Logan smiled. 'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.'
'Well, it's too late for any of that now.'
'Sir?'
'Get your arse over to Seaton Park. I've just got the call: they've found Peter Lumley.'
Logan's heart sank. 'I see.'
'I'll be there in about…God, it's blowing a blizzard out here. Make it thirty minutes to be safe. Maybe forty. Keep it low profile, Sergeant. No blue lights, no sirens and no fuss. OK?'
'Yes, sir.'
*
Seaton Park was a pretty place in the summer – wide banks of green grass, tall mature trees, a bandstand. People picnicked on the grass, played an impromptu game of football, made love beneath the bushes. Got mugged after dark. It wasn't a stone's throw away from Aberdeen University's student halls of residence, so there was a steady stream of naive newcomers with money in their pockets.
Today it was like something out of Dr Zhivago. The sky hadn't lightened as day went on but just hung there, throwing snow down over everything.
Logan trudged across the park, trailing a PC wrapped up like an Eskimo behind him. The rotten sod was using Logan as a windbreak as they fought their way through the snow. Their goal was a low concrete building in the middle of the park, the walls on one side coated with a crust of white. The public loos were closed during the winter. Anyone caught short would have to make peecicles behind a bush. They went around the side, glad to get out of the bitter wind, to where the ladies' entrance was hidden behind a small recess.
The door was open, just a crack, the wood splintered and torn where a padlock was meant to keep it shut. Instead the big brass lock hung uselessly from its metal clasp. Logan pushed the door open and stepped into the female toilets.
It actually seemed colder in here than it had outside. A pair of uniform kept an eye on three well-wrapped-up children between the ages of six and ten, their breaths fogging the air. The kids looked excited and bored in turn.
One of the uniforms looked up from his charges. 'Cubicle number three.'
Logan nodded and went to take a look.
Peter Lumley wasn't alive any more. Logan knew it as soon as he opened the black-painted cubicle door. The child was lying on the floor, curled up around the bottom of the toilet, as if he were giving it a cuddle. The fiery red hair was dull and pale in the cold light, the freckles almost indiscernible against the waxy, blue-white skin. The little boy's T-shirt was pulled up, covering his face and arms, leaving the pale skin of his back and stomach exposed. He wasn't wearing anything else.
'You poor wee sod…'
Logan frowned, peering at the child's exposed body, unable to get any closer in case he contaminated the crime scene. Peter Lumley wasn't like the little boy they'd found in the ditch. Peter Lumley was still anatomically intact. The loos were getting a little crowded. Insch had turned up red-faced and swearing just after the duty doctor and the Identification Bureau. The IB lads had turned up, as instructed, in their own clothes, leaving the white van with all its gear in the car park next to St Machar's Cathedral where it wouldn't draw attention to itself.
As Insch stomped the snow off his boots, the IB team and everyone else struggled into their white overalls, shivering in the frigid air and bitching about how cold it was.
'So what's the score?' asked Insch as the duty doctor peeled off his paper coveralls and tried to wash his hands in one of the sinks.
'The poor little lad's dead. Dunno how long for. He's pretty much frozen solid. Weather like this plays merry hell with the old rigor mortis.'
'Cause of death?'
The doctor wiped his hands dry on the inside of his fleecy jacket. 'You'll have to get confirmation from the Ice Queen, but it looks like ligature strangulation to me.'
'Same as last time.' Insch sighed and dropped his voice so the children who weren't dead couldn't hear him. 'Any sign of sexual assault?'
The doctor nodded and Insch sighed again.
'Righty ho.' The doctor wrapped and tucked and zipped himself into his many-layered thermal insulation. 'If you don't need me any more, I'll bugger off somewhere warmer. Like Siberia.'
With death declared the IB team set about collecting everything they could get their glove-covered hands on. Lifting fibres, dusting for prints. Photographer clicking and whirring away, video operator recording everything and everyone. The only thing they didn't do was move the body. Not one of them wanted to incur the wrath of the pathologist. Isobel had got herself quite a reputation since Logan had returned to the force.
