"Dying light" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacBride Stuart)

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in-tray and added Councillor Marshall's article to the pile of newspaper cuttings. 'You have been remarkably lucky not to have been pilloried in the press for your involvement in this, Sergeant, but then I suppose that's what happens when you have friends in low places.' He placed the file neatly back in the tray. 'I wonder if the local media will still love you when PC Maitland dies…' Napier looked Logan straight in the eye. 'Well, I will make my recommendations to the Chief Constable. You will no doubt hear in due course what action is to be taken. In the meantime, I'd like you to consider my door always open, should you wish to discuss matters further.' All the sincerity of a divorce lawyer.

Logan said, 'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

This was it: they were going to fire him.

Lunchtime, and Logan was still waiting for the axe to fall. He sat at a table in the corner of the canteen, pushing a congealing lump of lasagne around his plate. There was a clatter of dishes and Logan looked up to see WPC Jackie 'Ball Breaker' Watson smiling at him. Bowl of Scotch broth followed by haddock and chips. The plaster cast on her left arm made unloading the tray kind of tricky, but she managed without asking for help. Her curly brown hair was trapped in its regulation bun, just the faintest scraps of make-up on her face, every inch the professional police officer. Not at all like the woman he'd gone to bed with last night, who dissolved into fits of giggles when he blew raspberries on her stomach.

She looked down at the mush on his plate. 'No chips?'

Logan shook his head. 'No.' He sighed. 'Diet, remember?'

Jackie raised an eyebrow. 'So chips are out, but lasagne's OK is it?' She dug a spoon into her soup and started to eat.

'How was the Crypt Keeper?'

'Oh you know, same as usual: I'm a disgrace to the uniform, bringing the force into disrepute…' He tried for a smile, but couldn't quite make it. 'Beginning to think Maitland might just be one cock-up too many. Anyway,' change the subject: 'how about you? How's the arm?'

Jackie shrugged and held it up, the cast covered in biro signatures. 'Itches like a bastard.' She reached over and took his hand, her pale fingertips protruding from the end of the plaster like a hermit crab's legs. 'You can have some of my chips if you like.' That produced a small smile from Logan and he helped himself to one, but his heart wasn't in it.

Jackie made a start on the haddock. 'Don't know why I bothered talking the bloody FMO into letting me come back on light duties: all they'll let me do is file stuff.' Dr McCafferty, the Force Medical Officer, was a dirty old man with a permanent sniff and a thing for women in uniform. There was no way he could refuse Jackie when she turned on the charm.

'Tell you: no bugger here has the faintest clue about alphabetization. The amount of things I've found under "T" when it should be…'

But Logan wasn't listening. He was watching DI Insch and Inspector Napier enter the canteen. Neither of them looked particularly happy. Insch hooked a finger in the air and made 'come hither' motions. Jackie gave Logan's hand one last squeeze. 'Screw them,' she said. 'It's just a job.'

Just a job.

They went to the nearest empty office, where Insch closed the door, sat on the edge of a desk, and pulled out a packet of Liquorice Allsorts. He helped himself and offered the packet to Logan, excluding Napier.

The inspector from Professional Standards pretended not to notice. 'Sergeant McRae,' he said, 'I have spoken to the Chief Constable about your situation and you will be pleased to know that I have been able to convince him not to suspend, demote or dismiss you.' It sounded bloody unlikely, but Logan knew better than to say anything. 'However,' Napier picked some imaginary fluff from the sleeve of his immaculate uniform, 'the Chief Constable feels that you have had too much freedom of late, and perhaps require more "immediate supervision".' Insch bristled at that, his eyes like angry black coals in his large pink face. Napier ignored him. 'As such you will be assigned to DI Steel's team. She has a much less demanding caseload than Inspector Insch and will have more time to devote to your "professional development".'

Logan tried not to wince. A transfer to the Screw-Up Squad, that was all he needed. Napier smiled at him coldly.

'I hope you will look upon this as an opportunity to redeem yourself, Sergeant.' Logan mumbled something about giving it his best shot and Napier oozed out of the room, reeking with triumph.

