Logan walked the lawyer all the way to the front door.

'You know,' said Sandy, scowling at the rain hammering down out of the ash-coloured sky. 'I have children too. The way that fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d goes on, you'd think I lived to put perverts back on the streets.'

Logan raised an eyebrow. 'You got Gerald Cleaver off.'

The lawyer b.u.t.toned his coat. 'No I didn't.'

'Yes you did! You picked the b.l.o.o.d.y case to pieces!'

Moir-Farquharson turned and looked Logan in the eye. 'If the case had been solid I couldn't have picked it apart. I didn't let Cleaver off: you did.'

'But-'

'Now if you'll excuse me, officer, I have other matters to attend to.'

Back in the interview room Duncan Nicholson was fidgeting as if someone had stuck a mains cable up his b.u.m. His shirt was drenched with sweat and his eyes roamed the room in perpetual motion, never settling on one thing for more than a moment.

Logan went back to the seat nearest the tape machine and got the thing ready to start recording again.

'I ... I want protective custody!' said Nicholson, before Logan had managed to press the record b.u.t.tons.

'Craiginches secure enough for you?' asked Insch. 'Just till you go to Peterhead of course.'

'No! Like on the films: protective custody. Somewhere safe...' He scrubbed at his sweat-drenched face. 'They'll kill me if they find out I've talked!' His bottom lip trembled and for a moment Logan thought he was going to dissolve into tears again.

Insch dug his packet of fizzy shapes out and stuffed a couple into his mouth. 'No promises,' he said around a mouthful of orange-and-strawberry dinosaurs. 'Start the tape, Sergeant.'

Nicholson hung his head, staring fixedly at his hands, trembling away on the tabletop in front of him. 'I ... I've been working for some bookies, moneylenders, you know...' His voice cracked and he had to take a deep breath before he could go on. 'Kinda like a debt control researcher, you know: I follow people who won't pay up. Take photographs of them and their families. I ... I print them out at home and give the pictures to the people they owe money to.' He drooped even further in his seat. 'The bookies use the pictures to threaten them. Encourage them to pay up.'

Insch curled his lip. 'Your mum and dad must be so proud!'

A tear ran down Nicholson's cheek and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve. 'It's no' illegal to take photos of people! That's all I did. Nothing else! I didn't touch any kids!'

DI Insch snorted. 'What a load of b.o.l.l.o.c.ks!' He leaned forward in his chair, planting his huge fists on the table. 'I want to know what you were doing in a ditch in the Bridge of Don with the mutilated body of a three-year-old boy. I want to know why you had an envelope full of cash and jewellery.' He stood. 'You're a dirty wee s.h.i.te, Nicholson. You deserve to go down for the rest of your miserable little life. You can stay here and lie all you want; I'm going to speak to the Procurator Fiscal. Get him all fired up to nail your a.r.s.e to the wall. Interview suspended at-'

'I slipped.' Nicholson was in floods of tears, the panic clear in his eyes. 'Please! I slipped!'

Logan sighed. 'You told us that already. What were you doing there?'

'I ... I was on a job.' Nicholson stared into Logan's eyes, and Logan knew they'd broken him.

'Go on.'

'I was on a job. Little old lady. Widow. Keeps a bit of cash in the house. Some silver. Bit of jewellery?'

'So you ripped her off?'

Nicholson shook his head, teardrops falling like diamonds to explode against the dirty Formica tabletop. 'Didn't get that far. I was out of my face. Way too stoned to do a house. Been keeping the stuff I nicked under a tree on the bank above the river. You know. Keeping it out of the way in case you lot come round and search the house.' He shrugged, his voice becoming more and more of a mumble. 'I was rat-a.r.s.ed. Wanted to count it before I did the old lady's house. It was p.i.s.sing with rain. Slipped and fell all the way down the bank. What, twenty foot? In the dark, in the b.l.o.o.d.y rain. Ripped my jacket, jeans, nearly cracked my head open on a big f.u.c.kin' rock. Ended up in the ditch. Tried to pull myself out with this big dod of chipboard, only it's loose. It moves and there's this thing bobbing about in the water.' He started to sob. 'First I'm thinking it's a dog, you know, a bull terrier, or something...'Cos ...'cos it's all black. So I'm about to get the h.e.l.l out of there when I see this shiny thing, sparkling in the rain. You know, like a silver chain or something...' He shuddered. 'I think it's one of mine. I'm so f.u.c.kin' wrecked I think it's part of my stash. So I go to pick it up and the thing rolls over. And it's a dead kid. And I scream and I scream and I scream...'

