wants you to give a speech, or somefuckin' thing.' Beeeeeeep. 'Ten minutes – where are you? Look, I forgive you, OK? Now get back here!' Beeeeeeep. 'Jesus, Logan: why do you have to be so high fucking maintenance? Come on!' Beeeeeeep. And on and on. The last one was a curt 'You'd better have a bloody good excuse for not turning up!' Far from stealing all the glory, she'd actually been trying to give him his moment in the spotlight. 'Wonderful.' He deleted all the messages. It was too late now anyway, he'd screwed that up, just like he'd screwed up everything else.
He still had no idea what to do about Miller. With Chib on the run Isobel would be on Logan's back the whole time: nipping his head about how he was supposed to have done something, and why had no one caught them yet, and what if they came back, and… Logan screwed up his face and swore and swore and swore. 'Turn the car round!'
'What?' Jackie pointed at the junction in front of them.
'We're nearly home.'
'Turn it round!'
She gave a theatrical sigh and hauled the car around, doing a U-turn on Union Street. 'Where to, o great and wise master?'
'What if Chib's not on his way south? What if he's got unfinished business?'
Now it was Jackie's turn to swear. 'Colin Miller's fingers.'
'Exactly. Chib knows we're on to him, he's going to think it's Miller's fault.'
She floored the accelerator, tearing down Union Street, ignoring the red lights on Union Terrace and the amber outside the Music Hall, deserted streets and shops flashing by on either side. 'You going to call for backup or what?'
Logan braced himself as Jackie bounced the car through the Y-j unction at the top of Holburn Street, following the road round onto Albyn Place. 'What if I'm wrong?'
'Then you look like an arse. What if you're right?'
'Miller doesn't want anyone to know about his fingers, he-'
'Tough shit. Steve doesn't want to be lying in hospital with a bullet in him! That Weegie bastard held his hands up earlier we'd have Chib in custody days ago, instead of getting our arses shot off!'
She was right. Logan pulled out his phone and made the call – closing his eyes as Jackie rallied the car around the Queen Victoria roundabout – only to be told no one was available: everyone they had spare was manning roadblocks.
Logan swore, hung up and dialled DI Insch's mobile. 'You do know he's going to fire me for this, don't you?' he asked while the phone rang. 'Inspector? It's Logan – I need some backup.'
'Backup? What the hell do you need backup for?' Logan told him about Miller's fingers and Chib's threat to return if he was caught talking to the police again. 'You think he's daft enough to go back there? You mad? He 'II be scooting it down the road with his tail between his legs!'
'What if he's not?'
Grumbling, Insch said he'd see what he could do and hung up. Jackie slowed the car to a more normal speed and turned off onto Forest Road, the entrance to Aberdeen's moneyed district. 'Well?' she asked.
'Maybe.'
'Maybe? What sort of answer is that?'
'The one I got, OK?' He pointed at the entrance to Rubislaw Den North. 'You want to go left here then on round the corner.'
The street was silent. Little flecks of light danced across the pavements, sodium-yellow streetlight dappled through the swaying leaves of huge, mature beech trees. The house was up ahead, as dark and silent as the rest of the street. Logan tapped on the passenger window. 'Pull in here.'
Jackie squeezed the car in between a grubby blue Transit Van and a soft-top Porsche. 'Right,' she said, creaking on the handbrake, 'what's the plan?'
'Sneak up, have a look about. If nothing's happening we come back and wait in the car.'
'Great. Just what I need: more hours cooped up in this bloody heap.'
They stepped out into the night, picking their way past the filthy van. Logan stopped, turned, frowned and asked Jackie if it looked familiar to her. 'You kidding?' she said, turning her back on it. 'Looks like every other crappy Transit in the whole city. I thought we were in a hurry?'
Logan marched up the path to Isobel's house, cupping his hands against the drawing-room window and peering through into the darkened room. Nothing. The lounge was the same. There was no way to get around to the back of the house.
'Now what?' asked Jackie.
'Could always try the bell I suppose.' Logan pressed the button and the familiar biiiiiing-bonnnnnnnng rang out from deep inside. They settled back to wait, and wait and – Logan tried the bell again. Both cars were in the drive: they had to be in, it was half past three in the morning!
Jackie peered through the letterbox. 'Like a graveyard in there.'
'Is it just me,' said Logan, 'or are you starting to get a bad feeling about this?'
'Maybe they've both passed out? You said Doc MacAlister was getting laid into the whisky when you were here – Miller'll be on painkillers
Logan stood back, gazing up at the dark house. 'What's the worst that can happen if we go in there and nothing's wrong?'
'You get your bollocks chewed off for breaking and entering.'
'Not if we've got a key…' He tipped up the small pot of pansies growing beside the door and rummaged about in the shadows beneath it, coming up with nothing but dirt and a worm. He tried the other side. Nothing. 'Damn, she used to keep a spare key out here.'
'Under a flowerpot by the door? Why not just put a big sign in the front garden saying, I'm stupid: please rob me?'
'You got a torch on you?' Jackie did; after all she was still wearing her uniform, drenched in sweat and blood, the faint, lingering whiff of petrol just discernible under the smoky stench of burning building. She was in the middle of handing it over when a light blossomed in the hall, glowing through the glass panes surrounding the door.
'Bout bloody time,' said Jackie under her breath as the deadbolt clicked back, the chain rattled and the door opened wide.
Isobel peered out at them. She looked a mess, hair flat on one side and sticking up all over the place on the other.
Bloodshot eyes, a fresh graze on her left cheek. She was wearing baby-blue pyjamas with penguins on them – very appropriate. 'What do you want?' The words wreathed in whisky fumes.
Logan stepped up to the door. 'Isobel, are you OK? What I happened to your cheek?' ¦ A hand fluttered up to the graze and she tried for a smile it didn't work. 'I may have… fallen over on the way to be sick.' She stepped back and then held out a hand to him.
'Come in, come in, you and your lovely wife Daphne.' She swung a finger round to point at WPC Watson. 'I've got some Pernod somewhere, I know you both love that.'
Logan opened his mouth to say, 'You know 1 hate Pernod!' but she was already weaving her way back up the hall.
'Daphne?' hissed Jackie. Logan shrugged, Isobel must be more plastered than he'd thought. But then she'd never been much of a drinker. They followed her into the house and through to the kitchen at the rear. All the lights were on and there, in front of the breakfast bar, naked and strapped to a kitchen chair, was Colin, a bondage gag stretching his jaws wide, blood running freely from his chest, marking the place where his left nipple used to be.
A noise behind them in the hall; Logan spun around and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. It was the Gimp, one side of his face covered in dried blood. He motioned Logan through the door and into the kitchen proper.
'DS McRae,' said a familiar Edinburgh accent as the door was closed behind them. 'What a pleasant surprise.'
