Rennie picked his way through a mound of debris piled up against the back wall of the garage, while Logan contemplated the chest freezer. Years of filth and grime had left it a nasty nicotine-stained grey with suspicious brown splodges of rust streaking the surface. It took him two attempts to open the lid, a thick layer of frost and ice cracking and skittering across the garage's concrete floor. Unlike the freezer at Chib's house, this one was packed with mystery meat and long-forgotten packets of sweet corn. He was a third of the way down, fingers burning with cold, when DC Rennie shouted that he'd found something crammed down the back of a pile of old Daily Mails. It was a boning knife with a seven-inch, single-sided blade – scooped near the handle, straight for most of its length and curved at the tip.

Logan pulled out his phone and called Steel, wandering through the house as it rang. It bleeped over to voicemail .ind he left a message about the knife. That, plus the body and the blood in the bathroom meant there was no way Pirie was ever going to be able to wriggle out of this. Not even Hissing Sid could get her off. Next he tried Jackie's mobile, hoping to spend a couple of minutes not talking about work or bloody soap operas with Rennie. No answer, so he dialled Collin Miller and settled back against the kitchen table, looking out through the French windows at the silent bulk of Westhill Academy – lit up in the darkness by a row of streetlights. The phone rang and rang and rang and rang before a recording of Miller's Glaswegian crackled in Logan's ear, telling him that if he left his name, number and a short message the reporter would get right back to him. 'Colin, it's Logan. Wanted to know if you were still alive after Isobel got her hands on you, you dirty stop-out. I-'

A rectangle of light blossomed in the back garden next door. Ailsa Cruickshank was home. 'Damn.' He hung up. No one had been able to track her down; she didn't know her husband was dead yet. And with DI Steel gone Logan was the senior officer on site.

With a sigh, he headed next door and broke the news as gently as he could, taking a WPC from the search team with him for moral support. Her husband wasn't on some foreign beach with a pole-dancer after all; his torso was lying on a slab in the morgue. Logan didn't know which was worse discovering your husband was a lying, adulterous bastard, or a dismembered corpse.

Back at FHQ the mood was grim but optimistic. DI Steel hadn't managed to get a confession out of the Pirie woman yet, but it was only a matter of time. Half past ten and the rest of the team were in the pub. Archibald Simpson's sat at the eastern end of Union Street, a hop, skip and a stagger away from Force Headquarters, a popular hangout for off duty policemen in need of something to take the day away.

The Procurator Fiscal bought the first round, told everyone what a great job they'd done getting a suspect into custody so quickly, and that they were going to put Clair Pirie away for a very, very long time. She raised her glass and Logan, Rennie and Rachael Tulloch chinked their drinks off it, selfconsciously, trying to kid on they didn't feel ridiculous. The PF left after the first one, but her deputy stayed behind, face covered in a huge smile as she got the second round in. Then it was Rennie's turn to buy and the conversation started drifting away from work. By the time Logan was lurching back from the bar with two lagers and a large gin and tonic, things had started to get a bit fuzzy round the edges – the effect of three pints on an empty stomach and no decent sleep for a fortnight. Back at the table Rachael told a joke about two nuns on holiday in a Mini Metro, fluffing the punch line by giggling too much. Rennie told one about two nuns in a condom factory and Logan thought the deputy PF was going to wet herself. She howled with laughter and slapped Logan's thigh, letting her hand linger there as she wiped the tears from her eyes…

He eventually crawled back to the flat just after midnight, dropping his clothes on the hall floor as he stripped off on the way to the toilet. Bleary urination followed by roughly brushed teeth and two Dints of water. He staggered into the bedroom, curled up under the duvet and was snoring away within minutes. He didn't even hear Jackie coming in off the back shift half an hour later.

The music was probably supposed to be soothing, but came off more gloomy than anything else – a low-key set of hymns on the church organ as the place slowly filled up with police officers. Sitting up at the back, Logan tried not to look as bloody awful as he felt. Monday morning had arrived on the wings of a hangover, beating in time with his lurching stomach. He'd not been sick yet, but there was still time.

Half past eight was way too early for a funeral.

Jackie looked up from the order of service as We Plough the Fields and Scatter wheezed to a halt. 'Good turnout.' The place was packed – one of the benefits of getting seen off at this ungodly hour was that the night shift were able to attend after knocking off for the day. PC Trevor Maitland had spent a lot of time on the night shift, and the dark, wooden pews in Rubislaw Church were full of his colleagues, friends, family and the man who'd got him shot. A sudden hush as the priest stepped up to the lectern and thanked them all for coming.

The service was every bit as depressing as Logan had expected. His stomach lurched all the way through the eulogies, each one a glowing character reference for the recently deceased. Then the Chief Constable got up and made a speech ibout how dangerous the life of a police officer was and how brave everyone was who stepped up to that challenge. And how the courage and sacrifice made by their families was every bit as great, while Maitland's widow cried quietly.

Then the music started, Whitney Houston warbling her way through I Will Always Love You as the funeral directors picked up the floral tributes and piled them carefully on top of the coffin before wheeling it out of the church and into the hearse.

What a great way to start the week.

DI Steel's incident room was charged with excitement when Logan got back to FHQ, dirt under his nails from throwing a handful of earth down onto the polished mahogany casket: yesterday they'd discovered a body in a suitcase AND got a suspect into custody. Today the search teams were back out again, working their way carefully through the Tyrebagger, Garlogie and Hazlehead woods. It was a lot of forest to search, but they were making good progress; the maps pinned to the incident room's walls were covered with crossed-out grid marks. Another two days at most, and they'd be finished.

Then they'd start searching the next set of woods on the inspector's list and keep on going until Holly McEwan was lying in one of Isobel's refrigerated drawers.

Someone had pinned up a copy of that morning's Press and Journal, the front page screaming Suitcase Torso Murder Woman Held! along with a photo of the police cordon at Garlogie Woods and an inset of DI Steel – the picture apparently taken on one of the rare days when she didn't look as if her hair had been styled by seagulls.

According to the story that went with the indecipherable headline, Detective Inspector Roberta Steel had solved one of the most difficult murder cases in Scottish legal history.

There was even a quote from Councillor Andrew Marshall, telling the world what a credit DI Steel was to the force and how lucky Aberdeen was to have someone like her about.

Logan and Rennie didn't even get a mention.

Grumbling under his breath, Logan slouched across to the admin officer – who told him the inspector was still up in interview room three with the Pirie woman and didn't want to be disturbed. Logan swore. Bloody Detective Bloody Inspector Bloody Steel. He started poking about for something useful to do, but everything seemed to be in hand.