‘Nope.’ He held up his notebook. ‘One dark-green Honda Jazz, parked on Newburgh Road, Bridge of Don. It’s Emma Skinner’s.’
Logan stood. ‘Well, what are you sitting there for? Get a pool car!’
Newburgh Road was a twisting warren of identikit houses, buried away amongst all the other identikit housing developments on this side of the river. Some residents had added porches, or garages, but the same bland boxy stereotype shone through regardless.
Guthrie pointed through the windscreen at the blocky back end of a dark-green hatchback. ‘Patrol car was out cruising for a pervert – been stealing knickers off washing lines – when the Honda pinged up on the ANPR.’
They parked behind it.
Logan climbed out into the sun and did a slow three-sixty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just more beige architecture, the harling greyed by weather. ‘Any idea which house?’
Guthrie locked up. ‘Thought we’d door-to-door it. Can’t be that far, can it?’
‘Pffff …’ Logan leaned back against a low garden wall and wiped a hand across his forehead. It came away damp. ‘You sure that’s her car?’
Guthrie took out his notebook and checked again. ‘Number plate matches.’
‘Then where the sodding hell is she?’
‘Well, maybe—’
‘Forty minutes! Wandering round like a pair of idiots, knocking on doors.’ The scent of charring meat oozed out from a garden somewhere near, making his stomach growl. ‘Starving now.’
Guthrie gave a big theatrical shrug. ‘I don’t get it. It’s not like it’d be hard to find a parking space here, is it? You’d dump your car right outside the person you’re visiting, right?’
‘Unless you weren’t supposed to be here. Didn’t want people to see your car …’ Logan pushed off the wall. ‘We keep looking.’
‘OK, thanks anyway.’
As soon as the auld mannie in the faded ‘BRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR’ T-shirt had closed the door, Logan stepped into the shade of a box hedge.
He ran a hand across the nape of his neck and wiped it dry on his trousers. Checked his watch. That was an hour they’d been at it now. Slogging their way along the road in the baking sun. Knocking on doors. Asking questions. Showing people the photo of Emma Skinner that Guthrie had found on Facebook. A selfie of Emma and her two kids, grinning away like lunatics, the background blocked out by the three of them. She had her blonde hair pulled back from her face, a half-inch of brown roots showing. A silver ring in her left nostril. An easy smile. Two small children with chocolate smudges covering half of their faces.
Logan loosened his tie.
A whole hour of shoving the photo under people’s noses.
And still nothing.
Maybe she hadn’t been visiting someone here after all? Maybe this was simply a convenient place to dump the car? Somewhere to keep it hidden.
Why? Why would she want to hide?
‘Guv?’ One house over, Guthrie was backing away from the door – a hand scrabbling at the Airwave clipped to his stabproof vest. ‘Guv!’
Logan hopped the low garden wall and hurried across a manicured lawn ringed with nasturtiums. ‘Someone spotted her?’
Guthrie stopped in the middle of the path and pointed at the house. ‘In there …’
OK.
He walked over to the front window. It was too bright outside, and too dark inside to see anything other than the reflected street scene. Logan cupped his hands either side of his eyes and pressed his forehead against the glass.
A high-heeled shoe lay in front of a glass-topped coffee table. On its side. The foot it belonged to poked out from behind the couch. Skin pale, a thick line of purple running horizontal with the ground where the blood had settled. More blood on the oatmeal-coloured carpet. Little dots and splashes. Dozens of them. More streaking up the walls, making scarlet spatters across a print of the New York skyline.
Definitely dead.
‘Got you ham-cheese-and-mustard, and a tin of Lilt.’ Guthrie held out a Tesco carrier bag.
Sitting back against the pool car, Logan dipped into the bag. ‘Crisps?’
‘Cheese-and-onion.’
Better than nothing. ‘Thanks.’
A cordon of blue-and-white ‘Police’ tape cut across Newburgh Road, keeping the scene secure – enclosing the house, a patrol car, and the Scenes Examination Branch’s dirty transit van. At least someone’d had the brains to scrub a hand through the filthier bits of finger graffiti.
Guthrie got stuck into an egg-and-cress, making mayonnaise smears either side of his mouth. ‘Starving …’
Logan clicked the ring-pull off his fizzy juice, and chased down a mouthful of sandwich. Then wiggled the can towards the house. ‘Looks like we’re on.’
A pair of figures stepped out of the front door, both done up in full SOC Smurf outfits – blue booties, white Tyvek suit, blue nitrile gloves, facemasks, and eye goggles. Smurf One was tall and lanky, Smurf Two shorter with an itchy bum. Smurf Two dug and scratched away at its backside as the pair of them made their way across to the pool car.
Logan took another bite, talking with his mouth full. ‘Well?’
DI Steel peeled her suit’s hood back, then pulled off the mask and let it dangle beneath her chin. ‘Sodding roasting …’ Her face was a florid shade of red, the skin streaked with glistening lines of sweat. She stuck out her gloved hands, groping for Logan’s Lilt. ‘Give.’ Then glugged away at it as Smurf One unfurled his suit and tied the arms around his waist.
Detective Sergeant Simon Rennie puffed out his cheeks and sagged. Wafted a hand in front of his flushed shiny face. Being inside the hood had done something terrible to his hair, leaving the blond mop sticking out at all angles, like a confused hedgehog. ‘Gah …’
Logan tried again. ‘Is it her?’
Steel gulped. Puffed out a long breath. Then burped. ‘God, that’s better.’
Rennie held out the picture Guthrie found on Facebook. ‘It’s her. Multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen – and I mean multiple. Has to be at least forty.’ He rubbed a forearm across his face, blotting away the sweat. ‘Don’t have another tin of juice, do you?’
Steel handed him whatever was left of Logan’s. ‘There’s a naked bloke in the bedroom too. Throat cut from ear to ear. Place looks like something out of a B-movie slasher; it’s dripping from the ceiling and everything.’
A sigh escaped from Logan’s chest. ‘Let me guess – she’s naked too.’
‘Nope: kinky bra with matching thong.’
Which explained why Emma Skinner had parked so far away. Didn’t want anyone to see her visiting her lover.
Mr Suicide’s voice trembled, not much more than a broken whisper. ‘How could she do that?’ It explained that as well.
The lover had to die, but the wife had to be punished.
‘We’ve had the murder weapon since yesterday.’ Logan pointed towards the house. ‘Anyone want to bet you’ll find John Skinner’s fingerprints all over the place? He follows her here, he catches her in the act, slits the lover’s throat, then goes berserk with the knife. Can’t live with what he’s done, so he chucks himself off the casino roof, still