‘Better go through all the missing person reports for the month DI Bell allegedly killed himself.’
‘Assuming it was someone anyone would miss.’
A woman’s voice thumped out of the radio, positive and confident. ‘I’m glad to be in a position to help. And if we all chip in, I’m sure we can make a difference.’
Then Claire was back. ‘And we can go live now to Northeast Divisional Headquarters.’
Rennie licked the granulated sugar from his lips. ‘What if he offed a homeless person? Or a crim?’
‘Thank you all for coming.’ DCI Hardie didn’t sound as if he meant that. ‘I can confirm that the body of a man found in a crashed car yesterday morning was that of Duncan Bell, a former detective inspector with Police Scotland.’
Logan’s doughnut popped with sharp-sweet raspberry jam. ‘Then we’re screwed.’ He caught the drip with a finger. ‘They couldn’t get any viable DNA the first time round, and I doubt we’ll do any better. Bell didn’t set fire to that caravan by accident, he knew it’d cook the remains and cover his tracks.’
‘Mr Bell had been living in Spain under an assumed name, having apparently staged his own suicide two years ago.’
‘Tooth pulp cavity?’
Logan shook his head. ‘Blew them all out with a shotgun, remember?’
‘…currently working with the Spanish authorities to establish his whereabouts during that time.’
‘Maybe someone picked them up?’
‘Maybe.’
‘We are treating Mr Bell’s death as murder and have set up a Major Investigation Team to look into his death.’
‘But knowing our luck?’ Logan washed the last chunk of doughnut down with a mouthful of Irn-Bru. Suppressed a belch. ‘If Bell hadn’t set fire to the caravan you could’ve just dug them out of the walls, but mixed in with all that burnt wreckage?’
‘Anne Darlington, BBC: have you identified the body buried in DI Bell’s grave?’
‘Investigations are ongoing and I would urge anyone with information about Mr Bell’s murder to get in touch.’
Rennie held out the doughnut bag. ‘Better eat another one before I scoff the lot.’
‘No, I’m good thanks.’ Logan wiped his hands together, showering the footwell with sugar. ‘Where’s the MacAuley case file?’
‘Back seat.’
‘You haven’t answered my question, DCI Hardie. Do you know who it is or not?’
Logan turned in his seat and picked up the file. Opened it and skimmed through the contents.
‘As I said, investigations are ongoing. So—’
‘Colin Miller, Aberdeen Examiner. Are you aware that DI Bell had returned to Aberdeenshire on at least three prior occasions?’
He flipped through to the end, then back again. ‘Didn’t she write a book, or something? Thought I remembered a book.’
Hardie cleared his throat. ‘As I say, investigations are ongoing and if you, or anyone else, has any information they should get in touch.’
‘Or you could buy a copy of tomorrow’s Aberdeen Examiner?’
‘Yeah, there was definitely a book: I read it.’ Rennie plucked another doughnut free. ‘Cold Blood and Dark Granite. Subtitled, “A Mother’s hunt for her husband’s killer and her missing child.” Doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.’
‘I would strongly advise against withholding information from a murder investigation, Mr Miller.’
Rennie bit into his doughnut, getting sugar all down his front. ‘Pretty sure she co-wrote it with a retired P-and-J journalist. There’s talk of a film, but you know what Hollywood’s like.’
‘Tom Neville, Dundee and Perthshire Advertiser: are you threatening the press, DCI Hardie?’
‘I’m asking for its cooperation.’
Logan drummed his fingers against the paperwork. Frowning at it. His fingertips making little greasy circles. ‘Three and a half years ago, someone kills Sally MacAuley’s husband and abducts her three-year-old son. Eighteen months later, DI Bell kills someone and uses the body to fake his own death.’
‘Aye, tell you what: why don’t you and me sit down after this and see if we can’t help each other, but?’
‘Eighteen months.’ Logan stopped drumming. ‘A long time to let something fester… Guilty conscience?’
‘Angela Parks, Scottish Daily Post: there are rumours DI Bell was involved in a so-called “Livestock Mart” where children were bought and sold. Is this—’
‘I’m not here to talk about rumours, Ms Parks.’
Rennie crammed in about half his doughnut in one go. Mumbling through it. ‘You don’t think Bell killed Kenneth MacAuley and abducted the wee boy, do you?’
‘Philip Patterson, Sky News: DS Lorna Chalmers committed suicide last night, is it true she was under investigation for corruption?’
‘No, it’s not. Thank you all for your time. No more questions.’
Logan closed the file. ‘He was definitely running from something.’
About three or four miles past Rothienorman, Rennie pulled the car off the back road and onto a potholed strip of tarmac lined by ragged beech hedges and waterlogged fields. He slowed to a crawl, slaloming between the craters. Sheep watched them from the high ground, wool faded to ash-grey by the rain.
The windscreen wipers squealed. Thumped. Squealed. Thumped.
They took a right, through a farmyard with warning notices about livestock and gates and unsolicited callers and bewaring of the dogs. Past agricultural equipment and barns and outbuildings and a ramshackle farmhouse, then out the other side – onto a rough track with a solid Mohican of grass down the middle.
Another right, past a couple of cottages lurking in a block of trees, and up the hill. Fields full of reeds and docken.
A gorse bush scraped and screamed along the car’s bodywork.
More trees. A tumble-down bothy with half its roof missing. Someone was standing in front of it, chopping logs. He stopped, axe over his shoulder, watching them pass.
Logan gave him a smile and a wave. Got nothing back.
Rennie sniffed. ‘God, welcome to Banjo Country.’
Past a stack of big round bales, rotting and slumped in the rain.
‘All together now: “Squeal piggy!” Diga-ding ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding…’
More trees. Getting thicker. Crowding the road.
They kept on going, right to the end of the track. A sagging gate blocked the way, wrapped in chicken wire and peppered with signs: ‘BEWARE OF THE DOG!’, ‘PLEASE SHUT THE GATE!’, ‘NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH AREA’ and ‘SKEMMELSBRAE CROFT’.
A new-ish house sat about a hundred yards further on, just visible through the trees and tussocked grass. Two storeys high, pale pink harling darkened by moisture. Lurking