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some miracle, any forensic evidence had managed to survive the last three months it would have washed away in the last six hours. DI Insch didn’t say a word as the constable went through his list of negative results, just sat there, munching his way through a packet of fizzy cola bottles.
    The PC finished his report and waited expectantly for DI Insch to stop chewing and say something.
    ‘Tell the teams to keep going for another hour. If we’ve not found anything by then we’re calling it a day.’ The inspector proffered the almost-empty bag of sweets and the PC took one, popping it into his mouth with obvious delight. ‘No one can say we’ve not taken the search seriously.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled, still eating.
    DI Insch dismissed the munching constable and beckoned Logan and WPC Watson over. ‘Post mortem,’ he said without preamble, listening to Logan’s account of the desecration of David Reid’s body in the exact same way he’d listened to the search team progress reports. Silent. Impassive. Stuffing his face. He finished off the cola bottles and brought out a packet of wine gums.
    ‘Wonderful,’ he said when Logan had finished. ‘So we’ve got a paedophile serial killer running around Aberdeen.’
    ‘Not necessarily,’ said Watson, accepting a little orange lozenge with ‘S HERRY ’ embossed on the top. ‘There’s only one body, not a series, and the killer may not even be local. . .’
    Insch merely shook his head.
    Logan took a ‘P ORT ’. ‘The body lay undisturbed for three months. The killer even went back, long after rigor mortis had set in, and took a souvenir. He had to know his hiding place was safe. That screams “local”. The fact that he came back and took a bit of the body means this is something special to him. Your man’s not done this on a whim: he’s been thinking about it for a long time. This is some sort of ritual fantasy he’s acting out. He’s going to do it again. If he hasn’t already.’
    Insch agreed. ‘I want all missing child reports for the last year pulled. Get the list up on the wall over there. Chances are some of them may have crossed this sick bastard’s path.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Oh and, Logan,’ said the DI, carefully folding the wine gum packet shut and stuffing it back in his pocket. ‘I had a call from the
Journal
. They tell me you’ve been up there leaning on their new golden boy.’
    Logan nodded. ‘Colin Miller: used to work on the
Scottish Sun
. He’s the one that—’
    ‘Did I ask you to go antagonizing the newspapers, Sergeant?’
    Logan’s mouth snapped shut. Pause. ‘No, sir. We were in the neighbourhood and I thought—’
    ‘Sergeant,’ said DI Insch, slowly and deliberately. ‘I’m glad you’re thinking. That’s a good sign. Something I encourage in my officers.’ There was a big ‘but’ coming: Logan could feel it. ‘But I don’t expect them to go off and annoy the local press without permission. We’re going to have to put out appeals to the public. We’re going to have to do damage limitation if someone screws something up in the investigation. We’re going to need these people on our side.’
    ‘This morning you said—’
    ‘This morning I said I’d nail whoever spoke to the press. And I will. This is our screw-up, not the paper’s. Understand?’
    He’d screwed up. WPC Watson suddenly took a great deal of interest in her shoes as Logan said, ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
    ‘OK.’ Insch picked a sheet of paper off the desk and handed it to a suitably chastised Detective Sergeant McRae. ‘The search teams haven’t found a thing. Surprise, surprise. There’s an underwater search unit doing the river, but the rain’s made it almost impossible. The damn thing’s already broken its banks in about a million places. We’re lucky the body was found at all. Another couple of days and the river would’ve swamped the ditch and whoosh. . .’ He swept his hand past, the fingertips sparkling with