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be a risk to the Professor Wilson investigation, anyway.’

      ‘I hope not, Logan. I really do. Politically, there’s a lot riding on this one and if DI King slips up …’ A pained expression pulled her mouth down. ‘Keep an eye on him for me, will you? Be his shadow for a day or two. Actually, better make it three, just in case. Because the fallout would be horrific.’

      Not quite as horrific as what she was making. Those testicular bits were getting bigger …

      Look at something else!

      Anything else!

      How about … that big frame on the wall, the one with the ancient green-and-white car and the speeding ticket?

      ‘Err … so you’re into classic cars?’ Pointing at it.

      ‘Hmm?’ She glanced up from her crocheted codpiece. ‘Oh, no. I keep that as a reminder. Oh, I used to love that Hillman Minx. Got done for speeding, when I was nineteen. Five K over the speed limit, so that’s about …’ Working it out. ‘Three miles an hour too fast? But the cops in Auckland were very strict about that kind of thing.’ More testicalling. ‘So I keep it as a reminder.’

      Crochet, crochet, crochet.

      OK …

      ‘Of what?’

      ‘I was nineteen, I was in teachers’ college, and I was in a hurry to get home after yet another day’s placement at Blockhouse Bay Primary School – “going on section” we called it, part of the training.’ A sigh. ‘So I broke the speed limit. And now look at me!’ She tugged at the ball bags, flattening them out. ‘It reminds me that we all make mistakes, Logan. We all deserve a second chance.’

      Fair enough.

      ‘Like DI King?’

      ‘Exactly.’ She looked up from her willy warmer. ‘I don’t like our officers being savaged by the press, Logan. I don’t like it one little bit.’

      ‘Have you tried calling the journalist: see if they’ll tell you what they’ve got on King?’

      ‘Tricky. You give credence to the allegations just by questioning them. Next thing you know, the press is full of stories about how Professional Standards are investigating him. That, or accusing us of being involved in a cover-up.’ Creases appeared between her eyebrows as she added another layer to the crocheted horror. ‘I suppose, if you think you can pull it off? But try not to stir up more trouble than we’re already in, OK?’

      Lovely: a poisoned chalice, all of his very own.

      Logan pointed at the door. ‘So, should I …?’

      There was a ding, then a buzz, and Bevan’s huge iPhone skittered on the desktop. She peered over the top of her glasses at the screen. Sighed and shook her head. ‘Honestly! Some husbands send their wives dick picks, what do I get?’ She let go of the wool and turned the phone around, so Logan could see.

      It was a photo of a man’s mid-section, bit of trousers, belt, and waist. A big yellow banana poked out of his flies.

      ‘I swear that man is sixty-one going on twelve.’

      So that’s who the willy warmer was for.

      Logan stood. ‘Well, I’d better be—’

      ‘Sergeant Rennie says you taught him all he knows.’

      Typical Rennie: rotten little clype was probably trying to spread the blame.

      ‘That depends on what he’s done.’

      ‘Inspiring people is always a good thing.’ She smiled. ‘Have you considered what you’re going to do when your tour of Professional Standards is over? Which branch of NE Division you’d like to move into?’

      ‘Erm …’

      ‘And you’re not restricted to NE Division – now that we’re all one big happy Police Scotland family, you could take your pick: Tayside, Highlands and Islands, Fife? I’m sure your Queen’s Medal will open all manner of doors.’

      ‘Hadn’t really thought about it.’

      ‘You should, Logan. You should. The next ten months will fly by and then … poof! Professional Standards’ loss will be someone else’s gain.’ She held up the multicoloured willy warmer, letting the dangly bit … dangle. ‘I think it’s coming along nicely, don’t you?’

      Urgh!

      ‘I really don’t think I—’

      ‘Now I’ve got the trunk and the ears done I can move on to Mr Haathee’s body and legs.’

      Logan looked from the dangly bit to the dirty crocheted elephant perched on top of the filing cabinet with one of its button eyes hanging off.

      Oh thank God for that.

      ‘Anyway, I won’t keep you.’ She went back to her non-willy-warming elephant. ‘Let me know how you get on with your journalist.’

      No idea whose desk this was, but they had a serious Twilight problem. The cubicle walls were covered in posters of various greasy-looking sparkly vampires and shirtless young men smouldering for the camera. Not exactly wholesome.

      Logan drew smiley faces on half a dozen Post-its and stuck them over the actors’ pouts, giving the desk a much more festive air. Then he logged on to his email and pulled up the front page of the Scottish Daily Post they’d been sent. The one with DI King’s face and ‘TOP MURDER COP WAS IN SCOTNAT TERROR GROUP’.

      According to the byline, it’d been written by ‘SENIOR REPORTER, EDWARD BARWELL’ along with a mobile number and ‘HAVE YOU GOT A BREAKING STORY?’

      Logan pulled over the desk phone and dialled.

      While it rang, he called up a web browser and googled Barwell. The Post’s website showed an earnest-looking man in his early twenties, hair slicked back on top and very, very short at the sides. The kind of person who thought a checked waistcoat and a tweed jacket made him look both trendy and respectable, but came off more middle-aged Rupert the Bear. The list of articles that accompanied the photo suggested—

      A voice in his ear: ‘Edward Barwell.’

      ‘Mr Barwell? It’s Inspector McRae from North East Division. Have you got a minute to talk about DI Frank King?’

       ‘On or off the record?’

      ‘Off.’

       ‘Why? What don’t you want people to know about?’

      Nope, not playing that game.

      ‘OK. I’m sorry for bothering you. Bye.’ Logan had the handset halfway to the cradle when Barwell’s voice belted out of the earpiece:

       ‘Wait, wait! OK, off the record it is.’

      Better.

      ‘You emailed through tomorrow’s front page and I’m looking into your allegations.’

      ‘Allegations?’ A laugh. ‘You’re kidding, right? They’re not allegations, Inspector …?’

      ‘McRae.’

       ‘Right, and is that M.A.C. or M.C.?’

      ‘It’s spelled: “off-the-record”, remember?’

      ‘Force of habit.’ There was a pause. Then, ‘Your DI King was in a Scottish Nationalist terrorist cell. I’ve enough dirt to run this for three or four days.’

      Well that complicated things.

      Logan opened his notebook and dug out a pen. ‘You’ve got proof he was involved in terrorist activities?’

      ‘You’re

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