Logan McRae Crime Series Books 7 and 8: Shatter the Bones, Close to the Bone. Stuart MacBride

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      They’d set up a screen on the wall furthest from the door, a roof-mounted projector flickering away in the darkened room. Playing the latest video from Jenny and Alison’s kidnappers.

      Finnie, Superintendent Green, Doreen, and a handful of officers were watching as the camera panned across to Jenny’s feet.

      Green held up a hand. ‘Stop it there. Go back a bit …’

      The picture lurched into reverse.

      ‘OK, freeze.’ He stood and walked to the screen, took a chunky pen out of his pocket and pointed at the image. Click, and a little red dot appeared on the wall of the graffiti-covered squat, tracing around the timestamp in the bottom right corner. ‘Eleven thirty-two. Now look at the patterns of light on the floor.’

      The little red dot traced the shadows and highlights that fell across the bare floorboards. ‘I have some very clever boffins in Edinburgh who can work out the position of the sun at eleven thirty-two this morning, relative to Aberdeen. We combine that with the angle of incidence on the shadows and that’ll give us a good idea of where this was filmed.’

      One of the uniformed officers whistled. ‘Fucking hell …’

      Green turned, a smile on his face, one eyebrow raised. ‘I know: impressive, isn’t it? It won’t give us an exact address, but it’ll let us know roughly which part of the city we should be looking at. Then we search every derelict property in that area.’

      Logan frowned.

      Finnie nodded. ‘Excellent.’

      Green’s chest came out a notch. ‘I’ll get them onto it.’

      ‘Erm, sir?’ Logan shifted the laptop bag on his shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’

      The head of CID turned in his seat and gave him a rubbery scowl. ‘Tell me, Sergeant McRae, do you have a better idea?’

      ‘It’s just that—’

      ‘You’ve been going through the files for an hour and …’ He checked his watch. ‘Ten minutes, and you’ve already solved the case, all on your own?’

      Logan could feel the heat rushing up his cheeks. ‘No, sir. I just think we should take another look at the footage before we go running off to SOCA’s technical services.’

      ‘Really?’ Superintendent Green leaned back against a desk, that TV smile of his slipping into a frown. ‘And why is that? Exactly.’

      ‘The kidnappers always take a lot of trouble to make sure we never get any forensic evidence. Why wouldn’t they do the same with the video?’

      Green pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Sighed. Shook his head. ‘It’s a video, Sergeant – they can’t control the angle and position of the sun. Now, if we can get back to the footage?’

      ‘But they can control the timestamp on the camera.’

      Green froze, half-turned back to the screen. ‘What?’

      ‘You have to set the time manually every time you change the battery.’ He pointed at the little digital readout. ‘Eleven thirty-two: the media briefing didn’t even start till eleven. And what about the newspaper?’

      ‘It’s today’s, so I don’t—’

      ‘The Edinburgh Evening Post headline was about the toe not being Jenny’s. How did they manage to write the article, print the newspaper, get it up to Aberdeen, and sell it in a shop, all in under thirty-two minutes? The paper doesn’t even go to press till mid-day. I checked.’

      ‘Ah …’ Green nodded. ‘I see. Well, that’s a very valid point.’ He turned back to face the screen. ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’

      ‘Anyway,’ Logan pointed at the graffiti-covered room, projected on the back wall, ‘just wanted to grab a copy of the video, if there’s one going spare?’

      There’s one here.’ Doreen dug a CD in a clear plastic case from a folder on the desk beside her, then handed it over. Whispering. ‘You’ve made him look like a complete idiot.’ She gave Logan’s hand a squeeze. ‘Thanks.’

      It was raining, pea-sized drops of lukewarm water that turned the pavement dark grey.

      There was no point going out the front – the crowd was back in force, even with the horrible weather, huddling under thrumming umbrellas, being outraged for all the camera crews. The Lodge Walk entrance was just as bad, full of journos sheltering from the downpour while they waited to pounce on anyone leaving FHQ. So Logan hid the laptop bag under his jacket, trying to keep the thing dry as he hurried down the ramp from the Rear Podium and nipped through the little bit at the back of the Arts Centre.

      Tonight the billboard sign outside the newsagent on King Street read, ‘EVENING EXPRESS: JENNY’S TORTURE – CAN WE RAISE ENOUGH TO SAVE HER?’ the white paper insert going nearly transparent as it soaked up the rain.

      The other side had, ‘ABERDEEN EXAMINER: TOE TERROR OF BRAVE JENNY – KIDNAPPERS PROVE IT’S NO HOAX’. He stopped off and bought a copy of both, then hurried down Marischal Street.

      It was getting colder, the rain leaching the heat from the city. His breath steamed around his head as he unlocked the building’s front door and dripped up the stairs to the flat.

      ‘You in?’

      Samantha’s voice came from the lounge. ‘Hurry up, it’s just about to start.’

      Oh joy.

      Logan draped his jacket over a chair in the kitchen, moved the chair in front of the hot oven, grabbed a cold tin of Stella from the fridge, and made it back to the lounge in time to catch the opening titles.

       Alison and Jenny McGregorBRITAIN’S NEXT BIG STAR! – TRIBUTE SPECIALWith Special Guests …

      He sank into the sofa next to Samantha. ‘Chucking it down out there.’

      ‘You’re cutting it a bit fine, aren’t you?’

      Logan fought with his soggy laces, then kicked his shoes off. ‘Lasagne in?’

      She raised her tin of lager. ‘Bottoms up.’

      Cheering burst from the television speakers as the camera swooped in over an excited audience to a big black triangular stage, polished to a mirror sheen, surrounded by hoops of red, green, and blue neon. Above the stage, three screens flashed from a red skull and crossbones to a green tick, the words, ‘MARTINE’, ‘CHRIS’, and ‘SOPHIE’ picked out in glowing white Perspex beneath them.

      Logan pulled off his damp socks as the camera came to rest on two youngish looking blokes in black suits and black ties. ‘Who the hell are they?’

      ‘One on the left used to present Blue Peter, one on the right does a comedy thing on Channel Four.’

      ‘So what, they’re some kind of bargain basement “Ant and Dec”?’

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