This House of Burning Bones

71

Sunlight streamed in through the window, making the dusty black flakes sparkle as Logan scraped the burnt bits off his toast, into the sink.

Which turned the low-fat spread a bit grey as he slathered it on. But it was all going in the same place as his mug of tea, so it didn’t really matter.

Technically, given he was in full uniform again this morning — complete with a third pip on each epaulette — it should’ve been coffee and doughnuts for breakfast, but you made do with what you had.

Something folky high-diddle-de-deed out of the radio, to accompany Logan’s return trip to the fridge — there to liberate, unwrap, and flop the last slice of plastic cheese onto his hot can’t-believe-it’s-not-buttery toast.

Crunching away, as the teeny birds mobbed the feeders in the back garden. Like a swarm of itsy-bitsy feathery sharks. All the borders were in bloom, a sea of colour for the bumbling bees. Quite bucolic, for a Friday morning in Aberdeen.

Have to give that grass a mow before the barbecue, though.

The microwave’s clock blinked over to 06:18.

Soon be time to get a wriggle on.

And speaking of wriggling: Cthulhu tarted about on the patio, rolling over onto her back and exposing the World’s Most Excellent Tummy to the morning light.

The kitchen door opened and in sludged Tara, in a floaty kimono-dressing-gown that showed off a lot of leg, while a yawn showed off a lot of fillings. Hair like Worzel Gummidge in a wind tunnel.

Logan polished off his last corner of toast. ‘How come you’re up?’

Another yawn. ‘Couldn’t sleep. Kept having all these really weird dreams about clowns and dinosaurs and tigers...’ She frowned. ‘You weren’t there, but I couldn’t find my socks. And Tufty kept turning into a penguin.’

‘Bet Freud would have a field day.’

‘Urgh... That’s Friday the thirteenth for you.’ She slouched over to the fridge and took a couple of glugs straight from the milk carton, while scratching the back of one calf with her other foot. Very stylish.

Logan downed the last of his tea. ‘You’ve got the table manners of a Labrador, you know that don’t you?’ Putting the mug in the sink. ‘Don’t forget to pick up that stuff for Sunday, OK? List’s on the noticeboard.’

‘I know, I know.’ She rummaged through the fridge. ‘You want sausages, chicken, pork chops, hotdogs, blah, wankity blah.’ Then squinted at him. ‘What happened to all the plastic cheese?’

‘And go large on the booze: you know what off-duty police and trading standards are like.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Don’t know when I’ll be home tonight, depends what happens. And tomorrow’s a write-off with this stupid protest.’ He drooped against the worktop. ‘Really looking forward to a quiet day at home.’

‘Good job we’ve got thirty-one people coming for Sunday lunch then, isn’t it?’

‘Thirty-one? You said it was going to be a “small gathering”! Are you trying to kill me, you horrible snudge of a woman?’

The clock hit 06:20.

‘Better shoot. Text you later, Fornicator.’ He grabbed his peaked cap and marched for the door.

‘Hoy: Fart-Fish!’

He turned, halfway out the door, and Tara whipped her kimono open and flashed him. Throwing in a little jiggle for good luck. Then hid it all away again.

Logan groaned.

She grinned. ‘See? You love me really.’

True.

But there was no time to do anything about it right now.

‘...coming up in a minute, but it’s half six, so it’s time for the papers. The P-and-J leads with “Search Ongoing For Missing Media Mogul”, detailing police efforts to find local press baron, Natasha Agapova.’

Logan cruised along North Deeside Road — with the window down and one arm leaning on the sill — through one of Aberdeen’s more affluent bits. The trees offering a bit of cool shade as the sun scorched its way up the sky.

Not a lot of traffic this morning, but then it was still pretty early. A familiar tartan van approached on the other side of the road, with ‘AUCHTERTURRA GLAZING COMPANY LTD’ down the side. Its battered and dented rear wing held together with duct tape and hope.

‘The Scottish Daily Post goes all in on: “Migrant Gang Plot To Kidnap Newspaper Natasha” and there’s more coverage on pages three, four, seven, and eight — including an exclusive interview with Natasha Agapova’s husband: news tycoon Adrian Shearsmith.’

Who had to be up for a Vindictive Ex-Husband of The Year award by now.

‘While the Aberdeen Examiner’s gone for “Sicko Sent Hate-Mail Threats To Abducted Editor”. Asking: if these threats were common knowledge before she was kidnapped, why didn’t the police do anything about it?’

‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Logan flipped two fingers up at the radio. ‘How about because they didn’t tell us about them till yesterday afternoon!’

Honestly.

The Marcliffe at Pitfodels drifted by on the left, or at least the entrance did, the hotel itself was hidden away behind a riot of trees and assorted greenery.

A bilious man in the full kilt-and-Prince-Charlie outfit stiff-legged it down the drive and out onto the pavement, heading for town. Clearly escaping from whatever wedding he’d attended last night.

Hope he wasn’t the groom...

‘...and they’ve also got a big spread on pages four and five that deserves a mention: “City Cops Cause Circus Chaos”. And the photos that go with it are well worth a look. Especially if you’ve never seen an undercover policeman with a clown in a headlock...’

Logan switched the radio off and glowered.

Nothing like spoiling a beautiful morning.

The stale-digestive-biscuit scent of old feet mingled with the sharp cumin-and-chilli whiff of Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle, filling Observation Suite Number Two. Three empty cartons in the bin testified to the whiff’s provenance, but raised some disturbing questions about who’d been in here last and what they considered a balanced breakfast...

It was a smallish space, with a bench table and a couple of squealy blue plastic chairs, four flatscreen monitors, some push-button microphones, and a worryingly enthusiastic Tufty.

But at least he’d made Logan a mug of instant coffee, rather than fetching something revolting from the machine, so as long as he kept his gusto to himself, that was OK.

The four screens displayed various views of Interview Room Number One — each camera mounted high up, in the corners of the room, and trained on the table where Biohazard and Doreen did their best to get the truth out of Charles MacGarioch. Which was far more difficult than it should’ve been, thanks to his ‘duty solicitor’.

MacGarioch was in grey joggy-bots and a fading blue T-shirt: presumably lent to him by whoever was on the custody desk this morning. While his legal representative wore a suit that probably cost more than his client earned in a year.

Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA: Hissing Sid — a tall, thin man who looked as if he’d shrunk a couple of sizes since he last wore that particular Savile Row number. His hair was swept back like a bank of snow, with only a few streaks of grey left amongst the white. But then he had to be in his late seventies now. With a matching silk-tie-and-pocket-square, and a superior tilt to his long nose.

Waiting to strike.

Charles MacGarioch shifted in his seat, looking away with a one-shouldered shrug as the silence stretched on.

Hissing Sid shook his head, as if saddened by having to explain something blatantly obvious to someone thick as plasticine. ‘My client has already informed you, Acting Detective Inspector Marshall: he is not a racist, does not hold any racist beliefs, and has never discriminated against anyone because of their skin colour or country of birth. Now, can we move on, please?’

Biohazard leaned forwards. ‘Then why burn down a hotel full of migrants, Charlie? Help me understand.’

MacGarioch just looked at his solicitor.

A smile. ‘Perhaps this interview would progress more easily if you took notes as we go? Then you’d be able to see that my client has already denied these baseless allegations.’ Hissing Sid waved a patriarchal arm towards the camera. ‘It’s not a problem for me, per se — I’ve got nothing on till lunch with the Lord Provost — but I understand there’s a lot more pressing things that you and your colleagues could be getting on with?’

Doreen had a go. ‘If you didn’t do it, Charlie, how do you explain the jerry can we found with your fingerprints all over it? What could’ve caused that?’

MacGarioch picked at the tabletop, eyes focussed on the chipped Formica. ‘Dunno.’

There was a sharp knock on the observation-room door and Chief Superintendent Pine strode in without waiting. Frowning at the monitors.

Logan stood. ‘Boss.’

‘DCI McRae, I need a word.’

On all four monitors, Hissing Sid sighed. ‘Surely it’s not illegal for a young man to help a friend in need to refuel their car. Or has that changed since I last practised criminal law?’

‘Yes, Boss.’ He thumped Tufty. ‘Give the Chief Super your seat.’

The wee loon scrambled out of his chair and snapped to attention. Then made seat-offering gestures. Like a creepy waiter.

Pine sat anyway. ‘Thank you.’

‘Or perhaps it’s because the petrol can in question was in the bin for landfill, rather than correctly sorted for recycling? I wasn’t aware Police Scotland were so keen on environmental issues.’

Logan pointed at the smug git in the sharp suit. ‘I know you said they owed you a favour, Boss, but could you not’ve asked for someone a little less... him?’

‘Mr Moir-Farquharson volunteered. Turns out he’s mostly retired now; does a bit of consulting, one day a week.’ A grimace. ‘This is his idea of “keeping his hand in”.’

Doreen checked her notes. ‘Whose car were you refuelling?’

‘Was Spence, wasn’t it. On account of him...’ MacGarioch’s mouth clamped shut. That lone shoulder curled its way towards his ear again. ‘Running out, like.’

‘Basically, we’re screwed.’ Logan dumped his pen on the worktop. ‘The only way we’ll get anything out of MacGarioch now is if he suffers a psychotic brain-fart and spontaneously confesses. And even then, Hissing Sid will walk it back in thirty seconds flat and somehow make out it’s all our fault.’

Biohazard leaned in again. ‘Were you going to say, “On account of him robbing all those sports shops”? We found enough whey powder in his bedroom to fill a municipal sandpit.’

‘Then perhaps, my dear Acting Detective Inspector, you should be interviewing this “Spence” individual, instead of my client?’ Hissing Sid pushed his chair back. ‘If you don’t mind: I think we should take a brief respite from this wholly unnecessary and unwarranted interrogation, for a comfort break.’

‘We just had one.’

‘Sadly, my poor old bladder isn’t as young as it used to be. And I’m sure you wouldn’t be unsporting enough to continue brow-beating poor Charles in my absence. Would you?’

‘God’s sake.’ Logan folded his arms. ‘He just does this to mess with us: bet he doesn’t even need to go!’

Pine raised an eyebrow at him.

Urgh...

Logan pressed the talk button and leaned into the microphone. ‘Let the old fart have his prostate-problem pee break.’

On the screens, Biohazard’s shoulders froze for a beat. Then slumped. ‘Fine. Interview suspended at oh-eight-thirteen. We’ll reconvene in five minutes.’

A smile. ‘Make it ten.’ Smooth and slick, as befitted a serpent.

‘Typical.’ Logan flicked the switch, killing the speakers. ‘Sorry, Boss, you wanted a word?’

‘DS MacDonald.’

OK... That sounded ominous. Especially given Marky MacDonald’s reputation for wandering hands, his two written warnings, and what was going to happen if he ever did it again.

Logan glanced at the wee loon. ‘Is this something we should be discussing in front of Constable Quirrel?’

‘What?’ She pulled her chin in, frowning. Then must’ve finally got the subtext. ‘Oh... No. Nothing like that. I sent him to speak to your Nicholas Wilson, yesterday.’

Nope. No idea.

‘The second-last person to see Natasha Agapova? At the ball?’ Pine stood.

‘Did he find something?’

‘No idea.’ She stepped out into the corridor and Logan followed, because this was clearly going to be one of those walk-and-talk things ‘dynamic managers’ were so fond of. ‘He didn’t file a report, and now he’s on sick leave.’

Of course he sodding was.

She marched off, leading the way past invigorating motivational posters like: ‘YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE!’, ‘INTEGRITY IS THE BEST DISINFECTANT!’, ‘COMMUNITY POLICING ROCKS!’, ‘PUT THE “POLITE” IN POLICE!’, and other such bollocks.

‘I’ll get someone on it.’

Pine nodded. ‘And circulate a memo — all reports must be completed before the end of shift. If you can find some way to say “No one else is allowed to come down with this sodding man flu!”, without HR getting a wasp in their knickers, that would be lovely too.’

At the end of the corridor Tufty scurried ahead to open the door and hold it for Pine. Brown-nosing little spud that he was.

The open-plan office was nearly deserted, with just the barest hummmm of activity going on in the background, because most of dayshift were away trying to find Natasha Agapova. Well, everyone who hadn’t come down with The Dreaded Lurgie, anyway.

Temporarily released from their interview trauma, Doreen and Biohazard were slumped at adjoining desks. Doreen scrubbing both hands across her face as a scowling Biohazard crunched his way through a ‘MORE TO SHARE!’ bag of Chocolate Honeycomb Minis. Though he seemed determined to devour the lot by himself.