Insch dug a fat finger into the packet of Allsorts and stuffed a black-and-white cube into his mouth, chewing as he put on a reasonable impersonation of Napier's nasal tones: '"I have been able to convince him not to suspend, demote or dismiss you" my arse.' The cube was followed by a coconut wheel. 'Wee bugger will have been in there with the knife. The CC doesn't want to fire you 'cos you're a bona ride police hero. Says so in the papers, so it must be true.

And anyway, Napier can do sod all till they've finished the internal investigation. If he thought there was any chance of doing you for culpable negligence or gross misconduct you would've been suspended already. You'll be fine. Don't worry about it.'

'But DI Steel?'

Insch shrugged philosophically and munched on a pink aniseed disk. 'Aye, there is that. So you're on the Screw-Up Squad: so what? Get your finger out, don't do anything stupid and you'll be OK.' He paused and thought about it. 'Long as PC Maitland doesn't die, that is.' »

DI Insch ran a tight ship. A stickler for punctuality, preparation and professionalism, his briefings were clear and concise.

DI Steel's, on the other hand, seemed to be pretty much a shambles. There was no clear agenda and everyone talked at once, while Steel sat by an open window puffing away on an endless chain of cigarettes, scratching her armpit. She wasn't much over forty, but looked a damn sight older. Wrinkles ran rampant over her pointy face, her neck hanging from her sharp chin like a wet sock. Something terrible had happened to her hair, but everyone was too afraid to mention it.

Her team was relatively small – no more than half a dozen CID and a couple of uniforms – so they didn't sit in ordered rows like DI Insch insisted on, just clustered around a handful of chipped tables. They weren't even talking about work; half the room was on 'did you see EastEnders last night?' and the other half on what a bloody shambles the last Aberdeen-St Mirren football match was. Logan sat on his own in silence, staring out the window at a crystal-blue sky, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

The door to the briefing room opened and someone in a brand-new suit backed in, carrying a tray of coffee and chocolate biscuits. It went onto the middle table, starting a feeding frenzy, and as the figure straightened up Logan finally recognized him. PC Simon Rennie, now a detective constable. He spotted Logan, smiled, grabbed two coffees and a handful of chocolate biscuits before joining Logan at the window.

Grinning as he handed over one of the chipped mugs. He looked awfully pleased with himself.

DI Steel took a sip of coffee, shuddered and lit up another cigarette. 'Right,' she said, her head wreathed in smoke, 'now that DC Rennie has delivered the creosote, we can get started.' Conversation drifted to a halt. 'As you boys and girls can see, we have a couple of new recruits.' She pointed at Logan and DC Rennie, then made them stand so a half-hearted round of applause could be wrung from the rest of her team. 'These two have been selected from the hundreds of keen applicants, desperate to join our ranks.' That got a small scattering of laughter. 'Before we go any further I'd like to give our newest members the standard intro speech.'

That got a groan.

'You are all here for one reason and one reason only,' she said, scratching. 'Like me, you are a fuck-up, and no one else will have you.'

DC Rennie looked affronted: this wasn't what he'd been told! He'd only been a DC for three days, how could he have screwed up?

Steel listened to him with sympathy, before apologizing.

'Sorry, Constable: my mistake. Everyone else is here because they've fucked up; you're here because everyone expects you to fuck up.' More laughter. The inspector let it die down before carrying on. 'But just because those bastards think we're worthless, doesn't mean we have to prove them right! We will do a damn good job: we will catch crooks and we will get the bastards convicted. Understood?' She glared around the room. 'We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up.' There was a pause. 'Come on, say it with me: "We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up".' The response was lacklustre. 'Come on. Once more with feeling: "We are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up!"' This time everyone joined in.

Logan snuck a look at the other people in the tiny, untidy room. Who were they kidding? Not only were they at home to Mr Fuck-Up, they'd made up the spare bed and told him to stay for as long as he liked. But DI Steel's speech seemed to have a galvanizing effect on her team. Backs straight and heads held high, they all went through their current assignments and any progress they'd made. Which generally wasn't much. Up at the hospital, an unknown man was showing his willy to anyone daft enough to look; there was a spree of shoplifting going on at the local Ann Summers – naughty lingerie and 'adult' toys; someone was sneaking in and helping themselves to the till at a number of fast-food joints; and two men had beaten the crap out of a bouncer outside Amadeus, the big nightclub down at the beach. When the updates were finished DI Steel told everyone to bugger off outside and play in the sunshine, but she asked Logan to stay behind. 'Mr Police Hero she said when they were alone.

