Was there anything sexier than breaking into someone�s house in the middle of the night? Moving from room to room in the darkness. Touching their special, secret, private things...

Course there wasn�t.

Andrew paused on the top step, listening.

Because sometimes these rich wanks had very big, very angry dogs � and it didn�t matter how carefully you scoped out their gaffs, you could always be surprised by a four-legged shredding machine with a taste for home invaders.

But the only sound was his breath, whooshing and hissing inside the ski-mask.

No sign of Fido.

Safe to step onto the landing.

A wee balcony overlooked the fancy double-height open hallway, with its fancy floor-to-ceiling windows, and fancy countryside view bathed in low, cold moonlight. There was even a fancy scroll-edged mirror at the top of the fancy stairs, and for a moment the world turned from a grainy green glow to a flare of bright white as the infrared LEDs on his night-vision goggles caught the shiny surface. Then the sensors adjusted, fading everything down again, revealing Andrew�s reflection in all its horror-film glory.

A shark�s-tooth grin beamed back at him, printed across the ski-mask�s mouth in jagged glow-in-the-dark fangs. Ready to party.

He paused for a quick flex, but the effect was kinda spoiled by the baggy black hoodie, black combat trousers, black boots, and little black rucksack � because everyone needed somewhere to keep their cable-ties, duct tape, and Rohypnol. Oh, and The Knife, of course. Can�t forget The Knife.

Shame the goggles and mask hid his pretty face. What was the point of all that time in the gym, the Botox, plucking, manscaping, and moisturising if no one could see it? But lots of these places had nanny-cams and home surveillance things.

Which was a shame.

People should be more trusting.

Andrew ran his gloved fingertips along the handrail, like it was a woman�s thigh and he�s heading for the panty line. The black nitrile making a faint, juddering squeal. Keeping his voice nice and low: �Come out, come out, wherever you are...�

The landing boasted half a dozen doors, but other than the mirror, there were no little personal touches. No pictures. No paintings. Kinda sad really.

He picked the nearest door and eased it open, peering into a family bathroom with lots of chrome and tiles. Tres swanky. Even if the medicine cabinet revealed nothing more exciting than a unicorn-themed electric toothbrush and a tube of �RASPLE-BERRY TOOTHTASTIC TOOTHPASTE!� that looked like the Glitter Fairy puked on it.

The next door opened on an unfinished bedroom: metal bed frame and a bare mattress; no curtains; two flat-pack bedside cabinets, one of which was still in the box. Naked lightbulb dangling from the ceiling rose.

No fun there.

Next to that was another spare bedroom, but the lazy cow hadn�t even finished assembling the bed frame. No mattress. Instead, the place was packed with cardboard boxes, each stamped with �BEARSDEN HOME RELOCATION SERVICES LTD� and a label to show which room it should�ve been left in. None of which were �UNFINISHED BEDROOM� so either the movers couldn�t be arsed putting them in the right place, or the woman of the house couldn�t be arsed unpacking and dumped the lot through here instead. Still taped shut from the time she moved in.

Andrew slipped his rucksack off, pulled The Knife from its side pocket: six inches of blackened steel with a serrated edge, concealed inside a hard plastic sheath. Perfect for keeping the lucky ladies quiet while he gave them their little �treat�.

He slid the blade free, and slit open the tape on a box marked �STUDY�.

Books.

And really boring ones at that.

He had a wee rummage, but they were all called things like �INFORMATION MANAGEMENT IN A DIGITAL ENVIRONMENT�, �MAKING THE GENERAL DATA PROTECTION REGULATIONS WORK FOR YOUR ORGANISATION�, and �NEWSTOPIA (SELECTIVE-DISSEMINATION STRATEGIES FOR �CONTROLLING THE NARRATIVE� & REDIRECTING PUBLIC DISCOURSE TOWARDS FAVOURABLE OUTCOMES)�.

Sod that.

He closed the box again, then dumped another one on top, so no one could see he�d been in here.

Popped The Knife in his hoodie pocket.

Shut the door behind him and tried somewhere else.

A sign hung outside the next room, about the size of an ashtray, with cartoon cats and rabbits on it, and �PRINCESS BROOKLYN�S CASTLE!� in happy pink letters.

Unlike the last two bedrooms, this one looked lived in. Sort of. The bed was clarted in fuzzy unicorns and teddy bears and lions and tigers and penguins � their black, button eyes glittered in the night-vision glow. Rainbow-and-flowers wallpaper. Little birdies on the closed curtains. A dollhouse that looked way too posh to play with. And a large, stuffed Skeleton Bob sitting in a wicker chair in the corner. Grinning.

The place was spookily clean and ordered and tidy. No toys lying out. No clothes strewn willy-nilly. No pens and pencils. No Lego landmines waiting to be stepped on...

Like a shrine to a long dead kid.

Andrew shook his head.

Sighed.

Guess some people were just creepy.

But a woman with kids was always a juicier prospect.

He tiptoed back out into the corridor.

The last door on this side of the landing was unmarked, but when he opened it, Andrew�s grin matched the one printed on his ski-mask. Finally: the master bedroom.

He slunk inside, leaving the door open behind him.

It was much larger than the other three, with framed photos on the walls, and a pair of doors leading off on either side of a king-sized bed � a big heavy wooden one, that looked like someone had sawn the top three foot off a four-poster. In fact, every bit of furniture in here was way swankier than the flat-pack crap in the other rooms. Three chests of drawers were arranged around the walls, along with a vanity unit festooned with bottles and jars and tubs and tubes. All of which probably cost a small fortune in their own right.

Much more like it.

Andrew helped himself to a few of the more expensive-looking ones. Then tried the door on the left side of the bed: a walk-in closet, bigger than Andrew�s whole bedroom, stuffed full of stylish clothes and elegant shoes. Hanging on rails, displayed in racks, folded neatly on shelves.

Nah.

The other door opened on an en suite done up to look dark and opulent. The kind of place you could spend a few hours soaking in your claw-foot tub, drinking champagne, surrounded by bubbles. One of those sinks that were carved out of a big slab of solid rock.

He leaned on the cold granite surface and popped open the medicine cabinet. Grinning behind his mask�s grin, because this one was full of goodies.

�Yummy, yummy. Thank you, Mummy.�

He picked through the boxes of prescription pills, pocketing anything that might come in handy later: Temazepam, Oxycodone, and a half-empty thing of Tramadol.

Because sharing was caring.

Andrew checked the time on his phone � 23:54 � she�d be home soon. Better get a move on.

Back in the bedroom, he opened the first chest of drawers. Top drawer: scarves and boxed jewellery.

Even though it was impossible to tell what colour everything was in the night-vision goggles� dark-green glow, it would all be stylish and expensive. And, OK, it went against the rules, but Mum�s birthday was coming up and while the jewellery was too dangerous to risk, bet she�d love some cashmere.

He pocketed the most attractive scarf, then moved on to the next drawer down.

Bras: plain, T-shirt, sports.

And a handful of more exotic, lacy numbers.

Mmmmmm...

Andrew held them up for a good look, turning them in his gloved fingers, picking the skimpiest frilliest item and stuffing it into his hoodie pocket.

Drawer Number Three held a vast array of pants.

Andrew licked his lips and trembled out a little breath, then plunged his hands into their delicious softness. Working his fingers through them. Tugging at the elastic as that familiar warmth cupped itself around his cock. Stirring things up in anticipation of the big event.

Looked like the lady of the house favoured the big arse-hammocks, but there were a few saucy numbers that tickled his knob, so they went in the hoody pocket to join that bra.

Drawer Four was full of socks.

Fuck that.

A wicker laundry basket lurked in the corner, though.

Worth a dip.

If he was quick.

Andrew ripped the lid off and dug in, throwing dirty T-shirts and socks and leggings and big baggy knickers over his shoulder till something frilly appeared.

Snatching them from the basket, he pressed the pants against his mask�s toothy grin. Took a lonnnnnnng deeeeeeeeep sniff. Breathing in the musky sweet-and-salty scent of her pussy. Holding it deep inside him. Then hissing it out in a shuddering sigh, clutching his rock-hard groin. Squeezing.

But there would be time for that later.

So, Andrew pocketed the pants, then went back for another lucky dip. Coming out with a hold-up stocking. Black and sheer. Shiny in the night-vision glow.

He wrapped both ends around his hands, like a garotte...

Then froze.

Hold on.

A sound rattle-clacked out from somewhere downstairs. Keys in a lock.

Quick!

Andrew swept up the discarded washing and stuffed it back into the basket, then tiptoed over to the bedroom door. Adjusting himself through his trousers.

Soon be time to shine...

He poked his head out onto the landing.

Couldn�t see much from here, but there was light outside. Probably a car, pulled up to the front of the house.

Then a clunk sounded, followed by the whoomp of an opening door.

Time to move.

Andrew crept out of the bedroom, ran on his tippie-toes across the landing, and flattened himself against the wall. Erection throbbing.

OK, so he couldn�t see what was going on from here, but the important thing was being hidden from view.

When you gave the lady of the house a �treat�, it was always best to keep it a surprise till the very last moment.

Because tonight was going to be one of the good nights. When he didn�t just slip away into the dark with his little trophies. When creeping turned to something far more satisfying.

But first:

He whipped off his night-vision goggles a second before the hall lights snapped on, bathing the cold, impersonal hallway in their harsh LED glow.

Which stung like poking wasps in his eyes, after the goggles� screen.

Down below, a man�s voice shouldered its way into the house. A Central Belt accent, with an uncertain, grovelling edge to it. �Excuse me? Excuse me, Miss Agapova? Natasha Agapova?�

The answer came in the scraiky flat vowels of somewhere down under: Australia, or New Zealand. Sounding knackered and superior. �Go away, I�m not in the mood.�

Quite right. Bugger off, little man.

The lady has an appointment.

�No. Sorry. Yes. But I�m with the police, see? Detective Sergeant Davis. Can I come in?� You could almost smell the deference oozing from every pore. �I�m afraid I have some bad news.�

Oh, thank you very much.

A cop.

Just what the evening needed.

Bastard.

And Andrew�s erection keeled over like a drunken tramp.

It was time for Plan B: find a nice dark, quiet corner to hide away and lurk there till the house was asleep, then sneak out the way he came in. And yeah, he could still give her a little �treat� on his way out, but that hardly seemed fair. He wasn�t a monster, after all.

But first: only human to want a little peek, right? See what he could�ve won.

Andrew peered around the corner, keeping the rest of him well out of sight.

The lady of the house, Natasha Agapova, might�ve been in her late forties, but she was still a total MILF. Mahogany-red hair framed a heart-shaped face with lips like cherries, high cheekbones, and deep dark eyes. And yeah, she�d probably had work done � given there wasn�t a single wrinkle on her face � but there was nothing wrong with that.

Hadn�t done Andrew any harm, had it?

Looked like she�d got a bit of the old nip-tuck done below the neck too, because she went in and out everywhere a proper woman should. The hourglass figure accentuated by a glittery black ballgown and jewellery that was way too showy to be real.

Got to wonder how she ended up having an Ozzy accent, with a name like �Natasha Agapova�. Kinda think she�d sound Russian, or Ukrainian, or Eastern European...

Something else that didn�t really make sense was the massive beige teddy bear, clutched under one arm. Thing had to be at least five feet tall, wearing a hard hat, rig boots, rigger gloves, and a �PATHAK OIL SERVICES� T-shirt.

She, Natasha, turned her back on the doorway and ditched the bear in the middle of the hall. Kicking off her heels to pad across the deep oatmeal carpet to a long sideboard thing tastefully decorated with expensive-looking ethnic vases, where she dumped her keys and took off her earrings. Then pulled a face. �It�s Adrian, isn�t it. He�s finally wrapped that stupid Aston Martin round a tree.�

�It�s probably best if I...?� DS Davis stepped into the hall. Might as well not have bothered, though. He was an unremarkable bloke with greying hair at his temples � the kind of guy you wouldn�t look twice at if you passed him on the street � in a cheap-looking grey suit with a white shirt and blue tie. The only thing even slightly noticeable about him were the sandshoes on his feet. And even they were beige.

A sniff from Natasha. �I take it someone�s told that pudding-headed blonde tart of his? Well, she can whistle if she thinks I�m paying for the sodding funeral!�

Davis stared at her. �Sorry?�

�The divorce settlement clearly states he�s��

�Pay for the funeral?� Davis threw his arms out. �You just can�t help yourself, can you? You�ve got to be a bitch about everything.�

Hang on a minute.

She stuck her hands on her hips, voice getting louder. �I beg your bloody pardon?� Chin up. �Who the hell do you think you�re talking to?�

�Oh, I know exactly who you are. Bitch.�

�I want your name and badge number, right now!� Jabbing a finger at him. �I happen to be very good friends with the Chief Constable and she��

And that�s when DS Davis punched her. Right in the mouth. Hard enough to send Natasha staggering backwards on her bare feet.

Hard enough to make Andrew flinch.

�Not so gobby now, are you, Bitch!�

Natasha collapsed against the sideboard, one hand pressed over her mouth, blood dribbling down her chin to drip scarlet blossoms on the pale carpet.

Her small, muffled moan was cut short by another visit from DS Davis�s fist.

Something shifted deep inside Andrew�s stomach, fizzing as it headed south. Making his balls clench as he stood there and watched.

Oh, this wasn�t good. This wasn�t good at all!

Natasha crumpled to the floor, and Davis took a little run-up � slammed his foot into her stomach, like he was trying to score a goal from the halfway mark.

A short scream barked free, and his foot landed again. And again. Making her curl up, arms covering her head as his sandshoes hammered into her legs and back.

Every blow came with a snarled word: �I � know � who � you � are!�

Davis was going to kill her. He was going to kill her, right here, with Andrew in the house.

Oh God...

Then Andrew�s eyes snapped wide, because what were the police going to think when they turned up at the crime scene? Dead woman downstairs and there�s Andrew, hiding in the box room, with a rape kit in his rucksack and the murder-victim�s underwear in his bloody pocket.

Think they�d believe he had nothing to do with it?

Think DS Davis would fess-up to killing her?

Course he sodding wouldn�t � he�d point the finger right at Andrew. And his police bastard mates would believe him. And they�d plant whatever evidence they needed to make Andrew look guilty. And that would be it: prison for life, while their murderous colleague danced off into the sunrise.

Fuck that.

Because Andrew was getting the hell out of here.

He shuffled his feet on the bone-pale carpet.

But how? The only exits were downstairs, and no way was Andrew going anywhere near that mad bastard.

Oh God...

THINK!

There had to be a way out of here.

Just needed a couple of minutes to breathe and get his head together, that�s all.

Andrew slunk away from the corner and opened the first door he came to � the kid�s bedroom.

Not a lot of places to hole-up, but it would have to do.

Somewhere downstairs, a clock struck midnight � the twelve chimes echoing through the mausoleum house as Natasha cried and DS Davis huffed and puffed like a rutting bull. Kicking the living shit out of her.

Andrew eased the bedroom door closed so gently that the catch barely whispered into place. Then backed away.

With the curtains shut, it was dark as a crypt in here, not so much as a sliver of moonlight.

Shitting hell...

He kept going, putting some distance between him and the door. And whatever nightmare was going on downstairs.

Why did everything have to go wrong?

Hadn�t he earned a little fun for a change?

Wasn�t it completely unfair that�

The edge of the bed hit the back of his knee and that was it � both legs gave way.

No, no, no, no, no!

Andrew whirled his arms, arching his back, trying to get his balance back. Then gravity took over, thumping him down on the mattress hard enough to make the whole bed bounce. Not far. Just a fraction of an inch. But the bed�s metal feet clunked against the carpet like a hammer.

An avalanche of stuffed toys tumbled to the floor.

The silence that followed was deadening.

Please no...

Oh Christing, buggering, no...

What if DS Davis heard that?

What if DS Davis decided to investigate?

What if DS Davis killed him too?

Andrew wrenched himself off the bed and scurried on his tiptoes back to the door. Making no sound at all. Not even breathing. And pressed his ear to the wood.

Silence.

Natasha wasn�t crying any more. Might be unconscious? Or already dead.

Anrew bit his bottom lip.

Was that a creak?

Maybe it was a creak.

A footstep on the stairs?

And there was nowhere to hide.

The bed!

Hide under the bed...

Only the tiny gap wasn�t big enough to take him and his rucksack and it was only a single bed and the metal frame wasn�t going to conceal much and all DS Davis would have to do is bend down and look and see him cowering there and he�d be trapped and Davis would drag him out and kick him to death on a kid�s bedroom floor surrounded by stupid stuffed fucking animals in this horrible lifeless house.

Andrew�s throat tightened.

Jaw quivering as tears threatened to break free.

Please...

Should�ve hidden in the other bedroom � the one filled with boxes. But it was on the other side of the landing and how was he supposed to get there with all the lights on in the hall and DS Davis standing right there?

Oh God, oh God, oh God...

Andrew shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dithering, looking from the door to the curtains and back again.

Barricade the door?

No time.

And the noise. And Davis would know he was in here. And...

Wait.

He lurched into the middle of the room, thrust his hand up inside the tasselled lightshade, and twisted the bulb from its fitting. Cold and firm against his nitrile gloves. Then slunk back against the wall, on the leeward side of the door � so he�d be behind it when it opened. Hidden.

But maybe it wouldn�t open?

Maybe DS Davis would come to his senses and realise what he�d done?

And maybe he�d run away like a sane person and not a total...

The door handle turned.

Andrew flattened himself against the wall, holding his breath, still as a corpse as the door swung open and light spilled in from the hallway.

It was faint, though. Like it was glowing up from the ground floor, instead of crashing in from the landing. Not bright enough to make much of a dent in the gloom. Leaving the kid�s bedroom smothered in darkness.

Trembling so hard that his fingers barely worked, Andrew reached into his hoodie pocket and slipped The Knife free of its sheath again. Gripping it tight in his shaky hand, the other covering his mouth. Tears making the room shimmer.

A grunt from the doorway.

Then DS Davis must�ve reached for the light switch, because that distinctive click sounded. Only nothing happened � what with the bulb missing.

Davis tried a few more times.

Click, click, click...

Same result.

OK.

Very, very quietly, Andrew pulled the night-vision goggles down over his eyes again, and the whole room lit up like a bile-green Las Vegas. Just in time to catch DS Davis stepping into the middle of the darkened room.

Davis peered up into the empty lightshade.

On the goggles� screen, something...�radiated off him. Something sick and dangerous. Something desperate to slash and tear and destroy.

Partially hidden by the open door, Andrew tightened his grip on The Knife.

He could do this.

He could.

All he had to do was lunge forwards and slit this scary bastard�s throat, then watch whatever the hell it was bleed right out of him.

Deep breath.

Do it.

Right now.

Before Davis turned around, saw him hiding behind the door, and battered him to death as well...

But Andrew couldn�t even move.

DS Davis�s head turned to the right: towards him.

Oh God, the bastard knows he�s here.

Andrew�s whole body clenched.

Across the room, Skeleton Bob grinned at them both, glassy black eyes sparkling � hungry and malevolent.

The Knife shook so much there was no way he could hold on. And if he dropped it, Davis would�

A clunk rang out.

But it wasn�t The Knife � that was still clenched in Andrew�s fist � and a breath later came the porcelain crash of something expensive shattering downstairs, followed by a wet, agonised sob.

Sounded like DS Davis hadn�t killed Natasha after all.

A growl ripped out of the vicious bastard, then he snatched a stuffed penguin from the bed, and marched from the room. Not bothering to close the door.

Oh, thank Christ...

Andrew closed his eyes and shuddered out a silent breath. Sagging as his body unclenched. Then frowned down at the front of his black trousers. Damp and warm, followed by a yeasty smell.

Yeah.

Because things weren�t horrible enough without that.

Outside: the sound of feet, thumping down the stairs.

Then Natasha�s voice, wrenching between a loose-lipped mumble and a full-on scream. �HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP ME!� Then a catch in her breath. �No, please! I have money, I have��

A thud muffled out.

Silence.

Then a sort of hissing noise, like something was being dragged across the carpet.

A door opened.

More dragging.

And the final, coffin-lid thunk of the front door closing again.

Andrew folded in half, grabbing his quivering knees � the fabric of his cargo pants already starting to go cold and clammy through his nitrile gloves.

He stayed there as the room whooshed around him, breathing hard, like he�d just done a thousand reps on the bench press, blood pounding in his temples.

But what if it wasn�t over?

What if Davis came back?

Stiff-legged, Andrew shuffled to the window and peered out between the curtains.

DS Davis was already halfway across the drive. He�d grabbed hold of Natasha�s ballgown � between her shoulder blades � hauling her, one-handed, towards a car that was every bit as nondescript as he was. That stuffed penguin crushed in his other fist.

Please don�t come back.

Please don�t come back...

Andrew fiddled with the buttons on his night-vision goggles and the picture zoomed in to full magnification, giving him a perfect view of Davis bundling her limp body into the boot then hurling the penguin in after her.

The bastard looked left, then right, making sure no one was watching, before climbing in behind the wheel with a huge grin on his face. Far more terrifying than the one printed on Andrew�s ski-mask.

Then the car�s lights flared in the goggles� screen, washing out all details till the sensors caught up again. And by then the pale, anonymous Vauxhall was pulling away. Rolling down the drive and out onto the road. Heading left, back towards town.

Leaving Andrew alone in the house of horrors.

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

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

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

Not much of a bright side...

It wasn�t bad, as car parks went, with the wooden-clad rear of the library on one side, four-storey blocks of flats on another, and the arse-end of a McColl�s on the third. A stand of tower blocks in the middle distance, their windows glowing like daggers in the punishing light.

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

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

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

�Yes, ma-am.�

That seemed to do the trick.

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

�Yes, ma-am.�

�No cock-ups.�

�No, ma-am.�

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

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

�We�ll do our best.�

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

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

And if that wasn�t bad enough, his team of �crack police officers� were sitting inside, in the full Method of Entry Gear: blue overalls; stabproof vests; hard plastic guards on their elbows, wrists, knees, and shins. Only they�d removed their riot helmets and gauntlets to enjoy a variety of ice lollies.

Ice lollies.

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

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

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

Well, tough.

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

A voice from the back: �Oh come on!�

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

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

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

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

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

Steel clicked the radio back on. �Don�t be a dick.� And �Sympathy for the Devil� ripped out of the van�s speakers for the whole three seconds it took Logan to switch it off again.

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

�I don�t care! And where did you get the lollies? You can�t just send someone trotting off at the first sniff of an ice-cream van!� At least Barrett and Lund had the decency to blush at that one. Logan gestured out towards the sweltering afternoon. �They could give us the �go� at any minute. You want to miss it, cos you�re listening to this rubbish and scoffing ice cream? Everyone else is rushing to the dunt, and you�re sat here like steamed farts while one of you�s waiting in line for...� gritting his teeth, �for a sodding choc ice?�

Harmsworth shuffled his bum in its seat. �Yeah, but��

�No radio! No more lollies! And that�s final.�

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

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

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

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

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

�That enough motivation for you?�

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

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

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

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

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

A grin. �Don�t be such a starchy gusset...�

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

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

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

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

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

Putting it broadside to their speeding van.

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

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

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

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

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

Logan, on the other hand, took his time � strolling up the path to the stairwell door at a far more leisurely pace. After all, Steel�s team had their riot gear on � if anything nasty happened, they were dressed for it. He wasn�t.

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

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

MacLauchlan grinned like a troll at the assembled officers. �Don�t worry, PD Branston doesn�t bite. Do you, girl?�

Branston let out a short-sharp bark that made it clear she did indeed bite, enjoyed doing it, and was quite ready to demonstrate her skill in this department on anyone willing to volunteer. And possibly a few people who weren�t.

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

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

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

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

Steel shook her head. �It�s �Mac-Geeee-reeee�, you spudge-nugget.�

A frown. ��Mac-Gee-reee�? You sure? Because��

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

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

Everyone stared at the speaker�s dirty little grille.

Even Branston.

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

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

�Rats? Ghhhaaaagh...�We�ve got rats?�

The door buzzed, then clicked.

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

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

Good.

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

Not piddly manky, but manky nonetheless.

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

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

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

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

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

�And no heroics! We know this guy�s dangerous.�

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steel: �POLICE! NOBODY MOVE!�

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

Followed by some enthusiastic barking.

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

Tufty: �LEFT! LEFT! LEFT!�

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

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

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

Tufty: �SARGE! SARGE, HE�S IN HERE!�

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

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

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

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

Victoria had to be in her mid-eighties, but that didn�t stop her swearing like a drunken soccer casual � swinging an NHS-issue walking stick about like Excalibur, trying to take Mordred�s head off. And you could tell she was up for the fight, because she�d rolled up the sleeves of her brown cardigan, exposing the thin, pale, tattooed arms beneath.

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

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

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

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

He wandered past a small bathroom, and a galley kitchen, stepping into a living room even more old-fashioned than the hall, with antimacassars on the furniture and yet more royal portraits on the wall. A throw-covered armchair had pride of place in front of the telly, with a heaped ashtray balanced on one arm, next to a heavy, dark-wood sideboard that was home to a vast collection of china cat figurines. So the sweary Victoria couldn�t be all bad.

It hadn�t been a big room to start with, but cramming in four police officers wearing the full MOE kit; another in plainclothes; a scruffy wee ogre, and his gargantuan Alsatian, made it seem positively minute.

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

Meanwhile, Steel glared at a sheepish Harmsworth. �What do you mean, you �left it on the landing�?�

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

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

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

Logan watched him go. �Trouble?�

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

�So kick it in. It�s only an internal partition.�

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned to look back at the police officers and big barky dog that had just invaded his childhood bedroom, giving them a good look at his wispy sideburns and beginner�s moustache-and-soul-patch kit. Which gave him the air of a cut-priced Starlord from Guardians of the Galaxy. Ripped jeans; red-and-white leather jacket; black, 4 Mechanical Mice T-shirt. Tears in his eyes.