The pair of them oblivious to the fact that the head of A Division had just stalked into the room.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. ‘Forgot what a massive pain in the hoop that tosser is. You could catch Jack the Ripper, red-handed, strangling the Queen Mother, while Hitler cheers him on, and Hissing Bloody Sid would still get the bastard off on a technicality.’

Doreen reached for the bag, but Biohazard wheeched it out of her reach. ‘Hey! Don’t be such a greedy gripe.’

Pine stopped right in front of their desks. ‘As you were.’

At which point Doreen flinched, letting out a strangled ‘Eeek!’ While Biohazard came very close to losing his honeycomb.

He scrambled to recover the bag, before its contents went everywhere. ‘Boss! Guv. Erm...’ Holding out the almost-spilled sweets. ‘Sorry. Charles MacGarioch might as well be a sodding mannequin for all he’s contributing in there.’

Everyone helped themselves to a chocolaty treat, even Tufty.

Logan crunched through a cube of salty-sugary goodness. ‘Ask him about the money. In the car, on the way back from the circus, he said he did it because he “needed the money”.’

Pine peeled the chocolate off her honeycomb, like some sort of serial killer. ‘What money?’

‘Exactly. And don’t let Hissing Sid fudge the issue.’

She helped herself to another rattling handful. ‘Now that MacGarioch’s in custody, I’m sure DI Marshall can tidy everything up here — I need you to concentrate on Natasha Agapova and the protest march.’ She pointed. ‘DI Marshall: keep at him. It’s possible he’ll let something slip, but I doubt it. We’ve got enough forensic evidence for a solid case, but I want everything watertight, understand?’

A nod. And a surreptitious lowering of the bag, out of grabbing reach.

‘Good. DI Taylor: you’re probably better deployed elsewhere. Don’t think we need two acting detective inspectors in there, twiddling their thumbs.’ A sniff. ‘Besides, I think DCI McRae wants you to stand in for him at some meetings.’

Logan bit his top lip. ‘Ah...’

Busted.

His ears went much hotter than normal.

‘Yes, right.’ Biohazard gathered up his folders and files. ‘Well, we’ll... erm...’ and off he scuttled, followed by Doreen — dragging Tufty away with them. Leaving Logan at the mercy of Chief Superintendent Pine.

‘You see, Boss.... I felt... what with all the other things demanding our attention... and given the operational pressures... besides, it’s a valuable career-path development opportunity for—’

‘I know I said, “delegation is the key to a healthy work-life balance”, but you still need to be fully across your brief.’ Pine stared at him. ‘Are you?’

The warmth spread from his ears to his cheeks. ‘I get a one-page summary on every meeting she attends.’

Silence.

Pine tilted her head to one side. ‘Sounds sensible. And it means you’ve got nothing distracting you from finding Natasha Agapova. Today would be nice. Preferably in time for the lunchtime news.’ She turned to go. ‘And don’t forget to get each of your teams’ overtime-budget-and-schedule-variance-against-KPI-baselines calculated. Need that in by the end of the week.’

Striding away to spread her own special brand of joy and delight to some other poor bastard.

End of the week. AKA: today.

Logan screwed his eyes shut and sagged.

Friday the thirteenth strikes again...

LXXII

The path winds through the bush, green and glowing as it follows Hyland’s Creek.

Been a while since fire’s roared through here, and the gum trees are thick and emerald-topped, shedding their bark in great papery blades of grey.

The sun’s low in the sky, a faint nip to the air — that’ll change as the day warms up, but for now Natasha’s breath glows like golden flame as she hikes up Redpath Hill, behind Nanna Carter’s house.

It’s not a swanky house, like on Dad’s side, but who needs a view of Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House, when you’ve got a chunk of bush to call your own?

Somewhere off to the left, a kookaburra cackles like a mad woman. An outback Baba Yaga, calling for children to eat.

Natasha keeps climbing, right on up to the top of the hill.

Can’t see very far, cos of the trees, but the sky’s a slab of blue opal, with the sun just breaking above the gumtops.

Off to her left, a roo freezes, then turns its head to stare at her with those big brown eyes. Face a mix of deer and dog, ears twitching. Then it’s off: bounding away between the trees, tail up, the undergrowth pop-and-crackling beneath its spring-loaded paws.

Don’t know what’s got him spooked. Not like she isn’t up here every morning.

And then Natasha smells it — a sort of leathery scent, with an undercurrent of something bitter and... sticky. Like snags left on the deck for months, drying out in the sun. Attracting flies.

Whatever’s dead, it’s lying in the scrub just off the path.

She steps closer.

Fat green blowflies drone through the air above a body; hard to tell if it’s a bloke or a woman, though. Must’ve been here a lonnnnnnnng time, cos the skin’s shrunken tight over the bones, tanned and split open beneath the ribcage, letting the maggots feast.

Poor bastard.

Every now and then, some old codger wanders off from the care home, gets lost in the bush, and karks it. Isn’t hunger that gets them — there’s plenty to eat, if you know where to look and you ain’t squeamish — it’s the thirst. Specially in summer, when the thermometer creeps up towards fifty.

Couple of days out here, in the heat? That’s you.

Deliria, hallucinations, muscle spasms, then one by one your internal bits-and-pieces pack in and you’re a goner.

Weird thing is, this dead bloke’s wearing a watch, just like hers. Like the one Mum gave her for her tenth birthday, with ‘NEVER LET THE BASTARDS WIN!’ engraved on the back, cos of Dad being a total dill.

Come to think of it, the bloke’s wearing her runners too. And the clump of hair clinging to that wizened skull is the same colour. And—

His eyes snap open and he roars.

Only it’s not a ‘bloke’, it’s Natasha’s own dead face howling back at her.

And the blowflies surge forward, answering the cry—

Natasha flinched, blinking out at the dirty barn with her one working eye. Lying on her side, left arm trapped beneath her, the other reaching out towards the tattered remains of her old mask.

Sunlight flooded in through the open door, stretching halfway across the space between her and Detective Sergeant Davis. Making the pool of blood glisten.

He lay crumpled at the foot of the table saw, skin so pale it looked like he’d painted it with white ochre, an albino crocodile lurking on the edge of a shining scarlet lake.

The air thrrrrummmmmed with the wings of a thousand bluebottles, feasting on all that blood, to a backing track of angry heavy metal — still pounding away inside the caravan.

She coughed. Dry and papery.

Come on, get up.

Get up and get out of here.

The bastard was dead. Couldn’t hurt her any more.

All. She. Had. To. Do. Was. Get. UP.

Only nothing worked.

Could barely manage more than a twitch.

Her arms and legs were carved from solid granite, her head heavier than a binful of concrete as waves of red-hot nails crashed against the inside of her skull...

At least her knee didn’t ache any more, that was something, right? Even if it had turned into a swollen watermelon of purple and green.

And the rest of her wasn’t much better. Couldn’t even open her right eye. Couldn’t breathe through her nose. Could barely move her split and bloated lips.

But the only thing that hurt was her pounding head.

Which probably wasn’t a good sign...

No idea how much time had passed since she killed Davis and passed out on the floor. The barn hadn’t heated up yet, so: morning?

Which day, though?

How many days had she gone with just one tiny bottle of spit-laced water to drink?

Because this was one of the final symptoms, wasn’t it: the special forces bloke said so, in his doco. Your muscles seize up. And then you die.

All that time and effort spent getting rid of her bloody anchor, and fat lot of good it did her. The caravan was just sitting there, ripe for the taking, and she couldn’t even move...

73

The pool car crawled along Auchmill Road, through a forest of orange traffic cones. No idea why they were there though — thousands and thousands of the things: sod-all evidence of anyone doing any work.

Should rechristen them ‘Roadnotworks’.

The radio burbled away to itself, but Tufty wasn’t boogying along in the driver’s seat. Instead, he was making sour-frog faces and doing lots of sighing.

Lounging in the back, Steel was still wearing her peaked cap, kicking the back of his seat every now and then. Scowling away.

Which left Logan in the passenger seat, working through Doreen’s one-page reports on all the sharny cases he’d inherited. Blah, blah, blah, blah...

Ding-buzz.

Probably better check that. Never knew: might be important.

And even if it wasn’t it was better than reading all this boring rubbish.

TARA:

‘Hmmmph.’ Steel kicked Tufty’s seat again. ‘Said we should’ve taken the bypass.’

‘It’s not my fault they has roadworks everywhere!’

Another kick. ‘Straight out Hazlehead, get on at the Kingswells junction, and we’d be there by now.’

Logan poked out a reply:

SEND.

Aaaaand back to the reports.

Tufty raised a finger. ‘You know what I think?’

Kick. ‘You don’t think, that’s the problem.’

Actually:

Hold on a minute.

Logan blinked at the last line. Oh, no, no, no, no, no... he had clearly been spending FAR too much time with Tufty.

He gave himself a shake and deleted that bit.

SEND.

The horrible wee spud had his finger up again: ‘I think the press would be happier if something horrible does happen to Natasha Agapova. Did you see that thing in the Scottish Daily Post this morning? Flipping wingwang!’

And it was back to the reports again. For real this time.

He turned to Operation ‘Drugs In Lithuanian Teddy Bears’, skimming the complete lack of any progress. Glanced at Tufty. ‘What about the Post?’

‘Well...’ Cranking up the gossipy vibe. ‘They say there was this big plot by some of the people-smuggling gangs — joining forces in a League Of Evil Sticky Foreigners — to kidnap Ms Agapova and torture her and send some of her fingers to her husband with a demand for fifteen million quids!’

Steel snorted. ‘Boll... derdash.’ Giving Tufty’s seat another kick. ‘And who told the Post this rubbish: Princess Porkies the Lie Fairy?’

‘Apparently it’s because Ms Agapova’s been “leading the crusade to stop the boats” and “save our proud nation” from “woke lefty traitors” who want to “flood the country with—” Ow!’

Steel thumped him again. ‘Stop making quote bunnies when you’re driving!’

The wee loon’s bottom lip poked out. ‘Only going three miles an hour.’ He rubbed at his walloped arm. ‘Sa-arge, she’s hitting me!’

‘Aye, well it’s for your own good. Says so in the Highway Code.’

Logan finished the last page, flipped it over, then back again. Frowning as he rifled through the small stack of paper. ‘Where’s the summary for Operation... what was it, “Disappointment”?’ Digging out his phone to call Doreen.

Tufty sniffed. ‘Bet the Highway Code says you’re not allowed to biff the driver while he’s driving!’

‘Can if he’s a dangerous wee snudgehead.’

‘Boss?’ The sound of clacking boot-heels on a terrazzo floor, rattled from the phone. ‘Is it urgent, only I’m bursting for a comfort break and the MAPPA meeting kicks off in ten.’

‘Been going through your cheat sheets and I can’t find one for Operation “Find Natasha Agapova”.’

‘You mean “Disenchanter”? That’s cos I didn’t do you one. Thought you were all up to date; otherwise, why leave Biohazard running the MacGarioch interview?’

‘Because you and him are the only trained interviewers on dayshift. Every bugger else is off with The Pestilence.’

Her voice took on a pained whine. ‘Guv...?’ Then a groan. ‘All right, all right, all right.’ There was a thunk and the sound went all echoey. As if Doreen had bustled into some sort of largish tiled space. ‘What do you want to know?’

A smaller clunk, and the sound became a bit compressed. As if she was now in a much smaller room. But still strangely echoey.

‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t have to ask.’

An even smaller clunk was followed by some rustling. Then: thump. ‘Hold on...’

The pool car inched a little further along Auchmill Road, past yet more Roadnotworking cones — some of which wore those jaunty orange blinking lights, so people would be extra vigilant about the workmen who weren’t here not doing anything.

Steel pulled her hat on a little tighter. Then kicked Tufty’s seat again.

‘Stop that! Saa-arge, she’s doing it again!’

A sigh of relief slumped into Logan’s ear, then: ‘OK, let’s check the folder... Right: Forensics are having another bash getting DNA from Agapova’s house, no joy yet, but they’re trying some fancy new technique to amplify samples.’

At which point, the muffled sound of flushing came down the line.

Urgh...

