This House of Burning Bones

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Tufty propped Mr Murray against the wall. Holding him there with one hand while the other went a-rummaging for house keys.

And yes, it would’ve been a lot easier if Sergeant Rennie, or the Sarge, or Officer Kent had offered to help — because assisting Mr Murray across the road from his burnt-out hotel was a bit like wrestling drunken jelly — but Tufty did has an initiative. So he could totally do this.

Aha! Keys.

The name on the fob was the same as the faded sign above the door: ‘DUNRENOVATIN’, so this had to be the place.

He unlocked the door and shoved it open, then turned to give the Sarge a wave, but he was busy talking to PC Kent.

Droop.

Ah well.

‘Come on, let’s get you inside.’

Tufty took a firm hold of Mr Murray’s arm and hauled him upright — wibble-wobble — then steered him over the threshold and into a dark and dusty hallway.

Oooh, atmospheric.

Envelopes and flyers spilled out from the edges of a sisal mat, like they’d been kicked onto the black-and-white tiles. Or at least the tiles looked black-and-white, it was hard to tell under all that dirt. A fancy staircase swooped upwards, discarded books and empty bottles lining the steps. Spooky high ceilings.

Cobwebs colonised every corner, blurring the edges as they sagged under ancient layers of dust.

This must’ve been a big fancy house at one time, abandoned long ago to the mice, spiders, and ghosts...

Ah well.

Tufty folded his new friend over the newel post at the foot of the stairs, then scurried back to close the front door with a clunk.

Doo, doo doo-doo. Click, click.

Keeping an eye out for disembodied hands or Cousin Itts, Tufty tiptoed to the bottom step. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

The house swallowed his words before they could echo.

‘HELLO-OH?’

No reply.

‘Mr Murray, is there someone here who can look after you?’

Being draped over like that, made his words all muffled and breathy: ‘’Lone... Aaaaaaaall ’lone.’

In which case Tufty would just have to save the day.

He pulled Mr Murray upright again. ‘Right: bed.’

‘No. No, no, no, no, no...’ Mr Murray waved his hands like a fly was trying to scoot up his nose. ‘Whisky.’ And off he lurched, stiff-legged as a wind-up penguin, to a door at the back of the hall.

‘Mr Murray?’ Tufty followed him into a kitchen that was even dustier. No fancy gadgets, no R2-D2 cookie jars or Dalek tea cosies, not even a cooker — just a hole where it used to be. Going by the fust-and-dust outline on the wall, a big American-style fridge freezer once lived here — now replaced by a battered under-the-counter job that buzzed like it was full of wasps. But what the kitchen did have were a cheap kettle, a cheap toaster, and a cheap microwave, perched on the grubby worktops; a crispy layer of dead flies on the windowsill, and a bunch of chubby bluebottles banging their heads against the grubby glass.

Oh, and bottles. Lots and lots and lots of bottles. An army of them, all empty and lined up on parade. Most of Mr Murray’s squaddies looked like the kind of wine supermarkets flogged for under a fiver, with the odd bottle of Old Sporran McRotgut acting as captains and generals.

Clearly, in the battle against sobriety, Mr Murray believed quantity triumphed over quality.

He grabbed a bottle from the ranks, staggering slightly as he held it up to the thin grey light. Empty. So was the next one. And the one after that.

Tufty put on his best helpful voice: ‘I really think you’d be better off having a nice lie down, Mr Murray.’

‘Got to... got to have something... somewhere...’ He inspected the troops again.

A mound of letters was heaped up by the toaster. And though it was a little nosey to look, they all seemed to be stamped ‘FINAL DEMAND!’

Tufty peered out through a slightly less dirty bit of the window at a back garden smothered in weeds and bushes and things.

Three doors led off the kitchen — one back into the hall, one out into the jungle, while the third lay slightly ajar.

And as the Horror-Haired Queen of Grumbling Doom was always telling them: ‘It’s no’ snooping if you’re a police officer, it’s investigating.’

So he left Mr Murray clinking his way through the soldiers, and slipped through the beckoning doorway. Having an investigate.

It might’ve been a drawing room back in the Long-ago, but now it was a storage place for spiderhouses and mouse droppings, slowly suffocating under a blanket of fuzzy grey. Shadows on the wall remembered paintings and maybe a large flatscreen TV? Bet there’d been heaps of fancy furniture in here: bookcases and writing desks and chesterfield couches. Now though, there was just a saggy brown corduroy couch and a coffee table made from old milk crates, with a teeny portable CRT telly on top. Indoor aerial. Not even a DVD player.

A bouquet of long-dead flowers wilted in a vase on the mantelpiece, all papery grey-and-brown, next to a photo frame — lying facedown in the dust.

In this haunted house, even the ghosts were sad...

Tufty stepped back into the kitchen, where Mr Murray was still hunting for a non-empty warrior to ride into battle with him.

‘Hey, come on. Why don’t we get you upstairs, OK?’ Tufty plucked a hollow general from Mr Murray’s hand, took his arm, and steered him towards the door. ‘There we go. You’ll feel much better after a snooze.’

Or hungover as a Klingon’s bumhole.

But it was the thought that counted.

The main bedroom was every bit as miserable-and-fusty as the rest of the house: shadowed walls; discarded clothes in the corner; and a bed cobbled together from pallets and old panel doors, with a droopy mattress on top.

Breathing hard, after half-carrying him all the way up the stairs, Tufty flopped Mr Murray onto the bed. Setting the pallets creaking.

Lying there, flat on his back, he stared up at the ceiling. Which had to be rotating pretty fast, given how blootered he was.

Then Mr Murray popped out a wet burp, that sounded like it contained lumps. He smacked his lips and grimaced.

Hmmm...

Maybe not the best of ideas?

Luckily though, the room had an en suite, and when Tufty pushed the door open it was totes fancy and stuff, with a claw-foot bath, and a swanky shower cabinet, and a bidet for washing your bum. Ooh-la-la! Très swish.

Shame it was all so grubby.

But it would do.

He hauled Mr Murray up again and waddle-walked him into the echoing room.

Another lumpy burp. ‘Sleeeeeeeeep.’

‘Why don’t we put you in the recovery position in here instead? That’ll be fun, won’t it?’ Helping him down onto the cool tiles. ‘This way, if you vom, it’ll be easier for you to clean up in the morning. And you probably won’t choke on any chunks.’

Probably.

It took a bit of pulling and shoving to get all of Mr Murray’s limbs and body in the right place so his airways would be clear — cos people-origami was tougher than it looked — but finally Tufty wrangled him into place, then stood back to admire the results.

Now that was some fine recovery-positioning.

By the time he’d fetched the duvet from the bedroom, Mr Murray was already snoozing it up, snorks and grunts echoing off the uncleaned tiles.

Like a sleepy warthog.

Tufty draped the duvet over him, then tiptoed away.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to do a little more investigating, you know, while he was here?

There was another bedroom on the first floor, but it was even more empty than Mr Murray’s — no bed or mattress, just dust and arachnids.

Then a single bedroom — but the only way to tell was a tatty Kylie Minogue poster curling away from the ancient zoo-animal wallpaper; not a single bit of furniture.

Then a sewing room — going by the bobbins and grey-furred reels scattered about the untreated floorboards, because even the carpet was missing.

Then a big family bathroom — just as swanky as Mr Murray’s en suite, but it clearly hadn’t been used or cleaned in years. A thick drift of flies littered the grimy windowsill, and a weird, meaty-sewagey stink slithered out of the drains and toilet pan.

Moving on...

Tufty climbed up to the top floor, with its sloped ceilings and dormer windows.

First up: a box room. You could tell, because that’s what it was full of. Cardboard ones of all shapes and sizes, looking tired and brittle. Like Mr Murray.

Then the home gym. Or, at least, it had a rusty exercise bike sitting in the middle of the empty space. Being slowly consumed by cobwebs and teeny-weeny flakes of neglect.

Tufty opened the last door.

Blinked at the contents.

Then closed it again.

Nah.

OK: one more go.

It was a child’s bedroom, and unlike every other room in the house, it was still fully furnished. A bed, a wardrobe, a toy box, a Mr Men duvet, an orange teddy bear, a rocking horse, a desk and chair, a bookcase full of well-thumbed paperbacks. Winnie-the-Pooh and Narnia, Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz... All the classics.

But Mr Murray complained about being ‘Aaaaaaaall ’lone.’

And there was no way Social Services would let a kid live here. Mr Murray was probably a lovely bloke, but he could barely look after himself, never mind a wee boy or girl.

Tufty ran a finger along the windowsill.

Clean.

Not so much as a spiff of dirt.

Now that was weird. And sort of creepy. But mostly sad.

From up here, you could see right into the burnt-out skeleton of Balmain House Hotel. Hard not to imagine flames screaming up into the sky as the poor sods staying there coughed and spluttered for the exits...

Back downstairs, Tufty wandered into the drawing room again, making for the mantelpiece with its dead flowers and facedown frame.

He turned the picture over.

A much younger Mr Murray grinned up at him, hugging a cheery, slightly chubby blonde woman. She had a fair-haired toddler on her hip, an orange teddy clutched in his wee sausage fingers.

Tufty frowned at the photo for a bit. Then up at the ceiling.

Then put the frame back on the mantelpiece, upright, so the happy family smiled out into the graveyard room.

Poor Mr Murray.

Tufty scuffed out into the hall, stopping at the end of the stairs. ‘OK, MR MURRAY: YOU TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. TRY NOT TO DROWN IN YOUR OWN SICK!’

He stood there for a minute, one foot on the bottom step.

A rasping snore rattled through the building — amplified by the en suite’s tiled walls. Then another. And another. Getting louder and louder as Mr Murray really let rip.

Tufty shrugged and let himself out.

Standing on the sun-drenched doorstep, he locked the door again, then posted the keys through the letterbox.

There we go.

At least that was one good deed done today...

XXVIII

‘FUCK!’

Natasha jerked awake.

This was not right.

This was not good.

This was... oh Jesus.

Where the fuck were her clothes? Grit and stones dug into the skin on her back and thighs, scraped against her elbows and heels as she thrashed in place, making something metal clink and rattle.

The bastard — the one who came to her house with a message about that dickhead Adrian — what the hell had he done?

She was blind. And deaf?

And suffocating.

Get to your bloody feet!

But her arms weren’t working properly. Every time she tried to move them it dragged her neck about. As if her wrists were... tied to her throat or something. Like some twisted version of Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

‘HELP ME!’ Bellowing into the darkness.

But the sound came out all muffled and distorted.

He’d put something over her head. A bag, maybe? Something sticky and salty.

Wait, wait, wait.

Breathe.

Just lie the fuck still for a moment and breathe.

You’re not an idiot. Or a victim, OK?

Whatever this shit is, you can beat it.

Every breath hissed in and whoomphed out. Caught inside the bag.

Breathe...

She clenched her fists, then released them again, fingertips pressing against whatever it was that covered her head.

Leather. Felt like leather. Something thick, held together with stitches. Not a bag: a mask.

Still couldn’t move her wrists.

Didn’t matter — one thing at a time.

Yeah, but it was quite a big bloody thing.

She jerked her hands to one side, then the other, then in opposite directions, and every time something dug into her neck. Like it was surrounded by a band of steel.

Sticking her right elbow in the air meant her fingertips could feel their way along the collar: metal, a good two-inches thick, with rings set into it, and a sort of handcuff thing around her left wrist to hold that in place. It was the same on the right.

Shackled.

Sweat trickled down her cheek.

Christ it was like a bloody oven in here.

Elbows down again, she traced the outline of her mouth, only it wasn’t her mouth it was a zip. With some sort of thing attached to the pull tab, stopping it from moving. Something metal. Heart-shaped.

Like this was a fucking joke.

OK, further up... another pair of zips, one over each eye. Only these ones weren’t fixed shut. She pulled the right one open and light flooded the world.

Then the other.

Fuck.

Not sure if that made things better or worse.

Natasha blinked away the sticky gunk and squinted up at the wooden beams and grey corrugated roof above her head.

Bluebottles droned through the hot dead air.

It was some sort of tumbledown outbuilding, maybe a dozen foot square, built from chunks of stone, held together with crumbling mortar and smaller rocks. It had one of those heavy sliding doors, rust-streaked and hanging from a buckled metal rail. But it wasn’t much of a barrier, given the great-big hole in the wall next to it — some sort of partially collapsed window — that let the sun stream in.

Her eyes drifted down, across the scabs and scrapes and bruises that rampaged over her naked stomach and thighs.

The bastard had taken her dress, but at least he’d left the underwear. That was something, right?

Maybe.

All she had to do now was climb out through the hole, get the hell out of here, find help, get Detective Sergeant Dickhead Davis arrested, then arrange for someone to rape the bastard to death in the prison showers.

See how he fucking liked it.

Come on, Natasha: up.

She rolled over onto her side, shoving at the dirt floor with her elbows, getting both legs under her. Heaving herself upright. Which wasn’t bloody easy, with both arms out of action.

She only managed two steps towards the window before something grabbed her throat and jerked her to a stop.

That rattling, clanking noise rang out again.

Natasha turned.

A six-foot length of thick chain stretched from her collar to a galvanised bin full of concrete.

Bracing her bare feet against the floor, she pulled. Strained.

The bloody thing didn’t move.

She glared at it.

Stepped closer and shoved it with her knee.

Solid.

Her anchor probably weighed twice what she did.

One of those big fat bluebottles settled on her shoulder, where the skin was scraped and weeping. Having itself a nice little feed.

‘FUCK OFF YOU BASTARD!’

All that came out were some mumbled vowels, but it was still enough to make the fly abandon its meal and growl into the air. Circling. Waiting for its turn to land and feast again.

Don’t cry.

Don’t blub like some little baby.

You can do this.

Just need some time to think, is all.

The caved-in window overlooked a weed-choked courtyard, with a slightly less crappy outbuilding on the right. A bunch of rotting pallets were stacked outside it, beside a hulk of farm machinery that probably hadn’t moved in decades. Then there was a small gap, with a view out across a scrubby field — neglected and overgrown, tall purple spears of fireweed burning against the blue sky.

A big agricultural shed sat opposite Natasha’s prison, its concrete panels half-skinned in wasp-peeled wooden slats, beneath a roof of corrugated asbestos sheeting.

Finally, off to the left, a beige-and-brown static caravan formed the final side of the square. Its windows opaque with dirt and dust. Lichen reached out from the corners and joints, spreading across the walls like mould on a corpse.

You didn’t need to be bloody psychic to know something very, very bad had happened here.

And that there’d be worse to come...

29

Logan held up a hand as the recovery van reversed perfectly into place, and its brake lights flared. Then the driver hopped out and connected his winch to the glazier’s van.

Normally, just after half five on a Wednesday afternoon, Holburn Street would be a constant stream of traffic. Instead, it was all ‘ROAD CLOSED ~ ACCESS ONLY’, and ‘DIVERSION →’ from Bloomfield Road to Abergeldie Terrace. They’d shut off chunks of Balmoral Place and Balmoral Road too, making an inverted crucifix with Mr Muscles playing the part of Christ.

Or at least he had been until the ambulance whisked him away, lights flickering and siren wailing.

Now, the only vehicles left within the cordon were the Toyota Hilux, the glazier’s van, and ‘CAPTAIN TOWAWAY ~ “IF YOU’VE HAD A CRASH, WE’LL COME IN A FLASH!”’

Two patrol cars sat just outside — blocking Holburn Street at either end. One officer from each car kept the vulgar public away, while the other two swept up all the broken glass. Carefully avoiding the glistening red puddle slowly baking into the tarmac where Mr Muscles came to an almost-dead halt.

Two Outside Broadcast Units had parked on the City Centre side of the barricade — ITV and Channel 4 — and a few hacks milled about outside the cordon on the Garthdee side, but the only thing that seemed to be actively recording was a BBC drone.

Suppose, once the body was removed, all the exciting news had already happened.

The recovery winch whined and poinged as it hauled the Auchterturra Glazing Company’s van up onto the load bay. Struggling a bit, because the Toyota Hilux had crushed the rear wheel arch and twisted the tyre round nearly ninety degrees.

The Hilux, on the other hand, only had a wee dent in the radiator to show for both impacts. So maybe...

Sod.

A familiar black Mercedes purred up to the barrier on Balmoral Road.

Sergeant Brookminster climbed out, scanning the street as if he was on the President’s Secret Service detail, before catching Logan’s eye, nodding, then opened the rear passenger door.

Here we go.

Chief Superintendent Pine stepped into the sun. Hung up on whoever it was she’d been talking to, and marched towards the crash scene, leaving Brookminster to mind the car.

Logan muffled a sigh, then stood a little straighter.

Pine stalked across the road, keeping her voice down. ‘I hope you’ve got a really good explanation for this massive cock-up.’

‘Boss. How nice of you to come out and show your support.’

Her eyes bugged.

Then she grabbed him by the arm and hustled him away, into the mouth of Balmoral Place. Presumably because the head-height walls on both sides of the little road offered a bit of shelter from the press.

She let go and poked him in the chest. ‘Your sarcasm is not appreciated. I’ve got one of the city’s major arteries closed off, a massive incident underway, and an unidentified man who might not live to see the evening news, never mind tomorrow!’ She jabbed her poking finger at the bloodsplatch. ‘Now what the hell were you thinking?’

Logan bit the inside of his cheek, before anything unwise escaped. Took a deep breath. Then: ‘Our RTC victim was hanging about Balmain House Hotel yesterday. He was back again today, and when he clocked me and PC Kent, he ran. Bang: drops his shopping and sprints off down the road.’

‘You didn’t have to give chase!’

‘Oh, and you’d just let him go, would you? Nothing suspicious to see here?’

Pine glowered back. ‘That’s not the point.’

‘People only run because they don’t want to be caught.’ Actually, you know what? Screw diplomacy. This wasn’t his fault. ‘And it’s not like we chucked the guy in front of that truck! We were shouting at him to stop.’

She marched off five or six paces, then back again. ‘What did he do? Other than run.’

Good question.

‘Don’t know yet. Don’t even have a name — no wallet, no ID on him. Only a couple of fivers, a snotty hanky, and a small bunch of keys.’

‘Urgh...’ Pine covered her face. ‘He’s going to be an aid worker, isn’t he. Or a volunteer with handicapped kids...’ She dropped her hands, eyes narrowed. ‘Thought I told you “everyone in uniform”?’

‘I’d have nipped home to change, but I’ve been kinda busy.’

‘Oh, haven’t you just.’ She did another half-lap. ‘We can’t paint this guy as a suspect in Operation Iowa. Not till we’ve got some proof he was involved in burning the hotel.’ A frown. ‘He was involved, wasn’t he?’

Logan gave her a shrug.

‘Wonderful.’ Pine stared up into the pale blue sky. ‘Was our caseload not bad enough without you complicating everything? One dead body a day not sufficiently challenging without...’ waving her arms about, ‘this?’

‘Sorry, Boss.’

She drooped. ‘I know, I know.’ Sigh. ‘Where’s PC Kent?’

‘Sent her back to the station; doing a formal statement and incident report. If it helps, she’s got the whole chase on her BWV.’

‘Suppose that’s something.’ Pine went back to pacing, one finger tapping away at her forehead. ‘You’d better head off and do the same. I’ll hold down the fort here, till we get the road opened again.’

Good grief: a senior officer who was actually prepared to help. ‘Thanks, Boss.’ He flashed her a pained smile and got out of there before she changed her mind.

He’d barely gone a couple of paces up Balmoral Place before her voice rang out behind him:

‘And no more complications!’

Well, you never knew your luck, did you...?

