Logan sipped his tea — tasted every bit as nasty as it smelled — and stood in front of the section of map covering Stonehaven to Cove. ‘Thought the bypass went through east of here?’
Captain Pies nodded. ‘Yup.’ He picked up a pen and tapped it against the thick line that curved across the map, tracing the route north as he called out the points with obvious pride in his voice. ‘Our stretch starts at Stonehaven,’ tap, ‘B979 to Bridge of Muchalls,’ tap, ‘Netherley,’ tap, ‘B979 to Portlethen,’ tap, ‘Crynoch Burn,’ tap, ‘and joining the bypass at Cleanhill.’ He made a circle over the countryside to the left of the road. ‘But they want to open this area up for development, so now we’re putting a slip road in. Roundabout too.’
He turned and shuffled through the plans on the central island, hauling one out and laying it on top. ‘See?’
It was an OS map of the surrounding area, with the slip road and roundabout marked up, annotated, and all measured out.
The marker pen tapped a crosshatched area. ‘That’s us there. There’s planning permission in for two thousand houses, a retail park, and a swimming pool.’
Logan put his finger on the bit of map to the right of it, where the new road cut straight across the fields and through a handful of small grey rectangles. ‘What about this place?’
‘Nairhillock Farm? Got the bulldozers going in, Wednesday.’ He put his hand up. ‘But don’t worry, nobody’s lived there for years. Didn’t even have to compulsory purchase it — farmer left it to the city in his will before he committed suicide. Shame not everyone’s so public-spirited. You wouldn’t believe the abuse we get bulldozing people’s—’
‘This slip road: when did you decide to put it in?’
Captain Pies puffed out his cheeks. ‘Oooh... Now you’re asking.’ He frowned for a while, then bit his bottom lip. ‘I can find out if you like?’
30
Rain drummed on the barn roof, like tiny hammers, twenty-five feet above their heads. The metalwork buckled and twisted its way down to the collapsed corner and rotting bales of hay.
Shirley unzipped her manky SOC suit, flapping the sides to get some air circulating. ‘Urgh...’ Steam rose from her green polo shirt, along with a funky onion smell.
Logan moved away a bit. ‘How much longer?’
‘At least another hour. Maybe two?’
DS Robertson stared up at the warped metal roof. ‘Oh for God’s sake.’
A steamy shrug. ‘We don’t even know how deep it is.’
‘Two hours?’
‘It’s doing it one square foot at a time that’s the killer! Everything has to be logged and numbered and witnessed. Bloody pathologist is a nightmare.’
Logan stared out into the rain, where a lone figure in a muddy SOC suit was fighting the wheelbarrow down towards the SE Transit van again. Slipping and sliding in the damp grass. Poor sod.
Shirley sighed. ‘The only thing we do know is that someone’s dug it out recently. The soil in there isn’t all compressed and hard — it’s been moved.’
‘How recently?’
‘Week? Two weeks?’
‘Well, at least that—’ Logan’s phone launched into ‘The Monster Mash’ and he pulled it out. ‘Sorry, give us a second.’ He pressed the button. ‘Dr Frampton?’
Something chugged and beeped in the background, then her voice boomed out of the speaker — as if she were shouting at the phone from the other side of the room. ‘Logan? It’s Jessica. I’ve got a bit of a problem.’
Great. Because things weren’t going slowly enough.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘I think we’ve got some sort of cross-contamination going on in the equipment. It’s giving us screwy results.’
‘We’ve found what looks like a grave, so your soil analysis this morning was spot on.’
‘No, you see, that’s the thing: I tested a sample from a different case and it produced identical readings. Twice. So I asked Tony to come in and double-check my methodology.’
A laidback voice called out from the same kind of distance. ‘Inspector McRae, wassup, dude?’
Ah, OK — so he was on speakerphone. That explained the shouting.
‘Hi, Tony.’
‘I can only think that something’s got stuck in the mass spectrometer, but we’re getting the same problem with the gas chromatograph, so maybe it’s me?’
‘We’ve totally run it, like, a dozen times now. Cleaned all the stuff and everything.’
‘Well, at least we got...’ Hold on a minute. ‘Wait, what? You’ve got another case that’s coming up with soil from Nairhillock Farm?’
‘And pig faeces.’ Her voice went all distracted. ‘Maybe I got the samples mixed up when I processed them? I should never have come to work with a hangover.’
Robertson and Shirley were staring at him.
He turned away. ‘Which case?’
‘Oh. I managed to extract it from a shovel and a pick that came in. Someone’d had a damn good go at cleaning them, but soil isn’t so easy to get rid of. It sticks in screw heads and between joints.’
‘Yes, but which case?’
‘There’s two different layers on the tools: the one on top is peaty podzols, but the one underneath is mineral gleys and we keep getting a false positive for Nairhillock Farm from them.’
Logan licked his lips. Paced across the cracked concrete to the barn’s edge. ‘Pickaxe and a shovel? That’s the DI Duncan Bell stabbing, isn’t it?’
Robertson and Shirley were still staring at him.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. ‘Of course it is. Where’s the second soil from? The peaty postles.’
‘Podzols. It’s a kind of soil you get in areas associated with coniferous forest and—’
‘Fine, OK: podzols. Where?’
‘Ben Rinnes, about four and a half miles southwest of Dufftown.’
‘And they were the top layer, so the Nairhillock soil got stuck to the shovel first, then the stuff from Dufftown?’
A sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with the equipment, but we’ll get it fixed — I promise.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your equipment, Jessica. You’re a star!’
‘I am?’ Sounding a bit flustered. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Text me coordinates for the peaty podzols, OK? And thanks. I owe you this time!’ He hung up.
Robertson pulled her chin in. ‘Why do you keep saying “peaty podzols”?’
Logan pointed at Shirley. ‘Leave a couple of people to keep digging. I need the rest of you to follow me: we’re going to Dufftown.’ He marched out into the rain, towards the pool car, Shirley and Robertson hurrying after him.
Robertson grabbed his arm. ‘Wait! What the hell is going on?’
‘There’s nothing in the hole: the body’s gone. DI Bell dug it up and reburied it out on Ben Rinnes.’
‘Argh...’ Shirley stopped where she was and sagged. ‘Not more digging!’
He pulled open the pool car door.
Steel was slumped in the passenger seat — reclined all the way back — eyes closed, mouth open, belting out windscreen-wiper-rattling snores.