An embarrassed pause and then, 'Aye, well, she's no' answerin' her mobile, and her office phone's on voicemail only.' In addition to being a golden-boy reporter, Miller was also Isobel's bit of rough, the one who'd taken her fancy when she was finished with Logan. It should have been more than enough reason for him to dislike the pushy wee shite, but for some bizarre reason it wasn't. 'Come on, Laz, spill the beans! Bloody media office'sgivin' the usual "no comment" bollocks. You was there wasn't you?' Sighing, Logan slumped back to his chair. 'All I can say is that we found some remains in Garlogie Woods today. You want more details, you're going to have to go through the media office. Or wait for Isobel to get home.' 'Shite . . . C'mon Laz, give me somethin' to work with here! I've been a good boy, no' printed a thing she's told me without goin' through you first - give us a break, eh?' Logan couldn't help smiling, it was nice to have the upper hand for a change. If Miller printed a word of what his pathologist girlfriend told him between the sheets without getting the OK from Logan, she was finished. Logan would go straight to Professional Standards and tell them all about Isobel's former "indiscretions" with the media. Her career would be over. 'Tell you what, I'll bring round somethin' tasty for tea and you and me can have a chat. Maybe I've got something you need to know. We could do a swap, like.' 'What, like last time? No bloody thanks.' 'Look, I'm sorry about that, OK? He told me the place was full of stolen property...' There was a small pause. 'Listen, you workin' on that big fire?' Logan said no, but that didn't mean he wasn't interested - after all, a lead on Insch's arson case might help speed his way out of the Screw-Up Squad. 'Perfect, how does eight sound?' A rattle of keys in the lock and the front door opened. It wa s Jackie, back from work and carrying a pizza box from
the place up the road, using her plaster cast as a tray. She saw him, and held up a bottle of Shiraz. 'Hold on a minute,' he said, slapping a hand over the mouthpiece. 'Colin Miller wants to come over for tea.' Jackie snorted. 'Not a bloody chance. Pizza, wine and bed. Maybe all at the same time.' She put the pizza box down on the coffee table and started stripping off her trousers. Logan smiled. 'Erm . . . Sorry, Colin, something's come up. Got to go.' 'Eh? What? What's come up?' Logan put the phone down.
Yawning, Logan strolled up Marischal Street, making for Force Headquarters. Nine forty-five and the sun was beginning to think about going home for the night. The day's heat slowly leached out of the granite buildings, keeping the temperature up as the evening drifted away. There was a lot to be said for a naked WPC Watson, wine and pizza. And he didn't even have to get all togged up in his work suit either. Tonight was a strictly plainclothes operation. Force Headquarters was busier than Logan had been expecting; groups of uniformed officers bustling about the place. Big Gary - looking like an overstuffed sofa in an ill fitting uniform, clutching a Tunnocks Tasty Caramel Wafer in one oversized paw - sat behind the desk taking notes. 'Evenin' Lazarus,' he said, dropping little flakes of chocolate onto the duty roster. 'Evening, Gary, what's with all the rush and scurry?' 'You know there's been all these drugs comin' in? Well, big bust tonight: huge! Half the shift's off to play cops and robbers.' He frowned for a moment and flicked through the chocolate-coated roster. 'How come you're in? Supposed to be on days . . .' The happy smile slid from Logan's face. 'Night shift today
and tomorrow. But I'm only on till two tonight, because I was in most of the day.' 'Bastard . . .' Big Gary scribbled away at the roster with a biro. 'How come no one ever tells me anything? Who decided this?' 'DI Steel.' Big Gary grunted and ripped a bite out of his wafer. 'Bloody typical.' He shook his head. 'Ever since that Cleaver trial got fucked up . . .' The phone went and so did Big Gary. After signing in, Logan turned round and went back out the way he'd come in, strolling down Marischal Street, over the bridge and straight past his own front door. The harbour lights were flickering on, picking out a handful of supply vessels, their huge bright-orange hulls glowing as the sun slowly set. The water was already a deep shade of violet, reflecting back the darkening sky. At the bottom of the hill Logan took a left, popping his head around the corner of Shore Lane, seeing if anyone was open for business. It was empty. Hands in his pockets, he strolled down the quay, visiting every alley, street and parking lot along the way. Most of the working girls he spoke to were helpful enough, once he'd sworn on his mother's grave that he wouldn't arrest them. They knew Rosie, they were in the same line of business, they were sorry she was dead. But not one of them had seen anything. He was on his second circuit when his phone exploded in a cacophony of bleeps and whistles. Colin Miller again. 'Just a wee call to say you 'we blown it, man. Press office says the torso's no' human. Just a dog. So yer bargainin' position for info's shot to shite.' Logan swore quietly, so much for his ticket out of the Fuck-Up Factory. 'Laz? You still there, man?' 'Yeah, just thinking.' There had to be something he could