Logan slumped along Balmoral Place, sticking to the pavement this time. The dented Porsche was gone, along with its angry driver, and so had the quarrelling OAPs. Leaving behind the chirp of birdsong and the sound of violins and a choir, coming from one of the houses — mournful, dark music that clashed with the vibrant gardens and flowering shrubs.

And fitted today perfectly.

A voice from across the road: ‘Aye, aye.’

Great.

Colin Miller lurked against a tree, suit jacket hooked on a finger, over his shoulder, as if out for a stroll on the piazza in Venice. He gave Logan a wee salute with his free hand. ‘Miss me?’

Nope.

Logan kept going. ‘Can we not, today? Haven’t got the energy for sparring.’

‘Busy day for you, the day.’ Colin fell in beside him. ‘It’s no’ bad going, though: murder-victim-discovered-in-the-river mid-morning, ID’d by teatime.’

‘We haven’t ID’d anyone.’

Wink. ‘Course you haven’t.’

‘Thought you were meeting your new owner.’

‘Aye, right. The great Ms Agapova still hasnae shown. Probably off swanking it up with her posh-and-or-rich chums.’ A sniff. ‘She’s just doing it to torture me.’ Then Colin put on an Australian accent so bad it would strip the hair off a koala at thirty paces: ‘“Nah-but-yeah, keep the poor bugger hangin’, he’ll be fair-dinkum sweating through his Grundies, waitin’ for the chop. Rippa!”’

Logan frowned. ‘Didn’t know she was Welsh.’

They wandered past the metal signs — one blocking the road, the other directing traffic to go down Braemar Place instead — and the funereal melody faded away, replaced by the squeals and shrieks of little children playing instead.

‘And how come you can still churn out your squalid little rag without an editor?’

‘Editors are like colonoscopies. Aye, sometimes they might be necessary, but most of the time they’re just a pain in the arse.’ Colin gave Logan the side-eye. ‘This barbecue invite: better no’ be some sort of half-arsed bribe, so I’ll go easy on youse in the paper.’

‘Told you — it was Isobel’s idea.’ Shrug. ‘But it wouldn’t hurt you to be less of a dick about everything.’

‘It’s my job to be a dick about everything. See: it’s your job to catch bad guys and impose the will of the state. I’m there to hold you to account. Otherwise, who’s gonnae keep you buggers honest?’ The screeching got louder, followed by a flotilla of shimmering bubbles, wafting out from behind a high wall. ‘So your deid man in the river’s Andrew Shaw.’

Logan stopped and stared at him.

Grin. ‘People phone and email the paper all the time. They see all youse daft buggers in your SOC suits, tramping in and out of their neighbour’s house? They tend to notice something’s up.’

‘We search lots of houses, all the time. Doesn’t mean it’s—’

‘Andrew Wallace Shaw: thirty-two. Gigolo-Joe-looking motherfucker — all Botox and Brylcreem. Works at Brenda’s Hair and Beauty Palace on Chapel Street, doing perms and colouring. Very good at it, so I’m told.’ Frown. ‘No’ any more, like. On account of him being deid.’

Logan headed off again. ‘You’re fishing, Colin.’

‘Nah, I’m no’.’ Radiating smugness.

‘One of your little birdies?’

‘Gotta protect my sources, but. Only thing I can tell you is: it’s no’ Isobel. She wouldnae tell me shite, even if my job was on the line. Which it probably is, byraway.’

Logan turned right at the crossroads, heading up Broomhill Road, back towards the Mobile Command Unit. On the other side of the road, a wee man was out changing the display on the newsagent’s sandwich board to ‘CITY CAR CHASE ENDS IN CARNAGE!’

Colin scowled. ‘I mind the day when being a journalist meant something. Now we’re all bloody “Content Creators” and “Engagement Engineers”. I shite you not — “Engagement Engineers”!’ A snort. ‘Used to be about digging out the facts, no fear or favour; speaking truth to power, sticking up for the little guy... Now it’s all “How many tweets did you put out the day?”, “How many likes and retweets did you get?”, “How many bloody comments?”’

‘You saying that headline wasn’t you?’

‘Course it sodding wasn’t. Think I don’t know the difference between an ice-cream van and a car? Can’t have a car chase with a pair of sodding vans. And you never ever put a dog’s cock on a headline!’

OK...

No idea what that meant, and no desire to find out.

The wee man unfurled a new poster for the sandwich board’s back face, too: ‘UK BRACED FOR MORE RACE RIOTS’.

Colin snarled, shoulders up. ‘And don’t get me started on that bollocks. Whipping up fear while simultaneously promoting the bloody thing you’ve just told everyone to be afraid of! Tell youse, it’s—’

‘Hello?’ A voice honked out, right behind them. One of those teenage-boy noises that wobbled about from bass to treble mid-word. ‘Out of the way! Excuse me. Thanks.’

Logan stepped aside and a young man trundled past, wheeling a pushchair and talking on a mobile phone at the same time. His AFC tracksuit was two sizes too big, flapping about in his wake as he clomped away at speed, on massive trainers, heading up Broomhill Road. Taking his World War One haircut, yodelly voice, and schoolboy zits with him. ‘No!... Because it’s your turn to change the nappies! I always change the nappies... Yeah, well I want to go on the school trip to Belgium too — how about we prioritise my needs for a change, Sharlene?’

Kids today...

Colin dug his free hand deep in his pocket. ‘And when did it become OK to dumb down everything? Who decided we’re all thick as breeze blocks?’

‘Did you just come here to whinge?’

‘Hmmm? Oh.’ A frown. Then Colin jerked his head back, over his shoulder. ‘Yeah: yer man, back there, Mr Tarmac Tartare. This mean youse’ve finally got a suspect for the hotel fire?’

‘Off the record?’

A nod.

‘Can’t say. And I don’t mean that in a police “we can’t talk about ongoing investigations” way: we don’t know. He was standing right there,’ Logan pointed at the pavement, opposite the burnt-out hotel, ‘watching the place, and when he saw us, he legged it. Don’t even know who he is.’

‘What is it with you bastards and chasing folk till something shitey happens?’

They crossed the end of Balmoral Terrace, slowing up as the crime scene loomed. The pool car was still tucked in behind the MCU, so at least Rennie and Tufty hadn’t sodded off with it when he’d sent them back to the station.

Small mercies.

Colin pulled his lips in, as if tasting a fine wine. Then spat out, ‘I was thinking... steak. How many people you got coming to this thing, Sunday?’

‘About twenty, twenty-five?’

‘Aye, maybe burgers, then. And some beer. No point wasting quality wine on you bunch of philistines.’

‘Speaking of whipping up fear — you heard any rumours about this protest march? Rumblings? Plots?’

‘What: racist arse-nuggets versus anti-fascists; climate change deniers versus eco nutters; pro-war — anti-war; far-right wankers — woke socialist tossers; sharks and the jets...?’ He bared his teeth. ‘Hope you’ve got the Fire Brigade standing by. Isobel and me are barricading the doors and sheltering-in-place till it’s all over.’

Logan headed across the road. ‘Thanks for that. Very helpful.’

‘I’m no’ an informer, Laz. Got to keep my shiny shield of impartiality polished to an impeccable sheen.’ A quick shifty glance, left and right. ‘But wouldn’t hurt to have a wee lookie at Graeme Anderson. You know, on the off chance...?’

The name was familiar, but not sure why.

Find out soon enough, though.

‘OK. Thanks, Colin.’

‘Aye, well — one: you didn’t hear it from me, and two: you owe me. Again. And don’t you forget it!’

30

The pale granite lumps of the Central Library and Saint Mark’s gave way to the pale granite lump of His Majesty’s Theatre — whose name was finally topical again after seventy years. About a dozen little kids skipped along the pavement towards it, all wearing knitted pink onesies with oversized ears — being shepherded by a trio of adults dressed as the Grim Reaper. Scythes glinting in the baking light as a heat haze shimmered above the tarmac on Rosemount Viaduct.

Bet sweat was cascading down their bumcracks.

Going by the posters outside the theatre, they were off to see ‘SKELETON BOB & THE UNFEASIBLY LARGE SHEEP!’

Jammy bastards.

Because Logan was heading back to the office, windows rolled down, radio chattering away to itself.

‘...but here’s a wee traffic update before the six o’clock bulletin: Holburn Street has just reopened! So that’s the good news. The bad news is you’ve got another hour of me to endure, before Stevie B’s Preload Playlist.’ Honks and twiddles and whooshing noises blared out of the speakers in a ‘comedic’ fashion. ‘Tell you what, let’s squeeze in a quick tune, shall we? Here’s the Brigadoon Tourist Board with their new single: “The Whale That Ate The World”. Aaaaaaaaaall aboard!’

Cue indie guitars and someone wanging the hell out of a drumkit.

Wonder if there was a special school DJs went to, where they learned how to be massive arseholes? Honk-honk, ding, wibble! And now here’s another heeeeeeeeeeeeelarious wind-up call!

Tossers.

Well, maybe not all of them, but still...

A singer joined the music:

Logan’s Airwave joined in with a trio of bleeps. He pulled the thing out. Fumbling with the buttons one-handed and switching the radio off at the same time.

When he looked up again, the bus shelter was stampeding straight towards the pool car’s bonnet.

Logan stamped on the brakes — the nearside front wheel skiffing off the kerb as he wrenched the steering wheel right. Getting out of the bus lane and back where he was meant to be.

No one saw that, right?

Hopefully...

He pressed the Airwave button and told a teeny white lie: ‘Safe to talk.’

Rennie’s voice joined him in the car. ‘Got some updates for you, Guv.’

Logan checked the dashboard clock: nearly six o’clock. ‘Thought you’d have gone home by now.’

‘Urgh... Sore point. Half of us are on compulsory green shifts. And that’s not the worst of it: we’re all back in frigging uniform! Itchy trousers and nylon T-shirts, because “we need a visible police presence to reassure the public”...’ A wet raspberry noise rattled free. ‘Sod the public. What did the public ever do for me?’

‘What is it with people whinging at me today?’ Straight through at the roundabout onto Schoolhill, past the Cowdray Hall with its columned war memorial and carved lion statue — currently wearing a traffic cone on its head, because why should Glasgow’s Duke of Wellington get all the fun? ‘I’m not your agony aunt. If you need therapy I can easily swap you out for Tufty. The wee loon did good today, with the sex-offender-break-ins thing.’

‘No! It’s fine. Team player all the way, Guv.’ Some rustling of paperwork. ‘Got a positive match on the victim’s remains. DNA matches samples from the bedroom — hairbrush, manscaping razor, that kinda stuff. The body in the river is definitely Andrew Shaw.’

Really?

‘Pathology said “definitely”?’

‘Course they didn’t. They couched it in “high probability that”s and “on the balance of probability it’s likely”s, but unless our victim broke into Shaw’s bedroom to shave their balls, it’s definitely him.’

Now there was an image.

Looked as if Mrs Shaw’s heart was getting broken after all.

‘Someone needs to deliver the death message to his mother.’

‘Biohazard’s on his way now.’ Rennie puffed out a heavy breath. ‘Don’t envy him that one: “Sorry, Missus, your wee boy’s dead — someone bashed his brains in and dumped him in the river. Oh, and by the way, turns out you raised a rapey wee shite.”’

Yeah...

Logan checked the clock again. ‘Get your bum out front — I’ll pick you up on Broad Street.’

‘Cool.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And don’t worry: I won’t tell You-Know-Who. We can have some decent grown-up conversation without Constable Sodding Quirrel wanging on about particle physics and who’d win in a fight: Stephen Hawking or Davros. I mean, everyone knows Davros’s chair is equipped with Dalek—’

Logan ended the call.

He dawdled past the old Robert Gordon’s building — now turned into some sort of ‘tech hub’ — and the ‘UNIQUE DEVELOPMENT OPPORTUNITY’ that used to be the old student union, and the old... whatever it was the Academy shopping centre used to be before it became a shopping centre. Probably an academy, going by the name. Then past the hairdressers that used to be a museum and art gallery.

Giving Rennie time to escape from the office and meet him out front.

And yes, technically Logan was meant to go back to the station and give a formal statement about what happened on Holburn Street, but there were things to be getting on with.

A ding-buzz sounded deep in his pocket, but he wasn’t daft enough to read text messages while driving.

Not after nearly totalling a bus stop...

Schoolhill turned into a pedestrian-and-cycle zone at the crossroads with Back Wynd and Harriet Street, but Logan flickered the pool car’s blue lights and drove down it anyway.

Rebel that he was.

St Nicholas Kirk appeared between the graveyard trees, then he was at the bottom of the hill, waiting for the lights to change as sweaty people with carrier bags streamed from one bit of the Bon Accord Centre across the road to the other bit.

A rookery of nuns in black habits were busking outside the Bank of Scotland, playing a weird mash-up of punk, folk, and techno, singing away as they rocked out on guitars, decks, tambourine, double bass, and a cajon. They seemed to be having a great time, even if no one was paying any attention to them.

On the opposite side of the street, a miserable clown handed out flyers. Clearly regretting his career choice and wishing he’d become a nun instead.

The lights changed and Schoolhill turned into Upperkirkgate.

Logan did some more dawdling.

Sure there used to be a Blackwell’s bookshop here. God knew what it was now — maybe the games shop? And what happened to the Tasty Tattie?

That was the trouble with getting older: everything changed...

Well, except for The Kirkgate bar.

At the top of the street, Logan turned right, and Marischal College reared into view, a jagged granite confection of narrow windows, mini-spires, and assorted pointy bits, all sparkling in the early evening sunshine. Facing off against the miserable row of ugly grey Rubik’s cubes that went up to replace the old council buildings.

Like a jobbie, plonked down beside a wedding cake.

And speaking of jobbies — there was Rennie, leaning back against the plinth that Robert the Bruce’s horse stood on. Brucie himself, sat in the saddle, cast in bronze, holding aloft the 1319 Stocket Charter... but to be honest, it looked as if the statue was trying to send a message to someone in the horrible office building opposite.

Like the final scene of a very strange romcom.

Rennie probably thought he looked dead cool, standing there, with one foot up on the granite behind him, in the full Police Scotland uniform, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses that gave him the air of a seventies lothario.

Logan pulled up and Rennie peered out over the top of his shades, before swaggering over and popping the passenger door.

What a knob.

‘Guv.’ He was in the middle of fastening his seatbelt, when a smaller, pointier figure scurried across the pedestrian area, waving at them.

Tufty.

He piled in the back. ‘That was close! Thought I was going to miss you, there.’

Rennie’s mouth pinched, back stiffening.

Logan turned in his seat. ‘I think DS Rennie was hoping for some quality time.’

Big grin from Tufty. ‘Don’t mind me.’

Rennie took off his sunglasses and glared. ‘Oh, but we do.’

‘No fighting, children.’ Putting the car in gear and heading for Union Street.

‘Don’t you have anything better to do, Constable?’

‘Depends on your definition of “better”, Sarge.’ Tufty leaned forwards, so his head poked through the gap between the seats. ‘The Ominous Harbinger Of Ultimate Doom is on a bit of a rampage at the moment, on account of having to be back in uniform, so it’s best to stay out of the way.’ He gave Rennie a wee pat on the shoulder. ‘“The Ominous Harbinger Of Ultimate Doom”: that’s Detective Sergeant Steel. It’s one of the nicknames me and Sarge have for her.’

‘I know who she is! I’ve worked with her longer than—’

‘Apparently all her uniform trousers have “shrunk in the wash” again, so she’s got IBS. Incredibly Belligerent Sergeant syndrome.’

‘And for your information: I was calling her “Wrinkles McBumFace” when you were still in short trousers!’

Logan stopped at the lights, watching the buses rumble across the box junction and the flattened corpse of a big fat seagull. Too slow or too old to get out of the way of whatever turned it into a feathery pedestal mat. ‘Can the pair of you just, for one teeny tiny minute, focus on the case?’

Rennie snorted. ‘Which one?’ Holding up both hands to count them off: ‘We’ve got Andrew Shaw’s murder, Charles MacGarioch on the run, drugs in Lithuanian teddy bears, the break-ins at all those sports shops, car thefts, burglaries—’

‘All right, all right. We get it.’ He scowled up at the lights, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

OK.

‘I need a PNC check on one Graeme Anderson.’

Tufty whipped his phone out. ‘Sarge.’

Logan looked across the car. ‘This restaurant Charles MacGarioch’s girlfriend works at — think it’ll be open by now?’

Rennie popped his oversized shades back on. ‘I could eat.’

A long, flat-fronted, granite terrace curved along one side of Bon-Accord Crescent. Two storeys up and one storey down — where each basement level was set back behind its own little lightwell, with steps leading down below road level. Mullioned windows and grand double doors; olde-worlde lamp-posts and iron railings. Looking out over a verdant triangle of parkland. Even if most of it was hidden behind a swathe of trees.

The restaurant menu was mounted to the railings, beside an open gate and stairs down to a welcoming mini-courtyard with sculptural pot plants and a wee seating area.

Rennie leaned in for a good squint at the glazed frame as Logan locked the car and joined Tufty on the pavement.

The wee loon held up his phone. ‘Graeme Anderson: forty-three, Libra, history of DV and possession-with-intent. Got four years for putting a junior doctor in a wheelchair.’

‘Doesn’t he sound nice.’

‘I had a sneaky wee look at his socials, Sarge. He does not has a very nice at all.’

Rennie whistled. ‘Sodding hell... “Tempura haddock, with triple-cooked chips, crushed petit pois, and sauce gribiche” — guess how much.’

‘Here.’ Logan tossed him the car keys.

‘Oh no. I’m not keeping a dog and barking.’ He lobbed them at Tufty instead. ‘You can play chauffeur.’

‘Eeek...’ There was a bit of juggling as Tufty fumbled the catch. Then a clatter as they hit the deck. Then some scrambling to pick them up again. ‘Bad keys: naughty!’ He pocketed the things. ‘Anyway, so Anderson’s always liking horrible posts from Vision for Britain and the Anglo Saxon Defence Group and the People’s Sovereign Army. He’s what nice polite people call a complete arseholish turd-wit.’

‘Seriously,’ Rennie pointed at the menu, ‘thirty-six quid. For a fish supper!’

Logan descended the steps into the little suntrap, where heat radiated from its granite walls, making his forehead prickle with sweat. ‘THE STAR-SPRINKLED HEAVENS’ gleamed in gold letters above the restaurant door.

Tufty bimbled down after him. ‘Think Anderson might even be treasurer of the local ASDG chapter...’ A pause. ‘Ooh, ooh! Can we go arrest him for something?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

He opened the door and stepped into air-conditioned opulence.

It was all low lighting, polished wood, decorative glass, and dark-blue walls in here. Something soothing and classical wafted out from hidden speakers, while a constellation of LEDs glittered in the midnight ceiling.

The maître d’ stood up behind her desk, smiling as Logan entered. White-haired and maternal, arms open wide. ‘Welcome to the Star-Sprinkled Heavens. Can I take your coats and ask what name your table is reserved under?’

Logan presented his warrant card. ‘I understand Keira’s working tonight?’

‘Oh dear...’

‘It’s OK, she’s not in any trouble. We just think she might’ve seen something that can help with a case we’re working on.’

A prim little nod. ‘I’ll just be a minute.’ Off she bustled, through a door behind the reception desk, leaving Logan and Tufty alone.

Until Rennie squeezed in. ‘And you won’t believe what they want for a steak. Eighty-seven quid for a ribeye! And you don’t even get tatties — you have to buy all your vegetables and sauces on top of that.’ Curling his lip as he looked around. ‘Me and Emma found a place in Union Square last week and it was sixteen ninety-nine a head. All-you-can-eat.’

Somehow doubt it would be quite the same dining experience as this place...

