Logan took one last look at The Birth of Man and followed.

The rest of the day was spent getting authorization for a low key surveillance on Jamie McKinnon, and as usual Logan did all the work. The inspector smoked lots of cigarettes and offered 'helpful suggestions', but it was Logan who had to fight his way through the forest of paperwork. The only bit she' l actually done herself was present the request to the head of CID, who wasn't best pleased. His men were stretched thin enough as it was. The best he could do was get a plainclothes officer to drop by during visiting hours. Provided nothing more important was going on at the time.

That done, DI Steel went off in search of a bottle of wine and a half-dozen red roses. It looked like she was in for a much better night than Logan was.

Half eight Sunday evening: Jackie would be up and getting ready for the night shift. The sound of someone murdering the theme tune to The Flintstones echoed out of the shower as he let himself in. The singing trailed off into 'da-da, dum de da-da…', the shower juddered to a halt and The Flintstones started up again, this time the X-rated version Jackie liked to perform at parties after one too many vodkas.

Logan set the table, complete with tablecloth and candles.

Then it was out with the funny-shaped balti dishes his mother had given him for Christmas the year he got out of hospital, and a bottle of white from the fridge. He was just plonking a small bunch of carnations in a dusty vase when someone said, 'What's all this in aid of?' He turned to see Jackie standing in the doorway, wrapped in a Barbiepink bathrobe, her hair turbaned up in a towel, her broken arm wrapped in a black plastic bag to stop the cast getting soggy.

'This,' he said making a sweeping gesture to take in the table, 'is a peace offering.' He dug into a plastic bag from the local curry house. 'Chicken jalfrezi, chicken korma, nan bread, poppadums, lime pickle, raita and that red, raw oniony stuff you like.'

She actually smiled at him. 'Thought you weren't speaking to me… You know, after Friday…' Pause. 'You were out all day yesterday.'

'Thought you'd want to be alone. You spent the night on the couch 'I… I was out on the piss till one in the morning. Didn't want to wake you.'

'Oh…'

Silence.

Jackie bit her lip and took a deep breath. 'Look, I'm sorry for storming off, OK? It wasn't you, it was me… Well, it wasn't all me, I mean you should've never let that manipulative old bitch talk you into working on your day off, but I suppose it wasn't all your fault.' She unpeeled the sticky tape wrapped around the bin-bag, pulling it off to expose the cast on her left forearm. The once pristine-white plaster was now a dirty yellow-grey. 'Ever since I did it, I've been bored out of my head. Filing! Can you believe it? I'm a bloody good police officer, but I'm stuck doing the crappy, shitty, boring, fucking filing.' She picked a fork off the perfectly set table and used it to scratch inside the cast.

'Going out of my bloody mind…' Grimace, scratchscratchscratch.

Logan picked a fresh fork out of the drawer. 'I was beginning to think you were fed up with me,' he said.

She stopped scratching for a moment and looked at him.

'Trust me: right now I'm fed up with pretty much everything.

But this sodding thing comes off in a couple of weeks, I get to go back to normal duties, everything's fine.'

Logan hoped so. Christ knew he didn't want a repeat of this weekend. Not wanting to spoil the mood he kept his thoughts to himself and dished out the curry.

There wasn't time for a quickie afterwards.

The Monday morning edition of the Press and Journal was waiting on Logan's doormat when he finally surfaced sometime after nine. He carried the paper through to the kitchen so he could cover it in toast-crumbs and coffee-circles, getting as far as bite one before glancing at the front page. 'Dirty bastard…' The headline explained Colin Miller's private little meeting in the pub on Friday. Edinburgh Developer Delivers Jobs Windfall! Much of the front page was devoted to Miller's gushing praise of the new development: three hundred homes on green belt between Aberdeen and Kingswells. 'McLennan Homes are proud to announce a new development on the outskirts of the small commuter town, bringing jobs and improved amenities to the people of Kingswells!' Logan snorted: they'd heard that one before. Miller went on to wax rhapsodic about the great things McLennan Homes in general – and its founder in particular – had done in Edinburgh, where the developer had been building 'quality family homes for over a decade!' Surprisingly enough there was no mention of Malcolm McLennan, AKA Malk the Knife's other business ventures: drugs, prostitution, protection rackets, loan sharking, gun running, and every other variety of criminal enterprise he could get his grubby little paws on.

Logan settled back in his seat and read the article again. No wonder Colin Miller had been so jumpy when he'd seen him in the pub. The reporter had been thrown off the Scottish Sun for refusing to complete a series of exposes on Malk the Knife's drug smuggling activities, because two of Malkie's boys had made it quite clear that if he didn't drop the story like the proverbial radioactive tattie, they'd hack off his fingers. And just last Christmas, Malk the Knife had tried, and failed, to bribe his way through the planning regulations and into a lucrative property development deal. Looked like his luck was better second time around.

But the main story of the day wasn't in the Press and Journal. It'd be all over the evening news.

Sounds were muffled. The mist, thicker here in the forest than out on the road, clung to the trees and bracken, making everything alien and strange. The rain had given up the ghost sometime after midnight, fading to a misty drizzle. Then came the haar, rolling in off the North Sea, smothering the world. The ground beneath her feet was cold and wet as she squelched along the path, the vague outlines of Scots pine, oak, beech and spruce lurking to either side. Dripping.

The Tyrebagger Woods were a damn sight creepier today than they'd been yesterday. Anyone could be lurking in the bushes, just around the next bend. Waiting for her… Just as well she had Benji to protect her – or would have if the rotten little sod hadn't charged off into the fog at the first opportunity.

'Benji!… Bennnnnji?' Something snapped in the forest and she froze. A twig? 'Benji?' Silence. She did a slow pirouette, watching the white-and-grey landscape swim around her. It was deathly quiet. Just like it went in films before something really horrible happened to the blonde bimbo with the big boobs. She smiled at herself. Not that she had any worries on that front, being a flat-chested brunette with a Master's Degree in molecular biology. She was just a bit twitchy because of the job interview. 'Benji! Where are you, you hairy wee shite?' The fog swallowed her calls, not even giving her an echo in return. And yet she was sure there was something…

She shook her head and carried on up the track, going the wrong way round the Tyrebagger sculpture trail. A huge disembodied stag's head loomed out of the mist, hanging between the trees like a cross between the more sinister bits of Watership Down, Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, and the dismembered corpse of a bright-yellow Ford Escort.

Whenever she saw the thing she couldn't help smiling.

But not this time. This time there was something primitive about it. Something pagan. Something predatory. Shivering, she hurried past, calling out for Benji again. Why the hell did he have to pick today to go AWOL? It wasn't as if she could spend all morning looking for him! Her interview was at half eleven. This was just supposed to be a little walk in the woods to calm her nerves. Not tramp about like a bastard in the fog looking for a stupid bloody spaniel. 'BENJI!'