'
55
The clock radio cast a green glow across the bedroom: 05:58 - seventeen minutes before the alarm was due to go off. Logan yawned, rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. A DI in Birmingham. Detective Inspector Logan McRae ... It had a nice ring to it, like something off the television. It wasn't as if he had anything keeping him here, not even-- An arm wrapped itself around his chest and Logan nearly screamed. There was someone on the other side of the bed, asleep, her dark curly hair rumpled across the pillow like an explosion in a mattress factory. And then it all came back: the trip to the pub; drinks; Jackie turning up with that Janis McKay woman from Glasgow; him refusing to chicken out and leave, still stinging from Jackie's 'running away' rant; more drinks; bumping into each other on the way to the toilets; the long, tipsy heart-to-heart ... There was a muffled snork, a huge yawn, and Jackie was staring blearily at him. And then she hid her face in her hands. 'Please tell me we didn't-- Oh, God, we did, didn't we.' He slipped out of bed and grabbed a towel off the back of the chair, wrapping it round himself before clicking on the light. 'Jackie, I--' 'Don't, OK? You don't get to say it this time, I do.' She sat up, hauling the duvet with her, making sure everything was covered. 'Last night was a one-off. Drunken break-up sex, nothing more. It doesn't mean anything.' Logan nodded. 'Now,' Jackie glanced around the bedroom, probably looking for her industrial underwear,'if you don't mind leaving the room, I'd like to get dressed.'
'Bloody hell ...' Logan stood in Elizabeth Nichol's lounge and surveyed the damage. It was as if someone had gone wild with a cricket bat - the walls discoloured with snow-globe water and little flakes of glitter, the floor
