Logan shrugged, watching water overflowing the seat of a bright yellow digger. 'The house been searched?'
Watson pulled out her notebook. 'We got the call at eleven oh five. Mother was hysterical. Control sent round a couple of uniforms from the local Torry stationhouse. First thing they did was go through the place with a fine- toothed comb. He's not hiding in the linen cupboard and his body's not been stashed in the fridge freezer.'
'I see.' That digger was way too small for a five-year-old. In fact a lot of the toys looked as if they belonged in the age three-and-up bracket. Maybe Mrs Erskine didn't want her little baby growing up?
'You think she killed him?' asked Watson, watching him stare out at the drenched garden.
'No, not really. But if it turns out she has and we didn't look…the press would crucify us. What about the father?'
''Cording to the neighbour he's been dead since before the kid was born.'
Logan nodded. That would explain why the woman was so overprotective. Didn't want her son going the same way as his father. 'So what's the state of the search?' he asked.
'We've phoned his friends: no one's seen him since Sunday afternoon.'
'What about his clothes, favourite teddy bear, that kind of thing?'
'All present and accounted for. So he's probably not run away.'
Logan gave the discarded toys one last look and went back into the house. The inspector would be here soon, looking for an update. 'Er…' He looked at Watson out of the corner of his eye as they walked through the kitchen and down the hallway towards the front door. 'You've worked with DI Insch before, right?'
WPC Watson admitted that she had.
'So what's with the-' Logan mimed stuffing his face with fizzy cola bottles. 'He trying to give up smoking?'
Watson shrugged. 'Dunno, sir. Maybe it's some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder?' She paused, brow furrowed in thought. 'Or maybe he's just a big fat bastard.'
Logan didn't know whether to laugh or look shocked.
'Tell you one thing though, sir, he's a damn good policeman. And you don't fuck with him twice.'
Somehow Logan had already come to that conclusion all on his own.
'Right.' He stopped at the front door. The hallway was festooned with photographs, just like the lounge. 'Get that picture down to the nearest newsagents. We'll need about a hundred photocopies and-'
'The local boys have already done it, sir. They've got four officers going door to door all along the route Richard would have taken to the shops, handing them out.'
Logan was impressed. 'They don't hang about.'
'No, sir.'
'OK, let's get half a dozen uniform down here to give them a hand.' He pulled out his mobile phone and started dialling, his finger freezing over the last number. 'Oh, ho…'
'Sir?'
A flash-looking motor had pulled up at the kerb and out bustled a familiar, short figure, all wrapped up in a black overcoat, wrestling with a matching umbrella.
'Looks like the vultures are circling already.'
Logan grabbed a brolly from the hallway and stepped out into the rain. The icy water thrummed off the umbrella as he stood and waited for Colin Miller to climb the stairs.
'Sergeant!' said Miller, smiling. 'Long time no see! You still carting that tasty…' The smile became even broader as he saw WPC Watson scowling from the doorway. 'Constable! We was just talking about you!'
'What do you want?' Her voice was even colder than the grey afternoon.
'Business before pleasure, eh?' Miller dug a fancy dictaphone out of his pocket and pointed it at them. 'You've got another missing kid. Are you-'
Logan frowned. 'How did you know another child's gone missing?'
Miller pointed out at the rain-soaked road. 'You've got patrol cars out broadcastin' the kid's description! How do you think I found out?'
Logan tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt.
Miller winked. 'Ah, don't worry about it. I make an arse of myself all the time, but.' He held the dictaphone up again. 'Now, is this disappearance connected to the recent discovery of-'
'We have no comment to make at this time.'
'Oh, come on!'
Behind Miller another car had pulled up, this one with the BBC Scotland logo emblazoned down the side. The media were going to have a field day. Yesterday a little boy turned up dead, today another one had gone missing. They'd all be jumping to the same conclusion as Miller. He could see the headlines now: 'HAS PAEDOPHILE KILLER STRUCK AGAIN?' The Chief Constable would have a fit.
Miller turned to see what Logan was staring at and froze. 'How about if-'
'I'm sorry, Mr Miller. I can't give you any further details at this time. You'll just have to wait for the official statement.'
He didn't have to wait long. Five minutes later DI Insch's mud-splattered Range Rover pulled up. By then a little cordon of newspaper and television people had appeared, forming a wall of microphones and lenses at the foot of the steps, huddling beneath large black umbrellas. Just like a funeral.
Insch didn't bother getting out of his car, just wound down his window and waved Logan over. The cameras turned to watch Logan cross the road and stand in the rain beneath his borrowed umbrella by DI Insch's window, trying not to wince at the smell of wet spaniel that oozed out of the car's interior.
'Aye, aye,' said the inspector, nodding towards the ring of cameras. 'Looks like we're going to be on the telly tonight.' He ran a hand over his bald head. 'Good job I remembered to wash my hair.'
Logan forced a smile. The scars crisscrossing his stomach were starting to bother him as last night's punch in the guts made its presence felt.
'Right,' said Insch. 'I've been authorized to release a statement to the media. Before I do, is there anything I need to know that's going to make me look like an arse here?'
Logan shrugged. 'Far as we can tell the mother's being straight with us.'
'But?'
'Don't know. The mother treats the kid like he's made of glass. Doesn't get out on his own. All his toys are for a kid two years younger than he is. I get the feeling she's smothering the life out of him.'
Insch raised an eyebrow, causing the pink, hairless skin of his head to wrinkle. He didn't speak.
'I'm not saying he hasn't been snatched.' Logan shrugged. 'But still…'
'Point taken,' said Insch, smoothing himself down. Unlike the filthy, smelly Range Rover he was immaculately turned out in his best suit and tie. 'But if we play this down, and he turns up all strangled with his willy cut off, we'll be up to our ears in shite.'
Logan's phone went off in an explosion of beeps and whistles. It was the Queen Street station. They'd picked up Duncan Nicholson.
'What…? No.' Logan smiled, the phone clamped to his ear. 'No, stick him in a detention room. Leave him there to sweat till I get there.' By the time Logan and WPC Watson got back to Force Headquarters a full-blown search was underway. DI Insch had more than trebled the six uniforms Logan had drafted in to help and now more than forty police men and women, four dog-handlers and their alsatians, were out in the freezing rain, searching every garden, public building, shed, bush and ditch between Richard Erskine's home and the shops on Victoria Road.
The desk sergeant told them that Duncan Nicholson had been stuck in the mankiest detention room in the place. He'd been there for nearly an hour.
Just to be on the safe side, Logan and WPC Watson stopped off at the canteen for a cup of tea and a bowl of soup. Lingering over the pea and ham while Nicholson sat in a room, all alone, and worried.
'Right,' said Logan, when they'd finished. 'How'd you like to drag Mr Nicholson into an interview room? Give him the silent glower routine? I'll check up on the search and pop along in about, fifteen, twenty minutes. He should be bricking it by then.'
Watson stood, cast one last longing look at the thick slices of sponge pudding and steaming yellow custard, and headed off to make Duncan Nicholson's life even more miserable.
Logan got an update from the admin officer in the incident room: the search teams hadn't turned up anything and neither had the door-to-door interviews. So Logan grabbed a cup of tea from the machine in the hallway and