Logan leaned forward. 'What happened then?'

'I got the f.u.c.k out of there quick as I could. Straight home. Into the shower, try to wash that filthy dead water off me. Called the police.'

And that's where I came in, thought Logan. 'What about the thing?' he asked.

'Eh?'

'The shiny thing you found on the body. What was it? Where is it?'

'Tin foil. It was just a b.l.o.o.d.y bit of tin foil.'

Insch glowered at him. 'I want the names of all the poor sods you've robbed. I want the loot. All of it!' He looked down at the pile of photographs in their clear plastic wallet. 'And I want the names of all the bookies you take photos for. And if anyone in these photographs has been hurt, and I don't care if it's just falling off their bicycle, I'm going to charge you with conspiracy to commit a.s.sault. Understand?'

Nicholson buried his head in his hands.

'Well,' said Insch with a generous smile, 'thank you for a.s.sisting us with our enquiries, Mr Nicholson. Logan, be a good lad and escort our guest here to his cell. Something south-facing with a view and a balcony.'

Nicholson cried all the way.

26.

The preliminary forensic report came in just after six. It wasn't good. There was nothing tying Duncan Nicholson to David Reid other than the fact that he'd found the body. And he had a cast iron alibi for the time Peter Lumley went missing. Insch had dispatched two PCs to where Nicholson claimed to be hiding his stash. They came back with their patrol car's boot full of stolen property. It was beginning to look as if Nicholson was telling the truth.

So that meant all bets were back on Roadkill. That still didn't sit well with Logan. He couldn't see the man as a paedophile killer, even if he did keep a dead girl in one of his outbuildings.

In the end DI Insch called a halt to proceedings. 'It's time to go home,' he said. 'We've got everyone banged up, they'll all still be there come Monday morning.'

'Monday?'

Insch nodded. 'Yes, Monday. Logan, you have my permission to take Sunday off. Observe the Sabbath. Go watch the footie, drink beer, eat crisps, have some fun.' He stopped and gave a sly smile. 'Maybe take a nice WPC to dinner?'

Logan blushed and kept his gob shut.

'Whatever. I don't want to see you back here till Monday morning.'

The rain had stopped by the time Logan left Force Headquarters. The desk sergeant had cornered him with another three messages from Peter Lumley's stepfather who was still convinced they could find his child. Logan tried to lie to him, tell him it was all going to be all right, but he couldn't. So he promised to call as soon as he heard anything. There was nothing else he could do.

The night had turned from chilly to bitterly cold, a thin dusting of frost glittering on the pavements. As Logan stepped out onto Union Street his breath hung about him in a cloud. It was Baltic.

For a Sat.u.r.day night the streets were strangely silent. Logan didn't fancy going back to his empty flat. Not yet. So he went to Archibald Simpson's instead.

The pub was crowded with noisy groups of youngsters wrapping themselves around pitchers of c.o.c.ktails, keeping out the cold by getting as p.i.s.sed as possible as quickly as possible. Come chucking out time there would be vomiting, a bit of fighting and, for some, a trip to the cells. Or maybe A&E.

'Oh to be young and stupid again,' he muttered, squeezing his way through the throng to the long, wooden bar.

The s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation he heard on the way were predictable enough. A bit of boasting about how wrecked someone was last night and how much more wrecked they were going to get tonight. But underneath it all there was another theme. The topics of alcohol and s.e.xual prowess were being challenged by Gerald Cleaver getting off scot-free.

