'What was the message, Cameron?' The mysterious message that Simon McLeod said all of Aberdeen knew about. Everyone except the police.

'He spat on me...' A sob escaped, followed by a silvery trail that leaked out of Cameron's nose. 'He dragged Geordie out of the flat. He said he'd be back for me! I thought you were him!'

Logan examined the man sitting in front of him, rocking back and forward on the edge of the bed, eyes and nose running freely. He was lying. He'd looked out his front window and seen Logan and WPC Watson standing in the street. He knew it wasn't Desperate Doug back to finish him off. 'What was the message?'

Cameron waved a hand in random circles, the red smudge on his bandaged wrist growing ever larger. 'I don't know. He just said he was coming back!'

'What about the little girl?' Logan asked.

Anderson acted as if Logan had slapped him across the face. It took him a good ten seconds to recover enough to say, 'Girl?'

'The girl, Cameron. The one that ended up dead, wearing a bin-bag belonging to your upstairs neighbour. You remember her? A nice man from the police came round and took your statement.'

Anderson bit his lip and wouldn't meet Logan's eyes.

They couldn't get anything more out of him. Instead they all sat there in silence until a pair of uniformed constables arrived to take him away.

The PC guarding Desperate Doug MacDuff's room was halfway through his novel when Logan and WPC Watson turned up at the door. He'd had a boring day, except for flirting with a couple of the nurses. Logan sent him off to fetch coffees again.

Doug's room was buried in semidarkness, the flickering television screen casting its green-and-grey glow, making shadows writhe and jump. It was like being back in the Turf 'n Track again. Only this time no one was trying to kick the living h.e.l.l out of them. The only sound came from the air conditioner, the humming machinery, and the pallid, wheezing old man lying on the hospital bed, gazing up at the silent TV. Logan sat himself down at the foot of the bed again. 'Evening, Dougie,' he said with a smile in his voice. 'We brought grapes.' He plonked a paper bag on the blankets by the old man's feet.

Doug sniffed and went on staring at the television screen.

'We've just had a very interesting chat with someone, Dougie. About you.' Logan leaned forward and helped himself to a grape from the bag. In the light of the TV they looked like little gangrenous haemorrhoids. 'He's fingered you for a.s.saulting and abducting the late Geordie Stephenson. He watched you do it! How about that, Dougie? First we get forensic evidence and now we've got a witness.'

No reaction.

Logan helped himself to another grape. 'Witness says you also killed that little girl.' It was a lie, but you never knew your luck. 'The one we found in a bin-bag.'

That took Doug's attention off the television set. He sat, propped up with half a dozen pillows, glaring at Logan with his one good eye. And then he went back to the television. 'Little f.u.c.ker.'

The silence stretched out in the gloom. Lit by the TV's ghostly glow, Desperate Doug looked like a skeleton, all sunken cheeks and dark-ringed eye sockets. His teeth were still floating in a gla.s.s.

'Why'd you kill her, Dougie?'

'You know,' said the old man. His voice was low and gravelly, a whisper forced through broken gla.s.s. 'I was a f.u.c.kin' stallion when I was young. Aye, no' that much younger mind. Women fallin' over themselves to get a bit of it Dougie-style. Women mind. Women. No' like them sick f.u.c.ks.'

Logan watched as Doug coughed: a wet, rattling sound that ended with a globule of dark phlegm being spat into a bedpan.

'I gets word Geordie's stayin' with his f.a.ggot half-brother in Rosemount. So I go round. Pay them a little visit. Geordie tries to come off all hard to start with, you know? He's the man. I'm just some old f.u.c.k. "Go home, granddad or I'll break your zimmer..."' A toothless smile turned into a laugh that turned into another fit of coughing. Doug lay back on the mound of crunchy hospital pillows, breathing hard. 'So I kicked the s.h.i.t out of him. Right there in the lounge. Then his poof-b.a.s.t.a.r.d-brother comes bargin' in from the bedroom, all wrapped up in this pink dressin' gown. And I'm thinking nothin' of it. You know, figure he's going for a bubble bath or some s.h.i.te like that. Only I can hear somethin', like a kid cryin'.' He shook his head at the memory. 'f.u.c.ker's standing there shouting at me: "You can't come in here! You can't do this!" Like I give a s.h.i.t. And I can still hear the cryin'. So I go see what it is, only poof-boy's no' gettin' out of the way: "You've got no right..."' He smacked a fist into his palm. 'Bang. There's this little girl in the bedroom. Wearin' nothin' but a f.u.c.kin' Mickey Mouse hat. You know, with the ears?' He looked at Logan for confirmation, but Logan was too shocked to answer. 'So I'm lookin' at this naked wee girl and that b.a.s.t.a.r.d's in there, barely dressed.' He grimaced. 'Went back in the lounge and kicked the s.h.i.te out of him too. Sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Logan finally recovered enough to say, 'What happened to the girl?'

