Copyright

Harper

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London SE1 9GF

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First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2015

Extract from In the Cold Dark Ground © Stuart MacBride 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Cover design © Blacksheep

Cover photographs © Pim Vuik

Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. The only exception to this are the characters Dean Scott, Syd Fraser, and Tony Wishart – who have given their express permission to be fictionalized in this volume – and Hector, the resident Banff Police Station ghost, who hasn’t. All behaviour, history, and character traits assigned to these individuals have been designed to serve the needs of the narrative and do not necessarily bear any resemblance to the real people. The Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool signage appears courtesy of Aberdeenshire Council.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007494637

Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780007494620

Version: 2020-12-01

Dedication

For the brave loons and quines who made Grampian Police the great force it was

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Without Whom

Run.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Monday Backshift: Cromarty: Seven to Eight, Rising. Occasionally Severe.

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Tuesday: Court: The Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth.

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Wednesday Backshift: Some People Just Need a Clip Round the Ear …

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Thursday: Rest Day

Chapter 22

Friday: Rest Day

Chapter 23

Saturday Earlyshift: Hindsight is a Treacherous Mirror.

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Saturday Lateshift: Young Love.

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Sunday Earlyshift: Drugs for a Fairy Princess.

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Sunday Backshift: Burn.

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Monday Earlyshift: The Other Shoe.

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Monday Backshift: Broken Bones.

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Tuesday Earlyshift: Breathe.

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Keep reading

About the Author

By Stuart MacBride

About the Publisher

Without Whom

As always I’ve received a lot of help from a lot of people while I was writing this book and I’d like to thank: Ishbel Gall, Prof. Lorna Dawson, Prof. Dave Barclay, Dr James Grieve, and Prof. Sue Black, for all their forensic cleverness; Deputy Divisional Commander Mark Cooper, Sergeant Bruce Crawford, the excellent officers and support staff of B Division, everyone at the Mintlaw Road Policing Unit, Alison Cowie, Lisa Shand, and all the OST instructors; Fiona, Magnus, and Alan; Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Louise Swannell, Oliver Malcolm, Sarah Collett, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Sarah Benton, Damon Greeney, Kate Stephenson, Lucy Dauman, Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie, the DC Bishopbriggs Wild Brigade, and all the lovely people at HarperCollins (you’re all great); and Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my cat in shoes all these years.

More thanks to the naughty Alex, Nadine, Dave, Maureen, Al, Donna, Zoë, Mark, Peter, Russel, Chris, Christopher, Scott, and Catherine. And Russell (who inspired Bikini Golf).

A number of people have helped raise a lot of money for charity by bidding to have a character named after them in this book: Dean Scott, Syd Fraser, and Denise Wishart (Tony’s mum).

And, as per tradition, saving the best for last: Fiona and Grendel.

I’ve taken the occasional liberty with the street names and geography of the northeast, for what, I hope, are obvious reasons. But I’ve been entirely accurate about how beautiful the place is. Don’t take my word for it – get up there and see for yourself. It’s great.

Run.

1

Faster. Sharp leaves whip past her ears, skeletal bushes and shrubs snatch at her ankles as she lurches into the next garden, breath trailing in her wake. Bare feet burning through the crisp, frozen grass.

He’s getting louder, shouting and crashing and swearing through hedges in the gloom behind her. Getting closer.

Oh God …

She scrambles over a tall wooden fence, dislodging a flurry of frost. There’s a sharp ripping sound and the hem of her summer dress leaves a chunk of itself behind. The sandpit rushes up to meet her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

Please …

Not like this …

Not flat on her back in a stranger’s garden.

Above her, the sky fades from dirty grey to dark, filthy, orange. Tiny winks of light forge across it – a plane on its way south. The sound of a radio wafts out from an open kitchen window somewhere. The smoky smear of a roaring log fire. A small child screaming that it’s not tired yet.

Up!

She scrambles to her feet and out onto the slippery crunch of frozen lawn, her shoes lost many gardens back. Tights laddered and torn, painted toenails on grubby feet. Breath searing her lungs, making a wall of fog around her head.

Run.

Straight across to the opposite side as the back door opens and a man comes out, cup of tea in one hand. Mouth hanging open. ‘Hoy! What do you think you’re—’

She doesn’t stop. Bends almost in half and charges into the thick leylandii hedge. The jagged green scrapes at her cheeks. A sharp pain slashes across her calf.

RUN!

If He catches her, that’s it. He’ll drag her back to the dark. Lock her away from the sun and the world and the people who love her. Make her suffer.

She bursts out the other side.

A woman squats in the middle of the lawn next to a border terrier. She’s wearing a blue plastic bag on her hand like a glove, hovering it over a mound of steaming brown. Her eyes snap wide, eyebrows up. Staring. ‘Oh my God, are you …?’

His voice bellows out across the twilight. ‘COME BACK HERE!’

Don’t stop. Never stop. Don’t let him catch up.

Not now.

Not after all she’s been through.

It’s not fair.

She takes a deep breath and runs.

‘God’s sake …’ Logan shoved his way out of a thick wad of hedge into another big garden and staggered to a halt. Spat out bitter shreds of green that tasted like pine disinfectant.

A woman caught in the act of poop-scooping stared up at him.

He dragged out his Airwave handset and pointed it at her. ‘Which way?’

The hand wrapped in the carrier bag came up and trembled towards the neighbour’s fence.

Brilliant …

‘Thanks.’ Logan pressed the button and ran for it. ‘Tell Biohazard Bob to get the car round to Hillview Drive, it’s …’ He scrambled onto the roof of a wee plastic bike-shed thing, shoes skidding on the frosty plastic. From there to the top of a narrow brick wall. Squinted out over a patchwork of darkened gardens and ones bathed in the glow of house lights. ‘It’s the junction with Hillview Terrace.’

Detective Chief Inspector Steel’s smoky voice rasped out of the handset’s speaker. ‘How have you no’ caught the wee sod yet?’

‘Don’t start. It’s … Woah.’ A wobble. Both hands out, windmilling. Then frozen, bent forward over an eight-foot drop into a patch of Brussels sprouts.

‘What have I told you about screwing this up?’

Blah, blah, blah.

The gardens stretched away in front, behind, and to the right – backing onto the next road over. No sign of her. ‘Where the hell are you?’

There – forcing her way through a copse of rowan and ash, making for the hedge on the other side. Two more gardens and she’d be out on the road.

Right.

Logan hit the send button again. ‘I need you to—’ His left shoe parted company with the wall. ‘AAAAAAAARGH!’ Cracking through dark green spears, sending little green bombs flying, and thumping into the frozen earth below. THUMP. ‘Officer down!’

‘Laz? Jesus, what the hell’s …’ Steel’s voice faded for a second. ‘You! I want an armed response unit and an ambulance round to—’

‘Gah …’ He scrabbled upright, bits of squashed Brussels sprouts sticking to his dirt-smeared suit. ‘Officer back up again!’

‘Are you taking the—’

The handset went in his pocket again and he sprinted for the fence. Clambered over it as Steel’s foul-mouthed complaints crackled away to themselves.

Across the next garden in a dozen strides, onto a box hedge then up over another slab of brick.

She was struggling with a wall of rosebushes, their thorned snaking branches digging into her blue summer dress, slicing ribbons of blood from her arms and legs. Blonde hair caught in the spines.

‘YOU! STOP RIGHT THERE!’

‘Please no, please no, please no …’

Logan dropped into the garden.

She wrenched herself free and disappeared towards the last house on the road, leaving her scalp behind … No, not a scalp – a wig.

He sprinted. Jumped. Almost cleared the bush. Crashed through the privet on the other side, head first. Tumbled.

On his feet.

There!

He rugby-tackled her by the gate, his shoulder slamming into the small of her back, sending them both crunching onto the gravel. Sharp stones dug into his knees and side. The smell of dust and cat scratched into the air.

And she SCREAMED. No words, just a high-pitched bellow, face scarlet, spittle flying, eyes like chunks of granite. Stubble visible through the pancake makeup that covered her thorn-torn cheeks. Breath a sour cloud of grey in the cold air. Hands curled into fists, battering against Logan’s chest and arms.

A fist flashed at Logan’s face and he grabbed it. ‘Cut it out! I’m detaining you under—’

‘KILL YOU!’ The other hand wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed. Nails digging into his skin, sharp and stinging.

Sod that. Logan snapped his head back, then whipped it forward. Crack – right into the bridge of her nose.

A grunt and she let go, beads of blood spattering against his cheek. Warm and wet.

He snatched at her wrist, pulled till the hand was folded forward at ninety degrees, and leaned on the joint.

The struggling stopped, replaced by a sucking hiss of pain. Adam’s apple bobbing. Scarlet dripping across her lips. ‘Let me go, you bastard!’ Not a woman’s voice at all, getting deeper with every word. ‘I didn’t do anything!’

Logan hauled out his cuffs and snapped them on the twisted wrist, using the whole thing as a lever against the strained joint.

‘Where’s Stephen Bisset?’

‘HELP! RAPE!’

More pressure. ‘I’m not asking you again – where is he?’

‘Aaaaagh … You’re breaking my wrist! … Please, I don’t—’

One more push.

‘OK! OK! God …’ A deep breath through gritted, blood-stained, teeth. Then a grin. ‘He’s dying. All on his own, in the dark. He’s dying. And there’s nothing you can do about it.’

2

The windscreen wipers squealed and groaned their way across the glass, clearing the dusting of tiny white flakes. The council hadn’t taken the Christmas decorations down yet: snowmen, and holly sprigs, and bells, and reindeer, and Santas shone bright against the darkness.

Ten days ago and the whole place would have been heaving – Hogmanay, like a hundred Friday nights all squished into one – but now it was deserted. Everyone would be huddled up at home, nursing Christmas overdrafts and longing for payday.

The pool car’s wheels hissed through the slush. No traffic – the only other vehicles were parked at the side of the road, being slowly bleached by the falling snow.

Logan turned in his seat and scowled into the back of the car as they made the turn onto the North Deeside Road. ‘Last chance, Graham.’

Graham Stirling sat hunched forwards, hands cuffed in front of him now, dabbing at his blood-crusted nostrils with grubby fingers. Voice thick and flat. ‘You broke my nose …’

Sitting next to him, Biohazard Bob sniffed. ‘Aye, and you didn’t even say thank you, did you?’ The single thick eyebrow that lurked above his eyes made a hairy V-shape. He leaned in, so close one of his big sticky-out ears brushed Stirling’s forehead. ‘Now answer the question: where’s Stephen Bisset?’

‘I need to go to hospital.’

‘You need a stiff kicking is what you need.’ Biohazard curled a hand into a hairy fist. ‘Now tell us where Bisset is, or so help me God, I’m going to—’

‘Detective Sergeant Marshall! Enough.’ Logan bared his teeth. ‘We don’t assault prisoners in police cars.’

Biohazard sat back in his seat. Lowered his fist. ‘Aye, it makes a mess of the upholstery. Rennie: find somewhere quiet to park. Somewhere dark.’

DS Rennie pulled the car to a halt at the pedestrian crossing, tip-tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as a pair of well-dressed men staggered across the road. Arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. Singing an old Rod Stewart tune. Oblivious as the snow got heavier.

Their suits looked a lot more expensive than Rennie’s. Their haircuts too – his stuck up in a blond mop above his pink-cheeked face, neck disappearing into a shirt collar two sizes too big for it. Like a wee boy playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You want the court to know you cooperated, don’t you, Graham? That you helped? Might save you a couple of years inside?’

Silence.

Stirling picked a clot of blood from the skin beneath his nose and wiped it on the tattered fabric of his dress.

‘The DI’s serious, Graham, he’s not going to ask you again. Why not do yourself a favour and tell him what he needs to know?’

A pause. Then Stirling looked up. Smiled. ‘OK.’

Biohazard pulled out an Airwave handset. ‘’Bout time. Come on then – address?’

His pink tongue emerged, slid its way around pale lips. ‘No. You and the boy have to get out. I talk to him,’ pointing at Logan, ‘or we go back to the station and you get me a lawyer.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Stirling, we’re not—’

‘No comment.’

Logan sighed. ‘This is idiotic, it’s—’

‘You heard me: no comment. They get out, or you get me a lawyer.’

Rennie’s face pinched. ‘Guv?’

‘No comment.’

Logan rubbed his eyes. ‘Out. Both of you.’

‘Guv, I don’t think that’s—’

‘I know. Now: out.’

Rennie stared at Biohazard.

Pause.

Biohazard shrugged. Then climbed out onto the empty pavement.

A beat later, Rennie killed the engine and followed him. ‘Still think this is a bad idea.’

Clunk, the door shut, leaving Logan and Graham Stirling alone in the car.

‘Talk.’

‘The forest on the Slug Road. There’s a track off into the trees, you need a key for the gate. An … an old forestry worker’s shack hidden away in there, miles from anywhere.’ The smile grew hazy, the eyes too, as if he was reliving something. ‘If you’re lucky, Steve might still be alive.’

Logan took out his handset. ‘Right. We’ll—’

‘You’ll never find it without me. It’s not on any maps. Can’t even see it on Google Earth.’ Stirling leaned forward. ‘Search all you like: by the time you find him, Steve Bisset will be long dead.’

The pool car’s headlights cast long jagged shadows between the trees, its warning strobes glittering blue-and-white against the needles. Catching the thick flakes of snow and making them shine, caught in their slow-motion dance to the forest floor.

Logan shifted his footing on the frozen, rutted track. Ran his torch along the treeline.

Middle of nowhere.

He wiped a drip from the end of his nose. ‘Well, what was I supposed to do? Let him no-comment till Stephen Bisset dies?’

The track snaked off further into the darkness, bordered on both sides by tussocks of grass, slowly disappearing under the falling snow, glowing in the torchlight.

On the other end of the phone, Steel groaned. ‘Could you no’ have let the nasty wee sod fall down the stairs a few times? We’re no’ allowed to—’

‘You want to tell Stephen’s family we let him freeze to death, all alone, in a shack in the forest, because we were more concerned with following procedure than saving his life?’

‘Laz, it’s no’ that simple, we—’

‘Because if that’s what you want, tell me now and we’ll head back to HQ. You can help Dr Simms pick out a body-bag. Probably still got some nice Christmas paper knocking about, you could use that. Wrap his corpse up with a bow on top.’

‘Will you shut up and—’

‘Maybe something with kittens and teddy bears on it, so Bisset’s kids won’t mind so much?’

Silence.

‘Hello?’

‘All right, all right. But he better be alive. And another thing—’

He hung up and marched over to the pool car.

Biohazard leaned against the bonnet, arms folded, shoulders hunched, one cowboy boot up on the bumper. Nose going bright red, the tips of his taxi-door ears too. He spat. Nodded at the ill-fitting suit behind the steering wheel. ‘The wee loon’s right, this is daft.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve cleared it with the boss, so we’re doing it.’

A sniff. ‘What if Danny the Drag Queen tries it on when you’re out there?’

Logan peered around Biohazard’s shoulder.

Stirling was slumped in the rear seat, blood dried to a black mask that hid the lower half of his face. Bruises already darkening the skin beneath both eyes. The blue sundress all mud-stained and tatty after the chase through the gardens. Shivering.

‘Think I’ll risk it.’ Logan pulled out the canister of CS gas from his jacket pocket, ran his thumbnail across the join between the safety cap and the body. ‘But just in case, get his hands cuffed behind him. And I want the pair of you ready to charge in.’

Logan popped open the back door and leaned into the car. It smelled of sweat and fear and rusting meat. ‘Out.’

Twigs snapped beneath his feet as they picked their way between the grey-brown branches, following the circle of light cast by Logan’s torch. A tiny dot, adrift on an ocean of darkness.

Something moved out there. Little scampering feet and claws that skittered away into the night.

Logan flicked the torch in its direction. ‘How much further?’

He jerked his chin to the left. ‘That way.’ The words plumed out from his mouth in a glowing cloud, caught in the torchlight. Curling away into the night. Dragon’s breath.

Down a slope, into a depression lined with brambles and the curled remains of long-dead ferns, already sagging under the weight of snow. More falling from the sickly dark sky.

Stirling’s feet clumped about in Rennie’s shoes, the scuffed black brogues and white socks looking huge beneath the torn sundress and laddered tights.

Up the other side, through the ferns – brittle foliage wrapping around Logan’s trousers, leaving cold wet fingerprints. ‘Why him? Why Stephen Bisset?’

‘Why?’ A shrug. The torchlight glinted off the handcuffs’ metal bars, secured behind his back, fingers laced together as if they were taking a casual stroll along the beach. ‘Why not?’ A small sigh. ‘Because he was there.’

Logan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. Another five, and that was it: call this charade off. Call in a dog team. Get the helicopter up from Strathclyde with a thermal-imaging camera. Assuming Steel could pull enough rank to get them to fly this far north on a Friday night in January.

They stumbled on between the silent trees. Fallen pine needles made ochre drifts between the snaking roots, the branches too thick to let the snow through.

He stopped, pulled up his sleeve – exposing his watch again. ‘Time’s up. I’m not sodding about here any longer.’ He grabbed the plastic bar in the middle of the handcuffs and dragged Stirling to a halt. ‘This is a waste of time, isn’t it? You’re never going to show me where Stephen Bisset is. You want him dead so he can’t testify against you.’

Stirling turned. Stared at Logan. Face lit from beneath by the torch, like someone telling a campfire horror story. Tilted his head to the left. ‘You see?’

Logan stepped away. Swung the torch’s beam in an arc across the trees, raking the needle-strewn forest floor with darting shadows …

A sagging wooden structure lurked between the trunks, in a space that barely counted as a clearing, partially hidden by a wall of skeletal brambles.

Stirling’s voice dropped to a serrated-edged whisper. ‘He’s in there.’

Another step. Then stop.

Logan turned. Shone the torch right in Stirling’s face, making him flinch and shy back, eyes clamped shut. Then took out his handcuff key. ‘On your knees.’

A thick stainless-steel padlock secured the shack’s door. It had four numerical tumblers built into the base, its hasp connecting a pair of heavy metal plates – one fixed to the door, the other to the surround. Both set up so the screw heads were inaccessible.

Logan flicked the torch beam towards Stirling. ‘Combination?’

He was still on his knees, both arms wrapped around the tree trunk, as if he was giving it a hug. Hands cuffed together on the other side. Cheek pressed hard against the bark. ‘One, seven, zero, seven.’

The dials were stiff, awkward, but they turned after a bit of fiddling. Squeaking against Logan’s blue-nitrile-gloved fingertips. Clicking as they lined up into the right order. The hasp popped open and he slipped the padlock free of the metal plates. Slipped it into an evidence bag.

Pushed the door.

Almost as stiff as the padlock wheels, it creaked open and the stench of dirty bodies and blood and piss and shite collapsed over Logan. Making him step back.

Deep breath.

He stepped over the threshold. ‘Stephen? Stephen Bisset? It’s OK, you’re safe now; it’s the police.’

Bloody hell – it was actually colder inside the shack.

The torch picked out a stack of poles and saws and chains. Then a heap of logs and an old tarpaulin. Then a cast-iron stove missing its door. Then a pile of filthy blankets.

‘Stephen? Hello?’

Logan reached out and picked one of the poles from the stack. Smooth and shiny from countless hands over countless years. A bill hook rattled on the end, the screws all loose and rusted. ‘Stephen? I’ve come to take you home.’

He slipped the hook under the nearest blanket and lifted.

Oh Christ …

Outside. The cold air clawed at the sweat peppering his face. Deep breath.

Logan rested his forehead against a tree, bark rough against his skin. The smell of pine nowhere near strong enough to wash away the shack’s corrupt stench.

Don’t be sick.

Be professional.

Oh God …

Deep breath.

‘I …’ His throat closed, strangling the words. Pressed his forehead into the bark so hard it stung. Tried again. ‘I should kick the living shit out of you.’

Stirling’s voice oozed out from the darkness. ‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’

The phone trembled in Logan’s hands as he dug it out and called Steel. ‘I’ve found Stephen Bisset.’

There was a whoop from the other end. Then, ‘Laz, I could French you. Is he …?’

‘No.’ Though if he ever woke up, he’d probably wish he was. ‘I need an ambulance, and an SEB goon-squad, and a Crime Scene Manager, and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree.’

3

Big Tony Campbell slung his jacket over the back of his chair and slumped down. Aberdeen City’s Divisional Commander, the Big Boss, Arse-Kicker In Chief: a large man, with broad shoulders and hands to match. His bald head gleamed in the last rays of a dying sun, seeping across the rooftops of the city and into the office. The only hairs loyal enough to cling on above the neckline were his eyebrows – heavy, black, and bushy.

He pointed to the seat on the other side of the polished wooden desk. ‘Sit.’ Then swivelled around and hunched down, giving Logan a perfect view of his shirt coming untucked from the waistband of his trousers. Exposing a swathe of thick dark fur.

Logan settled into the nominated seat and stifled a yawn, covering it with his hand as Big Tony Campbell re-emerged with a bottle of Highland Park in one hand and two crystal tumblers in the other. They went on the desk.

A healthy portion of whisky glugged into both glasses, then the Divisional Commander handed one over. ‘They tell me Stephen Bisset’s going to live.’

Logan licked his teeth – rough and unbrushed. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Might’ve been better if you’d arrived too late.’ His fingers hovered over the folder that sat in front of the computer. He didn’t touch the manila surface, as if it might be infectious. ‘Castrated, teeth ripped out, chest slashed open and “implants” forced inside, repeatedly raped … Never mind all the broken bones.’ The corners of his mouth curdled. ‘A non-elective sex change courtesy of Jack the Ripper. Still …’

He raised his glass and Logan did the same. Clinking the two together, before taking a sip.

Warmth slid all the way down into Logan’s belly, leaving smoky footprints behind.

The Divisional Commander spun his seat around till it faced the window. Gazed out over his domain as darkness claimed it. Took another drink. ‘Your boss tells me you’re not really cut out to be an Acting Detective Inspector.’

‘Does she now?’ Backstabbing cow …

Well, unless this was promotion time? Time to stop acting up and make the step for real. With the pay rise that went with it. OK, so he wouldn’t get overtime any more, but swings and roundabouts. Logan sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Actually, sir, I think she’s—’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ the Divisional Commander held up a hand, ‘it’s not that you can’t do the job – the Bisset investigation more than proves that – but she seems to think you don’t like doing it. The man management, the spreadsheets, the meetings, the budget balancing.’ Another sip. ‘Is she right?’

Don’t fidget.

‘Well, sir, it’s … Detective Chief Inspector Steel, sometimes—’

‘You see, Logan,’ he turned back, a smile stretching his face, ‘it’s important to me that my officers achieve their full potential. And it’s my privilege and duty to help them do that.’ A little salute with the tumbler. ‘Especially when I can give them the tools they need to shine.’

Oh no.

Don’t say it.

Not the two words no police officer ever wanted to hear.

The whisky curdled in Logan’s stomach. His smile was lemon-rind and ashes, but he pulled it on anyway. ‘Sir?’

Please don’t …

‘I think I’ve got a development opportunity that would be perfect for you.’

Too late.

— Monday Backshift —

4

‘… and while we’re on the subject: guess who gets out today?’ Logan let the pause grow as the two officers stared at him. ‘Alex Williams.’

A groan.

The Constables’ Office wasn’t a big room. Magnolia, with a big pinboard covered in mugshots on one wall next to a whiteboard; posters, reports, notices, calendars, and more whiteboards on the others. Scuffed blue carpet tiles covered in layers of tea and coffee stains. A workbench on two sides doubling as desks; four office chairs – plastic scratched, foam-rubber poking out of frayed-edged fabric; the same number of steam-powered computers; Logan and two other officers, all kitted up and ready for the off. A throat-tickling smell of stale feet, pickled onion crisps, and shoe polish.

Logan rubbed a hand across the stubble covering his head. ‘So I’m putting a grade one flag on the house. Anything happens, I want someone there in under five minutes.’

Deano fiddled with the CS gas canister clipped to the front of his fluorescent yellow high-vis waistcoat, twisting the gunmetal canister round and round in its leather case with big spanner fingers. Winding the spiral bungee cord attached to the base in knots. His broad shoulders stretched the black police-issue T-shirt tight. Even slouched in the swivel chair he was clearly the tallest person in the room. ‘Tenner says they make it till Wednesday.’