Oh shite. He was going to jump wasn�t he.

Logan lunged forwards. �NO!�

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

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

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

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

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

�Wow...� Tufty pointed. �Did you see that?�

Logan blinked. �But...?�

How was that even possible?

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

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

Actually hitting the trampoline from this distance, instead of the ground, had to be a one-in-a-hundred shot. Charles was bloody lucky he didn�t break his neck, and every other bone in his body.

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

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

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

No � wait a minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

�NOW!�

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And off they jolly-well buggered.

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

No keys.

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

Good question.

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

The engine roared.

�Sarge?�

Logan clicked his seatbelt on. Pointed left. �Step on it!�

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

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

Steel dove into a seat. �Don�t just fudging sit there: go!�

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

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

Yeah...

Disco time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logan peered over the wall. �Sod.�

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

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

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

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

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

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

OK.

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

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

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

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

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

Sod...

Logan sprinted after it.

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

The silly buggers were going to play chicken, weren�t they.

Because young men were thick and invincible.

Till they fatally weren�t.

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

Unsurprisingly, Mr FreezyWhip didn�t stop.

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

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

Useless sod. What was the point of having a police dog if it didn�t chase and bite the bad guy?

�Where the hell were you?�

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

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

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

Tufty wasn�t quite so slick, and the police van squealed and lurched through the two turns, wallowing like a speedboat, throwing the occupants against the van�s walls, seatbelts, and each other.

It looked as if Charles MacGarioch hadn�t been wasting his time, playing all those rally and driving games � weaving Mr FreezyWhip in and out of the traffic, both oncoming and outgoing, sometimes up onto the pavement, sometimes roaring into the empty gaps. But always absolutely pelting it as �Greensleeves� tinkled out.

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

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

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

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

�Backup! Get us some sodding backup before someone dies!� She let go of the button, and thumped Logan. �This is what happens when we don�t have a buggering helicopter.�

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

She turned and gave him the middle-finger salute.

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

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

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

Looked as if a couple of wee boys on their bikes, slowly rolling across the entrance to Gordon Brae, weren�t going to be so lucky.

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

Jesus, this was going to be a complete blood�

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

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

Logan checked the rear-view mirror.

The kids just shrugged and cycled on, as if they hadn�t been moments away from knowing what steak tartare felt like.

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

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

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

Getting closer.

And closer.

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

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

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

A groan from Barrett. �We�re all going to die, aren�t we.�

As the road climbed the hill, it narrowed, parked cars crowding in on both sides. Because, shockingly enough, it hadn�t been designed with high-speed pursuits in mind.

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

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

Logan flinched as the debris clattered against the police van�s windscreen. �Don�t know � they�re DS Marshall�s.�

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

�Well, why aren�t they...� Her eyes went wide.

And so did everyone else�s.

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

Barrett was right: they were all going to die.

Logan grabbed Branston in a double-armed hug, cos the silly hairy sod wasn�t wearing a seatbelt and this was going to be sudden, violent, and messy...

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

How the hell did he pull that one off?

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

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

Steel swallowed, no doubt glad to still be alive, given she wasn�t wearing a seatbelt either. �North on Don Street.� She gave herself a little shake and poked a badge number into her Airwave�s keypad, snarling into the microphone. �Biohazard, you useless glob of titspunk! If I don�t see your uniforms in their patrol cars right now, I�m jamming my boot so far up your arse I can use your nostrils for lace holes!�

Barrett sniffed. �That�s another��

�I don�t care!�

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

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

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

Yeah. Maybe not.

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

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

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

�Ha!� Steel banged the back of Logan�s seat. �Got the bastard now! We��

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

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

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

Logan grabbed hold of Branston.

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

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

Hurling them down into darkness, past a cluster of signs: �WEAK BRIDGE AHEAD ~ 3 TON G.V.W.�, �WARNING NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS BEYOND THIS POINT ~ BARRIER CONTROL OPERATION 300 YDS ~ RESTRICTED TURNING FACILITIES� and a no-entry-to-cars-and-motorbikes �EXCEPT FOR ACCESS�. Which wasn�t exactly inviting...

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

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

Even though it hadn�t rained for a week, the van still slithered on the little rectangular blocks, arse-end skittering out as they tried to make the corner, rear wing striking sparks against the granite wall.

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

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

An almighty BANG sounded up ahead.

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

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

Tufty took one hand off the wheel to pull down the sun visor, but all he found there was the sign: �DON�T ENCOURAGE HIM!� He flipped it up and down again, as if that would change anything. �Oh noes!� Looking more and more panicked with every passing second. �Where�s the police pass? WHERE�S THE POLICE PASS?�

Too late.

The van�s front wheels got past the barrier OK, but the rest of the vehicle wasn�t so lucky. A rising bollard must�ve clipped the underside about two-thirds of the way back, because the back end jerked into the air in an agonised screech of metal-on-metal.

And everyone was screaming again.

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

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

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

Technically, they should�ve been gaining on Mr FreezyWhip, but whatever the bollards had done to the drive chain it wasn�t good. The van was slowing down. And a quick glance in the rear-view mirror revealed clouds of greasy blue smoke filling the leafy lane.

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

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

A wrinkly clutch of old ladies stood in the middle of the road, staring as the ice-cream van bobbed in the fast-flowing water. Most of them had ancient dogs on the leash, except for one who appeared to be walking her husband. And he was the only one who seemed oblivious to the fact that if MacGarioch hadn�t swerved into the river, he would�ve ploughed through them like brittle meaty skittles.

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

The doors flew open, and everyone piled out.

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

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

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

Crap.

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

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

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

The silly wee sod was just about to leap in when Barrett grabbed him by the back of the stabproof � hauling him up short. �Don�t be a divot!�

�But the ice-cream man...?�

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

Bloody hell...

The day might�ve been roasting, but the water wasn�t � swollen by all of last week�s rain, it was like an ice bath, only fast flowing, and with the occasional bit of tree being swept downstream.

Come on, you idiot: swim.

He struck out towards Mr FreezyWhip.

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

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

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

Good.

Why should Logan be the only one getting soaked?

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

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

Visibility wasn�t great beneath the surface � silt, stirred up by the swollen river and caught in the blistering sunshine, turned everything milky, meaning most of the van faded into the glowing murk.

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

Sod.

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

Good job the River Don was relatively shark-free.

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

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

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

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

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

�Give us a chance!�

Tufty wasn�t far behind. �I�ll find him.� And under he went, Spider-Man socks flashing in the sunshine before the murky river swallowed him whole.

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

Over on the bank, Steel hurried towards a bright-orange lifebuoy, mounted at the side of the road. Still giving someone a hard time on her Airwave. �Yes, but three of them have gone in now, OK? SO DO SOMETHING!� She yanked and tugged at the ring, snarling and roaring till it popped out of its mount, then dragged it back to the rescue scene. Fiddling one end of the attached rope free and standing on it, before flinging the buoy, one-handed, upstream of Logan. �Well, I don�t know, do I? Coastguard, fire brigade...� She scooped up the spare end of rope. �Any bugger with a boat would do!�

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

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

A spluttering Barrett surfaced next, blinking and coughing. �Sodding fudgemuggers...� He pulled his way along the sunken van. �MacGarioch�s gone.� Wiping the water from his face. �Don�t know if he�s washed away, or what, but there�s zero sign of him.�

Great.

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

�Hoy!� Barrett waved at him. �Stop, you daft...�

But Tufty was gone again.

�Seriously?�

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

A confused look. �Where are you��

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

At least the window was open.

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

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

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

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

So he poked his head through the open passenger window.

The cab was definitely empty.

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

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

And still no sodding Tufty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Idiot.

So Logan thumped him one more time, for luck.

Extra hard, this time.

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, the chair thieves sat at scattered desks, keeping their heads down, poking away at laptops and phones, hoping they weren�t going to be next...

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

He plucked another printout from the pile.

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

Aye...�maybe no� his finest hour.

That one went in the bin.

��CROOKED COP FRAMED ME� CLAIMS LOCAL BUSINESSMAN�, subheading: �OFFICER PLANTS CHILD PORNOGRAPHY ON SUSPECT�S COMPUTER AS��

�Hoy, Grandad.� There was a knock on his file-box wall, and Tamsin Johnson (21) sauntered into his inner keep. She had a boy�s haircut, Numbered Onions T-shirt, ripped jeans, and grubby Hi-Tops. Tattoos all down one arm. Spots. Enough piercings in both ears to pick up a decent FM signal.

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

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

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

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

Cheeky sod.

�Haven�t you got a listicle to write? �Top ten reasons cellulite is the new margarine!�, or some shite.�

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

�Racists is as racists does.� She picked up the folder and flicked through his printouts. �Your generation gets a stiffy for that kinda National Front crap, doesn�t it? Assuming you can tear yourselves away from all the misogyny, ableism, and homophobia.�

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

Now that was a story.

Tamsin handed his portfolio back, her voice losing the cynical-teenager edge for something a lot kinder. �Don�t sweat it, OK? I had my review yesterday and she was fine. You�ll ace it.� Then nodded towards the exit. �Last call for a pint?�

Aye, she was probably right.

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

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

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

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

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

He straightened his tie.

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

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

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

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

The only clean things out here, were the framed front pages. But unlike in the newsroom, these weren�t from the Aberdeen Examiner, they were the worst kind of red-top tabloid: the Scottish Daily Post, with its lurid headlines and paparazzi photos. Female stars getting out of cars with their pants on show; unflattering beach bodies; posed underwear shots; cheesy smiles and Bisto tans. All displayed in brand-new frames � courtesy of their brand-new boss.

As if this shite was anything to aspire to.

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

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

Lucky sods.

Anyway, this wasn�t getting the monkey strangled, was it.

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

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

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

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

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

�We�re having a redesign. Need to get �stakeholder input�.�

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

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

Bloody hell.

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

Colin whistled. �Fuck me...�

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

Time to give the wee jobby a bit of advice.

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

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

�God�s sake.�

Kids these days...

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

Locked.

Aye, thought as much.

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

Still nothing.

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

The numpty hadn�t moved, just sat there with his mock-ups, knees trembling like his bladder was about to pop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madness.

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

TARA:

Excellent idea.

He thumbed out a reply:

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

Colin Miller.

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

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

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

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

Logan returned the smile. �No. Feel free to sod off.�

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

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

Colin gave his phone a waggle. �Thought it�s doughnuts youse bastards are obsessed with?� Then put it away and had another peer at the collection of old folk. �This wouldn�t have anything to do with that fire last night, would it?�

�No comment.�

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

Logan kept his face completely still.

Colin blinked. �Oh, you�re kidding me!�

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

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

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

�Aye, you think you�re joking?� Colin pointed off towards Altens. �See back in the good old days: that newsroom was thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of ink and cheap coffee, clattering with typewriters...�Now it�s just me, and a handful of sodding children.� Scowling out at the glittering water. �Work experience and unpaid interns. Like it�s sodding bob-a-job week!� Throwing his gloved hands in the air, because the wee sod could never resist a bit of melodrama. �And these kids got no nose for a story. If you can�t nick it off Twatter, ThickTok, or FacePuke it�s too much work!�

Logan nodded. �Yup.�

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

Maybe he was right? Maybe the press could help for a change, instead of making everything worse? And it wouldn�t hurt to have the Aberdeen Examiner owing them a favour. So maybe just a tiny bit of...

Sod.

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

Logan stood up a little straighter. �Here we go...�

�Oh aye?�

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

Colin lowered his voice. �Won�t be long till the numpties arrive with their outside broadcast vans and their camera crews.� He produced a packet of extra-strong mints, proffering the open end to Logan, as if that was going to be an effective bribe. �Maybe you and me can do a deal? Back scratching, like.�

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

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

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

�Sorry, ma-am.�

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

Logan stayed where he was and kept his mouth shut.

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

Nosey bastards.

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

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

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

�It�s��

�Did no one think he might do a runner?�

�Don�t be daft.� � Steel�s voice, right behind them.

Pine flinched. Logan winced.

Then they both turned and there she was, overalls unzipped to her waist, belly button on show where her �SexWeasels!� T-shirt had ridden up. Pale and worrying. Like a zombie�s eye...�Steel gave it a scratch. �The wee scrunk-bag lives on the top floor. What was he going to do, sprout wings and fly?�

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

�Don�t worry: we�ll find him.� Stopping scratching for long enough to dig a vape out of her overalls. �Roberta Steel always gets her man. Or woman.� A wink. �And may I say you�re looking particularly fetching today in that nice tight T-shirt? Really brings out the swell of your��

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

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

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

�Her thirty�s up next month. She�ll be long gone by the time HR get the disciplinary paperwork sorted.� He shifted his feet on the warm setts. �But she�s right: we were on the top floor. The only reason Charles MacGarioch isn�t on his way to the mortuary right now is he managed to hit a trampoline instead of the ground. Pure blind luck. By rights he should be splattered all over the dried-up grass in his nan�s back garden.�

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

�We haven�t had a cock-up of this magnitude for ages.�

�Sorry, ma-am.� He shrugged. �Everyone�s doing their best. Turns out: being an Operational Support Unit isn�t as easy as Sergeant Mitchell and his thugs make it look.�

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

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

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

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

She sagged some more. �Oh you do know how to cheer a girl up, don�t you.�

�We�ve circulated a lookout request.�

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

Pine stuck her chin out. �I don�t like racist, murdering, arsonous, wee bastards running around on my patch, Logan.� Then a sigh. �I understand your desire to cover for DCI Rutherford, but planning the dunt was his responsibility. He should�ve had people positioned out back.�

�It was the top floor��

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

Well, that didn�t put Logan in a difficult position at all.

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

That Sky News drone made another pass.

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

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

�Middle of a sodding heatwave and half the division�s off with �Man Flu�.� Victim number four died in a puff of teeny gossamer umbrellas. �I want Charles MacGarioch in custody by close of play tomorrow at the latest. Custody or the mortuary � don�t care which.� She held her hand up as Logan winced. �If he�s drowned. Either way we�re diffusing this issue before that stupid protest march. No point giving the mob something else to stick on their bloody placards.�

�Ma-am.�

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

Ah.

�I can�t. It�s parent-teacher night at Lizzie�s school, and we�re��

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

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

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

Sergeant Brookminster opened the rear passenger door for her, but she didn�t even acknowledge him � already on another call.

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

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

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

A voice at Logan�s shoulder: �Nice arse.�

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

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

A what?

He stared at her. �Have you been drinking?�

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

Oh, for God�s sake.

The horror had a point.

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

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

Steel patted his other arm. �Don�t worry about MacGarioch: the wanker won�t get far. His days as a murderous arsoning wee shite are over.� A big sook on her vape, and she enveloped them both in another cloying fruity cloud. �Till then: call a crane.�

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

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

Logan turned to look out the window instead.

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

They weren�t the only ones keeping an eye on things � two photographers had their cameras out, snapping away, while a lone TV news crew filmed a bloke in a suit.

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

All shiny and strawberry-coloured in the baking sun.

�Just...� Logan glanced back at Rutherford, �forewarned, OK?�

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

�That�s what I told her.�

A groan, followed by more slumping.

Rutherford didn�t look as if he�d be surfacing anytime soon, so Logan pulled out his phone and checked his text messages instead. Scrolling back to where he was so rudely interrupted earlier.

TARA:

Followed by his unsent reply:

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

SEND.

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

Rutherford still hadn�t moved.

�You OK?�

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

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

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

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

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

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

�Thought we were meant to get backup from other divisions?�

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

�Chasing up the Fire Investigation Unit?�

Rutherford nodded. �OK � consider yourself volunteered.�

Great.

That�s what Logan got for being helpful.

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

�Yeah...� Another groan as Rutherford levered himself out of the racist old lady�s couch. �Because apparently this crap isn�t hard enough.�

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmm...

No reply from Tara.

That wasn�t good.

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

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

Wow.

Complete devastation.

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

To be honest, the whole place was completely�

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

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

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

�Where�s Steevie?� Logan flashed his warrant card.

Her eyes narrowed. �Oh no you don�t. Let�s see that properly.� She took the thing and gave it a good long stare. �Ah. OK. Ahem.� Bit her top lip and handed it back again. �Inspector. Guv. Sorry. Boss.�

�Guv is fine.�

�Only I�m usually based out of Peterhead...�

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

�Hilary, Guv. Kent.�

�So, where�s Steevie?�

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

�Constable: what have you done with Watch Commander Colins?�

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

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

�I wouldn�t. There�s a basement, and the ground floor�s a bit shagged, Guv. Sorry, Inspector. I mean, �its structural integrity has been compromised by the blaze�. A chunk of the dining room caved in this morning.�

Sod that.

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

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

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

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

Now that was more like it.

�We�ve got CCTV? How come no one mentioned��

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

Well, that was something at least.

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

And PC Kent was still fiddling.

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

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

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

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

OK, this was getting silly now.

Logan stepped away from the hotel. �If you can�t find it, maybe��

�Here we go.� PC Kent held her phone out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

�Didn�t screw the door or windows shut, did he?�

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

�You�d be surprised.�

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

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

Logan whistled.

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

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

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

�Someone�s screaming! You gotta get here now!�

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

�Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!�

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

Logan straightened up, handing the phone back. �And they didn�t go straight to the tabloids and sell the video?�

PC Kent winced. �One of the girl�s dad�s a bit of an arsehole.� Her cheeks coloured again. �I mean � sorry, Guv � he�s a lay preacher with a history of domestic violence and they didn�t want him finding out they�d been boozing it up and partying till three.�

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

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

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

Because no good deed ever went unpunished.

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

Hang on a minute.

The young bloke with the mylar balloon was still lurking by the bus shelter. You�d think, now that the mother had gone, he�d be scuttling up here to take his turn, but he hadn�t budged. Just stood there. Looking shifty. And disturbingly hairy. In blue jeans and a denim jacket.

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

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

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

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

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

�Oh for...� He ripped the whole lot down, bundling it up � which wasn�t easy with the stiff, plastic-coated paper. Then pulled out his phone and marched across the road. Kidding on he was actually talking to someone. �Tara?...�Yeah...�No, it�s me...�Did she?� Fake laugh. �Yeah, yeah.�

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

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

Good.

Logan sped up a bit, dropping the fake-call routine now it was clear Mr Hairy wasn�t interested.

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

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

Now there was something you didn�t see every day.

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

OK...

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

Well, they could sod right off.

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

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

She marched straight towards him.

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

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

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

PC Kent reached out and caught hold of the string.

Catastrophe averted.

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

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

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

A bulkhead separated the driver and passenger seats from the rest of the vehicle, meaning the only natural light in this bit came through a frosted skylight. Because �no windows� meant the paparazzi couldn�t stick their lenses against the glass, hoping for a juicy shot to sell to the tabloids. And even heavily tinted glazing was transparent if the buggers had a flash bright enough.

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

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

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

�I see.� Logan stretched back in his seat. �And is there a reason you don�t want to give us your name?�

Mr Hairy didn�t look up from his flowers. �Am I under arrest?�

�Should you be?�

The bouquet�s lone chrysanthemum lost a petal to those jittery fingers. �I don�t have to give you my name or anything else unless you inform me why I�m being detained and questioned.�

�We�re not detaining you, Mr...?�

Silence.

Apparently Mr Hairy wasn�t falling for that one.

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

The fly buzzed.

The jolly red balloon swayed.

The chrysanthemum suffered: pluck, pluck, pluck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

�Wasn�t. Came out to look. Went off to the pub for a bit. Came back. Had a bit of a think. Bought some flowers and a balloon...� Another couple of petals fluttered to the van�s floor. �They keep telling us we�ve got to take more and more people.� Pick. Pick. Pick. �But they were kids...�

Time to try again: �Sure you don�t want to give us your name?�

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

Bastard.

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

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

Fucking DS Fucking Davis.

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

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

Yeah...

He could�ve totally taken Davis.

Wouldn�t even have been close.

Another branch met the fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, but Davis was the cops, remember?

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

Course they wouldn�t believe him.

They�d fit him up, just like every other poor�

�Andy?�

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

She shuffled out of the kitchen door, carrying a steaming mug of something. Wearing baggy jeans and a cheery-pink sweatshirt with �ARBROATH THIRTEEN TWENTY� embroidered across it. Her thinning hair kept in an unflattering bob, even though he�d begged her to let him cut it properly. Because it wasn�t too much trouble. And he really did know what he was doing.

Wouldn�t let him sneak a few vials of Botox from the salon for her either. But why should a woman her age look thirty years older than she really was?

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

�It�s a start, anyway.�

�Don�t be much longer, though. Can�t have you catching your death out here.�

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

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

�Oh, really...� Mum frowned at him, brushing a couple of leaves off his Mr McPork T-shirt. �What are you wearing that scruffy old thing for?�

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

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

Christ no.

�Won�t be long, Mum. Promise. Just want to get this all tidied away, and maybe we can have breakfast on the patio tomorrow? I can make pancakes, if you like. Pretend we�re on holiday?�

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

Yeah, he was.

And that�s when the KL919 decided to spoil the mood � lighting up the sky as it came in to land at Aberdeen Airport. Its flight path didn�t take it right over the house, but the big Embraer ERJ-190 twin-jet roared over the field on the other side of the garden wall. Getting lower and lower, wheels down, ready to land. A huge blue-and-white carrion crow.

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

But the pilot didn�t � they never did � he just carried on with his final descent, over the airport fence, and onto the runway.

As soon as the plane was gone, the thunder faded from Mum�s eyes. She reached up and patted Andrew�s cheek. �Don�t be too late.� Then off she shuffled. A fifty-year-old woman in an eighty-year-old�s body.

How was that fair?

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

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

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

Not one of them even mentioned Natasha Agapova.

Andrew tossed them into the incinerator, feeding the flames.

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

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

What a waste.

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

Then the wee rucksack.

Only two more things in the bag.

The Knife wouldn�t burn, but a thorough spraying with bleach and it would get chucked in the river tomorrow.

Which left the most damning bit of evidence.

Andrew pulled his night-vision goggles from the bag.

Only they were, like, nearly three hundred quid.

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

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

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

He clutched the fingernail-sized card in his fist.

What if dumping it in the incinerator wasn�t enough? Police IT guys could recover all sorts of things these days. You saw them do it on the telly all the time.

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

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

That didn�t sodding matter.

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

Besides, it wasn�t like this was the end of Andrew�s creeping career, was it? Could make a new video tomorrow, if he wanted...

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

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

Urgh...

Logan cracked open one eye and squinted up at the ceiling. Blinked a few times. Smacked his lips, because apparently the Jobbie Fairy had paid his mouth a visit sometime during the night. Shame it hadn�t tidied up before leaving, because the room was a bit of a mess: hardback books piled up by the chest of drawers, clothes piled up on the wicker chair in the corner, shoeboxes and assorted gubbins piled up on top of the freestanding wardrobes, and seventy-five percent of the duvet piled up on top of Tara. Because she was a thieving sod.

Leaving all of Logan�s naked bits on show.

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

And still �Space Oddity� wibbled on.

God�s sake.

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

Silence.

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

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

�Yeah. And Morning Prayers start at seven, and you�re��

�Having a long lie!�

At which point, Tara rolled over, peering out from Fort Duvet, nose all wrinkled, mouth pinched tight, hair frizzing every-which-way like a ruptured gonk. �Don�t make me kill someone!�

�It�s bloody Tufty.� Back to the phone. �What � do � you � want?�

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

Wonderful.

No prizes for guessing why Rutherford hadn�t turned up this morning. After all that coughing yesterday? The bugger was off sick.

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

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

�We�ve got Harmsworth, and Lund, and Barrett, and��

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

A wee fuzzy monster hopped up onto the end of the bed, big floofy tail pluming in the air as she padded along the sliver of duvet Tara hadn�t annexed yet. Cthulhu clambered onto Logan�s scar-scrambled stomach. Pausing to blink at him with lovely amber eyes. Before tiptoeing across his chest and headbutting his chin. Purring all the way.

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

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

�Ow! You little horror...�

Tufty�s voice drooped. �Sorry, Sarge.�

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

More purring.

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

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

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

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

�He�s in bed.�

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

�Where�s DCI McCulloch?�

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

�McCulloch: where is he?�

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

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

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

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

�And no vaping in the office!�

He hung up and sagged for a moment.

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

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

Surprised the students hadn�t smoked it all, to be honest.

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

The River Don had calmed down a bit since yesterday and entered its meandering phase, coiling like a glistening intestine around the Hillhead halls of residence. Couldn�t see the accommodation blocks from down here, but someone was blasting rap music through an open window, somewhere above. Which was a bit of a shock, seeing as it was only five past eight on a Wednesday morning. Surely most of the buggers would be fast asleep till noon?

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

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

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

Blinking after the relative shade of the woods, Logan stepped into the deep-fried light, off the path and down onto a teeny-tiny beach � just about big enough for a single person to lie on. As long as they didn�t mind their towel getting wet.

Both teams searched on, completely ignoring him.

�Hello?�

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

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

Good question.

Logan scanned the riverbank. �MacGarioch must�ve clambered out somewhere.�

�Gah...� More flapping. �I�m seriously considering �accidentally� falling in, for a cool down.�

�You hear about Rutherford?�

�Off on the sick? Lucky sod.�

�Which means I�m now, officially, acting up.�

She gave him a sympathetic grimace.

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

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

�Nope.� Pointing at her team. �You�re down one body already. Can�t afford to lose anyone else.�

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

�HOY! OVER HERE!�

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

�WHAT?�

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

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

Hallelujah.

