She shook her head. ‘We won’t know until the results come in.’
A filthy Vauxhall lurched its way up the rutted farm track towards them. Because it wasn’t as if Logan didn’t have enough people to deal with.
The SE tech with the evidence crate stopped in front of Logan and pulled down their facemask — revealing scarlet lipstick, stubble and a deep manly voice. ‘That’s us finished with the fingerprints and photographs.’
Behind him, two of his fellow SOC-suited techs backed out of the marquee, hauling the pig ark with them, one foot at a time. A lone voice wafted down the hill, ‘One, two, three: heave!’ The ark moved another foot.
Logan peered into the crate — brown paper evidence envelopes, the forms printed on them all filled in with red biro. ‘Anything?’
‘Nah.’ He shook his head. ‘A bunch of smudges and that’s it. I’m not going to bet the farm on it, but I’d say they looked like leather gloves. You can tell by the grain patterns.’ He stomped off towards the van. ‘Gotta go get the shovels.’
‘One, two, three: heave!’
The Procurator Fiscal rocked on his parade-ground shiny shoes. ‘I don’t like it when murderers lick the people they kill. Next thing you know, you’ve got three more victims and the media are screaming “Serial Killer Stalks Aberdeenshire!”’
‘One, two, three: heave!’
The filthy Vauxhall lumped to a halt beside the SE Transit and DS Robertson climbed out. She stared up at the hill with its blue marquee, then stomped over. Nodded at the PF and Isobel. ‘Professor. Fiscal.’ Grimaced at Logan. ‘Could you not give over discovering dead bodies, Guv? The boss is doing his nut. I swear he’s going to pop something.’
The Procurator Fiscal held up a finger. ‘Now let’s not jump to any conclusions. It’s not necessarily a dead human body, DS Robertson. Cadaverine is produced by—’
‘It’s all right, Richard.’ Isobel put a hand on his arm. ‘I don’t think the poor Detective Sergeant needs a discourse on decomposition products.’
‘One, two, three: heave!’
The SE tech lumbered back from the Transit, struggling under the weight of a half-dozen shovels. He stopped and smiled at DS Robertson. ‘Hey, George.’
Robertson just grunted.
‘Oh come on, I said I was sorry.’
Isobel snapped her fingers at him. ‘I want every bit of soil retained for analysis. And not all in one big lump either! A separate bag for every cubic foot. And number them.’
The tech’s shoulders slumped, his red-lipsticked mouth sagging at the edges. ‘Aww...’
Robertson pointed at the blue plastic sheaths on his feet. ‘And you’d better not be planning on returning to the locus with those booties on! Didn’t you do cross-contamination training?’
A groan, then the tech dumped his shovels in a clattering pile, turned on his heel and stomped off to the Transit again.
Robertson shouted after him, a great big grin on her face. ‘Suit and gloves too!’ The smile faded as she realised they were all staring at her. ‘What?’
Logan swapped the umbrella from one shoulder to the other and stuck his spare hand in the pocket of his padded fluorescent jacket. From here — at the top of the field, looking down towards the crumbling farm buildings — there was a perfect view of where the road was going to go. Right through the middle of Nairhillock Farm and up the hill on the other side, disappearing into a stand of trees. And that put the Scene Examination marquee smack bang in the middle of the northbound carriageway.
A grimy SOC suited figure emerged from inside, wrestling a wheelbarrow full of bagged dirt across the field, making for their Transit van.
Now the only vehicles left were the SE van, Logan’s pool car, and Robertson’s mud-spattered Vauxhall. Everyone else had sodded off.
That was the trouble with procurators fiscal and pathologists — no patience.
Mind you, at least they were bright enough to get in out of the rain. It made pale grey sheets that drifted across the landscape, drummed on the skin of his Crimestoppers brolly, dripped off the edge.
Logan’s phone launched into David Bowie’s ‘Space Oddity’.
He dug it out. ‘Tufty?’
‘Guess what I has, go on: guess.’ Sounding like an overexcited spaniel.
‘Genital warts?’
‘Ew... Shudder.’ There was a crinkling noise. ‘No, I has a mobile phone. DS Lorna Chalmers’ mobile phone, to be precise. Screen’s all cracked like someone’s stamped on it.’
Yes.
Logan turned his back to the wind. ‘Where was it?’
‘In her garage. Technically. Because Naughty Naked Norman Clifton had it in the pocket of the trousers he wasn’t wearing.’
Finally something was going their way.
‘Has his solicitor turned up yet?’
‘Nope, but his mum has. She’s screaming the place down as we speak. Listen:’
The sound went all echoey, a woman’s voice clearly audible in the background, roaring like a wounded wildebeest. ‘HOW DARE YOU! I DEMAND TO SEE MY SON! DID YOU HEAR ME? I DEMAND TO SEE HIM RIGHT NOW!’
A clunk and Tufty was back again. ‘What do you want me to do with the phone?’
‘Get it fingerprinted, then down to the forensic IT team. See if they can access the thing — I need to know who she’s called, all her text messages... Everything they can get.’
‘Guv.’
Logan hung up. Frowned down at the tent and the pig arks again. At the blue plastic marquee covering the patch of earth that stank of death. ‘What were you doing here, Lorna?’
A voice sounded over Logan’s shoulder. Indignant and official. ‘Can I help you? Only you’re not supposed to be here.’
Logan turned and there was a large man in a high-viz jacket of his own, but instead of natty blue-and-silver reflective bands, his had a Transport Scotland logo on it. Big puffy cheeks, thick sausagey fingers, as if he’d never said nay tae a pie in his life.
Captain Pies tapped the plastic safety gear perched on top of his marshmallow head. ‘And this is a hard-hat area!’
Logan unzipped his waterproof and pulled out his warrant card. Held it out. ‘Police. Are you in charge here, sir?’
His eyes widened. ‘Yes? No. Kind of.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, Officer. I... The umbrella was covering your... the bit where it says “Police”... and I...’ Captain Pies tried for a smile. ‘Erm... would you like a cup of tea?’
Steam fogged the windows, dribbling down in rivulets by the small canteen area crowbarred into the corner of the Portakabin. Little more than a mini fridge stuffed under a small table with a kettle and some tins of tea, coffee, and sugar.
Captain Pies handed Logan a mug of tea that smelled of Styrofoam and burned toast. ‘Sorry about that, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of people we get sightseeing up here. I mean, we’re building a bypass, it’s hardly the Grand Canyon, is it?’
The office was clean enough, but this obviously wasn’t its first construction site. Dents rippled the walls between the maps of the bypass taped up there, the lino floor scuffed and permanently scarred by thousands of muddy work boots. Desks lined the walls, with a row of filing cabinets at the far end. Back-to-back file cupboards made a waist-high island down the centre, covered in more detailed plans.
The ghost of something huge and yellow growled its way past the steamed-up windows, making the walls vibrate.