Constable Nicholson pulled the sides of her mouth down and dug her hands into the gap between her stabproof vest and her black uniform top. Hunched her shoulders, setting the no-nonsense black bob wobbling. Scowled. ‘Hospital or mortuary?’

Deano stuck his head on one side. The overhead light glinted against the thinning patch of hair at the top of his forehead. Grey hair swept back at the sides. ‘I’m going to say … hospital.’

She pulled out a hand – it had a small tartan wallet in it. ‘I’ll take: mortuary by Saturday.’ Then blinked at Logan. ‘Sarge?’

‘Are you and Constable Scott seriously taking bets on when someone’s going to assault or murder their partner?’

Shrug.

‘OK.’ He dug a hand into his pocket. ‘I’ll have a fiver on: nobody dies.’

Deano accepted the cash and hid it away. ‘Fool to yourself, Sarge. But far be it from me to dampen your faith in—’

‘Sorry.’ The door banged open and Constable Quirrel backed into the room, carrying a tray loaded with four mugs and a plate of rowies. Thin-faced, with a number-two haircut of pale ginger and a set of watery blue eyes. A least a head shorter than everyone else in the room. ‘What? What did I miss?’

‘Alex Williams got released.’

‘Is it six months already?’ Quirrel handed out the mugs – starting with Logan – then worked his way around the room with the plate. He took the last rowie and slotted his narrow bum into the only vacant chair. ‘Bags I don’t have to—’

‘Tufty,’ Logan pointed at him, ‘I hereby deputize you to go tell Alex’s partner, “It’s that time again.”’

‘But, Sa-arge …’ His eyebrows bunched for a moment, scrunching up his eyes. Then a smile. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if someone from Domestic Abuse did it? You know, laid out all the options? They’re the experts, and we wouldn’t want to—’

‘Do what you’re told.’ Logan took a bite of rowie, chomping through the waxy crust and into the butter, lard, and salty goodness inside. ‘And try not to be a dick while you’re there. Last thing you need is more complaints.’ A nod. ‘Next.’

Deano clicked the mouse and the image on the computer screen changed to a photo of a small-ish fishing boat – rust-streaked along one side of the blue hull, the name ‘COPPER-TUN WANDERER’ picked out in fading white paint. The picture sat beside one of a middle-aged man in a bright orange jacket, hair hanging damp around his leathery face, bottle of beer in one hand, what looked like a dirty big haddock in the other.

It was all written across the bottom of the PowerPoint slide, but Logan read it out anyway. ‘Charles “Craggie” Anderson, fifty-two, missing for a week and a bit now. Tufty?’

‘Yeah …’ Constable Quirrel pulled out his notebook and flicked through to near the end. ‘Spoke to his friends and neighbours again: he’s not been in touch. Got on to the Coastguard and there’s no sign of the Copper-Tun washing up anywhere. Waiting to hear back from ports in Orkney, Shetland, and Norway in case he’s done a runner.’

‘Right. When you’ve been round Alex Williams’s, you and Deano hit Whitehills, Macduff, Portsoy, and Gardenstown. Do a door-to-door of all the boats. Did anyone see Charles Anderson the night he went missing? Anyone hear where he was going? Did he have any money problems? You know the drill.’

Deano nodded. ‘Sarge.’

‘And keep Tufty on a tighter leash this time, OK? Never known a probationer to get in so much trouble.’

Quirrel blushed. ‘How was I supposed to know she wasn’t wearing any pants?’

‘I repeat: tighter leash. That’s five missing persons we’ve got on the books now. Be nice if we could actually find this one.’ Pause. ‘Last, and by all means least, we have a new edict from on high. We are Moray and Aberdeenshire Division. From this point on anyone caught calling it the “Mire” gets a spanking. Any questions?’

Deano gave the canister of CS one last fiddle. ‘Aye, is that the good kind of spanking, or the bad kind?’

‘You’re disturbed, you know that, don’t you?’ Logan finished his rowie and sooked the grease from his finger. Stood. ‘Deano and Tufty, you’re in the Postman Pat van. Janet and me are away to spin some druggies.’

‘Sarge?’ Nicholson took the patrol car round the hairpin bend, changing down for the hill. Off to the left, the North Sea shone like a polished stone. Yachts and tiny fishing boats bobbed lazily in the harbour.

Made a nice change after the horrible weekend.

On the other side of the bay, Macduff shone in the afternoon sunshine.

Then the view was swallowed by the pale harling walls of the Railway Inn. Old-fashioned Scottish houses lined the road, all towered over by the intimidating grey Victorian bulk of the Health Centre. Nicholson shifted her hands along the steering wheel, voice light and carefree. ‘Sarge, has anyone spoken to you about the pool? You know, how it’s going?’

Logan unzipped one of the pockets on his stabproof and pulled out a packet of Polos. Liberated one from its foil prison. Popped the mint in his mouth and crunched. ‘Take it from me: CID’s a mug’s game.’ The stabproof vest was like a fist, squeezing his chest with every breath. Handcuffs clicking against the seatbelt clasp. Extendable baton poking into his thigh. Limb restraints digging into the small of his back. Bet Batman’s utility belt never gave him this much gyp. ‘Still don’t see why you want to join.’ Crunch, crunch, crunch. ‘Polo?’ Wiggling the pack at her.

Past the junction and the road widened out into Castle Street with its much grander houses. Nicholson waved at an old woman having a sneaky fag outside the Castle Bar. ‘Come on, Sarge, you were CID for years. You know why.’

Logan popped another Polo. ‘Yeah, in the old days, maybe. Now they hive off all the interesting bits of the job and give them to specialist groups. If you’re not on the Major Investigation Team you’re not going to catch a murder.’ He counted each one off on his fingers. ‘Then there’s Rape Teams, Violence-Reduction Teams, Domestic Abuse Teams, Drugs Teams, Housebreaking Teams, blah, blah, blah teams.’ A shrug. ‘All that’s left for CID is the boring crap no one else wants to do.’

Right, onto Seafield Street. Climbing again, Banff Bay glinting in the rear-view mirror. The sky above, saltire blue. Unblemished by clouds or airplane-trail scars.

‘Didn’t stop you catching Graham Stirling, did it?’

True.

Logan smiled. ‘Forget CID, Janet. Divisional policing – that’s where all the cool kids are.’

Her shoulders slumped a bit.

The houses on the right were huge. He turned his head to watch them drift by. ‘How much do you think one of those cost?’ All fancy granite with cornices and bay windows and those raised blocks around the doors, windows, and gable ends. Grey slate roofs and manicured gardens. The occasional gnome.

Nicholson sighed. ‘More than we’ll ever make.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, the Sergeant’s Hoose will be nice when it’s finished, but I’m tired of living out of boxes.’

A call crackled out of the car’s radio. ‘Control to Bravo India, hello?’

‘Aye, aye.’ Logan turned the volume up. ‘Must be something big if they’re bothering the boss.’

‘Come on, Sarge, I don’t want to be one of those cops who spends their whole career in one place. Got a glass ceiling to shatter.’

A woman’s voice came through the speakers, deep and smooth: ‘Bravo India to Control, safe to talk.’

‘Aye, ma’am, we’ve got another Cashline machine gone walkabout. Owner says they got aboot twenty-seven grand of stock as well. Broch Braw Buys, on Gallowhill Road, Fraserburgh.’

Not another one.

‘Twenty-seven thousand pounds? Who’s he trying to kid?’

‘So he says, like.’

‘Sarge?’

Past the bowling green, and the houses got a lot more councily. Semidetached with streaked harling walls and rusting satellite dishes.

‘Probably swinging for a hefty insurance claim. Get the scene secured and I’ll be there soon as I can …’

Logan turned the radio down again. Have to pop past Broch Braw Buys later and see what was going on. But with any luck it’d be someone else’s problem by then.

‘Sarge, are you—’

‘How about this: I’m off to court tomorrow for the trial. You want to be in charge while I’m gone? I mean, you couldn’t be Duty Sergeant, but you could run the team.’

Nicholson chewed on the inside of her cheek.

‘It’ll look good on your CV. You can start doing some of the briefings too. It all helps.’

‘Deal.’ She leaned forward, squinting against the sunshine at the cars droning towards them. ‘That boy on his mobile phone?’

Logan shielded his eyes. ‘The ugly one in the blue Fiesta?’

The Fiesta rumbled past, followed by three other vehicles. Then a tiny gap … Then a Passat.

Nicholson’s finger jabbed one of the buttons mounted in the middle of the dashboard and the unit’s blues flickered into life. Another button and a short siren woop blared out.

The Passat’s driver slammed the brakes on, slithering to a halt about six feet away. An auld mannie goggled out at them, hands curled into fists around the steering wheel, tartan bunnet all squint on his head.

She gave him a nod, then pulled a U-turn. Put her foot down. The acceleration pushed Logan into his seat. Added its weight to the stabproof vest’s crushing fist.

Cars parted before them, clearing the way through to the blue Fiesta with the ugly driver. The thing was shiny and polished, like new. Nicholson wheeched up right behind it and tapped the horn. The siren changed tone. Insistent. Demanding.

Mr Ugly glanced back at them, his face a curdled mess through the rear window. A pause … then he pulled in to the kerb.

Nicholson parked behind him. She fiddled with the Airwave clipped to the front of her vest. ‘Control, I need a PNC check on a blue Fiesta.’

Logan reached into the back of the patrol car for his hat and climbed out into the sunshine. Shook one leg like a dog getting its belly scratched. Bloody police-issue trousers were made of burning ants and sandpaper. He did a slow walk around the Fiesta to the driver’s window. Rapped his knuckles on the glass.

It buzzed down and Mr Ugly glared up at him. ‘What?’ The word came out like a gob of phlegm from a crooked mouth full of crooked teeth. Definitely a Birmingham accent. Thick eyebrows, broad face, dimpled chin, a spattering of angry red spots along the line of his jaw.

OK. Going to be one of those.

Logan unhooked the elastic band holding his body-worn video shut and slipped the front down, setting it recording. ‘You do know it’s an offence to use your mobile phone while driving, don’t you, sir?’

A scowl. ‘I wasn’t using no mobile.’

‘We saw you, sir.’

He faced the front again. Worked his jaw, making the fault line of spots ripple. A couple of volcanoes in the chain ready to blow. ‘Prove it.’

‘Name?’

Silence. More tectonic activity. Then, ‘Martyn Baker, with a “Y”. Sixteenth December, Nineteen Ninety-Three. Thirty-eight Dresden Road, Sparkbrook. Birmingham.’

Name, date of birth, and address. The crook’s version of name, rank, and serial number. Just like that. No stranger to giving his details to the police, then. Logan printed it all down in his notebook. ‘Stay in the vehicle, sir.’ Then around to the boot of the car and onto Control for a background check.

Nicholson pulled on her peaked cap and sauntered over, thumbs tucked into the armholes of her stabproof, like Rumpole of the Bailey. She jerked her chin up. ‘Sarge? Car’s registered to a Martyn Baker—’

‘Nineteen Ninety-Three, thirty-eight Dresden Road, Birmingham?’

‘That’s him. AKA Paul Butcher, AKA Dave Brooks. Got a sheet two miles long: housebreaking, aggravated assault, possession of a Class A, possession with intent, beat the crap out of his girlfriend and his mum … Bit of a charmer, by all accounts.’

‘Certainly failed the attitude test.’ Logan looked back at the car. Baker’s narrowed eyes were right there in the rear-view mirror. Staring at them. ‘Any outstanding warrants?’

‘Not so much as an overdue library book.’ She shifted from foot to foot. ‘You want to do him for the phone?’

‘Denies it.’

A snort. ‘Really? Law-abiding citizen like him?’

The Airwave clipped to Logan’s chest bleeped four times: a point-to-point call. A quick glance and there was PC Scott’s shoulder number on the screen. His voice boomed out of the speaker. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, it’s Dean, you safe to talk?’

He hunched one shoulder forward, tilting his head so his mouth was up against the microphone. Pressed the button. ‘Go ahead, Deano.’

‘Got ourselves an assault in Whitehills. The Drookit Haddie on Harbour Place. Bunch of scrotes gave an old boy a battering. Me and Tufty are waiting for the ambulance.’

‘Suspects?’

‘Nah: everyone in the pub’s come down with amnesia. And Maggie’s been on – there’s a coo loose on the B9031 round about Gamrie.’

‘OK. We’ll see to it. Make sure you get the CCTV from the pub.’

Nicholson’s face soured. ‘A cow wandering about on the road. Not exactly Silence of the Lambs, is it?’

‘Careful what you wish for.’ Logan let go of the handset and turned back to Mr Ugly’s Fiesta. ‘Not all it’s cracked up to be.’

‘So … what are we going to do with Plukey Pete?’

But Logan was already walking up to the driver’s window. ‘Tell me, Martyn-with-a-“Y”, what brings you all the way from thirty-eight Dresden Road, Birmingham, to the streets of sunny Banff?’

Another dose of the evil eye. ‘Personal, isn’t it. Now you done?’Cos you’re infringing my right to free movement and that.’

‘I see …’ He drummed his fingers on the roof of the car. ‘You know what, Mr Baker, I was going to let you off with a warning, but I have reason to believe you wouldn’t pay any attention to it. As such, I’m confiscating your mobile phone as evidence—’

‘Aw, bugger off!’ The line of spots simmered. ‘You’re not taking my bloody phone.’

‘Under Common Law I have the power to seize any items suspected to be used in the execution of a crime. Or would you like me to do you for resisting instead?’ Logan popped his wrist forward and checked his watch. ‘I’ve got a couple of hours to spare. Step out of the car, Mr Baker.’

Baker folded over until his forehead brushed the steering wheel. ‘Fine.’ Then dug in his pocket and came out with a big Samsung job, the case all battered and scratched. The screen cobwebbed with cracks radiating out from the bottom left corner. He handed it over. ‘Happy?’

‘Delirious, sir. I’ll make out a receipt for the phone.’ But he took his time over it. ‘Drive carefully, Mr Baker.’ A smile. ‘We’ll be keeping an eye out to make sure you’re OK.’

Nicholson stared after the Fiesta as it drove away. ‘Think he’s dealing? Making a delivery? Maybe on the run from someone?’

‘Or D, all of the above …’ Logan slipped the phone into a brown paper evidence bag. Labelled it. ‘But who knows, maybe he’s off for a romantic assignation with a nice sheep?’ Dumped the bag in the boot of the patrol car. ‘Speaking of animal husbandry, that cow’s not going to round itself up.’

5

‘… says you’re not to forget about your appraisal today.’

Logan hit the talk button on his Airwave handset. ‘Depends on how things pan out. Janet and me are busy keeping the good people of Aberdeenshire North safe from scoundrels and scallywags.’

Fields rolled past the car’s windows, shiny and green, dark walls of gorse aflame with burning yellow flowers. Ahead, in a break between the hills, cliffs disappeared down into the North Sea.

Maggie’s voice dropped to a hard whisper. ‘Sergeant McRae, you are going to tell her I’m needing a wee pay rise, aren’t you? Only with Bill’s back being what it is, we—’

‘Can’t promise anything, but I’ll try. Assuming we get finished here in good time.’ Logan shifted in his seat. Pointed out through the windscreen as they crowned the brow of yet another hill. ‘There we go.’

A big brown bullock waddled down the middle of the road. Broad shouldered and thick bottomed. Tail flicking from side to side. Horns weaving back and forth as it lumbered along.

‘The Inspector says you’re not to put it off again. Appraisals have to be in by Wednesday.’

Nicholson leaned on the horn. Breeeeeeeeeep.

The cow didn’t even flinch.

‘She really was quite insistent.’

‘OK, OK. Tell her we’ll be back at the station about …’ Logan checked his watch. ‘Better make it half four. Twenty to five. Ish.’

‘Will do.’ And Maggie was gone.

Nicholson tried the horn again. Breeeeeeeeeep. Nothing. ‘I went to police college for this? Months at Tulliallan. Two years as a probationer …’ Breeeeeeeeeep. She buzzed down her window. ‘Come on, you hairy bugger, get off the road!’

Logan swivelled in his seat. Empty fields, all around. Not a single head of livestock to be seen, other than the one clomping its way down the middle of the road. ‘No idea where he came from.’ Off to the left, a swathe of green was peppered with big round bales wrapped in black plastic. ‘We’ll stick him in there.’ Logan undid his seatbelt. ‘Come on.’

Nicholson scowled. ‘This is what happens when they don’t let us carry tasers.’

‘Gah …’ Nicholson shoved the gate shut and hauled the pin back, making the spring squeal. Let go and it clacked into place. She spat twice. Then a third time. Wiped a hand through the mud that caked her face from one ear to the other. More covered the front of her high-vis waistcoat. Lumps of it wodged in the armholes of her stabproof. Another gob of muddy spittle. Then a glower in his direction. ‘Where all the cool kids are, my arse.’

Logan shrugged. ‘You imagine what would happen if someone came round the corner doing sixty and hit that?’ Pointing at the big brown beast, who was at least three shades cleaner than Nicholson. ‘They’d have to scoop you into your body-bag like eleven stone of mince.’

She wiped her hands down the front of her vest, smearing the filth. ‘You saying I’m fat?’

‘Come back here, you wee sod!’ Logan vaulted the low garden wall and sprinted across the lawn, knees pumping. One hand clamping the peaked cap to his head, the other clutching his extendable baton in its holder. Stopping it from jiggling about with every other step.

The wee sod in question kept on running. Sneakers flashing their white bellies, his arms and legs going like pistons, hoodie flapping behind him like an obscene pink tongue.

Over into the next garden.

Crashing straight through a bed of nasturtiums and pansies. The owners sat on a bench against the house, sharing a bottle of wine. On their feet and shaking fists as the Wee Sod battered past.

A hedge separated this property from the next one. He leapt it, almost lost his footing on the other side. His shoulder bag slipped, thumped into the lawn. Tins of spray paint clattered across the grass like WWII bombs.

‘I said, come back here!’

The Wee Sod risked a grin over his shoulder. Freckled face, no more than twelve. Maybe thirteen. Curly red hair and dimpled cheeks.

Then THUMP – Nicholson slammed into him from the side with the kind of rugby tackle that would’ve done the nation proud at Murrayfield.

They went careening across the lawn in a tumble of limbs, coming to rest in a clatter of pots and gnomes.

Logan slowed to a jog, then a halt as Nicholson scrambled to her feet, then hauled the Wee Sod upright by his hoodie.

She spat out a blade of grass. ‘When someone yells, “Stop, police!” you sodding well stop.’

He wriggled a couple of times, didn’t get anywhere, then hung limp.

‘Well?’ She gave him a little shake. ‘What’ve you got to say for yourself?’

He bit his top lip. Then shrugged. ‘It’s a comment on our political elite and the disenfranchisement and disengagement of the common man.’ His voice tried out three octaves along the way.

‘Spray-painting willies on a Conservative Party billboard doesn’t count as political commentary.’

‘Does too.’

She pushed him at Logan, then dragged out her notebook. ‘Name?’

He tensed, as if he was about to bolt again. Logan grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You want a go in the handcuffs? Because I can arrange that.’

He looked up, over his shoulder. A blush filled in the pale skin between his freckles. ‘You’re not going to tell my mum, are you?’

Nicholson poked him with her pen. ‘Name?’

‘I mean, they lord it over us from Edinburgh, don’t they? Our political masters. No one really cares what we think any more. We’re like drones to them, only instead of honey they grow fat on our taxes.’

Logan pulled his chin in. ‘Our taxes? You’re, what, thirteen? When did you last pay any tax?’

‘Workers control the means of production.’

Nicholson poked him again. ‘You’ve got one more chance, then I’m doing you for refusing to give your details. Now: name?’

He took a deep breath. Stared down at his trainers. ‘Geoffrey Lovejoy.’ Then a sniff, and his head came up again, eyes glinting. ‘I’m a political prisoner. I demand you call the United Nations. Power to the people!’

Logan looked up from his notebook. ‘And you’re sure you’d recognize her again if you saw her?’

The shopkeeper nodded, setting a crowd of chins on a Mexican wave. ‘Absolutely. She had half a dozen bottles of Chanel Number Five, a handful of Touche Éclat concealer, Elizabeth Arden, and every single bit of Paco Rabanne we had on display!’ He swept a hand towards the other side of the chemist’s, where the front door was being held open by a little old lady wearing a plastic headscarf. ‘Scooped them up and ran off without so much as a blush. Our Stacey chased her, but …’ A shrug.

Nicholson’s stabproof was beginning to look as if she’d smeared it with camouflage paint – green grass stains mingling with the mud from their run-in with the escaped cow. It wasn’t a good look. She pointed at the security camera bolted to the wall behind the till. ‘You get it on CCTV?’

A blush swept across the puffy cheeks. ‘It’s plastic. I bought it off eBay for a fiver.’

Nicholson pointed. ‘Is that not Liam Barden?’

On the other side of the road, a chubby man in an Aberdeen Football Club shirt walked into the Co-op.

Logan frowned as the automatic door closed, hiding the man and his bright-red shiny shirt. ‘You sure?’

‘Certain.’ She parked outside the shop. ‘Well … eighty percent. You got the ID sheet?’

He dug into the glove compartment and came out with four creased sheets of A4, stapled together. Two photos on each sheet, along with names and details of when and where they went missing. Liam Barden was on the third page: grinning away at a Caley Thistle match, both thumbs up, and what looked like a gravy stain splodging the Orion Group logo on his blue-and-red football top. A wee gold thistle glinted on a golden chain around Liam’s neck. Very classy. A proper Ratners special.

Liam shared the printout with a picture of everyone’s favourite drug-dealing scumbag, Jack Simpson – jagged tribal tattoos on his neck, sunken cheeks, pierced nose and ears.

He’d also grown a Hitler moustache, a pair of glasses, Frankenstein’s Monster bolts, and a blacked-out tooth. There was even a speech balloon with ‘I HAS A SEXY!!!’ written in it.

‘For God’s sake.’ Logan held the sheet out. ‘How many times do I have to tell people not to draw things on missing persons photos?’

‘Don’t look at me: don’t even own a blue biro.’

‘How would you feel if one of your relatives went missing and someone scrawled all over their picture? Jack Simpson’s a nasty wee git, but he deserves the same treatment as everyone else.’

‘It wasn’t me!’

‘Like working with a bunch of three-year-olds …’

Still: had to admit that the photo of Liam Barden did look a bit like the guy who’d gone into the store. Heavyset, balding from the back, toothy smile. ‘Only problem is, what’s happened to his moustache?’

‘Maybe he shaved it off?’ Nicholson unbuckled and climbed out into the sunshine. Pulled her hat on. ‘You coming?’

‘And why’s he dumped Inverness Caley Thistle for AFC?’ Logan joined her on the pavement. Held out the sheet again. ‘See?’

She frowned at the picture. ‘Not illegal to support more than one club. Besides, think how stoked his wife and kids will be if we find him.’

Which was more than could be said for Jack Simpson. Missing for ten days already and not even his mum wanted him back. If he hadn’t owed his granny money, he probably wouldn’t even have been reported missing.

Logan turned the page. ‘And why does no one update these things?’ He rummaged through the zip-pockets on his stabproof vest. Frowned. Took out his notebook. Put it away again. ‘Sodding Hector.’ He held out a hand. ‘Lend me a pen?’

She handed one over and Logan drew a thick X over the face of a little boy on the bottom of page four. ‘We found Ian Dickinson four days ago.’

‘You take my word for it – next one you can score off is Liam Barden.’ Nicholson straightened her cap and marched into the Co-op.

Logan took a lick of his ice lolly, working his way through the raspberry coating to the cheap vanilla inside. Sun warm on the back of his neck. ‘Well, it was worth a go.’

‘Could have sworn it was him.’ Nicholson worked her left arm around in a circle – Cornetto making chocolaty dribbles in her other hand as they wandered down the hill.

‘How’s the shoulder?’

A shrug. ‘Still say we should’ve arrested the vandalizing wee sod.’

