Logan declined and she smiled at him again.

'No? Aye, you're right: it's a fucking filthy habit.' She winkled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it from the one she was still smoking, before grinding the stub out on the windowsill. 'So what can I do for you, Mr Police Hero?' she asked, settling back in her chair, her head wreathed in fresh smoke.

'Your floater: Mr No Kneecaps.'

Steel raised an eyebrow. 'Listening.'

'I think it's George "Geordie" Stephenson. He was an enforcer for Malcolm McLennan-'

'Malk the Knife? Fuck. I didn't think he was doing business up here.'

'Word has it Geordie was sent up to cut a deal with the planning department: three hundred houses on greenbelt. The planner said no and Geordie pushed him under a bus.'

'I don't believe you.' She even went so far as to take the cigarette out of her mouth. 'Someone from Planning turned down a bribe?'

Logan shrugged. 'Anyway: it seems that Geordie had a liking for the horses. Only Lady Luck is not Geordie's friend. And he was into some of the local bookies for some serious money.'

DI Steel settled back in her seat, picking at her teeth with a chipped fingernail. 'I'm impressed,' she said at last. 'Where'd you hear this?'

'Colin Miller. He's a reporter on the P amp;J.'

She took a long draw on her fag, making the end glow hot orange. Smoke trickled down her nose as she examined Logan in silence. The room was shrinking, the walls obscured by curling layers of tobacco fog until only that glowing orange eye remained. 'Inschy tells me you're running the kid-in-the-bin-bag case now.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'He tells me you're not a complete waste of skin.'

'Thank you, ma'am.' But he wasn't sure if that was really a compliment.

'Don't thank me. If you're not a fuck-up, people notice. They give you things to do.' She smiled at him through the smoke and Logan felt a small chill go down his spine. 'Inschy and me: we've been talking about you.'

'Oh?' There was something unpleasant coming: he could feel it.

'It's your lucky day, Mr Police Hero. You're going to get another chance to shine.'

17

Logan went straight to DI Insch. The inspector sat on the edge of a desk like a large, round vulture and listened calmly as Logan complained about DI Steel slope-shouldering the no-knees investigation onto him. He was just a detective sergeant! He couldn't carry multiple homicide investigations! Insch listened and tutted and commiserated and then told him that things were tough all over and he shouldn't be such a bloody prima donna.

'What have you got going on the bin-bag case?' asked Insch.

Logan shrugged. 'The appeal went out on the telly last night, so there's a pile of sightings to go through. There was this one old lady who said we could call off the search, because little "Tiffany" was playing in the sand pit at the foot of the garden.' He shook his head. 'Silly old bat…Anyway, I've got a dozen uniform out working their way through the list.'

'So you're basically twiddling your thumbs till something comes up, then?'

Logan blushed and admitted that yes, he was.

'So what's to stop you digging into the floater?'

'Well, nothing as such, it's just that…' He tried not to meet Insch's eyes. 'Well, there's the incident lines-'

'Get a uniform to take the calls.' Insch settled back on his large rump, arms crossed.

'And…and…' Logan stopped talking and flapped his arms a little. Somehow he couldn't get the words out: I'm terrified of screwing all this up.

'And nothing,' said Insch. 'You can have WPC Watson when she's finished in court.' He checked his watch. 'I've not factored her into any of the search teams anyway.'

Logan just slumped slightly.

'Well, what are you waiting for?' The inspector levered himself off the desk and dug out a half-eaten packet of Polo Mints, helping himself to one before winding the tinfoil shut like a silvery fuse. 'Here.' He tossed the little dynamite-shaped package to Logan. 'Call it an early Christmas bonus. Now bugger off and get to work.' When they heard that Logan had a body in the morgue that might be Geordie Stephenson, Lothian and Borders Police were delighted. But before they threw a full-blown party with cake and balloons, they wanted to make sure Logan's stiff really was Malk the Knife's favourite enforcer. So they emailed up everything they had on the man: fingerprints, criminal record, and a nice big photo that Logan had printed off in colour. Twelve copies. Geordie had a large face with heavy features, bouffant hairstyle and a porn-star moustache. Just the sort of face to go demanding money with menaces with. He looked a lot more battered and pasty now he was dead, but it was definitely the same man they'd dragged out of the harbour with his knees hacked off. And to make matters certain, the fingerprints were an exact match.

Logan phoned Lothian and Borders back to give them the news. Geordie Stephenson was now collecting debts in the great beyond. They promised to send Logan up some cake.

Now that they had a positive ID, the next thing to do was find out who killed him. And Logan was willing to bet it had something to do with Geordie's gambling habit. So that meant doing the rounds of the bookies in Aberdeen. Flash Geordie's face and see who squirmed.

Logan popped into his little incident room on the way out, just to make sure everything was still going OK. On Insch's instructions he'd commandeered an efficient-looking WPC with sandy-brown hair and thick eyebrows to woman the phones and co-ordinate the uniforms going door-to-door. She sat at the cluttered table with a phone headset on, taking down yet another possible identity for the dead girl. Then she brought him up to speed with the latest developments, which took all of three seconds – there weren't any – and promised to call him on his mobile if anything came up.

That done, all he had to do now was pick up WPC Watson from the Sheriff Court and get cracking. She was still sitting in the main courtroom, watching a huge youth with a pockmarked face giving evidence. WPC Watson looked up and smiled as Logan sat down next to her.

'How's it going?' he whispered.

'Getting there.'

The kid on the stand wasn't much more than twenty-one, and sweat made his flushed, lumpy face shine in the courtroom lights. He was massive. Not fat, just big-boned. Big jaw, big hands, long, bony arms. The grey suit the CPS had lent him to make him look more credible as a witness, was far too small, straining at the seams every time he moved. His dirty-blond hair looked as if it hadn't seen a comb for a long time and his big hands fluttered and fidgeted as he mumbled his way through his encounter with Gerald Cleaver.

An eleven-year-old boy, so badly beaten by his drunken father that he gets to spend three weeks in Aberdeen Children's Hospital. And that's where his luck goes from bad to worse. Gerald Cleaver, in charge of the wards at night, practises his own special 'bedside manner' while the kid's strapped to the bed. Making him do things that would make a porn star blush.

The prosecutor gently drew the details from him, speaking softly and reassuringly even when the tears start to flow.

Logan split his attention between the jury and the accused as the boy spoke. The fifteen men and women looked appalled at what they were hearing. But Gerald Cleaver's face remained as expressionless as a slab of butter.

The prosecutor thanked the witness for his courage and handed him over to counsel for the defence.

'Here we go.' WPC Watson's voice dripped with contempt as Slippery Sandy the Snake stood, patted his client on the shoulder and wandered over to the jury. Casually, he leaned on the rail at the front of the box and smiled at the assembled men and women. 'Martin,' he said, not looking at the trembling young man but at the jury, 'you're not exactly a stranger to this court, are you?'