'Never thought you'd end up in here. Not like the rest of us no-hopers.'

'PC Maitland,' Logan told her. 'The straw that broke the camel's back.' Other than WPC Jackie Watson, his luck had been nonexistent since Christmas. Since then everything that could go wrong, had.

Steel nodded. Her luck hadn't been much better. She leant forward and whispered conspiratorially into his ear, engulfing his head in a cloud of second-hand cigarette smoke. 'If anyone can work their way out of this crummy team back to the real world, it's you. You're a damn fine officer.' She stepped back and smiled at him, the wrinkles bunching around her eyes. 'Mind you, I say that to all the new recruits.

But in your case I mean it.'

Somehow that didn't make him feel any better.

Half an hour later Logan and DI Steel were sat in the back of a newish Vauxhall with DC Rennie driving and a family liaison officer in the passenger seat. Somehow Steel had managed to convince the Chief Constable to give her the Rosie Williams case – probably only because DI Insch was up to his ears and no one else was free, but Logan wasn't about to say so. According to Steel this was her chance to shine again. She and Logan were going to solve the case and get the hell out of the Screw-Up Squad. Let someone else look after the no-hopers for a change.

Rennie slid the car around the bloated bulk of Mount Hooly roundabout, making for Powis. No one said much.

Logan was brooding about being transferred to the Screw Up Squad, Rennie was sulking because the inspector had said he was expected to fuck up, and DI Steel was expending all her effort on not smoking. The family liaison officer had tried to strike up conversation a couple of times, but eventually gave up and descended into a foul mood of her own. Which was a shame, because it was a lovely day outside. Not a cloud in the sky, the granite buildings sparkling in the sunshine, happy smiley people wandering about hand in hand.

Enjoying the weather while it lasted. It would be freezing cold and bucketing with rain soon enough.

Rennie swung the car around onto Bedford Road and then left again into Powis. Past a small set of shops: wire mesh over the windows, graffiti over the walls, leading to a long, sweeping, circular road lined with three-storey tenement blocks. They found Rosie's address in a row of boarded-up properties with a yellow Aberdeen City Council van parked outside, the sound of power tools echoing out of the open stairwell next door. Rennie parked out front.

'Right,' said Steel, pulling a packet of cigarettes from her pocket, fingering them, and stuffing them back again, unsmoked. 'What do we have on the next of kin?'

'Two kids, no husband. According to Vice she's currently involved with one Jamie McKinnon,' said the family liaison officer. 'Conflicting reports on whether he's her boyfriend or pimp. Maybe a little of both.'

'Oh aye? Wee Jamie McKinnon? Would've thought "toy boy" was closer to the mark; she's got to be twice his age!'

Steel gave a big, snorting sniff, and chewed thoughtfully for a while. 'Come on then,' she said at last. 'Job's not going to do itself.'

They left DC Rennie watching the car, trying not to look like a plainclothes police officer and failing miserably. Rosie's flat was on the middle floor. There was a window set into the stairwell, but it was covered over with a flattened cardboard box parcel-taped into place, shrouding the hallway in gloom. The door was featureless grey with a rusty brass spyhole set into it, a faint glimmer of light shining through from the flat into the murky hall. Taking a deep breath, DI Steel knocked.

No response.

She tried again, harder this time, and Logan could have sworn he heard something being dragged against the other side of the door. The inspector knocked again. And the light in the spy hole went out. 'Come on, Jamie, we know you're in there. Let us in, eh?'

There was a small pause, and then a high-pitched voice said, 'Fuck off. We're no' wantin' any police bastards today, thanks.'

DI Steel squinted at the spy hole. 'Jamie? Come on, stop buggering about. We need to talk to you about Rosie. It's important.'

Another pause. 'What about her?'

'Come on, Jamie, open the door.'

'No. Fuck off.'

The inspector ran a tired hand across her forehead. 'She's dead, Jamie. I'm sorry. Rosie's dead. We need you to come down and identify her.'

This time the silence stretched out far longer than before.

And then the sound of something being dragged away from the door, a chain being undone, a deadbolt being drawn back, and the door being unlocked. It opened to reveal an ugly child wearing an out-of-date Aberdeen Football Club top, tatty jeans and huge sneakers, laced up gangsta-stylie. The haircut was pudding bowl on top and shaved up the sides.