‘Then we’d have to take him all the way to Fraserburgh for processing, and that’s you and me off the streets for at least two hours. With Deano and Tufty still up the hospital, who’s going to look after the good people of Banff and Macduff?’

‘That’s not the point, he’s—’

‘All the kid did was draw a big willy on a billboard. Some people might think our prospective Conservative MSP looks much better with a big willy sprayed all over him. At least Citizen Geoffrey’s taking an interest in the political process.’

Four bleeps sounded from his Airwave handset. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

Another lick of lolly. ‘Go ahead, Maggie, safe to talk.’

‘Are you forgetting someone?’

They crossed over to the other side of the road. ‘Am I?’

The reply came back as a hiss. ‘Inspector McGregor! I told you, she needs to do your appraisal.’

Damn. ‘How pissed-off is she?’

A wee dog barked and barked and barked as they passed, pogoing up and down behind a little wrought-iron gate.

‘You said you’d be back here by twenty-to. And it’s nearly five.’

‘We’re …’ Another lick of lolly, catching an ice-cream tear. ‘We’re in the middle of something here, Maggie. Can’t we reschedule for tomorrow?’

Silence.

Around the corner and onto Low Street with its bars and shops and cafés.

‘Maggie?’

‘You want me to dignify that with an answer? And you’re supposed to put in a word for me – how are you going to do that if she’s in a foul mood?’

‘OK, OK. Tell her … half past five.’

Past the Cats Protection League and the whisky shop.

‘All right. I’ll try. But make sure you’re not late.’ Maggie signed off.

The gift shop next door had obviously started selling papers, because a little folding placard thing sat on the pavement outside it: ‘LIVERPOOL SHOOTING ~ PICTURES EXCLUSIVE’.

He’d barely got the Airwave back in its twisty holder when the handset bleeped again. ‘Sarge? Aye, it’s Dean. Safe to talk?’

‘Deano. You and Tufty finished at the hospital yet, or are you planning on skiving the whole shift?’

‘Still there, Sarge. Got a missing person for you.’

Another road led off to the right. Long, thin, dark, and claustrophobic. Rows of terraced buildings on either side, tall enough to block out the sunshine and leave the patchy tarmac blanketed in shadow. Raw grey walls and dark slate roofs. The occasional one painted with aging whitewash – standing out like a filled tooth in a broken mouth. ‘Do you mean you’ve found someone who’s missing? Or that someone else has disappeared?’

‘Aye. One Neil Wood, owns a B-and-B on the Shortgate Lane, Peterhead. His dad says Wood’s been gone for three, maybe four days.’

‘So take his details.’ A bite of lolly, before it collapsed off the stick, then Logan froze. Pointed with his other hand.

Up ahead, loitering in the doorway of a boarded-up shop was a stick-thin woman in a baggy T-shirt and pink tracksuit bottoms. Filthy Ugg boots on her feet. Roll-up cigarette cupped in her hand as if it was going to give away her position to snipers in the enemy trenches.

Nicholson squinted. ‘You jammy sod.’

‘Not jammy, Constable, skill.’

‘Sarge? You still there?’

‘Look, Deano, you’ve been doing this longer than I have. You know the drill – you take his details and fill out a misper form. And maybe we find him, and maybe we don’t. It’s not—’

‘The old boy who got a kicking in Whitehills is Neil Wood’s dad. Seems the guys did it because of who his son is. Turns out Neil Wood’s a stot. Did eight years for abusing kids in Tayside. Got out of Peterhead, couldn’t go home, settled here. Bought a B-and-B and moved his dad up from down south to live with him,’cos the old guy’s got heart problems.’

‘And now he’s disappeared.’

‘Which is why I’m not just filling in a form.’

‘That’s all we need.’

The woman turned her back, one hand scratching away at the crook of her arm, making the cigarette smoke curl and coil around her fingers. Couldn’t be long until she spotted them.

‘Deano, get onto the Offender Management Unit. Find out who’s meant to be monitoring Wood, and tell them to get their finger out. We do not want someone like that running around our patch with no idea where he is. Tell them to get a lookout request on the go.’

‘Will do.’

‘Right, now bugger off, we’ve got a druggie to spin.’

A nod to Nicholson and they ditched the ice creams in a bin and marched down the road.

‘Anything?’ Logan shifted his grip on the skeletal arm as Nicholson rummaged her way through the leopard-skin-print handbag. Big enough to take a breezeblock or a small child.

A delivery van grumbled by, the Tesco Logo emblazoned down one side, trailing a cloud of dust behind it.

Warm golden light washed the gap between two buildings.

It was big enough to fit another house, but if there had been one on the site, it was long gone. Now it doubled as a dirt-floored car park and access through to the garages and lock-ups that ran along the rear of the gardens.

Weeds jungled at the base of the five-foot wall that formed either side of the gateless entry to the secret land beyond. Shutting the three of them off from the street.

Nicholson held up a golden pen thing in one blue-nitrile-gloved-hand. ‘This is a bit fancy, isn’t it, Kirstin? Touche Éclat? I’ve seen it in Boots – stuff costs a fortune.’

Kirstin Rattray shrugged one bony shoulder. The motion caused the neck of her baggy T-shirt to slip far enough to expose a bright-green bra strap stretched taut over semi-skimmed skin. ‘Found it, didn’t I?’ A small flock of purple lovebites perched in the crook of her neck. Eighties hair and dark circles under her eyes. Cheekbones you could peel tatties with.

‘Right. Course you did. What about these?’ Nicholson pulled out two lots of Chanel No. 5, still in their boxes, then one of Paco Rabanne. ‘You find them, too?’

Kirstin’s bottom lip disappeared between her teeth. Eyes down to the left. ‘You planted that. Never seen them before.’

‘Don’t be a spaz, Kirstin. Did you rob them yourself? Or did someone do it for you?’

‘I should get a lawyer and that. Sue you for false thingummy.’

‘Ooh and a brand new iPhone too.’ Nicholson wiggled it at Logan. ‘When I was on the dole it was a red-letter day if I could afford to buy chips and pants the same week. Now it’s all smartphones and perfume.’ Back to their new friend. ‘Let me guess: you found it?’

Kirstin’s head fell back so she was staring up at the warm blue sky. A breath hissed out. Her knees sagged an inch or two. ‘What do you want?’

‘World peace for me. Sarge?’

Logan frowned. ‘I’m partial to Maltesers, myself.’

‘Look, I’ve got a little girl. Amy. She’s three, I swear on her life I never nicked nothing.’

‘Really? Then how come you match the description of the woman who pilfered a heap of perfume and makeup from Fisher’s the Chemists? And how come your handbag’s full of the stuff that got robbed?’

‘Told you, I found it.’ She stuck her hand out. ‘Now can I get me bag back?’

‘Sarge?’

Logan let go of the thin pale arm. ‘Police Scotland thanks you for your cooperation, and for handing in the items you “found”. Very public spirited. We’ll try to return them to their rightful owners.’ He scribbled out another receipt. ‘Now, we’ve got to make a quick stop at the station – prior engagement – but after that, why don’t we all pop over to yours and see if we can’t turn up anything else you’ve “found” recently? Voluntarily.’

Kirstin’s head drooped back again. ‘Sodding hell …’

6

Kirstin scowled up at him from the bench in Interview Room Two. Both hands in front of her, fingers knotting and twisting, while Nicholson leaned back against the wall behind her.

The vertical blinds were closed, but the light was still painfully bright in the small room. The panic strip all shiny and unused. A creased chunk of flip-chart paper was pinned to one wall. Far more chairs than would ever be needed in an interview cluttered the grey carpet.

Logan gave Kirstin a smile, then slipped out and closed the door behind him.

Into the front hall, with its elaborate beige, brown, blue, and white tiles. They didn’t really go with the walls – white to the waist-high rail, then pastel blue above. The Response Level sign was just visible through the open door to the stairwell. Apparently, today’s terrorism threat level was ‘FABULOUS!’ in big block capitals.

Bloody day shift …

Logan replaced it with the official ‘MODERATE’ then punched his access code into the keypad to get through to the main office.

It was all scuffed blue carpet tiles, magnolia walls, boxy plastic ducting, and slightly grubby ceiling tiles. Two desks, back-to-back, corralled in by blue fuzzy cubicle walls. Another barricade of the same blue fuzz separating the front desk – little more than a wide shelf with a roller shutter above it – from the reception area.

Maggie had one of the small square locker doors open, so she could fiddle an Airwave handset into its charger. A tall woman in black trousers, shiny shoes and a pink silk blouse. Grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sharp, bird-like features. She twitched her head towards the front desk’s barricade, with its covering of posters and notices. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Saving society from a one-woman shoplifting crime-spree.’ He clunked open the filing cabinet in the corner and rifled through it. ‘Any messages?’

‘That horrible Detective Chief Inspector Steel called. Then Nelson Street: they say you can’t have the Big Car back till tomorrow—’

‘You’re kidding. Sick of not having a car with a proper radio in it.’

‘Well, you’ll have to sing along with yourself then, won’t you. They need to put in a whole new CCTV system.’

‘Again?’

‘Take it up with Sergeant Muir. I’m not the one who left Stinky Sammy Wilson unsupervised in the back. Oh, and Louise from Sunny Glen was on the phone an hour ago.’

Logan froze, one hand on the thick manila folder marked ‘B DIVISION ~ STAFF APPRAISALS’. He cleared his throat. ‘Something wrong?’

‘Oh, no, nothing bad. She wants to talk to you about changing your girlfriend’s medication, that’s all.’ Maggie picked a couple of yellow Post-its from her desk and held them out. ‘Here you go.’

So it wasn’t an emergency. Nothing bad had happened. The breath huffed out of him, leaving a metallic taste behind. As if he’d been sucking on copper wire. ‘Thanks, Maggie.’ He took the proffered Post-its. ‘Any chance you could order up some more Biros? Hector’s nicked all mine again.’

‘Hmmph.’ A small selection of today’s papers were draped over the partition of her cubicle. The Press and Journal had ‘STORMS BATTER NORTHEAST COAST’ in big letters across the front page and a photo of waves crashing over the harbour wall in Peterhead. Aberdeen Examiner – ‘WOODLAND RIPPER TRIAL OPENS’ stretched above a photo of Graham Stirling grinning away at a party somewhere. And the Daily Mail had gone for, ‘DRIVE-BY SHOOTING KILLERS ON THE RUN’ with a picture of a bus stop and blurry figures sealed off behind a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape. ‘LIVERPOOL POLICE LAUNCH NATIONWIDE MANHUNT FOR GANGLAND MURDERERS.’

Maggie grabbed the Aberdeen Examiner and slipped it under her arm. ‘Right. I’d better get on. Bill’s stovies won’t make themselves.’ She pulled on a multi-coloured hiking jacket and picked up her bag. ‘Don’t forget to put in a good word for my extra five percent.’ She disappeared out the door to the tradesman’s entrance, humming what sounded like ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.

Took all sorts.

And five percent? What planet did she beam down from? Lucky if she got three quid and a box of staples.

He grabbed the appraisals folder, clanged the filing-cabinet drawer shut, then flicked through the Post-its. Groaned when he got to the one about Steel.

‘CALL DCI STEEL ABOUT GRAHAM STIRLING ~ URGENT.’

Brilliant.

He pulled out his phone and selected her name from the contacts list. Listened to it ring.

Steel’s gravelly voice rasped in his ear. ‘About time. You all prepped for your testimony tomorrow? Cause if you’re no’, I’ll—’

‘Yes, I’m all prepped. It’s fine.’ He settled his bum against the photocopier.

‘Better be. Last thing we need is Graham Stirling back on the streets. You see what the press are calling him now? The—’

‘The Woodland Ripper. I know. It’s fine. Open-and-shut case. Graham Stirling isn’t going anywhere but jail for the next sixteen to life.’

‘Good.’ There was a sooking noise, then she was back. ‘Susan says are you remembering Jasmine has a dance competition Saturday?’Cos you’re going whether you like it or not.’

‘Saturday?’

‘There an echo in here? Aye, Saturday. She’s been lolloping about the house for weeks, driving me and her mum mad. Don’t see why we should be the only ones to suffer.’

‘What time?’

‘Half twelve. I’ve got you down for a pair of tickets. That’s twelve quid you owe me. And before you ask: you’re no’ taking your mother.’

As if.

Logan’s shoulders dipped. ‘I can’t make half twelve. Saturday’s dayshift – won’t get off till three.’ He pushed through the door and into the stairwell, his footsteps echoing on the tiled floor. ‘Tell Jasmine I’m sorry.’

‘Oh no you don’t. I’m no’ doing your dirty work for you. You can call your daughter and tell her why Daddy can’t be arsed turning up for anything any more.’

He closed his eyes and thunked the side of his head against the wall. ‘We’ve been over this.’

‘Far be it from me to—’

‘You got me transferred up here! This is your fault.’ He scuffed his way up to the first floor. ‘What am I supposed to do, go AWOL in the middle of a shift? This isn’t CID, OK? Divisional policing doesn’t work like that.’ Took a left at the top of the stairs and stopped outside the blue door: ‘BANFF & BUCHAN ~ INSPECTOR’. A brass nameplate had been slid into the holder above the notice: ‘WENDY MCGREGOR’.

‘Wah, wah, wah. Pity poor Logan.’ Steel had another sook. ‘You’re lucky I’m no’—’

He hung up on her. Switched his phone off. Rammed it into his pocket. Stood there, grinding his teeth for a bit.

As if he didn’t have enough to worry about.

Deep breath.

Count to ten.

Shoulders back.

Then Logan reached out and knocked on the Duty Inspector’s door.

‘Come.’

He stepped into the room. About the same size as the one he had to share downstairs, only with a new blue carpet and chairs that didn’t look as if they would self-destruct if you even thought about sitting on them. A round coffee table and a shiny desk. Two pinboards on opposite walls – almost completely covered in maps. And a stunning view from the corner windows, out over Banff harbour and the bay.

The Inspector sat behind her desk, black T-shirt complete with two shiny pips on each of the attached epaulettes. Hair swept back from her heart-shaped face, greying at the temples. She took her glasses off and pointed at one of the visitors’ chairs. ‘You actually turned up? Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Couldn’t come up with an excuse to wriggle out of it?’

Warmth spread between his shoulder blades, tickled the tips of his ears. ‘Operational priorities …’

‘Sit. Sit.’ She pulled out a notepad and a silver pen. ‘So, four months back in uniform.’

He sank into the chair and plonked his folder on the desk. ‘How did you get on at Broch Braw Buys?’

‘Definitely our friends the Cashline Ram-Raiders. In and out in less than two minutes. If you’re in Fraserburgh tonight, do me a favour and pop past. It’s about time we caught these idiots.’

‘I can go now, if you like?’

‘No you don’t. Appraisals.’

Worth a try. He poked the folder. ‘All up to date. A couple of the probationers could do with a bit more supervision, and Greeny in Peterhead needs a boot up the backside, but other than that everyone’s getting on well.’

‘What about you?’

‘I want to get Constable Scott on the diploma course. It’s about time he got promoted to sergeant.’

She smiled at him. ‘No: what about your performance?’

Ah. He sat forward, hands clasped in his lap. ‘I’m doing OK.’

Inspector McGregor pulled a sheet of paper from her in-tray, stuck her glasses on again, and peered at it. ‘“As Duty Sergeant, Logan McRae continues to integrate well with the various sections of B Division. He manages two teams of constables, in addition to his own team of four, and provides appropriate support to the resident sergeants at both Fraserburgh and Peterhead stations. Sergeant McRae assists with managing service delivery to the Local Policing Area and regularly engages with service partners to deal with local challenges. He has excellent interpersonal skills and responds well to direction.”’

Logan didn’t move. ‘Direction?’

A shrug. ‘Well, I had to put something.’ She gave the paper a shoogle and went back to reading. ‘Since he arrived in Banff, clear-up rates have improved in B Division with particular success being seen in tackling the problems associated with drug usage, such as housebreaking, antisocial behaviour, and dealing.’ She put the form down again. ‘Anything else I should add?’

‘Maggie wants a pay rise. Five percent.’

‘Five percent?’ Inspector McGregor curled her top lip. ‘Has she been helping herself to that cannabis we seized last week?’

‘Can you imagine what would happen if she left? Who else is going to fill in all Maggie’s forms, update STORM, manage the productions and the office. Order pens when Hector nicks them all. And she’s the only one who can work the station CCTV.’

The Inspector took off her glasses and huffed a breath onto the lenses. Polished them on the hem of her black T-shirt. ‘Logan, the rest of the support staff will be lucky if they get one percent, never mind five.’

He held up his hands. ‘I promised I’d ask. She—’

The Inspector’s Airwave bleeped. ‘Bravo India, safe to talk?’

She sighed. Sagged a little. Then pressed the button. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Aye, the SEB have turned up at last from Aberdeen. They’re all talking overtime to deal with the ram-raid at Broch Braw Buys. Say it’s going to take at least six hours. You OK to approve?’

Inspector McGregor stared at the ceiling for a moment. ‘Fine. But tell them they’ve got four hours, not six. They’re not dragging this out, twiddling their thumbs on my budget.’

‘Will do.’

She dumped the handset into a drawer and thumped it shut. ‘A bit of career advice, Logan: never, ever, volunteer to be Duty Inspector.’ There was a brief pause as she clattered something out on her computer keyboard. Then sat back again. ‘Right: what about your development actions for the next four months?’

‘War on drugs. I want Frankie Ferris in the cells before summer’s out.’

Something painful crawled across the Inspector’s face. ‘Frankie Ferris. Again.’

Shrug. ‘He’s got two strikes for Class A drug-trafficking. One more and he wins a giant stuffed panda and a mandatory seven-stretch. What’s not to like?’

‘You’re obsessed.’ She shook her head and scribbled it down in her notepad. ‘Any chance you can have something a bit more cuddly too? An increase in community engagement? How about …’ Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth then she read out what she was writing: ‘“I aim to build stronger ties with the residents of Banff, Macduff, and Portsoy. I feel that leveraging community-liaison opportunities will add value to Police Scotland’s offerings through the exploitation of soft intelligence.”’

Logan stared at her. ‘Leveraging added value?’

‘You’re never going to get past sergeant if you don’t learn management speak. Soon as you hit inspector it’s like waking up in a foreign country where everyone’s got catch-phrase Tourette’s. Last divisional meeting I was at, someone came out with, “How do we incentivize our stakeholders to embrace three-sixty-degree thinking a hundred and ten percent of the time.” Honest to God, not even the hint of a smile.’

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. Someone had set a rat loose behind his eyes. Clawing and biting.

Nicholson patted him on the arm. ‘Never mind, Sarge, only seven hours to go.’

Kirstin Rattray’s flat sat on the top floor of a lumpen block of grey on Saint Catherine Street. It was to one end of a row of soulless buildings that loomed over the smaller, traditional, Scottish houses on the other side of the road. Threatening to beat them up and steal their lunch money.

It wasn’t so much furnished as … manky. Peeling wallpaper in the kitchen. Cracked tiles in a bathroom that looked as if it hadn’t seen a bottle of bleach in years. A smell of damp and sweat and dirty washing in the bedroom. The view from the lounge was terrific, down the hill, over the surrounding rooftops and out to sea. The view inside the lounge was a different matter.

Kirstin slumped down on a tatty brown corduroy couch. A fake oil painting – the kind you could order from a photo at Tesco or Argos – was mounted in a gaudy gilt frame above the fireplace. A mousy-haired little girl of two or three grinned from the canvas with a gap-toothed mouth. Button nose. Shiny eyes. A teddy bear and a couple of dinosaurs were arranged along the mantelpiece beneath her picture. Like a shrine.

It was the only clean bit of the flat.

Nicholson pulled a laptop out from behind the bookcase. ‘Anything else?’

A bony shrug.

The pile on the coffee table had grown to a decent size. Phones, MP3 players, a bit of jewellery, two hundred quid in cash, and assorted perfumes and makeup.

Logan picked up a new-ish smartphone, the case squeaking in his blue-gloved fingers as he turned it over. ‘Lot of this doesn’t look shoplifty, Kirstin. It looks breakey-and-entery. When did you turn to burglary?’

She kept her eyes on the dark brown stain on the cushion next to her. ‘Told you: didn’t nick anything. Found it.’

‘I’ll bet we can match most of this stuff to crime reports.’

‘It’s not mine!’

Nicholson put the laptop down then pulled the stained seat cushion from the sofa. A biscuit tin nestled amongst the rusting springs and torn support fabric. The picture on the lid had Jammie Dodgers and those weird pink ring things. ‘Well, well, well …’

On the couch, Kirstin glanced at the biscuit tin and away again. Squirmed. ‘That’s nothing to do with me …’

Nicholson picked up the tin and opened it. Stared for a moment. ‘Sarge?’ She held it out. A handful of tinfoil wrappers sat inside, along with a tiny Ziploc bag of white powder; a thumbnail-sized nub of brown, wrapped in clingfilm; and a pack of Rizla rolling papers.

Kirstin folded forwards till her chest rested against her knees, arms wrapped around her head. ‘It’s not mine …’

Logan dumped the phone back on the pile of ‘found’ electronics, then had a wee poke about in the biscuit tin. Definitely enough for possession. Maybe even possession with intent. ‘So, Kirstin. Looks like you’re a bit screwed.’

‘It’s not mine.’ Voice muffled by her knees.

‘Right. You found it.’ He handed the tin back to Nicholson.

She put the top on again. ‘What do you think Kirstin’s looking at, Sarge? Four years? Maybe five?’

Logan bared his teeth and sooked a breath in. Grimaced. ‘Depends who the Sheriff is. Harding’s got a bee in his bunnet about drugs right now; might go as high as seven, if he thinks she’s dealing.’

‘I see …’ Nicholson frowned off into the middle distance. Stroked her chin. Then snapped her fingers. ‘I know! What if Kirstin here tried to cut a deal? You know, if she decided to scratch our backs?’

He folded his arms. ‘Well, I suppose that would depend. I’m pretty itchy.’

Kirstin groaned. Sat up. Slumped backwards. Covered her face with her hands. ‘You didn’t hear it from me, OK?’

Silence.

‘Didn’t hear what, Kirstin?’

‘Klingon and Gerbil got a shipment in from down south today.’

Nicholson slipped the biscuit tin into a large evidence bag. ‘Coke? Heroin? Hash? Crack? Smack? Jellies? Strepsils? What?’

A shrug.

Logan frowned. Outside, the sound of a car droned past. ‘This delivery: was it an ugly bloke in a shiny blue Fiesta? Birmingham accent?’ Then ran a finger along his own jaw. ‘Big line of plukes here? Calls himself Martyn-with-a-“Y”, or Paul, or Dave?’

‘Don’t know. Never met him. But Gerbil’s all excited cause he thinks he’s in with the big boys now. Shooting his mouth off round here last night.’ She dropped her hands away from her face. Stared up at the fake painting of the wee girl. ‘You can’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill me.’

‘Kevin “the Gerbil” McEwan? Got more chance of being gored by a sheep.’ Logan jerked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘On your feet.’

‘You’ve got to promise! So my Amy doesn’t grow up an orphan.’

Nicholson had her notebook out. ‘Where are they keeping the stuff?’

Kirstin stared up at Logan. ‘I only get to see my Amy on the weekends, with supervised visits from the social. I’m trying to change, I really am.’ One hand scratching away at the crook of her arm. Picking the scabs off the needle marks. ‘Please …’

‘Not till you tell us where it is.’

‘Klingon’s place. His mum’s away to Australia for a month.’

‘Right.’ Logan unhooked his Airwave and made for the door. Pointed back towards the pile of stuff on the coffee table. ‘Nicholson – you get that lot bagged and tagged. I’ll be outside.’ He punched in Inspector McGregor’s shoulder number on the way down the stairs. ‘Bravo India from Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Logan, are you heading up to Fraserburgh any time soon? Because this missing cashline machine is a total mess. How come we’ve not got anyone Crime-Scene-Manager-trained on shift?’

‘I want to raid an address in Banff.’

‘What: now?’