She flashed a grin at Logan, then lowered the handset for a bit of old-school shouting across the water instead. �BIOHAZARD: I COULD KISS YOU!� Going much quieter for, �If you weren�t so ugly. And farty. And Bob-like.�

Didn�t matter how much sunshine there was, an industrial estate was an industrial estate was an industrial estate. Or, in layman�s terms: the view was shite.

Colin Miller (56) shoved his way out of the newsroom and strutted down the corridor, rocking a dark-blue linen suit today. Grey shirt. Orange tie. Because real men weren�t afraid of a little colour. No portfolio of stories clutched under his arm this time � nah, Mr Ring Binder had stayed home, on the desk � instead he was armed with a notepad and a mug of Colombia�s finest clutched in his stiff-fingered black-leather hands.

Aye, that�s coffee, no� cocaine.

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

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

Still, at least he hadn�t pished himself.

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

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

Aye...

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

Poor Louis jumped to his feet. �Don�t tell her that!�

Daft bastard.

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

�God�s sake, Colin!�

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

�Oh...� Louis sank into his seat again.

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

Cluelessness radiated off the useless fud. �Sorry?�

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

�Oh...�

Course he hadn�t.

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

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

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

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

Kids today...

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

�Grandholm Drive� always sounded so much grander than it really was. Probably because it had the word �grand�, right there in the title. But it didn�t have fancy houses, or imposing buildings, or buildings of any kind � just trees and scrub and weeds, either side of the patched tarmac.

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

The question was: which one to interview first?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

�Sarge? It is I: Tufty!�

Idiot.

�Told you to stop doing that.�

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

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

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

�Oh, right.� Some rustling noises crinkled out of the car�s speakers. �Well, first I thought about getting in touch with all the GP practices too � because they sometimes treat people, don�t they � but then I remembered that most don�t open till nine, so MacGarioch couldn�t��

�While we�re still young, Tufty.�

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

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

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

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

But then clowns registered their �look�, didn�t they � there was a BBC Two documentary about it � painting their face on an egg, so no one copied it. There was even a central registry in Wookey Hole and a place in London...

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

Wonder if assassin clowns would do the same? Made sense, didn�t it? Couldn�t have someone else claiming credit for your kills. Wouldn�t be sporting.

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

What?

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

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

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

�To keep an eye out. I know. I heard.�

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

�Saa-aarge?�

�Acting Detective Chief Inspector McRae, to you.�

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

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

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

�Sarge? You still there?�

�Thought you were DS Steel�s sidekick.�

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

�Abso-sodding-lutely not.�

�But you does has to has a sidekick: it�s the law! And��

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

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

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

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

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

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

�Nope.� Logan killed the engine and blessed silence returned.

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

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

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

COLIN MILLER:

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

Logan�s thumbs rattled a reply:

SEND.

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

COLIN MILLER:

No chance.

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

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

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

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

Nothing there.

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

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

Nope.

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

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

Pfff...

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

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

God knew how Charles MacGarioch managed to make it all the way from here. And, OK, the �second floor� didn�t sound very high, but the ground was a long, long, long way down.

Splat.

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

Mind you, MacGarioch was only nineteen.

Hell of an age to kill someone.

Maybe�

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

Great. So much for a �pineapple suppository�.

Ding-buzz.

TUFTY-DOODLE-DOOOOO!:

Oh, for goodness� sake...

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

What were they supposed to do now?

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

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

The first is Limbo: home to people who aren�t Christians, so they can�t get into Heaven, but weren�t dicks when they were alive so can�t be punished in Hell. Level Two is for the lustful. Three is stuffed full of gluttons. Four is where the avaricious are held to account. Five is all the angry sods. Six: heretics. Seven seethes with violent bastards � though Dante is a bit of a wanker when it comes to defining what �violence� actually means. Eight is slick with fraudsters. And the ninth circle is a frozen lake, where traitors spend eternity with only their heads poking out of the ice...

But what Dante didn�t know was that if you took a dirty big drill, and bored your way through the ice, down, down, down a thousand feet or more, you would eventually come to a small stuffy cavern, where lies the tenth and final circle of Hell. Also known as the MAPPA meeting on this Saturday�s upcoming protest march.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There weren�t even any biscuits left.

No decent ones, anyway.

Chocolate bourbons.

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

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

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

Ding-buzz.

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

How?

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

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

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

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

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

�What if we just cancel it?�

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

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

Silence.

Mouths actually fell open.

�Look, it�s��

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

Logan stabbed �DECLINE�.

Keith clutched his lanyard, like a string of pearls. �This isn�t a police state, Chief Inspector! We don�t ban peaceful protest in this country, though God knows the previous government tried their best. It�s simply��

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

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

�Don�t be a prick, Oliver.� Jessica from the Roads Department was on her feet, fists clenched. �You know as well as I do that the Scottish Government�s powers are restricted by Westminster�s repressive grip on��

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

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

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

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

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

Something...?

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

And an excuse to escape The Tenth Circle of Hades.

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

�But, Chief Inspector, what about our��

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

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

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

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

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

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

PC Greig shoogled her stick. �Inner cordon, Guv.�

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

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

So that�s what the seagull had been after.

Which probably explained the vomit.

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

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

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

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

Soon as they were gone, Rennie slithered over, with Tufty in tow. The peroxide idiot pouted at the body. �So if it isn�t MacGarioch, who is it?�

As if Logan was supposed to know.

Time for another withering Paddington scowl.

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

�Make sure he�s got bicycle clips on his SOC suit then.� Logan looked out at the shining river. They weren�t that far from the harbour, here. Less than a mile, for sure. Which meant something else to deal with: �Is the tide coming in or going out?�

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

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

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

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

That was true.

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

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

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

Of course it sodding was.

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

Maybe�

�Hoy.� A gravelly voice, right behind him.

�Jesus!� Logan skittered sideways. Turned. �Don�t do that! Sneaking up on people...�

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

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

The scowl deepened.

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

The seagulls circled high above, like albino vultures.

The river flowed.

The sun shone.

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

Sigh. �If this is about Doreen and Biohazard being acting DIs, don�t.�

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

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

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

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

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

Because no one sulked like Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel.

As if they didn�t have more than enough to worry about.

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

This was murder.

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

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

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

Silly sod.

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

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

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

Logan went back to gazing out the window.

This bit of Holburn Street was a bit on the shabby side, to be honest. But it could�ve been worse. At least it wasn�t all charity shops, vape shops, phone shops, bookies, and boarded-up units, like Union Street.

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

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

�Couldn�t exactly leave the wee loon behind. Imagine the trouble he�d get into.�

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

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

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

�...Fordyce, MSP for Aberdeen South and North Kincardine invited her to �awa and bile her heid�.�

Logan smiled. �Congratulations.�

Rennie just humphed again.

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

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

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

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

Which was true.

After all, Charles MacGarioch�s friends weren�t going to interview themselves. And every single one of them would need talking to.

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

Rennie glared in the rear-view mirror. �Constable! I said call the��

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A full-on twat bloviated out of the car�s speakers. Like a fart made flesh. �People are angry that our proud country doesn�t feel like it�s theirs any more. These are legitimate concerns, and the government isn�t helping by pretending everyone who feels that way is somehow �racist� or part of the �far right�.�

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

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

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

�The minister wasn�t available for comment. But her department did issue the following statement:�

�Searchity, bingity, bongity, boo, spidgity, spodgity, spudge...�

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

With difficulty.

Logan pointed. �Straight through at Skene Street.�

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

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

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

�What a time to be alive.�

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

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

�Christ...�

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

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

�Good idea!�

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

A scowl. �Doesn�t stop it being a good idea.�

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

Now there was a metaphor...

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

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

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

�Doing my best, Sarge.� Poking and frowning away at the phone�s screen. �Location fields aren�t searchable by geographic proximity...�you can only list addresses alphabetically. Who coded this? The API�s rubbish!� Poke, poke, poke. �See, this is why I wanted to go back to DHQ...�That and the curry.�

Rennie climbed out of the car, then poked his head back in, smiling like a hungry wolf. �Then you�d better sit here and go through them, one by one, hadn�t you, Constable.� He held up a paw. �Don�t worry, I�ll crack a window for you. Wouldn�t want someone calling the RSPCA on me.� Then thunked his door shut, leaving Logan and Tufty alone in the car.

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

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

Clunk.

Bloody hell...

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.

�And the RSPCA don�t operate in Scotland � it�s the SSPCA up here. If you�re going to make fun of people, at least get your references right.� Logan stopped outside number sixty-five. Checked the paperwork again. �Jericho McQueen: one of Charles MacGarioch�s little friends. We start here then we work our way through the list. Someone�s got to know where the racist wee shite�s hiding. We�re...�

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

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

Mr Bald-And-Baggy wrestled his trolley free, then gave the pair of them a good squint. �You Jehovah�s Witnesses or cops?� Waving that away before they could answer. �Don�t care, long as you give that idiot in Two B a hard time. He�s an ASBO waiting to happen. And a wanker. That�s a sin, right: wanking?� He waved that away too. �Course it is. Everything�s a sin with you miserable bastards.�

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

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

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

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

Not unless they�d really let themselves go.

�Anyway,� Rennie joined Logan in the lobby, �before we start: who�s playing �good cop�; and who�s the crazy, nothing-to-lose, loose-cannon that doesn�t take any shit and won�t stop till he gets a result?�

�How about we play �professional cop�, �other professional cop�? You know, for a change.� Heading upstairs.

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

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

�And halfwits?�

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

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

And on they climbed.

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

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

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

Not Logan�s problem.

One floor to go.

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

�Emma bringing her tattie salad?�

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

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

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

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

�I like her tattie salad better. Oh, and Steel�s bringing, and I quote, �homemade lesbian sausages�.�

�Urgh...�

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

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

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

Silence.

Then a sigh.

And the door swung open all the way.

The wrinkled face belonged to a woman in her mid-eighties, with a tan corduroy skirt, Sex-Pistols T-shirt, thick-rimmed glasses, and a red cardigan. �Suppose ye�d better come in. But wipe yer mochit feet!�

It was always nice to feel wanted...

The living room struggled under the weight of a dark wooden table, bookcase, and mantelpiece stuffed full of ugly ceramic angels. Which made a change from ugly china cats. But unlike Victoria MacGarioch�s flat, there wasn�t a single photo of the royal family on display. Or anyone else, come to that. Instead, a brass urn had pride of place on the mahogany sideboard, in a wreath of white plastic roses.

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

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

Why did no one on the telly have the faintest clue about crime-scene management? Never mind an SOC suit, Politisjefinspect�r Melancholy Ugly-Sweatersd�ttir wasn�t even wearing gloves.

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

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

Yup: great to feel wanted.

Finally, the living-room door opened and in slouched a young man whose DIY beard kit fluffed out from a puppy-fat face. It went with little pink eyes and a nose that looked as if it�d been broken more than once. He hadn�t bothered to dress for company, scuffing his way to the couch in a Lego Ninjago T-shirt, Spider-Man boxer shorts, and nothing else. Collapsing into the seat beside Logan, with a yawn and a scratch, hair sticking out in all directions.

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

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

�Gra-aaaa-annnn...� Whining and whinging.

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

Rennie got his notebook out � pen at the ready.

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

�Might be. Don�t mean I�ve done nothing. Even if he has. Which he hasn�t.�

�Any idea where he might�ve got to?�

A lopsided shrug. �Dunno: at his nan�s or his bitch�s, innit? I ain�t his keeper, bro.�

Logan kept his face perfectly still, because giving the wee shite a bollocking for referring to women as �bitches� wouldn�t help catch Charles MacGarioch. And Soban Yūsuf deserved better than that. �Sure you didn�t see him yesterday? Or maybe he popped past early this morning, when everyone else was asleep?�

�Nah: whatever you�s trying to pin on Charlie is sod all to do with me. Jericho was working all night.� He mimed playing twin turntables, while holding imaginary headphones to his ear. As if talking about himself in the third person, in a borrowed accent, didn�t make him enough of a tosser. �Got me, like, a hunnerd-an-fifty witnesses, innit?�

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

�Don�t know. Wouldn�t tell you if I did. Cos Jericho don�t clype on his homies.�

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

Jericho stiffened. �You deaf, bro? Jericho � don�t � clype.�

�I can respect that.� OK, so concerned-parent didn�t work, how about gossipy-mate? �How long have you two known each other?�

�Since. You know?� He looked across the room, at the urn sitting on the sideboard. �We was in that support thing, for kids that didn�t have no mums and dads. Growed up with our nans or grandads...�aunties, that kinda shit.�

�Must�ve been tough.�

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

Fair enough.

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

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

Not even vaguely.

Turning the phone back the right way, Logan frowned at the screen. Ooh, look at me: being all confused. �Keira still lives at home, doesn�t she?�

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

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

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

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

��The Star-Sprinkled Heavens�. Which is well wanky, but you gotta make wedge, right?�

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

Oh, for God�s sake.

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

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

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

�Jericho ain�t no clype!� The pointing finger swung around to the living-room door. �Get yo lying police asses out my nan�s crib!�

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

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

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

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

Her mouth pinched � tight as a tourniquet. �You heard the boy: out.�

Logan stepped out of the front door of number eighty-six, into a fancy portico with granite pillars, because the houses in this bit of Rubislaw weren�t exactly modest. Big flash homes with big flash gardens and big flash cars parked outside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aye, right.

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

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

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

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

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

Good for strolling along with your hands in your pockets.

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

Ah, a boy could dream...

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

SHEILA DALRYMPLE:

Swear to God, she was drinking on the job.

Logan clicked on the attachment, starting the download.

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

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

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

Bloody hell...

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

It was a portrait shot: the body lay on its back on the pebbled beach. Even with the flash on, the camera hadn�t been able to adjust for the watery blue light that seeped in through the SOC-marquee walls, draining colour from the remains.

Which was probably a blessing.

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

It wasn�t just a beating: whoever this poor sod was, they�d been subjected to a horrific level of violence. Didn�t matter what they�d done: no one deserved that.

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

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

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

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

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

Soon as the email registered as �SENT� Logan pocketed his phone and marched up the road � it wasn�t a strolling kind of day any more.

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

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

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

Logan forced a smile instead. �Someone �broke into� an old man�s Shed of Lies.�

�Ah, OK.� He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. �Mine was a crotchety pair of auld farts whose home-help allegedly made off with a set of silver cutlery and two crystal decanters. Silly sods didn�t get their key back before stiffing her a month�s wages for breaking a casserole dish.� Grin. �Why are rich people such twats?�

A question for the ages.

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

�The technical term is �twats�.�

�That just leaves the wee loon.�

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

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

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

It didn�t even have a strip of pavement outside.

This was �SAOR ALBA�, according to the nameplate screwed to the wall by the gate. Grey harled walls, lichen-greened slate roof, the woodwork peeling and in need of a paint. The front garden was a bit of a mess too. But the building backed onto a field of barley � rapidly losing its green tinge as it slowly baked � so at least the view was nice. If you didn�t mind being on the Aberdeen Airport flight path...

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

With insights like that, it was amazing he hadn�t made Inspector yet.

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

�This is all a waste of time, isn�t it.� Rennie scuffed down the short path, following him. �Stupid idea.� Casting a scowl back towards Tufty � currently gazing out across the field, like a badly dressed garden gnome.

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

Again: always nice to feel wanted.

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

�Oh?� Peering around them at the street beyond, clearly looking for something. Or someone. It can�t have been Tufty, though, because seeing him just caused her to sag even more. �I thought you lot didn�t bother your backsides for anything less than a full-on murder these days.�

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

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

Wow.

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

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

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

Logan stepped back out into the hall.

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

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

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

Hmmm...

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

�And they didn�t touch anything else? Just your son�s room?�

She put the boxer shorts on the wonky desk and plucked another pair of pants from the floor. �I don�t know what Andrew will say when he gets home. They took his new laptop!�

�But you didn�t hear anything?�

�Well, I was fast asleep, wasn�t I. Soon as I�ve taken my pills, I�m out like a badger.� Her shoulders dipped. �Came through to see if Andrew wanted a boiled egg for his breakfast and found...�this.�

Not the best start to the day.

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

�Oh, he was out. Probably at a girl�s house.� A smile. �Thinks I don�t know, but he�s just like his father: proper ladies� man. Well, he is very handsome.�

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

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

So much for �wee boy�.

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

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

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

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

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

�Uh-huh.�

Something went crunch under his foot.

Logan lifted a V-neck T-shirt out of the way and frowned at what he�d stepped on. An oval tube, wide as a hardback book, but plastic, camouflage-coloured, with some sort of elasticated strapping attached to one end.

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

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

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

Yeah...�That didn�t sound good.

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

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

He closed the door behind her. �OK. Safe to talk.�

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

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

�He�s a creeper � gets into people�s houses in the wee small hours. Targets single mothers.� A grunt. �We�re going to need more bodies � preferably female officers � to visit the victims and check for alibis. Don�t want to add to the trauma.�

That wasn�t going to be an easy conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

�Yeah.�

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

�The victims say anything else?�

�Only that it was dark the whole time � he never put the lights on.�

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

Wires and circuit boards.

Maybe they weren�t binoculars? Maybe they were night-vision goggles.

And maybe Mrs Shaw�s �wee boy� wasn�t such an angel after all...

SOC-suited figures rustled from their manky Transit van to Andrew Shaw�s house � carting empty evidence crates one way, and full ones the other.

They weren�t the only newcomers. A patrol car had joined the party and brought a couple of rusty Vauxhalls with it. Now their occupants were going door-to-door and searching the field behind the house.

Giving them a bit of space, Logan retreated to the car park, outside the block of flats, in the scattered shade of a drooping tree.

�A cop...� Biohazard had clearly got the Chief Super�s memo, because he�d changed into regulation black, only without the stabproof vest and utility belt, because he was a fancy-pants DI now. His bare arms already going red as he paced the pavement � one hand massaging his forehead. �Oh, for Christ�s...�buggering...� He stopped and stared at Logan. �A cop?�

�Maybe. Maybe not. Who else could track down a rapist like that? Private investigator? Journalist?�

�But a cop?�

�Might be worth checking the Police National Computer � see if �Andrew Wallace Shaw� has turned up in any search results lately.�

�Nooooooo...� Biohazard crumpled forwards, like a rumpled question mark. �Guv, maybe Doreen would be better as SIO on this one? I don�t mind searching the riverbank, honest I don�t. It�s quite calming really...�

Fat chance.

�You should get someone to contact Shaw�s dentist. Whoever killed him did a number on his teeth, but you might ID the body if there�s any work intact. A fiver says he had veneers fitted. And talk to his GP surgery: we�re looking for any old broken bones or scars.� What else? �See if you can find his car too: must�ve left it somewhere.�

Biohazard groaned. �This whole thing�s a proper sodding poisoned chalice full of...�jobbies.� He straightened up and pointed at the bungalow. �I catch the killer and he�s a cop: everyone hates me, horrible press, career suicide. I don�t catch the killer: everyone hates me, horrible press, career suicide.�

Logan patted him on the back. �That�s the spirit.�

�But, Guv...� Like a puppy, destined for a hessian sack and the nearest river.

But before Acting DI Marshall could start whimpering, Tufty scampered over from the pool car, holding out his Airwave handset. �Sarge? Got a call for you; someone called PC Kent?�

No idea why they didn�t just dial his direct number. Or even who PC Kent was. But it was that kind of day.

He took the handset and poked the button. �Safe to talk.�

A Peterhead accent jerked out of the speaker: �Sir? I mean, Boss. No: Guv. Yes. Hello? It�s Hilary. PC Kent? Watching Balmain House Hotel? Where the fire was?�

Ah, that PC Kent.

�What can I do for you, Hilary?�

�Yeah, Guv? I�ve got the hotel owner here, and he�s...��feelin� nae pain�, if you get my drift. Maybe, you could...�you know? Cos he�s demanding access and I�m telling him no, and he�s not taking that for an answer; and he wants to speak to whoever�s in charge; and there�s only me here; and when I asked the station for backup, they just said to call my SIO; only I don�t really have one, cos I�m on loan from Peterhead, like I said; and the owner�s becoming �agitated�; and I get the feeling everyone�s going to disapprove if I twathim one. So...?�

�No twatting members of the public!�

Suppose it wouldn�t hurt to lend a hand.

After all, everything was under control here, Scenes would be at it for ages, yet. And Biohazard was a big boy now, and ugly enough to cope on his own.

�We�ll be there soon as we can.�

�Unless you secretly want me to twat him one, Guv? I can, you know. Be delighted to, actually. We Blue Tooners do �reasonable force� really well.�

�Definitely not! Sit tight till we get there, and don�t let him into that building.� Because today was bad enough, without some drunken sod crashing through the burnt-out hotel�s floor and killing himself.

�Thanks, Guv.�

Logan handed the Airwave back to Tufty. Huffed out a breath. Then gave Biohazard a �buck-up� thump on the arm. �You�ll be fine. Just make sure no one cocks anything up. We want a clean result on this one, OK?�

A grimace. �Oh, thanks a sodding heap.�

They left him to it � marching across the sticky tarmac to the pool car.

Rennie had all the doors wide open, but the thing was still hot as a crematorium as Logan thumped into the passenger seat.

The peroxide twit looked up from his phone. �Emma says she�ll do tattie salad if Tara makes whatever-it-is: with the little bits of pasta that look like maggots?�

And didn�t that sound delicious...

Logan clunked his door shut. �Buckle up: we�ve got a sozzled hotel owner to rescue from a Peterheadcase!�

�STOP, POLICE!� Logan ducked out between two parked cars, heading for the other side of the road, legging it after Mr Muscles.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAArgh!

The Seat Ibiza barrelling up Broomhill Road slammed on its brakes, nose dipping as it left skidmarks on the tarmac, and the driver probably did the same in his pants. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open as Logan stared back at him.

OK.

That was close.

Logan forced a smile, then ran for the other pavement, heading after Mr Muscles, breath-and-blood whoomping in his ears, feet slapping against the concrete slabs.

A weird echo grew and grew, and there was PC Kent, raggity bun bobbing along behind. It might�ve taken her a while to build momentum � what with all full kit on � but she was motoring now. Doing that high-step knees-and-elbows thing sprinters did on the telly. �Who...�who are...�who are we...�chasing?�

You�d think it would be sodding obvious. But Logan pointed anyway. �Arnold Bloody Schwarzenegger!� Then pulled out his Airwave handset. �DS McRae...�to Control.�

Mr Muscles went left at the junction, by the newsagent�s, abandoning Broomhill Road for the more genteel Balmoral Place. And they were gaining on him.

Logan and Kent motorbiked around the corner, momentum taking them out into the middle of the quiet street. Doing their best to break the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit.

A voice burst out of the Airwave: �Safe to talk?�

Mr Muscles jinked out into the middle of the road too � avoiding a pair of old ladies, blocking the pavement so they could shout at each other. Glancing over his shoulder as he drifted across the dotted line.

�In pursuit...�of I�C-One male...�five nine...�heavily muscled...�tattooed arms...�

Mr Muscles hammered on, playing chicken with a black Porsche coming the other way.

Brakes screeched, the horn blaring as the car slithered to a halt � pretty much blocking the road � about three feet short of flattening him.

He didn�t even slow down.

Instead, Mr Muscles took a running leap, left foot landing square in the middle of the bonnet; the right whacking into the rubber seal at the top of the windscreen, sending cracks flashing across the glass; his left foot left a dirty big dent in the roof; and he was down the other side.

Still running.

The driver scrambled out from behind the wheel, shaking her fist and stamping her heels. �LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MY CAR! YOU BLOODY IDIOT! COME BACK HERE!�

Mr Muscles...�did not.

He kept going.

But Logan and PC Kent had to detour around, up onto the pavement, then back down again after they�d passed the dented Porsche.

There must�ve been an alley off to the side, because a pair of little girls shot out of it on their bicycles � one bike wrapped in rainbow-coloured tape, the other all pale-pink and sparkly, like a Twilight vampire. Both with tasselled handlebars and a plastic unicorn�s horn cable-tied to the front.

Mr Muscles clattered straight into the pair of them, in a flailing mess of arms and legs and chains and wheels and swearing. Tumbling across the tarmac.

Hallelujah.

Logan closed the gap. �I need...�need backup to...�Holburn Street and...�Balmoral Place!�

Oh yeah: Mr Muscles was screwed now.

His lead had completely vanished and in thirty seconds, Logan and PC Kent would be all over him like sleaze on a politician.

He fought clear of the wreckage. Looked left, then right. Probably weighing up the odds. Then grabbed the nearest girl�s bike � pink-and-sparkly � and jumped on. Standing in the seat as he pedalled away with all his might.

So much for sleaze.

Logan hurdled the other bike and one of the girls. �Suspect is now on...�a stolen...�girl�s bicycle.� Ragged breath. �STOP, POLICE!�

The over-pumped lump looked back over his shoulder at that, which was probably a mistake, because one of the road�s many potholes grabbed the front tyre, and sent him straight over the betasselled handlebars.

He hit the tarmac with a crunching thwack.

Got you.

Logan and Kent were almost there when he struggled to his feet, bringing the bike with him � front wheel all twisted and bent.

Scarlet gushed out of his flattened nose and shattered mouth, a scattering of bloodied teeth still embedded in the road at his feet.

But Mr Muscles wasn�t done yet.

He roared out a froth of bright red, swinging the bike like a sparkly sledgehammer.

�Shite!� Logan hit the deck, but it slammed right into PC Kent�s stabproof vest, hurling her sideways into an ugly VW people carrier.

She bounced off the bodywork. The bike kept on going: straight through the rear driver�s-side window with a firework tshhhhhh...�Cubes of glass sparkling in the sunlight as the car alarm yowled, hazards flashing.

Not waiting around, Mr Muscles staggered into a run, one tattooed arm held against his chest.

Logan shoved himself upright. �STOP!...�POLICE!�

As if anyone ever did.

Instead, Mr Muscles barrelled straight through the �STOP� sign at the end of the road.