Behind him was a tatty dining-room chair. He couldn't have been much more than seven.

'What do you mean, "she's dead"?' Suspicion was written all over his blunt features.

Steel looked down at the kid. 'Is your daddy home?'

The child sneered. 'Jamie's no' my dad, he's just some fuckin' waster Mum's shaggin'. She kicked his arse oot weeks ago. Fuck knows who my "daddy" is, 'cos Mum hasn't got a fuckin' clue…' He stopped and examined the visitors on his doorstep. 'She really dead?'

Steel nodded. 'I'm sorry, Son, you shouldn't have found out like this The kid took a deep breath, bit his bottom lip, and then said, 'Aye, well. Shit happens.' He went to slam the door in their faces, but Steel had her foot wedged firmly against the hinges. In one of the other rooms they could hear a baby start to cry.

The family liaison officer dropped down to the kid's eye level and said, 'Hello, my name's Alison. Who's looking after you while your mummy's away?'

The kid looked at her, then at Steel, and then back again. 'How fuckin' stupit are you? "Mummy's" no' away. "Mummy's" dead.' But the defiant edge to his voice was starting to crumble. 'Understand you stupit cow? She's dead!'

In the back room the baby bawled louder and the kid turned and roared a tirade of abuse in its direction, telling it what was going to happen, if it didn't shut up right now! By the time he'd "inished there were tears in his eyes.

They let the family liaison officer to call Social Services and have the children taken into care.

Logan was on a serious low by the time they got back to Force Headquarters. Telling the kid that he and his baby sister were off to the children's home had just put the perfect cap on the day. The kicking, the swearing, spitting, threats…

At least now they had a suspect. Jamie McKinnon: Rosie Williams's pimp and ex-toy boy. He had prior for assault, possession with intent, breaking and entering, shoplifting, stealing motors. You name it, Jamie had tried it. According to the kid, Rosie had kicked Jamie out for beating her up so badly she couldn't work for a week. DI Steel had Control radio every patrol car in the city. She wanted Jamie brought in, on a voly if possible, in cuffs if not.

'Well,' she said when the call had gone out, 'anything else I should know about?' Logan told her about the new deputy fiscal and her desire to collect used condoms. Steel laughed so hard Logan thought she was going to bring up a lung.

'Rather you than me, Sunshine!' she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

'What's so funny?'

'You telling the search team to go hunting for nearly-new prophylactics! They'll have a fit!'

'How come I have to tell them? You're the one in charge!'

Steel grinned broadly at him, cigarette smoke oozing out between her teeth. 'Delegation, Mr Police Hero. I delegate, you do.' She pointed him at the door. 'Off you go.' Only remembering at the last minute: 'Oh, and while you're at it, you can phone your new condom-loving friend and get an apprehension warrant for Jamie.'

Logan stomped off to the lifts. This was so like DI Steel.

He did all the work; she smoked fags and took the credit.

Grumbling, he called Rachael Tulloch and told her about Jamie McKinnon. She promised to set up a warrant ASAP.

Then Logan called Control and got them to patch him through to the team searching the alley. They weren't happy when he said they had to start collecting every condom they could find. Not happy at all. But by then Logan was past caring. It was nearly five o'clock and he'd been on duty for fourteen and a half hours. The day shift was over. It was time to go home.

There was something nasty sitting on Logan's desk when he turned up for work on Wednesday morning. The search team had done as he'd asked, bagging and tagging each and every single used condom they could find in Shore Lane. And there were a hell of a lot of them; little slimy latex tubes oozing their contents out into individual evidence bags, all piled up in his in-tray. Grimacing, Logan scooped them all into a cardboard box, trying not to think about what was making the little bags so cold and clammy.

DI Steel didn't turn up for the morning briefing, so the Screw Up Squad just sat around their tables, drinking coffee and talking. Today's topic was 'Harry Potter, seminal moment in world cinema, or a load of old wank? Discuss.' Logan left them to it, taking his box of used condoms down to the morgue where they could be frozen for future analysis. Procurators Fiscal: go figure.