Tufty noodled on his phone.

Logan counted the LED stars.

No one paid any attention to Rennie.

So he had to spoil the silence: ‘And another thing—’

Thankfully, that was as far as he got, because the door through to the dining room opened, releasing the murmur of conversation and clitter-scraik of cutlery on plates as the early-dinner crowd got stuck-in to their overpriced meals.

A young woman slipped into reception, wearing a smart white shirt, tweed waistcoat, black trousers, and the half-apron of a French waiter. Keira looked a lot younger and shorter in real life, especially without the heavy make-up. Her long black hair was pulled back in a neat French pleat, and she shuffled her sensible brogues on the carpet. Not meeting anyone’s eyes.

Logan tried a non-threatening smile. ‘Keira?’

‘Hello?’ Sounding even younger still, a wee nervous tremor in her voice as she snuck a look at Tweedle-Spud and Tweedle-Twit in their police uniforms.

‘It’s OK: we just need to ask you a few questions, then you can get back to work.’

She bit her bottom lip at the maître d’. ‘Is it OK?’

A matronly nod. ‘Of course it is. Why don’t you take them out the back? Give yourself a bit of privacy.’

Which no doubt had the added benefit of getting the police out of reception before any guests saw them and started suspecting something was very wrong in Restaurantland.

Keira gave her a little curtsey, then swept a hand towards a small, unassuming door, as if leading them to their table. ‘Please, follow me, gentlemen.’

‘The back’ turned out to be a narrow gully between the kitchen’s extractor ports, the outer wall of the toilets, and the bins. Marinating in the smell of mouldering food waste. Beyond that, the neighbouring properties’ eight-foot-high walls enclosed a small ‘STAFF ONLY’ car park jammed with rusty old hatchbacks — festering in the blistering sunshine.

A stringy wee bloke squatted atop a couple of old veg boxes, knees level with his shoulders, sooking on an old-fashioned cigarette and fiddling with his phone. Getting ash all down his long black waterproof apron. Fingers chapped red and raw, like uncooked beef sausages.

He looked up and scowled as Keira stepped out through the emergency exit, then went back to his mobile. ‘Tell Benny to sod off: I’m on my statutory break.’

She held the door open for Logan and his halfwits. ‘Bruno, can you give me a minute, please? I... I need to speak to someone.’

‘Then you can sod off too. I’m — on — my — break!’

A cruel smile twisted Keira’s face, and just like that, the trembling, shy little girl vanished, replaced by a much harder version. ‘Either you do one, or I tell the nice policemen here all about what you’ve got hidden in the bottom of your locker.’

Bruno’s head snapped up at that. Eyes widening as he saw Rennie and Tufty, standing there in the full Police Scotland getup. He scrambled to his feet. ‘All right, all right! Jesus. You’re such a beeeee-atch!’

She clicked her fingers at him. ‘Give us a fag, too. Don’t be a stingy prick.’

He slumped and flumped, then tapped a cigarette from his pack and handed it over. Glowering as he lit the thing. ‘Can I go now?’ Bruno stuck out his weedy little chest, nose in the air as he squeezed past Logan. ‘I ain’t got nothing in no locker. She’s just being a biatch.’ Then off he scurried, no doubt keen to get rid of whatever it was he definitely didn’t have planked in his locker.

‘He’s the bitch.’ Keira took a long slow draw on the cigarette she’d bullied out of the kitchen’s pot washer. She whoomphed a lungful of smoke in Logan’s direction. And her transformation from a polite little girl into an arrogant wee shite was complete.

Her chin came up. ‘What? You never see a Nubian goddess before?’

OK...

31

Logan wrinkled his nose against the triple stinks of cigarette smoke, festering bins, and old chip fat. ‘Have you got a last name, Keira? Or are you more like Adele and Madonna?’

She blinked back at him, head tilted, cool as a bitter sorbet. Then shrugged. ‘Longmore. Fourteen F, Allenvale Court, Gairn Terrace, Aberdeen, AB Ten, Six EW.’

Logan checked to see if anyone was writing that down — Rennie and Tufty both had their notebooks ready, biros already scribbling.

Keira stuck her chin out. ‘I look after my grandad.’

Not according to Jericho McQueen.

‘Thought you shared a flat with a bunch of vegans?’

‘Nah. That’s what I tell the Thirsty Boys: Jericho, Spencer, Wallace, and the rest. Think they can get it on with this fine ass?’ Patting herself on the bottom. ‘No way I’m telling them where I live!’

Fair enough.

‘What about Charles MacGarioch.’

There was a tiny pause, then: ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Really?’ Logan called up the photo from MacGarioch’s bedroom. ‘Because I heard you two were an item.’

Her mouth pinched as she considered the picture. ‘Maybe. Why? What you think he’s done?’ Keira flicked a cylinder of ash onto Bruno’s vacated perch. ‘Not that it’s anything to do with me. Whatever it is.’

‘Where is he?’

‘How would I know?’ Throwing it back, hard and fast.

‘Because you’re his girlfriend.’

‘You’re the ones chased him into the river.’ She leaned back against the wall, wearing that cruel smile again. ‘What, you cops think we can’t read the papers? I hear he’s a proper hero for saving those kids and those oldies.’ Another long inhale. ‘Anyway: haven’t seen him in ages. His bitch grandma’s scared of people like me. Says I’m a black whore, trying to corrupt her poor little darling.’ A snarl. ‘Racist cow.’

Logan nodded. ‘Yeah... That was kind of the impression I got too.’ Maybe try appealing to old affections? ‘We need to talk to Charles, Keira. And it’s in his best interests to talk to us. You want to help him, don’t you?’

She sent another cloud of smoke Logan’s way. ‘How’d you find me?’

‘Keira, it’s important, OK? After the crash yesterday: he could be hurt. What if he’s got... internal bleeding, or a concussion?’

‘And whose fault would that be?’

One more go: ‘He could be dying, right now, and not even know it. You want that to happen?’

She smoked and smoked and smoked, burning through her extorted cigarette, making it hissssss. Looking off into the middle distance, towards the centre of town. Forehead creased between the concealer-plastered zits. ‘Charlie always said he wanted to go to Ireland. The south bit, where all the Guinness and leprechauns is.’ A smile broke free — a genuine one this time, nothing malicious about it. ‘Had this great-big dream of getting his own B-and-B. I’d do the meals and he’d look after the rooms. We’d both get fat and pop-out a whole heap of kids...’ She dropped the spent butt, grinding it out against the concrete. ‘Course, we’d need to wait for his granny to snuff it — Charlie won’t abandon the old cow, and no way she’s moving to Ireland. Surrounded by all them foreigners? Living in the EU? She’d rather claw her cobwebbed fanny out with a carving fork.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Months ago.’ Keira pulled one shoulder up to her ear. ‘His nan’s debts were getting him down; old bag never was any good with money. Tried picking up extra shifts at the chippy, but it’s not exactly wedge, is it? Minimum wage and all the second-hand grease you can scrape off your hair?’ She dug into her apron and pulled out a tube of extra-strong mints. Popped one, frowned at the packet, then extended the open end to Logan.

‘Thanks.’ He offered a business card in exchange. ‘If you hear from Charlie, or anything, can you let me know? We’re genuinely worried about him.’

She eyed the thing, as if it might bite. ‘You never said why you’re after him.’

‘Someone tipped us off he’d been involved in something a bit shady. We went round to get his side of the story.’ OK, so strictly speaking that wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t exactly a lie, either.

Keira plucked the card from Logan’s fingers, turning it over to read the mobile number printed on the back in biro. Then filed it away with her mints. ‘If he calls.’

‘Thanks.’ Nodding at the restaurant. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’

Logan shooed Rennie and Tufty through the emergency exit, into a short corridor with scuffed white walls and doors marked ‘MANAGER’ and ‘STORES’ on one side, ‘STAFF/CHANGING’ and ‘KITCHEN’ on the other. And dead ahead: ‘FRONT OF HOUSE ~ REMEMBER: YOUR SMILE MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE!’

Because it wasn’t just Police Scotland who were addicted to ‘motivational’ wank.

Soon as they were all inside, Rennie flattened himself against the wall, snuck back to the emergency exit and cracked it open a sliver. Ear pressed against the gap.

Oh for God’s sake.

Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘What are you doing, you idiot?’

The idiot stuck a finger to his lips, so quiet he was barely audible: ‘Seeing if she calls MacGarioch to tell him we were here...’

Tufty hooked his thumbs into his utility belt, rocking on his heels like an old-timey prospector. ‘I got a job in a chip shop after school. Worked my way up from peeling tatties to doing the pizzas. Very responsible job, doing the pizzas.’ Nodding at the wisdom of that. ‘It’s not all deep-fried Mars Bars, you know.’

Rennie scowled. ‘Will you shut up? Trying to listen, here.’

‘We used to do deep-fried Crunchies too. Mmmm...’ Then a grimace. ‘Cadbury’s Creme Eggs were a step too far, though. Like a weenie hand grenade full of napalm, they were.’

Halfwits. Logan was surrounded by halfwits.

He ignored the reminder to smile and pushed his way into reception, anyway.

The maître d’, on the other hand, flashed her dentures as he emerged from the door, pointing at the phone currently pressed to her ear, as if he couldn’t see it. But he gave her a thank-you wave anyway.

Tufty tottered after him. ‘They’d burn straight through the roof of your mouth. Remember the fizzy acid blood in Aliens? That. Only all chocolate and fondanty.’

Bet Inspector Morse never had to put up with this nonsense.

Sunlight streamed through the canopy of leaves at the side of the road, stirred by a faint breeze, making the dalmatian spots ripple across the pool car and tarmac.

Tufty lounged against the driver’s door, hands in his pockets, eyes closed, face up, a wee smile on his daft pointy face.

Across the road, a well-heeled couple headed downstairs to The Star-Sprinkled Heavens for ferociously expensive fish-and-chips.

And there was still no sign of bloody Rennie. Two more minutes, and that was it — they were leaving. With or without him.

Logan cupped a hand over his phone, cutting a bit of the glare, and squinted at Tara’s latest message:

He poked out a reply.

SEND.

And that was it: time up.

He knocked on the car roof. ‘Let’s go: some of us have things to do.’

Tufty jumbled in behind the wheel, grinning and pointing at himself with both thumbs. ‘Oh yeah: promoted to sidekick.’ Starting the car as Logan settled into the passenger seat. ‘Where to, Holmes? Is the game afoot?’

Logan checked the list of Charles MacGarioch’s associates. ‘Kincorth. Then I need to be in Countesswells for half seven. Sharp.’

‘Huzzah!’ Wriggling his bum, like a happy terrier. ‘Sa-arge, now that I is your official sidekick, and I did has the genius idea about rapists and burglaries... can I come to the barbecue on Sunday?’

‘No.’

He drooped. ‘But why?’

Logan gave him a Paddington Stare. ‘You know why.’

And with that, the happy terrier realised it was on the way to the vet to get snipped. ‘Oh.’ A sniff. Then a shrug. ‘Still promoted to sidekick, though.’ He put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb.

Which is when Rennie decided to finally put in an appearance, wandering up the steps from The Star-Sprinkled Heavens’ subterranean lair. Eyes popping as he watched the car leaving without him.

He sprinted for the back door, yanking it open and diving inside. ‘What the hell?’ Thumping Tufty on the arm. ‘Constable!’

‘Ow!’

‘Don’t blame him.’ Logan pointed. ‘It’s your own fault for wanking about.’

‘That was really sore.’ Still rubbing his arm, Tufty headed off down Bon-Accord Crescent, following the road around to the left as it turned into a narrow lane.

Rennie struggled with the seatbelt. ‘And for your information, I wasn’t “wanking about”, I was conducting an impromptu covert surveillance operation. Or an ICSO, as it’s known in Secret Service circles.’ Click. ‘Because, of course, Keira was lying. I can tell when a girl’s telling porkies a mile off — their lips move.’

Tufty took a right, heading downhill on Bon-Accord Street, making for the lights with a frown on his face. ‘Bit misogynistic, Sarge.’

‘I’ve got three daughters and a wife with a shoe addiction, Constable: I know when women are lying.’ He sat forward. ‘So it was logical to assume that Keira Longmore would get in touch with Charles MacGarioch, soon as we’d gone.’

Might as well indulge the lad: ‘And did she?’

‘Called her grandad to check he was OK after the men from the Council had been to fix the living-room window.’

‘Oh, the horror.’

‘Hmm...’ Rennie squinted off into the middle distance, as if that made him look any less daft. ‘Course, maybe she wasn’t talking to her grandad at all? Maybe it was MacGarioch. And maybe “the men from the Council” is code for us — the police — and “fixing the living-room window” means... we’ve been round asking questions?’

‘Bit of a stretch.’

Rennie dug out his Airwave. ‘Going to run a PNC check — see what she’s been done for...’

Tufty clicked on the radio. ‘Meantime, let’s have us some tunes!’

XXXII

Come on you fucker...

Natasha shoved her heels into the dirt floor and pushed. Straining away from the bloody anchor, the chain grasped in an awkward fist-over-fist grip because her wrists were still shackled to that bastard collar.

Heaving and hauling.

Toes digging into the baked earth.

Putting all her weight into it.

Legs trembling with the effort.

Sweat trickling down her face, inside the mask.

More on her grubby arms and legs.

The anchor ground its way towards her — less than an inch, but that was something, right?

Christ knew how long she’d been at it, in the baking heat of this stone oven, but her throat was like a tube of burning sandpaper, her tongue twice the size it should’ve been. Breath howling in the confines of the soggy leather.

And what she wouldn’t do for a drink. For a nice tall tumbler of water, ice cubes clinking, condensation sparkling on the chilled glass...

Hell, she’d even take the arch arsehole Adrian back. Two-faced, thieving, cheating bastard that he was.

As she stood there, hunched over and wheezing, bluebottles settled onto her bare skin. Feeding on the salt and scabs.

A glass of water and a shower and a soft, soft bed...

Come on: couldn’t build a media empire by lying down and dying. You got there by fighting.

And DS Davis would be back soon enough, with the next instalment of whatever horror he had planned. Fucking police wanker.

Did his cop mates know what he got up to? Did they know he was a dirty, criminal, violent bastard? Or would they all pretend it came as a massive shock when the story broke. One more rotten apple in a barrel full of shits.

She bent her knees and tightened her grip on the chain, growling with the effort, then yelling, snarling, and howling inside the suffocating mask.

The anchor rasped forward another fraction of an inch.

One more go...

But the bloody thing wouldn’t move. A chunk of stone poked out of the hard dirt floor — not far, barely the height of a cigarette pack — but it was two or three feet wide, and the galvanised bucket full of concrete was wedged right up against it.

She tugged and yanked and pulled and swore and screamed and wrenched on the bloody chain, but the bastard wouldn’t go any further.

She let go, staggered a couple of paces closer to her anchor, raising her foot to kick the bastard...

But what would that achieve? Oh yeah, it’d be great to shatter the bones in her foot, cos that would make life so much easier, wouldn’t it? Being unable to walk on top of everything else...

So she whumped down onto the ground instead. Sitting there with her chest against her knees. Breath jagged and catching.

Do not cry.

Do not give the bastard the satisfaction.

But the tears came anyway, because this was gonna be a shitty way to die.

33

Logan stepped out of the front door, shutting it behind him.

It was a little terrace of six houses, next to another identical one, and a third that looked a bit like a schoolhouse.

This bit of Kincorth was all uphill, the front gardens bordered by a steep slope down to the road below. Then a nice little strip of parkland, then another road, then more houses, descending all the way to the River Dee. Though the water itself was hidden behind a ripple of bright-green trees.

Still a nice view, though.

About a dozen teenagers had set up a picnic site on the yellowing grass, complete with camp chairs, tartan rugs, barbecues, cool boxes, and a Swingball set.

Smaller kids scampered around the trees and bushes, giggling and screeching as they hunted each other with Super Soakers and bubble guns.

Everyone was in shorts and T-shirts, enjoying the sun, while the enticing scents of charcoal and sizzling chicken wafted through the warm air, and a handful of Bluetooth speakers pumped out cheery tunes.

Had to admit, it was kinda idyllic.

Shame to spoil things by asking about a racist, arsonist, wee shite like Charles MacGarioch.

Logan headed down the steps, and across the road, rolling up his shirtsleeves, because it was far too Mediterranean out here to wear a suit jacket.

‘Sarge.’ Tufty joined him at the edge of the small park, doing a hoppity-skip to get his feet left-righting at the same time as Logan’s. Because clearly it would kill him to act like a normal, sensible human being for ten minutes.

‘Twit.’ Logan strolled onto the grass, one hand shading his eyes, voice raised above the music: ‘Randolph Hay?’

Over by the barbecue, a young man in a camping chair raised his tin of Stella in reply. Long red hair, tucked back behind his ears; squint front tooth; the kind of nose you’d normally find on busts of Roman emperors; and a ‘F&#K CAPITALISM!’ T-shirt. A brightly coloured tattoo rampaged all down one arm: Norman Picklestripes ‘being intimate’ with Betsy. Randolph took a scoof of lager. ‘I go by Ralph, though. You guys want a cold one?’ Pointing at the little kids. ‘We got non-alcoholic for the weenies?’

‘Can we talk?’

Ralph stood. ‘Course. Course.’ Grabbing a weenie as they hurled past, he wheeched them up into the air, upside down. Giving them a wee shoogle till they shrieked with delight. ‘Watch my chair, OK? Don’t let the Bumbersnatch steal it!’

The weenie giggled and wriggled as Ralph lowered them into his vacated seat.

Then Mr F&#k Capitalism led Logan and Tufty away, across a road, to the next small chunk of park. He leaned against a tree trunk; took a swig from his can. Keeping an eye on the weenies. ‘So, you want to talk about Charlie.’ Grinning as Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘The Orphan Grapevine’s been ringing.’

Quick check to make sure Tufty was writing this down.

‘You’re one of the support group.’

‘Family holiday, staying with friends in Cornwall. Mum and Dad had a run-in with a London estate agent going way too fast on a twisty country road after a liquid lunch.’ He toasted them with his Stella. ‘I was five. And in the back seat.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Meh...’ Shrug. ‘There are worse origin stories, believe me.’ Another swig. ‘Haven’t seen Charlie for about... week and a half? Talking about a trip to the circus in Westburn Park. Get the whole gang together and hit the final night.’

Logan tucked his hands into his pockets, keeping it casual. As if there weren’t a shortarse police constable, in the full uniform kit, taking notes. ‘He say anything about money worries?’

‘We used to hang out all the time — the whole lot of us. Broken little people, looking for our tribe. But it’s hard to do that when people start disappearing off to university.’ Ralph made a spreading-out gesture with one hand. ‘So yeah...’ Drifting away for a moment, creases deepening between his eyebrows. Then back again. ‘Charlie’s a good guy. I mean you’ll never find anyone more loyal: literally give you the shirt off his back — seen him do it. But he’s not winning Celebrity Mastermind anytime soon, if you get my meaning. Always coming up with get-rich-quick schemes; always having to bum a couple of quid for the bus fare home.’

Logan looked out across the park, to where there was nothing more pressing or important in the whole world than getting your little sister or brother soaking wet, or pretending to be a dinosaur. ‘What do you think he’d have made of the protest this weekend? Environmentalism, capitalism, immigration...? Would he be pro or anti?’

‘Charlie?’ A laugh. ‘Wants to be the next Steve Jobs; doesn’t really understand how the market economy works. Recycles, but dreams of jetting-off to exotic, far-away lands on a private jet. And as for migrants: you’ve met Keira, right? Her dad’s from Ghana; mum’s from Inverurie, via Algeria. Charlie’s nan might be a weapons-grade right-wing “friend of Nigel”, but Charlie’s cool.’