A tartan-liveried glazier�s van screeched to a standstill, inches away from bursting him like a gore-filled water balloon.

He thumped his good hand against the bonnet, spinning around to glance at Logan again, keeping the momentum going as he ran across�

BANG.

The Toyota Hilux smashed right into him, sending his body whirling into the air like an Action Man hurled by an angry child. He cartwheeled over the truck�s cab and its load bay � full of broken bricks, and jagged spears of rusty rebar � then hit the road with a sickening crunch.

Far too late, the Hilux jammed on its brakes, jerking sideways into the glazier�s van with an almighty crash of broken double-glazing units.

Little cubes of safety glass pattered down across the tarmac.

Horns blared.

Someone screamed.

Behind the Hilux, a minibus pulled up about two feet short of the battered body. Driver gripping the wheel, face transformed into a gargoyle grimace, staring at what was left of Mr Muscles. Then all the schoolkids in the back piled forwards for a good gawp � phones out, filming away like the horrible little ghouls they were.

Logan hurpled into the middle of the road, arms out like a crossing guard. Holding the traffic back as he hurried over to the broken-limbed, twisted mess of fractured bones and torn flesh, in a spreading pool of dark, dark blood.

Because things weren�t bad enough already...

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

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

Aha! Keys.

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

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

Droop.

Ah well.

�Come on, let�s get you inside.�

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

Oooh, atmospheric.

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

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

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

Ah well.

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

Doo, doo doo-doo. Click, click.

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

The house swallowed his words before they could echo.

�HELLO-OH?�

No reply.

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

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

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

He pulled Mr Murray upright again. �Right: bed.�

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tufty peered out through a slightly less dirty bit of the window at a back garden smothered in weeds and bushes and things.

Three doors led off the kitchen � one back into the hall, one out into the jungle, while the third lay slightly ajar.

And as the Horror-Haired Queen of Grumbling Doom was always telling them: �It�s no� snooping if you�re a police officer, it�s investigating.�

So he left Mr Murray clinking his way through the soldiers, and slipped through the beckoning doorway. Having an investigate.

It might�ve been a drawing room back in the Long-ago, but now it was a storage place for spiderhouses and mouse droppings, slowly suffocating under a blanket of fuzzy grey. Shadows on the wall remembered paintings and maybe a large flatscreen TV? Bet there�d been heaps of fancy furniture in here: bookcases and writing desks and chesterfield couches. Now though, there was just a saggy brown corduroy couch and a coffee table made from old milk crates, with a teeny portable CRT telly on top. Indoor aerial. Not even a DVD player.

A bouquet of long-dead flowers wilted in a vase on the mantelpiece, all papery grey-and-brown, next to a photo frame � lying facedown in the dust.

In this haunted house, even the ghosts were sad...

Tufty stepped back into the kitchen, where Mr Murray was still hunting for a non-empty warrior to ride into battle with him.

�Hey, come on. Why don�t we get you upstairs, OK?� Tufty plucked a hollow general from Mr Murray�s hand, took his arm, and steered him towards the door. �There we go. You�ll feel much better after a snooze.�

Or hungover as a Klingon�s bumhole.

But it was the thought that counted.

�FUCK!�

Natasha jerked awake.

This was not right.

This was not good.

This was...�oh Jesus.

Where the fuck were her clothes? Grit and stones dug into the skin on her back and thighs, scraped against her elbows and heels as she thrashed in place, making something metal clink and rattle.

The bastard � the one who came to her house with a message about that dickhead Adrian � what the hell had he done?

She was blind. And deaf?

And suffocating.

Get to your bloody feet!

But her arms weren�t working properly. Every time she tried to move them it dragged her neck about. As if her wrists were...�tied to her throat or something. Like some twisted version of Edvard Munch�s The Scream.

�HELP ME!� Bellowing into the darkness.

But the sound came out all muffled and distorted.

He�d put something over her head. A bag, maybe? Something sticky and salty.

Wait, wait, wait.

Breathe.

Just lie the fuck still for a moment and breathe.

You�re not an idiot. Or a victim, OK?

Whatever this shit is, you can beat it.

Every breath hissed in and whoomphed out. Caught inside the bag.

Breathe...

She clenched her fists, then released them again, fingertips pressing against whatever it was that covered her head.

Leather. Felt like leather. Something thick, held together with stitches. Not a bag: a mask.

Still couldn�t move her wrists.

Didn�t matter � one thing at a time.

Yeah, but it was quite a big bloody thing.

She jerked her hands to one side, then the other, then in opposite directions, and every time something dug into her neck. Like it was surrounded by a band of steel.

Sticking her right elbow in the air meant her fingertips could feel their way along the collar: metal, a good two-inches thick, with rings set into it, and a sort of handcuff thing around her left wrist to hold that in place. It was the same on the right.

Shackled.

Sweat trickled down her cheek.

Christ it was like a bloody oven in here.

Elbows down again, she traced the outline of her mouth, only it wasn�t her mouth it was a zip. With some sort of thing attached to the pull tab, stopping it from moving. Something metal. Heart-shaped.

Like this was a fucking joke.

OK, further up...�another pair of zips, one over each eye. Only these ones weren�t fixed shut. She pulled the right one open and light flooded the world.

Then the other.

Fuck.

Not sure if that made things better or worse.

Natasha blinked away the sticky gunk and squinted up at the wooden beams and grey corrugated roof above her head.

Bluebottles droned through the hot dead air.

It was some sort of tumbledown outbuilding, maybe a dozen foot square, built from chunks of stone, held together with crumbling mortar and smaller rocks. It had one of those heavy sliding doors, rust-streaked and hanging from a buckled metal rail. But it wasn�t much of a barrier, given the great-big hole in the wall next to it � some sort of partially collapsed window � that let the sun stream in.

Her eyes drifted down, across the scabs and scrapes and bruises that rampaged over her naked stomach and thighs.

The bastard had taken her dress, but at least he�d left the underwear. That was something, right?

Maybe.

All she had to do now was climb out through the hole, get the hell out of here, find help, get Detective Sergeant Dickhead Davis arrested, then arrange for someone to rape the bastard to death in the prison showers.

See how he fucking liked it.

Come on, Natasha: up.

She rolled over onto her side, shoving at the dirt floor with her elbows, getting both legs under her. Heaving herself upright. Which wasn�t bloody easy, with both arms out of action.

She only managed two steps towards the window before something grabbed her throat and jerked her to a stop.

That rattling, clanking noise rang out again.

Natasha turned.

A six-foot length of thick chain stretched from her collar to a galvanised bin full of concrete.

Bracing her bare feet against the floor, she pulled. Strained.

The bloody thing didn�t move.

She glared at it.

Stepped closer and shoved it with her knee.

Solid.

Her anchor probably weighed twice what she did.

One of those big fat bluebottles settled on her shoulder, where the skin was scraped and weeping. Having itself a nice little feed.

�FUCK OFF YOU BASTARD!�

All that came out were some mumbled vowels, but it was still enough to make the fly abandon its meal and growl into the air. Circling. Waiting for its turn to land and feast again.

Don�t cry.

Don�t blub like some little baby.

You can do this.

Just need some time to think, is all.

The caved-in window overlooked a weed-choked courtyard, with a slightly less crappy outbuilding on the right. A bunch of rotting pallets were stacked outside it, beside a hulk of farm machinery that probably hadn�t moved in decades. Then there was a small gap, with a view out across a scrubby field � neglected and overgrown, tall purple spears of fireweed burning against the blue sky.

A big agricultural shed sat opposite Natasha�s prison, its concrete panels half-skinned in wasp-peeled wooden slats, beneath a roof of corrugated asbestos sheeting.

Finally, off to the left, a beige-and-brown static caravan formed the final side of the square. Its windows opaque with dirt and dust. Lichen reached out from the corners and joints, spreading across the walls like mould on a corpse.

You didn�t need to be bloody psychic to know something very, very bad had happened here.

And that there�d be worse to come...

Logan held up a hand as the recovery van reversed perfectly into place, and its brake lights flared. Then the driver hopped out and connected his winch to the glazier�s van.

Normally, just after half five on a Wednesday afternoon, Holburn Street would be a constant stream of traffic. Instead, it was all �ROAD CLOSED ~ ACCESS ONLY�, and �DIVERSION →� from Bloomfield Road to Abergeldie Terrace. They�d shut off chunks of Balmoral Place and Balmoral Road too, making an inverted crucifix with Mr Muscles playing the part of Christ.

Or at least he had been until the ambulance whisked him away, lights flickering and siren wailing.

Now, the only vehicles left within the cordon were the Toyota Hilux, the glazier�s van, and �CAPTAIN TOWAWAY ~ �IF YOU�VE HAD A CRASH, WE�LL COME IN A FLASH!��

Two patrol cars sat just outside � blocking Holburn Street at either end. One officer from each car kept the vulgar public away, while the other two swept up all the broken glass. Carefully avoiding the glistening red puddle slowly baking into the tarmac where Mr Muscles came to an almost-dead halt.

Two Outside Broadcast Units had parked on the City Centre side of the barricade � ITV and Channel 4 � and a few hacks milled about outside the cordon on the Garthdee side, but the only thing that seemed to be actively recording was a BBC drone.

Suppose, once the body was removed, all the exciting news had already happened.

The recovery winch whined and poinged as it hauled the Auchterturra Glazing Company�s van up onto the load bay. Struggling a bit, because the Toyota Hilux had crushed the rear wheel arch and twisted the tyre round nearly ninety degrees.

The Hilux, on the other hand, only had a wee dent in the radiator to show for both impacts. So maybe...

Sod.

A familiar black Mercedes purred up to the barrier on Balmoral Road.

Sergeant Brookminster climbed out, scanning the street as if he was on the President�s Secret Service detail, before catching Logan�s eye, nodding, then opened the rear passenger door.

Here we go.

Chief Superintendent Pine stepped into the sun. Hung up on whoever it was she�d been talking to, and marched towards the crash scene, leaving Brookminster to mind the car.

Logan muffled a sigh, then stood a little straighter.

Pine stalked across the road, keeping her voice down. �I hope you�ve got a really good explanation for this massive cock-up.�

�Boss. How nice of you to come out and show your support.�

Her eyes bugged.

Then she grabbed him by the arm and hustled him away, into the mouth of Balmoral Place. Presumably because the head-height walls on both sides of the little road offered a bit of shelter from the press.

She let go and poked him in the chest. �Your sarcasm is not appreciated. I�ve got one of the city�s major arteries closed off, a massive incident underway, and an unidentified man who might not live to see the evening news, never mind tomorrow!� She jabbed her poking finger at the bloodsplatch. �Now what the hell were you thinking?�

Logan bit the inside of his cheek, before anything unwise escaped. Took a deep breath. Then: �Our RTC victim was hanging about Balmain House Hotel yesterday. He was back again today, and when he clocked me and PC Kent, he ran. Bang: drops his shopping and sprints off down the road.�

�You didn�t have to give chase!�

�Oh, and you�d just let him go, would you? Nothing suspicious to see here?�

Pine glowered back. �That�s not the point.�

�People only run because they don�t want to be caught.� Actually, you know what? Screw diplomacy. This wasn�t his fault. �And it�s not like we chucked the guy in front of that truck! We were shouting at him to stop.�

She marched off five or six paces, then back again. �What did he do? Other than run.�

Good question.

�Don�t know yet. Don�t even have a name � no wallet, no ID on him. Only a couple of fivers, a snotty hanky, and a small bunch of keys.�

�Urgh...� Pine covered her face. �He�s going to be an aid worker, isn�t he. Or a volunteer with handicapped kids...� She dropped her hands, eyes narrowed. �Thought I told you �everyone in uniform�?�

�I�d have nipped home to change, but I�ve been kinda busy.�

�Oh, haven�t you just.� She did another half-lap. �We can�t paint this guy as a suspect in Operation Iowa. Not till we�ve got some proof he was involved in burning the hotel.� A frown. �He was involved, wasn�t he?�

Logan gave her a shrug.

�Wonderful.� Pine stared up into the pale blue sky. �Was our caseload not bad enough without you complicating everything? One dead body a day not sufficiently challenging without...� waving her arms about, �this?�

�Sorry, Boss.�

She drooped. �I know, I know.� Sigh. �Where�s PC Kent?�

�Sent her back to the station; doing a formal statement and incident report. If it helps, she�s got the whole chase on her BWV.�

�Suppose that�s something.� Pine went back to pacing, one finger tapping away at her forehead. �You�d better head off and do the same. I�ll hold down the fort here, till we get the road opened again.�

Good grief: a senior officer who was actually prepared to help. �Thanks, Boss.� He flashed her a pained smile and got out of there before she changed her mind.

He�d barely gone a couple of paces up Balmoral Place before her voice rang out behind him:

�And no more complications!�

Well, you never knew your luck, did you...?

The pale granite lumps of the Central Library and Saint Mark�s gave way to the pale granite lump of His Majesty�s Theatre � whose name was finally topical again after seventy years. About a dozen little kids skipped along the pavement towards it, all wearing knitted pink onesies with oversized ears � being shepherded by a trio of adults dressed as the Grim Reaper. Scythes glinting in the baking light as a heat haze shimmered above the tarmac on Rosemount Viaduct.

Bet sweat was cascading down their bumcracks.

Going by the posters outside the theatre, they were off to see �SKELETON BOB & THE UNFEASIBLY LARGE SHEEP!�

Jammy bastards.

Because Logan was heading back to the office, windows rolled down, radio chattering away to itself.

�...but here�s a wee traffic update before the six o�clock bulletin: Holburn Street has just reopened! So that�s the good news. The bad news is you�ve got another hour of me to endure, before Stevie B�s Preload Playlist.� Honks and twiddles and whooshing noises blared out of the speakers in a �comedic� fashion. �Tell you what, let�s squeeze in a quick tune, shall we? Here�s the Brigadoon Tourist Board with their new single: �The Whale That Ate The World�. Aaaaaaaaaall aboard!�

Cue indie guitars and someone wanging the hell out of a drumkit.

Wonder if there was a special school DJs went to, where they learned how to be massive arseholes? Honk-honk, ding, wibble! And now here�s another heeeeeeeeeeeeelarious wind-up call!

Tossers.

Well, maybe not all of them, but still...

A singer joined the music:

Logan�s Airwave joined in with a trio of bleeps. He pulled the thing out. Fumbling with the buttons one-handed and switching the radio off at the same time.

When he looked up again, the bus shelter was stampeding straight towards the pool car�s bonnet.

Logan stamped on the brakes � the nearside front wheel skiffing off the kerb as he wrenched the steering wheel right. Getting out of the bus lane and back where he was meant to be.

No one saw that, right?

Hopefully...

He pressed the Airwave button and told a teeny white lie: �Safe to talk.�

Rennie�s voice joined him in the car. �Got some updates for you, Guv.�

Logan checked the dashboard clock: nearly six o�clock. �Thought you�d have gone home by now.�

�Urgh...�Sore point. Half of us are on compulsory green shifts. And that�s not the worst of it: we�re all back in frigging uniform! Itchy trousers and nylon T-shirts, because �we need a visible police presence to reassure the public�...� A wet raspberry noise rattled free. �Sod the public. What did the public ever do for me?�

�What is it with people whinging at me today?� Straight through at the roundabout onto Schoolhill, past the Cowdray Hall with its columned war memorial and carved lion statue � currently wearing a traffic cone on its head, because why should Glasgow�s Duke of Wellington get all the fun? �I�m not your agony aunt. If you need therapy I can easily swap you out for Tufty. The wee loon did good today, with the sex-offender-break-ins thing.�

�No! It�s fine. Team player all the way, Guv.� Some rustling of paperwork. �Got a positive match on the victim�s remains. DNA matches samples from the bedroom � hairbrush, manscaping razor, that kinda stuff. The body in the river is definitely Andrew Shaw.�

Really?

�Pathology said �definitely�?�

�Course they didn�t. They couched it in �high probability that�s and �on the balance of probability it�s likely�s, but unless our victim broke into Shaw�s bedroom to shave their balls, it�s definitely him.�

Now there was an image.

Looked as if Mrs Shaw�s heart was getting broken after all.

�Someone needs to deliver the death message to his mother.�

�Biohazard�s on his way now.� Rennie puffed out a heavy breath. �Don�t envy him that one: �Sorry, Missus, your wee boy�s dead � someone bashed his brains in and dumped him in the river. Oh, and by the way, turns out you raised a rapey wee shite.��

Yeah...

Logan checked the clock again. �Get your bum out front � I�ll pick you up on Broad Street.�

�Cool.� He lowered his voice. �And don�t worry: I won�t tell You-Know-Who. We can have some decent grown-up conversation without Constable Sodding Quirrel wanging on about particle physics and who�d win in a fight: Stephen Hawking or Davros. I mean, everyone knows Davros�s chair is equipped with Dalek��

Logan ended the call.

He dawdled past the old Robert Gordon�s building � now turned into some sort of �tech hub� � and the �UNIQUE DEVELOPMENT OPPORTUNITY� that used to be the old student union, and the old...�whatever it was the Academy shopping centre used to be before it became a shopping centre. Probably an academy, going by the name. Then past the hairdressers that used to be a museum and art gallery.

Giving Rennie time to escape from the office and meet him out front.

And yes, technically Logan was meant to go back to the station and give a formal statement about what happened on Holburn Street, but there were things to be getting on with.

A ding-buzz sounded deep in his pocket, but he wasn�t daft enough to read text messages while driving.

Not after nearly totalling a bus stop...

Schoolhill turned into a pedestrian-and-cycle zone at the crossroads with Back Wynd and Harriet Street, but Logan flickered the pool car�s blue lights and drove down it anyway.

Rebel that he was.

St Nicholas Kirk appeared between the graveyard trees, then he was at the bottom of the hill, waiting for the lights to change as sweaty people with carrier bags streamed from one bit of the Bon Accord Centre across the road to the other bit.

A rookery of nuns in black habits were busking outside the Bank of Scotland, playing a weird mash-up of punk, folk, and techno, singing away as they rocked out on guitars, decks, tambourine, double bass, and a cajon. They seemed to be having a great time, even if no one was paying any attention to them.

On the opposite side of the street, a miserable clown handed out flyers. Clearly regretting his career choice and wishing he�d become a nun instead.

The lights changed and Schoolhill turned into Upperkirkgate.

Logan did some more dawdling.

Sure there used to be a Blackwell�s bookshop here. God knew what it was now � maybe the games shop? And what happened to the Tasty Tattie?

That was the trouble with getting older: everything changed...

Well, except for The Kirkgate bar.

At the top of the street, Logan turned right, and Marischal College reared into view, a jagged granite confection of narrow windows, mini-spires, and assorted pointy bits, all sparkling in the early evening sunshine. Facing off against the miserable row of ugly grey Rubik�s cubes that went up to replace the old council buildings.

Like a jobbie, plonked down beside a wedding cake.

And speaking of jobbies � there was Rennie, leaning back against the plinth that Robert the Bruce�s horse stood on. Brucie himself, sat in the saddle, cast in bronze, holding aloft the 1319 Stocket Charter...�but to be honest, it looked as if the statue was trying to send a message to someone in the horrible office building opposite.

Like the final scene of a very strange romcom.

Rennie probably thought he looked dead cool, standing there, with one foot up on the granite behind him, in the full Police Scotland uniform, wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses that gave him the air of a seventies lothario.

Logan pulled up and Rennie peered out over the top of his shades, before swaggering over and popping the passenger door.

What a knob.

�Guv.� He was in the middle of fastening his seatbelt, when a smaller, pointier figure scurried across the pedestrian area, waving at them.

Tufty.

He piled in the back. �That was close! Thought I was going to miss you, there.�

Rennie�s mouth pinched, back stiffening.

Logan turned in his seat. �I think DS Rennie was hoping for some quality time.�

Big grin from Tufty. �Don�t mind me.�

Rennie took off his sunglasses and glared. �Oh, but we do.�

�No fighting, children.� Putting the car in gear and heading for Union Street.

�Don�t you have anything better to do, Constable?�

�Depends on your definition of �better�, Sarge.� Tufty leaned forwards, so his head poked through the gap between the seats. �The Ominous Harbinger Of Ultimate Doom is on a bit of a rampage at the moment, on account of having to be back in uniform, so it�s best to stay out of the way.� He gave Rennie a wee pat on the shoulder. ��The Ominous Harbinger Of Ultimate Doom�: that�s Detective Sergeant Steel. It�s one of the nicknames me and Sarge have for her.�

�I know who she is! I�ve worked with her longer than��

�Apparently all her uniform trousers have �shrunk in the wash� again, so she�s got IBS. Incredibly Belligerent Sergeant syndrome.�

�And for your information: I was calling her �Wrinkles McBumFace� when you were still in short trousers!�

Logan stopped at the lights, watching the buses rumble across the box junction and the flattened corpse of a big fat seagull. Too slow or too old to get out of the way of whatever turned it into a feathery pedestal mat. �Can the pair of you just, for one teeny tiny minute, focus on the case?�

Rennie snorted. �Which one?� Holding up both hands to count them off: �We�ve got Andrew Shaw�s murder, Charles MacGarioch on the run, drugs in Lithuanian teddy bears, the break-ins at all those sports shops, car thefts, burglaries��

�All right, all right. We get it.� He scowled up at the lights, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

OK.

�I need a PNC check on one Graeme Anderson.�

Tufty whipped his phone out. �Sarge.�

Logan looked across the car. �This restaurant Charles MacGarioch�s girlfriend works at � think it�ll be open by now?�

Rennie popped his oversized shades back on. �I could eat.�

Logan wrinkled his nose against the triple stinks of cigarette smoke, festering bins, and old chip fat. �Have you got a last name, Keira? Or are you more like Adele and Madonna?�

She blinked back at him, head tilted, cool as a bitter sorbet. Then shrugged. �Longmore. Fourteen F, Allenvale Court, Gairn Terrace, Aberdeen, AB Ten, Six EW.�

Logan checked to see if anyone was writing that down � Rennie and Tufty both had their notebooks ready, biros already scribbling.

Keira stuck her chin out. �I look after my grandad.�

Not according to Jericho McQueen.

�Thought you shared a flat with a bunch of vegans?�

�Nah. That�s what I tell the Thirsty Boys: Jericho, Spencer, Wallace, and the rest. Think they can get it on with this fine ass?� Patting herself on the bottom. �No way I�m telling them where I live!�

Fair enough.

�What about Charles MacGarioch.�

There was a tiny pause, then: �Never heard of him.�

�Really?� Logan called up the photo from MacGarioch�s bedroom. �Because I heard you two were an item.�

Her mouth pinched as she considered the picture. �Maybe. Why? What you think he�s done?� Keira flicked a cylinder of ash onto Bruno�s vacated perch. �Not that it�s anything to do with me. Whatever it is.�

�Where is he?�

�How would I know?� Throwing it back, hard and fast.

�Because you�re his girlfriend.�

�You�re the ones chased him into the river.� She leaned back against the wall, wearing that cruel smile again. �What, you cops think we can�t read the papers? I hear he�s a proper hero for saving those kids and those oldies.� Another long inhale. �Anyway: haven�t seen him in ages. His bitch grandma�s scared of people like me. Says I�m a black whore, trying to corrupt her poor little darling.� A snarl. �Racist cow.�

Logan nodded. �Yeah...�That was kind of the impression I got too.� Maybe try appealing to old affections? �We need to talk to Charles, Keira. And it�s in his best interests to talk to us. You want to help him, don�t you?�

She sent another cloud of smoke Logan�s way. �How�d you find me?�

�Keira, it�s important, OK? After the crash yesterday: he could be hurt. What if he�s got...�internal bleeding, or a concussion?�

�And whose fault would that be?�

One more go: �He could be dying, right now, and not even know it. You want that to happen?�

She smoked and smoked and smoked, burning through her extorted cigarette, making it hissssss. Looking off into the middle distance, towards the centre of town. Forehead creased between the concealer-plastered zits. �Charlie always said he wanted to go to Ireland. The south bit, where all the Guinness and leprechauns is.� A smile broke free � a genuine one this time, nothing malicious about it. �Had this great-big dream of getting his own B-and-B. I�d do the meals and he�d look after the rooms. We�d both get fat and pop-out a whole heap of kids...� She dropped the spent butt, grinding it out against the concrete. �Course, we�d need to wait for his granny to snuff it � Charlie won�t abandon the old cow, and no way she�s moving to Ireland. Surrounded by all them foreigners? Living in the EU? She�d rather claw her cobwebbed fanny out with a carving fork.�

�When did you last see him?�

�Months ago.� Keira pulled one shoulder up to her ear. �His nan�s debts were getting him down; old bag never was any good with money. Tried picking up extra shifts at the chippy, but it�s not exactly wedge, is it? Minimum wage and all the second-hand grease you can scrape off your hair?� She dug into her apron and pulled out a tube of extra-strong mints. Popped one, frowned at the packet, then extended the open end to Logan.

�Thanks.� He offered a business card in exchange. �If you hear from Charlie, or anything, can you let me know? We�re genuinely worried about him.�

She eyed the thing, as if it might bite. �You never said why you�re after him.�

�Someone tipped us off he�d been involved in something a bit shady. We went round to get his side of the story.� OK, so strictly speaking that wasn�t exactly true, but it wasn�t exactly a lie, either.

Keira plucked the card from Logan�s fingers, turning it over to read the mobile number printed on the back in biro. Then filed it away with her mints. �If he calls.�

�Thanks.� Nodding at the restaurant. �We�ll leave you to it.�

Logan shooed Rennie and Tufty through the emergency exit, into a short corridor with scuffed white walls and doors marked �MANAGER� and �STORES� on one side, �STAFF/CHANGING� and �KITCHEN� on the other. And dead ahead: �FRONT OF HOUSE ~ REMEMBER: YOUR SMILE MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE!�

Because it wasn�t just Police Scotland who were addicted to �motivational� wank.