He pushed through the large double doors, onto the sparkling clean tiled floor of the cutting room. There was no sign of yesterday's rancid-barbecue reek. Instead everything smelled of formalin and pine disinfectant. Standing with her back to the doors was a familiar figure, prodding away at something in a bucket on the dissecting table. Logan's heart sank even further.

'Morning,' he said and she turned to look at him.

Dr Isobel MacAlister, the Ice Queen, Chief Pathologist, ex girlfriend, fellow victim. Looking a lot better than she had yesterday morning: her neatly bobbed hair held prisoner beneath a green surgical cap, the perfect bow of her lips hidden behind a green surgical mask. She blushed. As usual she was dressed like she'd just stepped off a catwalk: cream linen suit, silk blouse and tan leather boots, with an open white lab coat over the top. Golden jewellery trapped beneath the latex gloves. Obviously not getting ready to hack some poor sod up. 'Good morning,' awkward pause. 'How are you?'

Logan shrugged. 'Same old. You feeling any better?'

For a split second she looked puzzled, and then it clicked.

'Oh, this morning…' It was her turn to shrug. 'Just a stomach bug.'

'What, two days on the trot?' he asked. 'No pun intended.'

That almost got a smile. 'Did you want something in particular, or are you just down here for a clip round the ear?'

'Nope, official business…' Logan turned and snuck a peek into Isobel's bucket: a human brain, floating upside down in formalin, the preservative going slightly milky around the grey, whorled surface. Trying not to shudder, he popped his cardboard box up on the table next to the bucket. 'Got a present for you.'

Isobel raised an eyebrow and dug out one of the little plastic evidence bags, holding it up to the light so she could see the slimy contents more clearly. A smile made her eyes sparkle. 'How sweet,' she said, 'used contraceptives. And they say romance is dead…' She rummaged about in the box. 'There's got to be a couple of hundred of them in here.

You'll go blind.'

It was Logan's turn to blush. 'They're not mine. It's the Rosie Williams case. These are all the condoms we could find in Shore Lane. They're to be stored for DNA analysis.'

Isobel shook her head in disbelief. 'Are you out of your mind? Do you know how long it'll take to analyse the DNA from two hundred used condoms? It'll cost a fortune!'

Logan held up his hands. 'Don't look at me; it's that new deputy fiscal.'

Isobel sighed and snatched the box off the cutting table, muttering under her breath. She poured the lot into a large evidence bag, made Logan sign over the chain of evidence, and hurled the condoms into one of the specimen freezers. There wasn't anything to say after that.

DI Steel rolled in at a quarter to eight, looking as if she'd slept in an ashtray. She yawned her way through a hastily reconvened morning briefing, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, before sending them all on their way with the usual benediction about not being at home to Mr Fuck Up. Everyone except Logan. She had a job for him: they were off to look for Jamie McKinnon.

Outside Force HQ, the sun was shining happily down on Aberdeen from a clear blue sky. The inspector led the way out through the front doors and down onto Queen Street, not bothering to sign out one of the CID pool cars. Instead they wandered up Union Street, enjoying the late summer warmth. When the weather was miserable so was Aberdeen: grey buildings, grey skies, grey streets and grey people, but when the sun appeared everything changed. The Granite City sparkled and its inhabitants abandoned their anoraks, parkas and duffel coats in favour of jeans, T-shirts, and short summery dresses. But when a perky brunette tottered past in a tiny floral skirt and even tinier blouse, her bare stomach tanned a delicate shade of gold, DI Steel didn't even look.

On the other side of the road a blonde, almost wearing a pair of low-slung jeans and a crop top, stopped to wave down a taxi, exposing more flesh in one go than the city had seen all year. Still no comment from the inspector. 'You OK?' asked Logan.

Steel shrugged. 'Rough night. And before you ask: none of your business.'

Fine, thought Logan, sod you then.

Halfway up Union Street the wall of buildings was broken by Union Terrace Gardens, exposing a vista of vivid green all the way across to the glittering facade of His Majesty's Theatre. The gardens were a rectangle of precipice-sided parkland, sinking way below street level. Steep grassy banks on two sides with huge beech trees clinging on precariously. A small bandstand sat at the bottom, sparkling with a fresh coat of paint. And on the far side the floral clock offered its multicoloured blooms to the cloudless sky and warm August sun. Picture-postcard time.

