took another sip of tea, then popped the door open, climbing out as a battered green Fiat lurched and rolled to a halt, windscreen wipers squealing across the glass.
Everything smelled of dirt and mould and green.
‘…Emily Benton, a nineteen-year-old philosophy student from Aberdeenshire…’
The Renault’s door clunked open and a man climbed out, dressed in tatty black combat trousers and a quilted black fleece. Big grin on his face. Short grey hair circled a wide strip of shiny pink scalp. His breath steamed out into the drizzly morning. ‘Fine day for it.’ He pulled a baseball cap from his back pocket: black with ‘POLICE’ embroidered over a black-and-white checked strip. He put it on, hiding his bald patch from the rain.
Logan toasted him with the Thermos cup. ‘Syd. You bring your hairy friends with you?’
‘Emily was last seen leaving the Formartine House Hotel on Saturday night…’
Syd leaned back into the car and came out with a thick leather lead, draped it around his neck, under his arms, and clipped it behind his back, like DIY braces. ‘Thought you and your minions already searched this one.’
‘…anxious to trace the driver of a red Ford Fiesta seen in the vicinity.’
‘Didn’t find anything.’ A shrug. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Forget about it.’ Syd waved a hand. ‘Only so many times you can watch Lord of the Rings.’ He marched around to the back of the car and popped the boot open. A golden retriever scrabbled out onto the track, tail wagging, feet pounding round and round his master, nose up to him, mouth hanging open. ‘You ready to put that nose back to work, Lusso? Are you? Yes you are. Yes you are.’ He ruffled the dog’s ears. ‘Do you good to get off your backside and do some work for a change, you fat lump.’
‘…appeal for witnesses. Now, are you ready for Valentine’s Day? Well, one enterprising teenager is auctioning his booking for a romantic meal for two at the Silver Darling restaurant in—’
Logan clicked the radio off and downed the last of his tea. Pulled a padded high-viz jacket on over his stabproof vest, then dipped into the kitbag stuffed down into the rear footwell. Came out with a brown paper evidence bag. ‘Here you go.’
‘Socks?’
‘Better.’ Logan opened the bag and came out with a red T-shirt. The company name was speckled with paint: ‘GEIRRØD ~ CONTAINER MANAGEMENT AND LOGISTICS’
‘Well, you never know your luck. Since we retired, Lusso’s sniffed out nothing more challenging than other dogs’ bumholes.’ He unrolled a small fluorescent-yellow waistcoat thing and slipped it over the golden retriever’s head, clipping the straps together behind its front legs. Then Syd took the T-shirt and wadded it up into a ball. Squatted down and held it under Lusso’s shiny black nose. ‘Big sniffs.’
Logan pulled on a pair of padded leather gloves. ‘We set?’
‘As we can be.’ Syd stood, then swept his arm out in an arc, hand pointing towards the woods on one side of the track. ‘Come on, Lusso: find.’
The dog scampered around them a couple of times, then its nose went down and it snuffled away.
They followed Lusso across the damp leaf litter, into the forest gloom, ducking under branches and crunching through brittle beige curls of dead bracken.
Logan nodded at the dog. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Long shot, to be honest.’ Syd tucked his hands into his pockets. ‘If you’re after dead bodies, cash, or explosives: Lusso’s your dog, but this tracking thing…’ He sucked on his teeth. ‘Well, you never know.’
The musky brown scent of earth rose from the ground like a blanket, turning sharper and more antiseptic as they crossed the boundary from deciduous to evergreen. At least the tops of the trees were evergreen; down here, at ground level, everything was black and grey and jagged.
Through a clearing, tufted with heather and fringed with brambles.
Down a small ravine.
They clambered over a fallen tree, its roots sticking up into the air like a hairy shield.
Up a steep hill, puffing and panting by the time they reached the summit.
But there wasn’t much of a view from the top, just more dark trunks, stretching down and away into the distance. Merging together in the fog and drizzle.
Syd sniffed. ‘Of course, trouble is, it’s been so long since he’s had to actually work Lusso might think he’s out for a walk.’
There was that.
‘Well, at least we’re—’ Logan’s mobile blared out its anonymous ringtone. He closed his eyes and sagged for a moment. Then straightened up. Pulled on a smile. ‘Sorry. I’ll catch up.’
He dug the phone out as Syd worked his way down the hill, following the wagging tail.
‘McRae.’
A woman’s voice. ‘Logan? It’s Louise from Sunny Glen.’
And Logan sagged again.
The crackle and snap of Syd fighting his way through a clump of dead rosebay willowherb faded into silence. Somewhere in the distance a pigeon croooed.
‘Logan? Hello?’
Deep breath. ‘Louise.’
A sigh came from the earpiece. ‘I know this isn’t easy, Logan, it’s a horrible thing, but there’s nothing else we can do for her. If there was, I would. You know that.’
Of course he did. Didn’t make it any easier, though.
‘Yeah…’ He stared down at his boots. At the tufts of grey-green grass poking out between the dirty pine needles. ‘When?’
‘That’s really up to you. Samantha’s… You’ve been the best friend she could ever have hoped for, but it’s time. It’s just her time.’ Another sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Logan. I really am.’
‘Right. Yes. I understand.’
‘We have a specialist counsellor you can speak to. She can help.’
Another smear of fluorescent yellow appeared away off to the right, before disappearing into the undergrowth again.
Four beeps sounded underneath his high-viz jacket, followed by a muffled voice. ‘Shire Uniform Seven, safe to talk?’
Logan unzipped the jacket and reached inside, feeling for the Airwave handset. Leaving it on its clip while he pressed the button. ‘Give us a minute, Tufty.’
Back to the phone.
Louise was still going: ‘…all right? Logan? Hello?’
‘Sorry.