‘Doreen, you better not be on the—’

‘You want this info, or don’t you?... Thought so.’ The gurgling whoosh of a cistern refilling. Or at least hopefully that’s what the noise was. ‘Says here: Biohazard’s team is still working their way through Andrew Shaw’s associates. Nothing sticks out yet. They even spoke to everyone at the gym he used, but they were sod-all help. And looks like his mum’s threatening to sue us for defamation. No way her precious wee angel could possibly have raped all those women; rant, rant, rant, rant.’

Yeah, good luck with that.

‘Murder weapon?’

‘Probably a hammer, going by the skull fractures. Greedy seagulls didn’t help, though. They’ve bloodied the water by... urgh... eating a bunch of the evidence.’

‘No sign of the hammer?’

‘We could dredge the River Dee, if you like, or get a scuba team in? Won’t be cheap, though.’

Tough one. Maybe adding thousands to the budget would be worth it, if they found the thing. Assuming they could get prints or DNA off it after all this time in the water. And assuming it was even in the river in the first place. Because if it wasn’t, the bean-counters at head office would be crawling up his fundament, wanting to know why he’d blown so much money on a dead end.

Logan frowned at the slow-motion creep of traffic along Auchmill Road. ‘Better let me clear it with the Boss.’ And in the meantime, perhaps there was an opportunity here? Worth a go, anyway. He cleared his throat. ‘Speaking of operational budgetary constraints: have you ever calculated overtime variance against KPI baselines? Because if not, I may have a treat for you...’

NorrelTech Wellhead Intervention Limited turned out to be an ugly, two-storey, green-and-white building, wedged in between a logistics-distribution warehouse and a wellhead-service yard. Both of which were surrounded by full-on prison-style jagged metal fencing topped with razor wire, CCTV cameras, and warning notices.

Clearly, NorrelTech was big on branding, with far too much signage and liveried vehicles featuring the company logo in shades of green, blue, and yellow. Like a cut-price Bond-villain’s lair.

Tufty parked in one of the ‘VISITORS ONLY’ slots around the front, but there was a bigger area out back full of electric vans and cars, where a white-haired bearded gent was washing the company fleet with a big soggy sponge and not much enthusiasm.

Logan, Steel, and the wee loon climbed out into the blistering sun.

‘There.’ Tufty plipped the locks. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

Steel hit him, then popped on her pilfered shades. ‘You’re an idiot. Mr Rumpole can drive better than you, and he’s a cat.’

‘Ow! Saaaaaa-aaarge!’

Logan pulled on his peaked cap. ‘Can we at least pretend to be professionals for five minutes?’ He jabbed a finger at Tufty. ‘You: stay here. And take the bypass next time.’ The finger poked in Steel’s direction. ‘You: stop hitting people.’ That got him a scowl. ‘Don’t care. And when we’re inside, you’re on taking notes and asking follow-ups. No letching, troublemaking, or being a pain in my hoop — otherwise you can help Doreen with the budget-variance, soon as we get back to the factory, understand?’

She squared her shoulders. ‘You remembering I used to be your boss, you jumped-up, trouser-faced, wee... Hoy, don’t march off while I’m insulting you!’

The reception door bweep-bwopped as Logan stepped into NorrelTech-logo central. A huge, 3D version dominated one wall. Posters featuring it and various bits of equipment covered most of the other three, while what looked like an old exhibition-display-stand thing stood behind the reception desk, clarted in little NorrelTechs. Even the desk had a big logo on the front.

As if the owners were worried that visitors might forget what they came in for.

A middle-aged blonde woman with a faint horsey air was poised behind the desk, in a black suit, with a NorrelTech neck scarf. Which sort-of gave her the look of a flight attendant. Her name badge said ‘MANDY’ but her expression was more ‘I DON’T GET PAID ENOUGH FOR THIS SHIT’. She forced a smile anyway. ‘Can I help you?’

Logan removed his hat. ‘Looking for a Nicholas Wilson.’

‘Twice in two days? Are you going to arrest him this time?’

Hmmm... ‘Should I?’

The smile warmed a little. ‘I’ll let him know you’re here. Please: take a seat.’

Captain Sleazy, of the Good Ship LustYacht, stood with his back to the room, one buttock perched on the boardroom table, looking out over the storage yard of the drilling services company opposite. Dressed in chinos, deck shoes, and a dark-blue Ralph Lauren shirt. Phone to his ear, head waggling as he talked. ‘Yeah... No, I was thinking of asking you to join me for a weekend’s sailing. Pick up a couple of lobsters in Cromarty, and head out for champagne and sunbathing.’ Too wrapped up in his call to notice that Mandy had opened the door and ushered Logan and Steel into the room.

Nick Wilson was either cripplingly insecure or in possession of a towering ego, because the whole boardroom was plastered with photos of him shaking hands with various local and national bigwigs. He’d even managed to cram in a TV star or six, though most of them barely qualified as D-list.

He threw his head back and laughed, as if he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. ‘Trust me, Jennifer, you haven’t lived till you’ve skinnydipped off a six-berth yacht by moonlight... Uh-huh... Uh-huh...’

Mandy rapped her knuckles on the door frame, voice raised and sharp as a scythe. ‘Nick? That’s your wife on line one.’

Nick Wilson froze. Then gave a slightly more strangled version of the same laugh. ‘What?... No. No, just someone having a joke. You know what we’re like at NorrelTech,’ turning to glare at the receptionist, ‘one big happy family...’

His eyes widened as he took in Logan and Steel’s Police Scotland uniforms. ‘Look, I gotta go, Jennifer. Speak soon, OK? OK... Bye.’

Mandy beamed at him. ‘And these nice officers are here to see you. Again.’ She checked her watch. ‘Don’t forget you’ve got Colin from Flarewell coming at ten.’ Then swept from the room like a glorious malevolent monster.

Nick Wilson glared after her, but as soon as the door clicked shut, he was all smiles and handshakes. ‘Sorry about Mandy, she can be a bit... feisty at times. How can I help you guys?’ Waving at the chairs. ‘Sit, sit. Can I get you tea? Coffee? Of course I can, hold on.’ He leaned over and poked at the starfish-shaped conference-phone in the middle of the table — ignoring the flashing red light. Which was probably ‘line one’.

The starfish bleeped.

‘Yeah, Mandy? It’s Nick in the boardroom — pot of Earl Grey, and a plate of the good biscuits, OK?’ Clearly trying to exert his authority after she’d scuppered his chances of getting ‘Jennifer’ to shiver his timbers.

A sigh hissed out of the speaker. ‘Could you not’ve—’

‘Cheers.’ He hung up and rubbed his hands at Logan. ‘So...?’

‘You appear to have a very active social life, Mr Wilson.’

‘If this is about those outstanding parking tickets, I’ve had words with the staff. Told them: “The company’s not here to pick up your—”’

‘Natasha Agapova.’

Nick Wilson bit his lip. Took a little breath. ‘Natasha...? Like I told your coughing colleague yesterday: doesn’t ring a bell.’ Smile. Shrug. ‘Sorry.’

So much for Marky MacDonald’s investigative skills.

‘Really? Her name’s been plastered over every newspaper in the country. On the TV. Radio?’

‘Wish I could help you, but—’

‘I know what might jog your memory: you sat next to her at the SME charity-auction ball, on Monday night.’

‘Did I?... I meet so many people at these things, it’s hard to—’

‘And then you called her home number using a burner phone — presumably so your wife doesn’t find out — and left a message inviting Ms Agapova to a champagne picnic on your yacht.’ Logan produced his own phone, holding it up. ‘I can play you the call, if you like?’

‘Ah...’ Nick Wilson licked his lips. Then fiddled with the top button of his shirt. Keeping his eyes on the tabletop. ‘You have to understand that Cindy and I have an arrangement. I mean, it’s not an open marriage, but it... What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.’ He cleared his throat, then tried on that smile of his. ‘And what’s the point of having a yacht if you can’t invite pretty women onboard for a bit of fun, right? It doesn’t mean anything.’

Steel stared at him, voice flat. ‘Oh, you think so, aye?’

Logan gave her a warning look, then turned back to Nick The Prick. ‘Where were you, Monday night — after the ball. The truth.’

‘I... went home?’ He held up his hands. ‘Ask Dougie! See, I knew there’d be drink involved. You know, you have to entertain clients, and no one likes a sober-sides tosser at these things. So I got Dougie to drive me there, wait, and drive me straight home after.’

Silence.

Nick Wilson fiddled with his shirt buttons again. ‘Ask him! He’s out back, washing the vans.’

Logan let the silence grow.

‘OK, OK: maybe not straight home. We might’ve...’ An ingratiating smile. ‘I know this is going to sound a bit creepy-stalkery, but we followed Natasha’s taxi for a bit. Not far! Just... I was, you know, thinking maybe she’d change her mind when she got my message. Ask me in for a nightcap.’

More silence.

‘She didn’t, all right? And I was tired. So Dougie dropped me off at home. The end.’

Logan didn’t even blink.

‘Ask him!’

‘Oh, don’t worry. We will.’

74

Logan pulled on his peaked cap and stepped through the door, into the rear car park.

A two-storey block of offices ran down one side, with a spiky fence on the other, to stop any of the NorrelTechies breaking into next-door’s warehouse and stealing some logistics. Twin rows of parking bays faced off across the space between, full of company-liveried vans and hatchbacks.

The only vehicle that wasn’t completely clarted in NorrelTech logos was a swish dark-red BMW i5 — currently getting the soapy-sponge treatment from a short, solid-looking man with close-cropped grey hair and an impressive white beard. Mid-sixties, maybe? The kind of guy who was probably a bit handy if things kicked off.

‘Hello?’ Logan strolled over there. ‘You “Dougie”?’

The man turned, sponge squeezed in one oversized fist. ‘I’m not paying anybugger’s parking tickets.’

‘Nice car.’

A snort. ‘Electric bollocks.’ He dunked the sponge and slapped a splosh of foam on the bonnet. ‘What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned petrol engine? The only thing battery power’s good for is kids’ toys and vibrators.’ Washing away. ‘And I’m still not paying these buggers’ parking tickets.’

‘You were Nicholas Wilson’s driver, Monday night.’

Dougie curled his lip. ‘Likes to play the big man. “Turn up in a chauffeur-driven BMW and ‘people’ think you’re somebody.”’

‘He make you wear the hat?’

‘Do I look like a prick?’ Dunk, dunk, splosh. Wash, wash, wash. ‘Got to ask: what kinda impression you making, rocking up to an oil-industry bash in an electric vehicle? Might as well piss on their shoes.’

A red-white-and-blue Super Puma howled overhead, making for the heliport.

‘So, what happened Monday night?’

Dougie froze. ‘I need a lawyer?’

‘Don’t know. Do you?’

He frowned. Then dunked his sponge again. ‘I pick Nick up at half six in this abomination, drive him to the hotel. He tells me to wait for him; so I wait for him.’ A grunt. ‘Grown man and I’m running round playing nursemaid to a jumped-up...’ The BMW’s bonnet got an extra hard wash. ‘Anyway: there’s worse ways to spend a Monday night — few hours peace-and-quiet to read a book without the grandkids crawling all over us. He calls, about half eleven, says to pick him up. And I take him home, same as every other stupid industry dinner.’ Dougie hurled his sponge into the bucket, sending a frothy tsunami splooshing out over the side. ‘No big deal.’

‘You missed a bit.’

Dougie squinted at the car, bending over to the left, then right — surveying the bonnet. ‘Where?’

‘Where you tailed a woman’s taxi.’

‘Ah.’ He retrieved his sponge and started on the bumpers. ‘I drive round from the car park, and there’s Nick, sort of hiding behind a potted tree thing, watching the hotel entrance. Which we all know means he’s on the sniff. Nick gets in the passenger seat, stinking of booze, and says “Follow that taxi!” like something off a Hitchcock film.’ Dougie looked away, over the back fence at the fields beyond. ‘So we do. Hanging back a couple of cars, just in case, but she doesn’t spot us. They never do.’ His mouth pinched, making the beard jut out. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like he ever does anything — I wouldn’t let him, even if he tried. We just park up outside and watch the house for a bit. Make sure they get home safe.’

Because that didn’t sound sketchy at all.

Logan folded his arms. ‘Safe?’

‘Gets himself all hot and bothered, then goes home and gives his wife one for a change.’

‘How long did you wait this time?’

Splosh, squeeze, scrub. ‘Only a couple minutes. He’d had a bucket, and no way I’m cleaning vomit out of leather upholstery.’

Over in the next yard, someone clanged away at a metal pipe with a hammer.

