Seven crates and her one made eight – same as the number of tentapoles on an octopus.
Mouses skitter-pattered across the dirt floor between them, on teeny pink feet, their eyes shiny as black marbles, teeny pink noses twitching, teeny pink ears swivelling.
One of them crept closer to Ellie’s crate, sniffing, whiskers twitching.
It slid between two of the wooden bits, even though the gap was only big enough to poke a finger.
A tiny mousey, with its twitchy tail and its sniffy nose.
She held her breath as it stared at her, then inched towards what was left of her sammitch – just the crusts, because they were icky.
Soft and fluffy mousey.
Ellie tried to make a smile, but the big red ball in her mouth was all difficult, so she did gentle crooning noises instead. Grubby fingers reaching, reaching…
The mousey looked at her, pointy head on one side as her fingers got closer and closer.
Then she’d got him! She’d got the mousey! And he was all soft and fuzzy and warm and she would call him Whiskers and Whiskers would be her best—
Whiskers squeaked and sank his teeth into her thumb and it stung and it hurt and teeny drops of blood fell out of her thumb and she dropped Whiskers cos he’d bitted her!
Bad mousey!
She snatched her hand away and he tumbled to the floor, scampering back out through a gap in the wooden boards.
He bitted her…
Her thumb thumped and stung and throbbed and there was nobody to kiss it better.
Ellie slumped against the crate walls as big snottery sobs rattled out of her.
She only wanted a friend.
Everything was horrid and cold and unfair and her thumb hurt and SHE WANTED TO GO HOME!
And outside, in the Scary Room, someone else started crying too – all muffled and sniffy. Then the other someone, till all three of them were snuffling in the darkness. Like little piggies, waiting to be turned into sausages.
The letterbox went chlack, and that morning’s Aberdeen Examiner thumped onto the bare floorboards. Logan bent to pick it up, as the light on the papergirl’s bike faded through the rippled glass.
He held his mug against his chest, its warmth seeping into the bare skin. Probably should have put on a bit more than jammie bottoms, but hey-ho.
A noise mumbled out from the bedroom upstairs.
Logan took a sip of coffee and unrolled the newspaper, heading back through into the living room.
The Examiner’s front page carried a big picture of DI Bell’s crashed hire car, beneath the headline ‘“SUICIDE COP”’ FAKED OWN DEATH’.
A grunt. ‘“By Colin Miller.” Of course it is.’
Logan tossed the paper onto the couch and kept going to the open patio doors. Had another sip of coffee.
Twenty past seven and the sky was a dirty shade of charcoal, the first rumours of dawn catching at the horizon. A thin drizzle misted its way across the gloomy expanse of grass and weeds and bushes and trees. Going to be an absolute nightmare getting all that whipped in to shape. No point worrying about it now, though – had the house to do first.
He scratched at his checked jammie bottoms and yawned – a proper jaw-cracking one – then sagged. ‘Pfff…’
Cthulhu sat right at the edge of the veranda, on a little stump of log, just out of reach of the rain. Logan wandered over and squatted beside her. Tried to ignore the popping sounds his knees made. Goosebumps rippled his bare arms as he rubbed the fur between her ears. Soft and warm. She mrowped.
‘Don’t start – I’ve taken my pills, OK? Did it first thing, so Tara wouldn’t see.’ He smiled. ‘What makes you think that? Was it the sleeping together? Of course I like her.’
Cthulhu turned big dark eyes on him.
‘Well, yes, I know she snores, but so do you.’ More between-the-ear rubbing. ‘That’s very true, she is less of a nutjob than my usual.’
A stretch, then Cthulhu thumped down from her perch and sashayed back into the living room.
‘Yes, OK. You’re right: “so far”.’ Logan stood. ‘But we can always—’
‘Logan?’
He turned and there was Tara, wearing one of his old baggy hoodies. Bare legs poking out from underneath. Her hair was …huge. Haystack huge.
She yawned. Shuddered. ‘Who are you talking to?’
‘Cthulhu. She likes you.’
‘Are you not cold?’ Tara’s finger was warm as it traced its way down his chest to the collection of twenty-three shiny lines that criss-crossed his stomach. ‘This is a lot of scar tissue for one man.’
‘I was dead for five minutes on the operating table, if that makes me sound windswept and interesting?’
‘Makes you sound like a zombie. Or a vampire.’ She narrowed her eyes and poked him with the finger instead. ‘You better not be the sparkly kind!’
‘So technically you’ve had sex with a dead person. You dirty necrophiliac pervert.’
She poked him again. Then stole his coffee, padding across the bare floorboards to where Cthulhu waited at the kitchen door – one paw up on the wood. Expectant.
Logan cleared his throat. ‘I have to head off soon. Got an exhumation organised and a couple of widows to talk to. You can stay here and keep Cthulhu company if you like? There’s a spare key by the kitchen door.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, Inspector McRae, are you giving me a key to your house?’
‘Lending. On the condition that you don’t turn out to be a complete nutjob.’
A smile made little dimples in her cheeks. ‘I promise nothing.’
Logan hurried through the rear entrance to Bucksburn station, shaking the rain from his peaked cap. No sign of anyone as he walked down the corridor, past closed office doors.
Water rippled the stairwell windows, distorting the romantic view of the station car park – almost empty – and the main bulk of the building itself. Two storeys of rectangular brown-and-grey blockwork, devoid of character or charm.
