bottle of the painkillers he’d been given the first time he’d come out of the hospital, when the scars were still fresh. Logan pulled them out with a trembling hand, struggling with the childproof lid. He filled the glass with water, knocked back a couple of the pebble-sized capsules, and slouched into the shower.
He wasn’t feeling that much better by the time he was finished, but at least he didn’t smell like a cross between a brewery and an ashtray any more. He was halfway across the hall, rubbing a towel through his hair, when he heard a polite cough.
Logan spun around, heart suddenly racing, his hands balling into fists.
WPC Watson was standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of his old T-shirts and waggling a plastic fish slice at him. Her hair, released from its tight regulation bun, fell over her shoulders in dark brown curls. A pair of bare legs stuck out of the bottom of the T-shirt and they were very nice legs indeed.
‘Cold, is it?’ asked Watson with a smile and Logan suddenly realized he was standing there in the nip, with everything on show.
He clutched the towel swiftly over his exposed nether regions and a furnacelike blush worked its way from the soles of his feet all the way up to the top of his head.
Her smile slipped a bit and WPC Watson frowned, a small crease forming between her neat, brown eyebrows. She was staring at his stomach, where the scars covered the skin with little puckered trails.
‘Was it bad?’
Logan cleared his throat and nodded. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it,’ he said. ‘Er. . . I. . .’
‘Do you want a bacon buttie? There weren’t any eggs. Or much of anything else come to that.’
He stood, clutching his towel over his embarrassment, feeling the uncomfortable tingle of an approaching erection.
‘Well?’ she asked again: ‘Bacon buttie?’
‘Er, yeah. . . Thanks, that’d be great.’
She turned back into the kitchen and Logan ran for the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. God, how drunk did they get last night? Not to be taken with alcohol! He couldn’t remember a thing. He didn’t even know her first name. How could he sleep with someone when he didn’t even know her first name?
He scrubbed himself with the towel, threw it in the corner and fought his still-damp feet into a pair of black socks.
How the hell could he let this happen? He was a DS and she was a WPC. They worked together. He was her superior officer! DI Insch would have a fit if he started seeing a WPC on his team!
Hopping on one leg, he got his trousers on before realizing he’d forgotten to put on any pants. So off came the trousers again.
‘What the hell have you done, you idiot?’ he asked the panicking reflection in the mirror. ‘She works for you!’ The reflection looked back at him, the consternation slowly slipping into a knowing smile. ‘Aye, but she’s not bad is she?’
Logan had to admit that the reflection had a point. WPC Watson was smart, attractive. . . And she could beat the shit out of anyone who used her as a one night stand. She wasn’t called ‘Ball Breaker’ for nothing: that’s what DI Insch had said!
‘Oh God. . .’ A fresh white shirt came out of the wardrobe and he almost strangled himself with a paisley patterned tie before charging back out into the hall. Logan stopped before he got to the kitchen. What the hell was he going to do? Should he come clean and admit he couldn’t remember anything? He grimaced. That would go down well: ‘Hi, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember having sex with you. Was it good?’ Yeah, and oh, by the way: ‘What’s your name?’
There was nothing else for it: he’d have to keep his mouth shut and let her make the first move. Logan took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen.
The room smelled of frying bacon and stale beer. WPC Watson and her lovely legs were standing in front of the cooker, poking about in the frying pan, making the bacon hiss and crackle. Logan was about to say something complimentary to break the ice when someone spoke behind him, making him jump out of his skin.
‘Urrrrrrghhhh. . . Shift over, I don’t think I can stand up much longer.’
Logan turned to find a rumpled young man with a rough growth of stubble and bleary eyes, dressed in casual clothes and scratching his arse, waiting for Logan to clear the way to the kitchen.
‘Sorry,’ Logan mumbled, letting the youth slouch past and collapse into a chair.
‘Gnnnnnnnn, my head,’ said the newcomer, burying the offending article in his hands and letting it sink to the tabletop.
Watson looked over her shoulder and saw Logan standing there, all done up in his work suit. ‘Sit yourself down,’ she told him, grabbing a couple of slices of white bread from a new loaf and slapping about half a pack of fried bacon between them. She thumped it down on the tabletop, and chucked more bacon into the pan.
‘Er . . . thanks,’ said Logan.
The hungover young man sitting on the other side of the table looked vaguely familiar. Was it one of the search team? The one who spilled lager over that bearded bloke from CID? Watson slammed another bacon buttie onto the table, this time in front of the groaning PC.
‘You didn’t have to make breakfast,’ said Logan, smiling at Watson as she tipped the last of the smoked streaky into the frying pan. A big cloud of hissing steam rose from the pan and she waved it away with the fish slice, little droplets of fat falling from the plastic utensil to splatter on the work surface.
‘What, you’d rather he did it?’ she asked, pointing at the PC. He didn’t look as if he’d make it as far as the toilet if the bacon buttie decided to give him any trouble. ‘Don’t know about you, but I like my breakfast chunk free.’
Another face Logan only partially recognized appeared around the kitchen door. ‘God, Steve,’ it said, ‘look at the state of ye! If Insch catches you like that he’ll have a fit. . .’ He stopped when he saw Logan sitting there in his nice clean suit. ‘Mornin’, sir. Good party last night. Thanks for putting us up.’
‘Er. . . Don’t mention it.’ Party?
The face smiled. ‘Ooooooh! Nice legs, Jackie! God, bacon butties. Any chance—’
‘Bugger all,’ said Watson, grabbing another two slices of white and stuffing them with the last of the bacon. ‘MacNeil only got four packs and they’re all gone. Anyway, I gotta get ready.’ She grabbed the tomato sauce off the counter top and squeezed an indecent amount of thick red into the buttie. ‘You should have got out your pit earlier.’
The new face creased up with unconcealed envy as WPC Jackie Watson ripped a huge bite out of her buttie. She chewed away contentedly with a large tomato sauce smile plastered across her face.
Not one to give up easily, the man Logan still couldn’t place sat himself down on the last remaining chair and lent his elbows on the tabletop. ‘God, Steve,’ he said, his voice dripping with concern, ‘you really look rough. Are you sure you’re OK to eat that?’ He pointed at the bacon buttie sitting on the tabletop. ‘It looks really, really greasy.’
Watson’s mouth was full of food, but she