give Miller . . . and then it dawned on him: he told Miller about his pre-murder theory. 'Bastard, we've gone to sodding press with it as a fuckin' sidebar.' 'So come on then - spill the beans on the fire.' 'The name "Graham Kennedy" mean anythin' to you? Does a bit of dealin' on the side in Bridge of Don, blow mostly, but harder stuff when he gets his hands on it?' Logan had never heard of him. 'He's one of yer crispy-baked squatters.' Perfect: rumour had it DI Insch still hadn't identified the bodies. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Logan thanked him and hung up. Today was turning out to be not so bad after all. By the time he'd worked his way back to Shore Lane it was getting on for half eleven. There'd been no improvement in the streetlight situation since the previous night: the darkness barely punctuated with pools of wan yellow light. At the far end, where the cars would turn off the dual carriageway, a single figure plied her trade. Hands in his pockets, Logan stepped into the alleyway and the heady aroma of decomposing rat; thankfully it wasn't nearly as bad as rotting Labrador. The girl touting for business outside the Shore Porters' warehouse couldn't have been much more than sixteen. If that. She was dressed in a short black skirt, low-cut top, fishnets and black patent-leather high heels. Very classy. Her hair was up in a 1980s-style rock-star perm, her face layered with enough make-up to coat the Forth Bridge. She turned at the sound of Logan's footsteps, watching him warily. 'Evening,' he said, voice nice and neutral. 'You new?' She looked him up and down. 'What it to you?' Not a local. Her accent was somewhere between Edinburgh and the Ukraine. The words slightly fuzzy round the edges, as if she was on something. 'You here yesterday?' he asked. She backed away a couple of steps. 'It's OK,' he said, holding up his hands, 'I just want to talk.'
Her eyes went wide. Left, right, then she ran for it. Logan grabbed her arm and pulled her to a halt. 'You hurting me!' she whined, struggling. 'I just want to ask you a few questions. It's OK--'
A shape stepped out of the shadows. 'No it fuckin' isn't.' Big bloke, dressed in leathers and jeans. Shaved head, goatee beard, fists. 'Let the bitch go, or I'm goin' taste break your fuckin' head open!' Logan smiled at him. 'No need to get physical. Just a couple of questions and then I'm on my way. You here last night as well?' The man cracked his knuckles and advanced. 'You fuckin' deaf? I told you: let the bitch go!' Sighing, Logan dug out his wallet and flipped it open, exposing his warrant card. 'Detective Sergeant Logan McRae. Still want to break my head open?' The man froze, looked from Logan's ID to Logan to the struggling girl and back at Logan aga n. Then legged it. Logan i nd the girl watched him disappear - for a big man he moved pretty fast. She stood open-mouthed, forgetting to struggle, before hurling a string of foreign-language abuse after her scarpering pimp. Logan had no idea what the words meant, but the general gist was clear enough. 'Well,' he said, when she'd run out of breath and inspiration, 'it's OK: I'm not going to arrest you. I really do just want to talk.' She looked him up and down again. 'I talk very good dirty. You want talk dirty?' 'Not that kind of talking. Come on, I'll buy you a drink.' The Regents Arms was a little bar on Regent Quay with a three am licence. Not the smartest place in Aberdeen: it was dark, dirty, missing an apostrophe, and smelled of spilt beer
and old cigarettes. Popular with the kind of people that hung around the docks after sundown. Logan took one look at the clientele and spotted at least three he'd arrested before - bit
of aggravated assault, bit of prostitution, bit of breaking and entering - so there was no way he was going to risk using the toilets here. Wander into a small room with only one exit and a bar full of people who'd love to see a policeman with his brains leaking out onto the dirty floor? Might as well smash himself in the face with a claw hammer, save everyone the bother. But no one said anything as he sat the young girl down in a booth and bought her a bottle of Bud. If she was old enough to be selling her body on the streets, she was old enough for a beer. 'So,' he said, 'who was your friend?' She scowled and hurled another barrage of incomprehensible abuse at her absent protector. When Logan asked what language she was swearing in she told him: 'Lithuanian.' Her name was Kylie Smith - likely bloody story thought Logan - and she'd been in Scotland for almost eight months now. First Edinburgh then Aberdeen. She preferred Edinburgh, but what could she do? She had to go where she was sent. And no she wasn't sixteen, she was nineteen. Logan didn't buy that one either. The pub's lighting was murky, but it was still better than the flickering yellow streetlights in Shore Lane. She was fourteen if she was a day. Like it or not, she'd have to go to the station after this. There was no way he could turn a child that age back out onto the streets. She should still be in school! Her 'friend' had told her to call him Steve, but Logan wasn't to cause trouble for him, because she had to stay with him, and he'd beat her. Logan just made noncommittal noises and asked Kylie where she'd been yesterday night. 'I go with man in suit, he want I do dirty thing, but he pay good. Then I go with other man, smell very bad of chips, skin is all grease. I go with--' 'Sorry, that's not what I meant.' Logan tried not to think of oily fingers pawing away at the schoolgirl. 'What I meant was: where were you getting picked up from?'