OK, time to ask the big question. ‘Any idea where he might be hiding? We’re worried he hurt himself when he drove that ice-cream van into the river. Could be serious.’

‘Ah.’ Ralph frowned at the treetops, one finger tapping against his tin of Stella as the silence stretched. Then he scrunched up his face, and drained the can. Decision made. ‘After Charlie’s mum died, he used to run away a lot. Not far — you know the Wallace Tower, in Seaton Park? There was a loose bit of plywood boarding-up the windows, so he’d squeeze through the gap and spend the night. Don’t know if you can still do that. Maybe?’

‘Thanks. You’ve been a huge help.’ Logan offered a business card. ‘If he does get in touch?’

‘Understand — I’m not clyping on Charlie, I’m only trying to help him.’ Ralph took the card. ‘The daft sod’s his own worst enemy...’

Tufty climbed back in behind the wheel, looking across the pool car and out through Logan’s window, towards the park — where Ralph was chasing a couple of weenies around the makeshift picnic area, arms in the air, making monster noises and pretending he was going to eat them, while they laughed and screeched.

‘Do you think a Bumbersnatch is related to the fuminous Bandersnatch? Perhaps the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in Kincorth?’ Sniff. ‘Or is it just a coincidence?’

Silence.

Logan didn’t even move.

In the back, Rennie was graveyard still.

Both doing their best not to encourage him.

Finally, Tufty shrugged, started the car, and launched into a lumpy three-point turn.

With the moment broken, Rennie pointed. ‘Right: Seaton ho!’

Logan pressed buttons on his Airwave, and waited for the bleeps. ‘Sergeant Moore, safe to talk?’

‘Fit like, Boss Mannie?’

‘Spudgun: need you to grab a couple of bodies and stakeout the Wallace Tower in Seaton Park. Low key. No lights or sirens.’

Three-point completed, Tufty headed back towards the Bridge of Dee.

‘Oh aye? We looking for anything in particular?’

‘Charles MacGarioch used to hide out there as a kid. Might be nothing, but worth a punt.’

‘Could go in mob-handed if you like?’

‘Not unless you know he’s definitely there. Don’t want to spook him, otherwise.’

‘See what I can do.’

‘Thanks, Spudgun.’ Logan ended the call. ‘Fingers crossed.’

A snort from Rennie. ‘Yeah, because when have we ever been that lucky?’

Good point.

The peroxide idiot sat forward, poking his head between the seats. ‘If we’re gonna do a stakeout, we should order pizza!’ Rubbing his hands. ‘And none of that meat-free bollocks: eighteen-inch American hot, with extra spicy sausage and jalapenos.’

‘Nope.’

Rennie pouted. ‘Oh come on, Guv — don’t even get proper cheese at home any more. Emma’s gone all vegan-bolshy.’

‘I mean “nope” as in “we’re not going on a stakeout.” Spudgun’s a big boy now: doesn’t need us to hold his hand.’ Logan pointed through the windscreen. ‘Countesswells ho.’

‘Eh? But what’s more important than catching Charles MacGarioch?’

Tufty took a left, pootling down Abbotswell Drive towards the bridge. ‘We does has a prior appointment.’

‘But...?’

Logan shook his head. ‘Don’t make me “nope” you again. It’s...’ His phone ding-buzzed an incoming text. ‘Hold on.’

SGT. BROOKMINSTER:

Bet she did.

Urgh...

Suppose there was only one thing for it, then.

‘But we’ve got a quick stop to make first.’

The pool car scrunched to a halt on the driveway and Logan scrambled out, running for the front door. Unlocking it and letting himself into the house. Peeling off his suit jacket as he charged upstairs.

Dumping it on the bed, unclipping his tie, then stripping down to his socks and pants, before hauling on his itchy uniform trousers. While Cthulhu watched from atop the laundry basket, head on one side, tail twitching, as if he was insane.

Clingy, black, police-issue T-shirt on, Logan straightened his epaulettes and rushed downstairs again. Sitting on the bottom step to lace up his black boots.

Into the kitchen.

He tore open a sachet of chicken and extruded the gelatinous slab into Cthulhu’s bowl — giving her a wee stroke and a kiss on her fuzzy little head as she tucked in.

Then into the hallway again, grabbing his lanyard and peaked cap before wheeching out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Locking it.

Then leaping back into the passenger seat.

Logan banged a hand on the dashboard. ‘Drive. Drive!’

And Tufty did.

Kirkenwell Academy was a concrete monstrosity that looked about as welcoming as a prison block.

Actually, strike that — HMP Grampian was much nicer than this miserable series of grey boxes masquerading as a school. A pair of three-storey blocks were bolted together at right angles, with a bunch of other, smaller wings sticking out in random directions. All flat roofs and dirt-streaked walls. Over a dozen ancient Portakabins clustered about the edges — no doubt a temporary measure when they were erected, twenty or thirty years ago.

Rusty chain-link fencing was a bit of a theme: eight-feet tall; dividing the secondary school from the primary; wrapping around the rhomboid of tarmac that passed for a playground; and enclosing a tatty patch of grass that was just big enough for a couple of five-a-side football pitches and a weedy running track.

The pool car pitched and lurched between potholes.

A miserable OAP, dressed in brown overalls, was scraping great sticky globs of chewing gum off the school sign: ‘KIRKENWELL ACADEMY ~ WHERE DREAMS GROW AND FLOURISH’.

Tufty gave him a wave on the way past and got nothing but a stony look in return. ‘Yeah...’ He scooted down in his seat. ‘Is it just me, or can anyone else hear banjo music? Backa-dow-dow-dow dow dow-dow-dow...’ Following the pitted road to the back of the school, where a leprous patchwork of tarmac pretended to be a car park. Crowded with rundown estate cars, sagging hatchbacks, and the occasional flatbed truck. Surrounded by yet more chain link.

A deeply unattractive, bread-van-style Citroën Berlingo was parked by the gated entrance to the school grounds — a sticker in the rear window boasting ‘MY OTHER CAR IS A POLICE VAN’.

Suppose it would’ve been too much to hope that Tara was the one running late for a change.

Logan undid his seatbelt, setting the dinger off. ‘Close to the gate as you can.’

Tufty drove right up to it — slamming on his brakes at the last moment — and Logan jumped out into the oppressive evening air. Tasting toasted dust at the back of his throat as he battered through the gate into a fenced-off compound. Pulling on his peaked cap as his phone ding-buzzed another incoming text message.

Probably Tara, wanting to know where the hell he was, but there was no time to check it.

The compound’s barricade of chain link was topped with barbed wire, protecting a squat building about the size of a garage forecourt. It’d been painted white once, long, long ago, but now grass grew in the flat roof’s gutters.

Weirdly, all the windows were coated in that stuff boy racers used to hide the interior of their wankmobiles — the sort of pinky-orange film that was only see-through if you were looking out.

The door was marked: ‘STRICTLY STAFF ONLY!’ but some helpful soul had taped a pair of laminated signs to the wall: ‘← PARENT TEACHER MEETINGS: SECONDARY’ and ‘PARENT TEACHER MEETINGS: PRIMARY →’

Logan went right — jogging around the side of the teachers’ bunker to what looked like the entrance to a prison exercise yard. But it was a bare-and-basic playground instead, with some hopscotchy things painted on the potholed tarmac, and a couple of wonky climbing frames. Though those were cordoned off with yellow-and-black-striped tape and signs screaming: ‘WARNING — UNSAFE!’

He shoved through the squealing gate, and loped across the playground to Kirkenwell Academy’s primary school, also known as a sprawl of interconnected Portakabins, squatting in what used to be a five-a-side football pitch — going by the goalposts that still stood at either end — though the grass had been smothered with landscape fabric and bark chips.

At some point, they’d had a bash at cheering things up, by painting each ‘temporary’ building a different colour, like the houses in Balamory, but they’d long since faded and weathered to a grubby palette of off-greys.

One of the cabins, at the front of the depressing pack, was covered in posters that the kids had clearly drawn themselves — because they were rubbish — and above the door a sign declared: ‘ALL VISITORS MUST REPORT TO RECEPTION!’

Logan stopped just outside. Took a deep breath. And stepped into the mildew-sock-and-armpit funk of a cobbled-together primary school.

Rows and rows of empty coat hooks lined the walls, with hard wooden-slat benches below. Five doors off, each painted a different colour: ‘RED ZONE’, ‘BLUE ZONE’, ‘GREEN ZONE’, ‘YELLOW ZONE’, and ‘TOILETS’. A handful of desks made a pushed-together island in the middle of the room, where a beanbag-faced woman in a pink cardigan and perm sat facing the door, knitting. Looking as if she’d be happier at the foot of a guillotine, watching a bunch of French aristocrats get twelve inches shorter.

Instead, she had to make do with supervising a cardboard box full of name badges — each of which had a blob of blue, yellow, red, or green on it. Which presumably corresponded to each of the ‘zones’.

Logan risked a smile. ‘Hi.’

She didn’t look up, needles clicker-clacking away. ‘Name badge.’

OK...

He had a rummage through the box, but the closest he could find was one with ‘LOGAN MACRAY’ and a big green blotch on it. With a heavy sigh, he pinned the thing to his lanyard and marched through the door to the Green Zone.

Which turned out to be yet another Portakabin — shock horror — with scruffy green carpet tiles and some fairly awful kids’ paintings on the walls. About three dozen little desks were lined up in neat rows, each with its own small plastic chair. A door at the back of the class promised access to a ‘COOLDOWN AREA’.

Could do with one of those back at Divisional Headquarters. And a naughty step wouldn’t go amiss...

To add a touch of sophistication and luxury, they’d laid out two bowls of crisps, a stack of plastic cups, and a beaker of diluting orange. All three of which looked cheap and nasty.

A handful of teachers milled around — easy to spot by their lanyards, general air of depression, and predilection for corduroy. Except for one: a young woman with huge bouffant black hair and denim dungarees, who seemed to be mainlining Energizer batteries.

The parents, on the other hand, looked bored and uncomfortable, each with a fidgety little child in tow.

A baldy bloke in shorts and a golfing jumper grinned. ‘Aye, aye. A’bidy behave, it’s the polis.’

And with that, everyone stopped talking to stare at Logan.

Thanks, mate.

Logan tucked his hat under his arm, gave them all a friendly nod, then wandered over to where Tara and the LizMonster were examining a wall of what might’ve been Pokemon. Or self-portraits. Difficult to tell.

Elizabeth was in her school uniform — grey trousers, white polo shirt, stripy tie — but Tara had gone casual in jeans, boots, and an old Atomic Killer Cockroach T-shirt. And she was still the most stylish thing in the room.

Logan gave the pair of them a wee salute. ‘Acting Detective Chief Inspector McRae, reporting for duty — bang on time, as usual.’

Tara checked the wall clock. ‘Skin of the teeth, more like.’ But she gave Logan a kiss anyway. No tongues, because it was schooltime.

‘Hey, monster.’ He ruffled WhizzyLizzy’s hair.

‘Da-aaa-aaad!’ Scooting out of reach and fiddling her locks back into place.

He held up his new badge. ‘Well, I say “McRae”, apparently I’ve changed my name.’

Tara pursed her lips, one eyebrow raised. ‘Full uniform? Really?’

‘The Chief Super insisted. Says there’s so many of us off on the sick right now, the public need reassurance.’ He posed. ‘Are you reassured?’

‘Just don’t go arresting anyone, OK?’

Elizabeth grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the front of the room. Still a bit lispy, on account of not having all her front teeth back yet. ‘Come on, Dad, we’re going to be late for our first appointment!’

Urgh...

Tara poked him. ‘You’re the one who wanted to have a kid.’

And so it began...

34

Mr Blackwell’s ‘office’ for this evening was a desk by the whiteboard. He fidgeted with a pen — spinning it round and around in his long thin fingers, like a middle-aged majorette. The rest of him was long and thin too. In fact he was tall enough to have outgrown most of his hair, leaving a pair of hefty eyebrows and a droopy moustache behind.

The biro/baton went for another spin. ‘...but perhaps Elizabeth needs to pay a little more attention to her fractions and long division.’

Logan’s phone ding-buzzed in his pocket, but teachers tended to get huffy if they thought people weren’t hanging on their every word, so he left it where it was.

‘Now,’ Mr Blackwell swapped the spinning pen from one hand to the other, ‘I know that’s considered advanced for six-year-olds, but Elizabeth’s a bright girl and there’s no reason she can’t excel with a little motivation.’ Big smile. ‘You like music, don’t you? Of course you do, everyone likes music.’

Tara nodded, and after a wee pause, Logan did too. Humouring him.

‘Well, there you are! Mathematics is the music of the cosmos. Its rhythms are the rhythms of quantum physics and black holes, biology and ecology.’ Spreading his arms wide, the pen never missing a beat. ‘Everything around us sings to mathematics’ tune! And I want every child who comes through that door to sing along.’

Mr Blackwell stood there, as if he was expecting a round of applause.

He didn’t get one.

‘I see.’ A frown. ‘Perhaps that’s the wrong analogy for you? Ermmm...’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Aha! Do you like sport?’

Oh God...

Mrs Greenwald looked like a part-time rugby player, with bear-like hands, broad shoulders, and a slight stoop that took her down to a mere six foot. Index and middle finger yellowed with cigarette tar. A wee paunch that implied she spent more time in the pub than the classroom. Face like a wet weekend in Huntly, voice like a bucket full of gravel, as she moaned on and on and on. ‘...and we were meant to have a school trip to the Science Museum, in London. Then it was downgraded to Dynamic Earth in Edinburgh. Now I don’t even have the budget for an afternoon at Satrosphere, and it’s only down the road!’ She glowered out through the window. ‘We’ve got a proper science lab, you know. With benches, and Bunsen burners, and... flipping oscilloscopes. Only the roof’s made of reinforced autoclaved aerated concrete, so I’m stuck in here making volcanoes out of papier-mâché and bicarbonate of soda. How is that science?’

Maybe, if Logan pulled the fire alarm, they could all go home?

The Energizer Bunny with frizzy hair and dungarees turned out to be Mrs McIntosh, a snub-nosed dynamo of a woman whose can-do attitude and beaming smile hinted at either lots of prescription drugs or an impending psychosis. Possibly both.

She eyed Logan’s uniform, then gave him a massive wink. ‘Not going to arrest me, are you? For being too much fun!’ Then nudged Elizabeth. ‘Right, Lizzy?’

He kept his voice flat as a mortuary table. ‘I think you’re safe, there.’

‘You see, I think English should be fun! Shakespeare doesn’t have to be stuffy — Hamlet was the EastEnders of its day!’ Popping on an atrocious Mockney accent as she squatted down in front of Elizabeth: ‘To be, or not to be, and all that, innit?’ Then mangled out an even more Dick Van Dykeian ‘Leave it aaart, you muppet!’

Mrs McIntosh bounded upright again. ‘Now, have you thought about our special summer theatre camp?’

Christ, no.

Elizabeth dragged Logan out through the back door, and onto the woodchip. ‘Hurry! Hurry!’

They’d plonked a toilet block behind the primary-school warren: a small Portakabin divided in two — one half marked ‘BOYS’ the other ‘GIRLS’. Neither of which looked particularly sanitary. The harsh-plastic scent of pine disinfectant and floral air freshener struggled to conceal the fact that little children weren’t always the best at ‘getting their presents in the porcelain Santa’.

An older man lurked outside the loos, puffing away on a roll-up — holding it in his cupped hand like a true secret smoker. His ragged shirt cuffs were stained with smears of green, yellow, and pink. Blue-and-red dirt under his fingernails. Late fifties, with a sensible grey haircut, John Lennon glasses, and white stubble on his chin. Wearing a blazer-and-tie as if he’d lost a bet and this was the forfeit.

Logan let the little monster hustle him over to the toilets. ‘Well, it’s your own fault for drinking all that orange juice.’

‘Not helping!’

The man looked up, mid-puff, and wheeched the cigarette around behind his back. Hiding it. Forcing a smile as he wafted away the smoke. ‘Fallen foul of the rozzers, eh, Elizabeth?’

‘Can’t stop: back teeth are floating!’

Logan let go of her hand and she sprinted for the door to the girls’.

Soon as she’d gone, the man’s cigarette reappeared for one final draw. Then he ground the tiny butt out against the sole of his shoe.

Another ding-buzz came from Logan’s pocket, but he sagged against the wall instead.

Mr DirtyCuffs jerked a thumb at the toilets. ‘A police escort? She not a bit young for Public Enemy Number One?’

‘My daughter. Who spends way too much time with her Aunty Roberta.’

‘Ah.’ A nod. ‘Enjoy it while you can. In six years’ time the hormones kick in and “Daddy’s Little Girl” turns into “Satan’s Gangly Monster.”’ He dug out a small tobacco tin and dropped the mangled butt inside, where it joined a row of roll-ups, awaiting their turn.

Logan pointed at the piddle-palace Portakabin. ‘Are you...?’

Because if not, hanging around outside a kids’ toilet might be considered slightly suspicious.

‘Humphrey Fordyce-Adams, to give the full Sunday School moniker. Art and Design. Oh.’ He offered the tin. ‘You smoke?’

‘Gave it up.’

‘Very wise.’ Sparking up a fresh one. ‘For a minute there, thought you might be here about Ruby.’

Logan whipped out his notebook. ‘Is one of the kids in trouble?’

‘Music teacher: Ruby Burrows, didn’t turn up for work last Monday. Thought maybe something bad had happened — you know what they say, “stress, booze, and razorblades make uncomfortable bedfellows”. Shame, I liked her.’ He gave Logan the side-eye. ‘Not like that.’ Then raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, maybe once. After the End-Of-Term-Piss-Up party.’ Grin. ‘But that’s teachers for you.’

‘Yeah.’ Logan looked back towards the classrooms. ‘I’ve certainly met some... interesting characters this evening.’

‘You mean Nichole?’

No idea.

Humphrey Fordyce-Adams — which was a ridiculous name for a man not currently wearing red trousers and a shooting waistcoat — tried again. ‘Mrs McIntosh: English?’ Miming a big frizzy helmet. ‘Hair. Dungers? Nah, she’s OK.’ He took a very non-blue-blooded draw on his fag. ‘Believe it or not, we’re all very nice here. Well, “Doctor” Buchan’s a bit of a prick, but there’s always one, isn’t there?’

‘Usually lucky if it’s only one.’

‘Yeah, well, he’s only subbing till Ruby gets back. Then he can sod off home to whatever rock he slithered out from under.’ Humphrey examined Logan through the smoke. ‘Don’t remember you from last year.’

‘Elizabeth’s a Cults Primary kid — temporarily assigned to—’

‘This hellhole.’ A bitter laugh. ‘Oh, yeah: they’ll close and refurbish every school in the city before they finally get round to us.’ Flicking ash towards the main building. ‘Assuming they don’t just bulldoze the place, salt the earth, and erase all mention of Kirkenwell Academy for Weird Little—’

The toilet door thumped open and Elizabeth scuffed out, looking a lot happier than when she scurried in.

Humphrey hid his cigarette again. ‘Teeth back where they should be?’

‘Phew. That was close!’ She gave him a wave. ‘Sorry for not saying hello, Mr Fordyce-Adams: but I had to see a man about a racehorse.’

Far too much time with her Aunty Roberta.

Logan peered. ‘Have you washed your hands, you filthy little horror?’

She held them out for inspection: front side, then back, before grabbing his in her slightly clammy fingers.

Urgh...

He nodded at Humphrey. ‘Suppose we’ll see you inside.’

