LITMIR.BIZ

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were a rectangle of precipice-sided parkland, sinking way below street level. Steep grassy banks on two sides with huge beech trees clinging on precariously. A small bandstand sat at the bottom, sparkling with a fresh coat of paint. And on the far side the floral clock offered its multicoloured blooms to the cloudless sky and warm August sun. Picture-postcard time.

      At the corner of Union Terrace a large white-marble statue of King Edward VII held court; his shoulders regally speckled with pigeon droppings. There was a row of benches in a semi-circle behind the king, there so his closest advisors could drink strong cider and lager, straight from the tin, at ten past nine on a Wednesday morning.

      They were a fairly mixed bunch: one or two genuine tramps in the regulation filthy suit-trousers, stained vests and crusted sores, others in jeans and tatty leathers, defying the blazing sunshine. Steel cast her eye across the assembled early morning drinkers and pointed at a young woman with pierced ears, nose and lips, heavy black-and-white make-up and lank, pink hair. She was swigging from a tin of Red Stripe.

      ‘Morning, Suzie.’ The inspector flicked the last half-inch of her cigarette over the railing. ‘How’s your wee brother keeping these days?’

      On closer inspection the girl wasn’t as young as Logan had first thought. Thirty-five if she was a day. That thick layer of white make-up was hiding a multitude of sins, and spots as well. Her face had a rough texture to it, the black-lipped mouth lined like a chicken’s bum. When she spoke her accent was broad Aberdonian. ‘Havenae seen the manky sod fer weeks.’

      ‘No?’ Steel flopped down on the bench next to her, smiling. She draped her arm across the back of the bench so it encircled the woman’s shoulders.

      Suzie shifted uncomfortably. ‘You tryin’ tae poof me up?’ she asked.

      ‘You should be so bloody lucky. No: I want your wee brother. Where is he?’

      ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Suzie took a long swig at her lager. ‘Been shaggin’ that old whore of his.’

      ‘Funny you should mention that, Suzie, you see, that “old whore” turned up yesterday morning battered to death. And Jamie’s no’ exactly shy with his fists, is he?’

      The girl stiffened. ‘Jamie didnae kill nobody.’ What the hell was Steel playing at? Logan could see the shutters coming down: they weren’t going to get anything out of her now! Steel should have played it cool, pretended it was nothing important, not gone charging in with both bloody feet! No wonder she was in charge of the Screw-Up Squad.

      ‘Tell you what,’ said Steel, handing over a dog-eared Grampian Police business card. ‘You have a wee think about it and give me a call, OK?’ She stood and lit another cigarette, coughing as the smoke worked its way into her lungs.

      Suzie told the inspector exactly what she could do with her business card, threw back the last of her lager, and stormed off.

      Logan waited until the girl was out of earshot. ‘Why did you tell her Rosie was dead? She’s never going to tell us where Jamie is now!’

      DI Steel’s smile became predatory. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mr Police Hero. She’s going to tell us exactly where he is. She just doesn’t know it yet.’ The inspector stood up on her tiptoes, following Suzie McKinnon’s progress up Union Street. ‘Come on then, we don’t want to lose her.’ She marched straight across the street, narrowly missing getting squashed by a bus, with Logan in nervous pursuit. On the other side of the road she clambered into the passenger seat of an illegally parked Vauxhall. DC Rennie was behind the wheel, wearing a pair of trendy sunglasses, and as soon as Logan was ensconced in the back, they were off.

      They spotted Suzie easily enough – her black leather get-up and pink hair stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the summer clothes – she crossed the road, just shy of the Music Hall’s Doric columns, hurrying off down Crown Street. Rennie kept well back, trying not to look like a kerb crawler. Ten minutes later they were parked opposite a basement flat in Ferryhill. The street wasn’t in the best of shapes, a collection of pothole pockmarks and different coloured patches of tarmac making it look like Frankenstein’s monster with acne. A rusty old Ford Escort was dying at the kerbside, bleeding oil. A quick PNC check confirmed it belonged to one James Robert McKinnon. Steel smiled at Logan. ‘Do you want me to say, “I told you so” now or later?’

      The door to the building wasn’t locked, so Logan and DI Steel pushed straight through to the stairs leading down to the basement apartment. DC Rennie stayed out front, in case Jamie tried to do a runner.

      Down in the mildew-smelling corridor Steel was just about to knock when a thought occurred to her. ‘Are you up to this?’ she asked Logan. ‘What with your Achilles stomach and all.’

      ‘It was nearly two years ago!’ he hissed. ‘I’m fine.’ Liar. The scars on his stomach still hurt when the weather changed, or he bent down too quickly.

      DI Steel knocked gently on the door, putting on a Fife accent to ask if Jamie had seen her cat. A key rattled in the lock and a stressed-looking man, wearing a rumpled Burger King uniform, opened the door. Spiky, bleached-blond hair, bloodshot eyes, slightly overweight, podgy nose, daft little beard thing clinging on to the end of his chin for dear life.

      ‘I haven’t seen any bloody…’ His eyes went wide. ‘Shite!’ And the door was slammed shut. Or would have been if DI Steel didn’t have her boot jammed into the gap. She swore as the wood mashed into her foot and Jamie McKinnon bolted back into the flat.

      ‘Ayabastard!’ Hopping in the corridor, Steel clutched her injured foot while Logan charged past, through into a grotty hallway. A door at one end of the hall led to the lounge – Suzie was standing in the middle of the room, a fresh tin of Red Stripe in her hand and a shocked expression on her face. No sign of Jamie. Logan spun around to see the door to a filthy little bathroom lying open, and at the far end the door to the kitchen bouncing off the wall and swinging itself shut again.

      Cursing, he sprinted for the kitchen. Why couldn’t Jamie have made a break for the front, where DC Rennie could have clobbered him one? He burst through the door just in time to see Jamie’s backside disappearing through the open kitchen window. The back door was blocked by an ancient washing machine, so Logan had no choice but to clamber through the window after him, and up a small set of steps into the back garden. Jamie was hoofing it hell for leather across the yellowing grass, towards the six-foot-high back wall, where the buildings backed onto the next row of tenements. Gritting his teeth, Logan chased after him.

      For once luck was on Logan’s side; as Jamie got within lunging distance of the wall his feet tangled in the trailing end of a clothesline. He went down hard, banging his face on a huge, abandoned red plastic fire engine. Swearing, he clasped a hand over his nose – blood welling up between his fingers – and struggled to his feet. Just in time for Logan to tackle him and send them both sprawling to the scabby-yellow grass again.

      The impact was enough to set the scar tissue screaming across Logan’s stomach, leaving him hissing in pain while Jamie scrambled to his feet and jumped for the back wall. He had one leg over the top when Logan grabbed the other one and yanked him back into the garden. Jamie’s chin caught the top of the wall, snapping his head back as he clattered straight down into the rosebush growing at the bottom, breaking the fall with his face, sending pink petals flying.

      Breathing hard, Logan jumped on him, twisted Jamie’s arm up behind his back and snapped on the handcuffs. As the swearing started, Logan slumped against the wall and tried to convince himself that his stomach didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as it really did. When the pain finally settled down, he hauled Jamie to his feet.

      Burger King weren’t going to be too happy about the state of their uniform. Blood ran freely from Jamie’s squashed nose and torn lip, his face a network of thin scratches that oozed red. He looked as if he’d done ten rounds with Mike Tyson’s cat. Swearing, he spat a mouthful of blood out into the rosebush. ‘You made me bite my fuckin’ tongue!’

      ‘Jesus, Logan,’ said Steel when he finally dragged Jamie back into the basement flat. ‘I told

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