woodwork and stab him in the back.
The summons from Inspector Napier had been waiting for him when he got into work first thing this morning.
So here he was, sitting outside Professional Standards, feeling sick, stomach churning away as he waited for Napier to call him into the Office of Doom. Right on cue the inspector stuck his pointy face around the door and beckoned Logan inside. This time the room was crowded. In addition to Logan, Napier and the silent, unnamed inspector in the corner, Big Gary was sitting in one of the uncomfortable visitors' chairs, his huge frame making the plastic buckle alarmingly.
He looked up and nodded as Logan entered. This was it then.
He was in real trouble this time.
'Sergeant McRae,' said Napier settling down behind his pristine desk. 'As you can see, I have asked your Federation representative to attend this meeting.' He threw a cold smile in Big Gary's direction. 'But before we start I'd just like to say how saddened we all are at the news of PC Maitland's untimely death. He was a good officer and will be greatly missed by his colleagues and friends. Our thoughts and prayers go out to his wife and…' Napier peered down at a sheet of paper on his desktop. 'Daughter.'
And then Logan had to go through the bungled raid again, while Napier nodded gravely and Big Gary took notes. 'Of course,' said Napier when Logan had finished, 'you realize that we have been lucky with the timing of this.' He held up a copy of that morning's Press and Journal. The headline Fatal Fire Kills Four! was stretched across the front page above a photo of a ruined house, still burning in the darkness with fire engines clustered outside. 'This arson story has far more public appeal. Also, the papers didn't get wind of Constable Maitland's untimely death until after their second editions had run. Naturally we can expect 'prominent citizens' like Councillor Marshall…' the name came out sounding like a disease from Napier's lips, 'to ma,ke their feelings known on the subject.'
Logan suppressed a groan. That pompous, slimy wee pervert would have a field day.
'Of course, the internal enquiry now has to take into account the fact that an officer died during the operation you organized, resourced and led,' said Napier, probably loving every minute of this. 'If you are found to have been negligent, you can expect a reduction in rank and possible expulsion from the force. Criminal charges cannot be ruled out.'
Big Gary sat forward in his beleaguered plastic seat and frowned. 1 think it's a wee bit premature to be talking about criminal charges, don't you? Sergeant McRae's no' been found guilty of anything.' The silent inspector in the corner twitched.
Napier held up his hands. 'Of course, of course. I apologize.
Your Federation representative is quite correct: innocent until proven guilty and so forth.' He stood and opened the door. 'A date for the enquiry will be set later today.
Please feel free to drop in should you wish to discuss things further.'
Interview room number six was vacant, so Big Gary commandeered it, dragging Logan in for a pep talk. Screw Napier. Logan hadn't done anything wrong, had he? No. So there was nothing to worry about: the internal enquiry would come back negative, they'd all have a big touchy-feely lessons learned exercise, and everyone would get on with their lives.
Everyone, thought Logan, except for Constable Maitland.
When Big Gary was gone, Logan slumped back in his chair and scowled at the ceiling tiles. Bloody Napier and his bloody witch hunt, as if he didn't already feel guilty enough about Maitland being dead! Any excuse to belittle, or threaten, or condescend and there was Napier, ready to stick the knife in and twist. And where the hell did he get off telling Logan to make sure Steel wasn't screwed over by the press? Bloody Steel and her bloody sarcasm and her bloody 'everything's not black and white' like he was some sort of school kid! Protect her from the press? It'd be Logan getting a roasting off that smug, sanctimonious, child molesting pervert Marshall, not DI Steel. No, she had him eating out of the palm of her nicotine-stained hand…
Fine, you know what: two could play at that game. Logan yanked his phone out, dialled Control, and asked for a contact number for Councillor Andrew Marshall. It took him three minutes to get past Marshall's personal assistant, but finally the man's familiar voice oiled imperiously out of the phone, 'Is this important? I have a chamber meeting in five minutes.'
