LITMIR.BIZ

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Apparently Professor Wilson’s abduction only merited a tiny sidebar and ‘CONTINUED ON PAGE 7 ’.

      ‘Oh.’

      Shona gave the paper a bash with the back of her hand. ‘What there is, however, is yet another column by everyone’s favourite D-list celebrity nobody, Scotty Meyrick, telling us how Scotland’s a bunch of ungrateful scumbags for not appreciating the benevolence of our Westminster overlords. What a great birthday present that was.’

      Logan gave his butty another seeing to. ‘You going to send him a thank-you card?’

      ‘God save us from bloody “celebs” telling us what to think. Someone eats a kangaroo’s ring-piece on TV and suddenly they’re a political pundit?’

      ‘Can I have that when you’re finished with it?’

      ‘Urgh …’ She held the paper out. ‘Here, take the thing. My blood pressure’s bad enough what with birthdays and that buggering printer to deal with.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Logan tucked it under his arm and headed back to his desk, finishing his butty as he flicked through what passed for news at the Scottish Daily Post. Apparently, unless something happened within an hour of Edinburgh or Glasgow, it really wasn’t worth reporting.

      The only exception lurked on page seven. For some reason, Edward Barwell hadn’t named-and-shamed DI King as an ex-Alt-Nat terrorist, instead he’d spent half a page banging on about Professor Wilson’s abduction and how it was undoubtedly connected to someone called Matt Lansdale going missing.

      Matt Lansdale …

      That journalist at yesterday’s press conference had called Lansdale a high-profile anti-independence campaigner, but other than that? Never heard of him. And clearly everyone was expected to know who he was, because there was sod all detail about that in the article.

      Should probably try to find out, just in case it was related.

      Logan frowned at the article again, with its accompanying photo of Professor Wilson and ‘ALT-NAT THUGS TARGET BETTERlOGETHER HEROES’ headline. Why hadn’t Barwell outed DI King? It was a juicy story – bound to shift a few papers and stir up a whole heap of controversy – so why bury it?

      Rennie slouched across the room and perched on the edge of Logan’s desk. ‘You’ll be happy to hear that I’ve got young Tufters off the hook. And you were right: the silly wee sod hadn’t signed in this morning.’

      ‘Thought not.’ Logan sooked the tomato sauce and salad cream from his fingers. ‘You ever heard of a “Matt Lansdale”?’

      ‘Oh, and King says to tell you the SE have been on the phone. No viable DNA at the scene. Said to say, “They were right, the guy’s a ghost.”’

      A ghost.

      Logan frowned out the window. The rush hour was gearing up, but still a good half hour away from clotting like a fat-filled artery. A bus rumbled past.

      ‘Guv?’

      Their guy was a ghost …

      Two cars. A taxi.

      ‘Guv, you’re not having a stroke or something, are you?’

      A Transit van with ‘THE TEENY BEETROOT BAKERY CO. LTD.’ down the side in cheery letters.

      ‘Hello?’

      A ghost.

      Soodding hell.

      Logan turned back to Rennie. ‘He was wearing a Tyvek suit! That’s why Professor Wilson’s dog went for the Scene Examiners: they were wearing the same SOC kit.’

      Rennie puckered his face. ‘Oooh … You know, after the BBC did that big documentary about the scumbags who abducted Alison and Jenny McGregor, it’s a miracle more criminals don’t do it. See if it was me?’

      ‘No wonder he didn’t leave any forensic traces.’ Logan poked at his keyboard, calling up the Police National Computer to run a search on Matt Lansdale.

      ‘He’s all dressed in white, he’s a ghost … Maybe we should call our abductor “Casper”?’

      ‘Only not so friendly. You didn’t see the blood spattered across the kitchen table.’ Logan’s search results popped up on the screen. Well, result singular, because only one entry came back: ‘REPORTED MISSING’ and last Wednesday’s date. Nothing else. ‘OK, back to the topic at hand: Matt Lansdale?’

      ‘Was he a finalist on X Factor?’

      Logan tossed the paper over. ‘Journos are implying his disappearance is connected to Prof Wilson’s. All I’m getting on the PNC is that he’s missing.’

      ‘Pfffff …’ Rennie frowned at Edward Barwell’s article. ‘Can find out, if you like?’

      ‘Ta.’

      ‘And while we’re on the subject: you’ll never guess what I’ve managed to organise for Saturday. Go on, guess. You can’t, but try.’ Wiggling both eyebrows. ‘OK, OK, get this: Princess Unicorn’s Magic Bouncy Castle! How cool is that?’

      Logan wheeled his chair back a bit, putting a little more distance between them. ‘Erm …’

      ‘And Mistress Fizzymiggins is doing a make-your-own-magic-wand-and-fairy-wings thing. And there’s going to be a pony!’

      A pony? Why would there be a …

      ‘Ah, right: Lola’s birthday party!’

      ‘Donna’s even written a special song for her little sister that doesn’t include the words “Bumface Brain”. Can you help out with the Fairyland pony rides?’

      ‘Actually—’

      ‘Great. Right, I’ll go see what I can dig up about Matt Lansdale.’ He sauntered off towards the main doors, taking the Scottish Daily Post with him. ‘And don’t forget, it’s BYOT!’

      BYOT?

      Logan curled his lip. ‘What the hell is BYOT?’

      But the doors thunked shut and Rennie was gone.

      The man was a menace.

      Logan stood to follow him … and stopped as Superintendent Bevan emerged from her office, holding a blue folder.

      She gave him a smile. ‘Ah, Logan. Good.’ Then peered past him, at the desk. ‘Oh, are those your sausages? Lovely.’ Bevan marched over and picked up the Tupperware box. ‘We’ll pop these in the fridge, then you can come join me in the conference room.’

      Why did that sound as if something horrible was about to happen?

       10

      Logan shifted in his squeaky leather seat. ‘I don’t know what else you want me to say.’

      Detective Superintendent Young frowned back at him from the oversized TV screen mounted on the far wall. To be honest, Young was a bit intimidating in person – being a rugby-player-sized lump with big meaty fists covered in scars. Throw in the small dark squinty eyes and he looked like the kind of person who’d tear your head off for spilling his pint or looking at him funny, and being on screen didn’t really diminish that.

      Jane McGrath was sitting next to him, in the boardroom at DHQ, as immaculate as ever, as if she’d been moulded from plastic. The only thing out of place was the expression on her face: as if she really wanted to scrape whatever she’d just stood in off her shoe.

      Young picked up his printout of the Scottish Daily Post’s front page, or at least the one that was meant to appear today, but hadn’t. ‘Was he in a terrorist

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