alive under the combined assault of two plug-in air fresheners – bruised, but fighting back. The bleeping warble of an upbeat song on the alarm-clock radio.
Logan rolled over and thumped the snooze button. Lay back and stared at the collection of brown stains on the ceiling. That one looked like a buffalo. That one like a dismembered foot. That one like … Norway?
The walls weren’t much better – covered in peeling paper, painted a revolting shade of blackcurrant mousse. Curling away from the plaster.
Home, sweet home.
A massive yawn grabbed him, stretching his arms and legs beneath the duvet. Leaving him limp and blinking.
Seven a.m. A whole two and a half hours’ sleep.
Come on: up. Graham Stirling wasn’t going to convict himself.
Logan rolled out of bed and padded to the window, bare feet scuffing on the bare floorboards. Pulled one side of the curtain back an inch. Crystal-meth sky with high wispy clouds. The tide out, exposing a swathe of pale-blonde sand from here to the River Deveron. Lines of white rippling the sea. A yacht sailing off into the blue.
‘Unngh …’ Scratch. Yawn.
Cthulhu popped up on the windowsill beside him, landing in ghostly silence. Made a prooping noise, then butted her head against his arm. Small and fluffy, with stripes and a tail nearly as big as the rest of her put together. He rubbed one of her hairy ears, making her grimace and lean into it, purring.
The clock radio lurched into life again. The end of the warbling song replaced by a cheery woman’s voice. ‘I don’t know about you, but I like it!’
The purring stopped. Cthulhu shook her head then thumped back to the floorboards – landing like a sack of bricks – and padded off, tail straight up. Business to attend to.
‘News and weather coming up at half past. And we’ll have more on the hunt for missing forty-three-year-old, Neil Wood. But first, here’s the latest hit single from Monster Mouse Machine …’
Sod that. Time for a quick shower, then off to Aberdeen.
‘All right, all right, I’m coming …’ Logan wrapped the towel around his middle, slipped his wet feet into his slippers and scuffed down the bare stairs as the bell kept up its brrrrrrrringing wail. Along the hall to the front door. Wrenched it open. ‘What?’
Oh … great.
DCI Steel raised an eyebrow, took a long slow draw on the e-cigarette sticking out the corner of her mouth. ‘I’m flattered, but I don’t think my wife would approve.’ Steel’s hair was all squashed on one side, the other looked as if it had filed for independence from her head. Thick, dark circles crowded the bags beneath her eyes. More dark circles beneath the arms of the same blue silk shirt she’d had on the night before. Jacket slung over one shoulder, heavy carrier bag in her other hand. She nodded at his midriff. ‘Nice scars though.’
He folded his arms over the shiny puckered lines.
She frowned. ‘You’ve lost weight. What happened to the cuddly chunky-monkey McRae we all know and love? Just skin and bones now.’
‘You try humphing a stone-and-a-bit of equipment around for ten hours every day.’
A minibus full of old ladies rumbled past, pale creased faces pressed to the window. Assorted whoops and obscene hand gestures.
Steel waved back at them. ‘Well, you going to stand there dripping, with your willy hanging out, or are you going to invite me in?’
He grunted, turned and shuffled back inside. ‘Can’t be long – catching a hurl into Aberdeen with Swanson, remember?’
Steel clunked the door shut behind her, then whistled. ‘Wow. Rennie was right, you do live in a craphole.’
The wallpaper was stripped off in the stairwell and the hall, the lathe and plaster crumbling and stained. Grey flex drooped from the ceiling, dangling a single bare bulb like an unsniffed runny nose. Dust and fluff made little drifts on every step of the stairs, dark varnish chipped and faded on either side of the paler strip where the carpet had been. No carpet on the floor either. Small cracked patches of linoleum made scabs on the wooden boards.
She opened a door off the hall. The room on the other side was nothing but stacks and stacks of file-boxes. Not quite floor to ceiling, but close to it. ‘This your porn collection? Nearly as big as mine.’
He clumped up the stairs in his slippers. ‘Station’s been using this place as an overflow file storage for decades. Kettle’s in the kitchen. Make yourself useful.’
By the time he’d come back down, all dried and dressed in Police-Scotland black, she was in the lounge, an open bottle of beer clutched to her chest. Frowning at the stacks of books on the mantelpiece.
A small TV balanced on a packing box. A bargain-basement couch from the charity shop. A folding chair. Two stepladders draped with dust sheets and a stack of paint tins and brushes. Bags of plaster.
He dumped his black fleece on the couch. Tucked his T-shirt into his itchy trousers. Picked up Cthulhu’s water and food bowls from their placemat in the corner. ‘It’s seven in the morning. Where did you get beer?’
‘Confiscated it.’ A swig. ‘Laz, seriously, this place is a dump. And no’ a nice one either, this is the kind of dump where you’ve got to go see your doctor afterwards to get the bad news. Half the windows are boarded up!’
Logan carried the bowls through to the kitchen. The units might have been cheap, but they were new and they were clean. A fresh coat of cheerful yellow on the walls. A row of potted herbs on the windowsill, drinking in the morning sun.
Through the glass, Banff police station lurked on the opposite corner of the small square. Three storeys of dirty sandstone, with a fake balcony over the main entrance and curly carved bits holding up various lintels. Stone urn-shaped things decorated the front edge of the roof. If it wasn’t for the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ sign and the sprawl of patrol cars and vans parked outside, it could have passed for an ancient hotel.
A handful of reporters wandered about out front, drinking from Styrofoam cups and sunning themselves in the early morning glow. Waiting …
Logan emptied out the kettle, filled it, and put it on to boil. ‘You want a tea?’
Steel appeared in the doorway. ‘How long’s it going to take you to do this place up: five years? Ten?’
‘It’s a work in progress.’
‘Pfff …’ Then she dug into her plastic bag and pulled out a copy of the Daily Mail. Slapped it down on the working surface. ‘Looks like your PC Nicholson’s no’ the only thing that’s leaky up here.’
Most of the front page was taken up with a photo of Neil Wood, beneath the headline, ‘SICKO SEARCH ~ POLICE HUNT FOR MISSING PAEDOPHILE’. There was even a small inset photo of the outdoor pool at Tarlair.
‘Well, don’t look at my team, this is your bunch of numpties.’ He dug Cthulhu’s bowl into the bag of dried cat food. ‘So what happened with the dead girl?’
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