Logan wasn't surprised Miller had been bricking it in the pub the other morning. 'What about the other one, his driver?'

Miller shook his head. 'No idea. Soon as I saw Chib's resume I stopped askin' questions. Someone slaps my knob in a blender, I'm no' playin' with the buttons.'

'Does Isobel know?'

The reporter blushed. 'I… er… You're no' to tell her, OK? I don't want her upset. No' now.'

'If this Chib bloke's threatening both of you, she's got a right to know!'

'You don't fuckin' tell her! Promise me! I'll sort it out.'

'How? How the hell can you sort this out? If Chib's here to carve up Aberdeen for Malk the Knife, he's not leaving any time soon!'

A crafty light glimmered in Miller's eye. 'Unless something happens to him…'

'Don't even start. What you going to do? Hit him over the head and bury the body in your back garden?'

Miller grinned. 'I've got a mate with a pig farm up by Fyvie. They'd love a bite of prime Edinburgh bampot…' He thought about it for a minute then shrugged. 'Give us a day.

I'll get you an address. But for Christ's sake don't let him find out where you got it, OK?'

'OK.' They walked back to the P amp;J offices, Miller promising to phone as soon as he found out anything. And while they were on the subject, Logan asked for a little favour. 'I want you to lay off DI Steel.'

'Bollocks to that. I'm no' taking shite like that from a manky wee bitch-'

'If you screw her over in the paper, Professional Standards will Jiave my arse. I don't know why, but they've got a thing for her. She goes down, I do too. And if I go down, I can't help you.'

Miller swore. 'OK, OK: hands off the saggy-faced old cow.

I get it. I don't shaft her and you don't tell Isobel about these Edinburgh bastards. Deal?' They shook on it, then the reporter shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking as if he was gearing himself up for something. 'Er… Laz, you know I'm stuck doin' this shitey bake-sale crap? Well, any chance of… you know… You got anything I can use?

Somethin' about them dead prostitutes, like? Or anything else? I'm fuckin' dyin' here!'

Logan was about to say he'd see what he could do when his phone rang. It was Steel; telling him to get over to the hospital. Jamie McKinnon had just failed his rectal exam.

Aberdeen Royal Infirmary wasn't far, just over the lights at Anderson Drive and down the hill a bit, so Logan made his excuses and walked. By the time he got there the thin band of cloud had grown until it covered half the sky, battleship grey and ominous purple. He ducked into the hospital's lobby as the first tentative specks of rain stuttered against the automatic doors.

The ARI front lobby was an open-plan space with pictures and comfortable seating that always made his skin crawl. He hurried across the infirmary's coat of arms and made his way to Jamie McKinnon's ward. Only Jamie wasn't there any more. A knackered nurse in a bloodstained uniform told Logan he'd been moved to a private room on the third floor.

It didn't take him long to find it.

DI Steel was already there, along with a tall bloke from the Drugs Squad. Logan was introduced and got as far as shaking the man's hand before remembering where it had just been. It was a huge hand, engulfing Logan's own, and he had a sudden pang of sympathy for Jamie McKinnon who was now lying curled up on the bed like a spanked child, face to the wall. That must have hurt! Councillor Marshall would have been delighted.

'Go on said Steel to her large friend. 'Show him what you found.'

The man gave a cold smile and held up a stainless steel kidney dish with two slimy, lumpy packages in it, each one no more than four inches long, looking like a pair of small mealie puddings. 'Rough guess, I'd say you're looking at about a quarter-kilo of crack,' he said. 'No way this much cocaine is for personal use: this is for dealing. Don't see that much of it up here. Your boy must be looking to start a trend.'

Steel sank down on the bed, next to Jamie's foetal form, patting him on the thigh. 'So, Jamie, you want to tell us all about your mates from down south now, or shall I just go ahead and add "possession with intent to supply" to your list of charges?' But Jamie had had enough of the long arm of the law for one day. He kept his face to the wall, curled up in a ball, silent.

Half past four. Ailsa Cruickshank picked up the phone and called Gavin's office. It was Norman who answered, far too young to be an account manager and a terrible flirt. Blushing, Ailsa asked him if she could talk to her husband. There was a moment's silence on the other end of the phone, as if Norman was thinking about something. And then, 'Ailsa, what does a fine, hot babe like you want to be speaking to an old fart like that for?'

'I need him to pick up some things for tea,' she said, embarrassed and thrilled to be called a 'hot babe'.

'Hold on a minute, OK sexy?' There was muffled conversation at the other end. 'Sorry, Ailsa, my kitten, I'm afraid the old stinker's out with a customer. Probably won't be back till late.

Sorry, love, you know how it goes here: customer comes first and all thqf. But if you're lonely, I could always come over and keep you warm?' Smiling, she told him it was OK and hung up.

Norman was simply dreadful! Full of compliments and naughty suggestions, just like Gavin had been, before all the tests had taken the spark out of things. Four years of trying for children. Four years of medical evaluations and ovulation cycles… Anyway, it didn't matter. Things would be back to normal soon. Life had a way of working things out.

It always did.

With a brave smile she picked the keys to their new car off the table. She'd just have to go to the supermarket herself.

Gavin always liked steak for his birthday tea, maybe she'd make it tonight as well. Just for a treat.

Next door the music started booming.

The stakeout operation started again at ten on the dot: same team, same cars, same positions. Thick raindrops had given way to a fine drizzle before petering out, leaving the alleyway rife with puddles and slick cobblestones.

High above, the clouds were low and dark, reflecting back the orange-yellow glow of the streetlights. Down in Shore Lane that was pretty much the only illumination there was.

Three of the remaining lights had died, leaving only one sulphurous lamp for WPC Menzies to strut her stuff beneath.

Logan had parked the pool car in the same place as before and while the inspector called round all the positions on her radio – making sure everyone was in place – he reclined his seat and shut his eyes, determined that tonight was going to be his turn to catch up on sleep. Since leaving the hospital he'd requested Brendan 'Chib' Sutherland's record from Lothian and Borders Police, chased up the lookout call on Agnes Walker – still no sign of her yet – and filled in the paperwork to get Jamie McKinnon charged for the drugs he was packing. As soon as McKinnon got out of hospital he was going to go straight to court and then back to Craiginches. Logan couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy: it wasn't as if he'd had much say in the matter when Chib decided to ram a quarter-kilo of crack cocaine inside him.

Logan wriggled in the driver's seat, trying to get comfortable without standing on the pedals or banging his knees on the steering wheel. It was the same car from yesterday – no one had even bothered to chuck the chip papers in the bin. They were still lying on the back seat, along with all the items seized from Councillor Marshall's car. Logan had half expected them to get signed into evidence, but for that to happen some sort of charge would have to be pressed, and the inspector flat-out refused to do it. Christ alone knew what sort of dodgy deal she'd done with Marshall to keep the man out of court and out of the papers.