At the corner of Union Terrace a large white-marble statue of King Edward VII held court; his shoulders regally speckled with pigeon droppings. There was a row of benches in a semi-circle behind the king, there so his closest advisors could drink strong cider and lager, straight from the tin, at ten past nine on a Wednesday morning.

They were a fairly mixed bunch: one or two genuine tramps in the regulation filthy suit-trousers, stained vests and crusted sores, others in jeans and tatty leathers, defying the blazing sunshine. Steel cast her eye across the assembled early morning drinkers and pointed at a young woman with pierced ears, nose and lips, heavy black-and-white make-up and lank, pink hair. She was swigging from a tin of Red Stripe.

'Morning, Suzie.' The inspector flicked the last half-inch of her cigarette over the railing. 'How's your wee brother keeping these days?'

On closer inspection the girl wasn't as young as Logan had first thought. Thirty-five if she was a day. That thick layer of white make-up was hiding a multitude of sins, and spots as well. Her face had a rough texture to it, the black-lipped mouth lined like a chicken's bum. When she spoke her accent was broad Aberdonian. 'Havenae seen the manky sod fer weeks.'

'No?' Steel flopped down on the bench next to her, smiling. She draped her arm across the back of the bench so it encircled the woman's shoulders.

Suzie shifted uncomfortably. 'You tryin' taste poof me up?' she asked.

'You should be so bloody lucky. No: I want your wee brother. Where is he?'

'How the fuck should I know?' Suzie took a long swig at her lager. 'Been shaggin' that old whore of his.'

'Funny you should mention that, Suzie, you see, that "old whore" turned up yesterday morning battered to death. And Jamie's no' exactly shy with his fists, is he?'

The girl stiffened. 'Jamie didnae kill nobody.' What the hell was Steel playing at? Logan could see the shutters coming down: they weren't going to get anything out of her now!

Steel should have played it cool, pretended it was nothing important, not gone charging in with both bloody feet! No wonder she was in charge of the Screw-Up Squad.

'Tell you what,' said Steel, handing over a dog-eared Grampian Police business card. 'You have a wee think about it and give me a call, OK?' She stood and lit another cigarette, coughing as the smoke worked its way into her lungs.

Suzie told the inspector exactly what she could do with her business card, threw back the last of her lager, and stormed off.

Logan waited until the girl was out of earshot. 'Why did you tell her Rosie was dead? She's never going to tell us where Jamie is now!'

DI Steel's smile became predatory. 'That's where you're wrong, Mr Police Hero. She's going to tell us exactly where he is. She just doesn't know it yet.' The inspector stood up on her tiptoes, following Suzie McKinnon's progress up Union Street. 'Come on then, we don't want to lose her.'

She marched straight across the street, narrowly missing getting squashed by a bus, with Logan in nervous pursuit.

On the other side of the road she clambered into the passenger seat of an illegally parked Vauxhall. DC Rennie was behind the wheel, wearing a pair of trendy sunglasses, and as soon as Logan was ensconced in the back, they were off.

They spotted Suzie easily enough – her black leather getup and pink hair stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the summer clothes – she crossed the road, just shy of the Music Hall's Doric columns, hurrying off down Crown Street.

Rennie kept well back, trying not to look like a kerb crawler.

Ten minutes later they were parked opposite a basement flat in Ferryhill. The street wasn't in the best of shapes, a collection of pothole pockmarks and different coloured patches of tarmac making it look like Frankenstein's monster with acne.

A rusty old Ford Escort was dying at the kerbside, bleeding oil. A quick PNC check confirmed it belonged to one James Robert McKinnon. Steel smiled at Logan. 'Do you want me to say, "I told you so" now or later?'

The door to the building wasn't locked, so Logan and DI Steel pushed straight through to the stairs leading down to the basement apartment. DC Rennie stayed out front, in case Jamie tried to do a runner.

Down in the mildew-smelling corridor Steel was just about to knock when a thought occurred to her. 'Are you up to this?' she asked Logan. 'What with your Achilles stomach and all.'

It was nearly two years ago!' he hissed. 'I'm fine.' Liar.

The scars on his stomach still hurt when the weather changed, or he bent down too quickly.