‘Mr Fordyce-Adams is famous, Dad. He’s got a painting in the Royal Academy!’

A gracious, pantomime bow. ‘My Warhol-allotted fifteen minutes of fame.’ Followed by a grimace. ‘Turns out not everyone enjoys it.’

Very true.

There wasn’t really anything to say to that, so Logan escorted Elizabeth back to the miserable lump of manky Portakabins for another round of pointless meetings.

As if he didn’t get enough of that at work...

Dr Buchan — the aforementioned ‘prick’ — had a whole room all to himself. The walls were painted a scuffed yellow, the carpet tiles blotched with stains and worn down to the adhesive in places. A trio of shelving racks played host to the cheaper kinds of musical instrument: recorders, little metal chime blocks, a couple of tambourines, and a whole bunch of triangles. There was even a battered old upright piano, the floor sagging beneath it. But to be fair, the ceiling sagged in the opposite corner, so it all sort of evened out.

Humphrey was right — this whole place needed redecorating with a bulldozer.

‘Hold on a minute.’ Dr Buchan perched on the piano’s deflated stool, wearing a semiquaver pin in his tartan tie. A towering skeleton of a man, with surgeon’s fingers and a bandage on his right wrist. Thin glasses, high forehead. And a nose designed for looking down. ‘Do you seriously mean to tell me that you don’t have a piano in the house? I thought you were one of our more... affluent parents.’

Tara frowned. ‘Well, we’ve never really—’

‘Because it doesn’t have to be a Steinway, even a decent Blüthner upright would do.’ He rubbed at his bandage. ‘You can’t expect Elizabeth to master an instrument if she can’t practise at home.’ Dr Buchan’s face soured even further. ‘God knows I’m wasting my time with most of the children here, but it would be nice if parents would occasionally meet me halfway.’ That nose cranked upwards a couple more inches. ‘Music isn’t “nothing” — a mere bagatelle to fritter away your time on — it’s life itself! It’s—’

Logan’s phone burst into ‘Space Oddity’.

Oh, thank God for that. Tufty might’ve been a daft little spud, but he knew how to pick his moments.

Dr Buchan sharpened the edge on his withering teacher’s voice: ‘We do encourage visitors to switch off their mobile devices before entering school premises, Mr McRae.’

‘Police business.’ He pulled out his phone, and marched from the room, back into the reception area, as David Bowie warbled on.

The Guillotine Knitting Club had disappeared, taking her crummy box of crappy badges with her. But even that hadn’t made the place any less miserable.

Logan poked the green button. ‘What?’

‘Is everything OK, Sarge? Only we’ve been sitting out here for ages and Sergeant Rennie’s getting all fidgety. He’s pacing up and down the car park as we speak.’ Tufty’s voice went all whispery. ‘I think he does need to has a wee.’

Logan wandered over to the nearest window, looking out at the dismal playground. ‘Could be worse: you could be sat in here, listening to some wank-faced prick lecture you about how you’re crap parents because you don’t have a grand piano in every room.’

‘I’ve been going over DCI Rutherford’s files, and—’

‘How did you get those?’

‘You had them all piled up on your desk, Sarge. I had a good snoot through, back at the ranch. Before you picked me and Sergeant Rennie up?’ Nosey wee sod. ‘Anyway, being a most excellent sidekick, I has worked up an online calendar for all his meetings and reviews and assessments and court appearances and stuff. Only I suppose you can’t really do his court appearances, as they’ll probably want to ask questions about the cases and you weren’t involved in those, so we should probably request a continuation on anything where we don’t want the accused going free.’

Fair point.

‘Thank you.’

‘So, just to let you know: you’ve got another MAPPA meeting tomorrow morning about the protest, a case review for the people-smuggling thing, another one for Operation Hedgehog, then the car-thefts thing, the break-ins-at-all-those-sports-shops thing, the drugs-coming-in-in-Lithuanian-teddy-bears thing, and Professional Standards want a word about The Dastardly Queen Of Ultimate Sticky.’

Of course they did.

Logan closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. ‘What’s Steel done now?’

‘Inappropriate language of a sexual nature to female co-workers and canteen staff.’

To be honest: knowing her, it could be worse.

‘OK: tell Rennie to tie a knot in it, and I’ll be with you soon as I can.’ He checked his watch. ‘Call it fifteen minutes.’

He hung up. And, as he already had his phone out, it would be daft not to at least check his messages.

SPUDGUN:

DOREEN:

Yeah, she was probably right. If Charles MacGarioch’s body had washed up on the riverbank surely they’d have found it by now.

The final message on the list was from an unknown number:

Which means the unknown number was probably Randolph ‘I go by Ralph’ Hay.

He’d attached a couple of jpegs, but the internet was running like a three-legged sloth, so they’d be a while downloading.

They were still chugging away when the door to the Yellow Zone opened, and Tara and Elizabeth escaped from Dr Buchan’s pus-coloured lair.

Tara closed the door behind her, slumped against it, then narrowed her eyes at Logan. ‘You rotten sod.’

‘Duty called.’ He held up his phone. ‘Literally.’

‘We’re going to have to get a piano, aren’t we.’

Elizabeth skipped on the spot. ‘Dr Buchan’s what Aunty Roberta would call “a—”’

‘Oh no you don’t, young lady.’ Logan shook a warning ‘dad’ finger at her. ‘We’re not having that kind of language in an educational setting.’

Those pictures were still downloading.

He glanced at the coloured doors. ‘How many of these spudging things have we still got to go?’

‘Millions...’

‘No, Mum,’ Elizabeth frowned up at her, ‘only Drama, Art, History, and Computer Science.’

‘Is it too late to put you up for adoption?’

A shrug. ‘Probably.’

Logan’s phone bleeped, announcing that the attachments were finally ready to view. ‘OK, but I can only stay fifteen minutes: got Rennie and Tufty waiting outside.’

Tara gave him her version of the Paddington Stare, which had far more of the homicidal Father Jack about it.

He raised a hand. ‘Unless you want murderers running about the city, murdering people in a murdery way?’

She rolled her eyes instead. ‘Fine.’

‘Thought so.’ Logan shot Elizabeth with a finger gun. ‘OK, Fizzy Lizzy Bing-Bong: who’re we meeting next?’ Sneaking a quick glance at his phone as she checked the photocopied schedule.

Attachment Number One was a photo of half a dozen young people, in a pub — no idea which one — all gathered around a table grinning at the camera with their glasses raised. Pints, mostly.

There were more revellers off to both sides, but in the middle sat: Ralph, Jericho, Charles, and...

Oh sodding hell.

35

Logan jammed his phone back in his pocket. ‘I have to go. Sorry.’

‘But Da-ad!’

He hunkered down, so they were eye to eye. ‘Who does Daddy love most in the whole wide world?’

Elizabeth didn’t even have to think about it: ‘Cthulhu.’

‘True.’ He gave her tummy a prod. ‘But who does Daddy love almost as much as Cthulhu?’

‘Mummy.’

‘Nah, she’s a poo-head.’

Tara walloped him one. ‘Hey!’

A big grin from the Lizzasaurus Rex. ‘Is it Elizabeth Tobermory Strachan-McRae?’

So he gave her a wee kiss on the head. ‘Darn tootin’.’ Then stood and shot Tara a grimace.

‘Go.’

Logan marched for the door, already dialling.

‘But remember what I said about spanking!’

He thumped out into the playground, where the air was hot and claggy and smelled of freedom. Phone to his ear, waiting for the halfwit Tufty to—

Logan stumbled to a halt, inches away from falling over a little girl. Well, not little, little. Maybe twelve years old? Dressed in black jeans, black biker boots, black leather wrist things, and a black T-shirt with Marceline from Adventure Time on it. She’d even dyed her hair jet-black, like Undertaker Barbie.

She glowered up at him, from a ghost-white face with coal-coloured lipstick. ‘Hey, watch where you’re...’ Then her eyes widened in their smoked shadows. ‘Ooh, it’s you! It really is you. They said it was, but then you didn’t show yesterday, so I thought maybe they were lying, but it’s you, and...’ Then she must’ve remembered that babbling Goths weren’t cool, so bobbed one shoulder and sniffed instead. ‘Yeah. I mean.... ’sup?’

‘Sorry.’ He pointed at the gate through to the teachers’ bunker. ‘I’ve got to—’

‘You don’t remember me?’ Bottom lip trembling.

Not even vaguely.

‘Erm... Yes?’

The Ghost Goth Girl looked away, chin jutting out like a chalk cliff. Shoulders back. ‘We rescued those kids from the Livestock Mart. You know, from those tits in masks?’

What?

Logan stared at her.

Nah.

Couldn’t be.

‘Rebecca? But you were, like,’ he held a hand out, as if patting a weenie kid on the head, ‘and didn’t you have big red hair?’

A gigantic smile crashed through her teenage cool. ‘You do remember!’ And Rebecca launched herself at Logan, wrapping him up in a hug, even though she only came about halfway up his chest.

OK.

Weird.

Actually, given what they’d been through together, pretty sodding understandable.

Logan hugged her back.

In the happy silence, a tiny tinny voice squawked out of his phone: ‘Sarge? Hello?’

He looked down at those dyed black roots, and the Darth Vader outfit. ‘Are you OK?’

She let go and stepped back, wiping her nose on the back of one hand. ‘So, it’s true — your daughter goes here, right?’ Rebecca’s pale chin came up again. ‘Want you to know: anyone messes with her, they mess with me. And I will fuck their shit up.’

‘That’s... very kind of you.’

‘Hello, Sarge? Can you hear me?’

God’s sake.

Logan groaned. ‘I’m really sorry — I’ve got to run.’

Rebecca nodded. ‘You got tits to arrest.’

‘But it’s been great seeing you again!’ He pointed at her, smiling as he backed towards the gate. ‘Don’t do drugs; stay in school; and so on and so forth.’

‘Sarge? Knock once for yes, twice for no...’

She waved at him.

He waved back.

Then turned and hoofed it, phone pressed against his ear. ‘Start the car — we need to move. Now.’

‘The game’s afoot!’

But not in a good way.

Logan hung up and shoved through the gate, jogged his way around the teachers’ Portakabin of Mystery, and out into the crappy car park. Pausing for a moment to check the photo Ralph sent, one last time, just to make sure.

The fourth person sitting at the table — turned in his seat to speak to someone just out of the picture: sharing a joke, going by the rosy cheeks and shining eyes — was wearing a backwards baseball cap and a wife-beater vest with ‘COLONEL MICHIGAN’S GYM’ printed across the chest above a little silhouette of a boxer.

Mr Muscles.

The poor bastard who’d got himself smeared halfway across Holburn Street only three-and-a-bit hours ago.

Sodding hell indeed...

XXXVI

The world was full of flies. Fat and greasy, glittering blue-and-green. Circling in the air above her. Landing to feed on the darkening bruises and scraped flesh.

The sun still burned, high in the sky, but it was hidden behind the grey corrugated roof now — baking down, making every breath thick and stifling through the leather mask. Blood whump-whump-whumping in her ears.

And Natasha lay on her back, chained to her bloody anchor, blinking up at the flies and the cobwebs.

Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink.

How long could a human being live without water? Prisoners on hunger strike could last for weeks and weeks, but water was different.

Some special-forces bloke on the idiot box claimed it takes about three days to die from dehydration. Especially if it’s hot. First your kidneys shut down, then your liver, then your brain shrivels, and finally your heart can’t cope any more.

Bang: that’s you.

Now every breath grated its way down her outback throat, stirring the dust.

At least the smell had faded. Or she’d got used to it.

Taking a crap on the floor wasn’t exactly dignified...

Especially with both wrists manacled to the metal collar around her throat. Limping around to the opposite side of her anchor — moving as far away as the chain would allow. Scrabbling about on the hard-packed dirt to get her pants down round her ankles, so she wouldn’t get them covered in it, then another complicated humiliating fight to get the things back up again.

Then retreating from the stench, to the end of her tether. Lying on the floor trying not to cry as what she left back there... baked in the never-ending heat.

Attracting even more flies.

A juddering squeal made the bastards leap into the air, to buzz and drone with their shitty mates.

The rust-streaked wooden door rattled back on its metal runner, letting a harsh slab of sunlight crash into Natasha’s prison. Scalding her legs.

Could barely move them out the way.

So she just lay there and groaned instead.

Detective Sergeant Davis took one step inside and recoiled back again, one hand wafting the foetid air from his face. ‘Fuck’s sake...’

And he was gone again, leaving the door wide open.

As if that did her any good.

He was back — maybe five minutes later? — with a bucket of water, soap suds spilling out over the side. Heaving it over her like he was rinsing a car. Startling the flies.

It was so dry in here that the liquid didn’t soak straight into the parched earth, it sat on top of the dusty surface in sparkling droplets.

She tried to scoop some up, even if it was full of soap, but it just turned to gritty mud in her fingers.

DS Davis’s lip curled. ‘God, you’re disgusting.’

‘Water...’ The word barely more than a croak. ‘Please... Please...’

He stared at her. Then squatted down. ‘You want mercy? After what you’ve done?’

‘Please...’

‘Did those migrants get any mercy? The ones you burned?’ He snorted. ‘Oh, maybe you didn’t strike the match yourself, but you fanned the flames. Threw petrol on it. All that hate and bile. You spoon-fed it to whatever slack-jawed Neanderthal did the actual dirty work.’

Natasha reached her muddy fingers towards him. ‘Water...’

‘Publishing story after story, whipping up the racist wankers till they went out and torched a hotel.’ Davis stood. ‘THEY BURNED CHILDREN!’

Children? How on earth was that her—

‘BITCH!’ He lurched forwards — a booted foot slammed into her ribs hard enough to flip her onto her side. A jagged pop inside her chest, stabbing carpet tacks into the flesh with every Sahara breath.

She curled up on the gritty floor and the boot hammered into her back. Then again. And again. Sharp explosions slicing through her lungs, crackling out like bloody fireworks as a dry scream howled free.

Then nothing.

No more kicks.

Nothing but the ache and tear of her tortured back.

Davis spat a glob of white onto the earth by her head, breathing hard. ‘You’ve been getting away with it for far too long. Maybe it’s your turn to burn?’

There was a metallic clang-and-clatter as he picked up the bucket again, then the scuff of boots on the parched floor.

The door squealed and rattled shut.

The flies began to settle again.

And only then did Natasha allow herself to cry.

37

The pool car whipped up Anderson Drive, lights flickering. Tufty poked the horn, making the siren whonk and whyeeeeeoooow, parting the traffic in front of them like a shortarsed Moses.

He was hunched over the wheel, as if that would make the car go faster.

Logan shifted in his seat, one finger in his ear to block out the excess noise, because it was almost impossible to hear Ralph Hay’s voice over the phone. ‘That’s great, thanks.’

‘No problems. Hope it helps.’

Logan hung up.

Soon as he did, Tufty flipped the switch, setting the siren wailing full time as they shot through the King’s Gate Roundabout.

Right.

Logan waved a hand at the backseat. ‘Rennie: I need a PNC check on one Spencer Findlater.’

‘On it.’

Tufty accelerated up the hill, overtaking a minibus and a Mackie’s lorry, eyes firmly fixed on the road. ‘Sa-arge, not that I’m not enjoying the wheech, but why are we wheeching? I mean, this Spencer bloke hasn’t woken up or anything, so it’s not like we can question him.’

‘Because you heard Randolph Hay — Charles MacGarioch is hyper-loyal to his friends.’ Pointing towards Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. ‘Well, his friend’s just been in a horrible accident; of course he’s going to visit Spencer in hospital.’

‘Yeah,’ Tufty killed the siren, ‘but nobody knows he’s in hospital except us, Sarge. And we only found out thirty seconds ago.’

Logan opened his mouth, then shut it again.

The wee loon had a point.

‘Sod.’

‘OK, got him.’ Rennie poked his head through from the back, reading off his phone. ‘Spencer Findlater, nineteen: handful of warnings for getting into fights; almost ended up in a Young Offenders Institution for torching wheelie bins when he was a kid; bunch of shoplifting; all about the same time.’ A grunt. ‘Guess he didn’t handle losing his parents very well.’

‘You got an address?’

‘Not a million miles away: Four Arnage Court.’

‘OK.’ Logan gave Tufty a poke. ‘You heard the man.’

Arnage Court wrapped around three sides of a nice big rectangle of grass, dotted with trees and some saggy rhododendrons. Someone had been at the road sign, adding a ‘C’ to the start of the first word.

Three-storey blocks lined the court — each one made up of four or five units, with six flats apiece and a central stairwell. If you were lucky enough to live on the upper floors, you got a balcony of your very own, but the ground floor had access straight out onto a shared garden area. Where all the recycling bins lived.

There were even more bins lined up along the overgrown hedge outside the first block. About twenty feet of them. All black and wheelie and waiting for collection.

Rennie whistled as they drove slowly by. ‘That’s a lot of bins to burn...’

Tufty parked behind a fusty Transit with ‘SANDY THE HOOSE BUILDER’ on the side and a peeling graphic of a cartoon joiner. ‘Think the arson connection’s relevant? You know, with the hotel?’

They climbed out into the stifling heat, and Rennie popped on his stupid sunglasses again. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Everyone goes through a “burning things” phase. Right?’

Logan stared at him.

Tufty raised both eyebrows.

Rennie pulled his chin in. ‘What?’ Following Logan through the knee-high gate and up to the front door. ‘Oh, come on! It’s not just me. Everybody does it.’

‘Enough.’ Logan rang the bell for Flat Four. ‘We’re about to tell some poor sod their grandchild’s been mangled in an accident. Either you’re on your best behaviour, or you’re waiting in the car. But you’re not going up there to act the prick, do I make myself clear?’

Maybe a bit close to the bone, but he deserved it.

Pink scoured its way up Rennie’s neck. ‘Sorry, Guv.’

Should think so too.

A black cat sauntered past, tail in the air, pausing only to mark its territory against a brown garden-waste bin.

A woman tottered along the pavement, coughing and hacking away.

Somewhere in the distance, children were chanting a skipping song:

Logan was reaching for the bell again when a man’s voice growled out of the intercom, old and mushy and distorted by the cheap speaker:

‘Yeah, what?... Erm... What you... want?’

‘Mr Findlater?’

No reply.

Tufty raised his hand. ‘You’ve got to press the button, Sarge.’

‘Hmmph.’ Logan pressed the button. ‘Mr Findlater, can we come in, please? We need to talk...’

‘Oh for... erm... fuck’s sake.’

But he buzzzzzed them in anyway.

Mr Findlater must’ve been a bear of a man when he was younger, but now he was bent like a paperclip as he shuffled back to his baggy armchair. Most of his hair had gone, leaving a straggly collar-length droop behind, but his face was a thing to scare children — lumpen craggy features and a nose that had been broken so many times it barely counted as a nose any more. His burgundy cardigan had faded to the colour of old blood, and even though it had to be in the mid-thirties outside, he was bundled up in a shirt and jumper too. His brown cords were worn through at the knees, much like the carpet.

There was a second armchair — clearly part of the same set, but a lot less scuffed, dusty, and sagging — and a wooden dining chair, all three facing a small TV. Though it wasn’t on.

A bookcase lurked in the corner, stuffed full of record-your-own video tapes. Each one carefully labelled in faded ink along the spine.

Having completed his wobbly journey, the old man collapsed into his seat.

Logan sat on the edge of the wooden chair. ‘Mr Findlater, I’m—’

‘Frank.’ Now that it wasn’t filtered through the intercom’s wiring, his voice was a low, dark rumble. ‘S’ Frank.’

‘Frank. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

Blank look.

‘Your grandson, Spencer? He was hit by a car this afternoon and he’s in hospital.’

