with the direction arrows until Shepherd’s tattoo filled the screen. It was a detailed illustration of a horned whale’s head emerging from the sea, contained in a ring of rope, with scallop shells around the outside, and the motto ‘CORNEUM CETE SUNT OPTIMUS’ underneath. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘Don’t speak Latin.’ Steel dug into her jacket pocket and came out with an e-cigarette. Popped it in her mouth. ‘There more porn on this thing?’
‘It means Peter Shepherd disappeared at some point over the weekend, only no one notices because he’s supposed to be away down to Chesterfield to speak to a supplier this week. Martin Milne goes missing Sunday night. Shepherd’s body turns up three days later.’
She snatched the remote from Logan’s hand and pressed play, setting the slideshow rolling again. Sank onto the edge of the bed, e-cigarette sticking out of her mouth as if it was on Viagra. ‘Aye, very good, Miss Marple. Only problem is, if it’s Shepherd who’s dead – and I’m no’ saying it is – but if it is, then how come it looks like he got bumped off by an Edinburgh gangster?’
On the screen, Milne, Shepherd, and their anonymous friend switched one contorted position for another one. As if they were going for some sort of record.
Logan picked up the book and dumped it in Steel’s lap. ‘Page one-fifty-two.’
‘Ooh…’ She didn’t look at the book. She tilted her head to one side and gaped at the TV instead. ‘How did he get his leg all the way over there? Surely that’s no’ physically possible.’
‘God’s sake.’ Logan grabbed the book back and flicked through to the right page, then held it out, poking the photo with a finger. ‘Look. There’s a complete description there too. Milne and Shepherd get into some sort of fight. It gets out of hand. Milne panics, he has to ditch the body. And right there, sitting on the bedside cabinet, he’s got a blueprint of how to do it and make the whole thing look like a mob hit.’
Steel stared, open-mouthed at the screen.
Becky sighed. ‘Lot of trouble to go to if you’re only wanting rid of your humpbuddy, isn’t it?’
‘Phwoar… Look at the size of that strap-on! Could beat a horse to death with that. Surely she’s not going to stick that up his… Ooooh yes she is. That’s gotta—’
‘Give me that.’ Logan took the remote back and switched off the TV.
‘Hoy! I was watching—’
‘Milne killed Shepherd and staged the body so we’d think it was Malcolm McLennan. You’re supposed to be running the investigation, so stop watching porn and go investigate.’
‘I’m no’ “watching porn”, I’m reviewing evidence.’ Steel reclined on the bed, resting on her elbows. Nodded at her sidekick. ‘Becky, let’s imagine for a wee moment that our body was Mr Flexible up there.’ She pointed at the blank screen. ‘Does that mean Martin Miller is our killer.’
‘No, Guv.’
‘It’s Milne. Martin Milne. And he’s disappeared. Vanished. Run away. Skipped out on his family, Sunday night.’
‘Yeah…’ Steel bared her teeth. ‘Still. Looks more like a gangland killing than a lovers’ tiff.’
He shook The Blood-Red Line at her. ‘Because of the book! It’s right there – a how-to guide. Milne set it up.’ Logan chucked it down on the bed. ‘It’s obvious.’
‘It’s a wild stab in the dark is what it is.’ She picked up the remote and set the slideshow playing again. ‘Seconds out, round two.’
He stepped between her and the TV, blocking her view. ‘What is wrong with you?’
Becky sighed. ‘Come on, McRae, even you’ve got to see this is a stretch. We still don’t know if our body’s Peter Shepherd. Could be anyone.’
‘Of course it’s Shepherd!’
Steel stared at him for a bit. Then took another puff on her fake cigarette. Hissed out a thin line of steam. ‘You used to be a lot more fun.’ A sniff. ‘Actually, scratch that, you’ve always been a misery-guts.’
‘Yeah? Well this misery-guts has had enough of your—’ His phone blared out its anonymous ringtone. ‘God’s sake.’ He yanked it out. ‘What?’
There was a brief pause, then a thick dark voice oozed into his ear like evil treacle. ‘Good morning, Sergeant McRae. “Long time, no speak”, as I believe the expression goes. Which isn’t normal for you and I, is it?’
Logan ran a hand over his eyes. Gritted his teeth. Then forced a smile as he turned and walked from the room. ‘Chief Superintendent Napier.’
‘Have you been behaving yourself, Sergeant? Or have you just been very good at getting away with it?’
Through into the floral-print bedroom with its kitsch pillows and crocheted bedspread. ‘I hear you’re retiring soon.’
‘Ah yes, but not to worry: there’s still time for a final hurrah. And speaking of rumours, a little birdie tells me that you’re working with DCI Steel again.’
Then silence from the other end of the phone.
Rain hammered the window.
More silence.
Fine, two could play at that. If Napier thought Logan was going to leap in and fill the gap with something incriminating he could wait till his ears dropped off.
Classical music seeped through from the other room.
‘And tell me, Sergeant McRae, how are you getting on with the Detective Chief Inspector?’
Like an orphanage on fire.
Logan raised his chin. ‘We’re making progress.’
‘I see, I see.’ Another pause. ‘You two have a good working relationship, don’t you, Sergeant? She confides in you. She trusts you.’
Here we go.
‘Tell me, has she ever mentioned a Mr Jack Wallace to you? Possibly in connection with a case she investigated last year?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Really… Hmm. Interesting. Well, if she does mention him, do think of me and our little chat. Till then, take care.’ Napier ended the call.
What the hell was that about?
Logan put his phone away and stepped out onto the landing. Stood there, listening to the violins and cellos.
Then there was a dinging, buzzing sound. Followed by, ‘You wee beauty!’
Whatever had happened on Shepherd’s porn slideshow, she could keep it to herself. He was out of here. Had better things to do.
He’d got halfway down the stairs when the music died and Steel charged out of the bedroom, phone held high like the Olympic torch.
She pointed at him. ‘Hoy, where do you think you’re going?’
‘Banff. Got a dunt to organize.’
‘Time for that later. Look.’ She shoved her phone at him. On the screen was a photo of a bruised face, ringed with black plastic. The features were swollen, and the skin between the blue and purple stains was the colour of rancid butter, but it was definitely Peter Shepherd. ‘After careful consideration, I have decided to give you, your grumpy man-panties, and your half-baked theory a second chance. Get in the car: we’re off to see this Martin Milne’s wife. If the wee sod’s done a runner, I want to know where.’
‘Told you: I’m busy.’ Logan started back down the stairs, then stopped. Frowned up at her. ‘Who’s Jack Wallace?’
Steel’s