Desperate Doug MacDuff dropped his eyes to his hands. They lay curled in his lap like wizened talons. Arthritis, just beginning to turn the joints into swollen b.a.l.l.s of pain. 'Aye. The girl...' He cleared his throat. 'She ... came in as I'm givin' the sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d a goin' over. And she's foreign. You know, like German or f.u.c.kin' Norwegian. Somethin' like that. And she's lookin' up at me with these big brown eyes, an' she's cryin' and sayin' f.u.c.kin' filthy things: "I suck your d.i.c.k." "f.u.c.k me in the a.s.s..." Over and over again.' The old man gave a shuddering breath and dissolved into a bed-shaking fit of coughing. He was white as milk when he finally stopped. 'She's... She's holding onto my leg, cryin' and snotterin' everywhere, bare naked, and tellin' me she wants me to f.u.c.k her in the a.r.s.e. I... I pushed her away...' His voice dropped. 'Fell against the fireplace. Bang. Head into the brick.'

They sat in silence once more. Doug lost in thought, Logan and Watson trying to come to terms with what they'd just heard. It was Doug who spoke first.

'So I picked up Geordie, took him somewhere nice and quiet, and f.u.c.ked him over. You should have heard him scream when I hacked off his f.u.c.kin' knees. Filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Logan cleared his throat. 'How come you let his brother live?'

Doug looked at him with sadness written in the deep lines of his face. 'Had a job to do. Message to deliver. I was goin' to go back the next day. Show him what happened to sick b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like him. You know, with a Stanley knife? Only when I went back there was all these pigs clamberin' all over the place. And the next day and the day after that...'

Logan nodded. The first lot of policemen must have been his team arresting Norman Chalmers. The rest doing door-to-doors, trying to find witnesses. While all the time Desperate Doug MacDuff was hovering in the shadows, watching them.

'Standin' like a f.u.c.kin' idiot in the snow and rain, gettin' myself some pneumonia to go with the cancer.' Doug lapsed back into silence, a faraway look in his good eye, the milky one shimmering in the television's glow.

Logan stood. 'Before we go there's one thing that's been bothering me: what was the message?'

'The message?' A smile spread across Desperate Doug's toothless face. 'You don't steal from your employer.'

32.

The interview room was close and stuffy, the radiator in the far corner belching out heat, the opaque window resolutely refusing to let fresh air in. A smell of cheesy feet and nervous armpits filled the room as Cameron Anderson sat on the other side of the table and lied.

Logan and Insch sat opposite, listening with deadpan faces as Cameron Anderson once more placed the blame for everything on Desperate Doug MacDuff. The dead girl was nothing to do with him.

'So,' said Insch, his heavy arms crossed over his barrel-like chest. 'You're telling us that the old man brought the child with him.'

Cameron tried an ingratiating smile. 'That's right.'

'Desperate Doug MacDuff, a man who has killed dozens of people, a man who hurts people for a living, took a four-year-old girl with him when he turned up to drag your brother away and hack his kneecaps off? What was it: Take Your Granddaughter To Work Week?'

Cameron licked his cracked lips and said, 'I can only tell you what happened,' for about the twentieth time. He was doing surprisingly well. Like this wasn't his first police interview. As if he'd been through it all before. Only there was no record of him ever having been arrested.

'That's funny,' said Insch, pulling out a packet of jelly babies. He offered one to Logan, took one himself and then stuffed the packet back in his pocket. 'You see, Doug says that you were in the bedroom with the girl when he arrived. He says that you were wearing nothing under your dressing gown. He says you were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her.'

'Douglas MacDuff is lying.'

'So if he's lying, how did the girl end up dead?'

'He pushed her and she fell against the fireplace.'

It was about the only bit of Cameron's story that matched what Desperate Doug had told Logan.

'And how did she end up in your neighbour's bin-bag?'

'The old man wrapped her in packing tape and hid her body in the bag.'

