'That's it - this interview is over. I'll be making a formal complaint about your behaviour, Sergeant. How dare you--' 'Yeah? Well when he's stabbed you twenty-three times, you can lecture me on my bloody empathy skills.' But she'd already hung up. Logan stuck the phone back in his pocket - already starting to feel guilty about acting like an arsehole - and pushed through into the IB lab. They'd obviously not managed to fix the little stereo on top of the freezer, because Radio Two was still playing. Three IB technicians in white lab coats and latex gloves slouched around the central desk, drinking cups of tea and moaning about having to still be there in the middle of the night, testing mounds of mystery meat. Logan dumped the evidence bag full of carpet on the desktop and asked if someone could do him a quick favour. Samantha - the Identification Bureau's one and only Goth - brushed a long, dark curl from her pale face, and asked if he was taking the piss. 'We've got about nine million hunks of meat to get through.' 'It's for Insch.' She prodded the bag with a chewed biro. 'What is it?' 'Blood-soaked carpet from nineteen ninety--' 'Oh Jesus. You not think we've got more urgent stuff to test?' 'It's from Wiseman's car: animal and human. They couldn't separate the DNA strands back then.' Samantha picked up the bag and peered at the rust-brown contents. 'This stuff's nearly twenty years old.' 'Yes, but you're twenty years brighter than they were.' 'You really think shameless flattery's going to work?' 'Twenty years prettier too ... in a scary Night of the Living Dead kind of way.' She tried to scowl, but a smile broke through. 'You're a rotten sod ...' 'Come on, bump it to the top of the queue. It's important.'' I can't--' 'Very important.' Sigh. 'OK, OK. I'll see what I can do.
Phone. Ringing. 'Phhhhh ...' Logan tried to sit up in bed, but none of his limbs were working. The answering machine must have kicked in, because there was silence and then a bleeeeeeeeep. Roll over. Pull duvet into cocoon. Sleep. The phone started up again. Logan squinted at the alarm clock: twenty-one minutes past four. He slumped back into the pillows and scrubbed his face with his hands, listening to the phone warble. 'Urrrrgh ...'
