LITMIR.BIZ

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to do all that.’

      ‘Aye. Fuckin’ big door.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘But I wasnae here Monday night. Couldn’t fuckin’ move Monday, let alone work.’ She sighed. ‘No’ that I’m gonnae do much business lookin’ like this…’ Her voice trailed off into silence, her eyes focused on the past rather than the darkened streets.

      ‘Then why are you out here?’

      She shrugged. ‘Got mouths to feed. You know? And heroin’s a fuckin’ hungry wee bastard.’

      Twenty-two hundred hours: the start of Thursday’s night shift. It had been a day for lounging about in bed, only getting up when Jackie came back from work at five. Fish and chips for dinner/breakfast and then back to bed for a bit. This time with company. So it was a pretty happy Logan who sauntered up the street to FHQ at ten to ten. There was an air of doom and gloom about the place as he pushed through the front doors. Sergeant Eric Mitchell was sitting behind the reception desk, engrossed in a copy of the Evening Express, the lights reflecting off his ever-expanding bald spot. He looked up, displaying a wide Wyatt Earp-style moustache, and scowled. ‘What the hell you looking so damn cheerful about?’

      Logan smiled back. ‘And good evening to you too, Eric. I am smiling because it has been a lovely day. What’s got your moustache in a twist? Big Gary nick all the custard creams?’

      Eric just scowled and held up the Evening Express so Logan could see the paper’s front page with its headline, POLICE RAID WRONG ADDRESS! There was a large photo: dozens of patrol cars, vans and uniformed officers milling about outside a converted church in Tillydrone.

      Logan tried not to grin. At least he wasn’t the only one to screw up a raid this month. ‘Where were they supposed to be?’

      ‘Kincorth.’ Eric slammed the paper back on the desk. ‘Silly bastards. Like we don’t have enough to worry about!’ He poked a sidebar next to the picture. POLICE INCOMPETENCE: CITY COUNCILLOR SPEAKS OUT. ‘Wee shite’s been gagging for another excuse to make us look like arseholes.’ Eric scowled at the little black-and-white photo of Councillor Holier-Than-Thou Marshall doing his usual smug slug impression. Then Eric remembered he had a message for Logan. ‘DI Steel says get your arse up to her office, soon as you get in.’

      Just like Inspector Napier’s lair, DI Steel’s office reflected its owner: cramped, untidy and stinking of stale cigarettes. She was sat behind her desk, feet up, cup of coffee in one hand, mobile phone in the other, fag dangling out the corner of her mouth. She waved Logan to take a seat as she pinned the phone between her ear and shoulder, before rummaging about in a desk drawer, coming out with a little black notebook and a pen.

      ‘Course I love you,’ she said, the end of the cigarette bobbing up and down, letting loose a half-inch avalanche of ash. ‘Yes… You know I do… No, I’d never do that…’ She scribbled something awkwardly on the pad and threw it across the desk to Logan. ‘You know I do… Susan, you’re the most important thing in my life… Yes… Yes…’

      Logan peered at the spidery scrawl. YOU IDENTIFIED THAT TART YET? He gave the inspector a puzzled look and she rolled her eyes, waving a hand at him, asking for the pad back.

      ‘Yes, Susan, you know I do…’ She scribbled another note. LAST NIGHT – THE ONE WHO SAW MCKINNON? Logan shook his head and Steel said, ‘Damn… What? Oh, no, not you, Susan, I dropped something … yes … uhuh…’ She demanded the pad back and left Logan a final message: FUCK OFF TO THE CANTEEN. I’LL BE UP IN A BIT.

      He was on his second mug of milky tea and halfway through a bacon buttie when DI Steel finally slouched into the canteen. ‘Christ, I’m fucking starving,’ she said, slumping down on the other side of the table and sighing. ‘Right, first things first.’ She dragged out a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal and placed it on the tabletop. ‘Care to explain this?’ She pointed at the headline: DRY RUN FOR SUITCASE-TORSO MURDERER. Colin Miller had worked his usual magic, weaving Logan’s suspicions into a pretty good story. Not surprising he was the newspaper’s golden boy.

