The reporter shook his head. 'Nah. Livestock.'

Well that sounded b.l.o.o.d.y daft. 'What? Pigs and chickens and cows and things?'

'No' that kind of livestock.'

Logan sat back in his seat and examined the taciturn reporter. His face, usually an open book, was closed and lined. 'So what kind of livestock is this buyer after?'

Miller shrugged.

'Difficult to tell. No one's sayin' b.u.g.g.e.r all. Nothin' that makes sense anyway. Maybe a woman, man, boy, girl...'

'You can't just buy people!'

The look Miller gave Logan was a mixture of pity and contempt. 'You sail up the Clyde in a banana skin? Course you can b.l.o.o.d.y buy people! Take a stroll down the right streets in Edinburgh and you can buy anythin' you like. Guns, drugs. Women too.' He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. 'Did I no' tell you Malk the Knife imports tarts from Lithuania? What you think he does with them?'

'I thought he hired them out...'

Miller laughed sourly. 'Aye he does. Hires and sells. You get discount on the shop-soiled ones.'

The disbelieving look on Logan's face made him sigh. 'Look: most of the times it's pimps doin' the buyin'. One of your tarts pops an overdose so off you go to Malkie's Cash & Carry. Get yourself a replacement. One nearly-new Lithuanian wh.o.r.e at bargain bas.e.m.e.nt prices.'

'Jesus!'

'Most of the poor b.i.t.c.hes can't even speak English. They get bought, hooked on smack, hired out, used up and chucked back on the street when they're too s.k.a.n.ky to turn a decent trick.'

They sat in silence, just the dull hiss of the cappuccino machine and the faint sounds of the storm outside filtering through the double-glazing.

Logan wasn't going back to the office. That's what he told himself when Miller dropped him off at the Castlegate. He was going to nip along to Oddbins, pick up a couple of bottles of wine, some beer, and then settle down in front of the fire in the flat. Book, wine, and a carryout for tea.

But he still found himself standing in the dreary front lobby of Force Headquarters, dripping melting snow onto the linoleum.

As usual there was a pile of messages from Peter Lumley's stepfather. Logan did his best not to think about them. It was Sunday: he wasn't even supposed to be here. And he couldn't face another of those desperate phone calls. So instead he sat at his desk staring at the picture of Geordie Stephenson. Trying to read something in those dead eyes.

Miller's tale of women for sale had set him thinking. Someone in Aberdeen wanted to buy a woman, and here was Geordie, representing one of the biggest importers of flesh in the country, up on business. Maybe not the same business property not prost.i.tution but all the same...

'You really screwed up, didn't you, Geordie?' he told the morgue photograph. 'Come all the way up from Edinburgh to do a wee job and end up floating face down in the harbour with your knees hacked off. Couldn't even manage to bribe a member of the planning department. I wonder if you told your boss someone was interested in buying himself a woman? Cash. No questions asked.'

Geordie's post mortem report was still sitting on Logan's desk, unread. What with everything that had gone on this week, there just hadn't been time. He picked the manila folder off the tabletop and started to flick through it when his phone blared into life.

'Logan.'

'Sergeant?' It was DI Insch. 'Where are you?'

'FHQ.'

'Logan, don't you have a home to go to? Didn't I tell you to take a nice WPC out and show her a good time?'

Logan smiled. 'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.'

'Well, it's too late for any of that now.'

'Sir?'

'Get your a.r.s.e over to Seaton Park. I've just got the call: they've found Peter Lumley.'

Logan's heart sank. 'I see.'

'I'll be there in about... G.o.d, it's blowing a blizzard out here. Make it thirty minutes to be safe. Maybe forty. Keep it low profile, Sergeant. No blue lights, no sirens and no fuss. OK?'

'Yes, sir.'

Seaton Park was a pretty place in the summer wide banks of green gra.s.s, tall mature trees, a bandstand. People picnicked on the gra.s.s, played an impromptu game of football, made love beneath the bushes. Got mugged after dark. It wasn't a stone's throw away from Aberdeen University's student halls of residence, so there was a steady stream of naive newcomers with money in their pockets.

Today it was like something out of Dr Zhivago. The sky hadn't lightened as day went on but just hung there, throwing snow down over everything.

Logan trudged across the park, trailing a PC wrapped up like an Eskimo behind him. The rotten sod was using Logan as a windbreak as they fought their way through the snow. Their goal was a low concrete building in the middle of the park, the walls on one side coated with a crust of white. The public loos were closed during the winter. Anyone caught short would have to make peecicles behind a bush. They went around the side, glad to get out of the bitter wind, to where the ladies' entrance was hidden behind a small recess.

The door was open, just a crack, the wood splintered and torn where a padlock was meant to keep it shut. Instead the big bra.s.s lock hung uselessly from its metal clasp. Logan pushed the door open and stepped into the female toilets.

It actually seemed colder in here than it had outside. A pair of uniform kept an eye on three well-wrapped-up children between the ages of six and ten, their breaths fogging the air. The kids looked excited and bored in turn.

One of the uniforms looked up from his charges. 'Cubicle number three.'

