The drive back to FHQ took nearly an hour and a half as rushhour got its claws into Aberdeen. He could have put on the pool car's siren, but Logan wasn't exactly looking forward to getting there. At least the nose-to-tail traffic put off the inevitable ... He pushed through into the noisy incident room and everything went silent. Then the Detective Chief Superintendent started a round of applause, uniform and CID standing to join in. The DCS clapped him on the shoulder and told the room how he was a credit to the force. How they'd never have caught Wiseman if it wasn't for Logan. How everyone was proud of him. But Logan didn't feel very proud. Not when all he could think about was that little girl lying on the tarmac, face white, lips blue. The high-pitched whine of the defibrillator as the paramedics tried to restart her heart. The look on her mother's face when he told her. Insch in tears. No, he didn't feel very proud at all.
Midnight. Two steps to the right ... lurch to the left ... bang into the thing in the hall, stuff clattering to the floor ... Logan fumbled for the light switch, missed, tried again, and finally light blossomed in the little hallway. 'Honey, I'm home.' It took three goes to get the key out of the lock. Jacket up on the hook by the door. And stumble through to the kitchen ... 'Oh ... bollocks.' The place was a mess: flour and eggs all over the work surface and the floor. The bedroom was just as bad - drawers lying open, the contents spewed out over every available inch. The lounge was like a bombsite. CDs and cushions and junk mail strewn all over the carpet. Suddenly Logan felt a lot more sober. But the TV and DVD player were still there, and so was his laptop. What sort of burglar, broke in and didn't steal anything? The only things missing were Jackie's clothes and possessions: the industrial grey underwear; the stuffed and porcelain pigs; the hairdryer; the extensive collection of shampoos, conditioners, moisturisers, and other assorted unguents ... She'd come past, picked up her stuff and trashed the place. This was going to take forever to clean up. Back in the bedroom Logan picked up one edge of the duvet and peered underneath, hoping Jackie wasn't as vindictive as Alec's ex. At least the bed was a jobbie-free zone. He sat on the mattress, looking at the devastation. Just to be on the safe side, he wasn't going to brush his teeth tonight: Jackie might not lower herself to crapping on the fitted sheet, but he wouldn't put cleaning the loo with his toothbrush past her. 'What a brilliant, fucking day.'
25
Interview Room Number Two was stiflingly hot. It stank of stale sweat, stale cigarette smoke, farts, and too much aftershave. None of which were doing Logan's hangover any favours. Plus, he was pretty certain DC Simon Rennie was responsible for the most offensive of the smells, but the constable denied everything. Rennie shifted from one foot to the other, and Logan braced himself for the eggy onslaught. 'Will you stop bloody doing that!' Rennie manufactured an innocent expression. 'I didn't do anything. Probably Laughing Boy here.' He pointed at the prisoner. 'Fuck you.' Ken Wiseman's voice was like razorblades and gravel. His face wasn't much better: covered in little sticking plasters, scratches and scabs; bruises spreading across his pale skin; nose squint; right arm in a fibreglass cast. Which had made getting the handcuffs on interesting. 'Ooh, hark at Oscar Wilde.' Rennie stuck two fingers up behind Wiseman's back. 'Shut up,
