nearest sergeant and asked her to give it forty-five minutes, then tell everyone to finish up and get their backsides over to Altens. Alec was in full whinge when Logan got back to the car. 'I mean,' the cameraman said, leaning forward from the back seat - knee-deep in discarded chip papers and fast-food cartons,'If he didn't want to be in the bloody series, why'd he volunteer? Always seemed really keen till now. He shouted at me - I had my headphones on, nearly blew my eardrums out.' Logan shrugged, threading the car through the barricade of press cameras, microphones and spotlights. 'You're lucky. He shouts at me every bloody day.' Isobel just sat there in frosty silence, seething.
Thompson's Cash and Carry was a long breezeblock warehouse in Altens: a soulless business park on the southernmost tip of Aberdeen. The building was huge, filled with rows and rows of high, deep shelves that stretched off into the distance, miserable beneath the flicker of fluorescent lighting and the drone of piped muzak. The manager's office was halfway up the end wall, a flight of concrete steps leading to a shiny blue door with 'YOUR SMILE IS OUR GREATEST ASSET' written on it. If that was the case, they were all screwed, because everyone looked bloody miserable. The man in charge of Thompson's Cash and Carry was no exception. They'd dragged him out of his bed at half four in the morning and it showed: bags under the eyes, blue stubble on his jowly face, wearing a suit that probably cost a fortune, but looked as if someone had died in it. Mr Thompson peered out of the picture window that made up one wall of his office, watching as uniformed officers picked their way through the shelves of jelly babies, washing powder and baked beans. 'Oh God ...' 'And you're quite sure,' said Logan, sitting in a creaky leather sofa with a cup of coffee and a chocolate biscuit,'there haven't been any break-ins?' 'No. I mean, yes. I'm sure.' Thompson crossed his arms, paced back and forth, uncrossed his arms. Sat down. Stood up again. 'It can't have come from here: we've got someone onsite twenty-four-seven, a state-of-the-art security system.' Logan had met their state-of-the-art security system - it was a sixty-eight-year-old man called Harold. Logan had sneezed more alert things than him. Thompson went back to the window. 'Have you tried speaking to the ship's crew? Maybe they--' 'Who supplies your meat, Mr Thompson?' 'It ... depends what it is. Some of the pre-packaged stuff comes from local butchers - it's cheaper than hiring someone in-house to hack it up - the rest comes from abattoirs. We use three--' He flinched as a loud, rattling crash came from the cash and carry floor below, followed by a derisory cheer and some slow handclapping. 'You promised me they'd be careful! We're open in an hour and a half; I can't have customers seeing the place in a mess.' Logan shook his head. 'I think you've got more important things to worry about, sir.' Thompson stared at him. 'You can't think we had anything to do with this! We're a family firm. We've been here for nearly thirty years.' 'That container came from your cash and carry with bits of human meat in it.' 'But--' 'How many other shipments do you think went out to the rigs like that? What if you've been selling chunks of dead bodies to catering companies for months? Do you think the guys who've been eating chopped-up corpses offshore are going to be happy about it?' Mr Thompson blanched and said,'Oh God ...' again. Logan drained the last of his coffee and stood. 'Where did the meat in that container come from?' 'I ... I'll have to look in the dockets.'