'One week today, isn't it?' asked Insch as they stood against the wall and watched the Identification Bureau work. Logan admitted that it was. Insch dug a packet of jelly babies from his coat pocket and offered them around. 'What a great bloody week it's been too,' he said, chewing. 'You thinking of taking a holiday anytime soon? Let the crime statistics get back to normal again?'
'Ha bloody ha.' Logan stuck his hands in his pockets and tried not to think about how Peter Lumley's stepfather would look when they told him what they'd found.
Insch nodded at the three children, slowly turning blue in the crowded ladies lavatory. 'What about them?'
Logan shrugged. 'They say they were out making snowmen. One of them needed a wee, so they came in here, and that's when they found the body.' He looked over at them: two girls of eight and ten and a boy, the youngest at six. Brother and sisters. They all had the same ski-jump nose and wide brown eyes.
'Poor kids,' said Insch.
'Poor kids, my arse,' said Logan. 'How do you think they got in here? Took an eight-inch screwdriver to the clasp on the door, wrenched the padlock clean off. A passing patrol caught them at it.' He pointed at the two frozen PCs. 'The little sods would have done a runner if these guys hadn't shown up and grabbed them.'
Insch switched his attention from the kids to the two uniforms. 'A passing patrol? In the middle of Seaton Park? In this weather?' He frowned. 'Sound a bit far-fetched to you?'
Logan shrugged again. 'That's their story and they're sticking to it.'
'Hmmm…'
The PCs shifted uncomfortably under Insch's gaze.
'Think anyone saw the body being dumped?' he said at last.
'No. I don't.'
Insch nodded. 'Nah, me neither.'
'Because the body wasn't dumped: it was stored. The kids had to break in. The door was padlocked with the body inside. That means the killer put the padlock on. He thought the body was safely locked away. Ready for him to come back to, whenever he felt the urge. He's not claimed his trophy.'
An evil smile spread across the inspector's face. 'That means he's coming back. We've finally got a way to catch this bastard!'
And that's when Dr Isobel MacAlister arrived, stamping into the toilets in a thick woollen coat, a flurry of snow, and a foul mood. Standing in the entranceway, she took in the scene, her face falling even further into a scowl upon seeing Logan. It looked as if she was bearing a grudge: not only had Logan ruined her evening at the theatre, he'd proved her wrong about the child being beaten to death. And Isobel was never wrong. 'Inspector,' she said, completely blanking the man she used to sleep with. 'If we can make this quick?'
Insch pointed at cubicle number three and Isobel swept off to examine the body, her Wellington boots flapping and slapping as she walked.
'Is it just me,' whispered Insch, 'or did it suddenly just get colder in here?' They broke the news to Peter Lumley's parents that evening. Mr and Mrs Lumley didn't say a word. As soon Logan and the Inspector appeared they knew. They just sat side by side on the sofa in silence, holding each other's hands as DI Insch intoned the fateful words.
Without saying a word Mr Lumley got up, picked his coat off the hook, and walked out.
His wife watched him go, waiting for the door to shut behind him, before finally bursting into tears. The Family Liaison Officer hurried over to offer her a shoulder to cry on.
Logan and Insch let themselves out.
28
The plan was simple. Everyone coming to
, or going from, the murder scene would keep a low profile. The number of people visiting the lavatories would be kept to a minimum, the padlock re-fixed to the door. The body would be taken out in secret and a pair of PCs left behind to watch the loos. This would be done from the safety and warmth of a pool car, parked up out of the way, with a clear sight of the ladies. The relentless snow had wiped clean the morass of footprints around the toilets, making everything a smooth, rounded white, leaving no sign that anyone had ever been there. The three kids who had found the body would not be charged with breaking and entering, just so long as they kept their mouths shut. No one was to know that Peter Lumley's body had been found. The killer would come back with his scissors, looking to take his souvenir, and the PCs would arrest him. What could possibly go wrong?
