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middle of his top lip standing out white against red, as if someone had tried to give him a hair lip with a broken bottle. Logan smiled - it looked as if the constable wasn't exactly a man of the world. He resisted the urge to take the piss, and went back to watching the world go by.
    The old lady's house was three-quarters of the way down Abbotswell Crescent, with a view out across the dual carriageway, over the Craigshaw and Tullos industrial estates. Lovely. Especially with Torry in the background, the sunshine and blue skies fighting a losing battle to make it look attractive.
    Fifteen minutes, two cups of tea and some Penguin biscuits later, they were back in the car.
    'So much for that.' Logan called DI Steel with the bad news, only to be given another two addresses: one in Mannofield, the other in Mastrick. Both of which were equally useless.
    Rickards squirmed in his seat, as if his underwear was trying to eat him. 'So what now?'
    Logan checked his watch: coming up for eleven. 'Back to the station. We can--' His mobile phone went into its usual apoplexy of bleeps and whistles. 'Hold on.' He dragged it out. 'Hello?'
    ' Where the hell are you? ' DI Steel, sounding annoyed.
    'Mastrick. You sent us here, remember?'
    ' Did I? Oh ... Well ... in that case, why haven't you finished yet? '
    'We have. We're just heading back now.'
    ' Good - press conference is at twelve. We're going to be on the lunchtime news. And when I say 'we' I mean you too. Don't be late. And you can check out another address on your way in - woman phoned to say the dead guy lives next door with his parents. And remember: if you're no' back here by twelve, I'll kill you .'
    Logan took down the address and hung up with a groan. 'Change of plan - we've got one more stop to make.'
    Blackburn was more like a building site than a dormitory town: sprawling developments of tiny detached houses crammed into minuscule plots of land, spilling away to the north and west, costing an arm and a leg, even though it meant living like a battery chicken. The address Steel had given them was for the second-last house in a half-completed cul-de-sac that didn't even have a proper road yet, just a thin layer of rutted tarmac covered in drying mud and potholes, the rumble of earthmovers battling for supremacy against the screech of circular saws and the bang of nailguns. Everything was slowly disappearing beneath a pale cloud of cream-coloured dust.
    Number seven was a four-bedroom 'executive villa' built on a postage stamp. Logan got Rickards to ring the doorbell while he stared out over the rolling hills to the north. Wondering how long it would take the developers to carpet them in more houses.
    The door was answered by a flushed-looking woman in baggy T-shirt and jogging bottoms, balancing a small child on one hip. 'Hello?' Sounding slightly nervous.
    Logan went for a reassuring smile as the woman's kid stared at him with open mouth and wide blue eyes. 'Mrs ...' he checked his notes, 'Brown? Hi. You phoned us this morning about this man?' Logan held up the photo.
    She nodded. 'I think so. He sort of looks like the guy next door's son. Jason I think it is.' The toddler wriggled and she shifted him, bringing him round till he was sitting in the crook of her arm, clutching her hair and peering out at the policemen on the doorstep. 'He's looking after the house while they're on holiday.'
    'You're sure it's him?' Logan handed her the picture and she bit her bottom lip.
    'I ... It looks a lot like him ...' Nervous giggle. 'I asked Paul and he said it might be ...'
    'When did you last see Jason?'
    She shrugged. 'It's been kind of hectic. Couple of days?'
    'OK.' Logan took the photo back and the child began to squeal. 'What's Jason's last name?' Having to speak up over the noise.
    'Sorry: we only moved in three weeks ago, everything's still in boxes.' She bounced the child up and down, making cooing, 'Who's Mummy's big boy?' noises. 'Maybe the site office would know?'
    'Thanks for