An old ELO track oozed out through a warehouse window.

And Dougie still hadn’t made eye contact.

Logan pointed at the BMW. ‘Fancy electric car like this must have loads of sensors and cameras.’

‘Like Jodrell Sodding Bank. Can’t even fart without setting off a million dings, bleeps, and flashing lights.’

Excellent.

‘Any chance we could take a look?’

LXXV

Sometimes it was OK to give up and just slip away.

Wave goodbye to the pain and the suffering and the struggle.

Like Nanna Carter, in her hospice bed.

Natasha blinked out at the filthy barn.

The air was heavy with flies, making the air thrummmm and buzzzzzzzzzz. Seemed to be more of them every time she opened her eyes — drawn to the all-you-can-eat buffet of blood. Gorging.

Not that DS Davis minded.

A big greasy bluebottle landed on his face, doing a little dance across the ragged scar on his cheek, then onto his top lip. Before disappearing up his nose. Looking for a way to get at those tasty internal organs; somewhere warm and dark to lay a million little eggs that would hatch in a couple of days and—

‘Aaaaargh!’ His eyes shot open. ‘Fuck!’ His right leg jerked and trembled, but the left one — the one she’d turned into a colander with her rusty Stanley knife — stayed dead still.

Davis batted at his ghost-pale face with his right hand a couple of times. Coughing and spluttering. Then a tortured retching noise and he spat the bluebottle out.

It lay on its back in the wide scarlet lake, stuck there, legs twitching.

Davis’s left arm hung limp at his side, but he used the right one to shove and swear and cough his way up, till he was half-sitting, half-slumped against the table saw. Breathing hard. Face screwed up in agony.

Good.

Natasha could barely work up a dry, whispery sneer. ‘Why can’t you just die?’

Took a while, but eventually his eyes opened again. ‘You don’t... remember me... do you.’

‘Go fuck yourself.’

‘Your sort never... do. You dish out all... all this grief and hate... but... but there’s never any repercussions... no consequences... So you just... move on to... next victim.’

She hauled in a deep breath and rasped it out. ‘JUST DIE!’

Davis closed his eyes again.

Maybe the bastard had actually done what he’d been told?

But she wasn’t that lucky.

He reached into his trouser pocket. ‘I could... save us.’ Fumbling a cheap, knock-off iPhone free. He thumbed a button on the side and the screen lit up like Christmas.

The screen was smeared with blood, but he wiped it on the shoulder of his T-shirt and held it out.

Natasha’s fingers quivered... but her arms refused to move.

A smile twisted its way across the bastard’s ruined face. ‘Don’t you... want it?’ Waggling the phone. ‘They could save you... Not want... to live?’

‘Why are you like this?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll... phone the police.’

‘YOU ARE THE BLOODY POLICE!’

Squinting one eye shut, Davis poked his thumb against the screen three times. Then held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello?... Is that the police?... I... I need an... an ambulance... quick.’ His voice getting fainter with every word. ‘Quick, we’re... we’re dying...’ Then his arm went limp and his head fell forward.

Now, the only noises were the droning flies and the distant thunder of heavy metal.

‘No! Tell them where we are!’ The dry words burned through her throat: ‘TELL THEM WHERE WE ARE!’

Legs — move your bastard legs.

Get over there.

Get that fucking phone.

Get—

Cramp rampaged down the back of her left leg, the muscles tightening like a corkscrew, pulling her foot up and her toes wide, flaying the nerves from her skin. Then her right leg, clamping her jaw shut; arching her back as the cramp rioted along her spine, torturing every muscle on the way.

A scream battered out between her clenched teeth.

Then it was gone, and her body slumped against the dust and rat-piss concrete again. Her head thunking off the barn floor, setting her ears ringing.

Then a dry sob wracked free.

‘Tell them where we are...’

76

Tufty poked and clicked at the borrowed laptop, wheeling a finger round and around the trackpad. Like everything around here, the machine was festooned with NorrelTech logos.

A bunch of wires stuck out the side, snaking across the BMW’s driver’s seat and into a USB port.

Logan huffed out a breath. ‘Are you done yet?’

‘Almost there... Almost there...’

Been saying that for the last five minutes.

Logan turned and parked his bum against the van in the next bay.

And there was Nick Wilson: watching from an upstairs window, chewing away at the fingers on one hand. Probably worrying where all this was going. And how he could spin it so his wife wouldn’t get everything in the divorce.

Yeah, good luck with that.

Logan’s phone launched into ‘Ode To Joy’. Might as well. Just hanging about here anyway. He checked the caller ID, then pressed the green button. ‘Spudgun?’

‘Aye, Guv? Yeah, you wanted someone to have a chat with Graeme Anderson, our local Racist In Chief? Scummer says the Anglo Saxon Defence Group has just as much right to march on Saturday as the rest of them. Called me a fascist. Twice.’ A sniff. ‘Which was a bit ironic, given his stance on the old democratic process. And invited me to bugger off out of it before he set his swanky-pants lawyers on me for harassment. Only he put it more politely, being a public schoolboy and all that wank.’

‘Think they’re going to behave themselves?’

‘At the protest?’

Silence.

‘Spudgun?’

‘Having myself a wee think, Guv. See, pricks like Anderson like to talk the talk, but they like others to walk it. That way they can take credit if it all goes to plan, and denounce it if it doesn’t. So I’m guessing no.’

‘You give him a friendly word to the wise?’

‘That’s when he threatened us with legal action. But yeah.’

‘OK, thanks, Spudgun. Put the word out, though — anyone hears anything about the ASDG, I want to know about it, OK?’

‘Guv.’ And he was gone.

Logan put his phone away. ‘Are you still at it?’

‘Almost there...’ Tufty’s wee pink tongue popped out between his teeth as he poked and clicked some more. Then sat back on his haunches, firing finger-guns at the dashboard. ‘Peeew! Peeew! And I has blowed up the Deathstar!’ He unplugged the USB cable and handed it back to Dougie. ‘Thanks.’ Shutting the laptop. ‘I’ll get this back to you soon as.’

Dougie shrugged. ‘No skin off my cock. Not like I use the thing anyway.’

The back door swung open and out scrunched Steel, hat firmly wedged on her head, sipping from an overbranded NorrelTech mug.

She jerked her chin at Dougie. ‘Does it no’ roast your balls, working for a greasy wee shite like that?’

Logan winced. ‘What... Don’t! OK? Just...’ He turned to Dougie. ‘I apologise for my colleague. That was unprofessional and uncalled for. If you want to make a formal complaint—’

‘Nah: she’s right. Nick is a greasy wee shite. His wife’s properly lovely, and there’s him shagging his way round every slapper in Aberdeen. “Oooh, come see my yacht, come see my yacht...”’ Dougie tossed the cable into the car. ‘Getting too old to be running round after arseholes.’

‘Aye.’ Steel patted his arm. ‘Me too.’

Logan’s phone launched into ‘Ode To Joy’ as they headed back towards the pool car, and when he checked the caller ID, there was ‘SPUDGUN’ glowing away in the middle of the screen.

He poked the button. ‘This better be good news.’

Could tell by the pitch of Spudgun’s voice that it wasn’t. ‘Aye, Guv? All hands on deck: we’ve just had a call...’

LXXVII

Maybe it wasn’t too late?

Maybe it didn’t matter that Davis hadn’t told the police where they were, because the cops could track people’s phones now, couldn’t they? Triangulate where you’re calling from, based on which phone towers the signal pinged off.

Shit, they were probably racing over here right now.

Wherever the hell ‘here’ was...

Course they were.

They were coming for her.

Because even though he was a twisted, murdering, violent, bastard — Detective Sergeant Davis was too fond of his miserable hide to die in this shitty barn.

All she had to do was wait.

They’d be here.

It was over.

She was getting out of this shitty hellhole.

Davis’s eyes flickered open and a little smile tweaked the corner of his mouth. Then he thumbed a button on the side of his phone, making a pre-recorded voice swell out of the speaker, getting louder and louder.

‘At the third stroke, the time, sponsored by Triple-Five Mobile, will be nine forty-eight and forty seconds.’

Beep. Beep. Beep.

‘At the third stroke, the time, sponsored by Triple-Five Mobile, will be nine forty-eight and fifty—’

Davis smashed his phone down against the barn floor, snarling as he hammered it into the concrete:

Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

Until the screen shattered and bits of glass flew off to make ripples in the lake of blood. Followed by a half-dozen chunks of broken electronics.

Disturbed by the sudden violence, bluebottles leapt into the foetid air, performing a slow-motion waltz to the sounds of heavy metal.

Breathing in harsh, shallow gasps, Davis tossed what was left of his phone into the blood. Then his arm fell limp. ‘No one’s... coming... to save you... We die here.’ An almost-laugh trembled free: ‘“I turn my body... from the sun.”’

Natasha glared at the bastard. ‘WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?’

His voice faltered, getting fainter and fainter. ‘“For hate’s sake... I spit my last breath... at...”’ There was a hiss of leaking breath, then his head drooped forwards, mouth hanging open. Eyes too.

It took a couple of moments for the bluebottles to pluck up courage, but eventually one fat little bastard landed on Davis’s tongue. Then another on his left pupil. And another. And another as the feeding began.

Leaving Natasha to die alone.

78

Aberdeen Royal Infirmary’s Orthopaedic Trauma Unit should’ve been a place of peace and healing, a tranquil space to recover in after serious bone-shattering injury or the kind of violent surgery that still involved saws. Where conversations were held in hushed whispers as life-saving machinery went ping and hissssss. Instead, a torrent of yelling and howling and shouting and screaming and swearing overflowed into the corridor outside.

Logan shoved through the door, into chaos.

Half a dozen officers in the full uniform, complete with stabproof vests and high-vis, formed a wall outside one of the small, four-bed rooms that lined the ward’s outer edges. Shuffling about. Looking as if they were all amped-up to do something... but didn’t quite know what.

An equal number of nurses bustled from room to room, doing their best to keep their patients calm and reassured. Which can’t have been easy, given all the bellowing going on.

Another three were over by the nurses’ station. One sitting on an office chair, with his head thrown back and the front of his scrubs awash with scarlet from a shattered nose, while his colleagues tried to staunch the bleeding.

Logan skidded to a halt on the polished hospital floor. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

A no-nonsense nurse in the white-trimmed dark-blue top of a ward sister, stormed over, grey perm quivering as she jabbed a finger into Logan’s chest. ‘Are you in charge here? Because this is not acceptable!’

She ducked as a crrrrrrrrrsssssshhhhhhhhhhh of shattering glass turned the four-bed room’s window into a mess of spider webs.

Inside, a large, hairy young man shook a ward chair at the broken glazing — like a lion tamer, holding the assembled officers at bay. Assuming they allowed half-shaved gorillas in blue jeans and denim jackets to join the circus as staff rather than exhibits.

What was it PC Kent called that look, a Torry Tuxedo?

Bloody hell, it was as well: the guy who’d been lurking outside the burnt-out hotel with a bunch of flowers and a mylar balloon. Darryl Something-Or-Other, whose dad was ‘a man of strong opinions’.

Spudgun sidled over. ‘We got the call twenty minutes ago, Guv. Your man,’ pointing at Mr Hairy, ‘shoved his way in here, wanged a member of staff,’ pointing at the medical drama bleeding all over itself at the nursing station, ‘marched in there, and barricaded the door before Security could arrive.’

‘Then why are you not booting the door in?’

The Ward Sister poked Logan again. ‘Because there are four extremely vulnerable patients inside, you idiot!’

God’s sake...

‘And has anyone actually tried talking to him?’

She threw her hands in the air. ‘No, we didn’t think of that. How very silly of us.’

‘Won’t talk to anyone but you, Guv.’

‘Me?’ Logan pulled his chin in. Violent nutters only ever asked for you by name when everything was about to go horribly wrong. But four vulnerable patients were four vulnerable patients. ‘OK...?’

Deep breath and he parted the thin black-and-fluorescent-yellow line, walking forwards till he was just six feet from the shattered window. That would be far enough, wouldn’t it? In case anything got hurled through the glass?

Inside, Hairy Darryl lowered the chair and blinked at him.

Logan faked a smile. ‘Hey, Darryl. It is Darryl, isn’t it?’

A nod.

‘Right. From the hotel.’ Looking around. ‘This is all a bit of a mess. Why don’t you come out so we can talk about whatever’s bothering you?’

