Dying light

'Er…' said Logan, knowing this was probably going to get him even further into the inspector's bad books.

'Are you sure that's wise? I mean, he's only a constable and-'

'And you are only a backstabbing arsehole, but I still let you play cops and robbers, don't I?' Logan shut his mouth.

Steel hopped off the desk and dug her hands into her pockets, rummaging around until she found a wrinkled packet of fags.

'What's the worst he can do? No one's going to come forward and admit to seeing anything; sure as hell no one's going to confess. So Re

He can't screw it up any more than it already is. And let's face it: no one's going to miss a little bastard like Jamie McKi

Her voice was flat and bitter. 'Now if you'll excuse me, Sergeant, some of us have real police work to do.'

Htickslabbing arsehole…' Logan stomped back down the stairs, muttering all the way. DI Steel seemed to have conveniently forgotten that he was the one who'd spotted the car with the missing prostitute in it. That if it wasn't for him, 1)1 Steel wouldn't even have a suspect in custody… Wasn't his fault Insch was on the warpath; if Steel had got her finger out and acted like a proper bloody detective inspector in the first place and actually told Insch they had Chib and his mate in custody, this would never have happened. Bloody DI Steel and her personal crusade to grab any glory going.

He stared out of the back door, watching the clouds whip across the pale grey sky. Jackie wouldn't be home until after midnight, so all he had to look forward to tonight was an empty flat, a carry-out and a bottle of wine. Maybe two bottles. It wasn't as if he'd been sticking to the diet anyway.

Could always start again next Monday, when things got a little better. But he'd been saying that for the last three months, and they never did… It was time to go home.

He got as far as the off-licence before his mobile phone started ringing. Oh Christ, now what?

A depressingly familiar gravelly voice on the other end: 'Where the hell did you disappear off to?'

Logan groaned. Bloody DI Bloody Steel. 'Shift's over, I'm going home.'

'Don't be daft: more important things in life than beer and nipples. Search team three's just called in, they've found something.'

'Holly McEwan?' They'd found the fourth victim's body.

'No. Suitcase: red, smells like a dead dog in a sauna.' A pause then some muffled conversation. 'Get your arse back to the station – we've got a dismembered corpse to go play with.'

34

Garlogie Woods again. Logan pulled the filthy CID car up onto the grass verge about a hundred yards down from the packed lay-by. Steel had spent the trip out brooding and smoking while Logan drove. DC Re

The inspector clambered out of the car without a word and squelched her way through the rain-soaked undergrowth back to the lay-by, squeezing past the line of cars and vans parked up on the verge. Everyone and their dog were here: a canine unit sitting in the middle of the churned-up mud, flanked by one of the search team minibuses and what looked like Doc Wilson's car. For once Logan was glad he was working with Steel rather than Insch. Given the inspector's last encounter with the duty doctor, Logan didn't want to be around when those two ran into each other again.

He waited on the grass verge while Re

DC Re

Says she doesn't trust many people to do this one, just you and me, sir.' Logan gave a humourless laugh. Trusting' wasn't exactly the word he'd use to describe his relationship with DI Steel right now.

The gate to the dirt track leading into the forest had been jemmied open, a pair of fresh tyre tracks gouged into the dirt leading off up the hill. A uniformed constable examined their warrant cards and waved them through. The track was pitted and slithery with mud; heather bushes grew on either side, their little purple and white spears waving in the breeze as Logan and Re

Tomorrow?'

The funeral? You know, Trevor Maitland?'

Oh shit. Logan winced; he'd forgotten all about it. How the hell was he supposed to stand there and look Maitland's widow in the eye? What was he supposed to say – I'm sorry I screwed up and got your husband killed? Great bloody comfort that would be. 'What happened with that search on the Pirie woman?' he asked, changing the subject.

'Eh? Oh, right…' Re

'Gavin Cruickshank again?'

'Bingo.' They reached the top of the hill and started down the other side, still following the rutted tracks in the mud.

'There's piles more, but basically she's a dirty scumbag and Mr Cruickshank's had it in for her ever since she moved in.

Last complaint was made on the Tuesday night when she thumped him one.'

Logan grunted. No wonder Ailsa thought the woman had something to do with her disappearing husband. She certainly would've had a motive. That's if Gavin wasn't screwing a pole dancer on a foreign beach somewhere, while his poor wife fretted and worried.

'What about Ritchie, the Shore Lane Stalker?'

Re

Playing it close to her chest.'

That figured. She wouldn't want to share even the slightest hint of glory…

The forest suddenly opened up into a large, waterlogged dip. This was as far as the Identification Bureau van had got.

It was abandoned halfway down the track, its rear wheels partially submerged in watery brown slime, the sides covered with fresh sprays of mud. There was a line of blue and white Police tape leading off into the trees just up ahead, and Logan and Re