‘Soon as.’ He pushed through the main door and out into the sunny evening. ‘I’ve got intel that Kevin McEwan and Colin Spinney have taken possession of a big shipment from down south. Storing it at Spinney’s house. If we move quick, we might catch them before it’s broken up and disappeared.’

‘Klingon and Gerbil moving up in the world, are they?’

‘Trying to.’

Silence.

A seagull wheeled overhead, wings radiant-white against the flawless blue.

‘Guv?’

‘We’d need corroboration.’

‘Got a file yay thick with people complaining about them dealing from Gerbil’s flat.’

‘Hold on …’ Some muffled conversation. Then silence again.

Logan leaned back against the wall, one foot up on the dirty grey harling.

A second seagull joined the first, making slow loops, drifting away out to sea.

‘You still there? Email me an address and I’ll get the warrant sorted. Too short notice to get the Operational Support Unit involved, but you can have one van, and two extra officers from Inverurie.’

‘I need them to be search-trained. And a dog team.’

‘You want jam on it, don’t you?’

‘Best chance we’ve got of finding Klingon and Gerbil’s stash.’

Sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do. It’s going to take a couple of hours to get everything sorted, though. Stick in the ground: we go at nine tonight.’

‘Thanks, Guv.’

‘Just make sure you find something.’

The desk phone rang and rang and rang. Logan grabbed the Post-it note, stuck a finger in one ear, mobile phone clamped to the other, and marched out of the main office into the corridor. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

Louise’s voice crackled down the line. ‘I’m not saying it’s definitely going to be a problem, but we need to keep on top of it. Samantha’s health has to be our top priority.’

Past the canteen and the gents’ toilet. Through into the Constables’ Office.

More phones ringing – Nicholson scrabbling for a pad and scribbling things down. ‘Uhuh, yes, sir. I will, sir.’ She’d stripped off her protective gear, exposing muddy circles under the arms of her black T-shirt. Like filthy sweat stains.

He plonked the Post-it in the middle of the desk, in front of her.

She nodded.

‘This chest infection’s been dragging on for a couple of weeks and I’d really like to see if we can shift it.’

‘And there’s no risk?’

‘There’s always a risk when you change someone’s medication. But a chest infection’s a serious thing for someone who was in a coma for as long as Samantha.’

Nicholson must have finished her call, because she picked up the Post-it. Squinted at it. Then waved it at Logan. ‘What?’

‘OK, so let’s fix her medication then.’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘It says, “We’ve got a dog unit coming from Aberdeen.”’

‘It does?’ More squinting. ‘You ever think about becoming a doctor?’

‘Are you going to be up tomorrow?’

‘Can’t, I’m in court all day. Wednesday though: about ten?’

Nicholson grabbed a dry marker and stomped over to the whiteboard above the radiator. Printed ‘DOG UNIT’ in the column marked ‘ASSETS’.

‘Perfect. And we need to take another look at getting you formally appointed as Samantha’s legal guardian.’

‘I hate—’

‘I know you do. But if you’re going to make decisions about medical interventions we need something a bit more legally secure than simply being her boyfriend. It’s important, Logan.’

A weight pressed down on his shoulders, making them sag. ‘OK. We’ll talk about it Wednesday.’

‘Trust me: it’s for the best. You’ll see.’ And she was gone.

Logan slid his phone back into a pocket then turned to face the whiteboard. Inverurie had reneged on the two extra officers – something about a big barney going on outside Specsavers. But the Duty Inspector had managed to scare up one search-trained constable from Mintlaw and another from Fraserburgh. Add in Nicholson, Deano, Tufty, and Logan: that made six officers, one dog handler, a dirty big Alsatian, and a Labrador with a thing for sniffing out drugs.

Could have been worse. At least they only had the one address to hit. None of that double-dunt nonsense.

The office phone rang. Nicholson grabbed it. ‘Banff station, how can I help?’

With any luck, that would be their warrant ready for collection. Colin ‘Klingon’ Spinney’s mum was in for a bit of a shock when she got back from Australia.

Logan’s Airwave bleeped.

‘Sarge?’ Deano.

‘Safe to talk. Where are you? Grab Tufty and get back here, we’ve got an op to plan. Big drugs—’

‘Aye, no.’ Deep breath. ‘Sarge, I need you down at Tarlair Swimming Pool. Right now.’

‘Don’t be daft, it’s—’

‘Sarge, we’ve got a body. It’s a wee girl.’

Bloody hell … A missing paedophile and a dead little girl, all in the same day. He grabbed his hat. ‘We’re on our way.’

7

‘… What do you mean, “The drugs raid’s on hold”?’

Logan took hold of the grab handle above the passenger door as Nicholson floored it along High Shore, past the boxy terraced houses of Newton Drive, siren wailing and lights flashing.

Inspector McGregor sounded as if she was chewing a wasp. ‘Do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get you extra officers, a van, and a dog? Never mind the warrant, it’s—’

‘We’ve got reports of a young girl’s body at Tarlair Swimming Pool.’

The houses with their red pantile roofs faded in the rear-view mirror. Now there was nothing keeping the car company but the chain-link fence between it and the cliffs that hugged the left-hand side of the road.

A hissed breath. ‘Should you not have led with that?’

‘Sorry, Guv. Constables Scott and Quirrel are securing the scene. We’ve got an ETA …?’ He looked at Nicholson. Raised both eyebrows.

She changed down and threw them around the corner. ‘Going as fast as I can …’

The needle hit ninety.

‘Call it two minutes.’

The wastewater-treatment plant flashed by on the left, and Nicholson slammed on the brakes, swinging the car round into a steep hairpin bend. A squeal of tyres.

Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool appeared in the distance. A collection of boxy art deco buildings – not much bigger than a handful of Portacabins – were surrounded on three sides by cliffs, the fourth open to the sea. Their whitewashed walls going grey with neglect, caught by the evening sun. The two outdoor pools empty and decaying in front of them.

‘Have we got an ID?’

Logan switched off the siren. ‘Not yet. We’ve no support staff in Banff after five. Can you spare someone?’

The road dipped steeply down to another hairpin – gorse bushes like a sheet of rolling flame on the right, the bay on the left. Dark rocks making broken submarines and stranded ships in the glittering water. White foam marked the outward edges as the waves tried to shoulder them up onto the grey stony beach.

‘Any idea if it’s accidental, or …?’

‘I hope so. We’ve got a missing paedophile on the books: Neil Wood. Disappeared three days ago. His father only reported it today.’

‘That’s all we need …’ The sound became muffled, as if she’d stuck her hand over the microphone, partially blocking her firing orders at someone in the background – telling someone to get the Scenes Examination Branch to hotfoot it over from the cashline job in Fraserburgh.

Smooth tarmac gave way to scabby potholes. Knee-high grass bordered the sides of the road, punctuated by the searching pink antennae of rosebay willowherb. The patrol car bumped across the pockmarked tarmac, then wallowed as Nicholson slowed. The sound of a mudflap grinding against the uneven surface.

The road gave up in a dead end, just before the entrance to the pool. One way in, one way out. Well, unless you wanted to work your way down the cliff path from the golf course.

Inspector McGregor’s voice went from muffled to full volume again. ‘Logan, I need to know if this was a suspicious death ASAP. Am I calling in an MIT or not? Then secure the scene. I’ll be right there, soon as I get someone to run admin tasks for you.’

Logan stuck his Airwave handset on its clip.

Deano and Tufty’s little police van was parked in the middle of the road, between two jagged lumps of rock, blocking off the entrance to the site. The thing needed a wash, its white paintwork nearly grey with grime, but the stripe of blue-and-yellow blocks along the side glowed in the pool car’s flashing lights.

No sign of either of them.

Nicholson hit the button, killing the blue-and-whites.

Silence.

Logan grabbed his hat. ‘Get the tape out and secure the road. I want it blocked.’ He turned in his seat, then pointed at the top of the hill, where the first hairpin was. ‘Better make it other side of the water-treatment plant. Don’t want some scumbag with a telephoto lens selling snaps to the tabloids.’

‘Sarge.’

As soon as he clunked the passenger door shut again, she was reversing through the potholes. Did a sharp three-pointer, then accelerated off.

He turned. Picked his way around the police van. Punched Deano’s badge number into the Airwave.

But before he could press send, Tufty appeared, scrambling across the pebbled beach, both arms held out as if he was walking the high wire. He paused. Slithered back a couple of steps. Waved. ‘Sarge? Over here.’

Logan followed him across the pebble beach, avoiding the road. Broken kelp roots clung to the high-tide mark, pale and weathered, like a thousand human tibias. Everything smelled of ozone and salt, underpinned by a thin smear of rotting fish. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Guy was down here taking photos for some urban-decay-project-thing. Young lad doing an HND in photography at Aberdeen College. Peed himself. Then battered it over to Macduff on his bike. Saw us at the harbour, and that was that.’

A nod. Pebbles crunched and shifted under Logan’s feet. ‘You confiscate the camera?’

‘Deano got the SD card.’ Tufty pointed off to the right, towards a crumbling concrete embankment. ‘This way.’

‘Why didn’t your student call nine-nine-nine? Thought everyone had a mobile phone now.’

Tufty flashed a wee smile and a shrug. ‘Panicked. Says he couldn’t remember the number. Bit of a climb, sorry …’ He clambered up the embankment, then up onto the grass. Then over an outcrop of lichen-covered rock.

‘You sure you know where you’re going?’

‘Deano said there’s no way anyone would come this way carrying a body. So, you know, common approach path.’ More clambering and scrambling, and they were up on a ridge above the swimming pools. Tufty nodded. ‘Down there.’

The site was split into two halves. In front of the main buildings were a set of wide amphitheatre steps in dark-grey stained concrete, the edges picked out in decaying whitewash. They enclosed a D-shaped shallow pool – dry as an abandoned riverbed – the wall between it and the main swimming area crumbling and partially collapsed. On the other side of the wall, water came halfway up. A stony beach at one side that couldn’t have been an original feature, speckled with broken pipes and other bits of rusting flotsam. Then the sea wall, and then the blue expanse of the North Sea.

A dark shape was hunched at the far side of the pool, a line of black-and-yellow tape trailing from one hand: ‘CRIME SCENE – DO NOT ENTER’. Deano. He stuck both arms up and waved them. ‘Sarge!’

It took a moment to pick out the body. Grey against grey.

Not a mistake then.

A couple of inches below the ridge they stood on lay the decaying flat roof of some sort of ancient pump house. No way in hell Logan was risking standing on that. ‘Where’s this common approach path go, then?’

Tufty pointed. ‘Far as we can tell, he’d take her in a straight line from the entrance over there, along the side, take the walkway between the two bits, and dump her in the pool.’ His shoulders drooped. ‘I wanted to do some searching, but Deano won’t let me go down. Says I’ve got to stay up here.’

Proper procedure. Wonders would never cease.

Logan eased himself down the rock face and onto the amphitheatre steps. No way to get to where Deano was without crossing the killer’s route. Well, except for picking his way along the sea wall, but it looked narrow and slippery with green slime. And according to the sign at the entrance, it was a two-metre drop from there to the rocks, so sod that.

Assuming there was a killer.

He pointed at Tufty. ‘As of now, you’re acting Crime Scene Manager. You record the time and the date and everyone who’s been near the body. Guard the entrance and make sure no one gets past you till I say so. No one. Don’t care if it’s the Chief Constable himself, he cools his heels in the car park till I say otherwise. Understand?’

‘Sarge.’

Good.

He went right, dropped into the D-shaped inshore pool and made his way through the rubble and rubbish to the other side.

Deano jabbed a metal spike into a crack in the crumbling concrete at his feet, then looped the tape through the pig’s tail at the top. Moved on to the next spike, unspooling a trail of crime-scene yellow behind him. He sighed. ‘Poor wee sod.’

Logan stopped, level with the tape, and peered over the crumbling walkway. ‘Suspicious?’

A grimace. ‘When’s a dead kid not?’

‘True.’ He scrambled up and ducked under the yellow-and-black cordon.

The wee girl couldn’t be much more than five or six. The same age as Jasmine. Same hair colour …

Something knotted in the middle of his chest, compressed by the stabproof vest’s squeezing fist until it was hard and sharp.

But it wasn’t her.

Breath hissed out of him.

Deano put the roll of tape down. ‘You OK, Sarge?’

Blink. Logan coughed the lump out of his throat. ‘Yeah. It’s … She looks like Jasmine.’

The girl lay on her front, three feet from the dirty concrete wall and the ramp down into the pool. She was half-in, half-out of the water. Head, arms and torso floating amongst the detritus, lower half stranded on the rocks.

One leg lay straight out behind her, the small red shoe pointing back towards the main building. Looked as if the strap across her ankle had got caught on a rusting length of broken pipe. Holding her in place. The other leg stuck out at nearly ninety degrees. White socks and a grey dress. All covered with a thin dusting of white crystals.

Her grey jumper was sodden – torn between the shoulders, and at the elbows, showing the white shirt underneath. A school uniform.

Skin was pale as snow, covered in small scratches and tiny triangular holes. Her hands swollen and white. Neck bent at an unnatural angle.

Her cheek rested against a submerged rock. Eyes open, staring out through the murky water. Mouth open. Pale blonde hair floating around her face. A big dent in her forehead.

Deano tied the length of tape off on the last metal post. ‘You sure you’re OK?’

A shrug. ‘Yeah. Bit of a surprise, that’s all.’

‘See if I thought it was my daughter, I’d skin the scumbag alive …’ He sniffed. ‘Well you know: if I actually had any kids.’

Logan picked his way down the ramp, boots slithering on the weed-covered concrete, and squatted down at the edge of the water. Licked the tip of his index finger, then tapped it against the snagged red shoe. Pressed the finger against his tongue. Salt.

‘Deano, when’s high tide?’

‘No idea. Can find out, though.’

‘Definitely not an accident?’ Inspector McGregor was cranked up to full volume, trying to compete with the siren of the car she was in. ‘You’re sure?’

‘As I can be, without screwing up the scene.’ Logan marched back to the road, pulling off his blue nitrile gloves and stuffing them into an empty carrier bag. Fingers trembling, struggling with the plastic. ‘Looks as if someone battered her head in, but there’s no sign of blood on the walkway, or the wall, or the steps. So she didn’t do it falling into the pool. Best guess: she was dead by the time she hit the water. Probably had been for a couple of hours. Must’ve been completely submerged at one point – her skirt, legs and shoes are covered in salt crystals.’ He stopped, blew out a breath. ‘Poor wee soul was only five or six.’

The second-hand roar of the siren wailed from his Airwave’s speaker.

‘Guv?’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes. You’ve secured the scene? And got a lookout request on the go for Neil Wood?’

‘Deano handed it off to the OMU soon as we knew the guy was missing. Don’t know if they’ve done it or not.’

‘For God’s sake, Logan, it’s—’

‘You said, get back to you ASAP.’ The carrier bag went in his pocket. ‘Thought that made it top priority.’

A sigh, barely audible over the background noise. ‘Suppose you’re right.’

Deano scrambled up the shingle beach, back onto the road. Stopped and shook one leg, as if he’d stood in a puddle. Waves hushed against the pebbled shore.

‘Guv, you still there?’

‘Yes. Fine. I’m getting the MIT up from Aberdeen. Make sure no one touches anything till I get there.’

‘Already got Constable Quirrel as acting CSM.’

‘Tufty’s our Crime Scene Manager? … Wonderful … We’re all doomed.’ This time she was gone for good.

Deano marched over – one shoe leaving damp footprints on the age-dulled tarmac – while Logan punched in the badge number of the admin assistant Inspector McGregor had dug up for them.

The woman on the other end picked up. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

‘I need you to run a check on all missing persons aged eleven and under.’ The wee girl looked a lot younger than that, but there was no point taking any risks. ‘Female. Blonde hair. Wearing a school uniform – grey with white socks and shirt. Red shoes and tie. No school badge on the jumper.’

‘Where am I looking?’

Deano stopped in front of him, pointed at himself. Mouthed, ‘Anything needing doing?’

‘Better start with the Northeast and expand it from there. Go UK wide if you have to.’ He took his finger off the transmit button. ‘Deano, whoever you spoke to at the Offender Management Unit – give them a poke and make sure they’ve got a lookout request on for Neil Wood. I want him picked up.’

‘Sarge.’

‘… OK, I’ve got three mispers that match the age range in the Northeast …’ The clatter of fingers on keyboard. ‘Two are female … One red-haired, one brown. Sure yours hasn’t dyed her hair?’

He pulled out his mobile and scrolled through the photos he’d taken. That pale little face, staring down at the stones. Deep breath. ‘Far as I can tell. Eyebrows match the hair colour, anyway.’

‘Then we’re going to have to search further out. Might take me a while. How far back do you want me to go: one month, two, three?’

‘Better give it two years. Just because she only turned up today, doesn’t mean she’s not been missing for a long, long time.’

A sigh. Then, ‘Josef Bloody Fritzl has a lot to answer for.’

‘Email me if you get anything.’ Logan clipped the handset back in place.

Deano was on the other side of the police van, marching back and forth with one squelchy shoe. ‘… oh no you don’t. I told you he was missing. I told you to get a lookout request and … No, no, no, no, no: this is your cock-up, sunshine, not mine.’

Brilliant.

As if today could get any worse.

The cliffs were washed with blood, shadows long and dark as the sun sank towards the horizon. Painting the grass in shades of amber and gold. Glinting on the chain-link fence. Making the North Sea glow like it was on fire.

Nicholson tucked her hands into the armholes of her stabproof, covered now with a clean high-vis waistcoat. Shrugged her shoulders up round her ears and kept them there, peaked cap wedged on top of her head. ‘Getting a bit nippy.’

Logan rocked on the balls of his feet. Shoulders back. Hands clasped behind him. Chin up. ‘No slouching.’

A double line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape stretched between the end of the chain-link fence and the telegraph pole on the other side of the road. A handful of rusty cars were parked in front of the cordon, their drivers and passengers sitting on the bonnets, cameras and microphones hanging idle. Waiting. The Sky TV outside-broadcast van partially blocked the entrance to the wastewater plant, a journalist in a fleece and serious expression doing a piece to camera. The BBC doing the same a couple of hundred yards behind them.

‘Feel like a right turnip.’ But Nicholson stood upright anyway. ‘Stuck here like a pair of willies while everyone else is off doing proper police work.’

‘Pair of Wallies. Not willies.’

‘I know what I said.’ She turned back to the patrol car. ‘Don’t suppose we’ve got any of those nice padded jackets in the boot, do we?’

A sigh. ‘Go on then.’

An unmarked car came to a halt on the other side of the barrier tape and the nightshift Duty Inspector climbed out. Held up his hands as a swarm of lenses turned in his direction. When he spoke, the words came out as a thick roll of bunged-up vowels. ‘We’re not making any comment at this time. Thank you.’ He turned his back on them, ducked under the tape and marched up to Logan. Kept his voice low. ‘Bunch of vultures.’ A waft of Vicks VapoRub and menthol sweets.

‘Guv.’

Inspector Fettes tucked his peaked cap under his arm. His hands were huge – completely out of proportion with the rest of him – and covered with freckles. His cheeks and nose were a freckle playground too, reaching all the way up his forehead to a magnificent mop of red hair. He nodded at the road, where it snaked off down the hill. ‘Inspector McGregor still down there?’

‘You taking over?’

‘Got enough on my plate running the division as it is. Wendy can hold the fort here till her shift ends. Wanted to make sure I’m up to speed before she heads home.’

Logan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled it out – an email from the support officer in Elgin, listing all the young girls reported missing in the UK for the last two years, filtered for hair colour. None of the photographs worked on his phone. ‘Bloody typical.’

‘Problem?’

‘Someone’s emailed through photos of all the missing girls on file, but they won’t display.’ He gave the side of the phone a slap. It didn’t help.

Of course, the photos only mattered if she’d actually been reported missing …

Inspector Fettes sniffed. Dabbed at his nose with a hanky. ‘Still, I suppose it’s not really our problem any more, is it?’

‘Like they’d trust us with a murder.’ Logan put his useless phone away again. ‘No: the Major Investigation Team turns up an hour ago, in a blaze of flashing lights and sirens, and takes it off our hands. Thanks for your help, now sod off and go guard the scene for the rest of the night.’

‘Tossers.’

‘Exactly what I was thinking, Guv.’

Another sniff. ‘Speak of the devil …’

A battered Vauxhall grumbled up the hill from the swimming pool, and rattled to a halt next to the patrol car. Sat there with its engine running.

Probably expected him to abandon his post and rush over to see what they wanted.

Well, tough.

Inspector Fettes popped his hat on his head. ‘Suppose I’d better go make myself useful.’ He headed over to the Vauxhall. Leaned on the roof and spoke to someone through the open window. Pointed at Logan. Then stood back up and marched off down the road towards Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool.

Nicholson reappeared, hauling on a big fluorescent jacket with reflective strips. Nodded at the idling Vauxhall. ‘Something happen?’

Logan faced front again. ‘Doubt it.’

She checked her watch. ‘Soon be time for tenses. Nice cuppa and a chocolate éclair.’

‘No tenses for us tonight.’

‘Oh …’ Her face drooped. ‘Elevenses?’

‘We should be so lucky.’

The Vauxhall’s passenger door opened and a dishevelled head poked out. Hair like an angry weasel had rampaged through a haystack. The creases deepened around her mouth. Voice like sandpaper on a rusty pipe. ‘Laz! Stop dicking about.’

Nicholson raised an eyebrow. ‘Laz?’

‘Don’t ask.’

Detective Chief Inspector Steel clambered out of the car. Slightly hunched in her wrinkled grey trouser suit. Black overcoat. Blue silk shirt. She waved at him. ‘Get your arse over here.’

Pause.

‘Sarge?’

Sigh. ‘OK. You stay here. No one—’

‘Yeah, “None shall pass”, I get it.’

He turned and walked over to the Vauxhall.

‘About sodding time.’ Steel hooked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Come on, you and me’s going for a walk.’

8

They stopped at the top of the hill, overlooking the bay and the abandoned outdoor swimming pool. Steel waded into the knee-deep grass, then settled onto the park bench someone had erected years ago to make a viewing point. Back when councils still had money for things like that. She produced an electronic cigarette and took a deep puff, setting the tip glowing blue. Trickled out a stream of vapour from her nose. ‘Well this is a bloody mess.’

Logan sat next to her, engulfed in the throat-catching smell of perfume and mints. He pointed down to the pools, where a phalanx of bodies in white SOC suits picked their way around the far side. Two marquees sat beside the old building, both glowing with their internal lights. Three patrol cars. Two police vans. A big Range Rover. And a scruffy Transit van. ‘Any idea who she is yet?’

Steel jammed the e-cigarette into the corner of her mouth and took an envelope out of her pocket. ‘Came today. Haven’t dared look yet. Susan’s terrified.’

‘Going from the look of her, she can’t have been dead long. Maybe a day? Possibly two? We’re lucky the seagulls didn’t find her first.’

‘Right.’ Steel ran a finger along the envelope’s seal, ripping it open. Then ferreted out the sheet inside. Stuck the whole lot on her lap. ‘I can’t look.’

‘Put on your glasses then.’

She stared at him. ‘I don’t need glasses. It’s important, OK?’ She poked the sheet of paper. ‘This is a big deal.’

‘And a dead wee girl isn’t?’

Another long drag on the fake cigarette. ‘Got a point.’

‘Look …’ He cleared his throat. Took off his peaked cap and held it in his lap. ‘I know it means a lot to Susan. But maybe she needs to …’

Steel just stared, mouth hanging open.

‘What?’

‘What the hell did you do to your head?’ She reached out and scrubbed her hand across the back of it. ‘It’s like a velour egg.’

‘Get off.’ He scooted away to the edge of the bench.

‘Who cut your hair? You tell me and we’ll go round right now and beat the crap out of them. You look like an angry scrotum!’

‘I cut it.’ He slapped her hand away as she went in for seconds. ‘Got a set of clippers off the internet.’

‘One born every minute.’ She took another puff on her e-cigarette. Glanced down at the paperwork in her lap. ‘Pathologist’s examining the wee girl now. Quick once-over then off to Aberdeen. Post mortem tomorrow.’

