The sobbing was coming from behind the rotting bison. It was a woman - mid twenties from the look of her clothes - face, hands and knees sticky with plum-coloured blood. Silly cow wasn't dead after all. It was just another stupid hoax call. WPC Buchan slipped the CS gas back into its holster. 'Are you OK?' she asked. The woman didn't answer. Not directly. Instead she extended a grubby, bloodstained hand and pointed to one of the sculpturally rotting bison. It lay slumped on the ground, as if it had been trying to get up when death came to call. WPC Buchan turned her torch on it, illuminating the statue in all its decomposing glory. There was something white sprawled alongside it, blending into the fog. 'Oh fuck . . .' Grabbing the radio off her shoulder, she called Control. They'd found the second body.
DI Steel turned up on Logan's doorstep in a suit that looked almost new. She'd even threatened her hair with a brush: it hadn't made much difference, but it was the thought that counted. 'Mr Police Hero,' she said, picking a fresh cigarette from an almost empty packet, not seeming to care that one was already smouldering away between her lined lips. 'Got some good news for you! They've found another dead tart!' Soon they were roaring out of Aberdeen on the Inverurie road, past the airport and up the hill to the Tyrebagger Woods. It wasn't far, less than fifteen minutes from the centre of town the way the inspector drove. Logan sat in the passenger seat of Steel's little sports car, trying to stay calm as they hurtled through the rolling fog. 'So tell me again how this is good news 'Two dead prostitutes, both stripped naked and battered to death. This isn't just a murder enquiry any more: we've got ourselves a bona ride serial killer!' Logan risked a peek: a huge grin split the inspector's face, a half-inch of cigarette butt making the car's interior almost
as foggy as the world outside. She winked at him. 'Think about it, Laz: this is our ticket out of the Fuck-Up Factory! We've already got Jamie McKinnon in custody, all we need to do is tie him to both bodies and we're laughing. No more crappy cases no one else wants, no more getting lumbered with every halfwit and reject in the force. You and me: back doing real police work!' They almost missed the turning in the fog, a twisting ribbon of tarmac that snaked away into the shrouded forest. Steel followed it until the slow-motion blue strobe of a patrol car's lights marked the entrance to the car park. She pulled up between the filthy hulk of the Identification Bureau's Transit and a flashy Mercedes. That would be Isobel's. Logan groaned. Just what he needed. All around them the forest was dense and silent, wrapped in a thick blanket of white. There wasn't a breath of wind as DI Steel popped the boot, swapping her surprisingly clean shoes for a tatty old pair of Wellingtons. And then they headed up the path. 'What do we know about the victim?' asked Logan as the inspector wheezed up the hill beside him. 'Bugger all.' She stopped and lit the last fag in her packet from the smouldering remains of the one in her mouth, before flicking the tiny butt off into the mist. 'Dispatch said, "naked and beaten"; I said, "mine!"' 'Then how do you know she was a prostitute?' 'Handbag full of condoms. No ID, but loads and loads of condoms. Could have been an erotic balloon modeller I suppose, but my money's on tart.' 'What if it's not?' 'What if it's not what?' 'A serial killer. What if this wasn't McKinnon? What if it's a copycat?' DI Steel shrugged. 'We'll burn that bridge when we come to it.' The crime scene wasn't hard to find, even in the smothering fc g. The clack-flash-whine of the IB photographer's camera
lit up the area like sheathed lightning. An enthusiastic cordon of blue Police tape was wound between the trees and they ducked under it, making for the noise and lights. Suddenly, out of the mist, loomed the shapes of decaying animal carcasses. Off to one side, the Identification Bureau had abandoned the traditional SOC tent - it was too big to fit between the trees, so they'd rigged up a bivouac by draping the blue plastic sheeting over the branches and a web of Police tape. Logan and Steel struggled into a set of white paper coveralls, complete with booties. The IB had erected a walkway of tea-tray-sized rectangles with short metal legs, which wound its way across the clearing towards a cluster of people, preventing the attending personnel from treading all over the crime scene. Steel and Logan clanged their way along it, three inches off the ground, making for the body. An IB photographer hovered on the periphery, camera flashing away as the Chief Pathologist