In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

have a slice of that too.’

      ‘But, Gu-uv…’

      ‘Now, Detective Sergeant.’

      His bottom lip got poutier. Then he turned and shuffled out of the room. Closed the door behind him.

      Steel crossed her arms and frowned at Logan. ‘Who crapped in your porridge then?’

      ‘I don’t have to—’

      ‘Having a go at poor wee Rennie. Police Scotland doesn’t approve of workplace bullying, you grumpy old sack of—’

      ‘Oh come off it, you say worse to him all the time! And—’

      ‘You were being a dick, Laz. Spoiling for a fight.’ Steel shook her head. ‘With Rennie. Be like kicking a puppy, then sticking it in a tumble dryer with a bucket of broken glass. Then setting fire to the tumble dryer.’

      Yeah.

      Logan sighed. Screwed his face up into a knot.

      She was right: picking on Rennie wasn’t fair. Steel’s DS might be an idiot, but it wasn’t his fault Logan had barely slept. Wasn’t his fault Reuben loomed over everything like a massive rabid dog.

      ‘Sorry.’ Logan ran a hand across the stubble on top of his head. ‘Been a tough week. I’ll apologize.’

      ‘Don’t care how rough it is, you don’t ruin a perfectly good tumble dryer.’ She took a puff on her e-cigarette. ‘Going to be a total nightmare to live with now. He’ll be slumping about with a face like a cat’s bum, all martyred and woe-is-me.’

      ‘I’ll talk to him.’ Logan looked away. Outside, the violet sky was fringed with pre-dawn blue and pink. The lights of Macduff twinkled on the other side of the bay. ‘We’re switching Samantha off tomorrow. Life support.’

      A sigh. Then Steel took hold of his arm and squeezed. ‘You going to be OK?’

      ‘Yeah. Course.’ He frowned. ‘Don’t know.’ Then let out a long, slow breath. ‘Anyway, suppose I’d better…’ He nodded at the door. ‘Got to go brief the team.’

      ‘…so make sure you keep your eyes open, OK?’ Logan settled back against the windowsill and rested his mug of tea on a stack of case files.

      The Constables’ Office wasn’t a large room. Old-fashioned with worktop desks on two walls, covered in paperwork and four ancient grey computers. Four office chairs, most of which looked on the verge of collapse – the foam rubber stuck out of one as if it had prolapsed. Three uniformed officers in Police Scotland ninja black stared at him.

      Calamity clicked the point of her pen in and out and in and out. Click, click, click. ‘What about a national appeal? Maybe we’re not getting any sightings because Tracy’s left the area?’

      A wee soft voice piped up. ‘Can’t really blame her, can you?’ Isla pulled her auburn hair back into a thick ponytail and tied it off. Didn’t matter if she was in her thirties or not, she still looked like a teenager – heart-shaped face, red lipstick, with more eyeshadow and mascara than was strictly necessary for arresting people. Her little legs barely reached the ground as she swivelled back and forth in her chair, the toe of her boots barely scraping the carpet. ‘If I had Big Donald Brown for a dad? I’d do a runner too.’ Hair done, she took a sip of coffee. ‘Good luck to her.’

      Logan frowned up at the rogues’ gallery above the radiator – a double row of local drug dealers and thieves scowled back at him from their photocopied pictures. Big Donald Brown was second row, three in from the right. A slab of flesh with a broad forehead, prominent ears, and the kind of eyebrows that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Border terrier. ‘Anyone know if she’s run away from home before?’

      Tufty checked his notes, the pink tip of his tongue poking out between his lips as he skimmed them. The strip light glowed in his ginger crewcut, giving him a fiery halo. Which was probably as close as he was ever going to get. ‘She’s nineteen, Sarge. It’s not really running away from home, is it?’

      ‘Still…’ Logan chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. ‘Doesn’t matter how much of a scumbag her dad is, he’s worried about her.’ He pointed. ‘Isla, get onto the media office and tell them we’re after a spot on the news and all the social media they can throw at it. If they give you any grief you have my permission to do the little-girl-lost routine you think none of us know about.’

      A nod. ‘Sarge.’

      ‘Next: Constable Quirrel, I believe you have an announcement for us.’

      A grin ripped across Tufty’s thin face, He swept his arms out, as if introducing a magic trick. ‘And on the second-last shift of his indented servitude, verily didst the Probationer say, “Let there be Jaffa Cakes!”’

      Calamity and Isla gave him a round of applause.

      Logan couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well done, young Tufty. You shall go to the top of the class.’

      The grin got bigger. ‘Thanks, Sarge.’ He dipped into his desk and came out with the promised packet of cakey biscuits.

      Logan helped himself. ‘And as a reward, you can lead the rest of the briefing.’

      Tufty swivelled his chair around and wiggled his mouse, bringing up the next slide on the daily PowerPoint presentation. Martin Milne stared out at them. A strong face with high cheekbones and a dimple right in the middle of his chin. Straight brown hair with a Hugh Grant fringe. ‘I checked distinguishing features on the misper form, and there’s no mention of Milne having a tattoo. So that means whoever we found yesterday, it’s not him. Might be worth checking signs of activity on his bank or credit cards?’

      Isla rolled her eyes. ‘You got any idea how long it’ll take his bank to authorize that?’

      ‘Ah, but no, my dearest Constable Anderson, because I has a clever.’ Tufty leaned forward. ‘We don’t need to hang about and wait for his bank to approve access if he’s on internet banking: we can ask his wife to log on and check. Could ask her about the tattoo while we’re there – make sure that whatever muppet filled in the misper form got it right.’

      ‘Is that cynicism I hear?’ A smile pulled Isla’s cheeks into shiny pink apples. ‘Ah, Tufty, we’ll make a police officer of you yet.’

      ‘Next.’ A click of the mouse and a man’s face filled the screen: jowls, one solid eyebrow, hair shaved at the sides to match the bald spot at the top. ‘Mark Connolly violated his parole, Friday…’

      Sitting in the driver’s seat, Tufty doo-de-doo-de-dooed along with the old Oasis track jangling out of the speakers. He slowed down as the beige outskirts of Whitehills appeared, then took a left, heading towards the slate-grey sea.

      Wind buffeted the Big Car, rocking it on its springs. Rain crackled against the windscreen, blurring the world for a moment, before the wipers squeaked it away. Only for more rain to replace it moments later.

      Logan shifted in his seat. The limb restraints made a hard lump in the small of his back, right where the stabproof vest ended. And would they shift? Of course they wouldn’t.

      The road narrowed – lined on both sides by billowing green clouds of jagged gorse. Writhing beneath a raven sky.

      Why did Samantha think he could just kill Reuben? That he was even capable of killing another human being. OK, maybe ‘human being’ was stretching things a bit where Reuben was concerned, but still. To actually murder someone. Cold. Premeditated.

      Logan’s stomach lurched, sour and gurgling.

      Oasis faded a bit and the DJ teuchtered all over them. ‘Wisn’t that a flash fae the past? You’re listening till “Gid Mornin’ Doogie!” and it’s bang on eight, so here’s oor Ashley with a’ the news and weather.’

      ‘Thanks Dougie. A family of four