‘You got any idea how much a haircut costs these days? Don’t get anything like the same overtime I did in CID. And with the pension contribution going up …’

‘Right now it looks like a blow to the head. Something solid and cylindrical. Best guess: he bashed her head in with a metal pipe. Find out more tomorrow when they cut her open.’

Logan screwed his hands together, knotting the fingers tight. ‘When I saw her lying there, all twisted in her school uniform … For a heartbeat, I thought it was Jasmine.’

Steel draped an arm along the back of the bench. Gave Logan a little squeeze. ‘Don’t be such a big girl’s blouse. She’s home with her mum.’

‘Who’s SIO?’

‘Officially, our beloved Detective Superintendent Young is the all-powerful Senior Investigating Officer. But it’ll be Finnie’s face on the TV. Dead wee girl. Paedo on the run. Got to bring out the big guns for something like that.’ A sniff. Then she poked herself in the chest a couple of times with her thumb. ‘No prizes for guessing who’ll be doing all the work though.’

‘I’d put my money on whatever poor sod you’ve got running around after you.’

‘Damn straight.’ She blew out a breath. Pulled her shoulders back. ‘Right.’ Picked up the sheet of paper from her lap. Paused. Then thrust it at Logan. ‘I can’t. You read it.’

He smoothed out the crumpled sheet. ‘“Dear Mrs Wallace-Steel, I write to inform you of the combined test results from your first-trimester nuchal translucency scan and bloodwork, taken on the”—’

‘Get to the point!’

‘Fine.’ Logan skimmed the page with his finger. ‘Blah, blah, blah … HCG is normal, but the PAPP-dash-A is elevated. Given Susan’s age, they’re going for a one in five hundred chance of the foetus having Down’s syndrome.’

‘Oh thank God.’ Steel let her head fall back and covered her face with her hands. Then sat up again, frowning. ‘One in five hundred. That’s good, isn’t it?’

No idea.

He manufactured a smile. ‘Course it is.’

‘Ha!’ She slapped him on the back. ‘You’re going to be a daddy again!’ The smile froze and Steel checked over her shoulder, as if someone might be lurking in the long grass. Her voice dropped to a raspy whisper. ‘But if your mum asks, it wasn’t you, OK? Someone else did the squirt-in-a-cup thing. Don’t want her going all stalkery over this one like she did with Jasmine. I’ve had verrucas easier to shake off than that woman.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Logan stood. ‘Look, any monkey in uniform could guard the cordon. And you’ve got heaps of bodies here.’

‘Want me to release you from your servitude?’

‘The whole team. Got a division to look after.’

The tip of Steel’s artificial cigarette glowed. ‘One in five hundred.’ She grinned. ‘Ah, go on then. I’m feeling generous.’

He marched back up the road. Tapped Nicholson on the shoulder. Lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Looks like tenses are on again.’

Logan swivelled his chair left and right, phone in one hand, mouse in the other. Scrolling through his team’s actions on STORM. Waiting for the Sergeant at Fraserburgh station to pick up.

The sound of telephones and stomping feet came from overhead. Like elephants in cheap machine-washable suits. A pair of them thundered past the open door to the Sergeants’ Office, trumpeting about getting a HOLMES suite set up and which of the bunnets was going to have to make the tea.

Logan stretched the phone cord to its full length and reached out with his leg. Caught the edge of the door with his foot and shoved. It banged shut.

A not-quite big enough room: two cupboards locked away behind white panelled doors; a pair of desks, back to back so the occupants could face each other over creaky black computers; some metal cabinets and overflowing in-trays. A line of body-worn video units winking their green lights at him as the mouse moved onto the next set of action.

Click.

Deano was all up to date. As was Nicholson. But Tufty …

God’s sake. It was like having a five-year-old. Three assaults, two burglaries, and a purse-snatching, all needing following up.

He clicked on the first assault, wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, and battered a remark into the system, fingers sparking across the keyboard.

Follow this up ASAP – this action has been open too long. I want it updated!

Finally, someone picked up in Fraserburgh and a rough male voice echoed out of the phone: ‘Billy Broch’s House of Horrors, how may I direct your call?’

‘Sergeant Smith, is that any way to answer the station telephone?’

‘Knew it was you by the number. What’s this I hear about you and your numpties turning up a body?’

‘Dead child.’

‘Aw, no … Sorry. No one said.’

‘What are you and your hired thugs up to the night?’

‘They inflict you with an MIT yet?’

More footsteps, stomping overhead. ‘They’ve commandeered most of upstairs. And the night shift. Can you get a couple of bodies down Fraserburgh harbour? I need a door-to-door on the boats – looking for any intel you can get on Charles “Craggie” Anderson. Went missing a week ago. No sign of him or the Copper-Tun Wanderer.’

‘You coming to see our cashline-machine-shaped hole later?’

‘Planning on it. Anything else?’

The sound of air being sucked between teeth. ‘Let’s see. New today: two potential bail violations, three domestics, couple of complaints about that traveller camp outside Rosehearty, handful of break-ins, and we’re looking for a druggie who’s been snatching handbags. Otherwise it’s same old, same old. What about your drugs raid? You still needing Constable King-Kong McMahon?’

‘On hold. Going to try again Wednesday, if they let me.’

A knock on the door. A muffled voice: ‘Sarge?’

‘Come in, Tufty. Got to go, Bill. Try and behave till I get there, OK?’

‘No promises.’

Logan hung up as Constable Quirrel sidled into the room. ‘Well?’

He glanced back over his shoulder like a really bad sneak thief. Dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Tenses in the cellblock.’

‘Old one or the new one?’

‘Ah …’ A grimace. ‘Forgot to ask.’

‘… and don’t get me started on that prick Dawson!’ Nicholson paced the scuffed grey floor, her hands jabbing out at random angles as she went. She marched straight through one of the two open, thick, blue metal doors and into the darkened cell beyond. Turned and stamped back into the room again. ‘Do you know what he said to me? Do you?’

The new cellblock was a low-ceilinged room that smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and flaky pastry. The cells empty and immaculate, barely used since they were installed a decade ago, but still kitted out with their thin plastic mattresses and stainless-steel toilets. Waiting for the day when they had enough staff to open it up again. As if that was ever going to happen.

Logan leaned against the door through to the garage, Deano the one through to the older part of the building while Tufty handed out the pastries. ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell us.’

‘He said—’

‘On second thoughts, don’t.’ Logan pointed at the office chair behind the custody desk. ‘Sit. Deep breaths. And calm down.’

‘But, Sarge, he—’

‘Down. Arse in chair. Now.’

Whatever she said under her breath, it probably wasn’t polite, but she thumped down in the chair and folded her arms.

‘Thank you.’ Logan helped himself to a bite of maple pecan twist. Talking with his mouth full. ‘For better, or worse, we’re lumbered with these guys. Some of them will be tossers, some of them won’t. But I don’t want any of you lowering yourselves to that level, am I understood?’

Pink bloomed across Nicholson’s cheeks. She stared at her boots.

Deano sighed. ‘She’s only letting off steam.’

‘I don’t care. And that goes for all of you. We are a professional modern police force. I will not have you letting B Division down by acting like sulky children.’

The response was a barely audible, ‘Yes, Sarge,’ from Nicholson. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

Logan nodded. Had a sip of tea. Hot and milky. ‘Now that we’re all calm and grown-up again, what did he say?’

‘Sexist scumbag thought I was going to make the tea for them!’ Nicholson ripped a bite out of her apple turnover, getting flakes of pastry all down the front of her black T-shirt.

Tufty handed her a mug. ‘What did you do?’

‘Smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, Guv.”’ Her shoulders dipped. ‘What was I supposed to do? Kick off in the canteen?’

Logan nodded back towards the older part of the building, where the main office was. ‘You want me to have a word?’

She grimaced. ‘Think that’s going to help me get into CID? Constable Janet Nicholson, chippy feminist?’

‘Maybe not.’ But that didn’t mean they were going to get away with it. Logan took another bite of pastry. ‘I’m off to Fraserburgh after. Might do Peterhead too, depends if anything comes up.’ He pointed at Deano. ‘You and Tufty keep hitting the harbours. Janet, take the other car and drift by Alex Williams’s place every half-hour. Can’t stop the two of them getting back together, but we can let Alex know we’re watching.’

A nod. ‘Sarge.’

‘When you’re not there, do a general sweep of the area. Everyone needs to remember that we’re the ones keeping the peace here, not some MIT bunch of bum-weasels.’

The patrol car slid into New Pitsligo, the grey buildings and grey streets washed with amber streetlight. Going the long way round to Fraserburgh. Taking a detour through the wee town’s side streets. Peering into front and back gardens. Doing exactly the same thing he’d told Nicholson to do. Being seen. Flying the flag for community policing. Letting people know he was out there.

Singing along to whatever tune popped into his head as the car radio crackled and bleeped with snippets from the investigation going on at Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool. Fingertip search of a cliff, by torchlight. Someone was off their rocker.

And still no sign of anything turning up.

Back onto the A950. Then a left onto the Strichen road. Blackened fields. Clumps of trees looming from the shadows. Stars like tiny LEDs sprinkled across treacle. The moon a ball of darkness with a faint sliver of white on one edge. A flock of sheep, their eyes shining like vampires’ in the headlights.

His Airwave bleeped, cutting off a spirited rendition of the Birds Eye Steakhouse Grills advert: ‘Hope it’s chips, it’s chips …’ He took one hand off the wheel and clicked the button. ‘Go ahead, safe to talk.’

‘Sarge, it’s Janet. Been past Alex Williams’s – they’re both sitting in the lounge, watching the TV. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt. I mean, after what Williams did …’

‘I know. Keep an eye out. I’m winning that bet – no one dies.’

‘See if someone tried to do that to me? I’d have their kneecaps off.’

‘No one gets crippled either.’

A pause.

‘Sarge?’

‘What?’

‘Why haven’t I got a nickname? I mean Stewart’s Tufty, Dean’s Deano. Even you’ve got one. I’m just Janet. Or Nicholson. Is it because I’m a woman?’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Frown. ‘Well … what do you want to be called?’

‘Oh no you don’t – only tosspots pick their own nickname.’

‘We could call you Constable Pain-in-the-Hoop?’

‘Funny.’ Voice flat. ‘Good job I’m wearing my stabproof vest, razor-sharp wit like that. Ha. Ha. Etc.’

‘Listen, do me a favour: have a bit of a drive round on Rundle Avenue. I want Frankie Ferris to know we’re watching him. Keep him on edge.’

‘God: a cow on the road, a bit of standing about behind a cordon, and the chance to kerb-crawl past a druggie scumbag’s house for the rest of the shift? All in one day? You’re right, why would anyone want to abandon that for a life in CID?’

Strichen was as small as it was quiet. But Logan gave it the same treatment – up and down the side streets. Look at me, I’m a police officer. Your taxes at work. The only thing even vaguely noteworthy was the naked man duct-taped to the ‘STOP’ sign outside the town hall on the corner of Bridge Street and the High Street.

Well … he was probably naked. It was difficult to tell under all the treacle and feathers. And they hadn’t exactly skimped on the duct tape either.

Logan buzzed down the pool car’s passenger window. Leaned across the seats. ‘You OK?’

Mr Tar-And-Feathers blinked back at him, then released a lazy grin. ‘I’m … I’m getting mar … married!’ The words all slurred and wobbly.

‘Congratulations.’ He buzzed the window back up again and headed off north towards Fraserburgh.

‘Control to Shire Uniform Seven.’

Logan looked left and right. No one else in the aisle. All alone with the rows and rows of soup tins. He pressed the button on his handset. ‘Safe to talk.’

‘You’re in Fraserburgh tonight? Anywhere near Arran Court?’

‘No idea. I’m in that Tesco on South Harbour Road.’ The tattie and leek was cheap. But not as cheap as the lentil.

‘Neighbours are worried about a Mrs Bairden at number twenty-six. Not been seen since yesterday morning. History of heart problems. Not answering the door or the phone.’

Lentil it is. Three tins went in the basket, joining the multipack of generic salt-and-vinegar and a bog-standard loaf of white.

‘Give me five minutes.’

‘Will do.’

Quick march, round the corner and a few aisles down, where the medicines and toothpaste lurked. Condoms, pile cream, antacids, eyedrops … Ah. There they were. Laxatives.

It’d break the weekly budget, but what the hell. Sometimes you had to live a little.

He picked two different brands at random and flipped them over to read the instructions.

A tap on his shoulder.

Logan turned to see a young woman in the standard blue-short-sleeved-shirt-and-black-trouser uniform. An ‘ASK ME ABOUT CAR INSURANCE’ badge pinned above the one with her name on it: ‘AMANDA’. She smiled up at him. ‘Are you looking for something specific?’

‘Do you have anything really strong and quick-acting?’

She picked a green-and-yellow packet from the shelf. ‘My nan uses these – gentle, predictable relief.’

‘Nah. I’m looking for something a bit more aggressive. Wire-brush and Dettol time. Got anything that fits the bill?’

9

Arran Court. A single row of terraced houses: white harling walls, slate roofs; the occasional block of dark wood connecting upper and lower windows. The street was hidden away in Fraserburgh’s winding knot of cul-de-sacs. Surrounded by the back gardens of other buildings. A small patch of green sat opposite, lit by the yellow glow of a concrete lamp post. A handful of cars parked in front.

Logan counted the doors off, and stuck the patrol car in front of number twenty-six.

Three middle-aged women formed a clot by the garden gate. Two of them sitting on the low wall between it and number twenty-five. The third pacing back and forth, leaving cigarette trails in the street-lit air. All of them in pyjamas and dressing gowns.

Peaked cap on, out into the night. Logan clunked the car door shut and marched over. ‘Does anyone have keys?’

The woman with the cigarette stopped pacing and stared at him. Face souring. ‘You think we’d be standing here like lumps if we did?’

‘How about relatives? Or maybe a carer?’

One of the wall-sitters shook her head. ‘Her daughter, Sandra, lives three streets over, but she’s in Edinburgh for a thing.’

He stepped through the gate. ‘And you’re sure she’s not gone out somewhere? Night out in Aberdeen? Visiting friends in Peterhead?’

Number three sniffed. ‘She’s got a heart condition. What if she’s dead?’

Logan tried the door handle. Locked.

No lights on inside.

‘OK, let’s try round the back.’ He pointed at Mrs Cigarette. ‘Do you have the daughter’s mobile number?’

She dug a mobile from her dressing-gown pocket, poked at the screen, then held the thing out. ‘Ringing.’

He took it. Stuck it against his ear as he marched to the end of the street and slipped around the side of the last house. A little lane ran between the back of Arran Court and the rear of the next street over. Logan counted his way along the patchwork of wooden fences to number twenty-six as the mobile phone rang. And rang. And rang.

And finally, ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, thin and nervous.

‘Is this Sandra Bairden?’

There wasn’t a gate into the back garden. Instead, a seven-foot-tall woven wood screen stretched the length of the garden. It wobbled when he grabbed hold of it.

‘Who is this?’

‘I’m a police officer. I don’t want to worry you, Sandra, but your mum’s neighbours are concerned about her.’

He put one foot on the low brick wall and pulled himself up. A single light was on in the house, shining faintly through a small pane of rippled glass. Probably the bathroom. The garden wreathed in gloom.

‘Oh God … Is it her heart?’

‘Could be nothing at all. We just want to make sure she’s OK.’ He gave the fence another shoogle. Better do it quick before the whole thing came crashing down. Up and over. Thumping down with both feet in a vegetable patch.

‘I … I knew I shouldn’t have left her alone … But it was a work thing and—’

‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions.’ Crunching out through the woody stalks of leeks on parade, the air filled with the sharp scent of fresh onion. Back door. ‘Do you know if your mother keeps a spare key anywhere on the property? Under a plant pot? Something like that?’ He unclipped his torch from the stabproof and clicked it on. Swept the LED beam around the garden.

‘No, definitely not. She’s very security conscious …’ A sob rattled from the phone’s speaker. ‘Please let her be all right …’

One of those ridiculous half-terrier garden ornaments sat by the back door – as if the dog was digging its way through the paving slab down to the house foundations. He nudged it over with his toe. A single key was taped to the underside.

Yeah, because that was the last place a burglar would look.

He pinned the phone between ear and shoulder, picked the key up and slipped it into the back-door lock. ‘It’s OK, I’m letting myself in now.’

The kitchen was in darkness. ‘Mrs Bairden? Hello?’

Silence.

‘Oh my God, she’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Mrs Bairden? It’s the police, are you OK?’ He clicked on the light. Yellow and blue tiles on the walls, grey faux-marble worktop, white units.

Through into the hall. Click. Photos on the walls, leading up the stairs: an overweight little girl playing with a big hairy dog, the same girl in school uniform with missing front teeth, then getting older, married, looking more tired and more worn down as she aged.

‘Why did I have to come to Edinburgh …?’

‘Mrs Bairden? Hello?’

Up to the landing.

Light seeped out under the bathroom door, the drone of an extractor fan, muffled by the door.

Logan knocked. ‘Mrs Bairden? Are you in there?’

He tried the handle. Locked.

‘I’m so stupid …’

Another knock. ‘Mrs Bairden?’ He stuck his ear against the door. Was that a voice? Barely audible under the extractor fan’s incessant buzz. ‘Mrs Bairden, I’m coming in.’

Logan pulled a handful of change from his trouser pocket. Took a two-pence piece and slotted the edge of it into the little twiddly thing beneath the handle. Twisted it left till the lock went clack.

The door swung open, revealing a small bathroom clarted in pink floral tiles. A salmon-coloured suite. And a very pale old lady – naked in the bathtub, surrounded by filthy water. Thin grey hair. Sunken cheeks. One shoulder hunched. The left side of her mouth drooping.

Logan stuck the mobile phone on mute. Popped it on the pink cistern, next to the Spanish flamenco-dancer toilet-roll cosy. And knelt beside the bath. Put two fingers against Mrs Bairden’s neck.

Then grabbed his Airwave and called for an ambulance.

‘… join us after the break when Josie and Marshal have to decide who’s—’

Logan poked the remote and the voice-over idiot on the TV was replaced by canned laughter on some mediocre sitcom.

The Fraserburgh station canteen was empty, except for him and the furniture. The blinds on the round window pulled tight, jaundiced light seeping through from the street outside.

His cheapo lentil soup wasn’t too bad with a good slug of chilli sauce – pilfered from the back of the cupboard. The bottle had ‘ERIN’S ~ HANDS OFF YOU THIEVING SODS!’ printed across it in angry black Sharpie letters. As if that was going to do any good.

Leave food lying about in a police station and you deserved everything you got.

A bleep from his Airwave. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Cruden Bay, we’ve got reports of an IC-One male threatening to commit suicide …’

He ripped a chunk off the slice of toast and dipped it in the soup. Butter made round shiny slicks on the surface.

A dog-eared copy of the Aberdeen Examiner lay open on the table in front of him. Big two-page spread about the first day of Graham Stirling’s trial. ‘FAMILY’S AGONY OVER “SICK CLAIMS”’ and a big photo of Stephen Bisset, taken before Stirling got his hands on him. A smiling, unremarkable man, in a blue jumper and white shirt. Side parting and a cheesy grin. Holding a baby in his arms. His teenaged kids stood at his shoulders, with matching eyes, smiles, and long black hair: ‘HAPPY FAMILIES: LEFT TO RIGHT DAVID (17), STEPHEN (41), BABY DAVINA (3 MONTHS), AND CATHERINE (14)’.

Logan flipped the page to an opinion piece about a woman who’d scalded her husband with chip fat. Had another dunk of toast in his soup. Scanned an article about the drive-by execution of three gang members down in Liverpool. Another about a member of the Scottish Parliament caught thrashing out a ‘private member’s bill’ in the women’s toilets after hours.

His Airwave bleeped, then DCI Steel’s gravelly tones ground out of the speaker. ‘Laz? Where the hell are you?’

Great – couldn’t even eat his cheapo soup in peace.

He thumbed the button. ‘Busy. What do you want?’

‘How come I can’t find anything in this warren you call a police station? Where are the marker pens?’

A spoonful of lumpy lentil. ‘Hector nicks them all.’

‘Who the hell is Hector? I’ll kick his bum for him.’

‘Too late for that: he died years ago.’

‘Hilarious. Where’s the damn pens?’

‘And now he haunts the corridors of Banff station, terrifying probationers and anyone foolish enough to venture upstairs after dark … Wooo-oooo-ooohhhh-ooo!’

Silence.

He crunched on a mouthful of toast.

‘You finished?’

‘What? Not my fault. He’s the station ghost, and every time a pen goes missing, it’s Hector’s fault. Try the old VIPER room on the top floor, next to the shower room. There’s usually a box up there.’

‘When you getting back? I need to go round all the registered stots, fiddlers, nonces, and paedos in the area.’

‘So? You’ve got every spare body in the northeast: go visiting. Knock yourself out.’

‘Need me some local knowledge.’

‘Your team—’

‘Are a bunch of numpties. Wouldn’t trust them to interview their bums for love bites. So …?’

More soup. ‘Depends if I get free later. I’ll let you know.’ Ha, no chance. ‘Got to go.’

Another dollop of stolen hot sauce. Definitely improved the taste.

The door opened behind him. ‘Sarge.’

He looked back over his shoulder and gave a one-spoon salute. ‘Syd. How’s the menagerie?’

A shrug. ‘Enzo’s OK, but Lusso bit Dino. Right on the bum.’ Constable Fraser’s black, police-issue fleece was frayed around the collar and sleeves, the thick leather dog lead draped across his shoulders and clipped together behind his back. Like BDSM braces. Black-and-white checked ‘POLICE’ baseball hat on his head, the brim worn and hairy on one side. The less than subtle waft of Eau de Labrador. ‘Don’t know what he’d been doing, but he probably deserved it.’

Logan stared at him. ‘Your dog bit Deano? He bit Constable Scott? When did this happen?’

‘What?’ Syd curled his top lip, pulled his chin back into his neck. Then the frown slipped from his face. ‘Ah, OK, no, not Deano, Dino. D.I.N.O. My Alsatian. He likes to wind the other two up.’

Thank God for that. Logan hissed out the breath he’d been holding. The paperwork would’ve been horrendous.

Syd clumped over to the kitchen that took up one corner of the large room. Stuck a Tupperware box in the microwave and set it humming.

‘I need a car over to Market Street, Macduff. Reports of an elderly woman in distress wandering the street.’

Nicholson’s voice barked out of the Airwave handset. ‘Roger that, Control – on my way.’

Logan went back to his soup. ‘You not out searching Tarlair?’

‘Nope. You cancelled that drugs op, so me and Enzo ended up checking suspicious packages down the post office. Got three lots of coke, two of resin, and a teeny-tiny bit of heroin. Probably has a street value of eight pounds fifty, but every little helps.’

Ding.

Syd went rummaging in the cutlery drawer and carried the Tupperware back to the table. Pulled out the chair two down from Logan and settled in. Creaked the top off the container. The smell of rich Indian spices wafted out, covering the one of wet dog. ‘Know if they’ve ID’d the girl yet?’

‘MIT’s handling it. Think they’d tell me?’

‘Probably not.’ A fork dug into the curry, pulled out a mound of chickpeas and onion. ‘What’s happening with your warrant? Me and the hairy loons were looking forward to that.’ He took off his baseball cap, exposing a swathe of shiny scalp, fringed with close-cropped grey. ‘Got nothing special on tomorrow, if you’re up for it?’

‘Can’t – got the Stirling trial. Maybe Wednesday? Assuming they’ll give me the bodies with this Tarlair thing going on.’ A spoonful of lentils helps the bitterness go down. ‘Surprised they’ve not got you out there sniffing round the swimming pool too.’

‘No one ever calls in the dogs as a first resort.’ Another forkful of chickpeas. ‘More fool them.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Another handset bleep. ‘Control to Bravo India One, safe to talk?’

Syd pointed at the TV. ‘You watching this pish?’

‘Just on for the company, to be honest.’

The Duty Inspector’s voice yawned out of the speaker: ‘Go ahead.’

‘Cool.’ He grabbed the remote and went spinning through the channels. ‘You hear about Barney Massie? Up running that fatal RTA in Kirkwall, when he gets a challenge on his team’s expenses.’