peered and prodded at the remains of a young woman. The victim was lying on her side, one arm stretched up over her head, her legs like open scissors on the damp, black forest floor. As Logan watched, one of the Identification Bureau technicians asked Isobel if it was OK for him to bag the hands. She nodded and he wrapped clear evidence pouches over the bloodstained fingers, just in case there was any trace evidence under the victim's nails. Logan was surprised to see they'd done the same thing to her head . . . and then he realized it was a large, blue freezer bag. That would be an original crime scene feature. Her whole body was covered with weals and bashes, but the skin was like porcelain, a thick line of dark purple marking low tide along the length of her body where the blood had pooled after death. Isobel sat back on her haunches, snapped off her latex gloves and handed them to the first person she clapped eyes on. Her face had a haggard look, as if she wasn't sleeping, the dark circles under her eyes still visible through her make-up. She
stayed there for a moment, staring at the plastic bag over the victim's head. 'Get her down to the morgue she said at last. While one of the IB techs pulled out a phone and dialled a local firm of funeral directors to pick up the body, Isobel wearily stuffed things back into her medical bag. 'What's the story?' asked Logan, and she jumped. 'Oh . . . it's you.' She didn't exactly sound pleased. 'If you're looking for wild speculation you're out of luck. Until I get the bag off the victim's head I can't tell if she was beaten to death like the other one, or suffocated.' 'How about time of death?' Isobel looked around at the still, silent forest. 'Difficult to say. Rigor mortis has come and gone . . . cold, wet weather ... I'd say you're looking at about three days. What with all the rain we've had there's not going to be a lot of trace evidence.' She pointed at the stain of dark purple blood that ran in a straight line down the victim's body - from the tips of her outstretched fingers to her foot - congealed haemoglobin, trapped in the two inches of flesh closest to the forest floor. 'Looking at the lividity, I'd say she was either killed here, or the killer dumped the body within the first couple of hours. We'll take some soil samples. See how much blood and other body fluids we get out of the ground.' She straightened up and stifled a yawn. 'Off the record, I'd say he took her out here, got her to strip off and then beat her to death.' Logan looked down at the body sprawled across the carpet of pine needles. 'He would have stripped her after death.' Isobel favoured him with one of her withering glances. 'Ever tried to undress a dead body?' she asked him. 'Much easier to get her to strip under the pretence of having sex.' He didn't take his eyes off the dead girl. 'Three days ago puts this at Friday night. It was pissing down. No way she'd come all the way out here in the pouring rain and take off all her clothes for a quickie. That's shagging in doorways territory. Back of cars. Not the middle of the forest
Isobel bristled. 'Well, I'm sure you know best, Sergeant. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare for the post mortem.' She swept out, gripping her medical case like she was about to cause it a permanent injury. And wishing it was Logan's scrotum. DI Steel waited until she'd disappeared from view before slapping Logan on the shoulder. 'You used to shag that?' she asked, admiringly. 'Christ, your poor wee dick must've got frostbite!' Logan ignored her. The crime scene looked relatively clean, but you never knew your luck. He pulled out his mobile phone and told Control to send every open-search-area trained officer they had. And a police search advisor as well - to carve the forest up into grids and organize the teams. After all, there was no point keeping a dog and barking yourself, as DI Steel liked to say. And while they were at it, a mobile incident room wouldn't go amiss either. DI Steel watched him with approval on her wrinkly face. 'Right,' she said when he'd hung up. 'Get the troops mustered in the main car park. Fingertip search between there and where the bo
dy was discovered. And while we're at it, better get a six-hundred-yard cordon set up around the crime scene. Every tree, every bush, every fucking rabbit burrow: I want it gone through with a fine-toothed comb. And I want to speak to the woman who found the body.' He must have looked surprised, because the inspector threw a predatory smile in his direction. 'And remember,' she said, 'we are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up.' Logan hoped to God she was right.
