Of course it sodding was.
Scenes better get here quick then, or he’d have to compromise the crime scene to secure the body. And the Procurator Fiscal wouldlovethat. Not to mention their horror-show Pathologist. But they’d love it even less if he let the remains float away.
Maybe—
‘Hoy.’A gravelly voice, right behind him.
‘Jesus!’ Logan skittered sideways. Turned. ‘Don’tdothat! Sneaking up on people...’
‘I called in Scenes, by the way.’ Steel glowered up at him. ‘And the PF,andDr Death, even though it’s no’ my spudging job.’
‘How can you creep about on this stuff?’ Just moving his feet set pebbles rattling. ‘Like a horrible terrier-haired ninja.’
The scowl deepened.
Not far up the pebble beach, Tufty was turning slowly in place, with his phone out. Probably taking panoramic crime-scene photos that had better not end up on Twitter. Then the phone rang in his hands, making him jump and drop it with a high-pitched ‘Eeep!’ Scrambling to catch the thing before it shattered on the stones. He stuck a finger in his ear, and answered it, waving at WhatsHerFace and Thingumy as he passed.
The seagulls circled high above, like albino vultures.
The river flowed.
The sun shone.
And Steel just stood there, regarding Logan with a look cold enough to reverse global warming in a single glance.
Sigh. ‘If this is about Doreen and Biohazard being acting DIs, don’t.’
She stuck her nose in the air. ‘Oh aye: likeIcare.’
One of the gulls broke away from its mate, swooping down at the remains, hoping for another tasty gobbet.
Steel snatched a golf-ball-sized lump of rock from the beach and hurled it – the stone wheeching off on a perfect intercept course.
Almost got it too, but the feathery velociraptor jinked clear a heartbeat before the pebble hit. Flapping away from the gory buffet in an explosion ofscrawking andkee-ow~kee-ow~kee-ow...
‘Nah.’ Steel brushed grit off her hands. ‘All the extra responsibility and work for none of the extra pay?’ Turning and slouching away. ‘Kiss my sharny arse.’
Because no one sulked like Detective Sergeant Roberta Steel.
As if they didn’t have more than enough to worry about.
Like the unidentified body with its head bashed in. And ifthatwas an accidental death, Logan’s bum was made of cheese.
This was murder.
He dug out his Airwave handset and pressed the button. ‘DCI McRae to Control: better tell the Chief Super we’ve got another problem...’
A lot had changed in the last two-and-a-bit hours. The patrol cars had been joined by Scenes’ grubby Transit van, a mud-spattered black Range Rover, and two unmarked Vauxhalls that looked as if a strong sneeze would make bits fall off.
With the road closed from the roundabout to the railway bridge, they weren’t restricted to the lay-by, so they’d spread out along the front of Duthie Park. Where the gates were locked and secured with a line of blue-and-white ‘POLICE’ tape.
And because the road was shut, the usual collection of Outside Broadcast Units were nowhere to be seen. So were all the press vehicles. Which made a nice change.
It also meant that the media scrum was trapped behind the park’s fancy iron railings. Penned in like nosy zoo animals, poking their cameras over the bars.
A small crowd of lookie-loos had joined in – after all, it was a lovely day, so why go picnic in the park with your loved ones, when you could gawp at a bit of human tragedy?
Logan shifted his phone from one side to the other, ducking behind Scenes’ Transit, out of the cameras’ glare. ‘Biohazard? You still there?’