'Oh, I understand. Same place today. All night. I make good money.' She nodded. 'Steve bring me breakfast, I do so good. Happy Meal.' Last of the big spenders. 'Did you know a girl was attacked last night?' She nodded again. 'I know.' 'Did you see anything?' Kylie shook her head. 'She stand there all night, only one man come make fuck with her.' 'What did he look like?' 'It very dark . . .' A frown and then, 'White hair all spike?' She stuck her hands to the side of her head, fingers pointing upwards. 'You know? And beard.' More hand gestures: this time the left, fingers bunched, right on the point of her chin. 'He smell of chips too.' Logan sat back and smiled. That would be Jamie McKinnon, no doubt fresh from robbing another late-night fast-food joint. Goodbye alibi. 'Did you hear anything they said?' She shook her head and finished her bottle of beer. 'I go with other man.' Logan sat back in his seat and looked at her. 'You know someone killed her?' Kylie sighed, her face suddenly much older than its years. She knew. People got hurt all the time. People died. It was the way the world worked. 'Would you come with me to the station? Look at some photographs? Make a statement? Just what you've told me?' She shook her head. 'Steve angry if I not making money.' She rolled up the sleeve of her low-cut blouse, showing him the cluster of cigarette burns in the crook of her elbow. There were needle tracks in amongst the circular scars, just enough to get addiction underway. To make her dependent on 'Steve'.
'What if I told you I could make sure Steve never hurt you ever again?' Kylie just laughed. That was crazy talk. She wasn't going to come with him, she wasn't going to police station, she wasn't going to cause no trouble for Steve. Thank you for beer and goodbye. Logan insisted, but Kylie was having none of it. She jumped to her feet and made a run for the door. Logan leapt up to follow, and that was when things started to go wrong. A large man with a tattoo the size of a Rottweiler blocked the exit, just after Kylie charged through the door. He was a good foot shorter than Logan was, but more than made up for it in breadth. Logan screeched to a halt. 'Lady's no' wantin' your company,' he said, his accent broad Peterhead. 'Look, I need to catch her! She's only fourteen!' 'Oh, like 'em young do you?' Through gritted teeth. 'What? No! I'm a police officer! She . . .' And that's when Logan heard it: the silence. Every conversation in the pub had come to a sudden halt. The only sound in the place was a tatty-looking bandit, bleeping and pinging away to itself. Fuck . . . 'OK,' he turned around and addressed the bar as a whole, 'I'm looking for whoever killed Rosie Williams last night. I don't want to cause trouble for anyone else.' More silence. Cold sweat was beginning to run down Logan's back. 'Some bastard beat Rosie to death: strangled her, smashed her face in, broke her ribs. She drowned in her own blood!' Logan turned to face the tattooed thug blocking the door. 'She deserved better than that. Everyone does.' He was going to get his arse kicked. He could feel it. The wee muscleman frowned in concentration. The silence stretched. And then he said, 'Go on, bugger off.' He jerked
a thumb over his shoulder. 'Mind this, though: it's no' healthy for you in here. Don't come back.' By the time he was outside there was no sign of Kylie. Logan didn't know any Lithuanian, so he swore in good old-fashioned Scottish.
