In the Cold Dark Ground. Stuart MacBride

his hands into the armholes of his stabproof vest.

      Tufty made a sound like a deflating whoopee cushion. ‘First time in my life I’m actually looking forward to a Major Investigation Team waltzing in and taking over. Let them stand about in the rain for a change.’ He stamped his feet. ‘How long’s it take to get up here from Aberdeen, anyway? What are they doing, walking?’

      ‘You remember what I said about rectal boot-poisoning?’

      And the rain fell.

      ‘Up your end a bit…’ Logan tugged at the tarpaulin. Then nodded. ‘OK, pin it down.’

      Calamity lowered a rock onto the edge of the blue plastic. Then another one. And another. Her black bob stuck to the sides of her face in rain-twisted strands, making her look a bit like a damp crow. She sniffed, then wiped a gloved hand under her pointy nose. Every time she bent over, water poured out from the brim of her bowler hat, spattering down her high-viz jacket. ‘Can’t feel my fingers.’

      ‘Just in case: we’re having a celebration after work on Tuesday morning, aren’t we? For Tufty’s coming out party?’

      Calamity thunked another rock into place. ‘Thought Isla was organizing something.’

      ‘Do me a favour and check, OK?’ He tugged on the tarpaulin, securing the last corner with a big lump of quartz. ‘He’ll sulk for months if we don’t.’

      She stood and stretched, hands in the small of her back, staring down at their makeshift crime-scene marquee. ‘What do you think: is this Martin Milne?’

      ‘Hope so.’

      ‘What if it’s not?’

      Logan ducked under the tree again. Waved Calamity over and dug out his phone.

      She squeezed in under the branches next to him as he scrolled through the photos of a naked man, lying on his back on a forest floor, with a black plastic bag duct-taped over his head. ‘Got one distinguishing feature.’ He zoomed in on the left shoulder – a tattoo was just visible through the multicolour rainbow of bruises – held the phone out. ‘That look like a dolphin to you?’

      She squinted, tilted her head to one side. ‘Could be a whale…? No, look, it’s got a unicorn horn: narwhal.’

      ‘Is it?’ He took the phone back and frowned at it. ‘Could be. Did Martin Milne have a tattoo?’

      ‘You know what I think?’ Calamity pointed a toe at the tarpaulin. ‘Serial killer.’

      Logan put his phone away. ‘That’s not funny.’

      ‘Isn’t meant to be. Look at it: middle of nowhere, dead body, dumped with a bag over its head.’

      ‘Calamity—’

      ‘And it’s not the first one, either. What about that student, Emily Something, turned up dead in woods near Inverurie a week and a half ago?’ Calamity nodded to herself. ‘Could be dozens of dead bodies out there, dumped in woodland all over the northeast.’

      ‘You been watching Scandinavian crime dramas again?’

      ‘Five quid says the post mortem turns up sexual activity, before and after death. That’s what the bag’s for: he’s dehumanized the victim by hiding the face. Doesn’t want to be looked at while he does his thing.’

      ‘Don’t you start as well. Had enough of the “doesn’t look like a person” thing from Tufty.’

      ‘Exactly my point. There’s a murder victim lying right there.’ She pointed. ‘Someone’s brother, father, son, husband. Someone with hopes and dreams, like you and me. And we’re standing here chatting about Tufty’s party. Been dehumanized.’

      Ah…

      Logan put his phone away. ‘Fair enough.’

      ‘Another fiver says we find the next body before the fortnight’s out.’

      ‘Get on to Isla: see if we’ve got any missing persons with a narwhal tattoo on their left shoulder.’ A frown. ‘Actually, don’t. Tell her any sort of tattoo will do. Don’t care if it’s a dolphin, elephant, narwhal, or Sandi Toksvig riding a unicycle, if there’s a misper with a tattoo on their arm I want to know about it.’

      ‘Sarge.’

      ‘With any luck we’ll solve this before the MIT turn up and trample over everything.’

      Calamity got on the Airwave. ‘Constable Nicholson for Constable Anderson, safe to talk?’

      A tiny voice crackled out of the speaker, sounding as if it belonged to a wee girl. ‘Go for it, Calamity.’

      ‘Isla, I need you to search the misper database for us…’

      Then a piercing whistle crackled from the brow of the hill and there was Tufty, waving. A man in an overcoat struggled up next to him, then another, and a third. All with mud clarted up to the knees of their suit trousers.

      Speak of the devils and they shall appear.

      They struggled their way down the hill, holding on to each other in an admirably stupid display of team spirit. Meaning if one of them went down he’d take the other two with him.

      At least Tufty had the common sense to steer clear of them. He picked his own path through the gorse and tree stumps, until he stood in front of Logan. Then jerked a thumb at the suits. ‘Found this lot wandering in the woods, Sarge. Can we keep them?’

      The tallest of the three picked spiny green bristles out of his navy overcoat. ‘We were not wandering.’ Water dripped from the brim of his trilby hat, something else dripping from the end of his little pink nose. A sniff. Then he raised his hat, showing off a spiky mop of gelled blond hair. ‘Logan.’

      ‘Well, well, well. Defective Sergeant Simon Rennie, as I live and breathe.’ Logan smiled, then lowered his eyes to Rennie’s dirt-spattered trousers. ‘Were we playing in the puddles?’

      ‘Bloody place is like a swamp. With trees. And mud. A muddy foresty swamp.’ He stuck his hat back on. ‘Steel’s on her way. Till she gets here, this is DC Owen…’

      Owen – a broad-shouldered lump of a man with greying curls plastered to his head by the rain. A nod. ‘Sarge.’ His teeth looked as if they’d been designed for a mouth three times bigger than his, poking out at all angles.

      ‘…and this is DC Anthony “Spaver” Fraser.’

      Fraser’s nose had been destined for the same oversized face as Owen’s teeth. ‘Sergeant.’ He jerked it in the direction of the tarpaulin. ‘That our body?’

      ‘Not yet it isn’t.’ Logan held his hand out towards Tufty. ‘Constable Quirrel, pass me the Sacred Wooden Stick of Crime-Scene Dominion.’

      There was a pause as Tufty blinked at him. Then realization must have dawned, because two seconds later a branch was pressed into Logan’s grasp. It wasn’t big – about two foot long, with a forked bit at the top. ‘Here you go.’

      Logan offered it to Rennie. ‘Do you accept the Sacred Stick?’

      A lopsided grin. Then he took the little branch and held it aloft as if he’d just pulled Excalibur from the stone. Posing. ‘I hereby claim this crime scene for Detective Chief Inspector Roberta Tiberius Steel and the glory of the Sontaran Empire!’

      ‘Good for you.’ Logan wiped bits of bark from his palm. ‘Body’s an IC-one male: tattoo on the upper left arm. Heavy bruising to the torso, bin-bag over the head. Duty doctor, Procurator Fiscal, pathologist, and Scenes Examination Branch have been informed.’ He turned. ‘Tufty, Calamity: pack up, we’re out of here.’

      She shifted the Airwave handset to her other ear and nodded.

      Rennie frowned. ‘But what about guarding the scene? Aren’t you going to—’