His voice was muffled by the glass, but clear enough: ‘You were right.’ Wiping his nose on his sleeve. ‘It’s what happens when bastards think it’s OK to hate brown people, and Jews, and Muslims, and poofs, and Celtic supporters just cos of who they are, yeah? “You can commit atrocities,” you said, “even kill kids.”’ Then Darryl looked over his shoulder, at the bed in the far corner. ‘Not any more.’

Yeah... That didn’t sound good.

Logan edged closer, and the names written up on the little whiteboard by the door came into focus: ‘1: ALBERT HAMILTON ~ 2: MORRIS PEARSON ~ 3: GEORGE MAIR [NBM] ~ 4: SPENCER FINDLATER’.

Sodding hell...

‘Darryl?’ To hell with flying glass. Logan stepped right up to the broken window, peering through the cracked webs. ‘Darryl: what have you done?’

Spencer Findlater lay flat on his back, in the bed furthest from the door. There seemed to be a lot of bandages and fibreglass casts keeping his limbs together — so much of it that Spencer might even have looked a little comedic in other circumstances.

He had a pillow draped across his chest and his head tilted back at an unnatural angle. Mouth and eyes wide open.

Not moving.

Not even breathing.

One arm dangled over the edge of the bed, the hand weirdly reminiscent of Adam’s — reaching for God on the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. Only, as Spencer was reaching downward, probably safe to assume that his appointment was with a slightly more... subterranean deity.

It was Sergeant Jeff Downie on the custody desk today, with his hooded eyes and ghostly glow. A man who clearly came from a long line of people who believed in never marrying a stranger when a first cousin would do. Or a sibling.

Word was he had webbed feet and double the usual number of toes.

Logan hung back, by the wall, as a couple of burly PCs led Darryl Merickson away to his cell. Quiet as a headstone. As if he was finally at peace with himself.

Tufty signed Downie’s clipboard, acknowledging deposit, then wandered over, hands tucked into the armholes of his stabproof. A frown on his daft wee face ‘Not entirely certain how to feel about that one. I mean, we think Spencer Findlater maybe helped burn the hotel down, which makes him a horrible, racist, killing-innocent-people person, plus there’s all the breaking-in and nicking things, but did he deserve what he got?’ Making a seesaw gesture with one hand.

‘Murder’s murder.’ Logan made for the stairwell. ‘Doesn’t matter what your motivation is, or what the victim’s done. It’s still murder.’

‘True.’ Skipping after him. ‘We can has tenses, now?’

‘Somehow, I’m not in a celebratory mood.’

The wee lad drooped.

Suppose all this horror wasn’t really his fault.

Tufty wasn’t the one who’d given Darryl Merickson the excuse he needed to kill someone.

No, that was all on Logan.

‘Yeah, OK. Off you go.’

‘Woot!’ The wee loon scampered away, through the doors and up the stairs, like Cthulhu hearing Tara sing.

Logan let a heavy sigh slump out into the custody suite, then tromped after him.

The incident room for Operation ‘Find Natasha Agapova’ had grown a thick lining of file boxes — piled almost head-high, all bearing varying thicknesses of dust. Towers of paperwork were heaped up against it, along with stacks and stacks of old newspapers. As if Steel and her team had decided to try the hoarding lifestyle.

No idea where the rest of them had got to, but she was the only one here. With her feet up on the desk. Schlurping away at her newly acquired NorrelTech mug, chomping on a bacon roll while she perused an old copy of the Scottish Daily Post. Peaked cap still rammed on tight enough to curl the tops of her ears over.

Completely oblivious to the fact Logan had just walked into her grubby lair.

He knocked on the table. ‘“This what they call working now, is it?”’

She didn’t look up. ‘Aye.’

Why did he even bother?

Logan had a quick squint at the whiteboards, with their coating of scribbled actions and arrows and photos and notes. ‘Have your baboons found anything useful?’

Munch, munch, munch. ‘The reason I’m reading this right-wing crap-wank, is it’s all connected. You think Spencer Findlater and Charles MacGarioch burned that hotel full of migrants for a giggle? Sod-all happens in a vacuum.’ Poking the paper. ‘These bastards spend their lives shoving hate-and-fear-mongering bollocks down everyone’s throats: migrants are stealing your jobs, migrants are raping your women, migrants are grooming your kids. Eating the dogs and the cats of the people who live here...’ Slurp. ‘And when morons like Spencer Findlater and Charles MacGarioch decide to do something about it, the tabloids clutch their pearls and it’s all “violent mobs don’t represent British values!” Then they go right back to mongering the same shite all over again.’

‘She said, cynically.’ Logan pointed at the board. ‘What about our organised-crime angle? Get anything out of SOCT?’

‘Oh aye. Had to do a bit of wheedling, but seems our boy Adrian Shearsmith’s been dangling his hook in a dirty pond full of Russian sharks. And you know what nice people they are.’

Logan lifted the top off a file box — more Scottish Daily Posts: ‘CIVIL SERVANTS BLOCKING BREXIT BENEFITS’, ‘MIGRANT INVASION OVERWHELMING NHS’, ‘EU PLOT TO FLOOD OUR BORDERS WITH MIGRANT CHAOS’.

Lovely.

He put the lid back on. ‘So maybe these Russian mobsters kidnapped his ex-wife for a bit of leverage?’

That got a laugh. ‘You kidding? Wasn’t what you’d call an amicable divorce. Unless your idea of “amicable” is a cage-fight with rusty chainsaws.’

Logan tried another box, flipping through the newspapers inside. All the headlines were much the same: ‘Migrants, paedos, crime, crime, murder, migrants, migrants, rape, lefty judges, paedos, migrants, blame the EU, murder, ECHR, migrants, drugs, paedos...’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Why do people read this crap? Is the world not bad enough without some knuckle-dragging “journalist” tit making-up stuff to be scared of?’

He tossed the last paper back in the box.

This time the Scottish Daily Post had plastered its front page with: ‘PAEDO PETER THE SUPPLY TEACHER’ above a photo of a youngish bloke in an anorak and glasses — eyes wide, mouth pinched — caught by surprise outside what looked like school gates, with the subheading ‘SICKO WORMS HIS WAY INTO CITY SCHOOLS TO BE WITH GIRLS AS YOUNG AS 5’.

Yes, well... maybe the outrage wasn’t entirely fabricated.

He parked his bum against the table.

Sighed at the ceiling tiles.

Steel looked up from her paper. ‘Do us a favour and sod off somewhere else, eh? You’re putting me off my butty.’

He flipped back a copy: ‘AULD REEKIE RAPIST IS “FAMILY PRIEST”’. Frowned at the photograph: an avuncular bloke in a dog-collar and cassock, christening someone’s baby. ‘Wonder how many people she’s outed over the years? Agapova. All the sex offenders, politicians, and conmen...’

‘Then give her a medal, OK? Just do it somewhere else.’

‘Hard to feel sorry for them.’ Back to ‘Paedo Peter’ with his haunted look.

What was it that art teacher at Lizz’s new school said about having a painting in the Royal Academy? Something about not everyone enjoying their fifteen minutes of fame?

Hmmm...

Logan pulled out his phone and called Tufty.

The wee sod was doing his pretend old-man voice again, only muffled around a mouthful of something. ‘I say, Holmes, is the game afoot? Only, the darndest thing: I’ve been waylaid by a custard slice!’

‘Got a complicated IT one for you.’

‘Worry not: I have my trusty service revolver and a cup of tea with me. You know, this puts me in mind of the rather strange case of—’

‘Just shut up and listen. Is there any way to find out who’s been dragged through the mud during Natasha Agapova’s time editing the Scottish Daily Post and the Aberdeen Examiner?’

Silence.

Not even chewing.

He checked the screen, but the call was still connected.

‘Tufty?’

‘You’re making with the jokey-ha-ha, right?’ Then a groan. ‘It’d take years, Sarge. We’d have to go through hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of issues, with dozens and dozens of stories in every one. And most of it won’t be online, either. You’re talking about going to the newspapers’ archives and manually searching everything on microfiche!... Years!’

‘Fat lot of use you are.’ He gazed up at the tiles again. ‘How you getting on with the footage from Nicholas Wilson’s BMW?’

‘I is processing as we speak — looking-up every number plate of every car the cameras has recorded, then am running PNC checks on the registered keepers and named drivers, cos I does has a thorough and do specialise in being a thin lot of use!’

‘Keep at it.’ Logan hung up, then sagged. Then did a three-sixty. Then sagged again.

Steel ignored him — munching away at her butty, when she should’ve been asking what was wrong, offering support and helpful suggestions. Maybe a cup of tea...

He pointed. ‘It’s rude to wear your hat at the dinner table.’

Chomp, masticate, chew. She put on a robot voice: ‘I’m sorry, Roberta isn’t in at the moment, please bugger off after the bleep.’ Deep breath. ‘Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!’

At which point, Logan’s phone burst into ‘Space Oddity’.

Maybe the wee loon had found something?

He hit the green button. ‘That was quick.’

Tufty whispered out of the speaker. ‘Sarge! I does has an visitor of extreme angriness, who is demanding to speak to the manager! Exclamation mark!’

Great, more work.

Logan had his third and final sag. ‘I’ll be right there.’

Logan barged into the open-plan office, and there was Detective Inspector Beardy Beattie huffing-and-puffing I’ll-blow-your-cubicle-right-downing. Tubby and bearded, his hair was vanishing from the back, as if it’d taken up holy orders and not informed the rest of his head yet. His black Police Scotland T-shirt looked on the verge of splitting its seams, while his belt must’ve been cutting off circulation north of the border, because his face was turning puce. ‘Have you got any idea what sort of problem this causes? Well? Answer me, Constable!’

Tufty was squirreled back in his chair, looking storm-blown. ‘Eeeek...’ He looked up and waved. ‘Sarge! Sarge: Detective Inspector Beattie thinks—’

‘I don’t think, I know!’ He glowered over his shoulder at Logan. ‘This creature claims he’s following your orders.’

‘Is there a problem?’

The shade of puce darkened. ‘Is there a problem? Is there a problem?’ A trembling finger pointed at Tufty. ‘He’s been running non-stop PNC searches for hours!’

‘Well, not hours, hours, Sarge. Only since we got back from NorrelTech with the footage?’ The wee loon frowned. ‘Well, after that thing at the hospital. And got we Darryl Merickson squared away. And then I went and got a custard slice for my tenses, but I ate it at my desk being all industrious and multitasky. But since then.’

Logan checked his watch. ‘So, about fifty-minutes-ish. How many PNC searches can one little PC do in fifty minutes?’

‘Four hundred and thirty-seven.’

Beattie stared at him. ‘Four hundred and what?’

Wow.

Yeah, Beardy Beattie might be a dick, but maybe he had a point this time.

Tufty bounced in his seat. ‘See, I ran the footage through an ANPR system and wrote a script to fling the output through...’ His mouth clamped shut under Beattie’s withering glare. ‘Erm... Because of operational reasons.’ He turned his computer screen to face them, showing off a spreadsheet. ‘Everyone’s sorted by their line entry from the Police National Computer. But I can re-order it by name, make, registration, or timestamp if you like?’

‘It’s incomprehensible!’ Beattie thumped the cubicle wall. ‘Bringing the whole system to its knees!’

‘Did you at least find something?’

‘Mostly parking tickets and speeding offences.’ The wee loon clicked about with his mouse and the spreadsheet rearranged itself into a different order. ‘Two with outstanding warrants — one assault, and one not-showing-up-to-court-on-an-indecent-exposure charge. Nine domestic violence. And three sex offenders. Well, two really, cos one was found not guilty.’

‘OK: who were they?’

‘No, no, no.’ Beattie wagged a finger. ‘We’re losing sight of the actual issue here: you can’t bombard the Police National Computer with rubbish for fun. You have to have “reasonable grounds”! Tulliallan will do their nut; Gartcosh have already been on the phone!’

Logan pointed at the spreadsheet. ‘The other two?’

‘White Ford Transit: six years for raping his eighty-two-year-old neighbour. Green Honda Civic: interfered with young boys at a juniors’ football club. Eight years.’

Just when you thought your faith in humanity couldn’t get any lower. ‘Order it by timestamp. What’s clustered around midnight, when the taxi dropped Natasha Agapova off?’

Beattie stood there quivering, while Tufty poked and clicked. ‘Hello? I’m not yesterday’s skirlie here: I want to make a complaint!’

