'Cause of death was asphyxiation,' she said, drawing a red circle about the head of the body she'd drawn on the board, 'partly due to the plastic bag secured over the victim's head and partially due to pneumothorax: the right lung punctured by the ends of the fourth and fifth ribs. Her ribcage filled with air and collapsed the lung. Cyanosis would have been rapid and fatal.' Then Steel asked the question they were all dying to know: was this the same MO as the one used on Rosie Williams? Had the same man killed them both? Isobel's smile was condescending. 'Well, Inspector, I'm sure you're aware that there is a great deal of supposition involved in-'

But Steel wasn't having any of it. 'Just yes or no.'

Isobel stiffened. 'Possibly. That's all I can say at this point.'

The inspector wasn't impressed. 'Possibly?'

'Well obviously the first victim didn't have a bag over her head… I'd have to go over the post mortem notes-'

DI Steel waved a hand in Isobel's general direction, cutting her off. Then I suggest you go do that, right now. We need to know if we're looking for one deranged maniac or two.'

When Isobel didn't move she added, 'Unless you've got something more important to do, that is?'

Bristling, Isobel placed her china cup down on the nearest table, nodded at the Chief Constable, grabbed Brian, and swept from the room, promising to have a report on the inspector's desk within the hour. There was a moment's silence, everyone looking from DI Steel, to the doors closing in Isobel's wake, and back to the inspector again. Steel smiled grimly. 'I'm not taking any chances with this,' she told the assembled great and good. 'There are lives at stake.'

And then the questions started: Inspector, what do you plan to do? What will we tell the press? How many men do you need? DI Steel kept a straight face, but Logan could see she was doing a victory lap inside. She was back.

The press conference was held at five thirty, set up in a rush so there would be time to get it on the Six O' Clock News.

The Chief Constable, his deputy, DI Steel and an attractive blonde woman from the press office faced the media from behind a row of flat-pack tables draped with the Grampian Police logo. Steel had somehow managed to tame her feral hair; that and the newish suit made her look like a competent and determined police officer, rather than her usual cross between a tramp and a startled Cairn Terrier. Logan stood at the back of the conference room, behind the sea of cameras and journalists, as the Chief Constable told the world they'd found the body of a woman in the Tyrebagger Woods… Isobel had been true to her word – her report was on DI Steel's desk in under an hour. There were only small differences between the two killings, this was probably the work of the same man.

As soon as the CC's statement was finished every hand in the place shot up: 'Is this the work of a serial killer?' 'Have you any suspects?' 'What about the man already in custody?'

'Have you identified the victim yet?' 'Why have you put DI Steel in charge of the investigation?'

The Chief Constable leaned forward and told the assembled crowd, 'Inspector Steel has my complete confidence.'

'Sarah Thornburn, Sky News. After the inspector's performance on the Gerald Cleaver trial, is that wise?'

Logan could see DI Steel bristling, but she managed to keep her mouth shut as the CC once more told everyone what a solid, dependable and experienced officer she was and how she had his complete confidence. Absolute and complete confidence. Logan grimaced: that was what Prime Ministers always said when someone high up in the government was caught with their hand in the till, or someone else's knickers. Right before they were, regrettably, let go.

There were more questions, but Logan wasn't really listening.

Instead he let his eyes drift over the assembled journalists and pundits, looking for a wee Glaswegian in an expensive suit… Colin Miller was sitting between a chisel-jawed woman from BBC News and a saggy man from the Daily Record, scribbling away furiously into a palmtop computer, not bothering to stick his hand up and ask questions. As soon as the CC stood, indicating that the press conference was at an end, Miller was out of there.

Logan caught up to him in the car park. 'What,' he asked, 'you not speaking to me any more?'

'Hmm?' Miller looked up, saw Logan and started walking again. 'Got things taste do…' He fumbled in his trouser pocket and pulled out his car keys.

Logan frowned. 'You all right?'

Miller marched straight up to his fancy-looking dark grey Mercedes. 'Don't have time for this…'

Logan grabbed his shoulder. 'What's got into you?'

The? What's got into me? Well, let's have a fuckin' think about that one shall we? Every fuckin' thing! OK? I've had enough!' He wrenched the car door open and threw himself in behind the wheel. 'Every fuckin' bastard in the whole fuckin'…' The engine growled into life and he slammed the door, twisted the wheel and put his foot down. Logan stood in the car park, watching as the car screeched to a halt at the junction before roaring off into the traffic, disappearing in the mist. 'Something I said?'

Tuesday morning started at quarter past seven with the flat's phone blaring out its electronic warble – on and on and on … Logan peeled open an eye, grumbled and curled back up under the duvet. The answering machine could take care of it. Today he was supposed to be starting on the back shift.

Three days of working from two in the afternoon through till midnight. Technically he should have started yesterday, but after putting in a full day with the search team, DI Steel had given him time off for good behaviour. So today he was going to stay in bed until Jackie came home, share a bit of breakfast and invite her back to bed for some under-the duvet fun. He smiled and wriggled deeper beneath the covers as the answering machine in the lounge dealt with the call.

Maybe he and Jackie could – an explosion of electronic bleeps, whistles and buzzing as Logan's mobile went mad.

'Oh for God's sake!' He poked a hand out of the tiny cave he'd made with the duvet, fumbled about blindly on the bedside cabinet, grabbed the phone and dragged it into the warmth with him. 'What?'

'Where the hell are you?'

Logan groaned: it was DI Steel. 'Do you know what time it is?'

'Yes. Where the hell are you?'

'In bed! I'm-'

'In bed?' The inspector put on a sleazy voice. 'What you wearing?'

'A frown. I'm on the back shift today, you said-'

'Stop buggering about. We've got a serial killer out there knocking off tarts – get your backside in gear!'

Logan closed his eyes and counted to ten while the inspector banged on about a sense of duty and how shift patterns were for the weak. 'OK, OK!' he said at last. 'I'm coming in. Give me half an hour.' He hung up, swore, sprawled out on the bed limbs akimbo, scowled at the blind, swore some more, got up, stubbed his toe on one of Jackie's boots, swore, and limped his way off into the bathroom for a shower.

When he finally made it into Force HQ DI Steel's briefing was in full swing. There were a lot more people here than usual – the Screw-Up Squad had been supplemented with some real police officers for a change. Unlike the normal rambling shambles, everyone was in ordered rows, uniform and CID sitting to attention as the inspector took them through the events of the last twenty-four hours. The handbag discovered at the scene was covered with fingerprints, but they all belonged to the newly identified victim:

Michelle Wood. That was the woman whose face had been peeled off yesterday, so Isobel could get a good look at the damage to the underlying musculature and bones. Logan shuddered at the memory. What with that and the arson victims last week he was spoilt for choice when it came to nightmares.