lurching forward and back with every terrifying sound, spittle flying everywhere.
Oh Jesus fuck.
Knife. There’s a Stanley knife in his pocket, but his frozen, sausage fingers aren’t working. They fumble against his torn jacket. Swearing. Tears. Cold. GET THE FUCKING KNIFE!
And then he hears the voice: ‘Fuckin’ hell, Mauser, this better no’ be another bloody rabbit.’ Footsteps crunching through frozen grass.
Steve drags the Stanley knife out, holds it in his trembling hand, trying to press the metal slider down. Come on, come on, come on.
And then a man joins the monster. The moon’s behind him, hiding his face, making him a thing of darkness that breathes brimstone smoke into the sudden silence. ‘Hey Steve,’ he says. ‘Where you goin’, man? We’re only just gettin’ started…’
‘Inspector?’ A shivering constable grabbed the blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape, stretching it up and out of the way. ‘They’re over there, sir.’
Logan McRae plipped the locks on his mud-spattered Audi, then ducked under the tape and slithered his way across the pale sand, making for the knot of figures gathered outside the SOC tent. It sat between a pair of massive sand dunes, the white plastic sheeting flapping in the frigid wind that whistled in off the North Sea. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, but the low sun hadn’t made it over the crest of jagged pampas grass yet, leaving the crime scene shrouded in deep blue shadow.
Balmedie Beach wasn’t exactly the Costa Del Sol at the best of times, but at half ten on a cold January morning it could freeze the nipples off a polar bear. Aberdeen – two degrees north of Moscow.
If the city had a zoo they’d have to give the penguins bobble hats in the winter.
‘Inspector! Inspector McRae!’ An Identification Bureau technician, dressed in the obligatory white oversuit and blue plastic booties, waved him over. ‘Same as all the others, sir. You were right.’
Brilliant – the one time he actually wanted to be proven wrong.
Logan signed in with the Crime Scene Manager, then struggled his way into an SOC suit. It fought him all the way, the wind snatching at the legs and sleeves, trying to help it escape. ‘Pathologist?’
‘Inside, sir. Photographs and samples are done, so just give us a nod when you want us to remove…’ He pointed at what Logan knew was lurking in the tent. ‘You know…’
The whole structure creaked and juddered, the wind moaning through the joints as Logan stepped inside. They’d set up a couple of arc lights, the harsh white glare bouncing back off the sand, making Logan’s breath steam as he squatted down beside the pathologist.
She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling above the mask that covered her nose and mouth. Then back down at the head, lying on its side in the pale sand.
It was a woman: early twenties; eyes sunken and glassy; ginger hair bleached almost blonde by the arc lights; freckles dark against her porcelain skin; mouth open. A little drift of sand had built up behind her teeth, something golden glittering away in the depths. Just like the other six.
‘How did you know?’ The pathologist dug the severed head out of the sand. ‘She was right where you said she’d be.’
Logan watched them ease Lucy’s head into a clear plastic evidence pouch, seal, and label it. One more to add to the collection in the mortuary.
‘Time of death?’
Doctor Isobel McAllister snapped off her blue nitrile gloves, removed her mask, and peeled back the hood of her SOC suit, letting her long, dark hair tumble over her shoulders. ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’
Logan opened his mouth to say something, then shut it as Isobel placed a hand against his chest. Her touch was hot in the cold tent.
She stared up into his eyes. ‘I’ve missed you—’
‘Isobel, I—’
‘Oh no you don’t!’ One of the IB techs marched over: Samantha, scarlet hair painfully bright in the harsh lighting. She unzipped her suit, exposing a swell of pale cleavage surrounded by tattoos. ‘He’s mine. Aren’t you Logan?’
Isobel bit her bottom lip. Looked away. ‘Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘But maybe…’ Samantha stepped up close and ran her fingertips across Isobel’s cheek. ‘Maybe I’ll let you share.’
Pain jagged across Logan’s ribs. ‘Ow, what was—’
‘Maybe we can all do something … special together.’
‘I’d like that.’ Isobel licked her blood-red lips and cupped one of Samantha’s breasts. ‘I’d like that a – Stop sodding snoring!’
‘Mmmph…?’ Detective Sergeant Logan McRae struggled upright in his seat. ‘I’m awake. I’m awake.’ Cold. Dark. A lung-rattling cough shook his body, ending with a shiver. ‘God…’ Sniff. He ran his hands across his face, feeling the stubble rasp. ‘What time is it?’
DI Steel was almost invisible in the darkness, but he could hear her shifting in the passenger seat of his manky brown Fiat. ‘You were snoring.’
The inspector stabbed her thumb on the button for the cigarette lighter, waited for it to pop up, then pulled it out of the dashboard and sparked up a Silk Cut. The orange glow turned her face into a topographical map of wrinkles and shadow. Train-wreck hair hidden beneath a furry hat.
‘Bloody freezing…’ Logan peered at the fogged-up windscreen, then cleared a porthole with his sleeve, looking out at the moonlit countryside. They’d parked down a small lane overlooking a sprawling building site, just off the A90 – Aberdeen to Ellon road. He yawned. ‘Need a pee.’
‘Shouldn’t have drunk all that coffee then, should you?’
‘Knew he wouldn’t show.’
‘I mean, what sort of idiot takes decaf on a stakeout?’
‘So where is he then?’
‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be sitting here in this crappy car listening to your bloody snoring, would I?’
‘Fine, be like that.’ Logan helped himself to one of the inspector’s cigarettes, lighting it with a Zippo as he climbed out into the freezing night.
‘Close the sodding door!’
SLAM.
He stood there for a second, shivering, drew in a deep lungful of smoke, then started down the lane towards a clump of trees. The ground crackled beneath his feet, grass coated in a thick rime of frost, everything turned monochrome in the light of a nearly full moon. Bright as day.
Logan stepped off the lane and into the undergrowth.
God it was cold. Bloody Steel and her bloody CHIS. What was the point of having a Covert Human Intelligence Source if the sodding ‘Source’ was so ‘Covert’ you couldn’t bloody see him?
Zip, rummage, grimace … ahhhhh. Oh yeah … that was better.
He stood there, in a growing cloud of bitter-sweet steam, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Twelve days straight without a single day off. No wonder he was knackered.
You could see the whole development from here: a swathe of frozen mud surrounded by chainlink fencing; piles of bulldozed earth; a cluster of pale concrete foundations. Twenty or thirty houses looked almost finished, another half dozen were at the scaffolding and brick stage. Eventually there’d be four hundred of the damn things, courtesy McLennan Homes. Nasty, boxy, rabbit hutches for people with more money than sense.
Christ