‘Co-op in Aberchirder’s had its front window panned in and the Cashline machine taken.’

A groan came from the Airwave. ‘Not another one …’ A sigh. A pause. Then the Duty Inspector was back. ‘OK. I’ll be right over.’

‘Some wee numptie in Tulliallan calls him up to give him a roasting: “What’s all these claims for flights? Did no one even think of taking the train?”’

Logan stared at him. ‘To Orkney?’

‘Exactly.’ More chickpeas. ‘The job is well and truly buggered.’ Another jab at the remote produced a repeat of Chewin’ the Fat – a pair of sailors chuntering out filth while their boat heaved through a storm. ‘Still, only eight paydays to go.’

‘Thanks. Rub it in. I’m stuck here till I’m sixty-five.’

On the TV, the seamen were replaced by Ford Kiernan buying a pie and a Paris bun.

‘Got a big farewell bash planned: thirty years of keeping Grampian Police on the straight and narrow.’

Logan sucked in a breath. ‘Better watch that kind of rebellious talk. There is no Grampian Police, there is only Police Scotland. All bow to our conquering overlords.’

‘Ah, screw them. What they going to do, fire me?’

There wasn’t much to see at Broch Braw Buys at five to midnight on a Monday night.

It was wedged between the Coral betting shop and a chip shop. Both closed for the evening. The Kenya Bar and Lounge on the corner had its door shut, the metal gate locked over the top. The sound of hoovering rattled out from somewhere inside.

Logan closed the pool car’s door and crunched his way through little cubes of broken glass.

They’d obviously used the same tactics to get into the place and steal its cash machine, because the shop’s front window was now boarded up with chipboard. Someone had stapled a poster right in the middle of the raw wood: ‘£1,000.00 REWARD FOR ANY INFORMATION LEADING TO THE BASTARD’S WHO DID THIS GETTING THEIR LEGS BROKEN!!!’

Logan reached out and tore it down. While a nice sentiment, it wasn’t exactly legal. And besides, that misplaced apostrophe grated.

He stood on the pavement and did a slow three-sixty.

Fraserburgh was quiet: no sound but the far-off burr of the occasional vehicle cruising some distant street. Not cold, but not exactly warm either. The roads washed in anaemic sodium light.

When did the call to the Duty Inspector come through? Couldn’t have been much more than half three. So whoever it was going round nicking cash machines, they were either getting bolder, or stupider. Or maybe they simply had a schedule to keep?

Four cash machines in three days. If there wasn’t a Major Investigation Team set loose on the case already, there would be by tomorrow morning. Earnest-faced plainclothes officers stomping about the countryside with their hobnail boots and fighting suits. Getting on everyone’s nerves and lording it over the poor sods in uniform who’d have to clear up the mess they left behind.

Divisional policing, that’s where all the cool kids were …

10

The countryside swept past, dark and blurred, the road ahead picked out by the patrol car’s headlights. Glinting back from the cats’ eyes. A pulsing off-and-on glow as Logan tore down the dotted white line.

A sea of stars stretched from horizon to horizon. The water an expanse of slate grey to the left, bordered by cliffs. The distant glimmer of house lights.

Logan battered to the end of ‘Started Out With Nothin’, drove in silence for a minute, then launched into ‘Living Is a Problem Because Everything Dies’. Making up half of the words as he went along.

Sooner the Big Car was back with its working radio, the better. Honestly, it—

His Airwave gave the point-to-point quadruple bleep. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’

‘Go ahead, Deano.’

‘Got a couple of guys in Gardenstown who think they saw Charles Anderson, Sunday last. Said he was off his face with the drink and spewing his hoop over the side of his boat.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Been talking in the pub earlier about going up to Papa Bank or Foula Waters, hunting haddies.’

Better than nothing.

Logan tapped his fingertips against the stubbly hair above his ear. ‘So, maybe he’s not missing at all. Maybe he’s gone fishing?’

‘Still should be answering his radio, unless the power’s gone. Could be adrift, middle of the North Sea?’

‘Pretty certain the radio has to have batteries. Health and Safety.’

‘True.’

Round the next bend, and the bright lights of Macduff twinkled in the distance. ‘Tell Tufty to get the kettle on. I’ll be home in five.’

More dark fields. More cloudy silhouettes of trees. Then ‘WELCOME TO MACDUFF’. Someone had hung a white sheet, with ‘HAPPY 40TH BIRTHDAY CAZ!!!!!’ splodged across it in black paint, under the limits sign. A couple of gaily coloured balloons were tied to the posts, sagging like a miserable clown’s testes.

Logan took a quick detour down Moray Street, with its blocky grey buildings. Then stopped at the bottom – the junction with High Shore. Two choices. Right: back to the station, or left: towards the Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool?

The dashboard clock glowed ‘00:30’ at him.

Wasn’t as if he could contribute anything. Much more likely he’d get roped into doing something that could probably be accomplished by half a dozen traffic cones.

Right it was. Past the quaint wee houses, following the curving road, their dormer windows staring out across the sea as it hissed against the pebble beach.

Bleep. ‘Anyone in the vicinity of Rosehearty? We’ve got a report of an assault ongoing outside the traveller camp …’

Pause. Two. Three …

Then someone caved. ‘Sergeant Smith to Control, on my way. Tell McMahon and Barrow to get their fingers out and join me there.’

Past the aquarium – closed for refurbishment. A caravan sat in front of the temporary mesh fence encircling the oversized barnacle-shaped building, surrounded by orange traffic cones. A scruffy scarecrow in a filthy tracksuit sat on the caravan’s top step, smoking. Hand cupped around the cigarette, trying to hide its light from snipers.

As if anyone would waste a bullet on Sammy Wilson.

Logan pulled into the entrance, drifting slowly past the big red buoy that decorated the middle of the car park.

His Airwave gave its point-to-point bleeps again, and DCI Steel’s voice growled out into the car. ‘How come you’ve no’ called me back yet?’

‘I’m busy.’ Logan slowed. Poked the button marked ‘LEFT ALLEY’ and a spotlight lanced out and caught Sammy Wilson full in the face.

All bones and angles and taut sallow skin. Flecked with stubble, dirt and bruises.

Sammy shrank back against the caravan, one arm up, covering his eyes.

Logan wound down the window. ‘Evening, Sammy.’

A wince. Then a sniff. And Sammy Wilson peered out from behind his grim sleeve. ‘Not doing nothing.’

‘Sure you’re not.’

‘Hoy! You still there?’

‘No. This is a recording. Leave a message after the beep.’ He let go of the talk button and pointed at the temporary fencing with its warning notices. ‘You’re not planning on doing something I’d disapprove of, are you, Sammy? Bit of breaking and entering, maybe? Wheeching bits of kit off the building site?’

‘Nah, I’d never. Nope. Not me. Not a thief and that.’

Logan stared at him.

He shrugged one shoulder. Stared down at his feet. ‘Suppose I could sod off.’

‘Probably for the best. Don’t want someone getting the wrong idea.’

He hauled himself to his feet and scuffed away up Market Street, leaving a coil of cigarette smoke behind.

‘You can be a right dick, you know that, don’t you?’ Steel cleared her throat. ‘Anyway, it’s no’ like I’m asking for much: a wee hand to talk to your local sex offenders, that’s all.’

‘I’m not the one being a dick.’ He put the car in gear again, heading down Laing Street and along the front. ‘You’ve got the biggest team in the division. Use it.’

‘You want the murdering pervert who did this to get away? That what you want?’

To the left, a hodgepodge of old-fashioned Scottish buildings faced out over the railing to the harbour walls and the still, grey mass of the North Sea. Some of them wore grey harling, some dressed granite, some painted white.

‘Shift finishes in half an hour.’

‘You’re no’ telling me that sodding off home for a Pot Noodle and a spot of onanism is more important than catching a wee girl’s murderer, are you?’

‘And I’m in court tomorrow.’

Past the Macduff Arms, all shuttered and quiet.

‘Oh, don’t be such a big Jessie. It’s just a couple of sex offenders. No’ like we’ll be that long at it.’

The Bayview Hotel had some sort of wedding reception going on – a knot of wobbly blokes in kilts smoking cigarettes and laughing on the pavement in front.

‘You’re authorizing the overtime, are you?’

‘Ah …’

No one outside Bert’s. A couple of women getting money from the Bank of Scotland cash machine. Nothing doing at the Highland Haven Hotel.

Nice and peaceful. Quiet. Like his Airwave’s speaker.

Then the harbour gave way to industrial units and the bus depot.

He thumbed the button again. ‘Well, are you?’

‘It’s no’ as easy as—’

‘This isn’t CID. We get sod all for the first half-hour of unplanned overtime, after that it’s on the clock. I’m not running a charity here.’

The buildings faded in the pool car’s rear-view mirror. Banff twinkled on the other side of the bay.

More silence from Steel. Then, finally, ‘OK, OK, overtime. You’re a greedy—’

‘I’m not greedy, I’m skint. You got any idea how much of a pay-cut came with the “development opportunity” you lumbered me with? I’m living on bargain-basement soup and pappy sliced white.’

‘That’s no’ my fault! How was I supposed to know Big Tony Campbell would stick you in a bunnet in the arse-end of nowhere?’ Her voice dropped to what was probably meant to be a sultry purr. ‘Come on: you and me, questioning sex offenders like the good old days.’

‘Yeah, well … Too late to do anything about it tonight anyway.’ Up and over the bridge into Banff.

‘Laz, Laz, Laz. Did you learn nothing from our time together? It’s never too late to rattle a nonce.’

Nicholson leaned forward from the back seat. ‘I want to say thank you, again, for the opportunity to work on the Tarlair Major Investigation Team.’

Sitting in the passenger seat, Steel took a long draw on her e-cigarette, setting the tip glowing blue. ‘Calm down, eh? No one likes a brown-noser.’ Then poked Logan in the shoulder. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘For the last time: we’ll get there when we get there.’

A shrug. ‘No’ my fault you drive like an old lady, Laz.’

Nicholson tapped Steel on the arm. ‘Erm … Why do you call him “Laz”?’

‘Short for Lazarus. You remember the Mastrick Monster? Laz here caught him. Got into a knife fight on top of a tower block.’

‘It wasn’t a knife fight.’

‘Who’s telling this story, you or me?’ Another puff. ‘Knife fight.’

Nicholson frowned. ‘But why Lazarus?’

‘Cause our wee boy here got himself killed stone dead.’

Her eyes went wide in the rear-view mirror. ‘What happened?’

Logan shifted his grip on the steering wheel. Took the turning onto Duff Street. ‘I got better.’

Steel sniffed. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Shut up.’

The short man blinked back at them from behind thick-framed spectacles. ‘I’m sorry?’ He clutched his dressing gown tight shut across his chest, hiding the patchwork of scars and shiny cigarette burns. Ran his other hand across the shiny top of his shiny head.

Steel scooted forward, until she was sitting right on the edge of the armchair. ‘No’ a difficult question, is it, Markyboy? Where were you?’

He puffed out his cheeks. Shrugged. ‘Here, probably. I don’t really like to go out much. After …’ Mark Brussels cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s probably for the best. Probably. I mean, you hear stories, don’t you? People on the register getting beaten up.’ He flapped a hand at the outside world. Then pressed his knees together. ‘People on the register going missing.’

She pulled out her e-cigarette and gave it a sook. ‘Missing like Neil Wood?’

‘Been a lot of that kind of thing going on. Kickings. Disappearings. Concerned citizens taking it out on poor sods like us.’

‘Poor sods?’ She hauled out her list. ‘Says here you abused girls as young as seven over a twelve-year period.’

Logan rocked back and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘When’d you last get a supervisory visit, Mr Brussels?’

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked into the silence. A small smelly terrier snored on its back in a tartan beanbag in the corner. A radio in another room, played saccharine boy-band pop. The floorboard creaked overhead as Nicholson crept about, pretending she was off to the toilet. Have to have a word with her about not sounding like an elephant in tap shoes.

Steel puffed out her cheeks. ‘Come on, Markyboy, it’s like pulling teeth here. When’d you last get a visit from the Perv Patrol?’

‘Well …’ His eyes slid towards the zombie-grey gaze of the off television. ‘They said I wasn’t really a risk any more, so I could go to once every six weeks. To be honest, I miss the company.’ He stood. ‘Can I get anyone a cup of tea?’

‘Sounds like a load of old bollocks to me, Billyboy.’ Steel stuck her feet up on the low coffee table. Had a squint about. ‘Someone like you, passing up a sweet young thing in a school uniform? Nah, that’s no’ your style.’

The man in the beige cardigan stared at her with striking blue eyes that lurked beneath heavy white eyebrows. ‘It’s William, not “Billyboy”, and I’ll thank you to get your feet off my furniture.’ Spine ironing-board stiff, grey hair swept back from a high forehead. ‘It’s bad enough you turn up at this ungodly hour, the least you can do is have the civility not to treat my home like whatever kind of pigsty you live in.’

Logan stepped forward. ‘Perhaps—’

‘No, no, no.’ Steel held up a hand. ‘Billyboy’s got every right to moan if he wants to.’ She grinned at him with unnaturally white teeth. ‘“Pigsty”, because we’re police officers. Very droll. Your file didn’t say you were such a wit.’ She took her feet off the table. ‘What it does say is you’ve got a thing for wee girls. Four to nine years old, wasn’t it?’

His face hardened – a granite slab with a hooked nose. ‘That was nothing more than scurrilous rumour. The whole trial was a farce from start to finish. A sick vendetta by a handful of ignorant troglodytes!’

The sound of a toilet flushing rattled the pipes behind the wall.

Steel pursed her lips – the wrinkles lined up to turn her mouth into a rouged cat’s bumhole. ‘Good enough for the jury to give you eight years, though, wasn’t it?’

‘Vile lies.’

‘What was it the tabloids called you? No, don’t tell me … Ah, got it: Dr Kidfiddler!’

Yes, because that was helping.

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Mr Gilcomston—’

‘Doctor. It’s Dr Gilcomston.’

‘Dr Gilcomston, has anyone threatened you? Implied they were going to attack you?’

‘Ignorance runs rampant throughout our society, Sergeant.’

Steel rested her chin on her hands. ‘And no one’s tried to make contact?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘Maybe, oh, I don’t know, someone like Neil Wood?’

A pause. ‘If you’re implying I’ve got anything to do with that pervert, I resent it.’

The lounge door opened and Nicholson stepped into the room. ‘Sorry about that. Must have been something I ate.’

Gilcomston shuddered. ‘Well, I hope you cleaned the bowl after you. I have no desire to clean up your filth.’

That halogen smile broke across Steel’s face again. ‘“Filth!” Another excellent police pun. You’re like Oscar Bleeding Wilde today, aren’t you, Billyboy?’

Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘All I’m saying is we might get on better if you weren’t so rude to everyone.’

Steel settled into the leather settee, stretched her arms along the back. ‘No’ bad here, is it? Wonder how much this place cost?’

It was a Victorian pile on Church Street with big bay windows and a garden to match. Hunting prints on the wall, pine cones and potpourri in the grate, beneath an ornate marble fireplace. Upright piano. Glass-fronted bookcase full of leather volumes. Standard lamps holding the night at bay.

‘Dr Gilcomston—’

‘Is a dirty scumbag. And he’s no’ a doctor either – got struck off after the conviction.’

Nicholson folded her hands behind her back. ‘Am I on piddling duty again?’

Steel drummed her fingers on the tobacco-coloured leather. ‘Got to play to your strengths.’

She sighed. Wrapped her arms around herself. ‘People will think I’ve got cystitis.’

The lounge door swung open and a large woman in a twinset sailed into the room like a lavender barge. Half-moon glasses on the end of her round nose. Only the pair of fluffy slippers, scuffing on the old woollen carpet, gave away the fact that she’d been roused from bed a little after one in the morning. She lowered a tray laden with scones and cups and a teapot onto the glass-topped coffee table. ‘Who’s got cystitis?’

Steel hooked a thumb at Nicholson. ‘Been going all night like a leaky bathtub.’

There was a small pause, then Nicholson rubbed both knees together. ‘Actually, sorry to bother you, but could I …?’

‘There’s one by the back door, or the top of the stairs on the left.’

‘Thanks.’ And she was gone.

Mrs Twinset settled into a wing-backed leather chair. ‘Now, is this about these stupid threats?’

Logan took out his notebook. ‘Threats, Mrs Bartholomew?’

‘Yes, threats. Thrust through my letter box, like some sort of takeaway menu. “You will burn in hell for everything that you have done. God will not save you. We are coming.” That kind of thing.’ A snort. ‘“We are coming.” Honestly, some people have no sense of propriety. Still, that’s the age we live in, I suppose.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘Now, shall I be mother?’

Steel smiled. ‘That no’ how you got into trouble in the first place?’

A chubby rumpled face peered out at them through the gap between the door and the frame. Streetlights thickened the dark circles beneath his eyes as he looked them up and down. ‘You got any idea what time it is?’

Steel popped her wrist forward, so her watch poked from the end of her sleeve. ‘Yup. Now you going to invite us in for a chat, or are we going to drag you down the nick?’

Nicholson climbed into the car. ‘How many’s that now?’

Logan started the engine. ‘Eleven.’

‘Pfff …’ She sagged in the rear-view mirror. ‘Your old boss is … different.’

DCI Steel paced up and down the pavement in front of the terraced houses, mobile phone clamped to her ear, puffing away on her e-cigarette. One hand flailed away, emphasizing whatever point she was making, even though there was no way whoever was on the other end of the phone could see it.

‘Oh, she’s that all right.’ Logan stretched the knots out of his neck. ‘On the plus side, we might have a new nickname for you.’

Nicholson covered her eyes with one hand. ‘Sarge, I swear to God, if “Piddler” is the next word out of your mouth, I’m going to strangle you with your own limb restraints.’

A grin. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

She turned to stare out at the houses. A light was on in the flat they’d just visited, the curtains held open – a figure silhouetted in the gap. Tall, thin, long hair. Then the curtains fell shut again.

Nicholson went on staring. ‘Looked far too young to fiddle with little girls, didn’t he? Barely out of nappies himself.’

‘Still think it’s all glamour and glory on a Major Investigation Team?’

‘Kind of thought it’d be more …’ A shrug. ‘You know.’

Steel hung up and stuffed the phone in her pocket. Stomped back towards the car.

Logan nodded. ‘If it’s any consolation, you’re following a long line of officers in a noble tradition.’

‘Designated piddler?’

‘I used to have to do it all the time. “Oh, I’m bursting for a pee, can I use your toilet?” Then go rummaging through drawers and cupboards while whichever boss it was asked stupid questions.’

‘Yeah …’ Nicholson’s mouth stretched out and down, the tendons sticking out in her neck. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve found tonight. I mean, not kiddie porn or anything, but dildos, and lube, and rubbery things like Ping-Pong balls on a string.’ She curled her top lip. ‘That doctor guy had a butt plug, a ball gag, and furry handcuffs. I mean, can you imagine him all oiled up and—’

The passenger door clunked open and Steel tumbled into the seat. Produced her list of sex offenders and a pen, then drew a thick red line through the address of the young man who interfered with little girls. ‘Right. Next up – Windy Brae.’

Logan stifled a yawn. Then tapped the dashboard clock. ‘That’s twenty past two. I’ve got court tomorrow, remember?’

‘Worried you’ll no’ get enough beauty sleep? Trust me, that boat sailed when you got the shaved-scrotum haircut.’

He opened his mouth … Closed it again. Turned to stare at her. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Told you: trying to catch a wee girl’s—’

‘Oh no you don’t. This …’ He pointed up at the flat. ‘Trolling through the registered sex offenders? That’s no job for a detective chief inspector. That’s a sergeant, maybe DI at most.’

She closed her door. ‘Nothing wrong in taking pride in your work, is there?’

‘You pissed someone off, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here: it’s a punishment. You said something you shouldn’t to Finnie or Young.’

Steel yanked the seatbelt down and rammed it into place. ‘Oh … sod off.’

11

Logan checked his watch. ‘Right, fifteen more minutes and we’re done.’

Steel shuffled her feet as Nicholson thumbed the bell again. The cottage sat on the brow of a hill, overlooking the cliffs and the sea – still and silent, washed like pewter by the thin smear of light from the crescent moon. Nothing but fields and gorse for miles.

A plume of e-cigarette steam snaked up into the starry night. ‘You used to be a lot more fun.’

‘Just because you’re on nightshift, it doesn’t mean we are too. Some of us have got court tomorrow. Supposed to get eleven hours between the end of any shift and having to give evidence; that’s gone for a Burton.’

‘Don’t say I’m never good to you: Swanson’s heading into Aberdeen first thing with a bunch of productions from the search – she’ll give you a lift. You can snore all the way.’

Nicholson backed away from the door. Stared up at the windows. ‘Maybe he’s not in?’

Another puff. ‘Try round the back.’

She clicked on her LED torch and picked her way past the rose bushes and round the side of the cottage.

Steel stuffed her hands in her pockets, fake fag clamped between her teeth. ‘Don’t know what you’re moaning about. Case is watertight – Graham Stirling’s spending the rest of his natural playing hide the soap with rapists and murderers.’

Logan leaned back against the wall. Yawned. Stretched his arms and legs. ‘So, come on then: Nicholson’s not here any more, what did you do?’

‘Sod all.’ She took a deep drag. Hissed out a thin stream of vapour. ‘Ever occur to you I might miss this?’

‘Knocking up sex offenders in the middle of the night?’

‘No’ sex offenders …’ She pulled out a hand and thumped him on the chest. ‘This. You and me: Cagney and Lacey; Holmes and Watson; Dalziel and Pascoe.’

Laurel and Hardy, more like.

‘Thought you had Rennie now.’

‘Rennie’s no’ the same. He cries when I make fun of him. And McKenzie’s one poke away from an aneurism.’

An owl hooted in the fields behind the cottage. Followed by what sounded like someone knocking over a stack of flowerpots and some muffled swearing.

Logan frowned out into the night. ‘You think there’s anything to this sex offenders getting attacked and going missing thing? That’s twice we’ve heard about it.’

‘Twice out of what, twenty paedos? No’ exactly statistically significant, is it?’

‘Three, if you count Mrs Bartholomew’s “Burn in Hell” threat. And Neil Wood’s dad got beaten up today. Well, technically yesterday, but you know what I mean.’

Steel took another long drag. ‘Not like they don’t deserve it, is it?’

All the parking slots outside the station were taken – a mix of patrol and unmarked pool cars, all bathed in the thin sodium light. The car park out front was full too. Among the more everyday vehicles loomed a couple of police pods and a Transit in full riot gear, its front grille raised like a surprised monobrow.

Logan found them a parking spot further down the street.

Steel creaked her way out of the passenger seat and paused on the pavement for a big stretch. Her blue silk shirt rode up, exposing a slash of dead-fish skin and a bellybutton. ‘Pffff …’ She had a scratch. ‘Any chance of something to eat? Starving.’

Logan nodded back towards the station. ‘Vending machine in the canteen. Crisps, caffeinated drinks, and chocolate.’

Her eyebrows tented in the middle, bringing out the puppy eyes. ‘No chips?’

Nicholson bounced out from the back of the car, following them along the pavement. ‘The baker’s opens at five. They do a great chicken-curry pie.’

Steel checked her watch, then sagged. ‘An hour and twenty minutes … Be a skeleton by then.’

‘Good, you can keep Hector company.’ Logan thumbed the code into the keypad by the tradesmen’s entrance. Then covered his mouth for a long shuddering yawn.

The sound of telephones filtered through the building. Raised voices. Someone laughing.

Nicholson pointed down the corridor towards the Constables’ Office. ‘Paperwork first, Sarge?’

‘Do your actions, then sod off home. Put down for three hours’ overtime.’ He turned to Steel. ‘That’s fair, isn’t it?’

‘Bloody bunnets, eating my budget …’ Steel turned and lumbered into the main office.

Two PCs sat at Maggie’s desk, one typing things into a spreadsheet while the other hunched over a pile of evidence bags. Reading out the label numbers as his mate logged them in.

