out in dark slate tiles and spotlights, with a freestanding enamel bath big enough for three. A box room, full of boxes. A small bedroom with a lot of lace and flowers in it, completely out of keeping with the rest of the place. And last, but not least, the master bedroom.
Aggie was on her knees at the side of the bed, bum in the air, one arm wiggling about in the space underneath. ‘Come on, Onion Pickle Pie, it’s only policemen, they’re not really that scary.’
A king-size bed dominated the room, with a maroon velvet headboard. Huge telly on the facing wall. Thick, smoke-coloured carpet. One wall a deep claret, the others stark white. Normal people didn’t have houses like this. This was what happened when you hired a decorator who specialized in boutique hotels.
Aggie sat back on her heels and bared her top teeth at Logan. ‘He’s not normally this shy.’
Logan wandered over to the window, looking down on the narrow alley that separated the two houses. ‘Do you look after his cat a lot?’
‘Only if he’s going to be away for more than one night. Onion doesn’t really like change. Likes to know his Aunty Aggie’s looking after him.’ Then she leaned forwards, bum up in the air again. ‘Come on, sweetie. I’ve got lovely tuna for you. Your favourite. Yum, yum!’
The room wasn’t just swanky-hotel designed, it was swanky-hotel clean as well. No personal knick-knacks, bits, or bobs. No deodorant, hairdryer, or combs on show. No clothes dumped over the chair in the corner. The only thing out of place was the book on the bedside cabinet. And even that was perfectly lined up with the edges.
The Blood-Red Line. Subtitled, How Malcolm McLennan Founded Edinburgh’s Biggest Criminal Empire. The author’s name was picked out in white, ‘L. P. MOLLOY’, over a montage of towerblocks, Edinburgh Castle, somewhere dark in the Old Town, and a line of crime-scene tape. With a few tasteful blood spatters thrown in for good measure.
L. P. Malloy had to be a pseudonym. No one would be thick enough to write an exposé about Malcolm McLennan and use their real name. Not if they wanted to keep all their fingers. Surprised anyone was brave enough to publish it.
‘Oh come on, Onion, be a good cat for Aunty Aggie.’
Logan flicked through the pages. A biro inscription was scrawled on the title page, ‘TO PETER, YOU’RE A SICK BASTARD FOR READING THIS STUFF, BUT I LOVE YOU ANYWAY. MARTIN XXX!’ Bit gushing, but there you go.
There was a wodge of printed photos in the middle of the book – most in black-and-white and copied from newspaper reports. But a couple were clearly crime-scene pics, reproduced in vivid gory colour. One of a young man in a Seventies suit with his throat slashed, lying crumpled in a toilet stall. One of a burned-out car with blackened human remains in the driver’s seat. A woman lying twisted beneath a railway bridge. And one of a naked man, lying on his back in some woods, with a bag over his head.
Logan stood at the window, looking down into the little alley. The paving slabs glittered with water, the puddles rippled in the battering rain. He pressed the talk button on his Airwave handset. ‘OK, that’s great news. We’ll get it set up soon as I’ve handed over to the MIT.’
Inspector McGregor’s voice crackled from the speaker. ‘Glad to hear you’re being so grown-up about it.’
Aunty Aggie bustled out of the front door, hauling the jacket hood up over her quiff. She disappeared into the downpour.
‘No point fighting the system, is there? Besides, I’ve got a dunt to organize.’ And maybe this way Steel would be too busy running around trying to find Martin Milne to be a pain in Logan’s backside.
‘Make sure you keep me up to date then.’ And McGregor was gone.
‘SARGE?’
Logan stuck his head out of the bedroom door. ‘WHAT?’
‘YOU WANT A TEA?’
‘HAVE YOU FOUND ME A NEXT OF KIN YET?’
‘WAITING TO HEAR BACK. SO: TEA?’
Shouldn’t really be helping themselves to the contents of a murder victim’s cupboards… But it wasn’t as if Peter Shepherd would have grudged them a cuppa. ‘THANKS.’
He went back to the bedroom and opened the bedside cabinet. Handkerchiefs, a watch, various flavours of chapstick, pens, mixed with bits-and-bobs that would never come in handy again. Next drawer down was all socks. The one below that, pants and boxers. All neatly folded.
The cabinet on the other side had a huge remote control in it, along with a box of tissues and some lubricant in the top drawer. So no prizes for guessing what normally played on the huge wall-mounted TV opposite the bed. Next drawer down: more socks and some aftershave. Bottom drawer: more underwear.
Logan settled onto the edge of the duvet and picked up the remote. It was about three times bigger than it had any right being, with a corresponding number of extra buttons. He pressed the one with the power icon on it. There was a pause, then the TV played a three-note tune and displayed the manufacturer’s logo.
Instead of defaulting to BBC One, the screen displayed a series of folders and icons under the title ‘MEDIA HUB’. He picked a folder marked ‘CHILE 13’ and a slideshow popped into life: photos of alpaca and mountains and two men backpacking through stunning scenery, accompanied by a soundtrack of something bland played on the panpipes. Lots of photos of Peter Shepherd grinning and posing for the camera.
Logan tried another one. ‘SHETLAND 09’: a much younger Shepherd, tootling about in an open-top sports car with a woman in rock-chick chic. This time it had some sort of Jimmy Shand accordion soundtrack.
‘DUBAI 14’: Shepherd and two men in denim shirts and chinos, wheeching about through sand dunes in a four-by-four, riding camels, buying things in a souk, drinking cocktails on a rooftop terrace with a dirty big skyscraper in the background. Middle Eastern music.
‘STUFF&THANGS’: …
OK, that was … different.
Tufty appeared in the doorway with a mug. Then froze, staring at the TV. ‘Oh.’
On the screen, three people were caught in a very intimate tableau – a middle-aged woman with long blonde hair, Peter Shepherd, and Martin Milne. She was on all fours, on the bed in this very room, with Milne at the back – doggy style – and Shepherd in her mouth. A classic spit roast. All done to a backing track of classical music. The image was high-res, not taken on a phone, or a webcam. Probably an expensive SLR digital camera, on a tripod going by the shadows on the bedroom carpet.
Tufty cleared his throat. ‘Don’t think we should be watching porn in a dead guy’s house, Sarge.’
The next image was the same three people, only this time Milne was in the middle.
‘Ooh…’ Tufty flinched. ‘Yeah, definitely shouldn’t be watching it.’
This time it was just the two gents. Which explained the dedication in the book.
Pink rushed up Tufty’s face. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’
‘Bloody hammering it down.’ Steel barged past Logan into the hallway, with Becky hot on her heels. Steel
