The pool cars headlights cast long jagged shadows between the trees, its warning strobes glittering blue-and-white against the needles. Catching the thick flakes of snow and making them shine, caught in their slow-motion dance to the forest floor.
Logan shifted his footing on the frozen, rutted track. Ran his torch along the treeline.
Middle of nowhere.
He wiped a drip from the end of his nose. Well, what was I supposed to do? Let him no-comment till Stephen Bisset dies?
The track snaked off further into the darkness, bordered on both sides by tussocks of grass, slowly disappearing under the falling snow, glowing in the torchlight.
On the other end of the phone, Steel groaned. Could you no have let the nasty wee sod fall down the stairs a few times? Were no allowed to-
You want to tell Stephens family we let him freeze to death, all alone, in a shack in the forest, because we were more concerned with following procedure than saving his life?
Laz, its no that simple, we-
Because if thats what you want, tell me now and well head back to HQ. You can help Dr Simms pick out a body-bag. Probably still got some nice Christmas paper knocking about, you could use that. Wrap his corpse up with a bow on top.
Will you shut up and-
Maybe something with kittens and teddy bears on it, so Bissets kids wont mind so much?
Silence.
Hello?
All right, all right. But he better be alive. And another thing-
He hung up and marched over to the pool car.
Biohazard leaned against the bonnet, arms folded, shoulders hunched, one cowboy boot up on the bumper. Nose going bright red, the tips of his taxi-door ears too. He spat. Nodded at the ill-fitting suit behind the steering wheel. The wee loons right, this is daft.
Yeah, well, Ive cleared it with the boss, so were doing it.
A sniff. What if Danny the Drag Queen tries it on when youre out there?
Logan peered around Biohazards shoulder.
Stirling was slumped in the rear seat, blood dried to a black mask that hid the lower half of his face. Bruises already darkening the skin beneath both eyes. The blue sundress all mud-stained and tatty after the chase through the gardens. Shivering.
Think Ill risk it. Logan pulled out the canister of CS gas from his jacket pocket, ran his thumbnail across the join between the safety cap and the body. But just in case, get his hands cuffed behind him. And I want the pair of you ready to charge in.
Logan popped open the back door and leaned into the car. It smelled of sweat and fear and rusting meat. Out.
Twigs snapped beneath his feet as they picked their way between the grey-brown branches, following the circle of light cast by Logans torch. A tiny dot, adrift on an ocean of darkness.
Something moved out there. Little scampering feet and claws that skittered away into the night.
Logan flicked the torch in its direction. How much further?
He jerked his chin to the left. That way. The words plumed out from his mouth in a glowing cloud, caught in the torchlight. Curling away into the night. Dragons breath.
Down a slope, into a depression lined with brambles and the curled remains of long-dead ferns, already sagging under the weight of snow. More falling from the sickly dark sky.
Stirlings feet clumped about in Rennies shoes, the scuffed black brogues and white socks looking huge beneath the torn sundress and laddered tights.
Up the other side, through the ferns brittle foliage wrapping around Logans trousers, leaving cold wet fingerprints. Why him? Why Stephen Bisset?
Why? A shrug. The torchlight glinted off the handcuffs metal bars, secured behind his back, fingers laced together as if they were taking a casual stroll along the beach. Why not? A small sigh. Because he was there.
Logan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. Another five, and that was it: call this charade off. Call in a dog team. Get the helicopter up from Strathclyde with a thermal-imaging camera. Assuming Steel could pull enough rank to get them to fly this far north on a Friday night in January.
They stumbled on between the silent trees. Fallen pine needles made ochre drifts between the snaking roots, the branches too thick to let the snow through.
He stopped, pulled up his sleeve exposing his watch again. Times up. Im not sodding about here any longer. He grabbed the plastic bar in the middle of the handcuffs and dragged Stirling to a halt. This is a waste of time, isnt it? Youre never going to show me where Stephen Bisset is. You want him dead so he cant testify against you.
Stirling turned. Stared at Logan. Face lit from beneath by the torch, like someone telling a campfire horror story. Tilted his head to the left. You see?
Logan stepped away. Swung the torchs beam in an arc across the trees, raking the needle-strewn forest floor with darting shadows
A sagging wooden structure lurked between the trunks, in a space that barely counted as a clearing, partially hidden by a wall of skeletal brambles.
Stirlings voice dropped to a serrated-edged whisper. Hes in there.
Another step. Then stop.
Logan turned. Shone the torch right in Stirlings face, making him flinch and shy back, eyes clamped shut. Then took out his handcuff key. On your knees.
