Faulds left an expectant pause ... and when Logan didn't fill it, he said,'You're not exactly biting my hand off here.' 'Actually, sir, I was wondering what it'd be like: leaving everything behind. Starting again from scratch. Not knowing anybody.' 'Your family's here, aren't they? You're worried about missing them.' 'Dear God no.' Smile. 'Trust me, that's a bonus. My mum's a nightmare.' 'Yeah, my foster parents were the same. So, if it's not your family...?' A new life in Birmingham: he could leave all the guilt and bad memories behind. A clean slate. 'Look,' said Faulds,'sleep on it. I'm only going to be up here for another couple of days, but if you let me know tomorrow I can get the paperwork started. Four weeks' time you could be Detective Inspector McRae of West Midlands Police.' Logan had to admit he liked the sound of that.
Newmacher had started out as a tiny village, but as with most places within commuting distance of Aberdeen it had contracted a nasty dose of developer's spread: housing estates breaking out like acne as more and more people squeezed into cheek-by-jowl brick-clad boxes. Elizabeth Nichol had a 1970s bungalow in a little grey culde-sac. An unmarked car sat outside the house - the back seat cluttered with yellowing newspapers and empty wax-paper cups from Starbucks. Logan parked behind it. 'Rule one,' said Faulds, climbing out into the sunshine,' if you're going to be on my team I need you to be goal- orientated ... Don't look at me like that: I know it sounds wanky, but there's a reason. We don't just bumble about hoping some wonderful clue will fall into our lap; we go in with pre-defined goals.' He pointed at Logan. 'What are we trying to achieve here?' 'See if Nichol can remember anything more about that night. Go over the physical description again.' Logan stopped to think for a moment. 'Find out if there's a connection between the Youngs and the Flesher. Maybe there's more to it than just the newspaper cuttings: he might have made contact.' 'Good. Now lets go see if some wonderful clue will fall into our lap.'
Elizabeth Nichol's house was a cathedral of kitsch. Pride of place went to her massive collection of snow globes from all over Europe: Poland, Moldova, Croatia, Lithuania, Slovakia, Croatia, and a lot of other places ending in 'ia' that Logan couldn't pronounce. They filled a bank of floor-to-ceiling shelves that dominated the lounge. Elizabeth herself was a small, nervous-looking woman who fidgeted constantly with her blouse: tugging at the collar, brushing off imaginary lint, picking at the buttons.
PC Munro sat in a floral armchair by the window, leaning forward every now and then to pat her on the arm and tell her it was all right, she was safe now. Elizabeth made them a pot of tea, sat back down on the couch, fidgeted a bit more, stood, picked up a snow globe, looked out the window,'Would ... would anyone like something to eat? It's no trouble, really, I was going to have something myself. Just leftovers really ...' She put the snow globe back with the others. 'Sorry ... it's stupid ...' The tears were starting. PC Munro got up and put an arm around her shoulder. 'It's OK.' 'I just wanted to feel useful.' She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes. 'I'm such an