8
Logan spent the next few hours going around the car parks and alleys again, but it wasn't any use - the young lady from Lithuania was the only one who'd seen Jamie McKinnon. Everyone else had been too busy making a living in doorways and strangers' cars. Force Headquarters was like a graveyard when he pushed through the back doors, not a soul to be seen. Except for Big Gary, still sitting behind the desk, with a Teach Yourself French book and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs. 'Any news on PC Maitland?' Logan asked, helping himself to a biscuit. The large man shook his head. Tar as I know, he's still in intensive care.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'You know, no' everyone blames you for it, OK? I mean, it's no' your fault they was tooled up. Is it?' Logan smiled sadly. 'So how come I still feel like shite then?' ' 'Cos you're no' a heartless wanker, like some of the tubes round here.' He patted Logan's shoulder with a massive hand. 'He'll be fine. Stick some cash in the whip-round: we'll get him a stripper. This'U all blow over. You'll see.' Logan thanked him for his optimism then sodded off to the canteen for a cup
of tea and a sandwich, taking both down to records so he could look at some mugshots while he ate. Searching for a big bloke with a shaved head and a goatee beard: the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian girl's pimp. Clicking his way through ream after ream of bad guys on the computer. By the time three o'clock arrived, he'd only managed to get through a fraction of FHQ's collection of mugshots. Tomorrow he'd get someone to put together an e-fit identikit picture. Email it round, see if anyone recognized the man. Straightening up with a creak and a yawn, Logan headed back out into the night, wanting to take one last look for Kylie. So much for knocking off at two. There wasn't a lot of activity down at the docks; Wednesday wasn't really a night for hard drinking so there were fewer drunken idiots staggering out of the nightclubs and strip joints to prowl the streets in search of a cash-based romantic interlude. And that meant most of the prostitutes went home too. Now it was just the hard-core left. The women who were the most desperate. Who hadn't had much luck earlier in the night. The ones with varicose veins and no teeth. The ones like Rosie Williams. Logan walked the docks again, but there were only four working girls still out, three of whom he'd spoken to earlier. The last 'girl' was in her mid to late forties - difficult to tell in the flickering streetlight - dressed in a cheap miniskirt and PVC raincoat, a pair of black plastic kinky boots finishing off the ensemble. Seeing her, Logan wasn't surprised she only came out in the wee small hours, when all her punters would be at their most pissed and least picky. Her face was odd, distorted, lumpy . . . And that's when he realized: someone had beaten the crap out of her recently. That's why her smile was twisted and her face uneven, swollen from the blows. She'd tried to plaster over the bruises with make-up. She saw Logan staring at her and said, 'You lookin' for a good time?' The words were slurred, slightly lisping - probably
missing a couple of teeth. 'Good-lookin' guy like you, must be lookin' for a good time ...' She wiggled her hips
at him, winced and opened her PVC raincoat wide, exposing a black lace bustier over white skin covered in bruises. 'See anythin' you like?' There was no way Logan could answer that honestly. 'Someone give you a going over?' She shrugged and dragged a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket, sticking one between her swollen lips and lighting it with a petrol-station lighter. 'You a cop?' She looked him up and down. 'Naw, don't bother answerin' that. Course you're a fuckin' cop.' The first good lungful of smoke set off a coughing fit, eyes closed, left arm clutching her ribs as she hacked and grimaced. 'Those things'll kill you.' She stuck her middle finger up at him and wheezed to a rattling stop, before spitting a dark wad out onto the street. 'I want health advice I'll go to my fuckin' doctor. What do you want? Kickback? Freebie?' Logan tried not to shudder. 'Rosie Williams,' he said instead. 'Got herself killed last night. I'm looking for anyone who saw the bastard that did it.' The woman flinched, wrapping the PVC raincoat tightly around her bruised chest. 'Jesus,' she said. 'Rosie?' Logan nodded. 'Last night. You working then?' She shook her head. 'Naw.' She pulled in another large lungful of smoke. 'Had a bit of an accident couple of nights back.' She gestured at the mess of her face. 'Walked into a door.' 'Must've been a really big door to do all that.' 'Aye. Fuckin' big door.' She lowered her eyes. 'But I wasnae here yesterday. Couldn't fuckin' move yesterday, let alone work.' She sighed. 'No' that I'm gonnae do much business lookin' like this . . .' Her voice trailed off into silence, her eyes focused on the past rather than the darkened streets.
'Then why are you out here?' She shrugged. 'Got mouths to feed. You know? And heroin's a fuckin' hungry wee bastard.'
Twenty-two hundred hours: the start of Thursday's night shift. It had been a day for lounging about in bed, only getting up when Jackie came back from work at five. Fish and chips for dinner breakfast and then back to bed for a bit. This time with company. So it was a pretty happy Logan who sauntered up the street to FHQ at ten to ten. There was an air of doom and gloom about the place as he pushed through the front doors. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was sitting behind the reception desk, engrossed in a copy of the Evening Express, the lights reflecting off his ever-expanding bald spot. He looked up, displaying a wide Wyatt Earp-style moustache, and scowled. 'What the hell you looking so damn cheerful about?' Logan smiled back. 'And good evening to you too, Eric. I am smiling because it has been a lovely day. What's got your moustache in a twist? Big Gary nick all the custard creams?' Eric just scowled and held up the Evening Express so Logan could see the paper's front page with its headline, Police Raid Wrong Address! There was a large photo: dozens of patrol cars, vans and uniformed officers milling about outside a converted church in Tilly drone. Logan tried not to grin. At least he wasn't the only one to screw up a raid this month. 'Where were they supposed to be?' 'Kincorth.' Eric slammed the paper back on the desk. 'Silly bastards. Like we don't have enough to worry about!' He poked a sidebar next to the picture. Police Incompetence: City Councillor Speaks Out. 'Wee shite's been gagging for another excuse to make us look like arseholes.' Eric scowled at the little black-and-white photo of Councillor Holier-Than Thou Marshall doing his usual smug slug impression. Then
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