13
By the time the Deputy Procurator Fiscal arrived, the search was underway. The fog-smothered car park was stuffed to the gunnels with patrol cars and police transports, all of them in need of a good wash. She pulled up at the far end, blocking in a small sports car. This was it: the big one. Two dead women in just over a week, both stripped and badly beaten; it was either a serial killer or one hell of a coincidence. Smiling grimly, she headed up the hill, following the intermittent lightshow of police torches through the thick mist. A serial killer for her very first case. OK, technically it was the PF's case, but she was assisting, holding the fort until the Fiscal got here. And Rachael Tulloch couldn't have hoped for a better chance to shine. The investigation would draw a lot of publicity, and publicity meant promotion. Provided no one screwed up and let the bastard get away, that was. She stomped past a cordon of uniformed constables, all done up in bright yellow reflective vests, poking and prodding their way methodically through the undergrowth. It all looked extremely efficient. Probably that Detective Inspector Insch. Everyone in the Aberdeen office had a lot of respect for the man, not like some of the DIs she could mention. There was no sign of Insch when she got to the top of the
hill, but most of the activity in the clearing was centred on a shortish figure in an SOC boiler suit with a fag hanging out of the corner of her mouth. Rachael's heart sank. If this was still DI Steel's case there was no chance it was ever going to be a success. She'd not done a lot of work with the inspector - just the Rosie Williams case, and that dog's torso in the woods - but so far she wasn't impressed. And she'd heard all about how the inspector had screwed up the Gerald Cleaver trial just last year - a known paedophile with a track record of violent abuse going back years, nearly twenty victims prepared to testify, and Steel still couldn't get a conviction. They were doomed . . . But that didn't mean Rachael Tulloch wasn't going to do her job properly. Straightening her shoulders, she struggled into a white paper boiler suit, marched up to DI Steel and demanded an update. And shouldn't she put that cigarette out? This was a crime scene after all! The inspector raised an eyebrow and stared at her, leaving a gap that was far longer than strictly necessary before asking if there was something rammed up Rachael's arse. Because if not, the inspector's size six Wellington boots could be. Rachael was too stunned to speak. 'Listen up, Curly-top,' said Steel, flicking a small flurry of ash from the end of her cigarette, her voice cool and level. 'I am having a fag because we have already searched every square inch of this clearing. I am a detective inspector with Grampian Police, not some fucking numptie for you to order about. Understand?' DI Steel turned and dismissed the clump of constables surrounding her with an amiable, 'You lot bugger off back to your jobs. I want this whole forest turned upside down. And I mean the whole forest! No skipping bits. Rabbit holes, streams, bushes, nettles, badgers' bum holes: everything gets searched.' They yes-ma'amed their way off into the fog, leaving DI Steel and a blushing deputy procurator fiscal alone in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by sculptures that reeked of death.
'You want to start over again?' asked the inspector.
Logan walked on his own through the fog, following the squelchy path, checking up on the search teams. The whole thing was pretty much a waste of time, crawling about in the damp grass looking for clues that weren't there. Other than the victim's handbag - currently undergoing every test the IB could think of - the immediate scene had turned up empty. It didn't help that the only place they might have found something concrete, the car park, was now covered in SOC vehicles, minibuses and patrol cars. Any trace evidence ground into the mud and gravel by countless police tyres and size nine boots. The search teams might get lucky and find something else the killer had missed, but Logan doubted it: pick up the girl, park the car, force her out into the rain, beat her to death and strip her corpse. The end. Whoever it was, he didn't go traipsing about the forest in the middle of the night, scat ering clues about like some demented evidence fairy. Logan picked his way across a slippery bridge and headed uphill. The last search team was on the south side of the forest, working their way back towards where the body was discovered. Pointless it might be, but DI Steel wanted this one done by the book. Maybe there was hope for her yet? The team was working its way down a steep slope when he found them, prodding the undergrowth with sticks and poles, going through the motions. A familiar face scowled at him as he struggled up the track - that grumpy cow from last Monday night, the one who'd had a go at him for PC Maitland getting shot. And working next to her was someone he hadn't expected to see: WPC Jackie Watson prodding about in a holly bush, using her plaster cast to hold back a spiny-leaf-covered branch as she jabbed away with a pole. She didn't look too happy either. He pulled her to one side. 'What the hell are you doing out here?'