‘Closest is the taxi what did take her home. Next up is...’ the wee loon squinted at the screen, ‘a grey Vauxhall Astra, but that’s our “not guilty”.’ Click. Scroll. ‘One Mr Keith Braithwaite; has a croft round about Durris.’

‘Am I talking to myself, here?’

Logan leaned in. ‘Not guilty of what?’

‘I think it’s highly unprofessional to be so disrespectful when a fellow senior officer is making a complaint.’ Beattie stuck his hairy chin out, setting his jowls wobbling. ‘Don’t think I won’t report this to Professional Standards, because I will!’ An imperious sniff, and he stomped away. No doubt off clyping to the rubber heelers, like the massive dick he was.

The wee loon opened a new window on his screen, skimming the details with a finger. ‘Allegedly, Mr Braithwaite impersonated a police officer to coerce women to have sex with him. Looks like he mostly preyed on prostitutes and drug users. Only he didn’t, because of “not guilty”. Allegedly.’

Interesting.

Wonder if he’d had his Andy-Warhol-allotted fifteen minutes?

‘Search for “Keith Braithwaite” and “the Scottish Daily Post”.’

Fingers flew across the keyboard. ‘Clickity, click, click, pong, aaaaaaannnnd enter.’ The screen filled. ‘Ooooh... We has a results.’ He opened the top link and a newspaper front page appeared, from four years ago: ‘FAKE COP PERVERT IS CHARITY SCUMBAG’ above the photo of an unremarkable guy in his early forties.

Brown hair, two eyes, two ears...

And that was about all you could say about him.

Pretty much the perfect face for undercover work: bland and forgettable.

Not for his victims though, going by the subheading: ‘CHARITY BOSS FORCES VULNERABLE WOMEN TO PERFORM DEPRAVED SEX ACTS’.

Logan thumped a hand down on Tufty’s shoulder. ‘Print it, then grab a car. We’re going to pay Mr Braithwaite a visit.’

79

The pool car pootled along a winding back road in the middle of nowhere, where gorse burned hot-yellow along the sagging drystane dykes and miserable sheep hobbled over sun-baked fields. Definitely the sort of road that you suddenly met tractors coming the other way on. Big ones. That wouldn’t even notice if they drove straight over a manky old Vauxhall, squashing it flat.

Which probably explained why Tufty wasn’t pelting it, with the blues-and-twos going.

Steel lounged in the back seat, making rancid-fish faces and long-suffering sighs. Still wearing that sodding hat. ‘I’m bored.’

Logan gave her a Paddingtoning in the rear-view mirror. ‘No one asked you to come.’

‘Yeah, but Beardy Beattie was being a pain in the patoot, and I’m too Zen to deal with his... plop.’ Putting on a terrible Beattie impersonation for: ‘“Oh, they’re all so mean to me!”, “That Logan McRae’s got ideas above his station!”, “Constable Quirrel is a useless, impertinent, syntax-mangling, dollop of shite!”’

Tufty joined the Rear-Mirror Frowning Club. ‘Hey!’ Eyes back on the twisting road. ‘Also: pound in the swear jar.’

‘Doesn’t count if it’s a direct quote.’

Actually, once you got past the heat-stroke sheep and parched fields it was really pretty out here, with plenty of trees and the bracken unfurling in the sunshine.

A teeny clot of seventies bungalows drifted by, complete with sagging sheds and an elderly woman in dungarees grimly chopping firewood for the winter.

Logan went back to his printed-out front page. ‘Pfff... Listen to this: “The sign on the door says, ‘Wendy’s Happy Wishes, Because Every Child Deserves Joy’ but twisted charity boss, Keith Braithwaite,” brackets, forty-one, “had wishes far darker than any child dying of leukaemia could ever imagine.” Talk about melodramatic, sensationalist, wanky writing. “The unassuming businessman led a double life — raising money to grant the wishes of suffering children by day, and prowling Glasgow’s seedier streets for prostitutes and drug addicts to abuse by night...” Who wrote this?’

He had a wee squint at the byline: ‘LEROY MCGUIRE’.

Bet the Pulitzer committee kept his number on speed dial.

Tufty turned a corner and the trees faded back from the road, replaced by fields awash with clumps of hard green reeds. The buckled remains of a ring feeder lay off to the right, like the ribcage of some huge parasite that had died crawling out of the docken and brambles.

Back to the printout:

‘“Braithwaite forged a warrant card for himself, with the fictional name, ‘Detective Sergeant Alexander Nairn’, which he used to lure women into his battered Ford Focus, where he forced them to perform lewd sex acts in exchange for not ‘arresting’ them.”’

‘Saaaa-arge?’ Tufty scrunched up one side of his face. ‘If he was found not guilty, how come he didn’t sue them?’

Steel sniffed from the back. ‘Wee spud’s got a point. Some scummer talks poop about me, like that? I’m going home with every penny they’ve got. And their house. And having a big hairy mate of mine break both their frudging legs.’

True.

Off in the middle distance, the grubby fields were punctuated by a series of tumbledown cottages with missing roofs and vacant windows.

Mind you... ‘Maybe he did? We’ve only got the one article, could’ve taken them for millions.’

‘Here we is.’ Tufty turned left, off the tarmacked road, onto a rough track peppered with potholes. A Mohican of grass ran down the middle and as the car rocked and rolled through the hollows its undercarriage scraped along the raised tufts. Making horrible grinding noises whenever it hit a patch of gravel.

Steel sat forward. ‘What if your man decides he’s no’ wanting to cooperate? Violently.’

‘Really?’ Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘Not like you to be all timid. Frightened of messing-up our new hairdo, are we? Can stay in the car, if you like?’

‘You looking for a smack? I’m no’ “timid”, I’m nine weeks from retirement. That’s when people in action films get shot, or blown up. Thrown off a train or a building.’

The road hooked around to the left, dropping down a short, steep hill. Gorse rose on either side of the car, tinder-box yellow and ready to ignite in the blazing sun — getting taller as the track dipped, till it towered far above the car’s roof.

Tufty peered up at the jagged-green canyon walls. ‘She does got a point, Sarge. People with X-weeks left till retirement is always dropping like flies.’

At the bottom of the hill the land opened up, revealing a higgledy-piggledy graveyard of rusty old farm equipment. Going by the grass and weeds growing around and up through it, this stuff hadn’t moved in months. Maybe years.

Just past the mechanical cemetery, a five-bar metal gate blocked the track ahead.

The wee lad hopped out and scampered over to open it.

Steel poked Logan’s shoulder. ‘Aye, seriously though: should we no’ve landed mob-handed? This could go arse-shaped real quick; loads of these teuchter banjo-fuckers have gun licences, and I don’t fancy a shotgun enema.’

‘We’ll be fine. Besides, we don’t even know if this Braithwaite has anything to do with anything.’

‘Oh, aye, it’s just a huge coincidence his car was at Agapova’s house the night she disappeared, given her newspaper ruined his life and everything.’ Steel scowled as Tufty swung the gate open to clangggg against a fencepost. ‘Pretty good motive for revenge.’

Actually: she had a point.

Tufty hopped back in behind the wheel, drove them through the gateway. Stopped. Scrambled out again, and closed the gate behind them — like a weil-brought-up loon fae the sticks.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ Logan turned in his seat. ‘Want to wait for backup?’

Her eyebrows scrunched. ‘Might as well take a wee look, while we’re here. Just in case? Bugger might no’ even be in.’

Now that they were Country-Code-compliant, Tufty returned — piloting the pool car past a twisted stand of trees and around another bend.

A small collection of farm buildings loomed ahead: two tumbledown old stone byres; a barn with concrete walls and a corrugated grey roof; and a static caravan in shades of diarrhoea-brown-and-disappointment-beige. A forest of weeds surrounded the place, engulfing piles of building materials, while an ancient JCB backhoe sat off to one side.

Logan knocked on the dashboard. ‘OK, listen up: we’re on shaky ground here. No one takes any risks; no one wanders off on their own — line of sight at all times; no one gets shot, stabbed, beaten-up, their brains bashed in, or killed in any way shape or form. Understood?’

Steel shook her head. ‘Aye, remind me to give you a wee training session on motivational speaking, eh?’

Tufty parked the pool car next to a tired grey Vauxhall Astra, and they all climbed out into the stifling motionless air.

Muffled music thudded out of the caravan, heavy metal by the sound of it — the kind that was all screaming and howling and being very, very angry that Daddy didn’t buy you a pony.

A pile of pallets lay partially collapsed against one of the outbuildings, woven through with nettles and bramble. The spare bucket for an excavator rusted away, next to a big pile of gravel.

‘Aye, aye.’ Steel hauled up her trousers and pulled on her stolen shades. ‘Sounds like somebody’s home.’

Tufty grabbed the Airwave handset mounted on his high-vis, pressing the button and talking towards his nipple. ‘Alpha Charlie Eight to Control, we are in situ at Gorseburn Croft, near Durris. Be advised: looking for possible suspect in Natasha Agapova abduction.’

A tinny voice crackled out. ‘Roger that, Alpha Charlie Eight.’

He let go of the button and shrugged. ‘Just in case...’

Logan followed a trampled path through the grass and weeds between one of the outbuildings and the barn, into a sort of courtyard.

Then stopped, both arms out, blocking the way for Steel and Tufty.

‘What?’

‘Shhh...!’ He stuck a finger to his lips, then pointed at the trail of blood that spattered between the barn, the caravan, and the far building. Thick and dark. And a hell of a lot more than you’d get with a simple nosebleed.

OK.

Logan pointed at Tufty, then at the outbuilding. Then at Steel, and the caravan. Then at himself, and the barn. Then at both of his own eyes. Which surely everyone would understand?

Tufty nodded, and tiptoed along the side of the courtyard, making for his assigned target.

Good lad.

He peeked in through the ragged window hole. Then shot Logan a worried look, shaking his head and playing an invisible accordion. Whatever the hell that meant.

Steel picked her way across the quad, high-stepping over the trail of blood, to the caravan. Snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves and tried the door handle. Pulled a couple of times, before giving up and making a throat-cutting gesture with her thumb.

Locked.

Which left the barn.

The door was ajar, so Logan donned some gloves of his own and gave it a wee push...

Bloody hell.

Two figures lurked inside — one clothed, one half naked — along with a huge pool of blood.

‘Call it in: we need the whole circus here, ASAP!’

He stepped over the threshold, into the cool gloom, technically compromising the crime scene. But until he checked whether either of them were alive, that was just too bad.

The air stank of butchers’ shops and hot dust, full of fat greedy bluebottles that swirled and buzzzzzzzzzzzzed.

Looked as if the bloke, sitting on the floor with his back to the table saw, was dead. What with being pale as a block of lard, sitting in a lake of blood, with a gash right down his face, another across his chest, and a screwdriver poking out of his guts.

Pretty certain he was the man from the Scottish Daily Post’s front page: Keith Braithwaite.

Logan squatted down next to him, careful not to step in the scarlet lake, and felt for a pulse anyway. Because there were rules about this kind of thing.

Surprisingly enough: nope.

He stepped around the blood pool, making for the other figure.

Jesus...

Her torso was a map of bruises, her left knee all swollen and red, but her face was awash with dried blood, and a thick line of scabs framing her battered features. Even with the broken nose, black eye, and split lip, Natasha Agapova was easily recognisable.

And she was in her underwear. Never a good sign in situations like this. Especially given what Braithwaite had been charged with.

Logan knelt and felt for a pulse. ‘Please, please, please, please...’ Something trembled beneath his fingertips. ‘Ms Agapova? Natasha, can you hear me? It’s the police...’

Nothing.

Not even a flicker.

But she was alive.

Barely.

Logan turned, and there were Steel and Tufty — hovering just outside, staring in at the gory tableau. Trying not to mess-up the crime scene any more than he already had. ‘I NEED AN AMBULANCE NOW!’

And maybe, if they were lucky, she’d still be alive when it got here.

Today, the circus consisted of a grubby Scenes Transit van, four patrol cars, a handful of crime-scene marquees, and a black Mercedes.

No lions, tigers, or homemade elephants, but lots of hustle-bustle-rustle as techs hurried about in their white Tyvek suits. Taking samples and photographs and videos and fingerprints.

Steel settled back against the pool car, jerking her chin at the static caravan, where Chief Superintendent Pine was deep in conversation with one of the more senior Smurfs. ‘You should invite Perky Pine on Sunday. Bet she’d love to sample my lesbian sausages.’

