The smile turned into a laugh.

'Want me to ask him if he fancies you?'

Logan could feel the colour running up his neck to his cheeks. He knew what DI Steel was like. Had he actually come in here expecting her to be sympathetic and supportive? Maybe he really was too stupid to breathe unsupervised. 'I'm sorry,' he said, picking himself out of his seat. 'I should get back to work.'

She stopped him only when the door was swinging closed. 'He's going to be f.u.c.king p.i.s.sed off. Maybe not at you, maybe at this Miller bloke, but he's going to be p.i.s.sed off. Be prepared to be shouted at. And if he won't listen to you, maybe have to think omelettes and eggs. Just because you didn't start this doesn't mean you can't play it out.'

Logan stopped. 'Play it out?'

'Ambition, Mr Hero. Like it or not you could still end up sitting in his seat. You don't have to like the way it came about, but you might make DI because of this.' She lit another cigarette from the smouldering remains of the last one, before flipping the dogend into her coffee. It gave a short hiss as she winked at him. 'Think about it.'

Logan did. All the way down to his mini incident room. The WPC was back on the phone, taking names and statements. With Roadkill's arrest all over the papers and the television news, everyone and their maiden aunt was coming forward with information. Murdered kiddie, officer? No problem: I saw her getting into a Corporation dustcart. Bold as bra.s.s with this bloke from the papers...

The health authorities had started responding to his request for information on little girls with TB in the last four years as well. The list of possibles was small, but it would get bigger as the day wore on.

Logan scanned the names, most of which had already been scored out by his WPC. They weren't interested in any child that wouldn't be between three and a half and five by now. They'd know who she was by the end of the day.

He was expecting the call, but it still made his innards clench: report to the superintendent's office. Time to get his a.r.s.e chewed out for something he didn't do. Other than lie to Colin Miller. And DI Insch.

'I'm just going out for a walk,' he told the WPC on the phones. 'I may be some time.'

The super's office was like a furnace. Logan stood to attention in front of the wide oak desk with both hands clasped behind his back. DI Insch was sitting in a mock-leather, mock-comfortable visitor's chair. He didn't look at Logan as he entered and took up his position. But Inspector Napier, from Professional Standards, stared at him as if he was a science experiment gone wrong.

Behind the desk sat a serious-looking man with a bullet head and not a lot of hair. He was wearing his dress uniform. All b.u.t.toned up. Not a good sign.

'Sergeant McRae.' The voice was larger than the man, filling the room with portent. 'You know why you're here.' It wasn't a question; there was a copy of that morning's Press and Journal on the desk. Neatly lined up with the blotter and the keyboard.

'Yes, sir.'

'Do you have anything to say?'

They were going to fire him. Six days back on the job and they were going to throw him out on his scarred backside. He should have kept his head down and stayed off on the sick. Goodbye pension. 'Yes, sir. I want it known that DI Insch has always had my complete support. I didn't give this story to Colin Miller and I didn't tell anyone that I disagreed with DI Insch's decision to release Road... Mr Philips. Because it was the right decision, at the time.'

The superintendent settled back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his round face. 'You have been speaking to Miller though, haven't you, Sergeant?'

'Yes, sir. He called me at half-six this morning wanting details of Mr Philips's arrest.'

DI Insch scrunched in his seat. 'How the h.e.l.l did he know we'd arrested Roadkill? It wasn't public b.l.o.o.d.y knowledge! I'll tell you this-'

The superintendent held up his hand and Insch fell silent. 'When I challenged him he said it was his job to know,' said Logan, falling into policeman-giving-evidence mode. 'This isn't the first time he's had knowledge he shouldn't have. He knew when we found David Reid's body. He knew the killer had mutilated and violated the corpse. He knew the girl's body we found was decomposed. He has someone on the inside.'

On the other side of the desk an eyebrow was raised, but not a word was spoken. The DI-Insch-patented-interview-technique. Only Logan wasn't in any mood to play.

'And it's not me! There's no way I would tell a reporter I disagreed with my superior's decision to release a suspect! Miller wants a friend in here and he thinks he can get that if he "helps" me. This is all about selling papers!'

The superintendent let the silence stretch.

'If you want my resignation, sir-'

'This isn't a disciplinary hearing, Sergeant. If it was you'd have a federation representative with you.' He paused and glanced at Insch and Napier before turning back to Logan. 'You can wait in the reception area outside while we discuss this matter further. We'll call you back when we have reached our decision.'

