It wasn't far, less than fifteen minutes from the centre of town the way the inspector drove.

Logan sat in the passenger seat of Steel's little sports car, trying to stay calm as they hurtled through the rolling fog.

'So tell me again how this is good news 'Two dead prostitutes, both stripped naked and battered to death. This isn't just a murder enquiry any more: we've got ourselves a bona ride serial killer!'

Logan risked a peek: a huge grin split the inspector's face, a half-inch of cigarette butt making the car's interior almost as foggy as the world outside. She winked at him. 'Think about it, Laz: this is our ticket out of the Fuck-Up Factory! We've already got Jamie McKinnon in custody, all we need to do is tie him to both bodies and we're laughing. No more crappy cases no one else wants, no more getting lumbered with every halfwit and reject in the force. You and me: back doing real police work!' They almost missed the turning in the fog, a twisting ribbon of tarmac that snaked away into the shrouded forest. Steel followed it until the slow-motion blue strobe of a patrol car's lights marked the entrance to the car park. She pulled up between the filthy hulk of the Identification Bureau's Transit and a flashy Mercedes. That would be Isobel's. Logan groaned. Just what he needed. All around them the forest was dense and silent, wrapped in a thick blanket of white. There wasn't a breath of wind as DI Steel popped the boot, swapping her surprisingly clean shoes for a tatty old pair of Wellingtons. And then they headed up the path.

'What do we know about the victim?' asked Logan as the inspector wheezed up the hill beside him.

'Bugger all.' She stopped and lit the last fag in her packet from the smouldering remains of the one in her mouth, before flicking the tiny butt off into the mist. 'Dispatch said,

"naked and beaten"; I said, "mine!"'

'Then how do you know she was a prostitute?'

'Handbag full of condoms. No ID, but loads and loads of condoms. Could have been an erotic balloon modeller I suppose, but my money's on tart.'

'What if it's not?'

'What if it's not what?'

'A serial killer. What if this wasn't McKinnon? What if it's a copycat?'

DI Steel shrugged. 'We'll burn that bridge when we come to it.'

The crime scene wasn't hard to find, even in the smothering fc g. The clack-flash-whine of the IB photographer's camera lit up the area like sheathed lightning. An enthusiastic cordon of blue Police tape was wound between the trees and they ducked under it, making for the noise and lights. Suddenly, out of the mist, loomed the shapes of decaying animal carcasses. Off to one side, the Identification Bureau had abandoned the traditional SOC tent – it was too big to fit between the trees, so they'd rigged up a bivouac by draping the blue plastic sheeting over the branches and a web of Police tape.

Logan and Steel struggled into a set of white paper coveralls, complete with booties. The IB had erected a walkway of tea-tray-sized rectangles with short metal legs, which wound its way across the clearing towards a cluster of people, preventing the attending personnel from treading all over the crime scene. Steel and Logan clanged their way along it, three inches off the ground, making for the body. An IB photographer hovered on the periphery, camera flashing away as the Chief Pathologist peered and prodded at the remains of a young woman. The victim was lying on her side, one arm stretched up over her head, her legs like open scissors on the damp, black forest floor. As Logan watched, one of the Identification Bureau technicians asked Isobel if it was OK for him to bag the hands. She nodded and he wrapped clear evidence pouches over the bloodstained fingers, just in case there was any trace evidence under the victim's nails. Logan was surprised to see they'd done the same thing to her head… and then he realized it was a large, blue freezer bag. That would be an original crime scene feature. Her whole body was covered with weals and bashes, but the skin was like porcelain, a thick line of dark purple marking low tide along the length of her body where the blood had pooled after death.

Isobel sat back on her haunches, snapped off her latex gloves and handed them to the first person she clapped eyes on. Her face had a haggard look, as if she wasn't sleeping, the dark circles under her eyes still visible through her make-up. She stayed there for a moment, staring at the plastic bag over the victim's head. 'Get her down to the morgue she said at last.

While one of the IB techs pulled out a phone and dialled a local firm of funeral directors to pick up the body, Isobel wearily stuffed things back into her medical bag.

'What's the story?' asked Logan, and she jumped.

'Oh… it's you.' She didn't exactly sound pleased. 'If you're looking for wild speculation you're out of luck. Until I get the bag off the victim's head I can't tell if she was beaten to death like the other one, or suffocated.'

'How about time of death?'

Isobel looked around at the still, silent forest. 'Difficult to say.

Rigor mortis has come and gone… cold, wet weather… I'd say you're looking at about three days. What with all the rain we've had there's not going to be a lot of trace evidence.' She pointed at the stain of dark purple blood that ran in a straight line down the victim's body – from the tips of her outstretched fingers to her foot – congealed haemoglobin, trapped in the two inches of flesh closest to the forest floor. 'Looking at the lividity, I'd say she was either killed here, or the killer dumped the body within the first couple of hours. We'll take some soil samples. See how much blood and other body fluids we get out of the ground.' She straightened up and stifled a yawn.

'Off the record, I'd say he took her out here, got her to strip off and then beat her to death.'

Logan looked down at the body sprawled across the carpet of pine needles. 'He would have stripped her after death.'

Isobel favoured him with one of her withering glances.

'Ever tried to undress a dead body?' she asked him. 'Much easier to get her to strip under the pretence of having sex.'

He didn't take his eyes off the dead girl. 'Three days ago puts this at Friday night. It was pissing down. No way she'd come all the way out here in the pouring rain and take off all her clothes for a quickie. That's shagging in doorways territory. Back of cars. Not the middle of the forest Isobel bristled. 'Well, I'm sure you know best, Sergeant.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare for the post mortem.' She swept out, gripping her medical case like she was about to cause it a permanent injury. And wishing it was Logan's scrotum. DI Steel waited until she'd disappeared from view before slapping Logan on the shoulder. 'You used to shag that?' she asked, admiringly. 'Christ, your poor wee dick must've got frostbite!'

Logan ignored her. The crime scene looked relatively clean, but you never knew your luck. He pulled out his mobile phone and told Control to send every open-search-area trained officer they had. And a police search advisor as well – to carve the forest up into grids and organize the teams.

After all, there was no point keeping a dog and barking yourself, as DI Steel liked to say. And while they were at it, a mobile incident room wouldn't go amiss either.

DI Steel watched him with approval on her wrinkly face.

'Right,' she said when he'd hung up. 'Get the troops mustered in the main car park. Fingertip search between there and where the body was discovered. And while we're at it, better get a six-hundred-yard cordon set up around the crime scene.

Every tree, every bush, every fucking rabbit burrow: I want it gone through with a fine-toothed comb. And I want to speak to the woman who found the body.'

He must have looked surprised, because the inspector threw a predatory smile in his direction. 'And remember,' she said, 'we are not at home to Mr Fuck-Up.'