Someone in a charcoal-grey suit was at the other desk, tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she picked at her keyboard with two fingers. Wrinkles furrowed the gap between her eyebrows, a mass of frizzy brown hair tied back in a wobbly half-bun-half-ponytail-thing.

Not one of them looked up until Steel clicked her fingers three times. ‘Hoy, Becky: any messages?’

The woman in the suit flinched. Grabbed the stack of Post-it notes beside her. ‘Body’s arrived at Aberdeen, Boss. PM’s set for half nine. DS Rennie wants to call off the search till dawn. Says it’s too dark to—’

More finger snaps. ‘I can read, DS McKenzie: give.’

Becky handed over the Post-its. Her jaw tightened, the muscles flexing. ‘Yes, Boss.’

Steel flicked through the yellow squares, holding them at arm’s length and squinting. ‘Pfff … Is there no bugger in the whole force who can make a decision on their own?’ She stuffed them into a pocket. ‘If anyone needs me, I’ll be upstairs. In the ladies. Making smells.’ She paused on the threshold to the hall. ‘And see if you can rustle up a cup of tea, eh? And something to eat.’ Then slouched off into the hall and away up the stairs.

Beat. Two. Three. Four. And the smile died on Becky’s face. Eyes narrowed on the closing door. Voice a serrated-blade whisper. ‘What did your last slave die of, you old bag?’

She turned and stomped off towards the canteen.

Looked as if Steel was right: one prod away from an aneurism.

Nothing like running a happy team.

Logan crossed to the Sergeants’ Office and opened the door. Then froze.

A thin bloke in a blue suit was sitting in his seat. Feet up on his desk. Scratching himself on the back of the head with a biro, mobile phone clamped to his ear. ‘… yeah, that’s what I thought …’ A frown. Then he glanced in Logan’s direction: long nose, trendy hair quiffed up at the front, designer stubble. ‘Get lost, I’m on the phone … No, not you, Guv. Some fanny in uniform … Yeah …’ Then laughter.

Logan nodded. Stepped into the room, and slammed the door behind him, hard enough to make the dick in the suit flinch.

‘And you are?’

The guy licked his lips. Took his feet off the desk. Squared his shoulders. ‘On the phone.’

Probably too young to be a boss, but with these fast-track programmes you never knew. ‘And tell me, Inspector, how long do you plan on using my office?’

‘Sorry, Guv, give me a minute.’ He held the phone against his chest, covering the mouthpiece. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant. Detective Sergeant Dawson. MIT.’

‘Ah, I see.’

Dawson – the sexist scumbag who thought it was Nicholson’s job to act as charlady.

Logan unclipped his belt and thunked it down on top of the little grey filing cabinet all the notebooks had to go in at the end of the shift. ‘Well, if I’d known that, I would never have bothered you.’ He dug his fingertips into the join on the side of his stabproof vest, hauled the Velcro flaps apart, then did the same with the shoulder strip above it. Slipped the whole thing off. ‘Big important man like you, clearly has more important things to worry about than the running of B Division.’

A smile cracked across Dawson the Dick’s face. ‘You and me got a problem?’

‘No, no, no. Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He hung his vest on the hook behind the door. ‘How about I get one of my team to make you a nice cup of tea?’

Dawson’s mouth hung open for a moment, accompanied by a frown, and then the smile was back. Broad and magnanimous on that trendy little face. ‘That’s … very cool of you, Sergeant. Thanks. Milk, two sugars.’

‘Not a problem at all.’ Logan held up both hands, palms out. ‘I’ll get out of your hair.’

Back through into the main office.

Becky stormed past, mug in one hand, packet of crisps in the other. Swearing under her breath as she pushed through into the hall, making for the upper floors.

Through into the Constables’ Office.

Nicholson was poking away at her computer keyboard, filling in her actions for the day.

He leaned back against the work-surface desk. ‘You’ll never guess who I just met.’

She looked up. ‘Santa?’

‘Your favourite sexist scumbag, DS Dawson.’

‘Urgh …’ She went back to her keyboard, thumping away harder than before. ‘Hope he gets syphilis. From an angry Rottweiler.’

‘Wouldn’t put it past—’

The Constables’ Office door banged open and there was the PC who’d been banging evidence-label numbers into a spreadsheet: broad-faced with little black flecks along the underside of his double chin, as if he’d shaved in a hurry. ‘Yeah, hi. Sorry.’ A sniff. ‘Listen, DS Dawson says if you guys are making tea anyway: we need three with milk and one sugar; four with milk; two white coffees; and one black, two sugars. Don’t suppose you’ve got any Earl Grey, do you? The boss is partial.’

Nicholson was on her feet. ‘Now you listen to me, you f—’

‘It’ll be our pleasure.’ Logan stood. Patted Nicholson on the shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Constable?’

A pause.

The guy with the scabby chin shrugged. ‘Only doing what I’m told.’

She hissed out a breath. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

Nicholson thumped the mugs into a line on the counter beside the sink. All ten of them. Stuck the kettle on to boil, then plonked teabags and spoons of instant coffee in the requisite ones.

Logan leaned back against the vending machine, crumpling the notice saying that prices were going up again. ‘Don’t forget the milk.’

A scowl. ‘Still don’t see why we have to run around after—’

‘Because we are good little parochial police officer teuchters who know their place.’ Sticking out his left arm, Logan grabbed the canteen door and shoved. It swung shut with a clunk.

The room was a washed-out shade of industrial magnolia. Recycling bins, a vending machine, and a TV-on-a-shelf took up one side; a blue worktop-table sat in the middle; kitchen units, cooker and sink against the opposite wall. A concrete garden gnome stood on the windowsill – someone had painted his eyes in with Tipp-Ex and black marker, given him a thick pair of sinister eyebrows, and added a cut-out paper knife to one hand. Presumably so he could guard the piggy bank.

Logan picked up the pottery pig and gave it a shoogle. It barely rattled.

Nicholson pointed. ‘See? They’re not even putting in for teas and coffees! Freeloading—’

‘All right.’ Logan dug into his fleece pockets. ‘How we doing with the kettle?’

She checked. ‘Nearly.’ Then pouted. ‘I mean, come on, Sarge, this isn’t fair.’

‘We’re helping our fellow officers to a tasty hot beverage. Nothing wrong with that.’

Nicholson dumped the big carton of semi-skimmed down next to the cooker. ‘Why are you taking this so bloody calmly?’

‘Because I am a grown-up.’ He held up the drugs he’d purchased from the Fraserburgh Tesco. ‘Four boxes of violent, unpredictable relief.’ He tossed one to Nicholson. ‘What’s the recommended dose?’

Frowning, she scanned the instructions. ‘One tablet before bedtime. Why are—’

‘What do you think: three or four per mug?’

She shifted from foot to foot. ‘Won’t they … you know, taste it?’

‘Not the way you make tea. Grind them up first, then let’s see if we can’t scare up some biscuits for our honoured guests.’

— Tuesday: Court —

12

Sunlight streamed in through the thin curtains. The smell of damp, still alive under the combined assault of two plug-in air fresheners – bruised, but fighting back. The bleeping warble of an upbeat song on the alarm-clock radio.

Logan rolled over and thumped the snooze button. Lay back and stared at the collection of brown stains on the ceiling. That one looked like a buffalo. That one like a dismembered foot. That one like … Norway?

The walls weren’t much better – covered in peeling paper, painted a revolting shade of blackcurrant mousse. Curling away from the plaster.

Home, sweet home.

A massive yawn grabbed him, stretching his arms and legs beneath the duvet. Leaving him limp and blinking.

Seven a.m. A whole two and a half hours’ sleep.

Come on: up. Graham Stirling wasn’t going to convict himself.

Logan rolled out of bed and padded to the window, bare feet scuffing on the bare floorboards. Pulled one side of the curtain back an inch. Crystal-meth sky with high wispy clouds. The tide out, exposing a swathe of pale-blonde sand from here to the River Deveron. Lines of white rippling the sea. A yacht sailing off into the blue.

‘Unngh …’ Scratch. Yawn.

Cthulhu popped up on the windowsill beside him, landing in ghostly silence. Made a prooping noise, then butted her head against his arm. Small and fluffy, with stripes and a tail nearly as big as the rest of her put together. He rubbed one of her hairy ears, making her grimace and lean into it, purring.

The clock radio lurched into life again. The end of the warbling song replaced by a cheery woman’s voice. ‘I don’t know about you, but I like it!’

The purring stopped. Cthulhu shook her head then thumped back to the floorboards – landing like a sack of bricks – and padded off, tail straight up. Business to attend to.

‘News and weather coming up at half past. And we’ll have more on the hunt for missing forty-three-year-old, Neil Wood. But first, here’s the latest hit single from Monster Mouse Machine …’

Sod that. Time for a quick shower, then off to Aberdeen.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming …’ Logan wrapped the towel around his middle, slipped his wet feet into his slippers and scuffed down the bare stairs as the bell kept up its brrrrrrrringing wail. Along the hall to the front door. Wrenched it open. ‘What?’

Oh … great.

DCI Steel raised an eyebrow, took a long slow draw on the e-cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m flattered, but I don’t think my wife would approve.’ Steel’s hair was all squashed on one side, the other looked as if it had filed for independence from her head. Thick, dark circles crowded the bags beneath her eyes. More dark circles beneath the arms of the same blue silk shirt she’d had on the night before. Jacket slung over one shoulder, heavy carrier bag in her other hand. She nodded at his midriff. ‘Nice scars though.’

He folded his arms over the shiny puckered lines.

She frowned. ‘You’ve lost weight. What happened to the cuddly chunky-monkey McRae we all know and love? Just skin and bones now.’

‘You try humphing a stone-and-a-bit of equipment around for ten hours every day.’

A minibus full of old ladies rumbled past, pale creased faces pressed to the window. Assorted whoops and obscene hand gestures.

Steel waved back at them. ‘Well, you going to stand there dripping, with your willy hanging out, or are you going to invite me in?’

He grunted, turned and shuffled back inside. ‘Can’t be long – catching a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson, remember?’

Steel clunked the door shut behind her, then whistled. ‘Wow. Rennie was right, you do live in a craphole.’

The wallpaper was stripped off in the stairwell and the hall, the lathe and plaster crumbling and stained. Grey flex drooped from the ceiling, dangling a single bare bulb like an unsniffed runny nose. Dust and fluff made little drifts on every step of the stairs, dark varnish chipped and faded on either side of the paler strip where the carpet had been. No carpet on the floor either. Small cracked patches of linoleum made scabs on the wooden boards.

She opened a door off the hall. The room on the other side was nothing but stacks and stacks of file-boxes. Not quite floor to ceiling, but close to it. ‘This your porn collection? Nearly as big as mine.’

He clumped up the stairs in his slippers. ‘Station’s been using this place as an overflow file storage for decades. Kettle’s in the kitchen. Make yourself useful.’

By the time he’d come back down, all dried and dressed in Police-Scotland black, she was in the lounge, an open bottle of beer clutched to her chest. Frowning at the stacks of books on the mantelpiece.

A small TV balanced on a packing box. A bargain-basement couch from the charity shop. A folding chair. Two stepladders draped with dust sheets and a stack of paint tins and brushes. Bags of plaster.

He dumped his black fleece on the couch. Tucked his T-shirt into his itchy trousers. Picked up Cthulhu’s water and food bowls from their placemat in the corner. ‘It’s seven in the morning. Where did you get beer?’

‘Confiscated it.’ A swig. ‘Laz, seriously, this place is a dump. And no’ a nice one either, this is the kind of dump where you’ve got to go see your doctor afterwards to get the bad news. Half the windows are boarded up!’

Logan carried the bowls through to the kitchen. The units might have been cheap, but they were new and they were clean. A fresh coat of cheerful yellow on the walls. A row of potted herbs on the windowsill, drinking in the morning sun.

Through the glass, Banff police station lurked on the opposite corner of the small square. Three storeys of dirty sandstone, with a fake balcony over the main entrance and curly carved bits holding up various lintels. Stone urn-shaped things decorated the front edge of the roof. If it wasn’t for the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ sign and the sprawl of patrol cars and vans parked outside, it could have passed for an ancient hotel.

A handful of reporters wandered about out front, drinking from Styrofoam cups and sunning themselves in the early morning glow. Waiting …

Logan emptied out the kettle, filled it, and put it on to boil. ‘You want a tea?’

Steel appeared in the doorway. ‘How long’s it going to take you to do this place up: five years? Ten?’

‘It’s a work in progress.’

‘Pfff …’ Then she dug into her plastic bag and pulled out a copy of the Daily Mail. Slapped it down on the working surface. ‘Looks like your PC Nicholson’s no’ the only thing that’s leaky up here.’

Most of the front page was taken up with a photo of Neil Wood, beneath the headline, ‘SICKO SEARCH ~ POLICE HUNT FOR MISSING PAEDOPHILE’. There was even a small inset photo of the outdoor pool at Tarlair.

‘Well, don’t look at my team, this is your bunch of numpties.’ He dug Cthulhu’s bowl into the bag of dried cat food. ‘So what happened with the dead girl?’

‘Post mortem’s at half nine. Messrs Young and Finnie in attendance, while yours truly gets to grab a whole five hours to herself …’ A jaw-cracking yawn, followed by a burp. Then a shudder. And another mouthful of beer. ‘Been on since seven yesterday morning. Two kebabs, three gallons of coffee, two proper cigarettes, a poke of chips, five tins of Red Bull, someone else’s sandwich, a bag of cheese-and-onion, and a beer.’ She raised it in salute. ‘Doing wonders for my diet.’

Logan washed out the water bowl and filled it with fresh. ‘So join divisional, that’ll shift a few pounds.’

‘Cheeky sod.’ Another swig. ‘And the leak can’t have come from my numpties. Most of them spent the night carpet-bombing the porcelain. Was like the battle of Dresden in that station last night.’ A nod. ‘Luckily I’m made of sterner stuff.’

Lucky she got DS McKenzie to make a cuppa before Logan and Nicholson got their poisoned round in, more like.

He dried his hands on a tea towel. Did his best to look innocent. ‘Do me a favour?’

‘If it involves me getting naked too: no.’

‘Pair of local scrotes got a big shipment of drugs from down south. I’ve got a warrant for a raid. Couldn’t go in yesterday because of the wee girl …’ Through to the lounge to put Cthulhu’s bowls back where they’d come from. ‘If we leave it much longer, they’ll cut the shipment up and disappear it out onto the streets. And you’ve got all the spare bodies in the division.’ Then into the kitchen again.

‘Would you stop charging about? Making me seasick.’ She knocked back the rest of her beer. Clunked the bottle down on the worktop. Sagged. ‘When, and how many?’

‘Tomorrow evening. Say … four OSU, and a drugs dog? Syd Fraser’s good, if we can get him.’

A massive yawn left her shuddering and stretching – shoulders up around her ears, arms locked, elbows out. ‘How long?’

‘Two hours. Ish.’ A quick rummage in the cupboard for a bowl and the box of waxy own-brand cornflakes. ‘About your dead girl – you’re searching the outdoor swimming pool, and the car park, and the buildings, right?’ Flakes in the bowl. ‘What if she wasn’t dumped there?’

Steel produced a bottle opener and clicked the top off another beer. ‘She didn’t fly there on her own. Body had to get there somehow.’

‘There’s green weed and slime all around the main pool, especially on the seaward side. That’s only going to grow if the wall’s regularly underwater. And given we had a couple days of rough weather over the weekend …?’

She stared at him. Then covered her face with her hands. ‘Sodding hell. She washed in from the sea.’

‘Sure you don’t want a cup of tea?’

‘Want a pee.’

‘Top of the stairs.’

Her footsteps clumped up the bare steps. Then the clunk of a door closing.

Logan sploshed milk on the flakes and checked his phone – a voicemail from Deano and a text from his mother. That got deleted unread.

‘Sarge, Deano. Listen, we’re having a barbecue at ours, Thursday evening. A mate’s come into some steaks, if you fancy it? Give us a shout back.’

Why not? Be nice to have something that actually looked like real meat for a change. And by then Graham Stirling would be heading off to Barlinnie for the rest of his unnatural. Plus: they’d have raided Klingon and Gerbil’s place. Big haul of drugs, mentions in dispatches, medals, and a parade. Time to celebrate.

It was too early to call Deano back. So Logan wolfed down the cornflakes, slipped his phone in his pocket, and a slice of bargain-basement white into the toaster. Stuck his head out into the hall. ‘Hurry up: I’ve got to go in a minute.’

No reply.

‘OK, I’ll leave a spare key on the table for you. You can let yourself out.’

Silence.

‘Listen,’ he walked to the bottom of the stairs, ‘thought I’d pop past and see Susan while I’m in town. See how she’s getting on. She at home today?’

Nothing.

Maybe she hadn’t been so lucky with the poisoned tea after all?

‘Hello?’ The steps creaked beneath his feet, all the way up. ‘You’ve not fallen in, have you?’ When he knocked on the bathroom door, it swung open.

Thankfully Steel wasn’t sitting on the toilet with her trousers around her ankles. The room was empty – freshly tiled with a new bathroom suite. Cheap, but serviceable. Even if it had taken weeks to put in.

‘Hello?’

A jagged rasp, like a wood-saw hacking away at a sheet of corrugated metal, came from the bedroom. Then a pause. Then another one.

He put a hand on the door and swung it open. There she was: lying flat on her back, on his bed, with both feet still on the floor. One arm flung out to the left, the other hand draped over her right boob. Mouth wide open. Snoring.

Wonderful.

He swung her legs up onto the duvet, pulled off her boots, then pulled a blanket over her.

A ‘Proooop?’ came from the hallway. Cthulhu sauntered in and hopped up on the bed beside Steel. Treddled the blanket for a minute, then turned round twice and settled onto the pillow beside her head.

‘Disloyal little sod.’

Logan closed the door and left them to it.

Logan shifted his fleece to the other hand and let himself into the station. The unnatural-pine scent of disinfectant and air freshener clawed its way into his nose, itched at the back of his throat. As if someone was trying to cover up a terrible smell.

Keep a straight face.

He poked his head into the Constables’ Office: no one there. A couple of cardboard boxes sat in the middle of the room – piled high with brown-paper evidence bags – but other than that, it was the same slightly scruffy collection of posters, notices and in-trays laden with paperwork.

No one in the canteen. No one in the main office either.

Two abandoned papers hung folded over the edge of the partition by Maggie’s desk – an Aberdeen Examiner and an Evening Express. One had gone with an aerial photo of Tarlair Outdoor Swimming Pool, with a silhouette inset of what was meant to be a little girl: ‘BODY FOUND IN NEGLECTED NORTHEAST BEAUTY SPOT’. The other featured a head-and-shoulders of Neil Wood: ‘DID MISSING PAEDOPHILE KILL TRAGIC SCHOOLGIRL?’ A tiny article in the sidebar was titled, ‘STIRLING TRIAL CONTINUES’. Would have thought it deserved more page space than that, considering what Graham Stirling had done to Stephen Bisset.

Logan did a three-sixty. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

Maybe the MIT had caught whoever killed the little girl and sodded off back where they’d come from? That’d be nice …

He got out his keys and opened the little blue locker with his name on it. Unhooked his Airwave handset from its charger. Switched it on and slipped it into his fleece pocket. Then pushed through into the Sergeants’ Office.

Stopped.

DS Dawson was sitting in his seat again. Only not looking quite so cocky this time.

His face was a pale shade of grey, the bags under his eyes a smudgy, bruised colour. His quiff had lost its arrogant strut and dangled limply across his shiny forehead. He looked up as Logan closed the door. Grimaced. Stuck one hand to his stomach as a coffee-percolator-gurgle rumbled somewhere inside it. ‘What you doing in? Thought you were backshift.’

Logan did his best not to smile. ‘You look a bit rough.’

‘Urgh … Think we hit a dodgy kebab shop last night. Half the station’s been welded to the bogs since back of four.’

‘That is a pity.’ He unlocked the little grey filing cabinet and pulled out the drawer with his notebook in it. Popped it into a pocket. ‘Supposed to be getting a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson. You seen her?’

‘I ended up stuck in the cells for two hours – only bog that was free.’ Dawson puffed out his cheeks and rubbed at his growling stomach. ‘Never touching another doner as long as I live.’

‘Sounds dreadful.’ Don’t grin. Don’t grin. ‘So, Swanson?’

‘No idea. All I know is everyone ran off to break up some fight outside the— Urgh …’ Another roll of gurgling thunder. ‘Oh God …’ He grabbed the desk. Paused. Took a deep breath. Let it out in a long slow hiss. ‘No, I’m OK …’

Logan pulled on the most sympathetic face he could. ‘Well, as I’ve got a couple of minutes, how about I make you a nice cup of tea?’

Constable Swanson shifted her grip on the steering wheel, hunched forward in her seat as they roared around the bend, heading south on the A947. Big hands; broad face; scruffy brown hair streaked with blonde like a humbug, tied up in a bun. Glasses. ‘I’m really, really sorry. Only these two auld mannies were really laying into each other. Fists and false-teeth flying everywhere.’ She grimaced. ‘Sorry.’

‘Told you: it’s OK. As long as I’m at the High Court for nine, we’re fine.’ Logan took out his phone as they thundered over the Castleton Bridge. No new messages.

A constant burble of calls murmured from his Airwave handset – B Division going about its daily business.

‘Suspected overdose on Crooked Lane, Peterhead.’

‘Anyone in the vicinity of Asda’s in Fraserburgh? Shoplifter’s been apprehended by store security.’

‘All units, lookout request for one Tony Wishart, IC-one male, eighteen years old, dark hair. Outstanding apprehension warrant for burglary.’

‘Getting complaints of a domestic disturbance in Whitehills, any unit free to attend? Priority one.’

Logan turned the volume down and wriggled in his seat. Settling further into the fabric.

Nice not to be wearing a stabproof vest and equipment belt for a change.

Outside the window, vivid green fields and trees swooshed past. The hissing soundtrack of tyre noise joining the Airwave’s chatter and the throaty growl of the patrol car’s engine. The rattle of the blue plastic crate on the back seat. Their car swept around another bend, and the rustle of the crate’s evidence bags joined the music.

Swanson grimaced at him. ‘Just have to hope we don’t catch the rush hour heading into Dyce. Don’t know if going via Inverurie’s worse or—’

‘We’ll be fine. Labs won’t do anything with your stuff till this afternoon anyway.’ He reclined his seat a couple of notches, tipped his peaked cap forwards so it covered his eyes and nose. ‘And if it’s getting tight, we’ll blues-and-twos it. Don’t think the Powers That Be will complain if it helps put Graham Stirling away.’ He stretched out. Stifled a yawn. Sighed.

‘Sarge?’

‘What?’

‘You don’t snore, do you?’

‘About to find out.’

The round of applause started as soon as Logan walked into the CID office. Beige walls, grubby ceiling tiles, grubbier carpet tiles, whiteboards covered in notes and lines. It was smaller than the old one, but then so was the team – whittled down by all the other specialist units that had sprung up with the change from Grampian Police to Police Scotland. But the half-dozen officers who were there gave him a standing ovation, a mug of milky tea, and a bacon buttie.

Biohazard slapped him on the back and popped the cap on a bottle of tomato sauce. Squirted it into the buttie. ‘Got to keep your strength up for today.’

‘Ta. When are you giving evidence?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’ He stuck the tomato sauce back on his desk. ‘Course, by then it’ll all be over.’

The others drifted back to their desks and their phones while Biohazard led him over to a file-box by the printer, with ‘NOTEBOOKS’ written on it in heavy black marker letters. ‘Took the liberty.’

Logan had a bite of buttie. It was lukewarm, but it tasted of smoky victory as he rummaged through the box for the notebooks he’d had when they’d been after Graham Stirling. Popped them onto the printer. ‘What about Rennie?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon. Assuming he can find his way back down here from your Teuchter backwater.’

‘Watch it, you.’ Logan had another mouthful, washing it down with a slurp of tea. ‘Any idea how it’s going so far?’

‘You know how it is. Yesterday was all opening arguments and weaselling. Nothing for the jury to get its teeth into. Speaking of which …’ Biohazard picked up a green folder and handed it over. ‘They’re going for mock-ups.’