Logan nodded and went to take a look.

Peter Lumley wasn't alive any more. Logan knew it as soon as he opened the black-painted cubicle door. The child was lying on the floor, curled up around the bottom of the toilet, as if he were giving it a cuddle. The fiery red hair was dull and pale in the cold light, the freckles almost indiscernible against the waxy, blue-white skin. The little boy's T-shirt was pulled up, covering his face and arms, leaving the pale skin of his back and stomach exposed. He wasn't wearing anything else.

'You poor wee sod...'

Logan frowned, peering at the child's exposed body, unable to get any closer in case he contaminated the crime scene. Peter Lumley wasn't like the little boy they'd found in the ditch. Peter Lumley was still anatomically intact.

The loos were getting a little crowded. Insch had turned up red-faced and swearing just after the duty doctor and the Identification Bureau. The IB lads had turned up, as instructed, in their own clothes, leaving the white van with all its gear in the car park next to St Machar's Cathedral where it wouldn't draw attention to itself.

As Insch stomped the snow off his boots, the IB team and everyone else struggled into their white overalls, shivering in the frigid air and b.i.t.c.hing about how cold it was.

'So what's the score?' asked Insch as the duty doctor peeled off his paper coveralls and tried to wash his hands in one of the sinks.

'The poor little lad's dead. Dunno how long for. He's pretty much frozen solid. Weather like this plays merry h.e.l.l with the old rigor mortis.'

'Cause of death?'

The doctor wiped his hands dry on the inside of his fleecy jacket. 'You'll have to get confirmation from the Ice Queen, but it looks like ligature strangulation to me.'

'Same as last time.' Insch sighed and dropped his voice so the children who weren't dead couldn't hear him. 'Any sign of s.e.xual a.s.sault?'

The doctor nodded and Insch sighed again.

'Righty ho.' The doctor wrapped and tucked and zipped himself into his many-layered thermal insulation. 'If you don't need me any more, I'll b.u.g.g.e.r off somewhere warmer. Like Siberia.'

With death declared the IB team set about collecting everything they could get their glove-covered hands on. Lifting fibres, dusting for prints. Photographer clicking and whirring away, video operator recording everything and everyone. The only thing they didn't do was move the body. Not one of them wanted to incur the wrath of the pathologist. Isobel had got herself quite a reputation since Logan had returned to the force.

'One week today, isn't it?' asked Insch as they stood against the wall and watched the Identification Bureau work. Logan admitted that it was. Insch dug a packet of jelly babies from his coat pocket and offered them around. 'What a great b.l.o.o.d.y week it's been too,' he said, chewing. 'You thinking of taking a holiday anytime soon? Let the crime statistics get back to normal again?'

'Ha b.l.o.o.d.y ha.' Logan stuck his hands in his pockets and tried not to think about how Peter Lumley's stepfather would look when they told him what they'd found.

Insch nodded at the three children, slowly turning blue in the crowded ladies lavatory. 'What about them?'

Logan shrugged. 'They say they were out making snowmen. One of them needed a wee, so they came in here, and that's when they found the body.' He looked over at them: two girls of eight and ten and a boy, the youngest at six. Brother and sisters. They all had the same ski-jump nose and wide brown eyes.

'Poor kids,' said Insch.

'Poor kids, my a.r.s.e,' said Logan. 'How do you think they got in here? Took an eight-inch screwdriver to the clasp on the door, wrenched the padlock clean off. A pa.s.sing patrol caught them at it.' He pointed at the two frozen PCs. 'The little sods would have done a runner if these guys hadn't shown up and grabbed them.'

Insch switched his attention from the kids to the two uniforms. 'A pa.s.sing patrol? In the middle of Seaton Park? In this weather?' He frowned. 'Sound a bit far-fetched to you?'

Logan shrugged again. 'That's their story and they're sticking to it.'

'Hmmm...'

The PCs shifted uncomfortably under Insch's gaze.

'Think anyone saw the body being dumped?' he said at last.

'No. I don't.'

Insch nodded. 'Nah, me neither.'

'Because the body wasn't dumped: it was stored. The kids had to break in. The door was padlocked with the body inside. That means the killer put the padlock on. He thought the body was safely locked away. Ready for him to come back to, whenever he felt the urge. He's not claimed his trophy.'

An evil smile spread across the inspector's face. 'That means he's coming back. We've finally got a way to catch this b.a.s.t.a.r.d!'

And that's when Dr Isobel MacAlister arrived, stamping into the toilets in a thick woollen coat, a flurry of snow, and a foul mood. Standing in the entranceway, she took in the scene, her face falling even further into a scowl upon seeing Logan. It looked as if she was bearing a grudge: not only had Logan ruined her evening at the theatre, he'd proved her wrong about the child being beaten to death. And Isobel was never wrong. 'Inspector,' she said, completely blanking the man she used to sleep with. 'If we can make this quick?'

Insch pointed at cubicle number three and Isobel swept off to examine the body, her Wellington boots flapping and slapping as she walked.

'Is it just me,' whispered Insch, 'or did it suddenly just get colder in here?'