'He says you did it.'

'He's lying.'

'Really...' Insch sat back and sucked at his teeth, letting the silence grow. He'd tried it a couple of times already, but Cameron wasn't as stupid as he looked. He kept his mouth shut.

Insch leaned over the table, staring Cameron Anderson down. 'You really expect us to believe Desperate Doug got rid of the girl's body? A man who's quite happy to hack off your brother's kneecaps with a machete can't dismember a little girl's corpse?'

Cameron shuddered, but didn't say anything.

'You see, we know you tried to cut up the body, but you couldn't, could you? It made you sick. So you puked. Only you got some in the cut.' Insch smiled like a shark. 'Did you know we can get DNA from vomit, Mr Anderson? We've already had it a.n.a.lysed. All we need to do is match it to yours and you're screwed.'

Suddenly Cameron's composure cracked. 'I... I...' His eyes darted round the room, looking for a way out, looking for inspiration. And then calm returned. 'I... I was not completely honest with you earlier,' he said, under control once more.

'That's a shock.'

Cameron chose to ignore the sarcasm. 'I was trying to protect my brother's reputation.'

Insch smiled. 'His reputation? What as: a violent wee sc.u.mbag?'

Cameron carried on regardless. 'Geordie turned up at my door a fortnight ago. Said he was in town on business and needed a place to stay. He had a little girl with him, said she was his girlfriend's child. He was looking after the kid while she was in Ibiza on holiday. I didn't know anything was going on, but the night Geordie was killed I came home to find him and the girl naked in bed together. We had a fight, I wanted him out of my house. Told him I was going to call the police.' Cameron glanced down at his hands, as if seeing the story written there. 'But that was when the old man came to the door. Said he had a message for Geordie. I let him in and went to check that the little girl was OK. That Geordie hadn't hurt her... There's this big crash from the lounge and I run through to see Geordie curled up on the floor. And the old man's kicking him and punching him and Geordie's crying and I try to make him stop, but the old man's like an animal! Then ... then the little girl comes through from the bedroom and grabs the old man. He...' Cameron's voice caught in his throat. 'He pushed her away and she fell against the fireplace. I went to help, pick her up, but she was already dead. The old man started in on me.' He shivered. 'He... He had a knife. He wanted me to cut her up. Said if I didn't he'd cut me up... I couldn't do it. I tried, but I couldn't.' Cameron hung his head before telling them how Dougie had beaten him up again. Made him wrap the little girl's body up in parcel tape and hide her in a bin-bag. Only there were none in the flat. But it was bin-day the next day and there was an almost-empty bin-bag on the upstairs landing, outside Norman Chalmers's flat. Anderson had taken it, put the body inside and carried it down to the communal bin parked outside the front of the building. It was very late at night, dark, and there was no one about. He put the girl in the bin and covered it up with other bags. Then the old man told him he was an accessory now and that if he told anyone what had happened the police would lock him away.

'Fascinating,' said Insch dryly.

'He then threatened to kill me if I told anyone what had happened. And that was the last time I saw him, or my brother, or the little girl.'

When Cameron had finished they sat in silence, only the gentle whirring of the tape recorder intruding on the quiet.

'If you're Geordie's brother,' said Logan, 'how come you've got different last names?'

Cameron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'Different mothers. He was from my father's first marriage. They got divorced so Geordie was brought up with her maiden name, Stephenson. Dad got married again and I was born six years later.'

Silence fell. It was Logan who broke it. 'What if I told you we found seminal fluid in the girl's mouth?'

Cameron blanched.

'How much do you want to bet it matches the DNA sample we took from you? How are you going to pin that on Desperate Doug?'

Cameron looked as stunned as DI Insch. He sat on the other side of the table, mouth working up and down like a dying fish. Silence.

'Sergeant,' said Insch at last, 'can I have a word with you outside, please?'

They suspended the interview and Logan joined Insch in the corridor, leaving Cameron under the watchful eye of the silent PC.

A frown creased Insch's face, turning the corners of his mouth into an ugly snarl. 'Why did no one tell me we'd found s.e.m.e.n in the girl's mouth?' he asked, his voice dangerously neutral.

'Because we didn't.' Logan smiled. 'But he doesn't know that.'

'You're a dirty cheating b.a.s.t.a.r.d, DS McRae,' said Insch, the frown turning into a smile of paternal pride. 'Did you see his face when you said it? Looked like he'd shat himself.'

