The manager of the hotel was a little concerned about the effect a blue plastic scene-of-crime marquee was having on his guests. It was bad enough that the road had been blocked off since last night, but to have a bunch of people wandering around the hotel grounds like something off the television was just… Well, he wasn't quite sure what it was, but he did send a nice young man out with a huge thermos of tea, another of coffee and a platter of Danish pastries. Much to DI Insch's delight.

Things were looking up. The leaves hadn't just kept their arsonist dry while he played with himself, they'd also helped preserve any evidence he'd left at the scene. In addition to the footprint, they'd also discovered another disposable paper handkerchief, smelling of semen. And the Identification Bureau were swarming all over the inside of the rhododendron, looking for fibres, traces, fingerprints, anything.

Insch was happily finishing off a third pastry from the tray when a patrol car pulled up outside the burnt-out shell opposite and a familiar bald-headed clinical psychologist stepped out. Hands behind his back, he strolled around the house's garden, peering at things.

'Oh joy,' said Insch, brushing the crumbs from his chin.

'You want to deal with Professor Patronizing, or shall I?' In the end they both sloshed back over the road. They found Dr Bushel squatting over a large white plastic sheet with four open body-bags laid out on it. There were bits of person arranged in each. A scorched femur, a blackened clavicle, the body they'd discovered under the front door, a lump of burnt meat that had once been a child's torso… Logan's empty stomach gave a warning lurch. The doctor smiled up at them as they approached, the sunlight glinting off his little round glasses.

'Inspector, Sergeant, nice to see you again,' he said, pulling himself to his feet. 'Lucky I was here, don't you think? The Chief Constable has asked me to produce a profile of your arsonist. It will take a little while to write up, but I can certainly give you the gist of it now, if you're interested?'

Clearly a rhetorical question. 'The psychological pathology of the, offender is very clearly one of hatred. The preparation, screwing the door shut, pouring in the petrol, making sure no one can escape – always directed towards families. Did you notice?' Insch told him that the first group of victims weren't a family. Just a bunch of squatters living together. Dr Bushel smiled indulgently. 'Ah, yes, Inspector,' he said, 'but they were still a family unit: living together, bringing up a child. I think the offender has a deep-seated rage against his family and is acting upon that when he does these things.'

He nodded modestly to himself, as if someone had just congratulated him for his brilliant deduction. 'And look at the front door: screwed shut. It's a sublimated act of penetration.

He possibly has some form of erectile dysfunction – I haven't decided on that one yet – but the very choice of the screws is significant, don't you think? The connotation is very sexually charged. Hence the evidence of masturbation you found at the first scene.' He shrugged again. 'It wouldn't surprise me if you discovered something similar here as well, you just have to know where to look…' Dr Bushel turned slowly in place, peering over at the allotments. 1 deduce he would have-'

'Rhododendron bush,' said Insch, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the hotel grounds. 'DS McRae already deducted it. But thanks anyway.'

Flustered, Dr Bushel pulled off his spectacles and gave them a thorough polish. 'Ah, yes… Well done, very good.'

'All right,' said Insch, hands in his pockets, 'that's enough effusive praise for one day, we don't want DS McRae to get a swollen head.' Not that there was much chance of that happening today, thought Logan as he watched Dr Bushel clamber back into the patrol car, heading back to Force Headquarters. Not with Maitland's death hanging over him.

As the car pulled away, Insch peeled back the hood of his boiler suit, exposing an expanse of sweaty bald head. 'God, it's bloody roasting in here.' He unzipped the suit to the waist and leaned back against the wall. A sudden grin split his face.

Think you stole Dr Smartarse's thunder there…' He stopped.

'What? You've got a face like my mother-in-law's arse.'

Logan watched an IB technician carefully place a turnip sized lump of charcoal in one of the children's body-bags, where a head would have gone. Joanna or Molly? He closed his eyes, not wanting to see any more. 'Maitland.'

'Ah yes, PC Maitland 'I kept meaning to go see him, but…' Sigh. 'You know what it's like – something always came up.' He scrubbed his tired face with tired hands, the latex gloves making squeaking noises on his skin. 'I can't believe I didn't go to see him, even once.'

Insch laid a huge hand on Logan's shoulder. 'No point beating yourself up about it now. What's done is done. He's dead and you have to think about your career. You're a good copper, Logan. Don't let the bastards guilt-trip you into throwing it all away over this.'

PC Steve drove him back to Force Headquarters, trying to cover the uncomfortable silence with small talk. Logan clicked the radio on, but Steve didn't take the hint, just went on and on about the weather and the last film he'd seen and wasn't it great all the women were out in these skimpy tops? Something bland and poppy juddered to a halt, the song followed by a Northsound DJ Logan didn't recognize, then a couple more songs, and then it was the news. 'Dozens ofKingswells residents stormed the council chambers today, interrupting business in protest against the decision to grant McLennan Homes planning permission for three hundred new houses 'Bloody criminal, isn't it?' said PC Steve, abandoning his current topic: the alleged extra-curricular activities of Detective Sergeant Beattie's wife. 'They should all be shot, that planning department. My dad tried for planning permission for a single house, yeah? Just the one – and they turn him down. But up pops this McLennan Homes lot, wanting to put three hundred of the bastards on greenbelt and it's all:

"Yes sir, Mr McLennan sir, and can I polish your knob for you while you wait?" Makes you sick.' Logan didn't tell Steve his, dad would have a much better chance of building his house if he took photos of the Chief Greenbelt Development Planner with his dick in a fourteen-year-old girl.

The next piece was on a new dress shop in Inverurie winning some sort of big fashion thing – PC Steve had nothing to add to that one – and then it was on to the main news story of the day: fatal fire kills four! But it was the last piece before the weather that made Logan's heart sink. 'Today colleagues and friends paid tribute to Constable Trevor Maitland, the officer tragically shot during an operation to recover stolen property earlier this month.' The announcer's voice was replaced by a tearful woman telling the world how her Trevor was a wonderful husband and father. Then someone else saying, 'Unlike a lot o' folk, Trev niver wanted ta be CID. Could'a done the job no bother, but he wanted ta stay in uniform, oot on the streets, like, helping people. That wis Trev all over.' And finally, the voice of doom – at least as far as Grampian Police were concerned – Councillor Andrew I'm-A-Dirty-Dirty-Bastard Marshall. 'It is important at a time like this to remember all the good that Officer Maitland and his colleagues do every day on the streets of Aberdeen. I'm sure I speak for everyone when I say that we are all thinking of his family during this difficult time.' And that was it. No accusations of incompetence or any of his usual anti-police rants. If Logan had been driving he would've crashed the car in shock.

'Bloody hell,' said PC Steve, staring aghast at the radio.