‘Definitely not.’ Giving her the side eye. ‘And what exactly is in these “sausages” of yours, or don’t I want to know?’

The grin he got in return wasn’t exactly reassuring.

Urgh...

She patted him on the back. ‘We did good today: rescued the damsel in distress, saved the day.’

‘You did see the state of Keith Braithwaite, right? Our damsel turned him into a colander. She...’ He stood up straight as Pine peeled off from her conversation and strode across the courtyard towards them. ‘Here we go.’

Pine nodded. ‘Logan, Roberta. I think we...’ The rest of that sentence was drowned out as the Sky News chopper howled overhead. Circling the buildings, filming the action on the ground. ‘Oh, in the name of God.’ Screwing her face into a knot. ‘Why do the TV news people get a helicopter, but we have to make do with begging Dundee for a drone operator? Who doesn’t even turn up, because he’s off on the sick!’ She glowered at the aerial intrusion for a couple of breaths, then sighed. ‘Just heard from ARI — they’re trying to stabilise Natasha Agapova now. Fingers crossed. Maybe.’ She kicked the head off a dandelion, sending a puff of teeny-umbrella seeds twirling away into the air. ‘What a mess...’

‘Erm... About that.’ Logan pointed at the second outbuilding, the one that didn’t contain a puddle of blood, broken whisky bottle, and galvanised bin full of concrete. ‘We think there might’ve been a second victim. And given there’s a chunk of the field over there that’s recently been dug over...?’

‘Oh, that’s just great.’ Pine covered her face with both hands. ‘Any other disasters you’d like to coil out on my to-do list?’

‘SARGE?’ Sounded like Tufty, hollering away somewhere behind the barn. ‘HELOOOOOOO?’ Getting louder. ‘SARGE, SARGE, SARGE, SARGE, SARGE...’ He appeared around the corner. Gave Pine a wee wave. ‘Oh, hi, Boss.’ Then wiggled his phone at Logan. ‘Finally got a signal.’

The thrumming of rotor blades grew again, as Sky News made another pass.

Two white-suited Smurfs emerged from the barn, carrying a blue plastic evidence crate between them.

High in a tree, a pair of magpies screeched defiance, until the helicopter backed off.

And everyone stared at Tufty.

Finally, Logan gave him a poke. ‘And?’

‘Oh, yes, I see.’ The wee twit checked his phone. ‘You were bang-on the doodah — one Leroy McGuire, reported missing by his wife six weeks ago. Got an anonymous tip-off on a story, went to check it out, never came home. G Division looked into it, but...’ He shrugged, making his stabproof rise up and his neck shrink into the hole. Like a high-vis tortoise.

Logan turned to Pine. ‘McGuire was the journalist who broke the story about Keith Braithwaite, Boss. We figure Braithwaite maybe started his revenge tour with him.’

She dropped her hands and stared up into the wild blue yonder. ‘Given the way this week’s gone, if we dig up the field and do find a body, it’ll be someone else entirely.’

‘On the plus side: you said, “find Natasha Agapova in time for the lunchtime news,” right?’

Just a shame they didn’t know if she’d survive or not...

80

Logan ambled through the custody suite with two wax-paper cups of coffee — raising one in salute to Sergeant Downie with his webbed-feet and cave-fish tan on the way past — heading for the cells.

Someone down the end was belting out showtunes, while someone else screamed at them to shut up, over and over and over and over...

Halfway down the line of heavy blue doors, Logan knocked, then lowered the hatch till the safety-screen revealed the interior of Charles MacGarioch’s cell and:

‘WARNING ~ ↑ HATCH UNSAFE, CLOSE FULLY ↑’

MacGarioch lay on his thin blue plastic mattress, gazing at the advert for Crimestoppers painted on the ceiling.

He sat up.

So, Logan slid the hatch all the way down to ‘FULLY OPEN’ and balanced one of his wax-paper cups on the little sill. Coffee: milk and three sugars, because apparently that’s how MacGarioch liked it. Lukewarm, because Logan wasn’t about to have a scalding beverage hurled in his face.

‘It’s OK, Charlie: you don’t have to talk to me. Not without a lawyer. Brought you a coffee.’

MacGarioch unfolded himself from the mattress and slouched to the door. Tall enough that he was only visible from his neck to his chin through the hatch. He took the wax-paper cup and gave it a suspicious sniff.

‘I thought you should know that Spencer Findlater died this morning. We notified Ralph Hay, and he’s telling the rest of the group, but you’re stuck in here, so...’

It took two goes to get the choked words out: ‘Spence is dead?’

‘It wasn’t the car crash; they’d transferred him out of Intensive Care. Someone killed him. Took a pillow and just... smothered him.’ Logan softened his voice, because even racist dickbags had feelings. ‘If it helps, Spencer was on a suitcase-full of sedatives and painkillers, so they don’t think he suffered. Probably didn’t even know it was happening.’

‘Shite...’ There was a shaky breath, then MacGarioch thunked his head against the inside of the cell door. ‘He was my mate. Known him since we were six.’

‘Sorry.’ Logan took a sip of canteen coffee — better than the stuff from the machine, but still not great. And at least his one was hot. ‘Don’t know if this makes things better or worse, but he’s the guy who tipped us off about you burning the Balmain House Hotel. Told us where to find the petrol can with your fingerprints on it and everything.’

Thunk.

‘I think he knew he’d be safe ratting you out, because you’re far too loyal to ever break the Orphan Code. Even for someone who’s screwing you over, as long as they’re a “mate”.’

Thunk.

‘And this way you’d be out of the picture, so he could move in on your girlfriend. Keira said he was one of the “Thirsty Boys”, always trying to get in her pants.’

This time the thunk was a little harder and came with a growl.

‘Something to think about, anyway.’ Logan went to close the hatch, but stopped halfway. Opened it again. ‘There’s just one thing bugging me: in the car, after we arrested you at the circus — you said you only did it, because you “needed the money”. What money?’

Song finished, the bloke in the other cell started in on a medley from Oklahoma.

MacGarioch cleared his throat — voice a little strangled, as if he was swallowing tears. ‘Thanks... for the coffee.’ Then turned and carried his half-cold drink back to his uncomfortable bed.

Logan clacked the hatch shut.

Some people just didn’t want to help themselves...

The open-plan office was eerily silent for five past four on a Friday. The only inhabitants: Logan, two support staff, and a PC over by the printer — swearing at the machine between bouts of bowel-rattling coughs.

Logan sat back in his seat and frowned at the computer screen. Deleted his concluding sentences and tried again.

The events at Gorseburn Croft hadn’t exactly been straightforward, and the top brass liked everything laid out nice and clearly with as few complications, ‘howevers’ and ‘meanwhiles’ as possible. Which made the report on rescuing Natasha Agapova this morning a massive pain in the hoop.

Tufty hop-skipped across the room, with a big smile on his pointy wee face and a manila folder tucked under his arm. Throwing in a salute as he clicked to attention in front of Logan’s desk. ‘World’s Greatest Sidekick, reporting for duty, sah!’ Then plonked his folder in the in-tray. ‘I does has a finished.’

Yet another thing to read.

The wee loon made a big ta-daaaa gesture, then shrugged. ‘Turns out our abductist — in inverted commas, “Davis” — did sue the Scottish Daily Post for every penny it does has. Only the judge telled him to go poop in his hat, and awarded the paper costs and stuff.’ A sniff. ‘No wonder he was on a revenge.’

Logan cricked his neck to one side, making it pop and crackle like bubble-wrap. ‘What a sodding day.’

‘That’s Friday the thirteenth for you.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Though not really, as it’s just a case of confirmation bias. Cos people expect bad things to happen: they look out for the bad stuff and do go, “Oooh, this bad thingie must be because it’s Friday the thirteenth!” But if the same bad something happened on a Tuesday the fourth, they’d be all like, “pooping heck...” and just get on with it.’

Logan had another bash at concluding his report and sent it off. Had a massive stretch, then an equally massive slump. ‘Could sleep for a month.’

‘Ah, yes, but we did solve the case and rescue Natasha Agapova.’ Hoppity-skippity. ‘That’s successalicious, right?’

True.

Kind of.

If she survives...

He dumped the relevant forms in his out-tray, then reached for the next folder. Which had ‘OPERATION FIREDRAKE “FOOD VAN TURF WAR”’ printed across it in wonky Sharpie letters. ‘Told Charles MacGarioch about his good mate Spence screwing him over. Still wouldn’t talk.’

‘And now the newspapers will hail us as heroes, and tell everyone how groovy and clever we are, and buy us a extra-nice hat what does say “Brave Clever Person!” on it. In sequins. With an exclamation mark.’

‘Wouldn’t even tell me how burning a migrant hotel was meant to be a cash earner. I mean, how do you make money doing that?’

‘Hmmm...?’ Tufty raised his eyebrows. ‘Can’t even make money running one, never mind burning it. Look at poor old Mr Murray.’

‘Who?’

‘Owns the hotel. I did see inside his house when I put him to bed, and he is totally skintsville. Looks like he did has to sell all his furniture and stuff.’

Time for more coffee, because if the paperwork for Operation ‘Food Van Turf War’ was even half as boring as the stuff on Operation ‘Camper Vans Stolen To Order’, he was going to need all the caffeine he could get.

Gathering up all his empty wax-paper coffee cups, Logan dumped them in the bin. Stood. And checked the clock — 16:07. ‘Right: soon as the little hand hits five, we’re out of here. Got Morning Prayers for this stupid protest at seven tomorrow, and it’s going to be a complete...’

Hang on a minute.

He peered at the wee loon. ‘This Murray guy’s broke?’

‘I think he kinda drunk the family fortune after his wife and kid died.’

Well, well, well...

‘So, a man who’s financially screwed, owns a hotel that suddenly catches fire?’ Logan grabbed his peaked cap. ‘How much do you want to bet there’s a dirty-big insurance claim in the offing?’ Marching for the door. ‘Grab a pool car, we’re going to pay “poor old Mr Murray” a house call.’

Logan gave the door three loud, hard knocks, then stepped back.

The dirty granite walls of Mr Murray’s house had soaked up so much heat over the last week-and-a-bit that they blared it out like a radiator. Making things even worse as the punishing sun blistered down.

Sweat prickled across Logan’s brow, an itch spreading across his shoulders as it clawed its way down to his bones.

Whatever idiot decided to make the Police Scotland uniform all-sodding-black needed a good kick in the unmentionables.

This must be how bread felt when Tara made toast...

Tufty took his cap off and used it to waft himself. But then he was in the full stabproof-and-high-vis getup, so probably on the verge of melting.

Logan tried again: knock, knock, knock... ‘Don’t suppose he’s lying in there choking on his own vomit, do you?’

‘Totally yes possibles. We should totes do a wellness check. Wink, wink.’

‘Stop saying “wink, wink”, you twit. The “wink, wink” is implied.’ Looking up at the door lintel. ‘Can you see a key?’

‘Oh, I can do better than that.’ Tufty whirled his hands around in circles, making wiggly finger gestures at the door; then a deep breath and, ‘OPEN-SAYS-TUFTEEEEEE!’ Like something off Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.

The wee loon turned the handle and pushed.

Then stepped inside. ‘Mr Murray? Are you OK?’

What?

Logan followed him into a manky monochrome hallway straight out of a Tim Burton film. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Wasn’t locked.’ A grin. ‘See, a door is either locked or it isn’t, one or the other, so I had a fifty-fifty chance it wouldn’t be. Worth a punt to look cooltastic, wasn’t it?’

Unbelievable.

‘You’re an idiot.’ Logan cupped his hands either side of his mouth. ‘MR MURRAY?’

Tufty copied him. ‘THIS IS YOUR FOUR O’CLOCK WELLNESS CHECK! ARE YOU OK?’ Then stuck his head into the living room. ‘MR MUUUUUU-RRAY?’

Logan tried the door at the end of the hall, which opened on a dusty, gloomy kitchen slowly disappearing under a sea of empty bottles. But no Mr Murray.

Time to search the rest of the house.

Ten minutes, and two floors later, they found him at the very top of the house.

‘Mr Murray?’ Tufty tiptoed into what looked like a small child’s bedroom — still fully furnished and clean, unlike the rest of the place — complete with teddy bear and rocking horse. As if the kid was just late home from school. ‘Mr Murray, are you OK?’

He was lying on the floor, curled up on the only bit of carpet in the whole building, sobbing quietly, with his face pressed against the tail end of a Mr Man duvet cover.

So not OK.

