t know, Guv. He was very boisterous.’

Mr Murray covered his face with his hands, shoulders jerking with every sob that wracked free. ‘I’m sorry! Please, I’m so sorry...’

Because Charles MacGarioch ruined every life he touched.

‘Hey, it’s OK. Shhh...’ Logan patted Mr Murray on the back. ‘Officer Quirrel will see you home.’

Tufty cast a longing look at the unboiled kettle, then pulled on a brave smile. ‘Come on, let’s get you safely to your beddy-byes.’

It took a bit of hauling and levering, but eventually he got Mr Murray to his feet, where he wobbled and swayed, as if ready to timber down at any moment... before staggering out into the sunshine — with most of his weight supported by the wee loon.

Soon as they’d gone, Rennie popped the lid off the kettle, peered inside, then dug a two-litre bottle of water from one of the cupboards and filled it up.

Logan waited till he’d plugged it in. ‘Milk, no sugar.’ Then followed Tufty and his drunken friend out into the sunshine. Watching from the pavement as they steered a meandering course across the road, like a tiny tug towing a drunken cruise ship.

PC Kent stepped down from the MCU. ‘Sure we shouldn’t do him anyway, Guv?’

‘Nah. What’s that going to achieve? Poor sod’s already lost his hotel.’

The flotilla arrived at the far shore, where Mr Murray performed an ungainly pirouette and thunked sideways into a Subaru estate. Before being hauled upright again and steered towards the bland granite building opposite, with is drooping ‘FOR SALE’ sign.

Kent tucked her hands into her stabproof’s armpits. Looking off into the distance and acting all casual. ‘Don’t suppose I can stop doing this anytime soon, can I, Guv? Got to be more interesting-slash-important things to do than guarding a burnt-out craphole.’

Given how short staffed they were?

‘Yeah, probably.’ Logan turned back towards the MCU. ‘It’s...’

Wait a minute.

He swivelled around again. ‘Other side of the road: this guy look familiar to you?’

It was Mr Muscles, from yesterday. With the daft haircut and porn moustache. The one who’d missed his bus. Staring up at the blackened corpse of Balmain House Hotel. Clutching another carrier bag from the off-licence.

Today’s wife-beater vest had ‘COLONEL MICHIGAN’S GYM’ and the silhouette of a boxer on it.

He must’ve realised they were watching him, because his gaze drifted down from the scorched granite remains to Logan and PC Kent.

Then a look of horror crawled across his face.

The bag fell from his hand, bursting against the kerb — and a spray of lager frothed out into the warm afternoon.

Then Mr Muscles was off: sprinting away down Broomhill Road. Like the four horsemen were after him.

Shite...

Because that wasn’t suspicious at all.

26

‘STOP, POLICE!’ Logan ducked out between two parked cars, heading for the other side of the road, legging it after Mr Muscles.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh!

The Seat Ibiza barrelling up Broomhill Road slammed on its brakes, nose dipping as it left skidmarks on the tarmac, and the driver probably did the same in his pants. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open as Logan stared back at him.

OK.

That was close.

Logan forced a smile, then ran for the other pavement, heading after Mr Muscles, breath-and-blood whoomping in his ears, feet slapping against the concrete slabs.

A weird echo grew and grew, and there was PC Kent, raggity bun bobbing along behind. It might’ve taken her a while to build momentum — what with all full kit on — but she was motoring now. Doing that high-step knees-and-elbows thing sprinters did on the telly. ‘Who... who are... who are we... chasing?’

You’d think it would be sodding obvious. But Logan pointed anyway. ‘Arnold Bloody Schwarzenegger!’ Then pulled out his Airwave handset. ‘DS McRae... to Control.’

Mr Muscles went left at the junction, by the newsagent’s, abandoning Broomhill Road for the more genteel Balmoral Place. And they were gaining on him.

Logan and Kent motorbiked around the corner, momentum taking them out into the middle of the quiet street. Doing their best to break the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit.

A voice burst out of the Airwave: ‘Safe to talk?’

Mr Muscles jinked out into the middle of the road too — avoiding a pair of old ladies, blocking the pavement so they could shout at each other. Glancing over his shoulder as he drifted across the dotted line.

‘In pursuit... of I–C-One male... five nine... heavily muscled... tattooed arms...’

