'Here we go!' said DI Steel with glee.

Sandy Moir-Farquharson appeared through the doors and proceeded to read his client's statement. The camera zoomed in, just in time to see a figure lunge from the crowd and smack his fist into Sandy the Snake's face.

A huge cheer went up from the pub.

The newsreader's concerned and serious face reappeared, said something, and then the punch was shown again.

Another huge cheer.

And then it was something about traffic on the Dyce to Newmacher road and everyone went happily back to their drinks.

DI Steel had a misty-eyed smile on her face as she gulped another large whisky. 'Wasn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?'

Logan agreed that it was pretty damn good.

'You know,' said Steel, lighting up another cigarette, 'I would love to shake that kid's hand. Hell, I'd even be tempted to go straight for a night. What a star!'

Logan tried not to form a mental picture of DI Steel and Martin Strichen going at it like knives, but failed. To take his mind off it he glanced back up at the television. Now it was showing a fullscreen photo of Peter Lumley, missing since last Tuesday. Ginger hair, freckles and smile. Cut to an exterior of Roadkill's farm. Then to a press conference with the Chief Constable looking stern and committed.

The good mood slowly ebbed out of Logan as the pictures flickered in front of him. Peter was lying dead somewhere and Logan had the nasty feeling they still hadn't got the man responsible. No matter what DI Insch thought.

And then it was adverts. A garage in Bieldside, a dress shop in Rosemount and a government road safety thing. Logan watched in silence as the car screeched to a halt, but not before striking the boy crossing the road. The kid was small, the grille and bumper catching him in the side, making his legs flail out as he pin-wheeled into the bonnet, crackinghis head against the metal before sailing off to smack into the tarmac. It was in slow motion, every impact horribly clear and choreographed. The legend 'Kill Your Speed, Not A Child' blazed across the screen.

Logan stared up at the screen with a growing look of pain on his face. 'Son of a bitch.'

They'd got it wrong. It took till eight o'clock to get everyone gathered in the morgue. DI Insch, Logan and Dr Isobel MacAlister, who looked even less happy at being dragged back into work than the inspector, being dressed up to the nines in a long black dress, cut low at the front. Not that Logan was afforded much in the way of gratuitous skin to ogle. Isobel had pulled a luminous orange fleece over the evening dress, hands stuffed deep in the pockets, trying to keep warm in the cold, antiseptic morgue.

She'd been at the theatre. 'I hope this is important,' she said, giving Logan a look which made it clear that nothing could be more important than an evening with her bit of rough at Scottish National Opera's new production of La Boheme.

Insch was dressed in jeans and a tatty blue sweatshirt. It was the first time Logan had ever seen him out of his work suit, not counting his pantomime villain outfit. He scowled as Logan apologized for dragging them all down here at this time on a Saturday night. Again.

'OK,' said Logan, selecting the refrigerated drawer that held the remains of the little girl they'd found at Roadkill's steading. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it open, staggering back as the putrid smell fought against the room's antiseptic tang. 'Right,' he said, his face creased up, trying hard to breathe exclusively through his mouth. 'We know the girl died from blunt trauma-'

'Of course she did!' snapped Isobel. 'I told you that in my post mortem report. The fractures to the front and back of her skull would have caused massive brain damage and death.'

'I know,' said Logan, pulling the X-rays out from the case file and holding them up to the light. 'You see this?' he asked, pointing at the ribs.

'Broken ribs.' Isobel glared. 'Did you drag me out of the theatre to show me things I bloody well told you in the first place, Sergeant?' The last word came out dripping in venom.

Logan sighed. 'Look, we all thought the injuries were caused by Roadkill beating the girl-'

'The damage is consistent with a beating. I said so in the post mortem! How much more time do we have to spend going over this? You said you had new evidence!'

Logan took a deep breath and stacked the X-rays end on end so they formed the skeleton of a complete child. Broken hip, leg, ribs, fractured skull. The image was less than four feet tall. Dropping down onto his knees, Logan held the skeleton image so that its feet were touching the floor. 'Look at the ribs,' he said, 'look how far they are off the ground.'

DI Insch and Isobel did. Neither of them looked impressed.

'And?'

'What if the damage isn't down to a beating?'

'Oh come off it!' Isobel said. 'This is pathetic! She was beaten to death!'

'Look how far the broken ribs are off the ground,' Logan said again.

Nothing.

'Car,' said Logan, moving the X-rays like a macabre shadow puppet. 'The first point of impact is the hip.' He twisted the image around the waist, lifting it as he turned the top half clockwise. 'The ribs hit the top edge of the radiator.' He moved the X-ray girl again, bending the head hard right. 'Left hand side of the skull smacks into the bonnet. Car slams on the brakes.' He pulled the X-ray upright and rotated it back towards the morgue's floor. 'She hits the tarmac, the right leg snaps. Back of her head caves in as it hits the deck.' He laid the X-rays on the floor at his feet.

His audience looked on in silence for a full minute before Insch said, 'So how come she ends up in Roadkill's house of horrors then?'

'Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill, comes along with his shovel and his wheelie-cart and does what he always does.'

Insch looked at him as if he'd just plucked the dead child's rotting corpse from its refrigerated drawer and proceeded to do the Dashing White Sergeant round the room with it. 'It's a dead girl! Not a bloody rabbit!'

'It's all the same to him.' Logan looked down at the contents of the drawer, feeling a heavy weight pressing down between his ribs. 'Just another dead thing scraped off the road. She was in steading number two. He'd already filled one building.'

Insch opened his mouth. Looked at Logan. Looked at Isobel. And back to the X-rays lying on the floor. 'Bastard,' he said at last.

Isobel stood in silence, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her bright orange fleece, an unhappy expression on her face.

'Well?' Logan asked.

She drew herself up to her full height and, with a voice like frozen bleach, agreed that the injuries were consistent with the scenario described. That it was impossible to tell what order the injuries occurred in, because of the state of decay. That the injuries had looked consistent with a severe beating. That she'd made the best call she could, based on the state of the body. That she couldn't be expected to be clairvoyant.

'Bastard,' said Insch again.

'He didn't kill her.' Logan slid the refrigerated door shut, the dull clang echoing off the cold, white tiles. 'We're back to square one.' Bernard Duncan Philips' 'appropriate adult' turned up after an hour and a half of frantic telephone calls, looking like something the cat dragged in. It was the ex-schoolteacher, Lloyd Turner, again, smelling strongly of mint, as if he'd been drinking alone and didn't want anyone to know about it. Ten o'clock shadow blurring the edges of his thin moustache. He fussed with his papers as Logan went through the standard details for the tape.

'We want you,' said DI Insch, now dressed in his spare suit, 'to tell us about the dead girl, Bernard.'

Roadkill's eyes darted round the room and the ex-teacher gave a long-suffering sigh.