Miller's puff-piece on the tragic life and times of Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill, was relegated to page four, along with a bit on new tractors and a charity jumble sale. It was a good article, no matter how deeply it was buried in the paper. Miller had turned Roadkill into a sympathetic character, his mental health problems caused by the tragic death of his mother. An intelligent man, abandoned by society and making the best sense he could of the confusing world around him. It went a long way towards making Grampian Police look as if they knew what they were doing when they let him go.
And if that had been the only story Miller had written for the P amp;J that morning, everyone at Force Headquarters would have been a lot happier.
Miller's second story was spread across the front page under the banner headline: 'Child-Killer Strikes Again! Boy's Body Found In Toilet.' 'How the hell did he find out?' Insch slammed his fist down on the tabletop, making cups, papers and everyone in the briefing room jump.
The plan to catch the killer returning for his trophy was officially screwed up beyond repair. Every single gory detail was spread across the front page of the Press and Journal in tones of indignant outrage.
'That was the best chance we had of grabbing this bastard before he kills again!' Insch grabbed his copy of the paper, shaking with fury as he shoved the front page spread at them all. 'We could have caught him! Now some other kid is going to wind up dead because some stupid bastard couldn't keep their bloody mouth shut!'
He hurled the paper across the room. It spiralled through the air, exploding into a flurry of pages as it hit the far wall. Behind him, Inspector Napier stood in full dress uniform, looking like a ginger-haired Grim Reaper. He didn't say a word, just glared at them all from under his furrowed eyebrows as DI Insch fumed.
'I'll tell you what I'm going to do,' said Insch, digging in his pocket. He produced a thick, brown leather wallet, opened it and dragged out a handful of cash. 'First person who comes to me with a name, gets it.' He slapped the money down on the table.
There was a moment's silence.
Logan pulled out his own wallet and added all his cash to the inspector's pile.
And that started a stampede: uniform, detectives, sergeants all emptying their pockets and throwing their money down. By the time they'd finished there was a tidy amount sitting on the desk. It wasn't huge as rewards go, but it was heartfelt.
'All very nice,' said Insch with a wry smile, 'but we still don't know who the blabbermouth is.'
They filtered back to their seats and the inspectorwatched them go with something approaching pride on his face. Napier's expression was less clear-cut: his eyes sweeping the room's occupants, looking for signs of guilt, focusing on Logan far too often for comfort.
'Right,' said Insch. 'Either there's a lying bastard in here who thinks chipping in lets them off the hook, or Miller's mole works for someone else. I'm hoping it's the latter.' The smile vanished from his face. 'Because if it is one of this team Iwill personally crucify them.' He plonked himself down on the edge of the desk. 'Sergeant McRae, hand out the assignments.'
Logan read the list of names, sending out search teams to comb through the snow-covered park. Other teams going door-to-door looking for anyone who might have seen the body being hidden. Everyone else was to follow up the numerous telephone calls from concerned citizens. Most of them had come in as soon as they heard Roadkill had been released. Amazing how many people suddenly remembered his wheelie-cart near where the kids went missing.
Finally the morning briefing wound down and everyone filtered out, glancing at the pile of money on the desk as they went, their faces as grim as the weather outside, until only Napier, Logan and DI Insch remained.
The inspector swept the money off the table and into a big brown envelope. Writing, 'BLOOD MONEY' on the front in big black letters.
'Any ideas?'
Logan shrugged. 'Someone in the IB team? They've got access to all the bodies.'
Napier raised a cold eyebrow. 'Just because your team put money in the pot it doesn't mean they're not guilty. It could be anyone here.' He said that last bit looking directly at Logan. 'Anyone.'
Insch thought about it, his face dark and distant. 'We could have got him,' he said at last, sealing the envelope. 'We could have staked the place out and he'd've come back.'
Logan nodded. They could have caught him.
Napier continued to stare at Logan.
'Anyway,' Insch sighed and stuffed the brown envelope full of money into an inside pocket. 'If you'll excuse us, Inspector: post mortem's at nine. We wouldn't want to be late. Logan's old girlfriend would have our guts for garters.'