Mr Muscles hammered on, playing chicken with a black Porsche coming the other way.

Brakes screeched, the horn blaring as the car slithered to a halt — pretty much blocking the road — about three feet short of flattening him.

He didn’t even slow down.

Instead, Mr Muscles took a running leap, left foot landing square in the middle of the bonnet; the right whacking into the rubber seal at the top of the windscreen, sending cracks flashing across the glass; his left foot left a dirty big dent in the roof; and he was down the other side.

Still running.

The driver scrambled out from behind the wheel, shaking her fist and stamping her heels. ‘LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MY CAR! YOU BLOODY IDIOT! COME BACK HERE!’

Mr Muscles... did not.

He kept going.

But Logan and PC Kent had to detour around, up onto the pavement, then back down again after they’d passed the dented Porsche.

There must’ve been an alley off to the side, because a pair of little girls shot out of it on their bicycles — one bike wrapped in rainbow-coloured tape, the other all pale-pink and sparkly, like a Twilight vampire. Both with tasselled handlebars and a plastic unicorn’s horn cable-tied to the front.

Mr Muscles clattered straight into the pair of them, in a flailing mess of arms and legs and chains and wheels and swearing. Tumbling across the tarmac.

Hallelujah.

Logan closed the gap. ‘I need... need backup to... Holburn Street and... Balmoral Place!’

Oh yeah: Mr Muscles was screwed now.

His lead had completely vanished and in thirty seconds, Logan and PC Kent would be all over him like sleaze on a politician.

He fought clear of the wreckage. Looked left, then right. Probably weighing up the odds. Then grabbed the nearest girl’s bike — pink-and-sparkly — and jumped on. Standing in the seat as he pedalled away with all his might.

So much for sleaze.

Logan hurdled the other bike and one of the girls. ‘Suspect is now on... a stolen... girl’s bicycle.’ Ragged breath. ‘STOP, POLICE!’

The over-pumped lump looked back over his shoulder at that, which was probably a mistake, because one of the road’s many potholes grabbed the front tyre, and sent him straight over the betasselled handlebars.

He hit the tarmac with a crunching thwack.

Got you.

Logan and Kent were almost there when he struggled to his feet, bringing the bike with him — front wheel all twisted and bent.

Scarlet gushed out of his flattened nose and shattered mouth, a scattering of bloodied teeth still embedded in the road at his feet.

But Mr Muscles wasn’t done yet.

He roared out a froth of bright red, swinging the bike like a sparkly sledgehammer.

‘Shite!’ Logan hit the deck, but it slammed right into PC Kent’s stabproof vest, hurling her sideways into an ugly VW people carrier.

She bounced off the bodywork. The bike kept on going: straight through the rear driver’s-side window with a firework tshhhhhh... Cubes of glass sparkling in the sunlight as the car alarm yowled, hazards flashing.

Not waiting around, Mr Muscles staggered into a run, one tattooed arm held against his chest.

Logan shoved himself upright. ‘STOP!... POLICE!’

As if anyone ever did.

Instead, Mr Muscles barrelled straight through the ‘STOP’ sign at the end of the road.

A tartan-liveried glazier’s van screeched to a standstill, inches away from bursting him like a gore-filled water balloon.

He thumped his good hand against the bonnet, spinning around to glance at Logan again, keeping the momentum going as he ran across—

BANG.

The Toyota Hilux smashed right into him, sending his body whirling into the air like an Action Man hurled by an angry child. He cartwheeled over the truck’s cab and its load bay — full of broken bricks, and jagged spears of rusty rebar — then hit the road with a sickening crunch.

Far too late, the Hilux jammed on its brakes, jerking sideways into the glazier’s van with an almighty crash of broken double-glazing units.

Little cubes of safety glass pattered down across the tarmac.

Horns blared.

Someone screamed.

Behind the Hilux, a minibus pulled up about two feet short of the battered body. Driver gripping the wheel, face transformed into a gargoyle grimace, staring at what was left of Mr Muscles. Then all the schoolkids in the back piled forwards for a good gawp — phones out, filming away like the horrible little ghouls they were.

Logan hurpled into the middle of the road, arms out like a crossing guard. Holding the traffic back as he hurried over to the broken-limbed, twisted mess of fractured bones and torn flesh, in a spreading pool of dark, dark blood.

Because things weren’t bad enough already...