Chapter 52
Monday Lateshift: to sink like a stone
As always I’ve received a lot of help from a lot of people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Prof. Sue Black, Dr Roos Eisma, Vivienne McGuire, all at the University of Dundee’s Centre for Anatomy and Human Identification and their principal & Vice-Chancellor, Professor Sir Pete Downes; PSD Chief Inspector Allan Ross, and Sergeant Bruce Crawford who answered far more daft questions than anyone should ever have to; Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Louise Swannell, Laura Fletcher, Sarah Collett, Charlie Redmayne, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Sarah Benton, Damon Greeney, Kate Stephenson, the eagle-eyed Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie, the DC Bishopbriggs Naughty Posse, and everyone at HarperCollins, for doing such a stonking job; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my cat in shoes all these years; and Isla Anderson who helped raise money for a worthy cause to appear as a character in this book.
Of course, there wouldn’t be any books without bookshops, booksellers, and book readers – so thank you all, you’re stars.
And saving the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel.
He rolls over onto his side, blood pulsing from what’s left of his nose. It stains his teeth dark pink. Bubbles at the side of his mouth. Explodes out in a shower of scarlet droplets as the boot slams into his bare stomach again. And again. And again.
He just twitches with the impact. Can’t even defend himself – not with both hands tied behind his back. Can’t do anything but bleed and groan, naked on the damp forest floor.
His lips move, but the words are broken mushy things forced out between ruined teeth. ‘Gnnnnfnnnn … mmmm … nnngh…’
‘Do you see?’ A boot stamps down on his head. Something crunches. ‘Do you see what happens?’
Blood drips onto the mat of rusting pine needles, making it dark and shiny. ‘Nnnngh…’
Another voice: quiet, shaking. ‘Please. Please, I’ll do whatever you want. Please.’
‘Damn right you will.’
A black plastic bin-bag crackles out like the wing of a giant bat. It soars above him for a moment, then gets yanked into place, enveloping his head. The scratchy growl of duct tape rips through the air.
And, at last, he finds enough breath to scream.
Where the hell was Syd?
The song rambled to a halt, and the DJ was back. ‘Wasn’t that great? We’ve got JC Williams on in just a minute, talking about her latest book PC Munroe and the Poisoner’s Cat, but first here’s Stacy with all your eleven o’clock news and weather. Stacy?’
Logan screwed the cap on his Thermos, popped it on the dashboard, then wrapped his hands around the plastic cup. Warmth seeped into his fingers, almost making it as far as the frozen bones. Tendrils of steam mixed with his breath, fogging the windscreen.
‘Thanks, Bill. The hunt for missing Fraserburgh businessman, Martin Milne, continues today…’
He wriggled in his seat, pulling himself deeper into the stabproof vest, like a turtle. Knees together, rubbing slightly to get maximum itchiness from the black Police-Scotland-issue trousers. Took a sip from the Thermos lid.
Tea: hot and milky. Manna from heaven. Well, from the station canteen, but close enough.
‘…concerned for his safety after his car was found abandoned in a lay-by outside Portsoy…’
Logan wiped a porthole in the passenger window.
Skeletal trees loomed on either side of the dirt track. Gunmetal puddles in ragged-edged potholes. The bare stalks of old nettles poked out of the yellow grass like the spears of a long-dead army. All fading into the dull grey embrace of February drizzle.
Something bright moved in the distance – where the oak and beech gave way to regular ranks of pine – a fluorescent-yellow high-viz smear. Then the woods swallowed it.
‘…with any information to call one-zero-one. A teenage driver who crashed through the front window of Poundland in Peterhead was six times over the drink-drive limit…’
Sitting next to the Thermos, his mobile phone dinged, skittering an inch to the right as it vibrated. He grabbed it before it fell off the dashboard. Pressed his thumb on the text message icon.
Laz: call me back ASAP!
No screwing about – it’s urgent!
Where the hell are you?!?
Sodding DCI Sodding Steel. Third time today.
‘Leave me alone. I’m working, OK? That all right with you?’
He deleted the message. Scowled at the empty screen.
‘ … eight pints of cider at a friend’s eighteenth birthday party…’
A pair of headlights sparked in the rear-view mirror: the cavalry had arrived. With any luck they’d brought