‘Hospital?... Man...’ He shook his head, blinking, as if trying to get spots out of his vision. ‘I’ve been... having... erm... tests.’

Rennie wandered over to the other armchair, lowering himself into—

‘NO!’ Mr Findlater was on his feet, no longer folded over and trembling, but huge and broad and powerful. ‘DON’T YOU FUCKIN’ DARE!’

Rennie scrambled out of the seat, before his bum could even touch down. ‘OK, it’s OK.’

‘YOU STAY OUT OF HER CHAIR!’

‘OK, I’m sorry!’ Hands up in surrender. ‘Won’t go near it. See? Promise.’ He backed away from the seat.

‘Nobody sits there.’ Glowering at the empty space.

As the anger faded, so did Mr Findlater — the towering monster shrinking until only the trembling old man remained.

He juddered his way back into his own chair.

Well, that was... Yeah.

Logan cleared his throat. ‘Mr... Frank, is there anyone we can call? A carer, or somebody?’

‘Spencer takes... Spencer’s my grandson... He takes care of me.’

‘But Spencer’s in hospital, Frank.’

A frown crumpled that monolith brow. ‘I... erm... I been in hospital... They ran... tests.’

‘Tell you what, Frank, why don’t I make you a nice cup of tea?’ Logan stood. ‘Would you like a tea?’

But Mr Findlater seemed to have drifted away, squinting at the blank TV instead, as if something was already playing there.

‘Right.’ Heading for the living-room door.

Tufty scurried over. ‘I’ll get the teas in, if you like?’ Playing the good sidekick.

‘You stay here and keep an eye on Sergeant Rennie. Just in case.’ Then Logan slipped out into the hall.

It was an awkward, fat ‘L’ shape, with a mess of eight doors leading off.

The first one opened on a cupboard full of dusty bed linen.

The second revealed a kitchen that was more like a corridor, lined with grunky, old-fashioned cupboards and cabinets.

Logan closed the door and tried again: another cupboard, full of boxed crap this time.

Number four led out onto the balcony, where a knackered bicycle slowly decomposed, along with a couple of clothes horses and some tins of paint. But then they’d squeezed past those when they’d come through the door at the far end, from the stairwell. So that was no use.

Fifth: a bathroom, with an ancient, stained, salmon-pink suite and peeling lino floor.

Which left two to try.

Eenie, meenie...

Logan tried the one furthest away: an old-fashioned bedroom with floral pillows-and-bedspread that looked as if they hadn’t been washed in a while, and a view out over the rear green.

Which left door number eight.

Logan stepped into a small bedroom, that clearly belonged to a much younger person.

Like Charles MacGarioch and Andrew Shaw, Spencer Findlater had papered his walls with posters, but instead of films, soft-porn popstars, and computer games, he’d gone with oiled-up bodybuilders — men flexing away in their swimming trunks, showing off their veiny muscles and leathery tans.

A collection of free weights were neatly stacked beneath the window. The single bed wore an old Transformers duvet cover.

But what was most striking about the place were the heaps and heaps and heaps of dirty-big tubs of whey protein. Each one large enough to hold a child’s severed head.

There had to be at least two hundred of them in here. Lots of different brands, most still in their shrink-wrapped pack-of-six cases — complete with delivery notes.

Logan snapped on a pair of gloves, hefted a multi-pack off the nearest stack, and turned it over to read the delivery address.

It was the sports shop on Thistle Street — the one getting its windows replaced this afternoon.

Hmmm...

Bet every delivery note in here would turn out to be from a sports shop that’d been broken into.

Which at least solved that one...

Logan opened the built-in wardrobe and searched through the clothes. Other than yet more tubs of whey protein, stashed under piles of athletic leisure wear — most of which still had the security tags attached — there was nothing exciting.

So he tried the mattress instead.

Levering it up from the bed frame exposed a bunch of magazines with titles like Muscle Mag and Flex and UK Beef. Which sounded like gay porn, but a quick rifle through proved that although they were full of oiled-up men in their pants, it was all about bodybuilding.

And yeah, teenaged boys were known to have a one-track mind, but this was ridiculous.

Just to be safe, Logan knelt on Optimus Prime’s face and peeled back the posters above the bed. But there were no hidden photos, or anything else. Just a couple of startled spiders.

He checked under the bed instead.

Ooh, a holdall.

That looked a bit more promising.

Logan pulled the thing out and unzipped it.

A black tracksuit sat on the top. And when Logan lifted it out, there was a hammer, a pair of black trainers with little sparkling cubes of broken glass embedded in their treads, and a pair of black leather gloves. All carrying a faint... unleaded smell.

Sod.

OK.

He put everything back where he’d found it, zipped the holdall up again, and slid it under the bed.

Stood.

Snapped off his gloves and pocketed them. Before retreating from Spencer Findlater’s bedroom and closing the door behind him.

Logan eased back into the living room, carrying a mug of tea and a digestive biscuit on a wee plate.

Someone had turned the TV on, and now Tufty, Rennie, and Mr Findlater sat there, watching some old boxing match. Well, Mr Findlater and Tufty were sitting — the old man in his sagging armchair, the wee loon on the dining-room chair — while Rennie stood off to one side. Clearly not wanting to risk another shouting-at.

The picture was a bit grainy, and there was a stripe down one side, but that didn’t seem to bother them as two huge men battered the living crap out of each other in the ring.

Mr Findlater’s shoulders twitched in time with every punch thrown by the guy in the red shorts.

Rennie looked up from the screen. Reaching for the mug in Logan’s hand. ‘Cheers, Guv.’

‘Not for you.’

‘Oh...’ The idiot drooped for a second, then perked right up again. ‘Anyway, you’ll never guess: but we’re in the company of genuine sporting greatness. This,’ Rennie put on an OTT announcer’s voice and shoogled both hands towards their host, ‘is the one, the only: Francis “Big Frank” Findlaterrrrrrrrrrrr!’

Never heard of him.

Logan handed ‘Big Frank’ the mug and the old man took it without moving his eyes from the screen.

‘Thought I recognised the name when we came in, but then I saw all the videos.’ Rennie hooked a thumb at the bookcase. ‘Big Frank had golden gloves, man. He could put a guy twice his size on his arse in three rounds. Biff, bang, crash, wallop!’

Logan hunkered down beside Mr Findlater’s armchair. ‘Frank, do you know where Spencer was on Sunday night, Monday morning? Can you remember for me?’

Nothing. Not even a frown.

‘Course it all went south after the Roxborough fight. Roxborough was aye a cheating bastard, though. Got a six-month ban for what he did, but poor Frank never fought again.’

‘Frank? Where was Spencer on Sunday night? Was he out?’

Something flickered inside Mr Findlater and he resurfaced from the boxing ring. ‘Spencer’s in hospital... He’s... Police came round... erm... came round and told me... Spencer’s in hospital.’ His forehead furrowed. ‘They do all these... tests...’

Logan patted his arm. ‘I know, Frank. I’m sorry.’

And then he was gone again.

38

‘...yeah, no: anonymous tip-off.’ Logan paced the grass square, outside Big Frank’s building — from a wilting tree to a drooping rhododendron and back again. Lying to his superior officer. ‘Someone thinks they saw Spencer Findlater coming out of Capercaillie Sports on George Street after the break-in.’

Which might’ve been true.

Who could tell?

Nearly nine o’clock, and the sun was sinking towards the horizon, painting everything with a warm golden-syrup glow. Making the air a bit... sticky.

Rennie and Tufty loitered by the pool car, forbidden to come any closer so they had plausible deniability if it ever came out that Logan had fiddled the facts slightly.

Finally, Chief Superintendent Pine came to a decision: ‘All right, I’ll get you a search warrant for Findlater’s flat.’

‘Thanks, Boss. And he’s one of Charles MacGarioch’s mates, so it might be an idea to test anything they find for accelerants too.’ Keeping it nice and casual, as if he’d just thought of it. ‘Belt and braces.’

A sigh rattled down the phone. ‘Anything else while I’ve got my chequebook out?’

‘Now you mention it...’ He stopped pacing and looked up at Flat Four. ‘With Spencer in hospital, there’s no one to look after his grandad, and he won’t last the week if we leave him on his own. He’ll either starve to death or burn the house down.’

‘You want me to sort out a care package at five to nine, on a Wednesday night? Yes, thanks for that.’ There was an ominous pause. ‘Speaking of Charles MacGarioch...?’

‘Still working on it, Boss.’ Back to pacing again.

‘And while I’ve got you, would you care to explain why I’ve got three officers sitting on their thumbs in Seaton Park, playing I Spy?’

‘Ah...’ The truth probably wasn’t the best option in this case either. Not unless he wanted Pine to pull the op, because ‘they’re probably bored’ didn’t exactly make his team sound very professional. ‘Well, of course, as you know... Erm...’ Why on earth did Spudgun let them play games on a stakeout? Worse: why did he let senior bloody management catch them doing it?

Surely there had to be a...

Aha!

‘As you know, Boss: I Spy is a recommended attention-centric activity for ICSOs like this. Boredom leads to a lack of focus — people start missing things — but playing I Spy requires constant observation and evaluation of your surroundings, which is what they’re actually there to do in the first place. Ma-am.’

That sounded believable, didn’t it?

‘ICSO?’

‘Impromptu Covert Surveillance Operation.’

‘I see...’ Her voice took on a vindictive little smile. ‘Very convincing. I look forward to you giving a presentation on that at our next Divisional Training Management Meeting.’

Sod...

Logan buried a groan. ‘Yes, Boss.’

‘What happens if Charles MacGarioch doesn’t show up at your ICSO? I haven’t got enough officers as it is, without wasting resources on a red herring.’ She huffed out a breath. ‘I’m pretty sure half the buggers off on the sick are swinging the lead — pretending they’ve got the plague, so they don’t have to do any sodding work. Well, maybe not half, but a good twenty percent, anyway. The point is: I can’t afford to have three of the officers I do have tied up all night on a no-show.’

‘Like you say: “What choice do we have?” If he turns up and we’re not there to catch him, we’re screwed.’

Logan wandered back towards the car while she considered that.

He’d made it as far as the road, before Pine rejoined the conversation:

‘Sergeant Moore and his team have all been on since zero-seven-hundred. Your op can run till ten, then you need to swap them out for other officers. Everyone’s running on fumes as it is.’

Well, that went better than expected.

‘I think I can—’

‘But you’re only getting two nightshift bodies. And I want everyone in for Morning Prayers! That includes you.’

Suppose it was better than nothing.

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Which means you clock off at ten as well. No one’s handing out Hero Points for running yourself into the ground.’

He checked his watch. Just over an hour to go, before home-time. ‘Thanks, Boss.’

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a care package to organise...’

She hung up, and Logan sagged for a moment.

Could’ve been worse.

Right: he straightened up and marched across the road.

Tufty jingled the car keys. ‘Where to, Sarge?’

Logan opened the passenger door. ‘ARI — let’s go pay Big Frank’s grandson a visit.’

‘Seriously?’ Rennie pulled a face. ‘But he’s unconscious, Guv, it’s—’

‘Then you can stay here, or walk back to the station if you like?’

The idiot scrambled into the back.

‘Thought so.’

The Critical Care Unit smelled of disinfectant, drain cleaner, and despair. Having all the blinds drawn didn’t help — shutting out the sinking sun, and replacing every bit of natural light with dimmed LED bulbs.

The muffled sound of trainers on the terrazzo floor squeaked out under the part-glazed door to Ward 201, bringing with them the whirr and bleep and hisssss of machinery designed to keep the hospital’s most vulnerable patients alive.

Rennie drooped against the corridor wall, fiddling on his phone, while Logan waited by the locked door for the doctor to slouch over here and let them in.

Inside, a small cluster of beds sat in the middle of the room, fanning out in a circle. Each one had about three times the amount of space you’d get anywhere else in the hospital — presumably to make it easier for a crash team to surround the patient — with banks of equipment and high-tech screens and computers on arms and all that whizzy life-saving stuff. A handful of private booths ran around the outside, not quite as Robocop, but still advanced compared to the normal wards.

There were a lot more nurses in attendance too, bustling about between the beds, while their charges lay flat on their backs, zonked on sedatives, and wired up to all that whirring, bleeping, hissing kit.

The doctor paused to check some poor sod’s notes, then dragged her pink Crocs over to the door. With the facemask and surgical cap on, there wasn’t much of her on show, just a pair of eyes with dark bags underneath, and a few wisps of brown curly hair that had escaped from its prison. Blue scrubs and rumpled PPE.

Logan waved through the glazed partition, but she just glowered back, pointed at her own mask, then jabbed a finger towards the door.

Following the pointing digit led to a wall-mounted dispenser full of individually wrapped N95 masks.

He plucked two from the stack and handed one to Rennie.

The doctor waited till they were both masked-up before opening the door and slipping out into the corridor. Her voice sounded as if it had just run a marathon, with a fridge-freezer strapped to its back. ‘This better be important.’

‘Dr Emslie?’ Logan flashed his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Inspector McRae: we’re here about Spencer Findlater.’

She glanced back at the ward. ‘He’s only just out of surgery, and to be honest, it’s eighty-twenty he doesn’t make it.’

Rennie snorted. ‘You’re kidding.’

Dr Emslie squared her shoulders. ‘You want a list of what’s broken, Sergeant? Cos we’ll be here for a while. Then there’s the list of what’s ruptured, torn, detached, perforated, and leaking.’ Giving him a scowl. ‘You smash two tons of metal into someone, hurl them through the air like a rag doll, and whack them against tarmac at speed, and see how optimistic you feel.’

Pink flushed across Rennie’s ears, making them glow. ‘Was only thirty miles an hour.’

‘Want to try it? We can go out to the car park, right now, and flag down the nearest flatbed truck!’

Logan raised his hands. ‘OK, OK, let’s just turn the heat down a bit.’ Poking Rennie. ‘You: go wait outside.’

A wee grumbling mumble sounded behind Rennie’s mask, then off he flounced. With all the grace of a sulky teenager.

Dr Emslie glared at his departing back.

‘Sorry about that.’ Logan forced a smile. ‘Been a long week.’

‘Oh, please: do tell me about it.’ She gave herself a wee shake. ‘Spencer Findlater’s been placed in a medically induced coma. So if you’re planning on interviewing, or arresting him anytime soon — you’re shit out of luck.’

Bit harsh.

‘Can I see him?’

‘No you can’t bloody see him! What do you think this is: a petting zoo? They’re not exhibits, they’re human beings.’

‘But—’

‘He’s — just — out — of — surgery!’ The glare returned. ‘And how do I know you’re not asymptomatic? How do I know you’re not going to spread Covid all over my ward, wiping out half the unfortunate bastards in there?’

‘But—’

‘Cos that’s what it is, OK? It isn’t “the flu”, or “the sniffles”, or “the Lurgie”, or “Captain Trips”, it’s Covid! That’s why half the bloody city’s off sick.’ Getting louder. ‘Just because every wanker, newspaper, and politician wants to pretend it’s magically gone away, that doesn’t make it happen!’

‘OK...’ Logan backed off a couple of paces. ‘Look: Spencer might get a visitor. If he does, I need you to call us immediately.’ Digging out his phone and bringing up the photo of Charles MacGarioch and his fellow orphans in the pub. Zooming in on Charles’s face till it filled the screen.

‘He dangerous?’

‘Hard to say.’

Dr Emslie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, that is helpful. Thank you so much.’ She produced her own phone with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Send me a copy and I’ll get Marilyn to print out some posters.’

It took a couple of goes, but eventually they got the image transferred.

Logan put his mobile away. ‘Officers on-site will keep an eye out too, but with all these entrances...?’

‘Because my job isn’t difficult enough?’ She threw a sharp, stabbing gesture at the ward door. ‘I’ve got a skeleton staff, full beds, and a bunch of people already calling in sick for tomorrow. Aberdeen’s like a bloody plague pit...’ On either side of the mask, her jaw muscles clenched. A deep breath and Dr Emslie shook her head, then looked away. ‘Fine: we’ll shout if we see him.’ Her arm came up, pointing away down the corridor. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind sodding off — I’ve got a bunch of dying people to save.’

She turned to go.

Then stopped.

‘And don’t you dare come back here without a mask on!’

And with that jolly farewell, Dr Emslie slapped her pass against the security reader and shoved back into the ward. Pulling the door shut behind her, in case Logan, or his germs, tried to follow.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘And a merry Christmas to you too.’

Then marched off towards the exit, taking his cooties with him.

39

In an ideal world, the biggest hospital in the northeast of Scotland would’ve had a fancy front entrance. Something that spoke of Aberdeen’s position as the energy capital of Europe. Something that reflected all the oil money that had flowed through the city since the seventies. Something that gave a little nod to the billions of pounds of tax revenue generated for the UK Treasury.

But it was, to be honest, a bit of a shithole — more like the pedestrian entrance to an underground car park, with a pair of sliding doors surrounded by an array of half-arsed signs.

Auld mannies and wifies were lined up in the fading light, still wearing their baffies and dressing gowns, grimly puffing on cigarette after cigarette, in bloody-minded defiance of all the posters telling them not to.

Back in the day, there’d been a nice big overhang to shelter beneath and enjoy your fag out of the wind and snow and rain. But the Health Trust had filled it all in, leaving the patients with nowhere to stand and indulge their vices but outside in the open air. And it still wasn’t enough to deter these Wrinkled Priests and Craggy Priestesses of Sainted Lady Nicotine.

Logan stepped out into the sunlight, phone to his ear, waiting for Doreen to pick up.

Her voice groaned out of the speaker. ‘If you’re calling to make my life even more depressing: don’t, OK? The only thing keeping me upright is visions of a phenomenally large G-and-T when I get home. With lots and lots and lots of ice.’

He headed for the multistorey opposite — a weird, elongated-OXO-cube of a thing, wrapped in sheets of holey metal. ‘No sign of Charles MacGarioch?’

‘Guv, I swear to God, if we do find his body, I’m going to kick the crap out of it before we call anyone.’

Bit unprofessional. But understandable.

‘How far you got to go?’

‘Dunno — maybe a quarter mile? We’re well past the bridge anyway.’ A knackered sigh. ‘Sun’s going down: it’s all long blue shadows and a zillion midges out here. Going to be dangerous if we keep going much longer. And I know it’s going to be twilight till eleven, but that’s sod-all use for searching.’ Doreen gave a little sob. ‘Just want to pour the sweat out of my wellies, lie down, and cry...’

‘OK — Give it another twenty minutes, then head back to the station. We’re calling it quits at ten, today.’

‘I’m too tired and squelchy to celebrate.’

Logan hurried across the road. ‘Just do me a favour and get someone to have a quick march along the last bit of riverbank, OK? In case his body’s just lying about.’

‘He’s not here, Guv. You’ve got dog walkers crawling over every bit of this... what is it, an estuary? Where the beach-and-all-that-bollocks starts? If he was here, they’d have found him by now.’

Yeah, she was probably right.

Biohazard sounded as if he was about to pop an aneurism. ‘And then there’s that stupid woman in the bikini, wanging on about finding the body like it’s a sodding marketing opportunity! You name a broadcaster: she’s had a bash at selling them her story.’

The lift dinged, and Logan stepped out onto the rooftop level of the hospital car park. Which wasn’t quite as tall as the big number thirteen painted on the wall made it sound, given each ‘floor’ was only half the OXO cube’s width, and a half-step above the one before. But it was still high enough to have a great view out across the city and off to the sea, where a row of bright-orange supply ships glowed against the greying water. A flash of pale pink marked distant wind turbines, hanging motionless on the horizon, caught by the sinking sun. Though you did have to peer through the holes in the tinfoil wrapper to see them.

