headstone, the name barely legible on the weather-beaten granite. ‘What’s the point of having a memorial service when she’s not even dead?’
‘Too late to back out now. Look at it …’ Steel waved a hand, indicated the milling throng packing the graveyard, the TV crews, the huge screens and speakers. ‘Celebration of a wee girl’s life and all these famous buggers actually setting foot in Aberdeen for a change. They’re here anyway, what else they going to do, go down Codonas and play on the dodgems?’
‘Ooh, ooh! Look, it’s Robbie Williams!’ The only thing Rennie didn’t do was clap his hands as he jumped up and down. ‘ROBBIE!’
‘Next time, I’m not going to thump you, I’m going to knee you in the balls.’
Rennie’s face fell. ‘Inspector …?’
‘Don’t be such a jobbie, Laz. Rennie, you scurry off and wet your wee star-struck panties if you like.’
‘Thanks, Guv!’ Rennie pushed his way through the crowd, making for the progression of VIPs. ‘God, there’s the bloke off Cash In The Attic!’
Logan watched him go. ‘Next time we’re at the vet, I’m getting him fixed.’
‘Let the wee loon have some fun.’ She pulled out her fake cigarette, switched it on, and took a puff. ‘Finnie’s got a team going through all the missing kid reports, see if we can get a match on the toe. Bastards must’ve got it from somewhere.’
Logan shifted, the tombstone’s cold leaching through his suit jacket. ‘If it is a paedophile ring they might’ve had her for years …’ There was a comforting thought. ‘Might not even be local – they could’ve bought her off the Eastern Europeans.’ In which case they’d probably never know who she was. ‘Who’s SIO?’
Steel pulled her mouth down at the edges and took a long hard sook on the plastic cigarette. ‘McPherson.’
‘You’re kidding – they made McPherson Senior Investigating Officer? DI Disaster?’
‘All he’s got to do is go through the misper reports and get DNA samples. No’ even McPherson can screw that up.’ Another sook. ‘I hope …’
Rennie had shoved his way to the front of the crowd lining the path, waving his hands at someone Logan vaguely recognized from the TV.
‘I can’t believe they put McPherson in charge of a murder inquiry.’
‘Give it a rest, eh?’ DI Steel went for a dig in her armpit. ‘With any luck we’ll catch the bugger long before McPherson ruins …’ She pursed her lips. ‘There he is.’
Who?’
She pointed at a bald bloke with ridiculous sideburns and a pedestal-matt-style soul patch. Gordon Maguire – MD of Blue-Fish-Two-Fish Productions. Fancy black suit and expensive-looking T-shirt with a skull and crossbones on it. Sunglasses. Big cheesy grin.
He was waving to people as he strolled towards the church. Signing the occasional autograph.
‘You want to question him?’
‘Alternative line of enquiry Laz. Watch and learn.’
‘You think he …’ Logan stared. Someone had ducked under the blue-and-white tape and out onto the path: a rumpled, chinless sack of skin with a big hooked nose. Michael Larson. The git from the Edinburgh Evening Post.
A photographer stumbled onto the path behind him. Click, flash, whirr, click …
‘Mr Maguire, is it true you obtained a dead girl’s toe in order to con people into buying your so-called “charity record”, when—’
‘Complete rubbish, we’re here to celebrate the fact that Jenny’s still alive.’ Maguire turned and pumped his fists in the air. ‘JENNY’S STILL ALIVE!’
A huge cheer.
‘Mr Maguire, your company—’
‘I think it’s disgusting that you’re exploiting this terrible tragedy to sell your sleazy newspaper. You should be ashamed of yourself. THE REST OF US ARE GOING TO FOCUS ON GETTING JENNY AND HER MUM BACK ALIVE! AREN’T WE?’
Another huge cheer.
The reporter glanced at his photographer – still snapping away – and back. ‘I put it to you, that you’re a heartless—’
‘NOTHING MATTERS MORE TO ME THAN JENNY AND ALISON’S SAFETY!’
Cheer.
Someone reached out and shoved Michael Larson, sending him lurching to the other side of the walkway, knocking over a traffic cone, where someone else shoved him back.
‘Get off me!’
Gordon Maguire stuck a hand in the middle of the reporter’s chest and pushed past. ‘WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR SLEAZY JOURNALISTS, DO WE?’
A resounding ‘NO!’ echoed back from the headstones.
Logan shifted his feet, feeling for the little canister of pepper-spray in his pocket. ‘Inspector?’
‘Meh, not like Larson needs all his teeth anyway. A wee spanking might do the boy some good.’
The reporter was shoved again, this time hard enough to make him clatter to the ground. Then a grunt, as someone’s boot thumping into his ribs. Then another. Then a blister of people burst out onto the path, buckling the line of tape, hauling the reporter back between the graves, punches raining down onto his head and chest.
‘BASTARD!’
‘PEOPLE LIKE YOU MAKE ME SICK!’
‘FUCKIN’ HIT HIM!’
Steel sighed, then twisted the filter on her e-cigarette. ‘Suppose we better go do something.’ Stuck her hands in her pockets. Stared up at the clouds.
‘Fine …’ Logan dragged out his pepper-spray and shoved his way through the crowd. ‘POLICE! MOVE IT!’
By the time he’d fought his way to the path, Gordon Maguire was on his way again, smiling and waving at the crowd.
Logan pushed into the crowd on the other side. ‘BREAK IT UP!’
Feet thumped down on the reporter’s chest and head. He was curled on his side, arms covering his face, shrieking. ‘HELP ME!’
‘I SAID BREAK IT UP!’ People parted in front of Logan. Black suits, jeans, skirts, cargo-pants, forming a little ring around the groaning, bloody figure on the ground. Blood trickled from Larson’s ear, poured from his nose. His face was already beginning to swell.
‘Bunch of bastards …’ Logan squatted over the reporter. ‘You OK?’
A groan. A cough. A spatter of blood on trampled grass, a tooth glistening pink in a puddle of dark red.
That