Someone had poured freezing-cold concrete into Logan's innards. 'Yes, sir.' He marched out of the room, shoulders back, head up, and closed the door behind him. They were going to fire him. That or transfer him out of Aberdeen. Find some c.r.a.ppy backwater in Teuchter-land and make him serve out his days pounding the beat, or worse: school-liaison work.

Finally he was summoned back into the room by the hook-nosed, ginger-haired inspector from Professional Standards. Logan stood to attention in front of the super's desk and waited for the axe to fall.

'Sergeant,' said the superintendent, picking up the newspaper off his desk, folding it in half and dropping it neatly into the bin. 'You will be pleased to hear that we believe you.'

Logan couldn't help noticing the sour expression on Inspector Napier's face. Not everyone appeared to agree with the verdict.

The superintendent settled back in his seat and examined Logan. 'DI Insch tells me you're a good officer. And so does DI Steel. Not someone who would go to the media with this kind of thing. I have respect for my senior officers. If they tell me you're not a...' He paused and offered a practised smile. 'If they tell me you wouldn't go to the papers without authorization, I'm prepared to believe them. However...'

Logan straightened his back and waited for a transfer out to the sticks.

'However, we can't let something like this go unanswered. I can tell the world we're standing behind DI Insch one hundred percent. Which we are. But that's not going to make this all go away. These stories: the pantomime, releasing Philips less than a day before a dead girl is discovered at his home...' He raised a hand before DI Insch could do more than open his mouth. 'I am not, personally, of the opinion that the inspector has done anything wrong. But these stories are highly damaging to the Force's reputation. Every second edition in the country has got some rehashed version of Miller's story. The Sun, Daily Mail, Mirror, Independent, Guardian, Scotsman: h.e.l.l, even The Times! Telling the world that Grampian Police are incompetent idiots.' He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and straightened out his uniform. 'Lothian and Borders have been on the phone to the Chief Constable again. They say they have resources experienced in this kind of investigation. That they would welcome the opportunity to "a.s.sist" us.' He scowled. 'We have to be seen to be doing something. The public are baying for blood; but I am not prepared to give them DI Insch.' He took a deep breath. 'There is one other approach we can take. And that's to engage this Colin Miller. He seems to have developed a rapport with you, Sergeant. I want you to speak to him. Get him back on board.'

Logan risked a look at DI Insch. His face was like thunder. Napier looked as if his head was about to explode.

'Sir?'

'If this trouble with the press continues, if the bad publicity keeps coming, we will have no alternative: DI Insch will be suspended on full pay, pending an examination of his conduct. We will be forced to hand the child murder investigations over to Lothian and Borders Police.'

'But ... but, sir: that's not right!' Logan's eyes darted between the superintendent and the inspector. 'DI Insch is the best person for this job! This isn't his fault!'

The man behind the desk nodded his head and smiled at DI Insch. 'You were right. Loyalty. Let's make sure it doesn't come to that then, Sergeant. I want this leak found. Whoever's been feeding Miller information, I want it stopped.'

Insch growled. 'Oh don't you worry, sir. When I find the guilty party I will make sure they never speak to anyone ever again.'

Napier stiffened in his seat. 'Just make sure you stay within the rules, Inspector,' he said, clearly annoyed that Insch had usurped his responsibility for finding the mole. 'I want a formal disciplinary hearing and a dismissal from the force. No comeback. No shortcuts. Understood?'

Insch nodded, but his eyes were like coals in his angry pink face.

The superintendent smiled. 'Excellent. We can make this all go away. We just need a conviction. Philips is in custody. We know he's the killer. All we have to do is get forensic evidence and witnesses. You've got that in hand.' He stood up behind his desk.

'You'll see. Two weeks from now this will all be over and we'll be all back to normal. Everything will be fine.'

Wrong.

22.

DI Insch walked Logan back to the main incident room, grumbling and swearing under his breath the whole way. He wasn't happy. Logan knew the superintendent's idea to b.u.t.ter Colin Miller up didn't sit well with Insch's view of the world. The reporter had the whole country calling him incompetent. Insch wanted revenge, not his DS off playing patty cake.

'Honestly, I didn't talk to Miller,' said Logan.

'No?'

'No. I think that's why he did it. The thing with the panto and now this. I wouldn't give him anything without going through you. He didn't like that.'

Insch didn't say anything, just pulled out a packet of jelly babies and started biting their heads off. He didn't offer the bag to Logan.

'Look, sir. Can't we just issue a statement? I mean: the body had been there for years. Letting him go after he was beaten up couldn't change that.'

