Stirling. ‘Combination?’
He was still on his knees, both arms wrapped around the tree trunk, as if he was giving it a hug. Hands cuffed together on the other side. Cheek pressed hard against the bark. ‘One, seven, zero, seven.’
The dials were stiff, awkward, but they turned after a bit of fiddling. Squeaking against Logan’s blue-nitrile-gloved fingertips. Clicking as they lined up into the right order. The hasp popped open and he slipped the padlock free of the metal plates. Slipped it into an evidence bag.
Pushed the door.
Almost as stiff as the padlock wheels, it creaked open and the stench of dirty bodies and blood and piss and shite collapsed over Logan. Making him step back.
Deep breath.
He stepped over the threshold. ‘Stephen? Stephen Bisset? It’s OK, you’re safe now; it’s the police.’
Bloody hell – it was actually colder inside the shack.
The torch picked out a stack of poles and saws and chains. Then a heap of logs and an old tarpaulin. Then a cast-iron stove missing its door. Then a pile of filthy blankets.
‘Stephen? Hello?’
Logan reached out and picked one of the poles from the stack. Smooth and shiny from countless hands over countless years. A bill hook rattled on the end, the screws all loose and rusted. ‘Stephen? I’ve come to take you home.’
He slipped the hook under the nearest blanket and lifted.
Oh Christ …
Outside. The cold air clawed at the sweat peppering his face. Deep breath.
Logan rested his forehead against a tree, bark rough against his skin. The smell of pine nowhere near strong enough to wash away the shack’s corrupt stench.
Don’t be sick.
Be professional.
Oh God …
Deep breath.
‘I …’ His throat closed, strangling the words. Pressed his forehead into the bark so hard it stung. Tried again. ‘I should kick the living shit out of you.’
Stirling’s voice oozed out from the darkness. ‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’
The phone trembled in Logan’s hands as he dug it out and called Steel. ‘I’ve found Stephen Bisset.’
There was a whoop from the other end. Then, ‘Laz, I could French you. Is he …?’
‘No.’ Though if he ever woke up, he’d probably wish he was. ‘I need an ambulance, and an SEB goon-squad, and a Crime Scene Manager, and someone to stop me stringing Graham Bloody Stirling up from the nearest tree.’
Big Tony Campbell slung his jacket over the back of his chair and slumped down. Aberdeen City’s Divisional Commander, the Big Boss, Arse-Kicker In Chief: a large man, with broad shoulders and hands to match. His bald head gleamed in the last rays of a dying sun, seeping across the rooftops of the city and into the office. The only hairs loyal enough to cling on above the neckline were his eyebrows – heavy, black, and bushy.
He pointed to the seat on the other side of the polished wooden desk. ‘Sit.’ Then swivelled around and hunched down, giving Logan a perfect view of his shirt coming untucked from the waistband of his trousers. Exposing a swathe of thick dark fur.
Logan settled into the nominated seat and stifled a yawn, covering it with his hand as Big Tony Campbell re-emerged with a bottle of Highland Park in one hand and two crystal tumblers in the other. They went on the desk.
A healthy portion of whisky glugged into both glasses, then the Divisional Commander handed one over. ‘They tell me Stephen Bisset’s going to live.’
Logan licked his teeth – rough and unbrushed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Might’ve been better if you’d arrived too late.’ His fingers hovered over the folder that sat in front of the computer. He didn’t touch the manila surface, as if it might be infectious. ‘Castrated, teeth ripped out, chest slashed open and “implants” forced inside, repeatedly raped … Never mind all the broken bones.’ The corners of his mouth curdled. ‘A non-elective sex change courtesy of Jack the Ripper. Still …’
He raised his glass and Logan did the same. Clinking the two together, before taking a sip.
Warmth slid all the way down into Logan’s belly, leaving smoky footprints behind.
The Divisional Commander spun his seat around till it faced the window. Gazed out over his domain as darkness claimed it. Took another drink. ‘Your boss tells me you’re not really cut out to be an Acting Detective Inspector.’
‘Does she now?’ Backstabbing cow …
Well, unless this was promotion time? Time to stop acting up and make the step for real. With the pay rise that went with it. OK, so he wouldn’t get overtime any more, but swings and roundabouts. Logan sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Actually, sir, I think she’s—’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ the Divisional Commander held up a hand, ‘it’s not that you can’t do the job – the Bisset investigation more than proves that – but she seems to think you don’t like doing it. The man management, the spreadsheets, the meetings, the budget balancing.’ Another sip. ‘Is she right?’
Don’t fidget.
‘Well, sir, it’s … Detective Chief Inspector Steel, sometimes—’
‘You see, Logan,’ he turned back, a smile stretching his face, ‘it’s important to me that my officers achieve their full potential. And it’s my privilege and duty to help them do that.’ A little salute with the tumbler. ‘Especially when I can give them the tools they need to shine.’
Oh no.
Don’t say it.
Not the two words no police officer ever wanted to hear.
The whisky curdled in Logan’s stomach. His smile was lemon-rind and ashes, but he pulled it on anyway. ‘Sir?’
Please don’t …
‘I think I’ve got a development opportunity that would be perfect for you.’
Too late.
‘… and while we’re on