Logan smiled. 'Just a quick question, Councillor: does the name 'Kylie' mean anything to you?' There was silence on the other end of the phone. 'No? Young Lithuanian prostitute, claims to have been sexually intimate with you and a friend of yours last month. At the same time.'
A bit of stammering, and then, 'Sexually intimate?'
'Well, the exact term she used was 'spit roast'. I believe you took the back end?'
'I… I don't know what you're talking about.'
'We've got her in custody: she identified your picture. Did you know she was only fourteen?'
'Oh God…' There was a long pause. 'What do you want?
Money? That's it isn't it – it's what you people always want! Why can't you all just leave me alone?'
Logan smiled. He'd always suspected DI Steel was on the take. 'So someone's already blackmailing you for having anal sex with a fourteen-year-old girl?'
'Oh God this is a nightmare… 7 never knew she was fourteen till he told me afterwards! I swear! I wouldn 't have touched her if I'd known!' He was starting to panic.
The smile froze on Logan's face. 'Till he told you? Who's he?'
'It… I… I don't know his name. I just got a letter and a photo of me… of the three of us… together. I didn 't know she was fourteen!' He was getting louder and louder, and Logan wondered if Marshall had been bright enough to close his office door, otherwise the whole council would know about his little 'indiscretion' by lunchtime.
'I want your friend's name, Councillor, the one on the other end of your underaged rotisserie.'
A pause, then another gulp. 'He… You're going to blackmail him as well, aren't you?' 1 want his name.'
It was John Nicholas, the council's Chief Greenbelt Development Planner. Feeling pretty pleased with himself, Logan hung up. An underaged Lithuanian prostitute up from Edinburgh has sex with the guy responsible for deciding what can and can't be built outside the city, photos are taken, threats are made, and all of a sudden Malk the Knife's property development company has permission to put up a stack of new homes on greenbelt? If it was a coincidence it was a bloody unlikely one. And as Brendan 'Chib' Sutherland was Malkie's fixer, he was probably responsible for McLennan Homes' sudden turn of good luck. Something else to ask him about, presuming Colin Miller ever managed to dig up an address.
It didn't take long for the news of PC Maitland's death to get out – the first call from the media came at nine on the dot, putting an end to Logan's good mood. The press office issued a statement that was much the same as Napier's:
PC Maitland was a fine officer and would be missed by his colleagues, blah, blah, blah. By the time PC Steve stuck his head around the incident-room door and asked if Logan had a minute, almost every news organization in the country had been on the phone.
'Been another fire,' said PC Steve, holding up a copy of the P amp;J.
'I know, Napier showed me this morning.'
PC Steve raised an eyebrow. 'You seen Dracula? How come…' and then he ground to a halt as he remembered.
Maitland's death was all over the station. Coming into work this morning had been like walking into a silent movie; all conversation stopped as soon as Logan entered a room. 'Aye, well,' said the constable, blushing slightly. 'Inspector Insch wants you to join him up at the scene. Says you're to come do your morbid bit.'
Logan didn't bother clearing it with Steel first.
The scene of the fire wasn't hard to spot amongst the restrained bucolic splendour of Inchgarth Road. The rain had drifted away, leaving the trees and bushes a verdant green, glowing in the warm, golden light of a hazy sun. Down here, the city fought an awkward battle with the countryside, allotments and farmland mingling with council housing estates and expensive private homes. Gritty, soot-coloured dirt made a slick across the road surface, clogging the drain and leaving a shallow lake on the tarmac. What was left of the house hulked at the end of a short gravel drive, one end wall caved in, spilling bricks and mortar across the debris. A dirty white Transit Van was parked next to a scorched rose bush, along with a grimy police pod, people in white paper boiler suits drifting back and forth, taking samples and photographs. It was cramped in the pod, but there was just enough room for Logan and Steve to change into their scene-of-crime outfits while someone boiled the kettle for a brunch Pot Noodle. And