They'd reached the incident room door and Insch stopped. 'That's not the way it works, Sergeant. They've sunk their teeth into my a.r.s.e; they won't let go that easily. You heard the super: if this goes on much longer, I'm off the case. Lothian and Borders will be running the show.'

'I didn't mean for this to happen, sir.'

Something like a smile flickered onto Insch's face. 'I know you didn't.' He offered the open bag of jelly babies and Logan took a green one. It tasted like five pieces of silver. Insch sighed. 'Don't worry: I'll have a word with the troops. Let them know you're not a rat.'

But Logan still felt like one.

'Listen up!' said DI Insch, addressing the uniforms sitting at desks, answering phones, taking statements. They went quiet as soon as they saw him. 'You've all seen my picture in the paper this morning. I let Roadkill go on Wednesday night, and the next day a girl's body turns up in his collection of dead things. Turns out I'm an incompetent a.r.s.e with a penchant for dressing up in funny clothes when I should be out fighting crime. And you'll also have read that DS McRae told me not to let Roadkill go. But being an idiot I did it anyway.'

Angry murmurs started, all directed at Logan. Insch held up a hand and there was instant silence. But the glaring continued.

'Now I know you think DS McRae's a s.h.i.tebag right now, but you can forget it. DS McRae did not go to the papers. Understood? If he tells me any of you have been giving him grief...' Insch made a throat-cutting gesture. 'Now get your a.r.s.es back to work and tell the rest of the shift. This investigation will continue and we will get our man.'

Half past ten and the post mortem was well underway. It was a nasty, rancid affair and Logan stood as far from the dissecting table as he could. But it wasn't far enough; even with the morgue's extractor fan going full belt the smell was overpowering.

The body had burst when the IB tried to lift it out of the pile at the farm. They'd had to sc.r.a.pe what was left of the internal organs off the steading floor.

Everyone in the room was wearing protective gear: white paper boiler suits, plastic shoe-covers, latex gloves and breathing masks. Only this time Logan's mask wasn't full of menthol chest rub. Isobel paced slowly up and down the table, prodding the corpulent flesh with a double-gloved finger, making detailed and methodical notes into her dictaphone. The bit of rough Brian trailed along after her like some sort of demented puppy. Floppy-haired w.a.n.ker. DI Insch was again conspicuous by his absence, having used Logan's guilty conscience to get out of it, but the PF and the back-up pathologist were there. Keeping as far away from the rotting corpse as possible without being somewhere else.

It was impossible to tell if the child had been strangled like David Reid. The skin was too heavily rotted around the throat. And something had been nibbling away at the flesh. Not just little wriggly white things either, and G.o.d knew there were enough of those, but a rat or a fox or something. A cold sweat beaded Isobel's forehead as her running commentary faltered. Carefully, she lifted the internal organs out of the plastic bag they'd been shovelled into, trying to identify what it was she held in her hands.

Logan was convinced he'd never get the smell out of his nostrils. Little David Reid had been bad, but this one was a hundred times worse.

'Preliminary findings,' said Isobel when it was finally over, scrubbing and scrubbing at her hands. 'Four cracked ribs and signs of blunt trauma to the skull. Broken hip. One broken leg. She was five. Blonde. There's a couple of fillings in her rear molars.' More soap, more scrubbing. It looked as if Isobel was trying to get clean all the way down to the bone. Logan had never seen her so shaken up by work before. 'I'd estimate the time of death between twelve and eighteen months ago. It's hard to be sure with so much decomposition...' She shivered. 'I'll need to run some laboratory tests on the tissue samples to be sure.'

Logan placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. 'I'm sorry.' He wasn't sure what for. That their relationship had fallen apart? That once Angus Robertson was put away, they had nothing in common? That she'd had to suffer what she suffered on that tower block rooftop? That he hadn't got to her sooner... That she'd just had to carve up a badly decomposed child like a turkey?

She smiled sadly at him, but tears sparkled at the edges of her eyes. For a moment there was a connection between them. A shared moment of tenderness.

And then Brian, her a.s.sistant, ruined it all. 'Excuse me, Doctor, you have a phone call on line three. I've put it through to the office.'

The moment was gone and so was Isobel.

Roadkill was undergoing psychiatric evaluation by the time Logan was heading across town to the steadings and their gruesome contents. He didn't hold out any hopes of Bernard Duncan Philips being found fit to stand trial. Roadkill was a nutjob and everyone knew it. The fact he kept three farm buildings full of dead animals he'd sc.r.a.ped off the road was a bit of a giveaway. Not to mention the dead child. The smell was still clinging to him.