‘Christ’s sake: she makes her money doing soft porn videos for sadwanks! And now we’re supposed to pretend she’s some sort of hard-hitting journalist? Kate Adie in a frigging thong?’

Nearly half nine, and this bit of the car park was deserted, except for the pool car. Which Tufty had parked in the furthest corner from the lifts, for some stupid reason.

Rennie paced up and down in the distance, on the phone to someone. Rubbing his forehead and making soothing noises, so probably getting a telling-off.

The wee loon, on the other hand, had his arms out like a tightrope walker, wobbling his way along the edge of the inner parking spaces. Keeping himself ‘busy’.

‘They interviewed her on the BBC, Guv!’

‘Have you tried asking her nicely to stop?’

‘Oh, apparently her fans have a right to know all about it. She even took video. Of the remains!’

‘So confiscate her phone. It’s evidence in an ongoing murder investigation.’

‘I did. She and her halfwit boyfriend already uploaded a “report” to YouTube before they even called us. In her bikini!’ Biohazard made a noise like a ruptured coffee machine. ‘We’re trying to get it taken down, but you know what that’s like.’

‘Just... do what you can, OK?’

Logan hung up and strolled across the rooftop level. The sun might’ve been skimming the horizon, but the black surface of the parking bays radiated heat up his trouser legs.

Tufty nodded as he approached. ‘Sarge.’

‘This what passes for “being productive” these days?’

The daft wee sod tapped his own forehead, still wobbling along the white line. Indulging in a faux-French accent that probably counted as a hate crime: ‘Zee leetle grey cells, they are a-working ’ard, monsieur Lestrade.’

‘Lestrade was Sherlock Holmes, not Poirot, you reticulated Clanger.’ Logan cupped his hands into a makeshift loudhailer and bellowed a ‘HOY!’ across the car park. ‘WE’RE LEAVING!’

Over by the ramp down to the next level, Rennie waved. Ending his call before hurrying back to the car.

Tufty climbed in behind the wheel and started her up. ‘Where to avec les automobile, monsieur?’

Good question.

Logan puffed out his cheeks, and sank into the passenger seat. ‘Back to the ranch. We’ve got half an hour till home time, and I still need to file a report on Spencer Findlater’s accident.’

Rennie bundled himself into the back. ‘Did you say “home time”? Are we getting home? Cos Emma would very much like that.’ Checking his watch. ‘Better yet, Donna, Lola, and Charlize will be in bed: we can veg in front of the telly for a change.’ Rennie closed his eyes, an expression of bliss on his silly face. ‘Eating ice cream in our pants...’

Now, there was an image to put you off your Cornetto.

By the time the pool car emerged from the multistorey car park, the road was shrouded in gloom. Sunlight might still be skimming the top layers, but it had abandoned the ground to evening’s muggy grasp.

They wended their way around the half-empty staff car park, past various ugly grey lumps of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary outbuildings, and off the hospital estate. Heading back towards the centre of town.

Not exactly the prettiest bit of the city, but it could be worse.

Especially if you liked grey.

Things got a bit greener, as they approached the junction with Argyle Place and Argyle Crescent. Then the pool car popped across the lights, and they were surrounded by it: Victoria Park on the right, Westburn Park on the left. Trees overhanging the road on both sides, shadows lengthening beneath them.

Something was going on in Westburn Park — lights flickering and strobing in the growing gloom.

Logan rolled down his window and the sound of Wurlitzer music whumped through the sticky evening air, accompanied by the clatter-whoosh of funfair rides and the happy screams and cries of the people playing on them.

A mini-rollercoaster was visible through the trees, along with waltzers, spinny-swingy things, dodgems, coconut shies and other entertainments of dubious honesty.

And, rising above it all, the red-white-and-blue stripes of a big top, lit up from the inside like an alien spaceship.

Happy families wandered about, eating candyfloss and chips. Completely unfazed by all the death and destruction in the world. Not worrying about asylum seekers trapped in a burning building, or young men with their heads caved in, or rape and trauma and abuse and war and famine and dying alone with dementia...

‘...Sarge?’

Logan blinked.

OK.

Tufty had obviously just asked him a question, but no idea what it was.

The wee loon frowned across the car at him. ‘You OK?’

‘Sorry. Miles away.’

‘I did has an scheduling query: that MAPPA meeting isn’t till nine thirty, so do you want to visit the last of Charles MacGarioch’s friends first thing tomorrow, before it kicks off?’

‘Might as well. Unless you’ve got a cunning plan to get me out of the thing?’ Hopefully... But going by the expression on Tufty’s face, probably not. ‘Never mind.’

The glowing big top faded in Logan’s wing mirror, swallowed by trees. He huffed out a long breath. ‘Being a police officer is a little bit like joining the circus. When you’re a probationer, you’re on the dodgems — yeah, you take a bashing, but it’s exciting. Thrilling, even. Then you’re a PC and riding the rollercoaster: you’ve got no control over speed or direction, it’s all ups and downs, but it still feels as if you’re going somewhere. And maybe you start to think: one day I’m going to ride the Ferris wheel and I’ll finally see the big picture. Or maybe I’ll even get to be Ringmaster, controlling the whole show...’

Westburn Road turned into Hutcheon Street, with its terraced flats on one side and the decaying carcasses of derelict factories on the other.

‘But what actually happens when you get promoted, is they lock you in the coconut shy and hurl meetings at you till you fall off your perch.’ Logan sniffed. ‘The only constant is: you’re always surrounded by bloody clowns.’

XL

Colin Miller (56) had a wee sip of coffee — his own blend of Guatemalan, Kenyan, and Mexican beans, cos it didn’t hurt to be a bit classy now and then — wandered across the patio, and frowned out at the garden.

A cluster of scarlet roses glowed against the dark-green foliage, like blood spatter...

Patches puffled along the edge of a border, snuffling away, stubby tail wagging as she explored the same old familiar world with the kind of excitement only a springer spaniel could muster.

The sky still glowed a ghostly blue, but Mr Sun had sodded off for the day, leaving only the solar-powered lights to illuminate their massive garden.

Quite proud of that, actually. Took a lot of work to get the place looking this good. And it wasn’t easy having green fingers when you were missing great chunks off four of the buggers.

Colin tightened his grip on the mug, black leather gloves squeaking on the pale china.

They didn’t really go with the old Pink Floyd T-shirt and chinos, but you sort of got used to them. In the end.

There was a clunk, and Professor Isobel McAllister (53) emerged through the French doors from the kitchen. Glass of Merlot in one hand, casual but stylish in a burgundy short-sleeve V-neck dress. Hair tucked behind her ears. Wearing the little square glasses she only used at home. Flip-flops were a bit of a sartorial low point, but Isobel was still the most beautiful woman in the whole frigging world, so you could excuse the occasional faux pas.

A few more creases bloomed between her eyebrows. ‘You’re not out here smoking those stinky cigars again, are you?’

He went back to frowning at the roses. ‘Ever wonder why you bother?’

‘Because they’re bad for you. Always trust a pathologist when they say you should stop doing something — we’ve seen enough people’s innards to know what we’re talking about.’ She took a sip of wine, then transferred the glass to her other hand and slipped her naked fingers between his gloved ones.

‘No’ quite what I meant.’ Sigh. ‘Kinda get the feeling our new owner’s screwing with me. Dangling the job over my head, you know? “Here’s a meeting to see if you still get to work here, or if you’re out on your arse like all your mates. Only I’m no’ gonnae turn up for it, or reschedule. Instead you can bloody sweat.”’ The coffee turned bitter in his mouth. ‘Natash Aga-frigging-pova. The Scottish Daily Post used to be a decent paper, till she got her hands on it — now it’s nothing but a right-wing tabloid shite-rag, obsessed with fuckin’ celebrities and fearmongering and “the world’s full of paedos and foreigners and everything you don’t like is woke...”’ He dumped his mug on the patio table. ‘Now she’s gonna do the same with the Examiner. I seen the mock-ups. And I’m expected to beg for my job?’

Isobel pouted for a moment. ‘Do you want me to be honest, or supportive?’

He smiled. ‘Supportive?’

‘I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding, and they’ll sort it out tomorrow.’

Aye, maybe...

‘And honest?’

‘I don’t normally approve of rough language, but: screw them.’ Another sip of wine. ‘You used to love working there and now you hate it. So quit. Tell them to fashion their job into a cylinder and insert it rectally — with force. And no lubrication.’

He winked. ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’

‘You could write that book you’ve been droning on about for years.’

‘I don’t drone. I ponder and muse, cogitate and deliberate, contemplate and—’

‘Well, why not? Are you happy?’

Working with children pretending to be journalists, churning out tweets and blogposts and ‘you won’t believe what these filmstars look like now!’, chasing deadlines, never writing about the things that really matter...

Was he happy?

‘No.’

Isobel nodded. ‘There you go, then.’ And as if that settled everything, she spun around — making her skirt flare, showing off a bit of leg — and headed inside again, leaving him out here in the gloom, alone.

‘Aye.’ He picked up his half-empty mug. ‘There I go.’

End of an era.

No more newspapers for Ace Reporter Colin Miller...

Or maybe the mug was half full?

Colin nodded, then took Schrödinger’s mug back into the kitchen.

No Isobel — moved on to another part of the house, leaving her empty wine glass behind.

Downlighters sparkled off their swanky high-end gadgets, and the kind of coffee machine you normally only saw in posh restaurants. Lots of warm wood and terracotta walls, a marble worktop imported all the way from Tuscany. Photos of the family holidays, Rosie (12) getting her brown belt in karate, Alfie (10)’s first violin recital, and dropping Sean (19) off at university.

See, that was your metaphor, right there: one day your wee boy’s taking his first steps, the next he’s away studying medicine in Edinburgh. Things change.

Maybe it was time he changed too.

Colin rinsed his mug and Isobel’s glass, stuck them in the dishwasher, then grabbed his car keys from the drawer.

Aye: he could just hand in his notice tomorrow, but where was the fun in that? Going by Agapova’s record, she’d probably be ‘working from home’ again, anyway. And if you’re gonnae tell someone to roll their job sideways and stick it up their arse, you want to do it to their face.

Colin stuck his head out into the hall. ‘I’m just heading out for a bit. Go stick a bottle of fizz on ice — when I get back, we’re celebrating!’

Colin turned his BMW M2 Coupé — red as the roses, with active M differential, rear-wheel drive, and TwinPower turbo inline six-cylinder engine — onto the driveway outside Natasha Agapova’s house.

A true-crime podcast rumbled out of the car’s Harman Kardon fourteen-speaker sound system, keeping him company on the journey out here.

‘...and when we opened the second trench, there were the missing village children: twenty-two dead little bodies, all lined up in a row, with their heads pointing towards the chancel, their feet bound in silver chains, and iron stakes driven straight through their sternums.’

‘Wow. Not their hearts? Cos you’d think it would be their hearts.’

‘Well, you see that’s the fascinating thing about the Church of Our Lady and Saint Peter—’

He switched it off.

Had to admit, Agapova’s house was bigger than theirs. But where Colin and Isobel had a stylish Georgian sandstone mansion, this was a modern kit-build with all the class of a drunken jakey. Couldn’t be more than a couple years old, set in a big garden that sloped down to some woods.

Aye, it might’ve been big, but the garden was pish. No thought put into the planting at all.

It was one of a small cluster of equally fancy-but-styleless properties a few miles out past Peterculter. An enclave for captains of industry, movers and shakers, and the nouveau riche glitterati.

AKA: pricks.

He followed the snaking driveway up to the house, with its two-storey floor-to-ceiling glazed entrance hall, and parked right outside.

No sign of any other cars, but there was a double garage bolted onto the side, so the Rolls and Ferrari were probably safely locked away in case the squirrels got at them.

Kinda looked like every light in the house was on, blazing out into the dark, but the only figure visible belonged to a massive teddy bear, dressed like an offshore worker in boots, gloves, T-shirt, and hard hat.

Cos editors were weird.

Colin climbed out, thunked the car door shut, and went to shoot his cuffs... Only he didn’t have any, cos he was wearing a T-shirt.

Buggering hell.

Should’ve changed into a suit and tie — pulled on the full armour. Given Natasha Bloody Agapova a glimpse of what she’d thrown away with her stupid power games.

Ah well: too late for that, now.

He swaggered over to her front door and thumbed the bell.

The overture to Mozart’s Le Nozze Di Figaro blared out, somewhere inside the house.

Talk about pretentious. ‘Ooh, look at me, a bing-bong isn’t classy enough!’

The thirty-second clip played itself out, and silence returned.

Off in the woods, a deer barked — like a cross between a grunt and a belch.

And there was still no sign of Agapova, tripping downstairs to answer the sodding door.

Well, he hadn’t come all the way out here to just go home again without telling her where to shove her crappy job.

He gave the bell another go, and Mozart started up again.

Still no answer.

Right: time to go old-school.

He raised a hand to knock. But perhaps a bit of drama wouldn’t go amiss? So hammered on the thing with his fist instead...

It swung open on the first thump. Never mind locked, it wasn’t even latched.

‘Hello?’ He shoved the door all the way. ‘HOY! AGAPOVA!’

Nothing.

That great-big teddy bear stared at him with its dead button eyes.

Colin stepped across the threshold into the double-height hallway. The cold-blue glow of twilight wasn’t bright enough to compete with the LED spotlights in here, turning the front wall of glass into a mirror.

‘HELLO?’

Still nothing.

He pulled off his left glove, revealing a hand truncated by two joints on his pinkie, and one on his ring finger. Leaving shiny stubs behind, lightly puckered where the skin was stitched back together.

Colin stuck the tip of his thumb and index finger in his gob and let loose a shrill, deafening whistle.

Then stood there as the house swallowed it.

Aye, something wasn’t right here.

The hall sideboard played host to a couple of oversized fancy vases — maybe African, going by the patterns worked into the glaze? — but another two lay broken on the floor, pieces scattered out across the pale carpet.

And in between the shattered curls of pottery, lurked dark-red smears and droplets, staining the deep pile. A smudged handprint on the sideboard. Another on the wall.

Shite.

The blood was already mahogany coloured, each individual drip: dry and shiny as a little beetle, so probably not fresh. But Colin gave them a wide berth as he tiptoed further into the room.

‘MRS AGAPOVA? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? HELLO?’

A pair of high heels sat cock-ended by the sideboard. Keys in the bowl. One earring beside it — the other glittering away on the carpet.

Aye, not the kind of place to be wandering about bare handed.

He pulled his glove back on, working both stubs back into place against the prosthetic extensions, and climbed the stairs. Not touching anything.

At the top, the landing turned into a corridor, stretching away to either side, with a bunch of closed doors to explore.

After all, the paper’s new owner could be hurt, right? Lying on the floor unconscious, somewhere. Maybe even dead.

Now that would make a great story.

So, he poked his head into each and every room: kid’s bedroom that smelled as if they still pished the bed; box room; a semi-furnished bedroom; then the main bedroom with its en suite and walk-in closet. The bed was made, no deid body decomposing beneath the duvet or in the bath.

There wasn’t a corpse in the big family bathroom either, which just left the one door, at the far end of the corridor.

It opened on a large home office, lined with bookshelves — though they were empty, except for a couple of Aberdeen guidebooks and a thin layer of dust.

An Apple desktop, laptop, and iPad were perched on the desk in their respective stands, along with what looked like one of those combi fax-scanner-printer jobs. And an answering machine with a flashing red light on it.

Nice: old-school.

And if there was one thing a red-blooded journalist couldn’t resist, it was an answering machine.

Colin dug out his phone and pulled up the audio-memo app. Set it recording. Then pressed ‘PLAY’ on the answering machine.

An electronic voice boomed out into the silent house: ‘YOU HAVE... TWENTY-SIX... NEW MESSAGES AND... FOUR... SAVED MESSAGES.’ A click. ‘MESSAGE TWENTY-SIX:’

Great, it was one of those stupid ones that played everything in reverse order — newest first.

A posh Glasgow accent replaced the robot. ‘Tasha? We still on for Winetastic Friday? I got some serious gossip about You Know Who — you’re going to just scream it’s so delicious. OK: love you, bye!’

‘END OF MESSAGE. MESSAGE TWENTY-FIVE:’

‘Erm... hello?’ It was that stripy-jumpered idiot from the Art Department. ‘Miss Agapova? It’s Louis Garfield, you asked me to do some redesigns on the masthead and layout and I just sort of wondered if you’d be coming into the office anytime to see—’

Colin poked ‘←’ a few times, skipping back through the messages.

‘MESSAGE NINETEEN:’

A cough spluttered out of the speaker, followed by a man’s voice. Stuffed full of forced cheer. ‘Hi, Natasha? Hi. It’s Frank Abercrombie again, giving you a wee tootle back to see if you’d be interested in doing some sort of feature on Claire. I really think this is going to be her year. Today: MSP for Aberdeen South and Kincardineshire, but tomorrow: top cabinet post, or even party leader! And I think your paper is perfectly positioned to give Team Fordyce the momentum it needs to—’

Poke, poke, poke, poke, poke.

‘MESSAGE FOURTEEN:’

A plummy English voice. ‘You can’t keep avoiding me for ever, Natasha. The lawyers say I’m entitled to two weekends a month: you sent her away to that bloody school in Switzerland on purpose! I want to see my daughter!’

‘END OF MESSAGE. MESSAGE THIRTEEN:’

‘Are you embarrassed by the state of your doors and windows? Well, let the Auchterturra Glazing Company—’

Poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke, poke.

‘MESSAGE SIX:’

This one was a slick tit of a man, full of himself and a bit drunk. ‘Hey, Natasha? Hi: it’s me. I know it’s not cool or anything, calling so soon, but why play games? I really liked spending time with you at the ball tonight and I’m pretty sure you had fun too, my little Cinderella.’ You could almost hear the arsehole waggling his head as he said it. ‘So let’s do it again yeah? How about this weekend? Did I tell you I have a yacht? How cool is that? Give me a call and we’ll take her for a spin — picnic on deck, maybe a little champagne, and see what happens next...?’ Leaving a suggestive wee pause. ‘Catch you later.’

Surprised he didn’t throw a ‘ciao’ in at the end, there.

‘END OF MESSAGE. MESSAGE FIVE:’

A man’s voice. Hard. Angry. ‘Karma comes in like a hurricane, Bitch, and it’s going to blow your house of lies right down. See you tonight!’

‘END OF MESSAGE. MESSAGE FOUR:’

Then a little girl on the verge of tears. ‘Mum? Mum, pick up, OK? Please? I hate it here — they don’t even speak English, and it’s—’

Colin poked the ‘→’ button this time.

‘MESSAGE FIVE:’

‘Karma comes in like a hurricane, Bitch, and it’s going to blow your house of lies right down. See you tonight!’

‘END OF MESSAGE. MESSAGE—’

He hit pause.

Then sat back and blinked at the machine.

Aye, it could be nothing, but it’d be a massive sodding coincidence if his new boss went missing, leaving blood all over her downstairs hall, right after a threatening message appeared on her answering machine.

Colin stopped his phone recording. Puffed out his cheeks. Then dialled nine-nine-nine.

41

Half the lights were off, turning the open-plan office into an abandoned labyrinth of cubicles.

Over in the far corner, someone coughed and hacked away, but other than that? Nightshift had succumbed to the lurgie just like everyone else.

But at least it was quiet.

Logan sat at his desk, surrounded by piles and piles of inherited paperwork, drinking horrible coffee from the machine, and picking away at a report on his steam-and-hamster-powered computer.

So much for going home at ten. It was gone eleven now, and still no—

‘What the hell are you still doing here?’