Soon as they were all inside, Rennie flattened himself against the wall, snuck back to the emergency exit and cracked it open a sliver. Ear pressed against the gap.

Oh for God�s sake.

Logan dropped his voice to a whisper. �What are you doing, you idiot?�

The idiot stuck a finger to his lips, so quiet he was barely audible: �Seeing if she calls MacGarioch to tell him we were here...�

Tufty hooked his thumbs into his utility belt, rocking on his heels like an old-timey prospector. �I got a job in a chip shop after school. Worked my way up from peeling tatties to doing the pizzas. Very responsible job, doing the pizzas.� Nodding at the wisdom of that. �It�s not all deep-fried Mars Bars, you know.�

Rennie scowled. �Will you shut up? Trying to listen, here.�

�We used to do deep-fried Crunchies too. Mmmm...� Then a grimace. �Cadbury�s Creme Eggs were a step too far, though. Like a weenie hand grenade full of napalm, they were.�

Halfwits. Logan was surrounded by halfwits.

He ignored the reminder to smile and pushed his way into reception, anyway.

The ma�tre d�, on the other hand, flashed her dentures as he emerged from the door, pointing at the phone currently pressed to her ear, as if he couldn�t see it. But he gave her a thank-you wave anyway.

Tufty tottered after him. �They�d burn straight through the roof of your mouth. Remember the fizzy acid blood in Aliens? That. Only all chocolate and fondanty.�

Bet Inspector Morse never had to put up with this nonsense.

Come on you fucker...

Natasha shoved her heels into the dirt floor and pushed. Straining away from the bloody anchor, the chain grasped in an awkward fist-over-fist grip because her wrists were still shackled to that bastard collar.

Heaving and hauling.

Toes digging into the baked earth.

Putting all her weight into it.

Legs trembling with the effort.

Sweat trickling down her face, inside the mask.

More on her grubby arms and legs.

Logan stepped out of the front door, shutting it behind him.

It was a little terrace of six houses, next to another identical one, and a third that looked a bit like a schoolhouse.

This bit of Kincorth was all uphill, the front gardens bordered by a steep slope down to the road below. Then a nice little strip of parkland, then another road, then more houses, descending all the way to the River Dee. Though the water itself was hidden behind a ripple of bright-green trees.

Still a nice view, though.

About a dozen teenagers had set up a picnic site on the yellowing grass, complete with camp chairs, tartan rugs, barbecues, cool boxes, and a Swingball set.

Smaller kids scampered around the trees and bushes, giggling and screeching as they hunted each other with Super Soakers and bubble guns.

Everyone was in shorts and T-shirts, enjoying the sun, while the enticing scents of charcoal and sizzling chicken wafted through the warm air, and a handful of Bluetooth speakers pumped out cheery tunes.

Had to admit, it was kinda idyllic.

Shame to spoil things by asking about a racist, arsonist, wee shite like Charles MacGarioch.

Logan headed down the steps, and across the road, rolling up his shirtsleeves, because it was far too Mediterranean out here to wear a suit jacket.

�Sarge.� Tufty joined him at the edge of the small park, doing a hoppity-skip to get his feet left-righting at the same time as Logan�s. Because clearly it would kill him to act like a normal, sensible human being for ten minutes.

�Twit.� Logan strolled onto the grass, one hand shading his eyes, voice raised above the music: �Randolph Hay?�

Over by the barbecue, a young man in a camping chair raised his tin of Stella in reply. Long red hair, tucked back behind his ears; squint front tooth; the kind of nose you�d normally find on busts of Roman emperors; and a �F&#K CAPITALISM!� T-shirt. A brightly coloured tattoo rampaged all down one arm: Norman Picklestripes �being intimate� with Betsy. Randolph took a scoof of lager. �I go by Ralph, though. You guys want a cold one?� Pointing at the little kids. �We got non-alcoholic for the weenies?�

�Can we talk?�

Ralph stood. �Course. Course.� Grabbing a weenie as they hurled past, he wheeched them up into the air, upside down. Giving them a wee shoogle till they shrieked with delight. �Watch my chair, OK? Don�t let the Bumbersnatch steal it!�

The weenie giggled and wriggled as Ralph lowered them into his vacated seat.

Then Mr F&#k Capitalism led Logan and Tufty away, across a road, to the next small chunk of park. He leaned against a tree trunk; took a swig from his can. Keeping an eye on the weenies. �So, you want to talk about Charlie.� Grinning as Logan raised an eyebrow. �The Orphan Grapevine�s been ringing.�

Quick check to make sure Tufty was writing this down.

�You�re one of the support group.�

�Family holiday, staying with friends in Cornwall. Mum and Dad had a run-in with a London estate agent going way too fast on a twisty country road after a liquid lunch.� He toasted them with his Stella. �I was five. And in the back seat.�

�I�m sorry.�

�Meh...� Shrug. �There are worse origin stories, believe me.� Another swig. �Haven�t seen Charlie for about...�week and a half? Talking about a trip to the circus in Westburn Park. Get the whole gang together and hit the final night.�

Logan tucked his hands into his pockets, keeping it casual. As if there weren�t a shortarse police constable, in the full uniform kit, taking notes. �He say anything about money worries?�

�We used to hang out all the time � the whole lot of us. Broken little people, looking for our tribe. But it�s hard to do that when people start disappearing off to university.� Ralph made a spreading-out gesture with one hand. �So yeah...� Drifting away for a moment, creases deepening between his eyebrows. Then back again. �Charlie�s a good guy. I mean you�ll never find anyone more loyal: literally give you the shirt off his back � seen him do it. But he�s not winning Celebrity Mastermind anytime soon, if you get my meaning. Always coming up with get-rich-quick schemes; always having to bum a couple of quid for the bus fare home.�

Logan looked out across the park, to where there was nothing more pressing or important in the whole world than getting your little sister or brother soaking wet, or pretending to be a dinosaur. �What do you think he�d have made of the protest this weekend? Environmentalism, capitalism, immigration...? Would he be pro or anti?�

�Charlie?� A laugh. �Wants to be the next Steve Jobs; doesn�t really understand how the market economy works. Recycles, but dreams of jetting-off to exotic, far-away lands on a private jet. And as for migrants: you�ve met Keira, right? Her dad�s from Ghana; mum�s from Inverurie, via Algeria. Charlie�s nan might be a weapons-grade right-wing �friend of Nigel�, but Charlie�s cool.�

OK, time to ask the big question. �Any idea where he might be hiding? We�re worried he hurt himself when he drove that ice-cream van into the river. Could be serious.�

�Ah.� Ralph frowned at the treetops, one finger tapping against his tin of Stella as the silence stretched. Then he scrunched up his face, and drained the can. Decision made. �After Charlie�s mum died, he used to run away a lot. Not far � you know the Wallace Tower, in Seaton Park? There was a loose bit of plywood boarding-up the windows, so he�d squeeze through the gap and spend the night. Don�t know if you can still do that. Maybe?�

�Thanks. You�ve been a huge help.� Logan offered a business card. �If he does get in touch?�

�Understand � I�m not clyping on Charlie, I�m only trying to help him.� Ralph took the card. �The daft sod�s his own worst enemy...�

Mr Blackwell�s �office� for this evening was a desk by the whiteboard. He fidgeted with a pen � spinning it round and around in his long thin fingers, like a middle-aged majorette. The rest of him was long and thin too. In fact he was tall enough to have outgrown most of his hair, leaving a pair of hefty eyebrows and a droopy moustache behind.

The biro/baton went for another spin. �...but perhaps Elizabeth needs to pay a little more attention to her fractions and long division.�

Logan�s phone ding-buzzed in his pocket, but teachers tended to get huffy if they thought people weren�t hanging on their every word, so he left it where it was.

�Now,� Mr Blackwell swapped the spinning pen from one hand to the other, �I know that�s considered advanced for six-year-olds, but Elizabeth�s a bright girl and there�s no reason she can�t excel with a little motivation.� Big smile. �You like music, don�t you? Of course you do, everyone likes music.�

Tara nodded, and after a wee pause, Logan did too. Humouring him.

�Well, there you are! Mathematics is the music of the cosmos. Its rhythms are the rhythms of quantum physics and black holes, biology and ecology.� Spreading his arms wide, the pen never missing a beat. �Everything around us sings to mathematics� tune! And I want every child who comes through that door to sing along.�

Mr Blackwell stood there, as if he was expecting a round of applause.

He didn�t get one.

�I see.� A frown. �Perhaps that�s the wrong analogy for you? Ermmm...� He snapped his fingers. �Aha! Do you like sport?�

Oh God...

Logan jammed his phone back in his pocket. �I have to go. Sorry.�

�But Da-ad!�

He hunkered down, so they were eye to eye. �Who does Daddy love most in the whole wide world?�

Elizabeth didn�t even have to think about it: �Cthulhu.�

�True.� He gave her tummy a prod. �But who does Daddy love almost as much as Cthulhu?�

�Mummy.�

�Nah, she�s a poo-head.�

Tara walloped him one. �Hey!�

A big grin from the Lizzasaurus Rex. �Is it Elizabeth Tobermory Strachan-McRae?�

So he gave her a wee kiss on the head. �Darn tootin�.� Then stood and shot Tara a grimace.

�Go.�

Logan marched for the door, already dialling.

�But remember what I said about spanking!�

He thumped out into the playground, where the air was hot and claggy and smelled of freedom. Phone to his ear, waiting for the halfwit Tufty to�

Logan stumbled to a halt, inches away from falling over a little girl. Well, not little, little. Maybe twelve years old? Dressed in black jeans, black biker boots, black leather wrist things, and a black T-shirt with Marceline from Adventure Time on it. She�d even dyed her hair jet-black, like Undertaker Barbie.

She glowered up at him, from a ghost-white face with coal-coloured lipstick. �Hey, watch where you�re...� Then her eyes widened in their smoked shadows. �Ooh, it�s you! It really is you. They said it was, but then you didn�t show yesterday, so I thought maybe they were lying, but it�s you, and...� Then she must�ve remembered that babbling Goths weren�t cool, so bobbed one shoulder and sniffed instead. �Yeah. I mean....��sup?�

�Sorry.� He pointed at the gate through to the teachers� bunker. �I�ve got to��

�You don�t remember me?� Bottom lip trembling.

Not even vaguely.

�Erm...�Yes?�

The Ghost Goth Girl looked away, chin jutting out like a chalk cliff. Shoulders back. �We rescued those kids from the Livestock Mart. You know, from those tits in masks?�

What?

Logan stared at her.

Nah.

Couldn�t be.

�Rebecca? But you were, like,� he held a hand out, as if patting a weenie kid on the head, �and didn�t you have big red hair?�

A gigantic smile crashed through her teenage cool. �You do remember!� And Rebecca launched herself at Logan, wrapping him up in a hug, even though she only came about halfway up his chest.

OK.

Weird.

The world was full of flies. Fat and greasy, glittering blue-and-green. Circling in the air above her. Landing to feed on the darkening bruises and scraped flesh.

The sun still burned, high in the sky, but it was hidden behind the grey corrugated roof now � baking down, making every breath thick and stifling through the leather mask. Blood whump-whump-whumping in her ears.

And Natasha lay on her back, chained to her bloody anchor, blinking up at the flies and the cobwebs.

Nothing to eat. Nothing to drink.

How long could a human being live without water? Prisoners on hunger strike could last for weeks and weeks, but water was different.

Some special-forces bloke on the idiot box claimed it takes about three days to die from dehydration. Especially if it�s hot. First your kidneys shut down, then your liver, then your brain shrivels, and finally your heart can�t cope any more.

Bang: that�s you.

Now every breath grated its way down her outback throat, stirring the dust.

At least the smell had faded. Or she�d got used to it.

Taking a crap on the floor wasn�t exactly dignified...

Especially with both wrists manacled to the metal collar around her throat. Limping around to the opposite side of her anchor � moving as far away as the chain would allow. Scrabbling about on the hard-packed dirt to get her pants down round her ankles, so she wouldn�t get them covered in it, then another complicated humiliating fight to get the things back up again.

Then retreating from the stench, to the end of her tether. Lying on the floor trying not to cry as what she left back there...�baked in the never-ending heat.

Attracting even more flies.

A juddering squeal made the bastards leap into the air, to buzz and drone with their shitty mates.

The rust-streaked wooden door rattled back on its metal runner, letting a harsh slab of sunlight crash into Natasha�s prison. Scalding her legs.

Could barely move them out the way.

So she just lay there and groaned instead.

Detective Sergeant Davis took one step inside and recoiled back again, one hand wafting the foetid air from his face. �Fuck�s sake...�

And he was gone again, leaving the door wide open.

As if that did her any good.

He was back � maybe five minutes later?�� with a bucket of water, soap suds spilling out over the side. Heaving it over her like he was rinsing a car. Startling the flies.

It was so dry in here that the liquid didn�t soak straight into the parched earth, it sat on top of the dusty surface in sparkling droplets.

She tried to scoop some up, even if it was full of soap, but it just turned to gritty mud in her fingers.

DS Davis�s lip curled. �God, you�re disgusting.�

�Water...� The word barely more than a croak. �Please...�Please...�

He stared at her. Then squatted down. �You want mercy? After what you�ve done?�

�Please...�

�Did those migrants get any mercy? The ones you burned?� He snorted. �Oh, maybe you didn�t strike the match yourself, but you fanned the flames. Threw petrol on it. All that hate and bile. You spoon-fed it to whatever slack-jawed Neanderthal did the actual dirty work.�

Natasha reached her muddy fingers towards him. �Water...�

�Publishing story after story, whipping up the racist wankers till they went out and torched a hotel.� Davis stood. �THEY BURNED CHILDREN!�

Children? How on earth was that her�

�BITCH!� He lurched forwards � a booted foot slammed into her ribs hard enough to flip her onto her side. A jagged pop inside her chest, stabbing carpet tacks into the flesh with every Sahara breath.

She curled up on the gritty floor and the boot hammered into her back. Then again. And again. Sharp explosions slicing through her lungs, crackling out like bloody fireworks as a dry scream howled free.

Then nothing.

No more kicks.

Nothing but the ache and tear of her tortured back.

Davis spat a glob of white onto the earth by her head, breathing hard. �You�ve been getting away with it for far too long. Maybe it�s your turn to burn?�

There was a metallic clang-and-clatter as he picked up the bucket again, then the scuff of boots on the parched floor.

The door squealed and rattled shut.

The flies began to settle again.

And only then did Natasha allow herself to cry.

The pool car whipped up Anderson Drive, lights flickering. Tufty poked the horn, making the siren whonk and whyeeeeeoooow, parting the traffic in front of them like a shortarsed Moses.

He was hunched over the wheel, as if that would make the car go faster.

Logan shifted in his seat, one finger in his ear to block out the excess noise, because it was almost impossible to hear Ralph Hay�s voice over the phone. �That�s great, thanks.�

�No problems. Hope it helps.�

Logan hung up.

Soon as he did, Tufty flipped the switch, setting the siren wailing full time as they shot through the King�s Gate Roundabout.

Right.

Logan waved a hand at the backseat. �Rennie: I need a PNC check on one Spencer Findlater.�

�On it.�

Tufty accelerated up the hill, overtaking a minibus and a Mackie�s lorry, eyes firmly fixed on the road. �Sa-arge, not that I�m not enjoying the wheech, but why are we wheeching? I mean, this Spencer bloke hasn�t woken up or anything, so it�s not like we can question him.�

�Because you heard Randolph Hay � Charles MacGarioch is hyper-loyal to his friends.� Pointing towards Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. �Well, his friend�s just been in a horrible accident; of course he�s going to visit Spencer in hospital.�

�Yeah,� Tufty killed the siren, �but nobody knows he�s in hospital except us, Sarge. And we only found out thirty seconds ago.�

Logan opened his mouth, then shut it again.

The wee loon had a point.

�Sod.�

�OK, got him.� Rennie poked his head through from the back, reading off his phone. �Spencer Findlater, nineteen: handful of warnings for getting into fights; almost ended up in a Young Offenders Institution for torching wheelie bins when he was a kid; bunch of shoplifting; all about the same time.� A grunt. �Guess he didn�t handle losing his parents very well.�

�You got an address?�

�Not a million miles away: Four Arnage Court.�

�OK.� Logan gave Tufty a poke. �You heard the man.�

Arnage Court wrapped around three sides of a nice big rectangle of grass, dotted with trees and some saggy rhododendrons. Someone had been at the road sign, adding a �C� to the start of the first word.

Three-storey blocks lined the court � each one made up of four or five units, with six flats apiece and a central stairwell. If you were lucky enough to live on the upper floors, you got a balcony of your very own, but the ground floor had access straight out onto a shared garden area. Where all the recycling bins lived.

There were even more bins lined up along the overgrown hedge outside the first block. About twenty feet of them. All black and wheelie and waiting for collection.

Rennie whistled as they drove slowly by. �That�s a lot of bins to burn...�

Tufty parked behind a fusty Transit with �SANDY THE HOOSE BUILDER� on the side and a peeling graphic of a cartoon joiner. �Think the arson connection�s relevant? You know, with the hotel?�

They climbed out into the stifling heat, and Rennie popped on his stupid sunglasses again. �Maybe, maybe not. Everyone goes through a �burning things� phase. Right?�

Logan stared at him.

Tufty raised both eyebrows.

Rennie pulled his chin in. �What?� Following Logan through the knee-high gate and up to the front door. �Oh, come on! It�s not just me. Everybody does it.�

�Enough.� Logan rang the bell for Flat Four. �We�re about to tell some poor sod their grandchild�s been mangled in an accident. Either you�re on your best behaviour, or you�re waiting in the car. But you�re not going up there to act the prick, do I make myself clear?�

Maybe a bit close to the bone, but he deserved it.

Pink scoured its way up Rennie�s neck. �Sorry, Guv.�

Should think so too.

A black cat sauntered past, tail in the air, pausing only to mark its territory against a brown garden-waste bin.

A woman tottered along the pavement, coughing and hacking away.

Somewhere in the distance, children were chanting a skipping song:

Logan was reaching for the bell again when a man�s voice growled out of the intercom, old and mushy and distorted by the cheap speaker:

�Yeah, what?...�Erm...�What you...�want?�

�Mr Findlater?�

No reply.

Tufty raised his hand. �You�ve got to press the button, Sarge.�

�Hmmph.� Logan pressed the button. �Mr Findlater, can we come in, please? We need to talk...�

�Oh for...�erm...�fuck�s sake.�

But he buzzzzzed them in anyway.

�...yeah, no: anonymous tip-off.� Logan paced the grass square, outside Big Frank�s building � from a wilting tree to a drooping rhododendron and back again. Lying to his superior officer. �Someone thinks they saw Spencer Findlater coming out of Capercaillie Sports on George Street after the break-in.�

Which might�ve been true.

Who could tell?

Nearly nine o�clock, and the sun was sinking towards the horizon, painting everything with a warm golden-syrup glow. Making the air a bit...�sticky.

Rennie and Tufty loitered by the pool car, forbidden to come any closer so they had plausible deniability if it ever came out that Logan had fiddled the facts slightly.

Finally, Chief Superintendent Pine came to a decision: �All right, I�ll get you a search warrant for Findlater�s flat.�

�Thanks, Boss. And he�s one of Charles MacGarioch�s mates, so it might be an idea to test anything they find for accelerants too.� Keeping it nice and casual, as if he�d just thought of it. �Belt and braces.�

A sigh rattled down the phone. �Anything else while I�ve got my chequebook out?�

�Now you mention it...� He stopped pacing and looked up at Flat Four. �With Spencer in hospital, there�s no one to look after his grandad, and he won�t last the week if we leave him on his own. He�ll either starve to death or burn the house down.�

�You want me to sort out a care package at five to nine, on a Wednesday night? Yes, thanks for that.� There was an ominous pause. �Speaking of Charles MacGarioch...?�

�Still working on it, Boss.� Back to pacing again.

�And while I�ve got you, would you care to explain why I�ve got three officers sitting on their thumbs in Seaton Park, playing I Spy?�

�Ah...� The truth probably wasn�t the best option in this case either. Not unless he wanted Pine to pull the op, because �they�re probably bored� didn�t exactly make his team sound very professional. �Well, of course, as you know...�Erm...� Why on earth did Spudgun let them play games on a stakeout? Worse: why did he let senior bloody management catch them doing it?

Surely there had to be a...

Aha!

�As you know, Boss: I Spy is a recommended attention-centric activity for ICSOs like this. Boredom leads to a lack of focus � people start missing things � but playing I Spy requires constant observation and evaluation of your surroundings, which is what they�re actually there to do in the first place. Ma-am.�

That sounded believable, didn�t it?

�ICSO?�

�Impromptu Covert Surveillance Operation.�

�I see...� Her voice took on a vindictive little smile. �Very convincing. I look forward to you giving a presentation on that at our next Divisional Training Management Meeting.�

Sod...

Logan buried a groan. �Yes, Boss.�

�What happens if Charles MacGarioch doesn�t show up at your ICSO? I haven�t got enough officers as it is, without wasting resources on a red herring.� She huffed out a breath. �I�m pretty sure half the buggers off on the sick are swinging the lead � pretending they�ve got the plague, so they don�t have to do any sodding work. Well, maybe not half, but a good twenty percent, anyway. The point is: I can�t afford to have three of the officers I do have tied up all night on a no-show.�

�Like you say: �What choice do we have?� If he turns up and we�re not there to catch him, we�re screwed.�

Logan wandered back towards the car while she considered that.

He�d made it as far as the road, before Pine rejoined the conversation:

�Sergeant Moore and his team have all been on since zero-seven-hundred. Your op can run till ten, then you need to swap them out for other officers. Everyone�s running on fumes as it is.�

Well, that went better than expected.

�I think I can��

�But you�re only getting two nightshift bodies. And I want everyone in for Morning Prayers! That includes you.�

Suppose it was better than nothing.

�Yes, Boss.�

�Which means you clock off at ten as well. No one�s handing out Hero Points for running yourself into the ground.�

He checked his watch. Just over an hour to go, before home-time. �Thanks, Boss.�

�Now, if you�ll excuse me, I�ve got a care package to organise...�

She hung up, and Logan sagged for a moment.

Could�ve been worse.

Right: he straightened up and marched across the road.

Tufty jingled the car keys. �Where to, Sarge?�

Logan opened the passenger door. �ARI � let�s go pay Big Frank�s grandson a visit.�

�Seriously?� Rennie pulled a face. �But he�s unconscious, Guv, it�s��

�Then you can stay here, or walk back to the station if you like?�

The idiot scrambled into the back.

�Thought so.�

In an ideal world, the biggest hospital in the northeast of Scotland would�ve had a fancy front entrance. Something that spoke of Aberdeen�s position as the energy capital of Europe. Something that reflected all the oil money that had flowed through the city since the seventies. Something that gave a little nod to the billions of pounds of tax revenue generated for the UK Treasury.

But it was, to be honest, a bit of a shithole � more like the pedestrian entrance to an underground car park, with a pair of sliding doors surrounded by an array of half-arsed signs.

Auld mannies and wifies were lined up in the fading light, still wearing their baffies and dressing gowns, grimly puffing on cigarette after cigarette, in bloody-minded defiance of all the posters telling them not to.

Back in the day, there�d been a nice big overhang to shelter beneath and enjoy your fag out of the wind and snow and rain. But the Health Trust had filled it all in, leaving the patients with nowhere to stand and indulge their vices but outside in the open air. And it still wasn�t enough to deter these Wrinkled Priests and Craggy Priestesses of Sainted Lady Nicotine.

Logan stepped out into the sunlight, phone to his ear, waiting for Doreen to pick up.

Her voice groaned out of the speaker. �If you�re calling to make my life even more depressing: don�t, OK? The only thing keeping me upright is visions of a phenomenally large G-and-T when I get home. With lots and lots and lots of ice.�

He headed for the multistorey opposite � a weird, elongated-OXO-cube of a thing, wrapped in sheets of holey metal. �No sign of Charles MacGarioch?�

�Guv, I swear to God, if we do find his body, I�m going to kick the crap out of it before we call anyone.�

Bit unprofessional. But understandable.

�How far you got to go?�

�Dunno � maybe a quarter mile? We�re well past the bridge anyway.� A knackered sigh. �Sun�s going down: it�s all long blue shadows and a zillion midges out here. Going to be dangerous if we keep going much longer. And I know it�s going to be twilight till eleven, but that�s sod-all use for searching.� Doreen gave a little sob. �Just want to pour the sweat out of my wellies, lie down, and cry...�

�OK � Give it another twenty minutes, then head back to the station. We�re calling it quits at ten, today.�

�I�m too tired and squelchy to celebrate.�

Logan hurried across the road. �Just do me a favour and get someone to have a quick march along the last bit of riverbank, OK? In case his body�s just lying about.�

�He�s not here, Guv. You�ve got dog walkers crawling over every bit of this...�what is it, an estuary? Where the beach-and-all-that-bollocks starts? If he was here, they�d have found him by now.�

Yeah, she was probably right.

Colin Miller (56) had a wee sip of coffee � his own blend of Guatemalan, Kenyan, and Mexican beans, cos it didn�t hurt to be a bit classy now and then � wandered across the patio, and frowned out at the garden.

A cluster of scarlet roses glowed against the dark-green foliage, like blood spatter...

Patches puffled along the edge of a border, snuffling away, stubby tail wagging as she explored the same old familiar world with the kind of excitement only a springer spaniel could muster.

The sky still glowed a ghostly blue, but Mr Sun had sodded off for the day, leaving only the solar-powered lights to illuminate their massive garden.

Quite proud of that, actually. Took a lot of work to get the place looking this good. And it wasn�t easy having green fingers when you were missing great chunks off four of the buggers.