He stuffed the last third of the buttie in his mouth and flicked through the folder’s contents. Instead of the actual crime-scene photographs, someone had mocked up a body in the computer and modelled Stephen Bisset’s wounds onto it. Nice and sanitized and safe for the fifteen boys and girls who’d be sending Graham Stirling to jail in a couple of days.

Logan slipped the pictures back where they’d come from. Checked his watch. ‘Better get going. You know what the Fiscal’s like before a big one.’ He downed the last of his tea in one. ‘Drinks after?’

‘You better believe it.’ A grin split across Biohazard Bob’s face, all teeth and chubby cheeks. ‘Steel’s even put fifty quid in the kitty.’

‘About time.’ Logan stuck his old notebooks in his fleece pockets. ‘Right, better get going.’

A wink. ‘It’s a shoo-in.’ Then he screwed up one side of his face and leaned to the left. A high-pitched squeak. Then a grin. ‘For luck, like.’

The smell was like being battered about the head with a mouldy badger. Logan backed off, eyes stinging. Waving a hand in front of his face. ‘God … What have you been eating?’

The grin got bigger. ‘Oh yeah, Stirling’s going down.’

13

The sound of murmured voices oozed out from the Witness Room. Logan tucked his peaked cap under one arm and pulled out his mobile. Headed through the doors to the stairwell, selecting Deano’s number from the contacts as he climbed up to the next landing. Leaned against the windowsill as the phone rang. Outside, Marischal Street’s granite terrace reached away down the hill, took a break for the bridge over the dual carriageway, then finished up at the harbour. Three storeys of grey stone, flecks of mica glittering in the sunshine. Rooftop dormers mirroring back the glare. A supply vessel loomed at the bottom of the road, its yellow-and-black hull streaked with lines of rust.

Probably start off in Blackfriars after the trial. Couple of pints, then across the road to Archies for pie-and-chips and more beer. Then on to the Illicit Still. The Prince of Wales. Ma Cameron’s … All the old haunts. Maybe even—

‘Hello?’

‘Deano? Logan. Yeah, thanks, barbecue sounds good.’

‘Cool. Janet and Tufty are coming too. Got a box of ribeyes big as your head.’

‘We’re on for the warrant tomorrow. Got the extra bodies.’

‘Even better. Be good to finally get Gerbil and that idiot Klingon banged up.’

‘Can you get the team to keep an eye on the place tonight? Probably peeing in the wind, but I don’t want them cutting their shipment up and wheeching it out till we’ve had a chance to dunt their door in. Keep it low-key though.’

‘Will do.’

‘You need me to bring something on Thursday?’

‘Potato salad? Coleslaw? Something like that. Aye, and not from a tub: homemade. Oops, got to go – don’t want to burn my cornbread.’

Logan almost had his phone back in his pocket when it blared out its generic ringtone. ‘Sod …’ He pulled it out. Unknown number. Hit the button. ‘Logan McRae.’

Silence.

‘Hello?’

A thin, nervous voice filled his ear. ‘Is this … is this Sergeant McRae? You saved my mum’s life last night.’

Frown. He did? ‘Oh, Mrs Bairden.’ The old woman in the bath.

A heavy-set man in a black robe, white bow tie and wing collar, appeared through the door on the next landing down. Scanned the stairs down to the floor below, then looked up at Logan. Small ears and small nose, eyes hidden in folds of drooping grey. The Macer checked the clipboard in his hand. ‘Sergeant McRae?’

Logan nodded, held a hand up. Back to the phone: ‘Is she OK?’

‘The doctors say she had a stroke. If you hadn’t got to her …’ Pause. ‘Thank you.’

Warmth spread through his chest, like a sip of malt whisky. ‘Glad I could help.’

‘Sergeant McRae, they’re ready for you.’ A frown. ‘And you shouldn’t be using your mobile phone in here.’

‘Really, really thank you …’

‘It was my pleasure. Wish her well for me.’

‘Sergeant McRae, I must insist—’

‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. I’m in court today.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Thank you …’

When she’d hung up, he smiled. Switched off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Put his peaked cap on his head and marched downstairs to where the Macer was waiting. Patted him on the shoulder. ‘You know, some days, I remember why I joined the police.’

The courtroom didn’t look anything like the ones on the TV. It was bright and modern, with pale varnished wood and cream-coloured walls. Long and narrow, divided in half by a waist-high partition. A cross-section of Aberdonians had squeezed themselves into the rows of public seating, faces shining in the warm room. The table for the press was packed with hunched men in sweat-ringed shirts, tapping away into laptops or scribbling into notepads.

In the middle of the partition, an eight-foot-high screen of bullet-proof glass wrapped around three sides of the defendant’s box. Graham Stirling sat flanked by two huge G4S guards. He’d dropped the blue sundress for a sombre suit – his hair longer than it had been, curling around his ears. Looking more like an accountant than a manipulative, vicious, sexual predator. He turned his head, avoiding Logan’s eyes.

Should think so too.

A large oval wooden table took up most of the space on this side of the partition. Prosecution team on one side: an Advocate Depute and his junior in their black robes, suits, and ties; and sitting next to them, the Procurator Fiscal in grey pinstripe with matching hair and military moustache. The defence team sat on the other side: the QC and his devil in robes, short wigs, and white bow ties; the instructing solicitor looked as if he should be selling houses in Elgin.

The court clerk was stationed between them, like a referee in No Man’s Land. The jury lurked behind the defence, facing the witness stand, flanked by flat-screen TVs. Another two huge screens on opposite walls to display evidence on.

No mahogany. No Victorian pseudo-gothic twiddly bits. No smell of antique cigarettes seeping out of threadbare carpet tiles. The only nod to antiquity was the carved coat of arms hanging over the Judge’s seat and the mace mounted on the wall beside it.

Well, that and the Judge’s outfit.

She straightened her white robe – stained a mild shade of pink, presumably because of the two big red crosses on the front of it and a washing machine on too hot a cycle. Her short white wig sat on top of her long grey hair. A pair of severe glasses perched on the bridge of her long thin nose. One hand stroking the tip of her pointy chin, watching as Logan took the stand.

The Macer waited until Logan was in place, before turning to the Judge. ‘M’Lady, we have witness number six, Sergeant Logan McRae.’

‘I see.’ She stood, held up her right hand. ‘Sergeant McRae, repeat after me: I swear by Almighty God, that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’

‘So, Sergeant McRae,’ Sandy Moir-Farquharson took off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his black robe, ‘are you seriously expecting the jury to believe it was a coincidence that you happened to be in Cults that evening?’ He slipped his glasses back on and smiled. It emphasized the twist in his nose. Grey hair swept back from the temples, the bald spot at the top covered by the short white wig. A suit that probably cost more than Logan made in six months peeking out between the front of his robes.

Logan pulled his shoulders back. ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all. Graham Stirling was there, attempting to acquire a second victim, so—’

‘Objection.’ He turned a smile on the Judge. ‘Milady, the witness is indulging in supposition.’

A nod. ‘Sustained.’ The Judge peered down at the witness stand. ‘Sergeant McRae, please restrict yourself to the facts.’

‘I am, Milady. Graham Stirling was placing anonymous personal ads in the Aberdeen Examiner, looking for men interested in having a sexual liaison with a pre-operative transsexual. On the advice of our forensic psychologist, we responded to one of them and arranged to meet—’

‘We’ll get to that, Sergeant.’ Moir-Farquharson checked his notes. Probably just for show. The slimy little sod would have all this memorized. ‘Now, you claimed in your statement that you’d given chase through the back gardens of Hillview Drive, because there was, and I quote, “Something suspicious about the figure in the blue sundress.” Is that right? In what way suspicious?’

‘… and did anyone else hear this alleged confession, Sergeant?’

The clock mounted on the wall ticked away to itself.

Motes of dust hung in the light streaming in through the windows.

‘Sergeant?’

Logan flicked over a couple of pages in his old notebook. ‘Graham Stirling said, “Stephen Bisset is dying in the dark and there is nothing you can do about it.”’

Moir-Farquharson shook his head. ‘No, Sergeant, I didn’t ask you what you claim to have heard, I asked if anyone could corroborate it.’

Tick. Tick. Tick …

‘We were alone in the garden at that point, but—’

‘I thought not.’ The smile was wide and white. Good dental work. Couldn’t even see where most of his teeth had been kicked out. ‘So, you assaulted Graham Stirling: headbutting him and breaking his nose. Tried to break his wrist, and then miraculously got this confession that no one else heard.’

The prosecution’s Advocate Depute was on his feet. One arm jabbed out at his learned colleague. ‘Objection!’ Long grey curls swept back from a high forehead and pinched face. Voice a booming Morningside: ‘Sergeant McRae applied reasonable force in restraining a suspect who was vigorously resisting arrest. To paint this as some sort of confession obtained by torture is disingenuous, to say the least.’

Moir-Farquharson held up a hand. ‘My apologies, Milady. No such implication was intended.’

‘Uncorroborated confessions seem to be something of a trademark of your evidence, don’t they, Sergeant? I refer, of course, to the one allegedly obtained by yourself in the back of the unmarked police car.’

Tick. Tick. Tick …

Logan straightened his police-issue T-shirt. ‘Graham Stirling insisted my colleagues leave the car before he would talk.’

‘So no corroboration.’

‘We believed, correctly, that there was a clear and imminent danger to Stephen Bisset’s life. It was important to—’

‘Your statement claims you were told,’ he held up a sheath of paper and peered at it over the top of his glasses, ‘“You will never find the shack without me, it is not on any maps. By the time you find him, Stephen Bisset will be dead.” Is that correct?’

‘It is.’

‘How very convenient …’

‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, is it normal Police Scotland practice to deny a suspect access to a solicitor on their arrest?’

God’s sake …

‘These were unusual circumstances, Stephen Bisset was seriously injured and dying—’

‘You have heard of Cadder versus HM Advocate, haven’t you, Sergeant? Do you make a habit of contravening your suspects’ human rights?’

Tick. Tick. Tick …

‘Sergeant?’

‘We didn’t … I took the decision that, given the time constraints, it was more important to save Stephen Bisset’s life!’

‘I see.’ Moir-Farquharson turned to the jury. ‘So, yet again, ladies and gentlemen, Sergeant McRae decided to ignore procedure, bend the rules, and cut another corner.’

‘To recap: once more, we have only your word for it, Sergeant?’

Deep breaths. Calm.

Logan stared straight ahead. ‘Graham Stirling refused to show me where the shack was, unless DS Rennie and DS Marshall remained behind at the car. My choices were to go with him, or let Stephen Bisset die.’

A sigh. A shake of the head. Then a turn to the jury. ‘Bending the rules, yet again.’

‘I had no choice! And he knew the combination to the padlock, he—’

‘You make a disturbing habit of ignoring procedure, Sergeant McRae. How do we know that your sense of right and wrong isn’t similarly compromised? How far will you go to obtain a conviction?’

‘Objection!’

‘I put it to you, Sergeant McRae, that you nominated Graham Stirling as being responsible for Stephen Bisset’s disappearance and manufactured the circumstances and evidence to fit.’

‘That’s not true. We found evidence that Stephen Bisset had responded to Stirling’s personal ad, seeking sex with what he believed to be a pre-operative transsexual and—’

‘LIAR!’ A young man was on his feet in the public seating area. Shoulder-length black hair, black tie, a shirt that still had the creases from where it had been folded in the packet. Thin face flushed and swollen around the eyes. Spit glowing in the sunlight. ‘YOU’RE A LIAR! MY DAD WOULDN’T DO THAT!’

The Sheriff cracked her gavel against her desk, three sharp raps. ‘Mr Bisset, I won’t tell you again. While the court is sympathetic to your distress, it—’

‘YOU’RE A LIAR!’

The young woman sitting next to him grabbed his arm, trying to pull him back down into his seat. She had the same dark hair, the same thin face. ‘David, don’t …’

‘DAD WASN’T A PERVERT!’

Another three raps. ‘That’s enough, Mr Bisset. This court isn’t—’

‘MAKE HIM TELL THE TRUTH!’

‘Clerk, I want this man removed.’

And all the way through it, Graham Stirling didn’t move. He sat there, still, silent. Blinking slowly. A million miles away as his victim’s children were escorted from the room.

‘Are you denying that you threatened to kill Graham Stirling, Sergeant McRae?’

Logan’s fingernails dug into the pale wood of the witness stand. ‘I did not threaten to kill him.’

‘Really?’ A look of surprise. ‘So you deny saying, “I should kick the living shit out of you”?’

Tick. Tick. Tick …

‘Sergeant?’

‘I don’t remember. I’d just discovered Stephen Bisset. He’d been—’

‘How about this one. Did you, or did you not tell your superior officer, “I need an ambulance and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree”?’

Logan hunched over the sink. Drips fell from his face, making ripples in the water that spread out in overlapping rings. He dug his hands into the basin again and sploshed more on his face. Cold against his skin. Leaching away the burning heat.

Bastard.

The court toilets were clean enough, filled with the scent of air-freshener and disinfectant.

Another faceful of water. Letting it drip back into the bowl. All those overlapping circles, knotting together then fading away, leaving nothing behind to show that they’d ever existed.

His phone buzzed on the surface between the sinks. Then the ‘Imperial March’ sounded.

DCI Steel.

Ignore it. Let it go to voicemail.

The toilet door thumped open and the Procurator Fiscal marched in: short grey hair combed forward above scowling eyebrows. His military moustache bristled, the mouth behind it chewing through the words in a booming Glaswegian accent that was far too big for someone who barely scraped five foot four. ‘What the sodding hell was that?’

‘What was I supposed to do, lie under oath?’

‘Of course not. But … It …’ In four steps he was at the nearest cubicle door. It got a kick with a highly polished brogue. A pause. Then the Fiscal ran a finger along his moustache, as if making sure everything was in order. ‘They’ve effectively killed Stirling’s confession. After that little farce, it’s going to be ruled inadmissible.’

Logan grabbed a handful of green paper towels, stacked by the broken hand-drier. ‘I didn’t have any choice, OK?’ Scrubbed his face with the gritty green sheets. Dropped them in the bin. ‘If I’d stuck to procedure, Stephen Bisset would be dead now. He’d probably still be missing, lying out there, rotting in a shack in the middle of the BLOODY FOREST!’ Logan closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed, screwed his face up. Breathed out. ‘Sorry.’

The Fiscal made a hissing noise, as if he was deflating. ‘You could’ve recorded his confession on your mobile phone. Could’ve used your Airwave to broadcast it. Something.’

Logan’s head fell back, thumped against the wall. Did it again. And once more for luck. ‘I know.’

‘Yes, well, I suppose Descartes was right: hindsight is a treacherous mirror. We just have to hope the DNA evidence convinces them.’

Sitting next to the sink, Logan’s phone started in on the ‘Imperial March’ again. He let his hands fall at his sides. ‘You going to need me again?’

The phone rang out onto voicemail.

The PF cleared his throat. ‘I think you’ve probably done enough.’

Logan’s phone burst into song as he was thumping down the stairs. Not the ‘Imperial March’ this time, but the theme tune to the Muppets. He checked the screen: ‘NICHOLSON’.

His thumb jabbed the button. ‘Is it important? Because now’s really not a good time.’

‘Sarge? It’s Janet. Thought you’d like to know – we got the Big Car back.’

He made it to the ground floor. ‘Janet, I genuinely couldn’t give less of a toss if—’

‘Smells fusty though. Like something’s died in there.’ Her voice went all whispery. ‘Look, about the teas and coffees last night … I kind of … feel a bit, you know, guilty.’

‘Sod them. I will not have a bunch of MIT scumbags treating anyone on my team like a glorified Mrs Doyle.’

‘Yeah, but … they’re working a murder enquiry, and from what I heard most of them spent half the night impersonating a Soyuz rocket.’

He slipped out of the side entrance, onto Marischal Street, avoiding the media scrum at the High Court’s front doors. ‘And?’

A pause. ‘It’s a wee girl, Sarge.’

Someone beeped their horn. There was a taxi parked in the middle of the road, blocking traffic while it picked up a fare.

A wee dead girl … Nicholson had a point.

Perfect: more guilt.

‘If it makes you feel any better, they weren’t going to achieve anything last night anyway.’ He crossed over to the other side. No point heading up the hill, that’d put him in the camera’s firing lines again. ‘One: everyone and their maiden aunt is already out looking for Neil Wood. Two: until they identify her, they can’t build a viable list of suspects. Three: with no ID and no witnesses, there’s very little they can do until the post-mortem results are in.’ He reached the opposite pavement. New plan: cross the bridge, down the steps onto Shore Lane, and he could go around the back of the Castlegate. Sneak into Divisional Headquarters via East North Street. ‘Giving a bunch of arrogant sexist tossers a dose of the squits doesn’t change any of that.’

A long slow breath. Then, ‘Thanks, Sarge.’

‘Besides, I double-dosed DS Dawson this morning.’

‘Urgh … I know I said I wanted to kill him, but I didn’t mean we should actually—’

Whatever she said next, it was drowned out. ‘YOU!’

Logan stopped. Turned.

The young man from the court – the one with the long black hair – was climbing out of the taxi. Glaring at him. ‘YOU LYING BASTARD!’ Stephen Bisset’s son.

Great, because today wasn’t special enough.

‘Sorry, Janet, got to go.’ Logan hung up. Put the phone back in his fleece pocket. Held his hands out. ‘I need you to calm down.’

He’d loosened his tie and it dangled around his neck like a waiting noose. ‘YOU LIED. WHY DID YOU LIE?’

His sister clambered out of the taxi behind him. Close up, she was obviously younger than him. Barely a teenager. ‘David, come on, we spoke about this. If you calm—’

‘I WILL NOT CALM DOWN!’ His face was heading an unhealthy shade of reddish-purple, tears streaking his cheeks. ‘DAD IS NOT A PERVERT!’ He stormed down the hill towards Logan, hands curled into fists. ‘YOU LIED!’

For God’s sake …

‘I didn’t lie. We followed the trail of messages, that’s how we found your dad. He—’

‘SHUT UP! YOU SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!’

His sister caught up with him, grabbed his arm like she’d done in court. ‘You have to stop this.’

‘No! He lied, Catherine, he lied under oath!’

‘It’s OK, it’s OK. Shhh …’ She tried to pull him back towards the taxi, but he wouldn’t budge. ‘Come on, David, let’s go home. Please?’

Logan backed off a step. ‘Look, I’m sorry if it upsets you, but I didn’t lie. I did everything I could to get your dad back safe and sound.’ Yeah, because that worked.

David Bisset bared his teeth, forced the words out between them as if they were made of acid. ‘You call that safe and sound?’ He jabbed a finger in the rough direction of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. ‘Do you? HE’D BE BETTER OFF DEAD!’

‘I know it’s difficult, but—’

‘LIAR!’ David Bisset shook his sister off and lunged, fists swinging. Wide and amateur. No idea what he was doing.

Logan sidestepped, grabbed one of the flailing arms and twisted it round behind David’s back. Slapped his other hand down on David’s elbow, locked the wrist into place and closed the gap. Reached out and took hold of the other shoulder and pulled him upright.

Classic hammer lock and bar.

‘LET GO! LET GO YOU—’

Logan put the pressure on.

‘AAAAARGH!’

‘Calm down.’

The girl, Catherine, snatched at the sleeve of Logan’s fleece. ‘Please, he didn’t mean anything, he’s upset, please don’t hurt him.’

‘GET OFF ME!’

‘Are you going to calm down?’

‘Please, it’s not his fault. He’s upset … We all are.’

David went quiet. Breath hissing in and out through his gritted teeth.

‘Are we all calm? David? Are we good?’

She chewed on her fingernails. ‘David, please don’t …’

His breathing slowed. He stopped struggling. His head dipped. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘OK.’ Logan released his grip. Stepped away. ‘No harm done.’

David leaned against the granite wall of the nearest building, one hand rubbing his abused shoulder. He stared down at his feet. ‘Dad’s not a pervert.’

‘If it’s any help, I know what it’s like—’

‘No.’ His jaw tightened, the words barely making it out between gritted teeth. ‘You don’t. You don’t have any bloody clue.’

Deep breath. ‘My girlfriend fell.’ Logan turned and pointed down Marischal Street, at the top-floor flat that belonged to someone else now. ‘Right there. Five storeys, straight down. Four years in a coma. I know what it’s like to have someone you love hurt and stuck in a hospital bed, unable to move or talk.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s horrible. And it’s not fair. And it stinks. But he’s still your dad.’

David glared back, mouth a hard trembling line.

Then his sister took his arm and led him back towards the taxi. ‘Come on, David. Let’s go home. It’s OK.’

‘He’s not a pervert …’

‘I know.’

They climbed back into the taxi, him hunched over, one hand wiping the tears from his eyes, her rubbing his back between the shoulder blades.

Logan stood where he was as the taxi drove past him.

David was in full flood now, face screwed up, back heaving. But his sister stared out of the window, her eyes locked on Logan’s. Face dead and expressionless.

And then they were gone. Down to the bottom of Marischal Street and left, disappearing onto Regent Quay.

Graham Stirling ruined more than Stephen Bisset’s life, he screwed up Bisset’s kids too. Screwed them up so much they might never get past the sight of their father lying on his back in the High Dependency Unit with tubes and wires hooking him up to machines and drips and bags.

Four months and he’d barely moved. Hadn’t said a word. Just lay there.

A small shiver danced across the back of Logan’s neck.

Four months as a stump of a man, waiting for death. And Logan couldn’t even put the bastard who’d done it behind bars.

David Bisset had been right to have a go at him.

He deserved it.

Logan’s seat rattled as the big diesel engine changed down to climb the hill. Outside the windows, granite tenements shone in the afternoon light. Trees glowed green and gold. Roses made frozen scarlet fireworks in gardens.

He dug into his carrier bag and pulled out the first tin of beer. Still cold from the chiller cabinet. Little beads of condensation prickling on the metal surface. He clicked the tab, took a deep swig. Ground his teeth together and swallowed. Bitter. Which fitted perfectly.

The number 35 was nearly empty. A couple of oldies sat up front near the driver. Neither of them talking – him buried in his newspaper, her staring out of the window. Leaving Logan with most of the bus to himself.

Another swig.

Bloody Sandy Moir-Bloody-Farquharson.

What the hell was he supposed to do: let Stephen Bisset die?

He took his peaked cap off the seat next to him and stuffed it in the carrier bag. Followed it up with the epaulettes off his T-shirt. OK, so the sleeves still had ‘POLICE’ embroidered on them, but rolling them up a couple of turns hid that. Now he was just another skinhead, dressed in black, drinking cheap beer at the back of a bus. Glowering out at the city as the driver took them through Berryden, past Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, through Bucksburn, Dyce, then out into the countryside.

Tin number two died in his hands. He crushed the empty and dumped it in the bag.

Fields and sheep and cattle slid by outside the windows. Green land, blue sky, and happy little fluffy sodding clouds.

Should’ve been raining. Should’ve been hammering it down from a slate-grey sky, wind battering the bus and whipping the trees.

Logan’s phone went again. Not the ‘Imperial March’ for a change: unrecognized number.

His thumb hovered over the button. Pressed it. ‘Hello?’

Steel’s voice bellowed into his ear. ‘How could you possibly screw this up? Simple, open-and-shut case. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

‘It wasn’t my—’

‘Do you have any idea what the Big Brass are doing right now? They’re getting a dirty big stake sharpened, so they can ram it up my backside and roast me on an open fire!’

‘I didn’t—’

‘All the man-hours we put into that investigation and it’s ruined!’

‘There’s still the DNA evidence. It’ll—’

‘YOU TOOK STIRLING TO THE BLOODY CRIME SCENE!’ Silence. She was probably counting to ten. Then she was back, sounding as if she’d dropped something heavy on her foot. ‘Hissing Sid’s screaming cross-contamination. Never mind sending the bastard down, we’ll be lucky if we get out of this without Graham Stirling suing our arses off! It’s—’

Logan hung up.

Three seconds later, his phone started ringing again. Then the Airwave handset joined in.

He turned them both off. Rammed them deep into his fleece pockets.

Opened another tin of beer.

So much for celebrating.

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