LITMIR.BIZ

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action on the North Sea oil platforms supplied with meat by Thompson’s Cash and Carry in Aberdeen. The workers are demanding immediate medical evacuation back to the mainland for tests to be carried out. One of the catering companies involved, spoke to our reporter—’

      ‘And how the hell am I supposed to DNA-test every missing person? You have any idea how many get reported in Grampian every year? Fucking thousands!’

      Logan let her rant for a bit, while he listened to the rest of the news. Then the radio announced it was time for Pick of the Pops. The IB technician said, ‘No you bloody don’t!’ grabbed it off the top of the superglue cabinet and stuffed it in the freezer, slamming the door on the jangly theme tune. ‘Elaine Paige is bad enough; I am not listening to Dale Sodding Winton!’

      ‘How’s he taking it?’ Faulds stuck a mug of milky coffee down in front of Logan. The canteen was quiet, just the two of them and the old man behind the counter.

      ‘Not great. His house’s been trashed, his dog’s been put to sleep, he’s got two traumatized kids, his wife’s in hospital with a breakdown, and his daughter’s dead …’ Logan stared into the depths of his mug. ‘Usually he just gets angry about stuff; don’t think I’ve ever seen him depressed before.’

      ‘There’s been an accident with that interview tape, by the way. Seems the whole … ahem, “episode”, was accidentally recorded over. Audio and video.’

      Logan nodded. At least there’d be no evidence that Insch tried to assault a prisoner in custody. ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Bloody interview’s going nowhere anyway. Wiseman won’t even cop to the things we’ve got him red-handed for – it’s like talking to a brick wall.’ Faulds emptied a couple of sugar packets into his latte. ‘I’m going to get the psychologist to talk to him. See if he can loosen the mortar a bit …’

      ‘Always works on the telly.’

      ‘I really wanted a confession before I had to go home, but there’s no chance of that now.’ He took a sip of his coffee, then added another sugar. ‘Got to get back to Birmingham tonight. Curse of the Chief Constable: they like to think they can manage on their own, but the whole place turns into Lord of the Flies if I’m away for more than a week.’

      ‘You going to come back up for the trial?’

      ‘Probably: couple of days, here and there. Depends what I’ve got on. But I’ll make the sentencing. Hell or high water I’m going to see that bastard put away for the rest of his life.’

      ‘Wait, wait, this is the best bit …’ Rennie pointed the remote control at the little telly in the CID office, cranking the sound up as Logan wandered in. There was a small knot of plainclothes officers listening to Chief Constable Faulds’ voice booming out of the speakers, sounding terrified: ‘TRACTOR! TRACTOR! TRACTOR!’ The picture lurched as the car braked hard and screeched back in behind a canary-yellow digger.

      ‘Don’t you lot have any work to do?’

      Rennie grinned at him. ‘Just doing a little teambuilding. Very impressive driving, by the way. I especially liked the way you tried to go through the hedge.’

      ‘Who the hell taught you to drive?’ Everyone laughed.

      But Logan really wasn’t in the mood. ‘You do know a little girl died during that, don’t you, Constable? Insch’s daughter. The one we had a bloody service for this morning!’

      The laughter stopped.

      ‘She’s lying there in the boot, bound and gagged, on her way to be sold to some paedophile. You still think it’s fucking funny?’ Logan snatched the remote out of Rennie’s hand and hit the eject button. Everyone suddenly seemed to remember they had something important to do. Elsewhere.

      Only Rennie remained, shuffling his feet. ‘Sorry Sarge. I wasn’t meaning to … you know.’ He pointed at the TV. ‘Alec made it up. It’s kind of a blooper reel. Now that we’ve caught Wiseman. You know: highlights of the case.’ He coughed. ‘They’ve even got that bit in it where DI McPherson trips over and … breaks his wrist … it … they put a funny soundtrack on it …’ He pulled the DVD from the machine and handed it to Logan. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’

      ‘Thought you were supposed to be dealing with those INTERPOL files.’

      ‘DI Steel said it was a waste of time and I had to try identifying the other victims instead. So I’m trolling through the misper lists looking for fatties … I mean larger men and women who fit the victim profile. Then getting stuff to DNA-sample. See if they match any of the chunks we found.’

      ‘Yeah, I heard.’ Logan turned the disk over – Alec had even made a cheesy label for the thing: ‘GRANITE CITY 999: LICENSED TO LAUGH’

      ‘Trouble is, half the buggers aren’t even missing any more. Three thousand misper reports last year, and does anyone bother to let us know when their nearest and dearest turn up safe and sound? Do they hell. What are we, psychic?’

      ‘Poor old Simon Rennie. Boo-hoo.’

      ‘Yeah, well … Word is we’re going get a case review.’

      Logan groaned. ‘When?’

      ‘No idea. Soon.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Strathclyde.’

      ‘I see …’ Strathclyde Police – where Jackie was. He’d not heard from her since she’d trashed the flat. He should take a leaf out of those home security lectures they kept having to give and get the locks changed, just in case she decided to come back and ‘redecorate’ again.

      ‘—tonight?’

      He looked up to find Rennie staring at him. ‘What?’

      ‘You know, in the old days at least you used to pretend you were listening. Do – you – want – to – go – out – tonight? Bowling and beer. I can ask Laura to bring along a friend if you like? You know, now that you and Jackie … well, you know.’

      ‘Thanks,’ Logan dropped the Granite City 999 DVD in the bin. ‘But I really don’t feel—’

      Rennie backed away. ‘Hey, just think about it, OK? No need to be miserable all your life.’

      ‘Shhhhhhh, shhhhhh…’ A cool hand on her hot forehead. ‘You’re burning up.’

      Heather shivered. ‘Cold …’

      Duncan frowned.‘You don’t look well—’

      Their dark metal prison stank: the acrid tang of vomit and the cloying reek of diarrhoea.

      ‘Thirsty …’

      ‘Sorry, Honey, there’s no water left.’

      ‘But I’m thirsty … oh God …’ She scrabbled into the corner and fumbled with the chemical toilet’s lid, grabbing the seat and retching. It was like being punched in the stomach time and time again, but all that came out was a bitter trickle of foul-tasting bile. ‘Oh God …’

      ‘Shhhh … it’ll be OK.’ Duncan helped her back to the mattress.‘How you feeling?’

      ‘I just want … I just want to die …’ Everything hurt. Her throat ached, mouth dry, lips cracked, pounding headache, cramps – all signs of acute dehydration. She’d seen a programme about it on the Discovery Channel.

      ‘You’re not well.’ He peeled a strand of hair from her clammy forehead. ‘You need to rest.’

      ‘So tired …’

      ‘That’s because you’re dying.’

      ‘I want … to go … home.’

      ‘I know, I know.’ He leaned

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