Colin tightened his grip on the mug, black leather gloves squeaking on the pale china.

They didn�t really go with the old Pink Floyd T-shirt and chinos, but you sort of got used to them. In the end.

There was a clunk, and Professor Isobel McAllister (53) emerged through the French doors from the kitchen. Glass of Merlot in one hand, casual but stylish in a burgundy short-sleeve V-neck dress. Hair tucked behind her ears. Wearing the little square glasses she only used at home. Flip-flops were a bit of a sartorial low point, but Isobel was still the most beautiful woman in the whole frigging world, so you could excuse the occasional faux pas.

A few more creases bloomed between her eyebrows. �You�re not out here smoking those stinky cigars again, are you?�

He went back to frowning at the roses. �Ever wonder why you bother?�

�Because they�re bad for you. Always trust a pathologist when they say you should stop doing something � we�ve seen enough people�s innards to know what we�re talking about.� She took a sip of wine, then transferred the glass to her other hand and slipped her naked fingers between his gloved ones.

�No� quite what I meant.� Sigh. �Kinda get the feeling our new owner�s screwing with me. Dangling the job over my head, you know? �Here�s a meeting to see if you still get to work here, or if you�re out on your arse like all your mates. Only I�m no� gonnae turn up for it, or reschedule. Instead you can bloody sweat.�� The coffee turned bitter in his mouth. �Natash Aga-frigging-pova. The Scottish Daily Post used to be a decent paper, till she got her hands on it � now it�s nothing but a right-wing tabloid shite-rag, obsessed with fuckin� celebrities and fearmongering and �the world�s full of paedos and foreigners and everything you don�t like is woke...�� He dumped his mug on the patio table. �Now she�s gonna do the same with the Examiner. I seen the mock-ups. And I�m expected to beg for my job?�

Isobel pouted for a moment. �Do you want me to be honest, or supportive?�

He smiled. �Supportive?�

�I�m sure this is just a misunderstanding, and they�ll sort it out tomorrow.�

Aye, maybe...

�And honest?�

�I don�t normally approve of rough language, but: screw them.� Another sip of wine. �You used to love working there and now you hate it. So quit. Tell them to fashion their job into a cylinder and insert it rectally � with force. And no lubrication.�

He winked. �I love it when you talk dirty.�

�You could write that book you�ve been droning on about for years.�

�I don�t drone. I ponder and muse, cogitate and deliberate, contemplate and��

�Well, why not? Are you happy?�

Working with children pretending to be journalists, churning out tweets and blogposts and �you won�t believe what these filmstars look like now!�, chasing deadlines, never writing about the things that really matter...

Was he happy?

�No.�

Isobel nodded. �There you go, then.� And as if that settled everything, she spun around � making her skirt flare, showing off a bit of leg � and headed inside again, leaving him out here in the gloom, alone.

�Aye.� He picked up his half-empty mug. �There I go.�

End of an era.

No more newspapers for Ace Reporter Colin Miller...

Or maybe the mug was half full?

Colin nodded, then took Schr�dinger�s mug back into the kitchen.

No Isobel � moved on to another part of the house, leaving her empty wine glass behind.

Downlighters sparkled off their swanky high-end gadgets, and the kind of coffee machine you normally only saw in posh restaurants. Lots of warm wood and terracotta walls, a marble worktop imported all the way from Tuscany. Photos of the family holidays, Rosie (12) getting her brown belt in karate, Alfie (10)�s first violin recital, and dropping Sean (19) off at university.

See, that was your metaphor, right there: one day your wee boy�s taking his first steps, the next he�s away studying medicine in Edinburgh. Things change.

Maybe it was time he changed too.

Colin rinsed his mug and Isobel�s glass, stuck them in the dishwasher, then grabbed his car keys from the drawer.

Aye: he could just hand in his notice tomorrow, but where was the fun in that? Going by Agapova�s record, she�d probably be �working from home� again, anyway. And if you�re gonnae tell someone to roll their job sideways and stick it up their arse, you want to do it to their face.

Colin stuck his head out into the hall. �I�m just heading out for a bit. Go stick a bottle of fizz on ice � when I get back, we�re celebrating!�

Half the lights were off, turning the open-plan office into an abandoned labyrinth of cubicles.

Over in the far corner, someone coughed and hacked away, but other than that? Nightshift had succumbed to the lurgie just like everyone else.

But at least it was quiet.

Logan sat at his desk, surrounded by piles and piles of inherited paperwork, drinking horrible coffee from the machine, and picking away at a report on his steam-and-hamster-powered computer.

So much for going home at ten. It was gone eleven now, and still no�

�What the hell are you still doing here?�

Didn�t need to look up. That gravelly voice was its own calling card.

He kept on typing. �Could ask you the same question.�

�Nicking office supplies.� Steel reached over his cubicle wall and pinched his coffee as well. �But mostly, because we caught a jumper: Marischal Court, right up on the roof � nineteen floors of straight-down-and-splat. Lost his job, his mum, his dog, and his girlfriend in the space of a week.� She blew on the coffee, as if that would improve it. �Yours truly talked him down, of course. Which gives one the warm-and-fuzzies, but the paperwork�s a pain in the arse.� Taking a sip. �Gah...�This is disgusting. You never heard of milk and hazelnut syrup?�

He stuck his hand out. �Give it back then.�

She didn�t. �Might grow on me...� Another sip, another grimace. �You know your problem? You�re suffering from NRDS: New Responsibility Derangement Syndrome.�

�What I�m suffering from is Listening To You Rabbit On When I Should Be Finishing This Report Syndrome.�

�See, you�ve been made up to acting DCI, and now you think the whole division�ll grind to a halt without you. Well, it won�t.� Steel leaned on his cubicle wall. �You�re just a greasy wee cog in a big rusty machine. It�ll no� fall apart if you go home and get some sleep.�

�And you thought I was bad at motivational speeches.�

�What will fall apart are your cases, when you�re too knackered to focus tomorrow, cos you�ve been here all night like a martyred numpty.� She handed back his hideous coffee. �Go home.� Then wandered off. �And treat yourself to a stapler and some packs of Post-it notes on the way out!�

Yeah, she was probably right.

Time to go home.

Could always finish this tomorrow, after all.

Steel had almost reached the door, when a lone PC in the full outdoor kit banged through it at speed. Nodding at her on the way past as he hurpled over to Logan�s desk. Breathing hard, like a chain-smoking pervert.

So this couldn�t be good news.

Logan gave him a nod anyway. �Aye, aye, Shandy.�

PC Ian Shand looked as if he�d been made by four-year-olds out of knotted string and old cat hair. And when he opened his mouth, every single one of his teeth pointed in a different direction. �Guv!� He staggered to a halt. �Bleeding heck...� Bending over and grabbing his knees. �Not answering...�your Airwave...�

The thing hadn�t so much as bleeped.

He picked it off the desk and checked the screen. But it didn�t even show a missed call, because the battery was flat.

Should�ve put it on to charge the moment he got back to the office.

Silly sod.

It was a bit late, but Logan plugged it in anyway.

Steel wandered back, hands in her pockets. �Come on, Shandy: spill it before you keel over.�

�We�ve got...�we�ve got a serious problem!� Waving his hands about. �Missing...�missing person!�

Logan sat upright. �Is it a kid?�

�Not...�a kid.� Shandy shook his sweaty head. �No, it�s...�way more complicated...�than that...�

The sky was murderous black through the crumbling window socket, spread with cold dead stars. A sliver of curved bone shone through the trees, as the full moon clawed its way over the horizon. Turning the world to ice with its uncaring light.

But even though the sun had gone down long, long ago, Natasha�s prison remained an oven. Turned up full and left to burn everything to a cinder.

Except for the shit.

That roasted in the cloying heat, its foul brown stink seeping into the dirt and stone walls. Lining the leather mask. Helping it suffocate her...

As the light faded, the bluebottles had settled down for the night.

But DS Davis hadn�t.

Rock music pounded out of the static caravan, loud enough to make the metal walls buzzzz. Because even when they were asleep you couldn�t escape the flies...

Natasha lay on her back, in the dirt, gazing up and out of the window at the cool, indifferent darkness of space.

Waiting to die.

Because that was what she was doing here.

Dying.

The only question was, what would get her first: dehydration or DS Davis?

The big fish turned around in the bathtub and looked Logan right in the eye. �YOU need TO do SOMETHING about THESE sausages. THEY�RE eating ALL the CARPET in THE living ROOM, and��

Three loud knocks battered at the walls of the world.

�Gnnnnphffff...?� Logan jerked awake. Blinking.

Where the living...

Car.

He was in the pool car; passenger seat fully reclined.

And Sergeant Brookminster was peering in through the window at him, one eyebrow raised.

Logan scrubbed his hands across his face and sat upright, pulling the lever so the seat joined him. Then opened the car door.

Brookminster nodded. �Chief Inspector.�

�Sergeant.� A yawn popped and crackled free. �What time is...� Squinting at the dashboard clock � 06:41. �Sod.� He climbed out of the car.

The sun continued its relentless climb up the crystal-blue sky, blanketing the land in another layer of dusty heat.

Colin Miller�s red beamer had disappeared from the driveway outside Natasha Agapova�s house, replaced by another patrol car and a Mercedes Benz, black as an undertaker�s hearse.

Well, of course it was, how else would Brookminster get here? And where there was a Brookminster, Chief Superintendent Pine was never far away.

Logan straightened his rumpled black Police Scotland T-shirt. Then turned. �Boss.�

She�d been standing right behind him, in the full uniform, be-leafed peaked cap on her head, hands clasped, eyes narrowed. �Why are you still here?�

He popped his neck. �Supervising the search of the property, Boss. And our victim�s husband lives in Knightsbridge, so I�ve spent half the night �liaising� with the Metropolitan Police, trying to get them to send someone round to his place. And you know what a production they make of everything.� Another yawn shuddered through. �Went to do some emails in the car, round about sun-up and...� He drooped. �Next thing I know � here we are.�

A whole two hours� sleep, after a twenty-one-hour shift.

Talk about living the high life.

Pine looked up at Agapova�s glass-fronted entrance hall. �The Chief Constable is spitting napalm over this one, Logan. We�re facing a massive cluster jobbie, soon as the press finds out.� A sniff. �Surprised they�re not here already.�

�Ah...�About that.� Deep breath. �It was a journalist on the Aberdeen Examiner who discovered she was missing, last night. He was the one who called us in. So it�ll be all over their morning edition.� Logan checked his watch. �Which will be hitting the newsstands right about now.�

Her face creased. �Oh for��

�But that�s just one, local paper, right? And they�re not going to just give their exclusive away, so none of the others will know about it till it�s published.�

Pine glared off into the distance. �At least that buys us a little time.�

�And I asked the Met to stress: we need Mr Shearsmith to keep all this as quiet as possible; that his ex-wife�s safety probably depends on it; and until we get a ransom demand, we don�t know what we�re dealing with.�

�Good. The last thing we need is Natasha Agapova turning up bit-by-bit all over the city.� Pine frowned. �I worked a case in Clydebank where the family couldn�t pay the ransom. Every time the postie came, there was another chunk...� She shuddered. �Ever see a uterus wrapped in an episode of The Broons? Never looked at The Sunday Post the same way again. Took us weeks to��

The rest of her sentence was drowned out by the whumping roar of a helicopter. Only it wasn�t a Super Puma � high in the sky, on its way to an oil rig somewhere � it was a small dark-blue number, just above the treetops, with the BBC News logo on the side. Circling the house. A gimbal camera, mounted on the nose, swivelled as it passed, giving Logan, Pine, and Brookminster a good lonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng look.

Bloody hell.

The Chief Super�s mouth pinched, eyes bulging. �Thought you told the Met to keep this quiet!�

�They promised they�d lean on him! Low key, under the sodding radar. How was��

A second chopper joined the first, howling over their heads. A big silver one this time, with �SKY NEWS HD� emblazoned across it. Gimbal camera searching for the best view of the property. A massive, and no doubt very expensive upgrade from the drone they�d been flying at all the other crime scenes.

Pine jabbed a hand at the thing, going pink in the face. �DOES THIS LOOK LOW KEY?�

Oh, and it just got better:

From up here, on the hill, there was a good view down to the main road, and a chunk of the way back towards Peterculter. Where a convoy of grubby hatchbacks, estate cars, and Outside Broadcast Units was chuntering its way towards Natasha Agapova�s house.

No way they only just found out ten seconds ago. And how long would it take to fly a helicopter up here from London? Three hours? Two-and-a-bit with a tail wind?

Logan gritted his teeth as the BBC made another pass. �You don�t think Adrian Shearsmith hates his ex-wife so much he hired a publicist, do you?�

Pine scowled up at the chopper. Then out at the line of approaching media. Took a deep breath. �Given the level of press interest in this, do you want to remain Senior Investigating Officer?� She raised a hand. �And there�s no judgement if you don�t. This one�s going to be an absolute buggering nightmare, and I know your dance card�s full already.�

If she was volunteering, he wasn�t going to stand in her way.

�To be honest, Boss, I�m happy not taking the lead on this one.�

Because she was right: it was going to be a buggering nightmare; involve a shedload of meetings, briefings, blame, and recriminations; not to mention a one-hundred-percent chance of getting shredded by the media for every tiny mistake. And once the press got into the inevitable full-on self-referential feeding frenzy, there�d be no stopping them.

Her face sagged. �Yeah, thought as much.� Then she stiffened her spine. �Keep working your existing cases. But if I�m going to be SIO here, when I yell �Frog!� I expect you to jump, understand?�

�Yes, Boss.�

�Get back to the station. This is now our number one priority. I want Natasha Agapova found before the parcels start arriving!�

He hurried back towards the pool car.

Sky News made another pass, so Pine had to shout over the hammering rotors. �AND YOU�RE AN ACTING DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR NOW � DRESS LIKE ONE!�

Yeah...

This was going to be a long day.

The pool car headed northwest along the Parkway, past warehouses and car showrooms, joining the trucks and lorries heading to various industrial estates as rush hour in the Bridge of Don set in. Grinding everything to a halt. Tufty behind the wheel, while Logan dozed in the passenger seat. Drifting in and out as the wee loon wittered on:

�...so I went down to the Forensic IT lab, and I said to them, I said: �You does has a being crap at this computering malarkey!� And they was all like, �No way, we is the bestest!� And I�m like, �Give me Charles MacGarioch�s pooter and I�ll crack it like a Tunnock�s Tea Cake!�� A pout. �And they said, �No.� So I said��

The first bars of Beethoven�s �Ode To Joy� burst out of Logan�s phone, cutting across Tufty�s riveting anecdote. Oh dear, what a shame.

And it would be rude not to answer it. �Hello?�

A tired voice grumbled into Logan�s ear: �Dr Drummond.�

�Sorry, you�ve got the wrong number. This isn�t��

�No: I�m Dr Drummond. Critical Care Unit, Aberdeen Royal Infirmary? I�ve got a note here to call a �Logan Mackay� about Spencer Findlater?�

Tufty turned onto Lochside Road, swapping industrial-estate chic for a winding maze of mature trees, wee houses, and bungalows.

�Has he got a visitor?� Sitting up a bit straighter.

�He�s actually survived the night, which is a surprise, given his injuries. People don�t appreciate the damage a car can do, even at thirty miles an hour. Two tons of metal exerts a force of��

�Is Spencer going to be OK?�

There was a pause, filled with medical seething. Because if there was one thing people like Dr Drummond hated it was being interrupted. Well, tough � that�s what he got for getting Logan�s name wrong.

Drummond cleared his throat. �The important thing is he�s unlikely to drop dead before teatime, so he�s not our problem any more. We�ve transferred him to the Orthopaedic Trauma Unit. Ward two-twelve, in the Pink Zone.�

At the end of the entrance road, a huge sign reared out of the bushes with �LOCHSIDE ROAD� at the top, and �LEADING TO� followed by a list of fourteen different streets, seven on each side.

Tufty took a right.

�You�ve turfed him out?� Logan shifted in his seat. �Is that not a bit��

�Do you have any idea what kind of bed shortages we�re dealing with here? If he�s stable, he�s someone else�s problem.� A humphing noise. �And now that I�ve done my bit and called you, is it OK if I get back to all these half-dead folk? Thank you.�

�Hold on! Hold on.� Before the sarcastic bugger could hang up. �We left an advisory notice � in case Spencer gets a visitor? It�s important.�

A long sigh. �That what all these stupid posters are about?�

�Can you make sure the new ward knows he�s��

�Don�t you think I�ve got more important things to do than run around after you? I�m trying to save lives here!� And the line went dead.

Logan puffed out his cheeks. �I get that the NHS is a marvel, and we�re lucky to have it, and most of the people working there are brilliant, dedicated, selfless individuals, who do their best under incredibly difficult circumstances...�but by Christ there�s some complete and utter arseholes.�

He scowled out the window as the pool car wound deeper into the maze.

Had to admit: it was kind of nice here. Green and leafy, arranged around a wee lochan. Like being in the countryside.

Still, there was no time to enjoy the view, not now that Dr Drummond had made life more difficult.

Logan thumbed out a text to Doreen:

SEND.

Tufty took another right, into a nest of branching cul-de-sacs, ending up outside a bungalow with a garage conversion and a brown Volvo on the lock-block driveway.

Stifling a yawn, Logan climbed out.

A white picket fence bordered a flat rectangle of grass featuring an array of garden gnomes, dressed as Darth Vader and his stormtroopers, the alien from Predator fishing in a star-shaped pond, and a knee-high concrete AT-AT that doubled as a bird bath.

Not exactly what you�d call classy.

Tufty locked the pool car, then trotted up the drive and rang the bell. Instead of a good, wholesome �ding-dong� it launched into the Cantina tune from Star Wars. Which was far too jaunty for this time in the morning.

As it tootled out, Tufty gazed at the lawn ornaments with a wistful sigh. �See, this is what you miss out on when you live in a flat.� He gave Logan a wee sideways glance. �Sa-arge, I know I is only a lowly sidekick and all that, but...�I thought we�re meant to be all about the big newspapery abduction today?�

�Try it again.�

Tufty poked the button and �Doot-da-doot-da-dooda-doo...� parped out once more.

�We are.� Logan stretched his shoulders and back. �We�ve got Steel�s lot on background, we�ve got door-to-doors interviewing the neighbours, we�ve got search teams out, people reviewing ANPR and CCTV footage, Forensics going over the house with a magnifying glass, and support staff sticking it all into HOLMES. So instead of getting in the way, we are multitasking. Someone needs to interview the last of Charles MacGarioch�s little friends, and it might as well be us.�

He pointed at the bell, and Tufty did the honours a third time.

�Doot-da-doot-da-dooda-doo...�

�Besides: Chief Superintendent Pine is in charge of Operation �Find Natasha Agapova�. I�ve still got everything else to run.� Lucky sod that he was. Another point. �And again.�

�Doot-da-doot-da-dooda-doo...�

Logan�s phone ding-buzzed.

DOREEN:

He poked out a reply while the Cantina theme launched into its fourth encore. Or was it fifth?

Good leadership is about delegation.

Tufty was reaching for the bell again, when the door finally opened a crack and a bloodshot eye peered out at them.

A rough voice slithered after it, reeking of stale booze. �Frelling smeg. Have you got any idea what time it is?� There was a cough, and a sniff, then a long, sticky moan as whoever it was twigged. �Oh...�wank. It�s the cops.�

Granville Place was a quiet residential street, not far from Broomhill Road, with big grey-granite detached bungalows on one side and big pink-granite semis on the other. Lots of attic conversions and neat little front gardens encased in ankle-high walls, well-trimmed hedges and flowering borders. Where nearly every car was a newish hatchback.

Tufty pulled up outside one of the grey houses, featuring a blue door, a handful of rose bushes, and a water feature. �It�s not my fault we had to stop for petrol, Sarge.�

Logan climbed out into the sticky morning. �You could�ve picked a car that wasn�t running empty!�

�No I couldn�t.� Plipping the locks and following Logan up the path to the front door. �Everyone plays �How Low Can The Petrol Gauge Go?� these days. You lose ten points if you have to fill it up again. I�m on minus sixty.� He scuttled ahead and rang the bell. A wee frown puckered his empty forehead. �I sometime worry that we work with a bunch of Trouser Grinches.�

And speaking of idiots...

Logan pulled out his phone and texted Rennie:

SEND.

A deadbolt clunked, then the door swung wide, revealing a young woman in Mr Men pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt emblazoned with �THE MIGHTY MR RHODODENDRON�. Long nose, glasses, and huge amount of dark frizzy hair. A bit like Elizabeth�s English teacher, only a lot more suspicious of strangers. She looked them up and down, then pulled her chin in. �Is something wrong?�

�Good morning, Miss.� Logan checked the list. �Is Marshall Carter in?�

That produced a grimace. �She is. And before you say anything � I know, but it�s too late to change it now.�

Forty-five minutes in and still no sign of rescue from Tufty.

Instead, Logan was stuck in the same boring Multi-Agency Public Protection Arrangements meeting, with the same boring talking points from the same boring people, the same assortment of disappointing biscuits, and the same burnt-plastic-tasting-mouldering-away-in-a-thermos coffee.

Wasn�t easy � pretending to pay attention when the air was treacle-thick, after a scant two-hours� sleep in the passenger seat of a manky Vauxhall.

Oliver from Waste and Recycling pointed his clicker at the pull-down projection screen and yet another dull graph loomed across the wall. �So, we can see that the projected refuse from the event is likely to overspill all bin capacity in the designated area...�

Natasha stood as far away from her anchor as the chain would allow, looking out through the crumbling window hole.

The air in her prison was like a giant fist, wrapped around her chest, squeezing every breath as merciless sunlight battered down on the world.

Those bastard flies had multiplied, droning through the sweaty, sticky air. And yeah, she used to shake them off, but what was the point? They just landed again. Feeding on the white tidemarks of salt that crusted her dirty, naked skin.

Mind you, it was hard to tell what was dirt and what was bruising. Everything ached as her battered flesh darkened � fresh blossoms of red and purple spreading out where DS Davis tried to break her ribs last night.

And speaking of the bastard...

Those fat buzzzzzzzzzzzzzing bluebottles weren�t the only sound; a diesel growl came from behind the barn, joined by a rattling crack, clank, scrape, and rumble.

And there, just visible through the gap between the barn�s concrete wall and the other crappy outbuilding, was a sliver of rusty yellow digger. The excavator arm swung back for another go, gouging a huge clod of earth from the weed-choked field. Lifting it high, then swinging it around to dump onto a growing pile.

You�d think the sonofabitch would be out in his patrol car, beating up suspects and soliciting bribes, or arresting people for telling the truth on social media, but here he was: digging a hole.

Or, more likely, a not-so-shallow grave.

And no prizes for guessing who that was for.

Natasha opened her water and took a small sip. Just enough to wet the inside of her mouth. There was still about a third of it left, but there was only so long you could nurse one tiny little bottle.

She struggled the top back on and placed it on the ground at her bare feet � not easy with both wrists cuffed to this stupid bloody collar � then hauled in a deep breath.

Took hold of the chain.

Braced herself.

And pulled.

And pulled.

And pulled...

But the galvanised bucket was stuck firm, wedged up against that bloody line of buried stone.

She gave it one last haul, legs trembling with the effort, jaw clenched, snarling out a strangled scream as black-and-yellow spots flickered across her prison�s bare stone walls. �BASTARD, WANKING...�FUCK!�

Natasha let go of the chain and staggered, folding over with the effort, blood whump-whump-whumping in her ears.

God, how great it would be to take a sledgehammer and smash the living crap out of the thing, till the concrete shattered and the chain came free and the bin was covered in dents. Then go hunting for DS Bloody Davis.

Instead, all she could do was bare her teeth, stick her heel against the bucket�s lip and shove.

�Fucking thing!�

Another shove, harder this time.

�AAAAAAAAAAARGGH!�

It rocked back on its base.

Not far, maybe only an inch, before slamming down again with a heavy whump and a puff of dust. But it moved.

That was something, right?

Oh, that was more than something.

Right now, that was everything.

She peered through the window hole again.

The digger arm swung and gouged. Which meant Davis was probably going to be busy for a while.

Natasha dropped down on her bum, scooting forward till she could place one foot onto the bucket�s rim, then tipping over onto her back to get the other foot in place. Like she was lying on a doctor�s table, waiting for a smear test.

Another deep breath.

Then she shoved. And strained. And swore...

And the bucket bloody moved � slowly tipping backwards as her legs trembled with the effort. Then it was past its tipping point and the thing thumped over onto its side.

Yes!

She rolled over and clambered upright again. Breathing hard as she stood over the felled bucket. Then put her heel against the warm metal and pushed.

It was still bloody heavy, but it rolled.

A couple more and she�d even managed to get it over the buried rock.

By shoving at different points along her anchor, it was easy enough to make the bucket go left or right.

And yeah, it�d be way easier if she could push the thing about with her hands, but there was no chance of that while her wrists were attached to this bloody collar round her neck.

It was still a gigantic step forward, compared to ten minutes ago.

Now all she needed was for DS Davis to go walkabout for a few hours, so she could make use of her newfound freedom. Bastard had to go to work sometime, right?

Maybe she�d find a hacksaw, or a file, or a pair of bolt-cutters lying about the place? Anything that would break this bloody chain and set her free.

Assuming he wasn�t planning to finish digging that grave, then drag her straight out there and bury her alive. Screaming and scratching away inside her coffin. Hidden � deep in the cold dark ground � where no one would ever find her...

The conference room was packed. They�d even had to draft in extra chairs from the council offices. And now the noise was borderline deafening, as the assembled press fidgeted in their seats, shouting to each other, checking their equipment, yelling down the phone because it was so sodding loud.