Logan stood at the bar, waiting for one of the frayed-looking Australians to serve him, listening to a fat man in a bright yellow shirt holding forth to a lanky, bearded bloke in a T-shirt and waistcoat. Cleaver was sc.u.m. How could the police have screwed up so badly the sicko got away with it? It was obvious Cleaver was guilty, what with all these children turning up dead. And there they were letting a known paedophile back on the streets!

Little and Large weren't the only ones on the 'stupid police' rant. Logan could hear at least half a dozen others banging on about the same topic. Didn't they know this was where most of Aberdeen's off-duty policemen drank? A lot of the dayshift would be in here, having a pint after work. Bemoaning Cleaver's release. Spending some of that overtime they were all getting.

When he finally managed to get served Logan took his pint of Stella and went for a wander through the other sections of the huge pub, looking for someone he knew well enough to talk to. He smiled and waved at clumps of PCs, only vaguely recognizing them out of uniform. In the far corner he spotted a familiar figure wreathed in cigarette smoke, surrounded by depressed looking detective sergeants and constables. She threw her head back and poured another lungful of smoke into the cloud above her head. As she came back down her eyes locked on Logan and she gave him a lopsided smile.

Logan groaned: she'd seen him. Now he had to go over.

A DC shoogled over, making room for Logan and his pint at the small table. Above their heads a television burbled away quietly to itself, local adverts for garages, chip shops and double-glazing, filling the s.p.a.ce between programmes.

'Lazarus,' said DI Steel, the word coming out slightly slurred through a haze of cigarette smoke. 'How you doing, Lazarus? You made Chief Inspector yet?'

He should have never sat down here. He should have grabbed a pizza across the road and gone home. He forced some lightness into his voice and said, 'Not yet. Maybe Monday.'

'Monday?' The inspector laughed like a drain, rocking back and forth with f.a.g ash spilling from her cigarette down the front of the DC who'd shoogled. '"Maybe Monday". Priceless...' She cast an eye over the gla.s.s-crowded tabletop and frowned. 'Drink!' she said, digging an old leather wallet from an inside pocket and handing it to the ash-covered DC. 'Constable, I want you to get another round. People are dying of thirst here!'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Whiskies all round!' DI Steel slapped the tabletop. 'And make them doubles!'

The detective constable headed off to the bar, taking the inspector's wallet with him.

Steel leaned closer to Logan, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. 'Between you and me, I think he's a bit drunk.' She sat back and beamed at him. 'You know, with Inschy getting kicked for the Roadkill pantomime thing and Cleaver going free, there's bound to be at least one inspector's job coming up!'

Logan didn't have anything to say to that, but DI Steel's face fell.

'Sorry, Lazarus.' She dropped the cigarette and ground it into the wooden floor. 'It's been a s.h.i.tty day.'

'It's not your fault they let Cleaver go. If anyone's to blame, it's Hissing b.l.o.o.d.y Sid.'

'I'll drink to that!' she said, and did, downing a large whisky in a single gulp.

A familiar-looking DC on the opposite side of the table was staring up at the television above their heads. He grabbed the inspector by the arm. 'It's coming on!'

Logan and DI Steel twisted round in their seats as the opening t.i.tles of the local news flickered across the screen and the noise level in the pub took a sudden dip, as every off-duty police man and woman in the place turned to face the nearest television.

Someone a lot less attractive than she could have been was speaking seriously into the camera from behind her news desk. The volume wasn't loud enough to pick out any real words, but a photo of Gerald Cleaver's face appeared over her left shoulder. Then the scene changed to an exterior shot of Aberdeen Sheriff Court. The crowd were thrusting their placards in the air and suddenly a woman in her mid-forties filled the screen, clutching her 'DEATH TO PEDIPHILE Sc.u.m!!!' placard with pride. She banged her gums with righteous fury for all of fifteen seconds, not one word of it audible in the crowded pub, before being replaced by another shot of the courthouse through the crowd. The big gla.s.s doors were opening.

'Here we go!' said DI Steel with glee.

Sandy Moir-Farquharson appeared through the doors and proceeded to read his client's statement. The camera zoomed in, just in time to see a figure lunge from the crowd and smack his fist into Sandy the Snake's face.

A huge cheer went up from the pub.