Didn’t need to look up. That gravelly voice was its own calling card.

He kept on typing. ‘Could ask you the same question.’

‘Nicking office supplies.’ Steel reached over his cubicle wall and pinched his coffee as well. ‘But mostly, because we caught a jumper: Marischal Court, right up on the roof — nineteen floors of straight-down-and-splat. Lost his job, his mum, his dog, and his girlfriend in the space of a week.’ She blew on the coffee, as if that would improve it. ‘Yours truly talked him down, of course. Which gives one the warm-and-fuzzies, but the paperwork’s a pain in the arse.’ Taking a sip. ‘Gah... This is disgusting. You never heard of milk and hazelnut syrup?’

He stuck his hand out. ‘Give it back then.’

She didn’t. ‘Might grow on me...’ Another sip, another grimace. ‘You know your problem? You’re suffering from NRDS: New Responsibility Derangement Syndrome.’

‘What I’m suffering from is Listening To You Rabbit On When I Should Be Finishing This Report Syndrome.’

‘See, you’ve been made up to acting DCI, and now you think the whole division’ll grind to a halt without you. Well, it won’t.’ Steel leaned on his cubicle wall. ‘You’re just a greasy wee cog in a big rusty machine. It’ll no’ fall apart if you go home and get some sleep.’

‘And you thought I was bad at motivational speeches.’

‘What will fall apart are your cases, when you’re too knackered to focus tomorrow, cos you’ve been here all night like a martyred numpty.’ She handed back his hideous coffee. ‘Go home.’ Then wandered off. ‘And treat yourself to a stapler and some packs of Post-it notes on the way out!’

Yeah, she was probably right.

Time to go home.

Could always finish this tomorrow, after all.

Steel had almost reached the door, when a lone PC in the full outdoor kit banged through it at speed. Nodding at her on the way past as he hurpled over to Logan’s desk. Breathing hard, like a chain-smoking pervert.

So this couldn’t be good news.

Logan gave him a nod anyway. ‘Aye, aye, Shandy.’

PC Ian Shand looked as if he’d been made by four-year-olds out of knotted string and old cat hair. And when he opened his mouth, every single one of his teeth pointed in a different direction. ‘Guv!’ He staggered to a halt. ‘Bleeding heck...’ Bending over and grabbing his knees. ‘Not answering... your Airwave...’

The thing hadn’t so much as bleeped.

He picked it off the desk and checked the screen. But it didn’t even show a missed call, because the battery was flat.

Should’ve put it on to charge the moment he got back to the office.

Silly sod.

It was a bit late, but Logan plugged it in anyway.

Steel wandered back, hands in her pockets. ‘Come on, Shandy: spill it before you keel over.’

‘We’ve got... we’ve got a serious problem!’ Waving his hands about. ‘Missing... missing person!’

Logan sat upright. ‘Is it a kid?’

‘Not... a kid.’ Shandy shook his sweaty head. ‘No, it’s... way more complicated... than that...’

Chief Superintendent Pine groaned. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake — did we not have enough on the go?’

Twenty to midnight, and Natasha Agapova’s house was lit up like a funfair. Not just the internal lighting, the outdoor floods were on too, turning the front garden into an ominous wonderland of trees and shadows.

On the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a lock-block driveway played hostess to a patrol car, the Scenes Transit van, the pool car Logan had rocked up in, and a garish-red BMW.

In here, however, a lone forensic tech zwipped-zwopped across the entrance hall and tried to wrestle a gigantic teddy bear into a body bag. Presumably because there were no evidence bags big enough.

Logan leaned on the balcony handrail, making his Tyvek crumple and rustle. Hood up. Phone tucked inside the elasticated hem. ‘You’re right: maybe I should hop in my Tardis, jump back to Monday morning, and ask Ms Agapova not to get abducted?’

Yeah...

Maybe that wasn’t the best idea when talking to the Divisional head of state?

He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Boss. Been a long day.’

She left a little pause — probably to make sure he knew his place. ‘And we’re sure it’s an abduction, not a kidnap?’

‘No sign of a ransom demand yet. Her ex-husband’s seriously loaded, so it’s possible the kidnappers are waiting for the right moment, but...?’

‘Urgh...’ A thumping noise, banged down the line. ‘Why did she have to be a bloody press baron? The media love talking about themselves, can you imagine what they’ll be like when they find out?’

‘Ah. About that.’ Logan wandered along the landing, peering in through the open doors. Forensic techs haunted Ms Agapova’s home office and main bedroom like crinkly ghosts. Going through her things. ‘Someone needs to tell the ex-husband. But he only owns three local radio stations; a podcast company; the Scottish Daily Post, the Yorkshire Clarion, Midlands Gazette and Bulletin, and London Daily Citizen; so we’re probably OK.’

One of the spare bedrooms had nothing but unassembled flatpack furniture in it. The next was full of packing boxes.

Another thump from Pine’s end. Maybe she was banging her head off the desk? ‘In the name of... fuck.’ A strangled sigh. ‘Suppose I don’t need to tell you this is a top priority.’

‘Along with everything else.’

‘Exactly.’ Thump. ‘Suppose I better go wake the Chief Constable. She’s going to love me.’

The third bedroom was a little girl’s: full of stuffed animals, rainbows, and unicorns. Not dinosaurs, ninjas, and pirates, like Elizabeth’s.

‘Anything happens: I’m in the loop, understand?’

‘Boss.’

She hung up.

Logan puffed out his cheeks. Sagged.

Wait a minute.

There was something... funky in here. Stinky. The sharp-yellow stench of sunbaked urine.

Weird.

The kid — Brooklyn, going by the nameplate on the door — was meant to be abroad at finishing school. And the bed was made. You wouldn’t make a bed if someone had piddled in it. And surely, if Brooklyn was old enough for finishing school, she was too old for that kind of thing.

He tiptoed across to the window, eyes fixed on the oatmeal carpet. Nothing.

Maybe...

Hang on. The door lay wide open, but there was something hidden behind it. On the floor, by the wall. And the closer he got, the stronger the smell.

Right.

He marched along the corridor to the main bedroom and stuck his head over the threshold. ‘Hello?’

The Scenes tech was on her hands and knees, rummaging about under Natasha’s bed. She stopped what she was doing and glowered back at him. ‘If you’re going to make inappropriate comments about my bum again: don’t.’

‘What?’

Whoever it was, sat back on their haunches. ‘Oh, it’s you, Guv. Nothing. Sorry.’

‘OK...’ Because that didn’t sound suspicious at all. He hooked a thumb back across the corridor. ‘There’s what looks like a urine stain in the kid’s bedroom. Can we run some sort of test on it?’

‘It’s your budget. I can test whatever you want, long as someone’s paying for it.’

‘Thanks.’

That sorted, he headed downstairs again, past the wrestling match — which the teddy bear seemed to be winning — down the corridor, past the lounge, home gym, and cinema room, and into the kind of kitchen they featured in design magazines. Perfect. Elegant. Spotless. As if no one had ever cooked or eaten a meal there.

It looked out over a large back garden, where all the floodlights were on too, revealing a pair of techs in the full Smurf-suit outfit, examining a flowerbed at the far end, by the fence.

Steel and Colin Miller slouched at the breakfast bar, nursing mugs of coffee, presumably from the very swanky machine in the corner, by the double fridge. Colin was in trousers and a T-shirt, but Steel had peeled her SOC suit down to the waist, showing off her Police Scotland top with optional biscuit crumbs.

Logan poked a finger at her. ‘Have you been sexually harassing the scene examiners again?’

She grinned. ‘How was our fearless leader? Was she in bed, in a low-cut lace nightie? Is she, even now, rushing over here to support the troops with handies and tickle-me-Elmos?’

Urgh...

‘I don’t even want to know what a “Tickle-me-Elmo” is.’ He unzipped his Smurf suit and plonked his bum onto a spare seat at the breakfast bar. Didn’t bother smothering a jaw-popping yawn. ‘And thanks for the offer — I’d love a coffee.’

There was a moment’s angry scowling, then Steel rustle-flounced off to fiddle with the machine.

Logan swivelled his seat around to face Colin. ‘Want to tell me what you were doing creeping around your new boss’s house at quarter to eleven on a Wednesday night?’

‘Came to tell her where she could stick her job.’ He held up a gloved finger. ‘Which doesn’t count as “motive” cos I was firing her. Plus: it was me called this in. And I’ve got an alibi, so don’t even start, OK?’ Waiting for a response he didn’t get. ‘OK.’

‘Then why didn’t you call me?’

‘Cos it’s “quarter to eleven on a Wednesday night!” Far as I know: you’re off-duty, half-cut, and playing hide-the-bagpipe with Ginger-Curls McSexpot.’

Over by the coffee machine, Steel snorted. ‘Nah, they did that this morning. Dirty monkeys.’

‘Her name is Tara! What is wrong with you two?’

‘Whatever.’ Colin pulled out his phone. ‘And you should probably hear this,’ fiddling with the screen until a small, tinny, electronic voice buzzed its way into the kitchen:

‘MESSAGE FIVE:’

Followed by a man — sharp-edged, snarling out the words so every syllable became an offensive weapon. ‘Karma comes in like a hurricane, Bitch, and it’s going to blow your house of lies right down. See you tonight!’

‘END OF MESSAGE. MESSAGE—’

The phone went silent.

Colin put the handset down on the countertop. ‘Far as I can tell, Natasha Agapova, forty-eight, got herself a taxi from the SME charity-auction dinner at half eleven on Monday night. Dropped her off here around twelve, didn’t see anything suspicious.’

‘Hold on,’ Logan eyed the phone, ‘how did you get that recording?’

‘Point is: if you check the call logs, that message was from a withheld number at eleven forty-two. So she was already in the car on her way home.’

Steel looked up from the machine. ‘Have you been a naughty wee phone-hacking grubby tabloid scumbag?’

‘I was searching the house to make sure she wasn’t lying unconscious somewhere, in need of help.’ His shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘I may have accidentally bumped against the answering machine...?’

‘Aye, and you just accidentally happened to have your wee phone out, recording? My sharny arse.’

‘Point is: our guy on the phone has to know she’s no’ here, right? Otherwise, he calls, it tips her off, she gives you bastards a shout, and the whole abduction-kidnap plan’s screwed.’

There was more to the monologue, but Logan sort of tuned it out, because over Colin’s shoulder — through the kitchen windows, way down at the end of the garden — one of the ghostly Smurfs was on their feet, waving their arms at the house.

As if they’d found something.

He wrenched open the kitchen door, marched through a small utility room, and out onto a big triangle of decking.

One of the forensic team hurried across the grass towards him, holding up a hand. ‘Found a couple of great footprints. Which is lucky — someone must’ve watered the garden not long before it happened, cos otherwise it’d be dry as a camel’s arse out here and the definition would be for shite.’ They turned, pointing back to where they’d come from. ‘Our guy hopped the back fence, landed in the flowerbed. Should get a really sharp cast from the prints — you find us the shoes, we’ll prove it was him.’

Yes!

About time something went their way...

XLII

The sky was murderous black through the crumbling window socket, spread with cold dead stars. A sliver of curved bone shone through the trees, as the full moon clawed its way over the horizon. Turning the world to ice with its uncaring light.

But even though the sun had gone down long, long ago, Natasha’s prison remained an oven. Turned up full and left to burn everything to a cinder.

Except for the shit.

That roasted in the cloying heat, its foul brown stink seeping into the dirt and stone walls. Lining the leather mask. Helping it suffocate her...

As the light faded, the bluebottles had settled down for the night.

But DS Davis hadn’t.

Rock music pounded out of the static caravan, loud enough to make the metal walls buzzzz. Because even when they were asleep you couldn’t escape the flies...

Natasha lay on her back, in the dirt, gazing up and out of the window at the cool, indifferent darkness of space.

Waiting to die.

Because that was what she was doing here.

Dying.

The only question was, what would get her first: dehydration or DS Davis?

Inflicting his revenge for something she didn’t even do.

Wasn’t her fault some violent scumbag tried to burn a bunch of migrants to death, was it? She didn’t light the match, no matter what the psychotic bastard said.

All she did was reflect the fears of her readers.

She wasn’t the monster here.

SHE WASN’T THE MONSTER.

He breaks into her house, attacks her, abducts her, strips her, chains her up in a shitty outhouse, tries to kick her ribs in, and somehow she’s the monster?

Fuck that.

Bastard’s insane, that’s what he is.

A rabid dog who needs taken behind the wood shed and put out of its misery.

Cos she’s not the monster.

It’s not her fault.

It’s his.

The music got even louder, and it wasn’t all muffled any more, then a whump and it was back to being an insect buzzzz again.

Like someone had opened and shut the caravan door.

A bobbing light stabbed in through the gaping window hole, illuminating the far wall for a moment, before disappearing again. Then her prison door squealed and shrieked and clattered open.

And DS Davis stepped inside.

He was wearing one of those head torches, turning himself into a shadow, only half seen as a void where the light bounced off the raw stone walls, carrying a bucket and spade. Like he was on his way to Bondi Fucking Beach.

Only they weren’t the kind you gave to little kids, they were full-sized ones. He clanged the bucket down, and scooped up Natasha’s shit with a disgusted grunt. Thunking it into the bucket. Retching as it hit the bottom.

Then, holding the bucket at arm’s length, he took the turd and the spade away.

Hope he bloody choked on it.

But he was back a couple of minutes later, with a spray bottle of something — squirting it onto the ground, smothering the stench of shit with the bitter-bleach stink of lemon-scented toilet cleaner.

A grunt.

Then he was gone again, leaving the door wide open behind him.

But none of Natasha’s limbs worked any more, and even if they did, the anchor wouldn’t let her go more than six feet.

So, instead, she closed her eyes.

Natasha blinked up at the grey ceiling.

No idea how long she’d been out for, but the moon had crawled its way across the window’s jagged hollow, still low in the sky, skimming along the treetops.

The music had changed too — different singer, different band — but deep down it was the same: pounding drums and guitars, full of bitter chords and angst-fuelled rage.

Burning...

Her throat was made of firebricks.

Couldn’t even swallow any more.

Just made her whole head jerk with the effort.

Back when she was five or six, she’d hiked up Redpath Hill, behind Nanna Carter’s house. There was a roo, must’ve died in the bush a couple of weeks before. Magpies had been at it, but they’d barely made a dent, cos he’d been a big fella. But that was a long hot summer and the skin had shrunk as the body dried, till the ribs stood out like a bloody xylophone wrapped in leather.

She threw stones at it for a while.

Then went for a dip in Hyland Creek, while there was still some water left.

Christ.

To be back there, floating in the cool clear water, listening to the kookaburra cackle in the trees and the dragonflies hum. While the fat golden sun blazed—

‘Bitch.’

The whole world disappeared in a sharp glare of white, driving nails into her eyes.

Natasha screwed her face tight shut as those nails stabbed right out through the back of her head.

A foot nudged her ribs.

DS Davis was back — his voice slurred, and angry. But then he was always angry. ‘You know, you should thank me.’

Oh, yeah, cos he’d been such a great host!

‘I said, you should thank me.’

There was the sound of boots scuffing on the hard dirt floor, then fireworks exploded across her ribs again.

It got him nothing more than a muffled groan and a desiccated sob.

The bastard could slit her throat right now, and sand would pour out.

‘Because I saved you,’ his knees popped like gunshots, and a waft of whisky breath seeped through her leather mask, ‘from a fate worse than death.’

Something bounced off her arms and crumpled onto the floor.

Natasha forced her eyes open, narrow slits against the harsh beam of Davis’s head torch.

The thing looked like a ski-mask: black, with a jagged smile printed across the mouth in sharp, pointy teeth. The fabric was weird though. Thin. But a bit rigid, like there was something sticky on it. Something that had dried to a rich, dark-brown shine. The smell of raw meat seeped out of the fabric.

DS Davis had a bottle of what looked like whisky, dangling from one hand. He took a swig, wiped his gob. ‘This piece of shite was in your house, waiting for you to come home.’

The whisky bottle got propped against the window hole, then Davis held up a flat slab of plastic. Opening it brought a laptop screen to life.

A synthetic-faced young man smouldered out at her, from the backdrop, with carefully manicured eyebrows, a precision-trimmed beard, and veneers whiter than Sydney Opera House.

Davis squatted down beside her again, fiddling with the laptop’s trackpad till a video played.

Took a moment, but that was her back garden. Her house. Filmed in the middle of the night, as some bastard hopped over the fence and broke in through the utility room.

Going from room to room, even Brooklyn’s bedroom... Then Natasha’s walk-in closet and en suite. Out across the hallway, looking down from the balcony as DS Davis barged into her home and punched her in the face.

Natasha rolled her head away from the screen briefly.

‘Yeah.’ Davis nodded, voice grim. ‘Wait till you see what he does to the others.’

Some more fiddling, then DS Davis placed the laptop in front of her face, another video flickering on the screen.

It was much the same to start with — a secluded rural property, sneaking in through the back door to creep through the house... Only this time the footage ended with screams and rhythmic grunts.

Davis grabbed hold of the mask and forced her face towards the screen. ‘You’re not watching.’

She forced a word from her corpse-dry mouth. ‘Water...’

‘Not to worry, though — I took care of the perverted wee monster. He won’t be raping anyone ever again.’

The head torch’s light swept across the ground to find the ski-mask again, with its brittle shiny stains and jagged-tooth grin.

‘The question is: what to do about you.’

He dug into a pocket and came out with a little half-litre bottle of water. Twisted the cap off. Sniffed. Then spat into it. Before screwing the lid on again and giving the bottle a shake.

‘Here.’ He tossed it at her head, making the thing bounce off the mask with a thunk. Rolling away.

Water.

Oh God...

Natasha wriggled across the dirt floor towards it, fingers fumbling at the condensation-dewed plastic.

It was only when she had the thing clutched in her shackled grip that the truth dawned: he was screwing with her. With the mask’s mouth zipped and padlocked shut, she couldn’t drink it anyway.

‘See, this bastard,’ Davis pointed at the screen, ‘ruined the lives of nineteen women. But you — with your lies and your hate and your spite — how many lives have you ruined? A hundred? A thousand? How many families have you torn apart?’ Looming over her. ‘Those poor migrant kids: their dad’s dead because you whipped up a racist, flag-shagging, far-right mob. The Scottish Daily Post isn’t a newspaper, it’s a hate crime!’

He dipped into another pocket and produced a key ring, held together with what looked like a rabbit’s paw. Or it might’ve been from a small dog...

Grabbing her face in one hand, he twisted her head around, sneering as he slipped a tiny key into the padlock on her leather mask.

Click.

He pulled the lock free and undid the zip.

Natasha hauled in a great gulp of fresh air.

But Davis didn’t let go of her face. Squeezing. Digging his fingers in. ‘You can have your water; don’t want you to die too quickly.’ Running the torchlight over her half-naked skin. ‘See all those teeny-tiny pale little flecks, like grass seed? They’re fly eggs. Give it two days and they’ll hatch. Hundreds of lovely maggots to eat your rancid flesh.’ A grin. ‘You’ll want to stick around for that.’

He gathered up the laptop and the whisky.

‘Make one sound, Bitch, and the padlock goes back on. And stays on.’ DS Davis toasted her with the bottle, then took a deep swig. Hissing out fumes, before scuffing his way from the room. ‘Sleep tight!’

Soon as the squealing door rattled shut, Natasha opened the water and trembled the bottle to her lips.

Spit or not, it was sweet as nectar.

She allowed herself two mouthfuls only, before screwing the top back on. Nice though it’d be to neck the whole bloody lot, God knew when she’d get any more.

And meantime: she had an escape to plan.