Oh yes: a fatal arson attack on a migrant hotel, and a murdered body in the river, were sort of newsworthy enough, in their way, but a missing Media Tycoon was a STORY!

Logan scanned the room again.

No sign of the Chief Super, but PC Sweeny had taken shelter behind the cluster of flipcharts in the corner, crunching Rennies like they were on special offer, a stack of paper clutched to his chest, and a worried look on his face.

Logan slipped around the edge of the seating area and joined him. �Where�s the Boss?�

�She�ll be here.� A look of horror slithered across his face. �Why? Did someone say she wouldn�t be? Has something happened?� Juggling his paperwork and dragging out his phone. �God�s sake, no one ever tells me anything...�

�Far as I know, the briefing�s still on. I�m just looking for her.�

Sweeny scowled. �Don�t do that.� He poked at his screen. �The one-o�clock feeding frenzy is going to be insane. We�ve got CNN and Fox News and Al Jazeera and...�some stations from France, Germany, and Italy I can�t pronounce. Then there�s the Australian broadcasters and New Zealand and Mexico and Canada and I just want to go back to CID and be a proper policeman again...�

The door opened and in marched Chief Superintendent Pine.

Some of the less experienced newshounds perked up the moment she appeared � microphones, cameras, and notebooks at the ready � while the more practised hands kept right on doing what they were doing, safe in the knowledge that sod-all would happen till the briefing officially started.

Pine marched across the room to Sweeny�s flipchart fortress, and raised an eyebrow at Logan. �Don�t remember shouting �frog�.�

Sweeny checked his watch. �We�re going to be late.�

�Been trying to get hold of you, Boss. Didn�t reply to any of my texts.�

�Texts?� A frown. �What texts? Are you sure you...� She produced her phone, flipped the cover open, then sagged. �Bloody battery�s flat.�

So, it wasn�t just him.

�That�s what I get for never being off the damn thing today.� She narrowed her eyes. �Thought I told you to dress the part.�

Eh?

Full black uniform, peaked cap under the oxter, shiny black shoes. �But��

�You were trying to get hold of me?�

Sweeny made wafting gestures towards the podium, with its covered table and garland of microphones. �I�m sure whatever DCI McRae has to say, it can wait till after the briefing. Can�t keep the world press waiting!�

�Boss: we have a complication.�

�Oh God...� Pine�s head fell back, and she winced at the ceiling. �I knew it was going to be a crap day the moment I got up...�

Logan nodded at the wall of photos, above the till. �Andrew Shaw works here.�

�Andy?� Brenda let go of Steel�s mane and grabbed her shoulders instead. Steering her towards a seat. �Well, sort of. He hires a chair. Not been in today, though. Or yesterday, come to that. But it�s his money he�s wasting, right?� She plonked Steel down and froofed her hair some more. �Have you ever thought of a bit of colour? I mean, you�re rocking the grey, but auburn would be nice with your complexion. Ooooooh: or a nice rich chestnut!�

Logan tried again. �Do you have a list of his clients?�

�Hold on.� Looking over her shoulder. �EMMA? EMMA SWEETIE, CAN YOU HELP THESE GENTLEMEN WHILE I GLAM UP THIS NICE LADY?�

A young woman emerged from a door at the back of the shop, with blonde hair down to the middle of her back and a wad of chewing gum on the go. All dressed up in pink and black.

Brenda clapped both hands down on Steel�s shoulders. �Now: how do you feel about a curly pixie with shaved sides?�

�Ermm...� Looking a bit like a hedgehog caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

Emma slouched up to Logan and Tufty. Gave their haircuts a quick once-over, then rolled her eyes. �Yup?� Sounding as bored as she looked.

�Hi.� Logan tried a friendly smile. �We need to see your appointments book, going back about eight wee��

�Six months would be great.� Tufty tilted his head on one side. �Your hair is amazing, by the way. It�s like molten gold!�

�Oh.� And she locked right in, giving the wee loon a little hair flip and a giggle. �Why thank you. You�re so sweet.� Emma slipped her arm into Tufty�s. �You come with me, and we�ll get you logged on to the computer.�

Logan did a slow three-sixty. �Don�t suppose you�ve got CCTV, do you?�

She pointed with her free hand, lowering her voice to a whisper, even though there was no one else here. �Cameras are fake.� Then squeezed Tufty�s arm. �Would you like a coffee?� And led him away, back through the door she�d emerged from.

Didn�t sodding ask Logan if he wanted a coffee though, did she. Just snuck off with the wee loon.

Because women were essentially weird.

Meaning Logan had been abandoned, all alone, in the middle of the salon.

Pfff...

He wandered over to the coffee table and had a squint at the newspapers. The Aberdeen Examiner blared out its completely unfair �POLICE FUMBLE INVESTIGATION AS WORLD PRESS LOOKS ON� nonsense, but because they�d scooped everyone on the Natasha Agapova story, none of the other publications were covering it. Yet. Instead, most of the tabloids hawked some variant of �SOAP STAR SIGOURNEY�S COCAINE SHAME�, except for the Scottish Daily Post which screamed �ILLEGAL MIGRANTS ROBBING OAP GRAVES�. Because when racists were lobbing Molotov cocktails, why not give them tokens for free petrol?

Bunch of bastards.

Logan abandoned the papers and went for a frown out through the shop windows at Chapel Street�s various comings and goings instead. Which wasn�t exactly thrilling.

Worse yet, the shop looked straight into the dining room of the hotel opposite, where a bunch of people were tucking into lunch.

His stomach snarled, like a wee gurgly wolf.

Well, it wasn�t as if he was doing anything right now.

Might as well make use of this time to achieve something...

Brenda was still wrestling Steel�s unruly mop into shape, with a hairdryer and set of curling tongs, when Logan stepped back into the salon.

The Crenellated Horror herself was fast asleep in the barber�s chair, and by the look of things, she was in for a bit of a shock when she woke up. Which would be nice.

Tufty stuck his head out through the door at the back and gave Logan a wave. �Sarge? Got something.� Then disappeared again.

Logan followed the vanishing twit into a cramped space with boxes and boxes and boxes of shampoo and conditioner and colourant and every other kind of hairy malarkey stacked up against the walls, two or three deep in places.

No sign of Emma.

A small desk was wedged in beneath a couple of shelves laden with lever-arch files. And that�s where Tufty was sitting, fiddling about with a denture-beige desktop PC. �I went through every appointment for three-and-a-bit years.�

Logan leaned his bum against a carton of hair gel. �Thought you said six months?�

�Yes, but then I did find things. So I went back further and keeped finding things. Till three-and-a-bit years ago, which is when...?� Eyebrows up.

�Let me guess: Andrew Shaw started working here.�

�Not saying he was definitely responsible, but in addition to the victims we already knew about, I found eleven more. And that�s just the ones who reported a sexual assault. Otherwise...� The wee loon puffed out his cheeks. �I know it�s wrong to be glad someone�s dead, but Andrew Wallace Shaw was an utter shite.� A droop. �Bad Tufty: pound in the swear jar.�

Eleven more victims...

�Think we�ll let you off with that one.� Logan pointed at the computer. �You got a list of names?�

�Should be sitting in your inbox. But just in case:� he hit three buttons on the keyboard and a teeny, old-fashioned ink-jet printer stuttered into life � screeking back and forth as it slowly clunked out a sheet of A4. �Don�t worry, I�ll purge the print queue soon as it�s done.� Swivelling his chair from side to side. �Not sure if Shaw was being careful or not, but they weren�t all his clients. He was working at least one day when the victim was in here getting their hair cut by someone else, though.�

�Bloody hell.� Logan plucked the printout from the machine, scanning the names. �How did no one notice the connection?�

�Don�t think anyone looked, Sarge.� A frown. �To be fair, when someone�s been sexually assaulted and we take their statement, we don�t usually start with, �Ooh, where do you get your hair done?�� Tufty poked some more keys and �DELETING PRINT HISTORY� appeared on the screen. He stood. �Hope when they bury Horrid Andrew Shaw they plumb his grave up with a flush, because there�s going to be a lot of people widdling on it.�

Quite right too.

The funeral home wouldn�t even need to preserve Shaw�s body in formaldehyde: his corpse would be pickled in urine.

Logan pocketed the list. �Meanwhile: let�s go see if we can�t achieve something on the Natasha Agapova case. Think the Chief Super could do with a bit of good news today.�

Especially after the email he was about to send her.

As he stepped back out onto the salon floor, Brenda had the wee rectangular mirror out � showing Steel what the back of her own neck looked like � full of hairdressery pride. �It takes years off you.�

Difficult to know if Steel agreed though, because she just sat there, in the pink-and-chrome chair, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, blinking at herself.

Her hair was shorn incredibly short at the sides and back, tapering outwards as it rose, towards a big wedge of curls on the top of her head � swept forwards so they coiled over her right eyebrow. Grey at the nape of her neck, darkening to a rich chocolaty brown.

Had to admit it was a huge improvement. Especially as her barnet normally looked as if someone had stuck a pound of Semtex up a badger.

�Time to go.� Logan handed Brenda a business card. �Thanks for your cooperation. We�ll be in touch if there�s anything else.�

Tufty lowered his voice and leaned towards her. �Word of advice � you might want to take this one down,� pointing at Andrew Shaw�s portrait, �and burn it.�

She looked a bit confused at that, but she�d find out soon enough...

Logan gave his email one last readthrough, then sent it off to Chief Superintendent Pine, with Tufty�s list attached.

The windows were down in the pool car, but there was precious little breeze to stir the muggy air as they sat outside Brenda�s Hair & Beauty Palace waiting for Steel.

Tufty had his phone propped up against the steering wheel, scrolling away and reading from the screen. �So, we�ve missed the case reviews for Operation �Housebreakings Across Rubislaw�; Operation �Car Thefts�; and unless we break the sound barrier, Operation �Break-ins At Sports Shops� will have to start without you. But��

�Nope. I already solved that one: it was Spencer Findlater. He�s been feeding his protein-powder addiction. Evidence is all piled up in his bedroom.�

�Oh. Coolio. Tick that one off the list...� Poke, fiddle, scroll. �Which means, if we leave now, you can still make Operation �Drugs In Lithuanian Teddy Bears�, Operation �Camper Vans Stolen To Order�, Operation �Food Van Turf War�, before talking to Professional Standards about Princess Crumpled-Bum McGrumpy-Lumps.�

Speak of the Devil.

The back door opened, and Steel thumped into her seat, with a scowl on her face and brand-new curls bouncing away on top of her head. �Better no� be talking about me, you pointy-nosed wee fart!�

Hang on...

Logan turned to Tufty. �Camper vans? Food vans? No, no, no, no, no: those aren�t Rutherford�s investigations.�

�Yeah.� He bared his top teeth. �They were DCI McCulloch�s, only now he�s off on the sick as well, so...?�

�Of course he is.� Sagging back in the passenger seat. �Yet more sodding work.�

Steel checked herself in the rear-view mirror. �Are you seriously going to slog your way through a bunch of sharny review meetings? When we could be out there: catching crooks and showing off my swanky new hairdo?�

�God�s sake...� Logan scrubbed a hand across his face. �I have responsibilities. I can�t just��

�You�re such an idiot, Laz. Did you no� learn anything all the years I was your boss?� Tousling her curls as she preened in the mirror. �You�re an acting DCI now � you don�t do your own case reviews! You pick some hapless halfwit DI and you make them do it. And if they whinge, you say it�s a �career-path development opportunity� and you�re doing them a favour.� Waving a hand as if it was all settled. �Tell them they have to produce a one-page summary for each meeting � in case some tosser further up the tree asks you about it � and everyone�s happy.�

Actually, that wasn�t a bad idea.

�Know what? I�m going to take your advice and palm my case reviews off on a hapless DI.� He pointed at her primping reflection. �Here�s a �career-path development opportunity� for you, Acting DI Steel.�

�Aye, nice try. Doesn�t work if the victim knows what you�re up to.� Steel clicked her seatbelt on. �So: where we going?�

Ah well, it�d been worth a try.

�Altens. Time to have a rummage through our missing newspaper tycoon�s work-life.�

�Don�t get me wrong � it�s nice to see you useless buggers doing some work for a change � but shouldn�t you be out knocking heads together and asking questions, like?� Colin Miller twisted a key in the lock, then pushed the door open, revealing a large office with a sacrificial-altar-sized desk that played host to a huge leather office chair and a dour portrait of an overweight man in rolled-up shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and clich�d cigar.

Two, much shorter, far less comfortable chairs sat in front of the desk, so any visitor would be at an automatic disadvantage.

A line of CCTV monitors offered grainy windows onto the Bullpen, Advertising, and Picture Desk, along with four different views of heavy machinery in the print room.

Rows of framed front pages filled the space between the windows � blinds down, casting the room into fusty gloom � while a bank of filing cabinets sat across from a triple-length table with downlighters above it.

Colin yanked on a cord, sending the nearest blind crashing upwards. A beam of light slashed into the room. Making the dust motes glow.

Logan stopped in the middle of the room, doing a slow three-sixty. �Your new boss: how long�s she been here?�

Another blind thundered up. �Three weeks. Three long, shitey weeks.�

�She make any enemies in that time?�

Steel scuffed in, followed by Tufty � the melodramatic wee spud holding his tummy as it popped and gurgled an empty song.

�Other than all the poor twats she fired?� Colin clattered the last blind open, brushing dust off his gloves. �Oh, aye. This isnae the Parish Gazette � we rattle buggers� cages here.�

Logan commandeered the throne behind the desk and snapped on a pair of blue nitriles. �We�re going to need a list.� Testing the first drawer � unlocked, but full of pens and assorted stationery. �She doesn�t show for work, two days running, and no one thinks to go check on her?�

�What, cos we all love her so much? Natasha Agapova makes friends like Jeffrey Dahmer makes pies.�

Tufty sidled over, leaning in close, keeping his voice low: �Don�t look now, but there�s a very nervous-looking burglar waiting outside.�

He wasn�t wrong.

A thin bloke in a beard and black-and-white stripy jumper, fidgeted on the threshold, carrying a bunch of black cardboard rectangles under one arm, looking as if he was trying to work up the courage to knock.

Colin rolled his eyes. �Oh for...�

Mr Stripy shuffled his feet and peered into the office. �Is Mrs Agapova in?�

�She�s gone missing, you daft wobbler! Have you no� seen the paper today? We went with it on page one, three, seven and nine!�

Pink flushed above the beardline. �I...�don�t always have time to��

�No� to mention it�s all over the TV, and the radio, and the internet!�

The feet shuffled some more. �So, she�s not in?�

Colin grimaced at Logan for a moment, then back to Mr Stripy. �Just stick your mock-ups on the table, OK? I�ll see she gets them when or if she ever returns...�Assuming she�s no� already deid.�

Mr Stripy looked down at his sheets of card, then at the table, then at Colin, then licked his lips, then nodded, and hurried over to the long table � laying out six front-page mock-ups, side-by-side so they were all visible. Then stood back to admire his handiwork.

Colin thumped a hand down on Mr Stripy�s shoulder, making him jump. �Now do us all a favour and sod off, aye?�

The pink flushed darker. �I�ve got...�lots to be getting on with.� And away he scurried.

�Next time, read the sodding paper!� Colin hissed out a long breath. Shaking his head as the jittery bloke disappeared. �Is it like this in the polis? Swear to God they get younger and more clueless with every passing year.�

�Yup.� Steel parked her bum on the table. �And whinier too.�

Logan tried the next desk drawer: a worms� nest of cables and phone chargers. �Did she mention getting any hate mail, death threats, things like that?�

�I mean, what sort of half-arsed �newspaper� can you put out when you fire all the proper journalists?� Colin worked his way along the filing cabinets, to the bottom left, rattling out the final drawer. �Think interns could�ve broken Watergate? Or Partygate? Or all that dodgy shite about right-wingers swimming in Kremlin cash?� He pulled out a cardboard box � just about big enough to keep Gwyneth Paltrow�s head in � and clumped it down on the desk. �There youse go.�

Logan frowned at it. �What�s this?�

�Hate mail.�

Opening the top revealed a massive stash of envelopes and printouts. Had to be hundreds of them in there. �How many months� worth is this? I only need the stuff sent to Natasha Agapova.�

�Aye, that�s just since she got here. Apparently there�s another eight boxes back at her place.�

�Eight...?�

�Told you: we rattle buggers� cages. Her more than most.� Colin plucked a handful of hate mail from the box and sank into one of the visitors� chairs, leaning back to put his feet up on the desk. �Had an editor once, liked to frame the worst ones and stick them on the wall. �Colin,� he says, �Colin, you no� doing your job right if nae bastard hates you.�� Turning to the first letter, scrawled in red ink on lined paper. �Here we go: all in easy-to-read block capitals. �Dear Stupid Bitch, I hope you die a slow, sucking-chest-wound death and dogs rape your dead body and then eat it and shit it out. Ranger�s Football Club are the best football club in the world and you�re too stupid to know it.� Not a single bit of punctuation, if you don�t count the...�four, five, six exclamation marks at the end.�

Logan reached in and pulled out a stack of the things. �She got all this in three weeks?�

Mr Rangers-Are-The-Best was placed facedown on the desk and Colin moved on to the next. �Ahem: �Fuck you, you fucking...� well, I�m definitely no� gonnae say that word with ladies and weans present, �You fucking bleep, badgers have more right to life than you do. You�re the one spreading bleeping diseases, whore.� Blah, blah, et cetera. �Kill yourself.�� He waggled the letter. �See, this moron didn�t just submit their hate via the website, or email it in, they got a sheet of paper, and a green biro and they scrawled it all out by hand, then found an envelope, paid for a stamp, and stuck it in the postbox. That�s dedication for you.�

Logan stuffed everything back in the box, held it out so Colin could do the same, then carried the lot over to the long table. �Constable Quirrel: I need these in date order. We�re looking for anything connected with the message on Mrs Agapova�s answering machine: �karma�, �hurricane�, �house of lies�, and, or, �bitch�.�

�Sarge.� Tufty tidied away Mr Stripy�s mock-ups and laid the hate mail across the table, shifting individual letters forward and backwards � tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

Steel sniffed. �What about all the electronic stuff?�

�Aye: in the box. We print every nasty wee message out � in case we need to give it to you lot. You know: if something like this happens. So you can do sod-all about it.�

A knock rang out from the open door, only it wasn�t the weedy bloke in the burglar�s top � back for another round of Humiliate Mr Stripy � it was a scruffy-looking woman in hiking gear and a bandana. As if ready to go on an Amazonian hike, or climate protest, at the first toot of a pan pipe.

She had a fat grey laptop clutched in both hands. �Yo, Colin: I hear you�re Interim Editor now.�

A frown. �Says who?�

�Louis.� She held her laptop out. �You wanna OK the spread for tomorrow�s lifestyle section or not?�

Colin put his head on one side, scrunched his lips into a lump, then nodded. �What the hell.� Patting the desk as he plonked his short arse in the leather throne. �Henry, these are the cops. Cops, Henry.�

She gave them a wave, then put the laptop down and opened it, bringing up a photo gallery. Swiping through shots of people at the beach and kids playing in the park; some office workers in bikini tops at lunchtime, lounging beneath the trees; more kids eating candyfloss and gazing in wonder at the circus lights.

Colin reached for the screen with a leather-gloved finger, but nothing happened. �Sodding hell...� He pulled the glove off, curling the stumps into a truncated fist, out of sight, and tried again. This time, the images wheeched past beneath his fingertip. �OK: this one, this, this, not that, or that, this, nope, nope, nope, that one�s OK, and...� He drifted to a halt, then looked up at Logan � looming over the pair of them. �You after something?�

�Go back a couple.�

Henry took control of the screen again. �Hold on...� Swipe, swipe. �This one?�

�Hmmm.� Colin frowned at the photograph. �Aye: I like the general composition, but shoulda gone up a couple of f-stops for a longer exposure and got a bittie motion in the dodgems.�

�Can always fix it in post.�

�Shouldn�t have to, but.� He reached out to swipe past the image again, but Logan grabbed Colin�s hand before he could.

�Get off!� Snatching his naked fingers away.

Steel sauntered over. �What?�

�Ooh,� Henry pointed, �like the hair! Very swish.�

�This old thing?� Steel had a wee preen.

�No touching.� Colin forced his hand back into its black-leather prison.

�Sorry.� Logan leaned in.

The photo showed a pair of grown-ups on the dodgems, each with a toddler strapped-in next to them, as they wheeched around the ring. Everyone smiling; having a wholesome family day out at the circus.

Behind them, the big top�s outer wall was in perfect focus: red, white, and blue stripes.

�When was this taken?�

�Last night.� Henry stuck her thumbs in her belt loops. �Went with Brent and the kids. Westburn Park?�

Thought so.

He opened his phone and scrolled through to the photo hidden away in Charles MacGarioch�s bedroom. The dodgem cars were identical, and so were the trees off to one side. And the stripy red-white-and-blue background. �How long�s the circus been there?�

�Dunno. Week, I think.� Henry�s eyes narrowed. �Why?�

Ah.

Probably best not to tip the press off.

�No reason.� A nonchalant shrug. �Just...�thinking of taking the family tonight.� Quick: change the subject. �Don�t suppose you�ve got any photos from that SME charity-auction-ball thing, do you?�

�Oh. Yeah: we did one of those cheesy �out and about� features. Like anybody gives a toss.�

She fiddled with the laptop, bringing up a different slideshow.

With Colin in the editor�s chair, Logan was demoted to one of the short ones in front of the desk, perching on the edge to swipe through the awkwardly posed group shots of various numpties from various oil-sector-support companies, in various posh frocks or nearly identical dinner suits. Fake grins and not-so-fake tans.

There were more photos of people at tables, raising their glasses, pretending to have a good time. Then some of the auction for �things money can�t buy� � because no one would sodding want them � followed by a whole bunch of the dancing afterwards.

Logan swiped back and forth, forehead creased, peering not just at the figures in the foreground, but the ones further back. Searching.

Steel reached over his shoulder and tapped the screen. �Take it that�s who you�re looking for?�

Natasha Agapova, in an elegant black ballgown, sitting at a table with a sign on it proclaiming, �ABERDEEN EXAMINER!�, and a whole slew of empty wine bottles.

She was trapped between that oversized teddy bear of hers and an earnest, rosy-cheeked, shiny-faced middle-aged man.

He had one hand on a nearly full glass of red wine and the other on Natasha�s bare shoulder, leaning in and talking. While she looked like someone trying not to appear as bored as she really was.

Another swipe and there they were again, still sitting at the same table, in the background of another dancing shot. Him telling some sort of hysterical anecdote with his arms thrown wide � clutching a whisky this time � while Natasha Agapova pretended to smile, and the bear grinned away.

Wonder if her boring dinner companion was Captain Sleazy of the HMS HumpYacht?

Logan zoomed in. �We have any idea who the guy is?�

�Hold on.� Henry vanished, leaving her laptop behind.

Tufty waved at them from the long table. �Sarge? I has a finished.�

Might as well, as they were waiting.

The wee loon had made a neat job of laying all the hate mail out � a mixture of A4 printouts, lined sheets torn from various notepads, and random scraps of paper � some of which now boasted little tabs made of orange Post-it note. Tufty pointed at both ends of the table: �Oldest to newest. One bit of sticky for each keyword.�

It wasn�t hard to spot the sheet of A4 with seven bits of bright orange stuck to it. Must�ve come through the website, because the printout came complete with a wodge of metadata at the top, with things like the user�s IP address, time, date, and referring URL.

Tufty poked the page. �I know �see you soon� wasn�t on your keyword list, but I marked it up anyway, cos I has an initiative.�

Logan checked the �DATE SUBMITTED�, then scowled at Colin. �Two weeks ago! And you didn�t tell us?�

�What, I�m supposed to know the content of everyone�s Hate Box, now?�

Henry reappeared, holding an issue of the Aberdeen Examiner. �Got it.�

Colin raised a hand. �Hoy, Henry, you got anything exciting in your Hate Box?�

�Me? Nah.� She opened her paper and spread it across the desk, displaying a whole heap of those uncomfortable group shots of people in suits and gowns, with a list of names under each photograph. �My hate mail�s the usual boring collection of misogynists, pricks, and people who want to know why I made them look �so fat� in that photo about the thing. Oh, and men who won�t take �Sod off, I�m married!� for an answer. Why?�

�Plod here think we should be intimately familiar with every piece of hate mail that comes into the building.�

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. �All right: that�s not what I��

�Hell with that. Be here all week!� She squinted at the laptop. �Right, let�s see who Mr Pink-And-Sweaty is...� Running a finger over the paper, one photo at a time.

�What I meant is: why don�t you report the hate mail?�

�God, you�re right!� Colin clapped a hand to his forehead. �Cos if we did that, you guys would rush round here with all guns blazing and solve the crime! Would you? Really? Course you sodding wouldn�t.�

�Got him.� Henry poked a gathering of numpties in their charity-ball finery. �Nick Wilson, director at NorrelTech Wellhead Intervention Limited � and before you ask: no. No idea. They donated a fortnight�s timeshare in New Orleans, if that helps?�

Logan picked up the paper, closed and folded it, then tucked the thing under his arm. �OK. Thanks for your help.� Pointed at Tufty and Steel. Turned. And marched for the door, taking the Post-it clarted printout with him.

�Hoy!� Colin stood behind his Interim Editor desk. �Aren�t we forgetting something?�

Sod.

Logan paused on the threshold. �Off the record? Mr FreezyWhip is an ungrateful bastard; the OAPs are only milking it for attention; you might want to soft-pedal on painting Spencer Findlater and Charles MacGarioch as poor wee orphans, unless you want to end up looking like a serious twat; and we�re still contacting Andrew Shaw�s victims, so tread lightly. Going to be hard enough on them as it is.�

Colin�s chin came up. �And on the record?�

Good question...