The newsreader's concerned and serious face reappeared, said something, and then the punch was shown again.

Another huge cheer.

And then it was something about traffic on the Dyce to Newmacher road and everyone went happily back to their drinks.

DI Steel had a misty-eyed smile on her face as she gulped another large whisky. 'Wasn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?'

Logan agreed that it was pretty d.a.m.n good.

'You know,' said Steel, lighting up another cigarette, 'I would love to shake that kid's hand. h.e.l.l, I'd even be tempted to go straight for a night. What a star!'

Logan tried not to form a mental picture of DI Steel and Martin Strichen going at it like knives, but failed. To take his mind off it he glanced back up at the television. Now it was showing a full-screen photo of Peter Lumley, missing since last Tuesday. Ginger hair, freckles and smile. Cut to an exterior of Roadkill's farm. Then to a press conference with the Chief Constable looking stern and committed.

The good mood slowly ebbed out of Logan as the pictures flickered in front of him. Peter was lying dead somewhere and Logan had the nasty feeling they still hadn't got the man responsible. No matter what DI Insch thought.

And then it was adverts. A garage in Bieldside, a dress shop in Rosemount and a government road safety thing. Logan watched in silence as the car screeched to a halt, but not before striking the boy crossing the road. The kid was small, the grille and b.u.mper catching him in the side, making his legs flail out as he pin-wheeled into the bonnet, cracking his head against the metal before sailing off to smack into the tarmac. It was in slow motion, every impact horribly clear and ch.o.r.eographed. The legend 'KILL YOUR SPEED, NOT A CHILD' blazed across the screen.

Logan stared up at the screen with a growing look of pain on his face. 'Son of a b.i.t.c.h.'

They'd got it wrong.

It took till eight o'clock to get everyone gathered in the morgue. DI Insch, Logan and Dr Isobel MacAlister, who looked even less happy at being dragged back into work than the inspector, being dressed up to the nines in a long black dress, cut low at the front. Not that Logan was afforded much in the way of gratuitous skin to ogle. Isobel had pulled a luminous orange fleece over the evening dress, hands stuffed deep in the pockets, trying to keep warm in the cold, antiseptic morgue.

She'd been at the theatre. 'I hope this is important,' she said, giving Logan a look which made it clear that nothing could be more important than an evening with her bit of rough at Scottish National Opera's new production of La Boheme.

Insch was dressed in jeans and a tatty blue sweatshirt. It was the first time Logan had ever seen him out of his work suit, not counting his pantomime villain outfit. He scowled as Logan apologized for dragging them all down here at this time on a Sat.u.r.day night. Again.

'OK,' said Logan, selecting the refrigerated drawer that held the remains of the little girl they'd found at Roadkill's steading. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it open, staggering back as the putrid smell fought against the room's antiseptic tang. 'Right,' he said, his face creased up, trying hard to breathe exclusively through his mouth. 'We know the girl died from blunt trauma-'

'Of course she did!' snapped Isobel. 'I told you that in my post mortem report. The fractures to the front and back of her skull would have caused ma.s.sive brain damage and death.'

'I know,' said Logan, pulling the X-rays out from the case file and holding them up to the light. 'You see this?' he asked, pointing at the ribs.

'Broken ribs.' Isobel glared. 'Did you drag me out of the theatre to show me things I b.l.o.o.d.y well told you in the first place, Sergeant?' The last word came out dripping in venom.

Logan sighed. 'Look, we all thought the injuries were caused by Roadkill beating the girl-'

'The damage is consistent with a beating. I said so in the post mortem! How much more time do we have to spend going over this? You said you had new evidence!'

Logan took a deep breath and stacked the X-rays end on end so they formed the skeleton of a complete child. Broken hip, leg, ribs, fractured skull. The image was less than four feet tall. Dropping down onto his knees, Logan held the skeleton image so that its feet were touching the floor. 'Look at the ribs,' he said, 'look how far they are off the ground.'

DI Insch and Isobel did. Neither of them looked impressed.

'And?'

'What if the damage isn't down to a beating?'

'Oh come off it!' Isobel said. 'This is pathetic! She was beaten to death!'