They broke the news to Peter Lumley's parents that evening. Mr and Mrs Lumley didn't say a word. As soon Logan and the Inspector appeared they knew. They just sat side by side on the sofa in silence, holding each other's hands as DI Insch intoned the fateful words.

Without saying a word Mr Lumley got up, picked his coat off the hook, and walked out.

His wife watched him go, waiting for the door to shut behind him, before finally bursting into tears. The Family Liaison Officer hurried over to offer her a shoulder to cry on.

Logan and Insch let themselves out.

28.

The plan was simple. Everyone coming to, or going from, the murder scene would keep a low profile. The number of people visiting the lavatories would be kept to a minimum, the padlock re-fixed to the door. The body would be taken out in secret and a pair of PCs left behind to watch the loos. This would be done from the safety and warmth of a pool car, parked up out of the way, with a clear sight of the ladies. The relentless snow had wiped clean the mora.s.s of footprints around the toilets, making everything a smooth, rounded white, leaving no sign that anyone had ever been there. The three kids who had found the body would not be charged with breaking and entering, just so long as they kept their mouths shut. No one was to know that Peter Lumley's body had been found. The killer would come back with his scissors, looking to take his souvenir, and the PCs would arrest him. What could possibly go wrong?

Miller's puff-piece on the tragic life and times of Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill, was relegated to page four, along with a bit on new tractors and a charity jumble sale. It was a good article, no matter how deeply it was buried in the paper. Miller had turned Roadkill into a sympathetic character, his mental health problems caused by the tragic death of his mother. An intelligent man, abandoned by society and making the best sense he could of the confusing world around him. It went a long way towards making Grampian Police look as if they knew what they were doing when they let him go.

And if that had been the only story Miller had written for the P&J that morning, everyone at Force Headquarters would have been a lot happier.

Miller's second story was spread across the front page under the banner headline: 'CHILD-KILLER STRIKES AGAIN! BOY'S BODY FOUND IN TOILET.'

'How the h.e.l.l did he find out?' Insch slammed his fist down on the tabletop, making cups, papers and everyone in the briefing room jump.

The plan to catch the killer returning for his trophy was officially screwed up beyond repair. Every single gory detail was spread across the front page of the Press and Journal in tones of indignant outrage.

'That was the best chance we had of grabbing this b.a.s.t.a.r.d before he kills again!' Insch grabbed his copy of the paper, shaking with fury as he shoved the front page spread at them all. 'We could have caught him! Now some other kid is going to wind up dead because some stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d couldn't keep their b.l.o.o.d.y mouth shut!'

He hurled the paper across the room. It spiralled through the air, exploding into a flurry of pages as it hit the far wall. Behind him, Inspector Napier stood in full dress uniform, looking like a ginger-haired Grim Reaper. He didn't say a word, just glared at them all from under his furrowed eyebrows as DI Insch fumed.

'I'll tell you what I'm going to do,' said Insch, digging in his pocket. He produced a thick, brown leather wallet, opened it and dragged out a handful of cash. 'First person who comes to me with a name, gets it.' He slapped the money down on the table.

There was a moment's silence.

Logan pulled out his own wallet and added all his cash to the inspector's pile.

And that started a stampede: uniform, detectives, sergeants all emptying their pockets and throwing their money down. By the time they'd finished there was a tidy amount sitting on the desk. It wasn't huge as rewards go, but it was heartfelt.

'All very nice,' said Insch with a wry smile, 'but we still don't know who the blabbermouth is.'

They filtered back to their seats and the inspector watched them go with something approaching pride on his face. Napier's expression was less clear-cut: his eyes sweeping the room's occupants, looking for signs of guilt, focusing on Logan far too often for comfort.

'Right,' said Insch. 'Either there's a lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d in here who thinks chipping in lets them off the hook, or Miller's mole works for someone else. I'm hoping it's the latter.' The smile vanished from his face. 'Because if it is one of this team I will personally crucify them.' He plonked himself down on the edge of the desk. 'Sergeant McRae, hand out the a.s.signments.'

Logan read the list of names, sending out search teams to comb through the snow-covered park. Other teams going door-to-door looking for anyone who might have seen the body being hidden. Everyone else was to follow up the numerous telephone calls from concerned citizens. Most of them had come in as soon as they heard Roadkill had been released. Amazing how many people suddenly remembered his wheelie-cart near where the kids went missing.

Finally the morning briefing wound down and everyone filtered out, glancing at the pile of money on the desk as they went, their faces as grim as the weather outside, until only Napier, Logan and DI Insch remained.

The inspector swept the money off the table and into a big brown envelope. Writing, 'BLOOD MONEY' on the front in big black letters.

'Any ideas?'

Logan shrugged. 'Someone in the IB team? They've got access to all the bodies.'

Napier raised a cold eyebrow. 'Just because your team put money in the pot it doesn't mean they're not guilty. It could be anyone here.' He said that last bit looking directly at Logan. 'Anyone.'

Insch thought about it, his face dark and distant. 'We could have got him,' he said at last, sealing the envelope. 'We could have staked the place out and he'd've come back.'