�This shit isn�t easy, but we�re doing our best.�

�Oh noes...� Tufty scuffed his little feet to a standstill, gazing across the car park, bottom lip all a-tremble as a large man in T-shirt-and-shorts locked up a food trailer with �DORIC DAVE�S DEVOURABLE DELICIOUSNESS!� painted all over it.

The Aberdeen Examiner�s exterior was every bit as depressing as the inside had been: a large bland grey warehouse, surrounded by other large bland grey warehouses, in the middle of a large bland grey industrial estate.

A wedge of the North Sea was just visible in the distance � down the hill, between an oilfield-digital-services company and an industrial-equipment supplier � sparkling blue beneath the searing sky. But other than that, pretty much everything was a depressing mix of concrete and steel.

Logan marched over to the pool car, digging his phone out on the way. Scowling through a quick Google search. �Haven�t seen MacGarioch in months, my arse...�

Steel slouched up behind him. �So: we off to noise-up this Sweaty Wilson prick?�

�Turns out Rennie was right � shock, horror � Keira Longmore has been lying to us.� He pressed the �CALL� button.

They picked up on the third ring: �The Star-Sprinkled Heavens. How can I help you this lovely afternoon?�

Logan forced a smile. �Hi. Is Keira working today?�

There was a small pause, then a pinch of suspicion seasoned the ma�tre d�s voice. �Can I ask who�s calling?�

�Detective Chief Inspector McRae, we met yesterday? Got a couple of follow-up questions I need to ask her. Nothing serious.�

And just like that, the salty edge mellowed. �I�m afraid Keira�s not in till tomorrow night. She�s going out with friends.�

Surprise, surprise.

�OK. No problem. Like I said, it�s nothing serious. I�ll try again tomorrow. Thanks.� He hung up, tried the passenger door handle.

Locked.

Where the hell was...?

The wee loon was still rooted to the spot, mourning the loss of devourable deliciousness.

�HOY, TUFTY!�

He jerked back to the real world, scurrying across the sticky tarmac to unlock the pool car. �Sorry, Sarge.� Getting in behind the wheel. �NorrelTech-Wellhead-Intervention-Limited-ho?�

�No.� Logan yanked his door open. �Think it�s about time we mobbed round to Keira Longmore�s address and see what else she�s been lying about.�

Back at the station, Logan suppressed a yawn and pushed through the double doors, back into the open-plan office. Normally the place would be humming � reverberating with the clatter of keyboards as people slunk in to do �completely necessary paperwork activities� in the run-up to home time. But today, Divisional Headquarters had a decidedly Flying Dutchman feel to it � with only a cursed skeleton crew left to man the ship while storms and sea monsters battered at the hull...

And even then, one of the dwindling support staff was hacking and coughing and spluttering all over the printer.

No wonder the bloody thing never worked properly.

Tufty poked and fiddled with his phone, walking to heel like a good little sidekick. �We�ve got time to grab a coffee, then sit in on the review for Operation �Camper Vans Stolen To Order� if you like?�

�I most certainly don�t like. Besides: wouldn�t want Acting DI Taylor to think we were checking up on her.� Pausing at the coffee machine, he poked the buttons till it whirred and grumbled out a frothy wax-paper cup of burnt-toast-flavoured yuck. Yum, yum, yum.

Logan handed the scalding beverage to Tufty. �That hate mail from �Anonymous One-Two-Three�, can you trace the IP address?� Going in for another poke at the machine.

�Already did, Sarge, while we were waiting on Keira Longmore being processed. It�s a VPN node in London.�

Nope.

�Worry not, I has an explaining: it does mean Virtual Private Network � hides who you are, where you�re connecting from, and encrypts everything in-between. Mr One-Two-Three am being an ghostie.�

�Of course he sodding is.� Logan took a sip of hot brown. Which tasted every bit as awful as it smelled. �In that case, you�d better get on to Spudgun � see if anything�s cooking at Wallace Tower. Now we�ve raided his girlfriend�s boudoir, MacGarioch might go to ground again.�

�Sarge.�

�And if he�s still unfindable, we�ve got the Orphan Circus Outing to fall back on. Which means we�re going to need at least a half-dozen tickets. Assuming the Chief Super actually gives us enough bodies to...�

Bugger.

Sergeant Brookminster entered through the far door, stood there for a moment, looking around, then homed-in on Logan. Striding between the cubicles, with an iPad tucked under his arm as if it were a swagger stick. �DCI McRae.� He gave Tufty a nod. �Constable.�

The wee loon stuck his hand out for shaking. �Greetings fellow comrade in this Great Fraternity of Sacred Sidekicks!�

Brookminster looked at the hand, eyebrows puckering into a one-up-one-down frown. �Yes, well...�DCI McRae, the Boss would like a word, if you�ve got a moment?�

Which sounded like an invitation, but clearly wasn�t.

Fair enough.

Logan gave Tufty a nudge. �Constable: put your hand away and go chase-up Sergeant Moore. Then see if you can get your hands on those tickets.�

�Aye-aye, Sarge.� A quick salute and click of the heels, then off he scampered.

�Bizarre...� Brookminster led the way through the desks, towards the Forbidden Corridor, where all the bigwigs� offices lurked. �Is there a reason Constable...�Quirrel, is it?�� refers to you as �Sarge�? I mean, he does know you�re an acting detective chief inspector, doesn�t he?�

�I was the boy�s first sergeant when he was doing his probation. Up in B Division. When B Division still existed.� Ah: the good old days. Sort of. �Suppose it�s a weird term-of-endearment, slash, nickname.�

The Forbidden Corridor was much nicer than the main bit of the office, with a view out over the old Divisional Headquarters on Queen Street, in all its seven-storey grey-and-black liquorice-allsort-striped glory. Which, presumably, someone would be demolishing soon to make way for an even uglier office block.

The corridor also had a couple of large pot plants that looked suspiciously non-plastic, and instead of standard-issue losing-the-will-to-live motivational posters, there were a handful of nice paintings on the walls.

�Yes...� Brookminster�s free hand made spiders in the air. �He certainly seems a little...�odd.�

�Oh, to a band playing.�

They stopped outside the door marked �CHIEF SUPT. ROSLYN PINE OBE�, where Brookminster plucked the nasty coffee from Logan�s hand. �Trust me: it�s for the best.� Then knocked. And marched off again, leaving Logan standing there. Coffeeless and blinking.

Kind of got the feeling that today wasn�t about to get any better.

Pine�s voice barked through the door: �Come.�

Back straight.

Deep breath.

And in we go...

Her office seemed weirdly out-of-place for a police station: no filing cabinets or whiteboards; no coffee-stained carpet tiles; no ceiling tiles that looked like a map of Europe, painted in dysentery. What she did have were some nice bookshelves, a nice desk, a nice big office chair, a couple of nice armchairs, a nice coffee table, a nice view over the Marischal College quad � even if it was all grey and empty � and a nice sideboard thing with a pod-coffee machine gleaming away on top of it.

The head cop for Aberdeenshire and Moray sat behind her desk, flipping through a file. She looked up as Logan stepped inside and closed the door behind him. �Ah, good. Have you seen the Aberdeen Examiner�s latest nonsense?� Grabbing that morning�s edition from her in-tray and waving it at him.

�Just been there, actually � got a possible line of inquiry for you.� He took the proffered paper and pointed at her armchairs. �Can I...?� Then avalanched into one of them, sagged, puffed out his cheeks, and unfolded Colin�s hatchet-job handywork.

Logan sniffed. �You can always rely on Colin Miller for a run-on sentence and a buried lead. And �most popular newspapers�? I wouldn�t use the Scottish Daily Post to line my cat�s litter tray.� Skimming the text. �Blah, blah, blah...�

Bloody hell.

��Modest�? It�s massive. She�s got four bedrooms, a home gym, a sauna, and a steam room. Plus, he was there before we were! How are we supposed to search a property before we know a crime�s been committed?�

Then another chunk of melodramatic crap about bloodstains and �the lonely smile of an abandoned teddy bear� before the boot was landed right into A Division�s testicles:

He slapped the paper shut and thumped it down on Pine�s desk. �Blah, blah, wankity wank, wank...� Then sat up, heat blooming in across his ears. �Sorry, Boss.�

�Hmmmph...� She stood, busying herself with the coffee machine. Setting it whirring. �I think �wank� is putting it mildly, to be honest. Only upside is no one else got the story in time to make the morning editions. Tomorrow it�ll be everywhere.� She fiddled with little cups, keeping it casual, but the hope was clear in her voice. �You said you have a possible lead?�

�Second-last person to see Natasha Agapova � Nick Wilson, director at something called NorrelTech. Sat next to her at the charity-auction, Monday night. You�ve already spoken to the taxi driver?�

She let loose a long, kind-of-pissed-off sigh, then placed a tiny cup on the desk, in front of Logan. �Espresso. You look like you could use it.�

�Thanks, Boss.� Taking the teeny cup of evil. �We did speak to the taxi driver, didn�t we?�

�Of course we did. He didn�t see anything, didn�t suspect anything, didn�t do anything. And he�s still managed to sell his story to �one of Scotland�s favourite newspapers�.� A grimace. �Meanwhile that ridiculous �Penny Thistle� woman got interviewed in her bikini for Channel 5 and just about every news outlet south of the equator. Topless for the Venezuelans.� Pine yanked the spent pod from the machine and hurled it into the bin. �This whole thing�s a disaster: the First Minister�s office called six times today, Tulliallan are nipping my head on an hourly basis, and the world press are quite happy to paint this division as a bunch of useless, half-witted, flat-footed, couldn�t-find-their-fat-arseholes-with-a-compass-and-a-team-of-sherpas clowns, because apparently we should�ve found Natasha Agapova by now! We are dead, Logan, if we can�t catch whoever did it and rescue her, ASA-frigging-P!� The Chief Super rammed another pod in the machine, slammed it shut, and set it whirring. �And quite frankly, we could do without the Aberdeen Examiner giving us a kicking too!�

Logan took a sip of espresso, dark and bitter and fruity all at the same time. The effects clearly weren�t instant, though, because a massive yawn rattled free. He shivered in his seat then slumped a little further. �Sorry.� Blink. Blink. �Maybe we could give them something? A little exclusive to get the buggers onside.�

She frowned down at him. �When did you last sleep?�

�Think I got ten minutes in the pool car, this afternoon?�

�Right: home. And that�s an order. I want you sharp and focussed for tonight�s op. We are not letting Charles MacGarioch get away again, just because you can�t keep your eyes open.� She reached across the desk and confiscated Logan�s coffee.

�But I was��

�Go!� Pointing at the door. �Get some sleep. And I expect you to be properly dressed when you get back.�

�Eh?� He looked down at his perfectly serviceable uniform. �But I�m wearing the��

�Standards matter, Logan.� The Chief Super glanced at her watch. �Briefing�s at seven, so you�d better get moving. Longer you sod about here, the less time you�ve got.�

The rattle-clank-roar of the JCB�s backhoe stuttered to an end, and silence settled over the crappy collection of outbuildings.

But it wasn�t really silent, was it: the digger�s noise had drowned them out, but now the bluebottles� buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz filled the hot sticky air again.

Natasha stood beside her mobile anchor � rolled as close to the window hole as she could get it � for a slightly better view of the field.

DS Davis climbed down from the JCB�s cab, and brushed the dust off his jeans with his work gloves. Sweat darkening the fabric of his faded �BLODH�ST D�DSULV� T-shirt.

She flattened herself against the wall, peering around the edge of the hole � keeping as low a profile as possible.

Don�t come back here.

Don�t come back here...

Shit.

That�s exactly what the bastard was doing.

He was going to squeal open that door and stab her, or shoot her, or bash her brains out with a fucking axe or something, then stick her in that bloody hole he�d been digging for hours.

Thing must be halfway to Sydney by now...

Most people: they buried a body, maybe only two or three feet down. There were tell-tale signs, like the ground sagging as the body decomposed, and weird patterns of extra growth where the plants feasted on human compost.

But a hole that deep?

Davis was making sure nothing would ever be found.

�Gaaaaaaaaaaaah...� Logan�s eyes snapped open as a horrible marimba tune bonk-bong-dwiddled out of his mobile. The phone skittered and vibrated away on the bedside cabinet, as if the tune wasn�t irritating enough.

One hand fumbled for the bloody thing, killing the alarm.

Then he sagged back into the mattress, blinking up at the ceiling. Followed by a gargantuan yawn. And a groan.

Oh right � the op.

Cthulhu was snuggled into the gap between his arm and his stomach, her fur warm against the skin as she grunted out little-fuzzy-cat snores.

Logan creaked out of bed, pausing to give Cthulhu a kiss on the head, let another yawn shudder-burp free, then grabbed his dressing gown and slouched away for a pee.

The air was thick with flies and their bone-grinding buzzzz...

Natasha stood beside her anchor � now upright again, and back where it was supposed to be � rising up on her tiptoes as she peered out through the window hole.

The JCB had gone from the field, returned to wherever the bastard usually kept it. Off to the right, the door to the other outbuilding still lay wide open, probably airing out now that its resident had...�gone.

No music throbbed through the static caravan�s walls.

And there was no sign of the dick himself.

Something went thunk.

A door? Maybe that was a car door? Maybe�

Then the engine started. Followed by the pop-crunch-ping of tyres on a rough track, fading away into the distance until only the flies remained.

Was he gone?

Maybe Detective Sergeant Davis was off to work? With any luck the bastard would be on nightshift and not back till tomorrow morning.

Unless it wasn�t him.

What if someone else lived in the caravan too? Maybe they were the one who�d driven off, and Davis was lurking nearby?

Or maybe this was all a test and he�d just driven down the road a bit, parked up, and right now he was hurrying back on foot to see if she�d try to escape?

Or maybe...

A big lardy bluebottle settled on her arm, feasting on the crust of dirt and sweat.

Maybe it didn�t fucking matter, because the bastard was going to kill her anyway. And would she rather be trapped here, starving away till she was little more than a skeleton, begging for every sip of water, so he could drag her out and bury her alive? Or go out fighting.

Deep breath.

The trees in Westburn Park were in full-green, but that was nothing compared to the riot of colour hiding just behind them.

The circus had taken over both sides of the park, with the big top towering above a slew of small rides and attractions � a red-white-and-blue-striped monarch ruling over its little kingdom, with a trio of long pennants fluttering from the king pole. The larger rides were grouped on the other side of the access road, waltzers and a small rollercoaster, chairoplanes and one of those Viking-longboat-on-a-swinging-pivot things, a haunted house and a whole heap of food stands.

And it was all festooned with flashing lights and copyright-infringing graphics.

A dozen different fairground tunes vied for supremacy, barking over the dings and wibbles that blared at Logan from every side. Because nothing here could be accused of being subtle.

All the rides were absolutely rammed and so was the park. As if half the city had turned up to munch on candyfloss, popcorn, and hotdogs, waiting for their go on �THE VOMINATOR!� and �SIR PUKESALOT�S SWIRLING BARFLAND ADVENTURE!�

Logan strolled through the crowds, keeping a firm grip on Elizabeth�s hand, as she oooooh-ed and ahhhh-ed at all the garish stuff. Tara slipped her arm through his, laughing as a fire-juggling hipster sent a plume of yellow flames fwoooshing into the sky.

Then Doreen�s voice cracked out of Logan�s earpiece: �All clear on the Western Front.�

Tara gave his arm a squeeze. �Told you it�d be fine.�

�Won�t be if the Boss finds out you�re here.�

�Anyone asks: I just happened to have tickets for tonight. Why should I cancel my plans just because Police Scotland wants to play Smiley�s People at the circus?�

Biohazard: �Nothing on the south entrance.�

�I don�t think we�re slick enough to be Smiley�s��

Somone tapped him on the shoulder and Logan froze.

It was sodding Chief Superintendent Pine, wasn�t it. He�d summoned her by accident and jinxed the whole operation.

He forced a smile and turned...

But it wasn�t Pine, it was Tufty. All dressed down, in jeans and a red �WILLY�S BAR DARTS TEAM: THE FLYING POLGARA!� long-sleeved T. The wee loon must�ve been at the face-painting stall, because he�d turned into a tiger from the neck up. And a disturbingly realistic one, at that.

The Lizz-Ness Monster gazed up at him. �Coooool...�

At which point, Tufty struck a pose, hunkering down in front of her as he burst into song:

Finishing with a slightly camp clawing gesture. �Rarrrrr.�

Logan winced. �You are so blissfully free from the burdens of reality. What the hell were you thinking?�

�Sneaky cleverness, Sarge.� Bouncing upright again. �See, this way none of Charles MacGarioch�s friends will recognise me and raise the alarm, cos I is a Master of the Disguises!�

�Master of being an idiot.�

He held up a stack of leaflets. �And I did get a big pile of flyers to hand out. The circus is off to Huntly next, and no one pays any attention to people handing out flyers.� He handed one to Logan, and...�got to admit the wee loon had a point.

Even if he was a weapons-grade twit.

There was a little remote extension attached to Logan�s Airwave � cable running from the handset in his inside pocket, all the way down his sleeve. He raised it to his mouth and pressed the button, keeping the thing hidden, as if he were covering a cough. �DI Steel?�

Silence from the earpiece.

A frown pulled at Tufty�s tiger face as he wiggled his earpiece too.

Let�s have another go: �Roberta...�Flipping Steel, report!�

Scrunch, munch, munch, followed by a muffled, �Sod off. I�m eating a toffee apple.�

�Do you want to go back to being Detective Sergeant Non Grata? Because the Logan giveth, and the Logan can taketh away.�

�Bludgering hell...� Crunch, crunch, crunch. �No sign of target at eastern entrance. Happy now?� Scrunch. �Still say this is a stupid plan. We should take MacGarioch when he�s in the big top: way smaller space to secure than the whole park. Which means less potential for him running away and us looking like clueless twunts.�

Not this again.

�We�ve only got seven people, OK? We take him soon as he�s takeable. Had enough disasters this week, thank you very much.�

Crunch, crunch, munch. �Won�t be saying that when he�s halfway down Craigie Loanings, and we�re still stood here with our pants round our ankles.�

A second little-big cat appeared at Tufty�s shoulder � every bit as short as he was, with oatcake-blonde hair in a ponytail, quirky smile, and a button nose. In a �KLINGON BALLET� T-shirt. She�d clearly been at the same face-painting stand, only instead of a tiger, she�d gone full-on leopard. Made extra weird by a pair of glasses over the top.

The wee loon beamed. �Total coincidence: Kate had tickets for tonight too! Wink, wink.� He threw in an actual wink, as if saying it hadn�t been clear enough. �So we is joining forces, cos she is both a police-officer-type person and highly skilled ninja thing. And won�t charge for the overtime.�

Kate grinned. �Guv.�

�Oooooh...� Elizabeth bounced on her feet, staring at Tufty�s feline bidie-in. �That is so cool!� Grabbing Tara�s hand. �Can we, Mum? Can we? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeathe? I want to be a dinosaur! RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAWRRRR!�

Was there something in the water? Or was everyone always this daft?

Crunch, crunch, mumble. �And while we�re at it: why can�t everyone just shut their sodding yap till something happens?�

Yeah...�There was the distinct possibility that Logan wasn�t entirely in control of the situation any more.

OK. Take charge.

He pointed off into the funfair. �Yes. You and Mummy should definitely go do that. Off you go. Daddy has people to arrest.�

��Report in!�, �Report in!� It�s nothing more than an ego trip for snudgewadgers and... scrunknips!�

Tara stuck her hand out at Logan. �Tickets.�

�Here you goes.� Tufty passed two over. �When you get to the face-painting tent, tell Courtney I did send you and she�ll give you mates� rates!�

�What do you think we�re gonna do, if MacGarioch turns up and it�s not �report in� time? Keep it a frunking secret?�

With a happy wave, Tara and Elizabeth disappeared into the crowd � off to be dinosaurised.

�It�s no� as if MacGarioch�s even going to show. I could be home with my swanky new haircut, my wife, a DVD of Colette, and a jar of Nutella right now. Nothing�s happening! It�s all a waste of��

Barrett: �Aaaaaand we�re on the move. Secondary targets are drinking up and exiting the Queen Vic now.�

Logan pressed the call button. �Still no sign of MacGarioch?�

�Negative.� A schrooooomphing noise crackled in the earpiece, then: �Yeah, they�re getting in an Uber... Sounds like they�re headed your way. Will follow on.�

�Is excitement time!� Tufty beamed at him, like a disturbing thing from the island of Dr Moreau.

Kate rolled her shoulders, as if gearing up to ninja someone.

And all around, the crowd flowed by, like a slow-moving river.

Biohazard: �We�re on, my sticky little friends! That�s Randolph Hay entering the park by the south entrance with a group of people. Repeat: south entrance.�

�Is Charles MacGarioch with them?� Come on...

�Don�t see him. Just a bunch of teenagers and some wee kids.�

Logan headed for the park�s south entrance, not pushing and shoving, moving just fast enough not to draw attention, with Tufty and Kate following in his wake. �Everyone hold your positions � he might try sneaking in by another entrance.� Letting go of the button to gently thump Tufty on the shoulder. �Get ready. The bastard doesn�t get away this time.�

The crowds thinned out a bit when they reached the access road that bisected Westburn Park, thickening again on the other side as people queued for the more popular rides. Now where was...?

Ah � over there.

Ralph Hay, with a handful of teens from yesterday�s barbecue and a bunch of weenies. Who all seemed super excited to be here.

No sign of Charles MacGarioch.

He�d be here soon though, right? Performance started in sixteen minutes...

The rusty sledgehammer clanged down against Natasha�s chain again, skimming off the metal to chudddd into the concrete.

Christ knew how long she�d been banging away with the bloody thing: twenty minutes? An hour? Seven and a half years? And all she had to show for it were a few flattened dents on a couple of links, and some flakes chipped off the solid grey lump in the bucket.

Didn�t help that she couldn�t get a decent swing on the bastard � having to hold it halfway down the shaft in an awkward hand-over-hand grip and do a rapid bow towards her anchor instead. Which made aiming the pockmarked hammer-head almost impossible.

And now her arms burned, and her legs throbbed, and every muscle in her back ached.

After the blazing light of the great outdoors, the barn was heavy with gloom. At least it was cooler than her prison, being a lot bigger, and only having a couple of filthy skylights in the corrugated-asbestos roof.

Its far end was stacked with triangular trusses and prefab stud walls for some sort of build-your-own-house kit, but going by the cobwebs, dust, and layers of mouse droppings, they�d been here for a long, long time.

The next twenty percent was given over to pallets of bricks and stuff that could probably have lived outside, and bags of cement that definitely couldn�t.

And the final thirty percent had been turned into a workshop, with a table saw and a mitre saw and a bandsaw and a bench press and all that kind of malarkey. But when she tried them, nothing happened. Same with the light switches. So, either everything was knackered, or the power was off.

A bunch of hand tools hung on the wall above a long workbench that looked like it�d been cobbled together from old pallets, but they were furry with rust, and none of them were any good at hacking through bloody chains.

The sledgehammer�s metal head spangggged off the links one last time � making not the slightest bit of difference � and Natasha dropped the useless thing, letting it clatter to the concrete floor.

�Piece of shit!� Every single word a mix of sandpaper and broken glass as she collapsed back against the workbench, breathing hard. Sweat stinging her eyes. Head pounding away inside this stupid fucking gimp mask.

She hauled in a big shuddering lungful of dusty air and bellowed it out again...

Then sagged all the way down, till her bum rested on the gritty floor.

Slumped sideways.

Keeling over till she was lying on her side at the very end of her chain � mask pressed against the concrete.

Going to die here.

Going to never see her little girl again.

Going to get dragged out and dumped in a shallow grave then buried alive.

Tears mingled with the sweat.

Be better to kill herself and have done with it. Deny the bastard the satisfaction.

Natasha rolled onto her back and blinked up at the metal joists and asbestos roof.

Couldn�t hang herself � no way to get up there, not with this sodding anchor chained around her neck.

Couldn�t poison herself � no drugs, or water to take them with.

Couldn�t drown herself � which was ironic, because if she did find a creek, or a billabong, the anchor would drag her down and keep her there. Quick and easy.

Five minutes to go.

The park was still jammed, but a whole bunch of people had peeled off for the big top, where Tufty and Kate stood on either side of the entrance, handing out flyers.

Which turned out to be the perfect cover, because no one looked at them twice, not even with the elaborate face paint.

Logan lurked by the �Space Killer� stall � where kids tried to knock a jiggling flying saucer down with ping-pong-ball guns � because it had a clear line of sight to both the big top and the road. So he had a perfect view of Charles MacGarioch not appearing.

A fanfare boomed out across the park, followed by a distorted, echoing voice: �Ladies and gentlemen, loons and quines, the eight o�clock performance is about to begin, so have your tickets ready and make your way to the big top!�

Logan pressed the talk button. �Anyone?�

Doreen: �West entrance � nothing doing.�

Spudgun: �Massive steaming bucket of sod-all.�

Biohazard: �No sign of him.�

Barrett: �Negative. Repeat: no eyes on target at this time.�

Then silence from the earpiece.

And more silence.

Logan sighed. �Are you still eating?�

Steel: �He�s no� here and he�s no� coming. I vote we spudge off out of it and go home. All in favour?�

�No one�s going home! He�ll be here.�

Maybe.

But given the show was about to start, possibly not.

Natasha closed her eyes and lay there, on the rough concrete floor.

�Come on, you lazy bitch: get up.�

But she didn�t.

�Please?�

No.

�OK: count to ten, then up.�

Ten came and went. Then another ten. And she was halfway through the third before wriggling over onto her side � ready for the undignified struggle to get back on her feet.

Natasha froze, the hair crackling across the back of her neck.

Someone was looking at her.