Logan shrugged. 'They say they were out making snowmen. One of them needed a wee, so they came in here, and that's when they found the body.' He looked over at them: two girls of eight and ten and a boy, the youngest at six. Brother and sisters. They all had the same ski-jump nose and wide brown eyes.

'Poor kids,' said Insch.

'Poor kids, my arse,' said Logan. 'How do you think they got in here? Took an eight-inch screwdriver to the clasp on the door, wrenched the padlock clean off. A passing patrol caught them at it.' He pointed at the two frozen PCs. 'The little sods would have done a runner if these guys hadn't shown up and grabbed them.'

Insch switched his attention from the kids to the two uniforms. 'A passing patrol? In the middle of Seaton Park? In this weather?' He frowned. 'Sound a bit far-fetched to you?'

Logan shrugged again. 'That's their story and they're sticking to it.'

'Hmmm…'

The PCs shifted uncomfortably under Insch's gaze.

'Think anyone saw the body being dumped?' he said at last.

'No. I don't.'

Insch nodded. 'Nah, me neither.'

'Because the body wasn't dumped: it was stored. The kids had to break in. The door was padlocked with the body inside. That means the killer put the padlock on. He thought the body was safely locked away. Ready for him to come back to, whenever he felt the urge. He's not claimed his trophy.'

An evil smile spread across the inspector's face. 'That means he's coming back. We've finally got a way to catch this bastard!'

And that's when Dr Isobel MacAlister arrived, stamping into the toilets in a thick woollen coat, a flurry of snow, and a foul mood. Standing in the entranceway, she took in the scene, her face falling even further into a scowl upon seeing Logan. It looked as if she was bearing a grudge: not only had Logan ruined her evening at the theatre, he'd proved her wrong about the child being beaten to death. And Isobel was never wrong. 'Inspector,' she said, completely blanking the man she used to sleep with. 'If we can make this quick?'

Insch pointed at cubicle number three and Isobel swept off to examine the body, her Wellington boots flapping and slapping as she walked.

'Is it just me,' whispered Insch, 'or did it suddenly just get colder in here?' They broke the news to Peter Lumley's parents that evening. Mr and Mrs Lumley didn't say a word. As soon Logan and the Inspector appeared they knew. They just sat side by side on the sofa in silence, holding each other's hands as DI Insch intoned the fateful words.

Without saying a word Mr Lumley got up, picked his coat off the hook, and walked out.

His wife watched him go, waiting for the door to shut behind him, before finally bursting into tears. The Family Liaison Officer hurried over to offer her a shoulder to cry on.

Logan and Insch let themselves out.

28

The plan was simple. Everyone coming to, or going from, the murder scene would keep a low profile. The number of people visiting the lavatories would be kept to a minimum, the padlock re-fixed to the door. The body would be taken out in secret and a pair of PCs left behind to watch the loos. This would be done from the safety and warmth of a pool car, parked up out of the way, with a clear sight of the ladies. The relentless snow had wiped clean the morass of footprints around the toilets, making everything a smooth, rounded white, leaving no sign that anyone had ever been there. The three kids who had found the body would not be charged with breaking and entering, just so long as they kept their mouths shut. No one was to know that Peter Lumley's body had been found. The killer would come back with his scissors, looking to take his souvenir, and the PCs would arrest him. What could possibly go wrong?

Miller's puff-piece on the tragic life and times of Bernard Duncan Philips, AKA Roadkill, was relegated to page four, along with a bit on new tractors and a charity jumble sale. It was a good article, no matter how deeply it was buried in the paper. Miller had turned Roadkill into a sympathetic character, his mental health problems caused by the tragic death of his mother. An intelligent man, abandoned by society and making the best sense he could of the confusing world around him. It went a long way towards making Grampian Police look as if they knew what they were doing when they let him go.

And if that had been the only story Miller had written for the P amp;J that morning, everyone at Force Headquarters would have been a lot happier.

Miller's second story was spread across the front page under the banner headline: 'Child-Killer Strikes Again! Boy's Body Found In Toilet.' 'How the hell did he find out?' Insch slammed his fist down on the tabletop, making cups, papers and everyone in the briefing room jump.

The plan to catch the killer returning for his trophy was officially screwed up beyond repair. Every single gory detail was spread across the front page of the Press and Journal in tones of indignant outrage.

'That was the best chance we had of grabbing this bastard before he kills again!' Insch grabbed his copy of the paper, shaking with fury as he shoved the front page spread at them all. 'We could have caught him! Now some other kid is going to wind up dead because some stupid bastard couldn't keep their bloody mouth shut!'

He hurled the paper across the room. It spiralled through the air, exploding into a flurry of pages as it hit the far wall. Behind him, Inspector Napier stood in full dress uniform, looking like a ginger-haired Grim Reaper. He didn't say a word, just glared at them all from under his furrowed eyebrows as DI Insch fumed.

'I'll tell you what I'm going to do,' said Insch, digging in his pocket. He produced a thick, brown leather wallet, opened it and dragged out a handful of cash. 'First person who comes to me with a name, gets it.' He slapped the money down on the table.

There was a moment's silence.

Logan pulled out his own wallet and added all his cash to the inspector's pile.

And that started a stampede: uniform, detectives, sergeants all emptying their pockets and throwing their money down. By the time they'd finished there was a tidy amount sitting on the desk. It wasn't huge as rewards go, but it was heartfelt.

'All very nice,' said Insch with a wry smile, 'but we still don't know who the blabbermouth is.'

They filtered back to their seats and the inspectorwatched them go with something approaching pride on his face. Napier's expression was less clear-cut: his eyes sweeping the room's occupants, looking for signs of guilt, focusing on Logan far too often for comfort.

'Right,' said Insch. 'Either there's a lying bastard in here who thinks chipping in lets them off the hook, or Miller's mole works for someone else. I'm hoping it's the latter.' The smile vanished from his face. 'Because if it is one of this team Iwill personally crucify them.' He plonked himself down on the edge of the desk. 'Sergeant McRae, hand out the assignments.'

Logan read the list of names, sending out search teams to comb through the snow-covered park. Other teams going door-to-door looking for anyone who might have seen the body being hidden. Everyone else was to follow up the numerous telephone calls from concerned citizens. Most of them had come in as soon as they heard Roadkill had been released. Amazing how many people suddenly remembered his wheelie-cart near where the kids went missing.

Finally the morning briefing wound down and everyone filtered out, glancing at the pile of money on the desk as they went, their faces as grim as the weather outside, until only Napier, Logan and DI Insch remained.

The inspector swept the money off the table and into a big brown envelope. Writing, 'BLOOD MONEY' on the front in big black letters.