DI Steel knocked gently on the door, putting on a Fife accent to ask if Jamie had seen her cat. A key rattled in the lock and a stressed-looking man, wearing a rumpled Burger King uniform, opened the door. Spiky, bleached-blond hair, bloodshot eyes, slightly overweight, podgy nose, daft little beard thing clinging on to the end of his chin for dear life.

'I haven't seen any bloody…' His eyes went wide. 'Shite!'

And the door was slammed shut. Or would have been if DI Steel didn't have her boot jammed into the gap. She swore as the wood mashed into her foot and Jamie McKinnon bolted back into the flat.

'Ayabastard!' Hopping in the corridor, Steel clutched her injured foot while Logan charged past, through into a grotty hallway. A door at one end of the hall led to the lounge Suzie was standing in the middle of the room, a fresh tin of Red Stripe in her hand and a shocked expression on her face.

No sign of Jamie. Logan spun around to see the door to a filthy little bathroom lying open, and at the far end the door to the kitchen bouncing off the wall and swinging itself shut again.

Cursing, he sprinted for the kitchen. Why couldn't Jamie have made a break for the front, where DC Rennie could have clobbered him one? He burst through the door just in time to see Jamie's backside disappearing through the open kitchen window. The back door was blocked by an ancient washing machine, so Logan had no choice but to clamber through the window after him, and up a small set of steps into the back garden. Jamie was hoofing it hell for leather across the yellowing grass, towards the six-foot-high back wall, where the buildings backed onto the next row of tenements. Gritting his teeth, Lo gan chased after him.

For once luck was on Logan's side; as Jamie got within lunging distance of the wall his feet tangled in the trailing end of a clothesline. He went down hard, banging his face on a huge, abandoned red plastic fire engine. Swearing, he clasped a hand over his nose – blood welling up between his fingers – and struggled to his feet. Just in time for Logan to tackle him and send them both sprawling to the scabby yellow grass again.

The impact was enough to set the scar tissue screaming across Logan's stomach, leaving him hissing in pain while Jamie scrambled to his feet and jumped for the back wall.

He had one leg over the top when Logan grabbed the other one and yanked him back into the garden. Jamie's chin caught the top of the wall, snapping his head back as he clattered straight down into the rosebush growing at the bottom, breaking the fall with his face, sending pink petals flying.

Breathing hard, Logan jumped on him, twisted Jamie's arm up behind his back and snapped on the handcuffs. As the swearing started, Logan slumped against the wall and tried to convince himself that his stomach didn't hurt anywhere near as much as it really did. When the pain finally settled down, he hauled Jamie to his feet.

Burger King weren't going to be too happy about the state of their uniform. Blood ran freely from Jamie's squashed nose and torn lip, his face a network of thin scratches that oozed red. He looked as if he'd done ten rounds with Mike Tyson's cat. Swearing, he spat a mouthful of blood out into the rosebush. 'You made me bite my fuckin' tongue!'

'Jesus, Logan,' said Steel when he finally dragged Jamie back into the basement flat. 'I told you to arrest him, not beat the crap out of him.'

Something sly weaselled its way onto Jamie's face. 'Aye, he beat me up! Police brutality! I want my lawyer! I'm gonnae sue you bastards for all you're worth!'

Steel told him to shut his mouth. Suzie was sat on the edge of a tatty settee, worrying at an ever-expanding hole in the cushion with her finger, exposing the plaque-yellow foam rubber. She wouldn't look at anyone.

'You silly bitch.' Jamie spat out another mouthful of blood onto the carpet. 'You led them straight here!'

Suzie just kept on digging.

'Right then, Sunshine.' Steel pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and lit one up, dribbling the smoke contentedly down her nose. 'You don't mind if we take a little peek round your place do you?'

'Yes I fuckin' well do mind!'

Steel's smile got bigger. 'Well tough shite, 'cos I've got a warrant.' She flicked a little nub of grey ash from the end of her fag onto the coffee table. 'Anything you want to tell us before we go a-wandering?' Silence. 'No?' More silence.

'You sure?' Outside a truck rumbled past. 'OK, you're the boss.'

Of course Steel didn't do any of the actual searching herself. Not when she had a detective sergeant and a detective constable to do it for her. They found two small wrappers of heroin, a half-empty box of disposable needles and a lump of cannabis resin the size of a Mars Bar. It was Logan who found the box full of uniforms in the bedroom cupboard.

