The remains of a packet of Jaffa Cakes sat on the coffee table and Watson grabbed the last two on her way past to stand directly in front of the two-bar electric heater, determined to get warm, even if she had to set fire to her trousers in the process. The whole house was freezing. As a special concession to her visitors Mrs Strichen had put the fire on, but not without a great deal of complaining. Electricity wasn't free, you know. And how was she supposed to cope when that little bastard brought no money in? Mrs Duncan down the road, her son was a drug dealer. He brought home lots of money and they went on two foreign holidays every year! Of course he was doing a three-year stretch in Craiginches for possession with intent, but at least he was bloody trying!

When the steam rising from the backs of her trousers became too hot to bear Watson slumped through to the kitchen to put the kettle on, yet again. Endless cups of tea were the only way to keep warm in this sodding fridge of a house.

The kitchen wasn't big, just a square of linoleum with a small table in the middle and work surfaces around the walls, all decorated in nicotine yellow. Watson clattered three mugs off the draining board and onto the worktop, not really caring if she chipped them. Three teabags. Sugar. Boiling water. But only enough milk for two. 'Arse.' There was no way she was going to stay here, in the cold, without even a cup of tea to sustain her. PC Rennie would have to take his black.

She took them through and dumped the two mugs on the coffee table. Mrs Strichen grabbed hers without even a word of thanks. PC Rennie got as far as, 'Ooh, smashing…' before he realized there was no milk in his. He gave Watson his best lost-puppy-dog look.

'Don't bother,' she told him. 'No more milk.'

He turned a disappointed look at the dark liquid in the cup. 'You sure?'

'Not a drop.'

Mrs Strichen scowled at them, sending a stream of smoke hissing between her teeth. 'Do you mind? I'm trying to watch this!'

On the screen a man with a fat head and patchy beard was watching TV and drinking tea. PC Rennie stared down into his tea again. 'I could go get some more milk,' he offered. 'Maybe some biscuits too?' Now that Watson had eaten all the Jaffa Cakes.

'Insch told us to wait here,' she said with a sigh.

'Yea, but we all know Strichen's not coming back here. It'll take me what? Five, ten minutes? There was a wee newsagents on the corner-'

Mrs Strichen even took the cigarette out of her mouth this time. 'Will you please shut up!'

They went out to the hall.

'Look, I'll only be a minute. And it's not like you couldn't kick the shit out of him if he comes back! And there's two cars out there watching the roads.'

'I know, I know.' She looked back through the door to the flickering television and Martin Strichen's venomous mother. 'I just don't like going against the inspector's orders.'

'I won't tell if you won't.' PC Rennie grabbed one of the thick overcoats hanging up in the hallway. It smelled a bit of stale chips, but it would keep the cold out. 'Wanna give me a kiss for luck?' He puckered up.

'Not if you were the last man on earth.' She pushed him towards the door. 'And get some crisps too. Salt and vinegar.'

'Yes, ma'am.' He executed a sloppy salute.

She watched the front door bang shut before heading back into the lounge to sit in front of mindless drivel and drink her tea. It was hard to believe just how many buildings were either maintained or owned by Aberdeen City Council's Parks Department. The list had been faxed through by a grumpy-sounding man, not happy at being called back into the office at a quarter to seven. Each and every building would have to be visited and searched. Dr Bushel was adamant that Strichen would have taken the child to one of them.

Logan didn't bother to point out just how bloody obvious that was.

The chances of picking the correct building to search, from the extensive list, were slim. They weren't going to find him in time. Little Jamie McCreath wasn't going to live to see his fourth birthday.

Trying to whittle it down a bit, Logan had got the grumpy man at the Parks Department to search their records for every place where Strichen had done community service. That list was almost as long as the first. Martin Strichen had been in and out of trouble since he was eleven. Since Gerald Cleaver got his grubby hands on him. Strichen had done his time raking up leaves, pruning bushes, spraying weeds and unblocking toilets in most of the city's parkland.

Working in reverse chronological order, Logan got the search teams going, starting with the places Strichen had worked in recently. After that they'd work their way backwards through the list. With any luck they'd find the kid before he was violated. But a sinking feeling told Logan that wasn't going to be the case. They'd pick Strichen up in a couple of days, somewhere like Stonehaven, or Dundee. There was no way he was going to hang around Aberdeen. Not with his face on the front page of all the papers, on the television, his name and description on the radio. They'd pick him up and he would, eventually, lead them to the murdered child's body.

'How's it going?'

Logan looked up to see Insch standing in the doorway of his little incident room. The main room had too many clinical psychologists in it for Logan's liking and the peace and quiet had helped him get the search teams organized.

'Search is underway.'

Insch nodded and handed Logan a chipped mug of strong coffee. 'You're not sounding hopeful,' he said, settling onto the edge of Logan's desk and examining the list of possible venues.

Logan admitted that he wasn't. 'There's nothing more to do: the search teams have their orders, everyone knows what buildings they're to do next. That's it. Now they either find him or they don't.'

'You want to be out there?'

'Don't you?'

The inspector gave him a sad smile. 'Aye. But I'm babysitting the big boys…One of those privileges of rank.' Insch pulled himself off the edge of the desk and patted Logan on the shoulder. 'But you're just a lowly DS.' He winked. 'Get your arse out there.'

Logan checked a rusty blue Vauxhall out of the car park. It was dark, going on for seven. The Wednesday night traffic was light, most people going straight home after work. The terrible weather had kept them there. Only the most foolhardy were bustling from pub to pub beneath the Christmas lights.

As the traffic grew scarcer the snow gained a hold on the roads. The black glistening tarmac of the city centre giving way to grey and finally white as Logan worked his way out from Force Headquarters. He didn't have any real destination in mind: he was driving for the sake of doing something. Just another pair of eyes looking for Martin Strichen's car.

He drove up Rosemount and did a tour of Victoria Park and the surrounding streets, never once getting out of the vehicle. With the snow driving in at ninety miles an hour and the temperature sub-zero, there was no way Martin Strichen was going to park miles from where he was going. Not when he had a kidnapped child in tow.

There was no sign of Martin's leprous Ford Fiesta anywhere near Victoria Park, so Logan tried Westburn Park, across the road. It was much bigger, crisscrossed with snow-covered, single-track roads. Logan slowly crunched his car through the blizzard, looking for any nook or cranny Strichen might have hidden his vehicle.

Nothing.

It was going to be a long night. WPC Watson stared out of the kitchen window, watching the snow whip back and forth on the furious wind. PC Rennie had been gone for fifteen minutes and since then her bored resentment had changed to nervous anticipation. It wasn't that she was worried about Martin Strichen coming back – after all, as the Bastard Simon Rennie had said, she could easily kick the shit out of him. All modesty aside, she could kick the shit out of most people. Her nickname had been hard won. No, what worried her was…To be honest: she wasn't sure what was worrying her.