Logan wound the car's windows down as far as he dared, wisps of snow flickering in to melt in the heat of the blowers. That post mortem was going to stay with him for a long, long time. Shuddering, he turned the heat up again.

The city was grinding to a halt in the heavy snowfall. Cars slithered and stalled all the way down South Anderson Drive, some up on the kerb, others just churning away in the middle of the four-lane road. At least his police-issue, rust-acned Vauxhall wasn't having too much difficulty.

Up ahead he could see the yellow on-off flash of a gritter spraying salt and sand across two lanes. The cars behind were hanging back, trying to avoid getting their paintwork scratched.

'Better late than never.'

'Sorry, sir?'

The PC doing the driving wasn't someone Logan had recognized straightaway. He would have preferred WPC Watson, but DI Insch wasn't having any of it. He'd picked the new PC to accompany Logan because he was less likely to give Logan a hard time for the story in the morning paper. Besides, WPC Jackie Watson was in court again today with her changing-room w.a.n.ker. Last time he was giving evidence against Gerald Cleaver, this time he was there to be tried. Not that it was going to take long. He'd been caught red-handed. Literally. Grimacing away in the ladies' changing room, d.i.c.k in hand, banging away for all he was worth. It'd be in, plead guilty, mitigating circ.u.mstances, community service order and out again in time for tea. Maybe she'd be more inclined to speak to him with a successful prosecution under her belt?

It took them twice as long as it should have done to get across the Drive and out to Roadkill's farm on the outskirts of Cults. Visibility was so bad they couldn't see more than fifty yards in front of the car. The snow took everything away.

A crowd of reporters and television cameras was huddled outside the entrance to Roadkill's farm, shivering and sneezing in the snow. Two PCs, dressed up in the warmest gear they could get under their luminous yellow coats, guarded the gate, keeping the Press out. Snow had piled up on their peaked caps making them look slightly festive. The expression on their faces spoiled the image. They were cold, they were miserable and they were fed up with the army of journalists poking microphones in their faces. Asking them questions. Keeping them out of their nice warm patrol car.

The small lane was clogged with cars and vans. BBC, Sky News, ITN, CNN they were all here, the television lights making the snow leap out in sharp contrast to the dark grey sky. Earnest pieces to camera stopped as soon as Logan's car pulled into view; then they descended like piranhas. Logan, stuck at the centre of the feeding frenzy, did just what DI Insch had told him: kept his b.l.o.o.d.y mouth shut as microphones and cameras were pushed through the open windows.

'Sergeant, is it true you've been given control of this case?'

'DS McRae! Over here! Has Inspector Insch been suspended?'

'Has Bernard Philips killed before?'

'Did you know he was mentally unstable before the body was discovered?'

There was more, but it was lost in the cacophonous barrage of noise.

The PC drove gently through the crowd, all the way to the locked gate. Then came the voice Logan was waiting for: 'Laz, 'bout time, man. I'm freezin' ma nuts off out here!' Colin Miller, rosy cheeks and red nose, dressed up in a thick black overcoat, thick padded boots, and furry hat. Very Russian.

'Get in.'

The reporter clambered into the back seat, and another heavily wrapped-up man joined him.

Logan turned sharply, wincing as his stomach reminded him of the staples holding it together.

'Laz, this is Jerry. He's ma photographer.'

The photographer peeled a hand out of a thick snow glove and extended it for shaking.

Logan didn't take it. 'Sorry, Jerry, but this is a one-man-only deal. There will be official police photographs available for the story, but we can't have unauthorized photos doing the rounds. You have to stay here.'

The reporter tried his friendliest smile. 'Come on, Laz, Jerry's a good lad. He'll no' take any gore shots, will you, Jerry?'

Jerry looked momentarily confused and Logan knew that was exactly what he'd been told to take.

'Sorry. You and you only.'

's.h.i.te.' Miller pulled off his furry cap, shaking the snow into the footwell of the back seat. 'Sorry, Jerry. You go wait in the car. There's some coffee in a thermos under the driver's seat. Don't eat all the gingersnaps.'

Swearing under his breath, the photographer clambered out of the car, into the crowd of journalists and the steadily falling snow.

'Right,' said Logan as they drove slowly through the blizzard. 'Let's make sure we're clear on the rules here: we get editorial rights over any story. We supply the photographs. If there's something we don't want you to print because it jeopardizes the investigation, you don't print it.'