'I can't believe she didn't pass on my message.' 'She's been a bit ... preoccupied with the investigation.' 'That's one way of putting it.' He went back to staring at the scenery. 'If you don't mind me asking ...' Logan coughed. 'You look a bit ... er ...' Try again. 'I called when we IDed Kowalczyk on the abattoir's CCTV, but they said you had a couple of personal days...?' 'You know,' said Faulds, watching the sun-flecked fields go by,'I heard about your solution to the Leith case. Very impressive.' 'It was a team effort.' 'Of course it was. But every good team has to have a leader, otherwise it's just a mob. I was surprised to see DI Steel giving you so much of the credit.' Logan shrugged. 'She's not as bad as everyone says.' Which wasn't strictly true, but Faulds didn't need to know that. The Chief Constable's phone went off just past Fyvie and he disappeared into a convoluted conversation about staffing levels and Home Office statistics. All very boring stuff. So Logan gave up on eavesdropping and let his mind wander instead: what was he going to have for his tea? Would he ever see Jackie naked again? Could he fake diarrhoea to get out of going to his brother's wedding? Whatever happened to Catherine Davidson? According to the background reports she worked as a dinner lady at her son's school. She liked horses - went riding in Hazlehead Park whenever she could - wanted to go to Spain for her holidays, talked about running a bed and breakfast ... And no one had seen or heard from her since the night Ian and Sharon McLaughlin died. If you wanted to get rid of a lot of suspect meat there were worse places than a school canteen. Who'd ever know? ' ... himself with a pineapple. Some people, eh?' Logan glanced across at his passenger. 'Sorry, sir?' 'Never mind, I probably shouldn't be complaining about my officers anyway.' Faulds stuck his phone back in its holster as Logan drove them through Turriff. 'I'd forgotten how much I missed this: out on a case instead of stuck behind a desk, or shaking some slimy politician's hand. Must've driven half my team mad when I got back from Aberdeen last time. Poking my nose in ...' He watched the market town with its collage of red sandstone and grey granite buildings go by. 'You know,' he said, touching the glass,'I grew up in a little place like this ...' Logan turned the pool car into the road with Alaba Farm Fresh Meats at the end of it. Faulds peered through the windscreen at the large plastic sign with its grinning butcher pig. 'This it?' The massed armies of the national press had gone, but a couple of die-hard journalists were parked by the high, chain-link gates, scrambling out of their cars as Logan pulled up at the barrier. 'Do you have any suspects?''Will Alaba Meats be torn down?''Do you think the Polish community is responsible for the killings?''How would you react to claims that this is just an attempt to pin the blame on ethnic migrants?''How many bodies have you identified from the remains?' Logan kept his mouth shut and let Faulds do the talking as they waited for the security guard to open the gate, then drove round to the little office block bolted onto the side of the abattoir. 'Hmm ...' said Faulds, stepping out into the sunny afternoon,'the smell's ... interesting. Sort of a greasy bleach ...'
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