Back in the lounge he asked Jamie how his career in the fast-food industry was going. Jamie scowled back at him. The nosebleed was drying up, leaving a crust of reddish-brown across the lower half of his face, making his little goatee as spiky as his bleached hair. 'I'm going straight, OK?' he said.

'Keepin' out of trouble.'

'At Burger King?'

'Yes at fuckin' Burger King.'

'Well then,' said Logan, pulling the cardboard box out from behind his back. 'You must be a hardworking little bunny! Flipping all those burgers at Burger King.' He pulled out another uniform. 'McDonald's,' another uniform, 'the Tasty Tattie,' another uniform… There were work clothes from half a dozen fast-food places in Aberdeen, each one of them complete with 'Hi My Name Is' badges, none of which read 'James McKinnon'.

DI Steel looked confused, so Logan spelt it out for her: 'Jamie's the one been helping himself to tills all over town.

Turns up in uniform, no one pays any attention to the new boy. After all: who puts on one of these things for fun? He cleans out the till after the lunchtime rush, and gets changed to do the next place.'

DI Steel dropped her cigarette to the floor, grinding it out against the carpet. 'Aye, very good, Sherlock,' she said, sounding completely unimpressed. 'But we've got bigger fish to fry. James Robert McKinnon, I'm detaining you on suspicion of the murder of Rosie Williams.'

Jamie started shouting that he hadn't killed anyone, but Steel wasn't listening. She just finished reciting his rights then told Rennie to frogmarch the suspect to the car. And all the time, Jamie's sister stared at the carpet, picking at the hole in the settee.

'And, Suzie, thanks for your help,' said Steel with a wink.

'Couldn't have done it without you.'

Jamie was booked in at FHQ, given a once-over by the duty doctor and stuck in interview room number three.

Where he announced, 'Jesus, it's like a fuckin' oven in here!' He wasn't kidding. Even with the sun cracking the cobbles outside, the radiator was belching out heat. But all the other interview rooms were taken, so they were stuck with it.

Grumbling and sweating, Logan set up the interview tapes: audio and video, then did the introductions: date, time and attendees, and settled back to let DI Steel conduct the interview.

Silence.

Logan cast a glance in Steel's direction. She was looking at him with a puzzled expression. 'Well,' she told him at last, 'get on with it. It's too hot for buggering about.' Bloody typical. Once again he was going to have to do all the work.

With a sigh, Logan pulled out a handful of Rosie's post mortem photographs. 'Tell us about Rosie Williams.'

Jamie scowled at them. 'I'm no' sayin' anything till I've seen a lawyer.'

Steel groaned. 'No' again! How many times do I have to say this? Under Scottish law you have no right to legal counsel until we've finished with you. No lawyers. Interview first, lawyer later. Comprende?'

The scowl on Jamie's face didn't shift. 'You're lyin', I've seen the telly. I get a lawyer.'

'No you don't.' Steel peeled off her charcoal-grey jacket, exposing large patches of sweat beneath the arms of her red blouse. 'The telly lies to you. It shows you the English legal system. Not the same. Up here we do not fuck about waiting for some slimy bastard to help you with your lies. Now get your finger out and tell us why you killed Rosie Williams, so we can all get out of this bastard hothouse.'

'I didn't kill no one!'

'Stop fucking about, Jamie – I'm not in the mood.'

He slumped back in his seat, chewing things over. 'I really don't get a lawyer?'

'No! Now tell us about Rosie Bloody Williams before I pull that stupid-looking chin-warmer off your face, one hair at a time!'

Jamie held up his hands in self-defence. 'OK, OK! We're … you know… I stayed with her for a bit…'

'You were her pimp.'

'We're having fun, you know…'

'Fun? Rosie was old enough to be your granny! She's out there shaggin' for cash, every night, while you're what?

Staying home looking after the kids?'

Jamie stared down at his hands. 'Isn't that old.'

'Yes she fucking was! Ugly as hell too!'

'She is not!' Jamie's voice was getting louder with every word. 'She isn't ugly!'

A sly smile blossomed on Steel's face. 'You loved her didn't you?'

Jamie blushed and looked away.

'You did, didn't you? You loved her and she was out there every night, some stranger's dick in her mouth. Screwing them in doorways. Your precious Rosie, out there with-'