Down in the basement, Logan and Insch found Dr Isobel MacAlister with an audience. Her floppy-haired bit of rough was flouncing around in his usual effeminate, moronic manner. Three medical students stood with notebooks at the ready, all earnest and keen to learn just how one should go about butchering a murdered four-year-old. She didn't even look at Logan as she said a curt hello to the inspector.
Peter Lumley's naked body was laid out in the middle of the slab, pale and waxy and very, very dead. The students took notes, the bit of rough simpered, and Isobel cut and examined and extracted and weighed. It was exactly the same story as little David Reid, only without the advanced state of decay and genital mutilation. Strangled with a cord of some kind, probably plastic-coated. Something inflexible inserted into the body after death.
Another dead child on the slab. Logan's little incident room was empty when he returned from the post mortem, feeling sick. Geordie Stephenson's dead face stared blankly down from the wall. Two cases. Both going nowhere.
There was a large padded envelope from Forensics sitting in his in-tray addressed to 'DETECTIVE SERGEANT LAZARUS MCRAE'.
'Bunch of bastards.'
He sank into a chair and ripped the envelope open. It contained a forensics report, with all the easy-to-understand words taken out and replaced with half a ton of indecipherable jargon. The other thing was a set of teeth, cast in cream resin.
Logan pulled the teeth out of their baggie and frowned. Someone must have screwed up. This was supposed to be a cast of the bite-marks on Geordie's body. They were supposed to match Colin McLeod. The only way these were going to match Colin McLeod was if he was a bloody werewolf. One with a few missing teeth…
With a growing feeling of dread, Logan picked up Geordie's as-yet-unread post mortem report. The bit about the bite-marks was quite precise.
He closed his eyes and swore.
Five minutes later he was flying out of the door, dragging a bemused-looking WPC Watson with him. The Turf 'n Track looked every bit as ratty and unwelcoming as it had the last time. Falling snow had not lent it a jolly, festive air; instead the squat concrete rectangle of shops looked more dismal than ever. WPC Watson slithered their pool car into the front car park, where they sat looking out at the howling wind and flying snow, waiting for confirmation that the patrol car – Quebec Three One – was in place around the back. It wasn't their normal beat, but they were free.
There was a knock at the passenger-side window and Logan jumped.
Standing in the snow was a nervous looking man wearing a heavily-padded leather arm pr
otector. Logan wound down the window and the nervous man said, 'So…this Alsatian…big is it?' His face said he hoped the answer was no.
Logan held up the cast of teeth for the handler from the Dog Section to see. It didn't make the man any happier.
'I see…Big. With lots of teeth,' the handler sighed. 'Great.'
Logan thought about the grey muzzle. 'If it's any consolation: he's quite old.'
'Ahh…' said the handler, looking even more depressed. 'Big, lots of teeth and experienced.'
He carried a long metal pole with a strong plastic loop hanging out of the end, and he banged his head on it gently, sending a flurry of water sprinkling in through the open passenger window.
The radio crackled into life: Quebec Three One was in position. Time to go.
Logan clambered out into the slippery car park. WPC Watson was first to complete the journey from the car to the Turf 'n Track, flattening herself beside the door, truncheon at the ready, just like they did in the movies. Hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched, ears going bright red in the freezing wind, Logan followed her, the two dog-handlers grumbling and slipping along behind him.
When they reached the bookies both the handlers copied Watson, standing flat against the wall, clutching their long metal poles.
Logan looked at the three of them and shook his head.
'It's not Starsky and Hutch, people,' he said, calmly opening the door, letting a deafening barrage of noise out.
The smell of wet dog and hand-rolled fags washed over him as Logan stepped over the threshold. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. A pair of televisions flickered away, one in each corner of the room above the long wooden counter. Both showed the same dog race, the pictures jumping, the sound cranked up far too loud.
Four men sat on the edge of their cracked plastic seats, all staring and shouting at the television screen.
'Come on you lazy fucker! Run!!!'
Desperate Doug was nowhere to be seen. But his Alsatian was lying splayed out on the floor, next to the three-bar electric fire, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth, fur gently steaming in the heat.
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