Logan was about to expand upon the theme when a worried-looking WPC trotted up the corridor and told them about Roadkill. A doctor at the hospital had made a 999 call. Someone had put Bernard Duncan Philips out of his misery.

Insch swore and ran a large hand over his face. 'He's supposed to be in protective custody! But he still manages to get himself beaten up, hospitalized and killed.' The inspector sagged against the wall. 'Give us five minutes,' he told the WPC before heading back into the interview room.

They took DI Insch's filthy Range Rover, the windows smudged and streaky where his spaniel had rubbed its nose against the gla.s.s. Insch drove them up through Rosemount's snow-lined streets.

Looking morosely out of the window, Logan watched the granite terraces drift by, his mind half on Roadkill and half on the strained conversation he'd had with WPC Jackie Watson as they drove along this very road.

As Insch pulled the car round the corner, making for the hospital, something tugged at Logan's mind. He stared out at the houses on this side of the road. A plastic reindeer, all lit up, complete with neon-red, flashing nose, jogged his memory. This was where they'd seen Peter Lumley's dad. Still wandering the streets looking for his missing child. Even though he knew his stepson was dead...

'You've got a face like a pig's a.r.s.e,' Insch told him, indicating to turn up Westburn Road. 'What's up?'

Logan shrugged, still seeing that wretched figure, tromping through the snow with his head down, the legs of his overalls damp with snow and slush. 'Not sure ... maybe nothing.'

Inside the hospital it was too hot, the heating cranked up to combat the winter's chill, leaving the whole place in a sub-tropical, antiseptic fug. The room Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill, had shared was no different, only more crowded Identification Bureau personnel, a photographer, DI Insch and Logan all dressed in identical white paper coveralls as if they were some sort of conceptual dance troupe.

The room's other bed was empty; a tearful nurse in her late forties told Logan the man sharing with Roadkill had died of liver failure that afternoon.

In between the high-pitched whine and clack of the photographer's flash, Logan was treated to the sight of Roadkill's battered body. He was sprawled across the bed, one plastered arm hanging out over the linoleum, blood drips slowly clotting on the tips of pale fingers. The bandages on his head were bright red around the eyes and mouth, the ones on his chest so saturated with blood they were almost black.

'What the h.e.l.l happened to the PC watching him?' Insch was in a foul mood.

A sheepish-looking constable held up his hand and explained that there had been some trouble in A&E. Two drunks and a bouncer, trading blows. He'd been summoned by the nurses to help break it up.

Insch creased his face and counted to ten. 'I suppose death's been declared?' he asked when he got to the end.

A WPC said that it hadn't, eliciting a barrage of swearing from the inspector.

'It's a hospital! The place is filthy with b.l.o.o.d.y doctors! Go get one of the lazy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to officially declare death!'

While they waited, Insch and Logan examined the body as best they could without actually touching it.

'Stabbed,' said Insch, peering closely at the small, rectangular puncture marks in the bandages. 'That look like a knife to you?'

'Something with a chisel point. Could be a screwdriver? Stiletto? Pair of scissors?'

Insch squatted down, searching under the bed for a discarded knife. All he found was more blood.

While the inspector was looking for a murder weapon, Logan worked his way carefully along the body. The stab-marks were all exactly the same, no more than fifteen millimetres long, two millimetres wide, all radiating out from the left side of the body. The killer had been frenzied, the stab wounds multiple and furious. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene: Roadkill unconscious, killer standing on the left side of the bed, the side furthest away from the door. Stabbing rapidly, again and again.

Logan opened his eyes and stepped back, feeling slightly nauseous. There was blood everywhere. Not only on the body and the bed, but up the wall too. He craned his neck back to see little red flecks splattered on the off-white ceiling tiles. Whoever did this would have looked like something from a horror film by the time they'd finished. Not someone you'd forget seeing in a hurry.

This wasn't random violence. Nor was it the violence of a self-righteous mob. This was revenge.

'What is the meaning of this? Why have I been dragged down here?'

The voice was stressed and irritable, just like its owner: a well-built female doctor in a white coat, complete with stethoscope around her neck.

Logan raised his hands in submission and backed away from the body. 'We need you to declare death before we can move the body.'

She scowled at him. 'Of course he's b.l.o.o.d.y dead. You see this?' She pointed at her name badge. 'It says "doctor". That means I know a dead body when I see one!'