And from the look of things, he probably never would be again.

Logan stepped over the threshold, blinking as a fug of second-hand booze enveloped him. Sharp and stale and miserable. ‘Come on, we’d better get you downstairs.’

Down in the horrible, bottle-filled kitchen, Logan propped Mr Murray up on a rickety kitchen chair, while Tufty went a-rummaging. Banging and clattering his way through the cupboards, looking for supplies to make coffee with.

‘Mr Murray?’ Logan gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze; all friends together. ‘Do you want to tell us about Spencer Findlater and Charles MacGarioch?’

He smacked his lips, releasing the stench of too much cheap wine on an empty stomach. ‘I used have... used have dreeeeeeams.... know? Dreams.’ Waving a hand at the house that festered all around them. ‘Not any... not any more... All that’s... all that’s dead, now... Dead, dead, dead.’

‘Aha! Sarge: I does has a success.’ Tufty clunked a jar of instant down on the worktop. ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Murray, we’ve got everything necessary for a good sobering-up cuppa! Except for milk. And sugar. And a clean mug. But other than that, we’re great.’

‘Mr Murray? Why don’t we start with how you met Charles MacGarioch and Spencer Findlater?’

The man screwed one eye closed, the other watery and bloodshot as he peered up at Logan. ‘S’not... didn’t...’ A shudder. ‘Wasn’t my... my fault.’ Wobbling on his chair as the kettle boiled.

‘You sure about that?’

‘No...’ His lips trembled, good eye shimmering as the tears welled up. ‘No one was... no one was meant... to get hurrrrrrt.’ Rubbing at his stomach as the half-word, half-belch dissipated. ‘See... header tank. Header tank!’

‘The leak.’ The one PC Kent mentioned — the burst pipes that forced the families at the front of the hotel to move to the back.

Mr Murray put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhhhhhh...! Was meant... meant to flood all... should’a... all the bedrooms out... But got the pipes... mixed-up and... only front ones!’ He grabbed the nearest bottle, swirling it in front of his face, as if trying to get the contents in focus. But it was empty, so he chucked it over his shoulder.

It bounced off the tatty wee fridge and smashed against the floor.

‘Only front flooded... Wanted to... wanted to cancel fire... but forgot... to phone!... Forgot to phone.’ Grabbing another bottle — empty. ‘Too late.’ He threw both hands in the air. ‘Whoooooosh!’

Smash.

It took a bit of doing, but Logan kept his voice warm and friendly. ‘What made you think the insurance company would fall for it?’

‘Ahaaaaa... Cos...’ Mr Murray threw Tufty a shifty look, as if he might clype to the authorities. ‘Cos everyone knows... racist pricks... everywhere these days... Far-right did it!... Burning things... Thick as pigshit... Nazi wankers.’ The finger came up to his lips again. ‘Shhhhh...! Nobody ever... will ever know!’

‘Yes they sodding well will: on your feet.’

So, it wasn’t racism after all.

It was good old-fashioned greed, coupled with incompetence.

Logan produced his handcuffs. ‘Craig Murray, I am arresting you under section one of the Criminal Justice, Scotland, Act 2016...’

81

Logan stood on the sun-speckled lawn, arms spread wide as a cool breeze rippled across the back garden. Blessed relief from the relentless baking heat of the last week and a bit.

Birds sang Monteverdi in the treetops, and the moon sparkled like burnished gold, crowning an azure sky.

‘Duran Duran!’ Tara wandered out from the kitchen, carrying a pot of bubbling mince. ‘We’ve got five of Duran Duran’s greatest hits, but the song titles have all been scrambled into anagrams. And what you need to do is unscramble them.’

He bent his knees, and pushed off the green sward.

‘“Firing Molls”, “I Two Like Lava”, “Owls By Id”, “Ennui Foot Shaken”, and “Eight Flunky Howler”.’

Four feet up, Logan swooshed his arms back and his legs together, swimming the breaststroke, higher and higher.

‘You get a five-second bonus if you can recite them all in alphabetical order, or ten seconds by date of release, or a whopping twenty seconds if you can do it by chart position.’

He soared over the back fence, turning as the sun began to—

A filthy bird flew straight into his mouth, dirty and brown and Logan spluttered, thrashing upright, coughing and gagging. ‘Aaaaaaarrgh! What the...?’

Steel danced back a couple of steps, wiping a damp digit on her Police Scotland T-shirt. Grinning. ‘Trust me: you don’t want to know where this finger’s been.’ Still wearing her peaked cap.

‘Gagh... You revolting...’ Scrambling out of his chair, making dry spitting sounds, trying to get rid of the taste.

The Critical Care Unit’s waiting room was much nicer than the other ones in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. Probably because anyone stuck in here, killing time till a doctor turned up bearing news of their loved ones, was often about to have the worst day of their lives — and someone thought a bit of soft furnishings would cushion the blow.

So instead of the usual crappy plastic seats, there were half a dozen comfortable armchairs, two couches, assorted coffee tables, a decent-looking plastic pot plant, a water cooler, a vending machine, and a wall-mounted TV screen. Where some stupid quiz show droned away to itself:

‘And remember, you can either use any seconds you win to reduce your teammates’ sentences in Temporal Prison, or bank them for extra time in the Prize Vortex!’

Logan wiped a hand across his tongue. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘I’m going to miss our happy little workplace interactions.’

‘Bloody hell...’ He filled a plastic cup with water from the cooler, swilling his mouth out as the gormless-looking bloke on the telly gawped up at the quiz board.

‘Ermm... I think I’m gonna... Yeah, sorry guys: I’m going to bank it.’

‘You hear about Eddy Dunn?’ Steel thumped down into the nearest couch — feet up on a coffee table. ‘Poor old sod drowned in that weir thing, out by the Auchmill Golf Course. Full of Special Brew and jellies. Aye, Eddy, no’ the weir.’

‘Shite... Only saw him yesterday.’

‘He was eight the first time I arrested him.’ She grabbed the TV remote. ‘Banged-up his dad dozens of times, and his nan, and his grandad too.’ Frowning. ‘What chance did Eddy have?’

‘OK, John, it’s time to beat The Time Vault! Let’s—’

Steel ponked the button and the quiz show disappeared, replaced by some cheesy drama:

‘Oh, Emily, it’s impossible. The bridge is out and there’s no way to get—’

Another crappy quiz show:

‘...three more right answers and you can go for the accumulator round! So, for a blue triangle, what’s—’

Reality-TV thing:

‘But what Clive doesn’t know is that Hannah’s allergic to shellfish—’

And the wheel of mindless pap spun on...

Steel sniffed. ‘Any news on Agapova?’

‘You’re disgusting.’

‘And you’re an idiot.’ Pointing the finger she’d stuck in his mouth. ‘What you doing here, when you should be back at the factory, doing a lap of honour for the cameras? Perky Pine’s got the world’s press lined up to celebrate us solving the case.’

He dumped his plastic cup in the recycling and sank into his armchair again. ‘The preening-glory-hound stuff’s never really been my strong suit.’ Yawning and stretching. ‘Besides, shift’s over. This way I get to go home.’

‘Aye? And how’s that working out for you: sat here, waiting for news, like a big gype?’

‘Same as it is for you.’

She pursed her lips, frowning as an eighties biopic turned into an American sitcom, then another crappy reality-TV thing, then an ancient film with long-dead stars in it... Her shoulders dipped a bit, followed by a sigh. ‘Aye. I’m no’ going to miss this bit of the job.’ Ancient cop show, scripted reality show, American sitcom, reality show... ‘Still: better than waiting in the mortuary! That formaldehyde-and-dead-people stink gets right in your crack.’

Onscreen, the wheel had come full circle. That quiz show must’ve finished, because an advert for some celebrity property show was playing now. Then the BBC News logo pulsed onto the telly like an angry haemorrhoid. Throbbing in time to a techno beat.

Steel hit mute.

A pug-faced newsreader appeared, doing her serious-look-to-camera as she delivered The Headlines, while an inset graphic showed a train crash somewhere down south.

Logan stretched out a bit. ‘Can’t believe you’re actually retiring.’

The inset changed to an arson attack on a community library.

‘Wee birdy tells me you got a result on the hotel fire?’

He groaned. ‘Human beings are bloody awful.’

‘Shock, horror. No. Please: say it ain’t so.’

‘I mean, I used to think people were basically OK, you know? They meant well. Now they’re just... getting stupider and nastier and more and more selfish. “Screw the rest of the world, long as I get what I want — right — sodding — now!”’

The fire got swapped for a greasy politician, no doubt caught doing greasy politician things in a greasy political way.

Logan grimaced at the screen. ‘Craig Murray’s going bankrupt, so he hits on the great idea of burning his hotel down, blaming racist tosspots, and claiming on the insurance. He bumps into Spencer Findlater down the local off-licence, they get chatting, and Spencer agrees to torch the place with a mate of his, for the princely sum of three hundred pounds. And that’s not each, that’s between the two of them.’ Logan’s head fell back to stare at the ceiling tiles. ‘That’s what Soban Yūsuf’s life was worth. One-fifty a piece. Jesus...’

Steel shook her head. ‘Gotta love people.’

The inset changed to mass protests in some former Soviet country, not keen on the Kremlin wanking about with their elections.

She stuffed a bit of jollity into her voice. ‘Can you imagine what my leaving do’s going to be like? Booze and strippers everywhere.’

‘Yeah, but after that it’s just golf and gardening and taking the kids to various whatnots for the rest of your days. Sounds...’

Then an aerial shot of Gorseburn Croft filled the screen.

‘Hold on.’ Waving a hand at her. ‘Turn it up, turn it up!’

Steel fiddled with the remote and the newsreader’s voice swelled through the speakers:

‘...an isolated farmhouse, twelve miles from the city centre.’

The picture jumped to the big conference room, where Chief Superintendent Pine and PC Sweeny shared the briefing table with a tanned, tailored, coiffured, middle-aged man. Sort of Indiana Jones meets Crocodile Dundee, in a very expensive suit. Adrian Shearsmith: Natasha Agapova’s ex-husband.

Bet the chunky gold watch on his wrist cost more than Logan’s house.

‘Aye, you can tell by looking at him: the boy’s an utter bawbag.’

Pine leaned into the nest of microphones. ‘Thank you. I can confirm that following an extensive investigation, officers raided a croft in the Durris area and rescued Natasha Agapova at noon today. Ms Agapova was severely dehydrated and had sustained multiple injuries; she was rushed to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary in an Air Ambulance...’

‘Hello?’ There was a knock at the waiting-room door. A baggy-eyed doctor in pale pink scrubs and purple Crocs slouched across the threshold, most of his face hidden behind an N95 mask. ‘You here about Natasha?’

Steel hit mute again and stood, whipping her peaked cap off. Only instead of a carefully styled and curled coiffure, today’s hairdo was a flattened mop of hingin’ mince. She must’ve felt him staring. ‘What? I couldn’t get it to sit right this morning, OK?’

Dr Pink checked his clipboard. ‘The bruising and contusions are fairly superficial, but she’s got three broken ribs, and her knee is — please excuse the complicated medical terminology — what our orthopaedic specialists like to call “buggered”. If she pulls through, she’ll probably want to have her nose reset at some point.’ He clutched the clipboard to his chest, like a thin, flat teddy bear. ‘The bigger problem is dehydration. Go without water for long enough and your body starts to, basically, steal moisture from your internal organs. Leading to kidney damage, multiple organ failure, brain damage, and ultimately: death.’

Logan cleared his throat. ‘“If she pulls through”...?’

‘The next forty-eight hours will be extremely critical, but with a bit of luck?’ Dr Pink stopped cuddling his clipboard. ‘We’re pushing fluids as hard as we can... however: it’s going to be a long road. If she can make it to Monday, I’d say we’re in with a fighting chance. It’s—’ A bleeping noise came from his pocket. He pulled out a pager, and squinted at the screen. ‘Bugger-fudge. Sorry, got to go.’

And off he clomped, fast as his Crocs would carry him.

Logan slouched back to the seat and retrieved his hat.

On the TV, Pine shuffled her notes and sat down again.

Then Adrian Shearsmith, rose to his feet, pulled his chin up, buttoned his suit jacket, and launched into what looked like a very angry rant. Jabbing his finger at Chief Superintendent Pine while she sat there, stony-faced and immobile.

The cameras flashed and flickered as pain crawled its way across Sweeny’s face.

And the feeding frenzy began...