A thick stainless-steel padlock secured the shacks door. It had four numerical tumblers built into the base, its hasp connecting a pair of heavy metal plates one fixed to the door, the other to the surround. Both set up so the screw heads were inaccessible.
Logan flicked the torch beam towards Stirling. Combination?
He was still on his knees, both arms wrapped around the tree trunk, as if he was giving it a hug. Hands cuffed together on the other side. Cheek pressed hard against the bark. One, seven, zero, seven.
The dials were stiff, awkward, but they turned after a bit of fiddling. Squeaking against Logans blue-nitrile-gloved fingertips. Clicking as they lined up into the right order. The hasp popped open and he slipped the padlock free of the metal plates. Slipped it into an evidence bag.
Pushed the door.
Almost as stiff as the padlock wheels, it creaked open and the stench of dirty bodies and blood and piss and shite collapsed over Logan. Making him step back.
Deep breath.
He stepped over the threshold. Stephen? Stephen Bisset? Its OK, youre safe now; its the police.
Bloody hell it was actually colder inside the shack.
The torch picked out a stack of poles and saws and chains. Then a heap of logs and an old tarpaulin. Then a cast-iron stove missing its door. Then a pile of filthy blankets.
Stephen? Hello?
Logan reached out and picked one of the poles from the stack. Smooth and shiny from countless hands over countless years. A bill hook rattled on the end, the screws all loose and rusted. Stephen? Ive come to take you home.
He slipped the hook under the nearest blanket and lifted.
Oh Christ
Outside. The cold air clawed at the sweat peppering his face. Deep breath.
Logan rested his forehead against a tree, bark rough against his skin. The smell of pine nowhere near strong enough to wash away the shacks corrupt stench.
Dont be sick.
Be professional.
Oh God
Deep breath.
I His throat closed, strangling the words. Pressed his forehead into the bark so hard it stung. Tried again. I should kick the living shit out of you.
Stirlings voice oozed out from the darkness. Hes beautiful, isnt he?
The phone trembled in Logans hands as he dug it out and called Steel. Ive found Stephen Bisset.
There was a whoop from the other end. Then, Laz, I could French you. Is he ?
No. Though if he ever woke up, hed probably wish he was. I need an ambulance, and an SEB goon-squad, and a Crime Scene Manager, and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree.
3
Big Tony Campbell slung his jacket over the back of his chair and slumped down. Aberdeen Citys Divisional Commander, the Big Boss, Arse-Kicker In Chief: a large man, with broad shoulders and hands to match. His bald head gleamed in the last rays of a dying sun, seeping across the rooftops of the city and into the office. The only hairs loyal enough to cling on above the neckline were his eyebrows heavy, black, and bushy.
He pointed to the seat on the other side of the polished wooden desk. Sit. Then swivelled around and hunched down, giving Logan a perfect view of his shirt coming untucked from the waistband of his trousers. Exposing a swathe of thick dark fur.
Logan settled into the nominated seat and stifled a yawn, covering it with his hand as Big Tony Campbell re-emerged with a bottle of Highland Park in one hand and two crystal tumblers in the other. They went on the desk.
A healthy portion of whisky glugged into both glasses, then the Divisional Commander handed one over. They tell me Stephen Bissets going to live.
Logan licked his teeth rough and unbrushed. Yes, sir.
Mightve been better if youd arrived too late. His fingers hovered over the folder that sat in front of the computer. He didnt touch the manila surface, as if it might be infectious. Castrated, teeth ripped out, chest slashed open and implants forced inside, repeatedly raped Never mind all the broken bones. The corners of his mouth curdled. A non-elective sex change courtesy of Jack the Ripper. Still
He raised his glass and Logan did the same. Clinking the two together, before taking a sip.
Warmth slid all the way down into Logans belly, leaving smoky footprints behind.
The Divisional Commander spun his seat around till it faced the window. Gazed out over his domain as darkness claimed it. Took another drink. Your boss tells me youre not really cut out to be an Acting Detective Inspector.
Does she now? Backstabbing cow
Well, unless this was promotion time? Time to stop acting up and make the step for real. With the pay rise that went with it. OK, so he wouldnt get overtime any more, but swings and roundabouts. Logan sat up straighter in his chair. Actually, sir, I think shes-
Dont get me wrong, the Divisional Commander held up a hand, its not that you cant do the job the Bisset investigation more than proves that but she seems to think you dont like doing it. The man management, the spreadsheets, the meetings, the budget balancing. Another sip. Is she right?
Dont fidget.
Well, sir, its Detective Chief Inspector Steel, sometimes-