Logan McRae. Stuart MacBride

colleagues?’

      A long sigh. Then: ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’ Halstead stared down at the tabletop. ‘I’m aware that he doesn’t like me very much, but at least he doesn’t give me all the terrible menial jobs.’ A small bitter laugh broke free. ‘I only ever wanted to be a police officer. Father wanted me to read Classics at Cambridge, like he did. Rather broke his heart when I told him I was running off to Scotland to “join the Rozzers” instead.’

      Logan reached across the table, put a hand on Halstead’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘Listen to me, Oliver: if anyone gives you crap for being English, you let me know. I’ll make their next prostate exam feel like a teddy bear’s tea party.’

      Why could Police Scotland never get any decent computers in? Why did they all have to be steam-powered monstrosities the colour of skin grafts? Well maybe not all of them, but the one in the tiny office he’d commandeered certainly was.

      Tiny grubby office.

      God knew who’d had it last, but they’d left the bin overflowing with sandwich wrappers, crisp packets, and scrunched-up copies of the Daily Mail.

      A pile of printouts sat beside the ancient computer. Logan wrote ‘FOLLOW UP ON DRUG MONEY? CHECK WITH ARCHIVIST?’ on the top sheet, then turned back to the screen. Squinted at the reflected glare. Swivelled his chair around and lowered the blind, shutting out the sun. Then clicked the next link on his search results.

      A gaudy web page popped up, festooned with cheesy animated gifs and saltire flags. Whoever maintained PASL-MANIFESTO-FOR-A-FREE-SCOTLAND.COM wasn’t exactly blessed with graphic design skills.

      For fifty years, the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation has been proudly dedicated to ending English imperialist rule! For too long we Scots have been ground beneath the heel of our English oppressors, diminished in the eyes of the world and ourselves, as

      The office door creaked open and Steel poked her head in. ‘Hoy, Limpy: you still here?’

      He went back to the screen. ‘No. Went home hours ago.’

      in the eyes of the world and ourselves, as they grow fat and rich on our oil revenue and whisky duty and our land!

      She sauntered over, pausing only to kick the door shut behind her, pulled out an envelope and tossed it onto his desk. It landed with a clattery thump. ‘Whip-round.’

      ‘What, for me?’

      ‘No’ for you, you spungbadger, Ailsa Marshall. You know them woods in Rubislaw Den? Poor cow’s been sleeping rough there for months. Someone found her this morning, face-down in the burn. You’re chipping in for a headstone.’

      ‘Here.’ He added a fiver to the collection and handed the envelope back.

      ‘Ta.’ Steel stuck it in her jacket. ‘Don’t fancy babysitting tonight, do you? I could go an evening in the pub, kebab, and a bit of the old wriggly fun.’

      ‘No chance.’

      ‘Spoilsport.’ She hauled the blind open again, turning Logan’s computer screen into an eye-watering blare of light.

      ‘Argh …’ He backed away from it, squinting.

      ‘Sitting here in the dark like a wee troll.’ She cracked the window open, letting in the diesel growl of buses and the seagulls’ mournful cries. ‘It’s no’ good for you.’ The tip of her e-cigarette / sonic screwdriver glowed as she sooked. A huge cloud of watermelon vape drifted its way around Logan’s head, glowing in the sunlight. ‘Come on then, what you doing?’

      ‘Investigating.’ Logan held up a hand, blocking the glare from his screen. ‘Or at least I’m trying to.’

      ‘I know that, you idiot; investigating what?’

      ‘People’s Army for Scottish Liberation. Apparently they had ties to the Scottish People’s Liberation Army, the Scottish Freedom Fighters’ Resistance Front, End of Empire, and Arbroath Thirteen Twenty. AKA nutters so extreme that even Settler Watch didn’t want anything to do with them.’

      Another cloud of fruity smelling fog. ‘It’s Womble-funting dick-muppets like that who give good old-fashioned Scottish Nationalists a bad name.’

      ‘The whole lot were supposed to get together in the eighties and launch a coordinated attack – you know, tear down that big Duke of Sutherland statue, burn out English-run guest houses, blow up HM Customs and Excise offices so as to “cripple the revenue gathering apparatus of the imperialist oppressor” – but it led to so much infighting they couldn’t organise a pervert in a scout hut.’

      ‘You sure you don’t want to babysit?’

      Logan tapped the top printout on his pile. ‘So the People’s Army for Scottish Liberation decided to go their own way: did a big bullion job and walked off with two point six million pounds. Word is they were raising money for an armed insurgency. Their leader nips over to Belfast, looking to buy a whole shedload of machineguns from dissident republicans, only he gets picked up by the local plod. Kerb crawling for rent boys.’

      She rested her bum against the windowsill. ‘I could drop Naomi and Jasmine off at yours. You wouldn’t even have to feed them.’

      ‘Turned out he had thirty-two thousand quid’s worth of heroin in the boot to pay for the guns.’

      ‘Make sure they do their teeth, then pop them off to bed. You’ll barely even know they’re there.’

      ‘If he hadn’t fancied a knee-trembler in the back of a Vauxhall Astra we could’ve had our very own version of the Troubles.’

      Steel sent another cloud of watermelon in Logan’s direction. ‘Or are you worried it’ll interfere with whatever heterosexual filth you and Ginger McHotpants get up to on a Tuesday evening?’

      ‘Kind of makes you ashamed to be Scottish …’ He frowned at her. ‘And stop calling Tara “Ginger McHotpants”!’

      A grin. ‘How about Kinky McSpankypants instead?’

      He turned his frown into a scowl.

      Steel shrugged, pocketed her e-cigarette, shut the window, then bumped his chair with her hip. Voice soft and kind, ‘Come on, time for home. No point wearing yourself out on the first day back, is there?’

      Pfff … She was probably right.

      Logan powered down the computer. ‘Suppose not.’ He gathered up his printouts as the machine whirred and beeped itself to sleep.

      ‘There you go.’ She wrapped an arm around his shoulders as he stepped out from behind the desk. Gave him a squeeze. ‘Now, about that babysitting …’

      Ah, so that explained the ‘nice’ act.

      ‘Not a chance in hell. I’m going home to a handful of painkillers, a soak in the tub, and barbecue some sausages for tomorrow.’ He poked a finger at her. ‘I am not babysitting!’

       8

      ‘DIE! DIE AND BE DEAD!’ Jasmine thundered across the patio, shooting her little sister with a sci-fi blaster. She’d spiked her brown hair up with far too much gel for an eleven-year-old. Ribena stains splotched down the front of her horsey T-shirt, grass stains on her jodhpurs. Definitely took after Steel, that one.

      ‘PEW! PEW! PEW!’ Naomi tore after her, lumbering a bit from side to side on her tiny little legs, big grin on her face, scuffs on her bare knees, pink and green stripes in her dirty blonde hair. She had Captain Bogies clasped to her chest with one hand, the octopus’s legs flopping about as she shot at her sister with the other. ‘PEW! PEW! BOOOOM!’

      Not exactly restful.

      Logan took a swig of IPA from the bottle and turned over a