been through all of DI Bell’s cases for the last ten years. Nothing with missing evidence. No gold bullion, or jewellery, or nonsequentially numbered banknotes, or works of art. If he was digging up loot I’ve no idea where it came from.’
‘What about forensics? They get anything off the car, or the pick and shovel?’
‘Tried chasing them up this morning: they laughed at me. Apparently we’re not the only case they’re working on.’ Rennie dug into his stacks of paper and came out with a ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ poster. He handed it over. ‘Media Department released that at lunchtime.’ Someone had done an e-fit picture of DI Bell, looking like he had when they found his body in his crashed car this morning. Only less dead. Above the e-fit, in big block capitals, was, ‘CARLOS GUERRERO Y PRIETO AKA: DUNCAN BELL’.
Logan frowned at the poster. ‘Please tell me someone’s been to see his next of kin?’
‘Dunno, Guv.’
‘How much do you want to bet?’ He pulled out his phone and called Hardie. It rang for a bit, then crackled.
Hardie’s voice had a strange hollow echo to it, the words broken and fuzzy. ‘Inspector McRae?’
‘DI Bell: has anyone delivered the death message yet?’
‘What? I can barely hear you. Hold on…’ A couple of thumps. A click. Some rustling. Then, ‘Urgh… Are you there?’
‘I said, has anyone delivered the death message to DI Bell’s next of kin?’
‘Reception’s terrible in the mortuary.’
‘Only I’m pretty sure his wife’s still alive. He’s got grown-up kids too: boy and a girl.’
‘Inspector McRae, did you drag me out of Ding-Dong’s post mortem for a sodding reason, because—’
‘And if we’re going to plaster the Northeast in posters with his face on them and “have you seen this man?”, they’re probably going to notice.’
A moment’s silence, broken only by what might have been a muffled swear word.
Logan took a sip of tea. ‘Would be nice if she heard it from us, before the press find out and go after her.’
‘All right, all right.’ Then a sigh. ‘I’ll get a Family Liaison Officer sorted.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Professor McAllister says Bell probably bled to death as a result of the stab wound to his right side. Straight through his ascending colon and severed a chunk of his small intestine. Wasn’t a whole heap of fun watching her remove that lot.’ Hardie huffed out a breath. ‘Anyway: knife went in deep enough to nick the common iliac vein, if that means anything to you? The hilt left a narrow rectangular bruise on the skin too, so we’re looking at a six-inch knife with a wide blade tapering to a point. Maybe a kitchen knife.’
Wow.
‘Isobel said all that? Used to be you couldn’t prise a diagnosis out of her without a crowbar and two weeks’ notice.’
‘Not that it helps.’
‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’
‘Anyway, better get back to it. Still got the urogenital block to dissect.’ What sounded like a shudder. ‘Always a favourite.’ And Hardie was gone.
Logan hung up and stared out of the window.
Cars and lorries and trucks and buses crawled their way along the dual carriageway outside Bucksburn station. Backed-up westbound by the roadworks and roundabout, eastbound by the traffic lights and potholes.
Kitchen knife. So probably untraceable, unless they already had a suspect and something to match the stab wound with. Which they didn’t. And that—
Rennie poked him. ‘So, about those biscuits?’
Logan checked his watch. 16:30. Ah, why not. He opened the packet and tossed a Penguin onto the desk. ‘Here. Got to keep your strength up: big day tomorrow. Interviews and an exhumation.’
‘But … it’s Saturday tomorrow! I’ve got to take Donna swimming, then we’re off to KFC and ballet classes.’
A shrug. ‘Ah well. I suppose we’ll just have to cope without you.’
‘No, but I want to come with!’ Rennie stood, arms spread in true martyr style as he gestured at his piles of paper and boxes. ‘All I ever do is go through files and stuff. I want to be out there, where the action is. Solving crimes!’
‘Well we can’t just put everything on hold for the weekend, Simon, I’ve got a JCB digger booked for half-nine tomorrow.’
‘Argh…’ He slumped back into his chair, hands over his face. ‘Emma’s going to kill me…’
‘Then man-up and take your daughter swimming.’ Logan pointed at the paperwork. ‘And when you’ve finished whatever it is you’re doing, you can pack up for the night. Whoever’s buried in DI Bell’s grave will still be dead on Monday.’
Rain sparkled in the Audi’s headlights as he pulled into his driveway, illuminating the yellow bulk of the skip sitting on the weed-flecked lock-block. Logan parked in front of it and sat there.
Need to get that guttering fixed. And do something about the garden. Compared to the rest of the street it was a bit … well, ‘shabby’ was probably being generous. Call it an overgrown jungle instead. The rattling spears of rosebay willowherb shook beside a rhododendron bush big enough to swallow a caravan. A couple of beech trees lurked in the gloom, dropping their pale-cream leaves in the tussocked grass.
Never owned trees before. Or rhododendrons. Or a garden, come to that.
Still, one thing at a time.
He climbed out and hurried up the drive, past the skip, to shelter under the porch.
Ivy wound its way around the granite pillars supporting the little roof, reaching out from a massive wodge of the stuff that choked the living room window and curled into the gutters, hiding the blockwork. That would have to go too.
He plipped the Audi’s locks and let himself in.
‘Cthulhu?’
Click – the bare lightbulb showered the hallway in cold white light.
Scuffed floorboards clunked beneath his feet, tiny tufts of fabric still sticking to the gripper rods where he’d torn the carpet up. Walls stripped to the bare plaster, white blobs of Polyfilla making it look like a child undergoing treatment for chicken pox.
Logan peeled off his Police Scotland fleece and hung it over the newel post at the foot of the