      ‘I spoke to him last night,’ said Logan as he read, groaning at every mention of ‘Police Hero Logan “Lazarus” McRae’. Whenever Miller put him in the bloody paper, Angus Robertson – the Mastrick Monster – was always wheeled out to justify Logan’s ‘hero’ status.

      ‘And the reason you screwed over my investigation?’ Steel’s voice was level, cold. Dangerous. But Logan didn’t notice.

      ‘Whoever it is, they’re counting on the dog being a full, proper, dry run, OK?’ he said with a smile. ‘So the fact we found the body and released details to the press, means our killer-to-be knows we’re on to them. It’s one thing to kill a dog and dump it, but it’s a hell of a lot more difficult to do it to a human being, especially when you know the police are wise to you.’

      ‘Well,’ she said, settling back in her seat, giving Logan the benefit of a hyena smile. ‘Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out, doesn’t it?’ He nodded and she let the smile grow colder. ‘Let’s get one thing crystal, Mr Police Hero: this is not a fucking democracy I’m running here. You do what I tell you – when I tell you, not whatever you fucking feel like!’ Logan flinched as the inspector hammered on: ‘And you know what? This time I actually agree with you, but that does not excuse going to the press behind my fucking back to get your name all over the papers!’

      Logan dropped his half-eaten buttie back onto his plate. ‘I … I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d—’

      ‘No you didn’t, did you? But I fucking well do!’ She snatched up the fallen buttie and ripped a huge bite out of it. ‘I’m getting fucked over enough already,’ she mumbled round a mouthful of bacon and bread, ‘I don’t need you adding to my bloody problems.’

      Logan sat quietly in his seat, thinking this was a great way to start a working day: yet another bollocking. ‘Sorry,’ he said at last.

      ‘Just don’t do it again, OK?’ DI Steel popped the last of Logan’s buttie in her gob and chewed unhappily in silence. ‘Right,’ she said when she’d finished. ‘On a lighter note: I read your report on last night. Result. Or it would have been if you hadn’t lost the tart.’ She saw the look on Logan’s face. ‘I know: you did your best. Keep an eye out for her tonight. You can take DC Rennie with you; I’ve shifted him onto nights as well. Keep him out of trouble.’ She stood and ferreted about in her pockets for a packet of rumpled cigarettes. ‘Oh, and before I forget: I want to interview McKinnon again tomorrow. See what the bleach-blond, spiky-haired, murdering wee shite has to say for himself after a night in Craiginches.’

      ‘I’m supposed to be off tomorrow! Jackie’s got plans, I—’

      ‘For God’s sake! A woman’s been murdered and all you can think about is getting your leg over?’ Logan blushed. ‘Look,’ said the inspector, ‘it’s not going to take all day to re-interview Jamie McKinnon. You can see your tasty WPC after, OK?’ That, on top of his recent bollocking, just made Logan feel even more guilty.

      ‘Yes, ma’am.’

      ‘Good boy. And while you’re about tonight, go see if they’ve done a post mortem on that bloody dog yet. And don’t spend all night in the arms of some prozzie down the docks. I’m not signing off any expense form with “blowjobs” on it.’

      DC Rennie looked so much like a plainclothes policeman it was scary. Even in jeans and a leather jacket something about him just screamed ‘LOOK AT ME: I’M A POLICEMAN!’ Not surprisingly they didn’t have a lot of luck speaking to the ladies plying their trade around Aberdeen harbour that night. And their punters weren’t stopping either, not with DC Conspicuous hanging around. So all Logan and Rennie got for their night’s work was several filthy mouthfuls of abuse.

      Come half past twelve they’d been around the neighbourhood half a dozen times. There was still no sign of the fourteen-year-old Lithuanian, or her minder. ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers.’ DC Rennie slumped back against

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