LITMIR.BIZ

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with Richie …’

      ‘Sorry,’ said Logan. ‘I had to give up too.’ He turned and picked the most recent-looking photo off the mantelpiece. A serious little boy, staring at the camera. ‘Can we take this with us?’

      She nodded and Logan handed it over to WPC Watson.

      Five minutes later they were standing in the small back garden, sheltering beneath a ridiculously little porch bolted on above the back door. The tiny square of grass was disappearing under a spreading network of puddles. About a dozen child’s toys were scattered about the place, the bright plastic shapes washed clean by the downpour. On the other side of the fence more houses stared back at him, grey and damp.

      Torry wasn’t the worst bit of the city, but was in the top ten. This was where Aberdeen’s fish processing factories were. Tons of white fish landed every week, all to be gutted and filleted by hand. Good money if you could handle the cold and the smell. Huge blue plastic bins of discarded fish guts and bones squatted on the roadside, the rain doing nothing to dissuade fat seagulls from swooping in to snatch a fish head or a beakful of innards.

      ‘What you think?’ asked Watson, sticking her hands deep in her pockets, trying to keep warm.

      Logan shrugged, watching water overflowing the seat of a bright yellow digger. ‘The house been searched?’

      Watson pulled out her notebook. ‘We got the call at eleven oh five. Mother was hysterical. Control sent round a couple of uniforms from the local Torry stationhouse. First thing they did was go through the place with a fine-toothed comb. He’s not hiding in the linen cupboard and his body’s not been stashed in the fridge freezer.’

      ‘I see.’ That digger was way too small for a five-year-old. In fact a lot of the toys looked as if they belonged in the age three-and-up bracket. Maybe Mrs Erskine didn’t want her little baby growing up?

      ‘You think she killed him?’ asked Watson, watching him stare out at the drenched garden.

      ‘No, not really. But if it turns out she has and we didn’t look … the press would crucify us. What about the father?’

      ‘’Cording to the neighbour he’s been dead since before the kid was born.’

      Logan nodded. That would explain why the woman was so overprotective. Didn’t want her son going the same way as his father. ‘So what’s the state of the search?’ he asked.

      ‘We’ve phoned his friends: no one’s seen him since Sunday afternoon.’

      ‘What about his clothes, favourite teddy bear, that kind of thing?’

      ‘All present and accounted for. So he’s probably not run away.’

      Logan gave the discarded toys one last look and went back into the house. The inspector would be here soon, looking for an update. ‘Er …’ He looked at Watson out of the corner of his eye as they walked through the kitchen and down the hallway towards the front door. ‘You’ve worked with DI Insch before, right?’

      WPC Watson admitted that she had.

      ‘So what’s with the—’ Logan mimed stuffing his face with fizzy cola bottles. ‘He trying to give up smoking?’

      Watson shrugged. ‘Dunno, sir. Maybe it’s some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder?’ She paused, brow furrowed in thought. ‘Or maybe he’s just a big fat bastard.’

      Logan didn’t know whether to laugh or look shocked.

      ‘Tell you one thing though, sir, he’s a damn good policeman. And you don’t fuck with him twice.’

      Somehow Logan had already come to that conclusion all on his own.

      ‘Right.’ He stopped at the front door. The hallway was festooned with photographs, just like the lounge. ‘Get that picture down to the nearest newsagents. We’ll need about a hundred photocopies and—’

      ‘The local boys have already done it, sir. They’ve got four officers going door to door all along the route Richard would have taken to the shops, handing them out.’

      Logan was impressed. ‘They don’t hang about.’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘OK, let’s get half a dozen uniform down here to give them a hand.’ He pulled out his mobile phone and started dialling, his finger freezing over the last number. ‘Oh, ho …’

      ‘Sir?’

      A flash-looking motor had pulled up at the kerb and out bustled a familiar, short figure, all wrapped up in a black overcoat, wrestling with a matching umbrella.

      ‘Looks like the vultures are circling already.’

      Logan grabbed a brolly from the hallway and stepped out into the rain. The icy water thrummed off the umbrella as he stood and waited for Colin Miller to climb the stairs.

      ‘Sergeant!’ said Miller, smiling. ‘Long time no see! You still carting that tasty …’ The smile became even broader as he saw WPC Watson scowling from the doorway. ‘Constable! We was just talking about you!’

      ‘What do you want?’ Her voice was even colder than the grey afternoon.

      ‘Business before pleasure, eh?’ Miller dug a fancy dictaphone out of his pocket and pointed it at them. ‘You’ve got another missing kid. Are you—’

      Logan frowned. ‘How did you know another child’s gone missing?’

      Miller pointed out at the rain-soaked road. ‘You’ve got patrol cars out broadcastin’ the kid’s description! How do you think I found out?’

      Logan tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt.

      Miller winked. ‘Ah, don’t worry about it. I make an arse of myself all the time, but.’ He held the dictaphone up again. ‘Now, is this disappearance connected to the recent discovery of—’

      ‘We have no comment to make at this time.’

      ‘Oh, come on!’

      Behind Miller another car had pulled up, this one with the BBC Scotland logo emblazoned down the side. The media were going to have a field day. Yesterday a little boy turned up dead, today another one had gone missing. They’d all be jumping to the same conclusion as Miller. He could see the headlines now: ‘HAS PAEDOPHILE KILLER STRUCK AGAIN?’ The Chief Constable would have a fit.

      Miller turned to see what Logan was staring at and froze. ‘How about if—’

      ‘I’m sorry, Mr Miller. I can’t give you any further details at this time. You’ll just have to wait for the official statement.’

      He didn’t have to wait long. Five minutes later DI Insch’s mud-splattered Range Rover pulled up. By then a little cordon of newspaper and television people had appeared, forming a wall of microphones and lenses at the foot of the steps, huddling beneath large black umbrellas. Just like a funeral.

      Insch didn’t bother getting out of his car, just wound down his window and waved Logan over. The cameras turned to watch Logan cross the road and stand in the rain beneath his borrowed umbrella by DI Insch’s window, trying not to wince at the smell of wet spaniel that oozed out of the car’s interior.

      ‘Aye, aye,’ said the inspector, nodding towards the ring of cameras. ‘Looks like we’re going to be on the telly tonight.’ He ran a hand over his bald head. ‘Good job I remembered to wash my hair.’

      Logan forced a smile. The scars crisscrossing his stomach were starting to bother him as last night’s punch in the guts made its presence felt.

      ‘Right,’ said Insch. ‘I’ve been authorized to release a statement to the media. Before I do, is there anything I need to know that’s going to make me look like an arse here?’

      Logan shrugged. ‘Far as we can tell the mother’s being straight with us.’

      ‘But?’

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