'Relax,' she smiled. 'I'm not really here. Right now I'm collating the division crime statistics for the year to date: says so on the roster, so it must be true.' 'Jackie, you can't do this! You're supposed to be on light duties, not operational! If the inspector finds out you'll be for it!' 'Steel? She couldn't give a toss. Look, I just wanted to be out of the office for a bit, OK? Do some real bloody police work for a change, instead of shuffling bits of paper about.' Jackie threw a glance over her shoulder; a goldfish-faced sergeant was coming their way, all fake suntan, puffing cheeks and ping-pong eyes. 'Now bugger off, before you get us into trouble.' 'Is there a problem?' asked the sergeant. Logan took one last look in WPC Watson's direction and said that no, there wasn't, how was the search going? Sergeant Fish-Face wrinkled his nose. 'We're miles away from the crime scene and there's no way in hell anyone would cart a body all the way through this, when he could just drag it a fraction of the distance up from the car park. It's a complete waste of everyone's time.' Logan made soothing noises, it was important to be thorough, everyone appreciated his team's efforts, blah, blah, blah . . . The grumpy WPC had been hanging back as Logan and Sergeant Goldfish talked, ignoring the line as it moved slowly away into the mist. 'What the hell are we doing out here?' she demanded, her face like a skelped arse. Logan only had time to open his mouth before the sergeant roared, 'You're here because you're supposed to be a bloody police officer. Now get your backside back to work before I kick it from here to Peterhead!' She scowled at Logan like it was his fault she'd been yelled at, then turned on her heel and started stabbing the nearest bush with all the venom she could muster, muttering obscenities under her breath as she caught up with the rest of the
search team, rejoining the line next to WPC Jackie Watson. Thirty seconds later Jackie cast a glower back in his direction and Logan sighed. The bloody woman was probably telling Jackie what an utter shit he was. And from the expression on Jackie's face it looked as if she agreed. So much for getting back on an even keel. Their curry-fuelled truce had lasted a whole day. Enough was enough: Logan was going to-- A sudden scream pierced the fog, before being quickly swallowed by the trees and mist. There was silence for a heartbeat and then everyone exploded into action. Logan scrambled down the hill, towards the search team, Sergeant Goldfish hot on his heels, making for the source of the scream. They slithered to a halt at the top of a nearly vertical slope punctuated with deep beds of stinging nettle and spiky gorse. Halfway down, just visible through the swirling fog, was a WPC, lying on her back in the middle of a massive clump of nettles. Her shirt and jumper had been pulled up to her shoulders as she'd careered down the slope, exposing white skin already starting to go red with nettle stings. She was swearing a blue streak. 'Are you OK?' called Sergeant Fish-Face. More swearing. With a start Logan realized Jackie was
standing at the lip of the slope, looking down at the thrashing figure as the woman stung herself more and more thoroughly with every flailing attempt to rise. 'WPC Buchan,' said Jackie, pointing. 'Guess she must've slipped . . .' She smiled. Five minutes later they'd extricated Buchan from the nettle-infested slope. Puffing, wheezing, scratching and swearing, she clambered back up, looking daggers at WPC Watson the whole way. She was lurid-red from the under wire of her bra right down to the waistband of her trousers. Everything in between was swollen and lumpy and itchy and stinging and she couldn't even pull down her blouse
and jumper because it just made it hurt more and . . . and . . . Sergeant Fish-Face sent her home. As she limped down the trail, arms out to the sides so as not to touch the painful red rash that circled her torso, the sergeant confided in Logan that it couldn't have happened to a nicer person. Jackie just winked at him. 'You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?' he asked when they were alone again. She grinned. 'Nobody calls my man names and gets away with it.' Logan left them to it, smiling all the way down the hill, back to the main path. It was ten to one, according to his watch. If he and DI Steel hurried they could get back to FHQ and grab a bite to eat before Isobel launched into the post mortem at half past. He took a shortcut, labouring up the hill at the side of the track, making for the clearing and its menacing sculptures. As he crested the rise the fog took on a golden glow. A single shaft of sunlight had pierced the white gloom, spotlighting the edge of the clearing where two men in black suits were manhandling a blue plastic body bag into a brushed metal coffin, ready for its trip to the morgue. DI Steel was talking to the Procurator Fiscal, pointing at things and nodding seriously as the Fiscal replied. Logan waited on the periphery while they went over the details of the crime scene. Someone coughed beside him and Logan turned to see the new deputy PF standing in full SOC costume, her curly hair escaping from the elastic around the hood, framing her face. Her green eyes glittered above the mask. 'How's the search coming?' she asked. Logan told her, leaving out the bad language and WPC Buchan's fall. Rachael nodded as he finished, as if she'd been expecting this all along. 'I see . . .' A long pause to convey deep thought. 'What did you make of the handbag?' 'Why did he leave it behind you mean?' He paused, thinking about it. 'Two options: one, he's leaving us a message
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