'Did Councillor Slug-Face just say what I think he said? Did he just miss a chance to rub our noses in the shi-'

'Watch where you're going!' Logan grabbed onto the dashboard as PC Steve slammed his foot on the brake and swerved back into his own lane.

It was a little after one when Steve dropped him off at FHQ – he still had time to get something to eat in the canteen before the afternoon collapsed in on him like a ton of bricks.

He'd got as far as punching the first two digits of the entry code into the keypad that opened the internal door, when

Sergeant Eric Mitchell appeared behind the big glass barrier that topped the reception desk, and called out, 'Sergeant!

Sergeant McRae, can you assist?' Logan turned to see what was up, his heart sinking as he saw who was sitting in one of the nasty purple chairs set against the far wall: expensive suit, slim briefcase, a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and a superior expression on his face: Sandy Moir-Farquharson, AKA Sandy the Snake, AKA Hissing Sid, AKA Anything Else Derogatory They Could Think Of At The Time. This was all Logan needed; a perfect way to crown off the whole bloody month. Hell, the whole year. Sandy MoirFarquharson: the nasty little shite who'd defended Angus Robertson, the Mastrick Monster. Who'd tried to convince the world that Robertson was the real victim here, rather than the fifteen women he'd raped and murdered. That it was Grampian Police in general, and Logan in particular, who were to blame. And he'd nearly succeeded.

Moir-Farquharson was halfway out of his chair before Eric pointed to the other bank of seats, the ones by the front window. An attractive woman sat snivelling beneath the plaque commemorating the force's dead from World Wars I and II, wringing a handkerchief like she was trying to strangle the thing. Sandy the Snake got as far as, 'I was here first,' before Logan showed the woman into a small room off the reception area, closing the door in the lawyer's face. She was pretty, even with the puffy eyes: long bleached-blonde hair, slightly upturned nose – with a drip hanging from the end of it – full lips concealing a slight overbite, and a figure that would have had DC Rennie dribbling. 'Now, Miss…?'

'Mrs. Mrs Cruickshank. It's my husband Gavin, he's not been home since Wednesday morning!' She bit her lower lip, the tears welling up in her bloodshot green eyes. 'I don't … I don't know what to do!'

'Have you reported him missing?'

She nodded, handkerchief clasped over her scarlet nose, shuddering for breath. They… they told me they couldn 't do anythingV Mrs Cruickshank buried her head in her hands and cried and cried and cried. Logan gave her a couple of minutes to see if she'd pull herself together, before offering to fetch her a cup of tea and excusing himself, feeling like a shit for running out on her. As soon as Logan stepped out into the reception area, Sandy the Snake was on his feet again, this time making it all the way to, 'DS McRae, I must insist that-' Logan dismissed him with a gesture and asked Eric to see if he could dig out the missing person report on a Mr Gavin Cruickshank. And a cup of tea for Mrs Cruickshank as well. He turned from the reception desk to find Hissing Sid standing directly in front of him. At six foot two the lawyer was just tall enough to look down his squint nose at Logan. 'I am here about my client, Mr James McKinnon. Sergeant, I insist that you allow me access!'

Arrogant fuck. Logan glowered up at the man, getting angrier by the second. Who the hell did he think he was, coming in here and throwing his bloody weight around? 'You insist all you want: I am currently busy with a distraught member of the public. You want access to your client? Try the hospital – visiting hours are two thirty to five.' He pushed past Mr Moir-Farquharson and started back towards the interview room. A firm hand grabbed his shoulder.

'I insist you-'

Logan didn't look round, scared that if he did he'd end up smacking the bastard. 'Get your damn hand off me, before I break your bloody fingers.' His voice low and clear, the words squeezed out between gritted teeth. Just begging for an excuse to vent some of the shite that had filled his every day for the last six months on this smarmy, stuck-up, sleazy lawyer bastard. Moir-Farquharson flinched back as if burnt, snatching his hand away.

Silence.

The door to reception banged open and a ragged-arsed man lurched in, breaking the moment. Dressed in a tatty AFC tracksuit from three seasons ago, with a beard that looked more like mould than hair, he made a concerted stagger for the centre section of the reception desk, pounded on the wooden top and shouted, 'Ah've hud ma script nicked!'

The missing persons form arrived on a tray with two mugs of hot, milky tea and a folded note from Sergeant Eric Mitchell suggesting that Logan might like to finish up his interview sharpish and get the hell out of the station and not come back for the rest of the day. Slippery Sandy the Snake was making a formal complaint.

Trying not to look as if he was hurrying the process along, Logan went through the background of the case with Gavin Cruickshank's distraught wife. How they were both desperate for a baby and had been trying for months. How she'd given up her job so she'd be less stressed and more fertile. How Gavin had to work late most nights these days. About his battles with the next-door neighbour. The last time she'd seen her husband he'd been going out the front door, a pair of sunglasses hiding a black eye – courtesy of the harridan next door – still furious … and that was Wednesday morning. She hadn't heard from him since. 'I phoned the office, but… but they said he was out with a client and wouldn't be back till late.' Her eyes were desperate. 'He always comes home! Always!'

'So, when he didn't you phoned the police?' said Logan, scanning the report for the date she'd reported her husband missing: half past seven, Thursday morning.

She nodded, sending tears dripping into her congealing tea. 'Sometimes he doesn't get back till four or five, if he has to go to the casino, or one of those…' she blushed, 'dubs, so I went to bed. When he wasn't back by six I tried his mobile, but it said to leave a message. I tried again and again and… then I called the police.'

Logan nodded, trying to concentrate on her story and failing. Why on earth did he have to threaten Hissing Sid?

As if the enquiry into PC Maitland's death wasn't going to be painful enough without adding a formal complaint to the pile… Suddenly Logan realized that Mrs Cruickshank had just finished saying something and was looking at him expectantly. 'Hmmm…' he said, putting on a frown of concentration, no idea at all what she'd just asked him. In what way?'

'Well.' She scooted her chair closer to the table. 'What if she's done something to him? She's dangerousV 'Dangerous… I see…' No he didn't: he wasn't any the wiser. He'd just have to bite the bullet and admit that he hadn't been listen- 'That woman next door has been nothing but trouble since she moved in! She hit him! Gave him a black eye! He reported it…' The tears started again. 'You have to find him!' Logan promised her he'd do his best and escorted her to the front door. There was no sign of Sandy the Snake in reception probably off complaining to the Chief Constable in person – so he made himself scarce, grabbing one of the CID pool cars. Not really caring where he went just as long as he was far away from FHQ before anyone noticed he was gone. To be on the safe side, he switched off his mobile phone as well. What he needed was something to keep his mind off things. Something to make him feel useful, even if he was only marking time until the summons back to headquarters for another ear bashing. And maybe a bit of getting fired. According to Mrs Cruickshank, her husband worked for an oil-service company based in the Kirkhill Industrial Estate, hiring lifting gear out to the drilling rigs and platforms. OK, so it was only a missing persons job, but at least he'd be doing something.