Outside, Logan’s fifth-hand Punto was bathed in the glow of a security light. A huge man leaned back against the bonnet, tree-trunk arms folded over a great barrel of a chest. His three-piece suit looked brand new – the waistcoat straining over that vast belly. Shiny black brogues. Face a patchwork of scar tissue and fat, knitted together with a greying beard. A nose that was barely there any more.

Logan nodded. ‘Reuben.’

No response.

OK. . . Logan took his keys out. ‘Thought you were more of an overalls and steel toecaps kind of guy.’

Reuben just stared at him. Then slowly hauled himself off the bonnet.

The Punto’s suspension rose about three inches.

Logan drew his shoulders back, brought up his chin. ‘Go on then, out with it.’

But Reuben just turned and lumbered off into the darkness, brogues scrunching on the gravel. Didn’t say a word.

Logan stood there until the huge man disappeared, then slid in behind the wheel. The world was full of bloody weirdoes.

The windows of the caravan next door glowed pale yellow in the darkness and Logan climbed out of the Punto, engine ticking and pinging in the silence. On the other side of the River Don, the lights of the big Tesco glittered through the trees.

A noise, behind him. . .

Logan spun around, hands balling into fists.

Nothing.

Grove Cemetery was a mass of silhouettes, reaching up the hill to the railway line and the dual carriageway at the top. The first three rows of headstones were just visible in the orange streetlight. Beyond their reach everything was black and silent. Just the faint rumble of late-night traffic working its way through the Haudagain roundabout.

‘Hello? ’

Stand very still, don’t breathe, listen. . .

Nope, he was on his own. Which was just as well – no one about to see him acting like something out of a cheap horror movie.

Twit.

Logan found his house key and— Stopped. Another knot of bones hung from the door handle. More bloody chicken bones, wrapped up in a ribbon that was stained a greeny-grey by the sodium glow.

‘Very funny.’ He unhooked the bundle and chucked it into the bushes that separated the tiny caravan park from the riverbank. ‘Little bastards.’

Just because the Grampian Country Chickens factory used to be across the road, didn’t mean people had to be a dick about it.

Sunday

Sunday

Chapter 4

4

‘. . .sometime in the next week. And we’ll have more top eighties hits between now and nine, but first here’s the weather. . .’

‘Unggg. . .’ Logan rolled over and peered up at the bedroom ceiling. A slice of golden light jabbed through the gap in the curtains, making motes of dust shine against the scarlet walls. He reached out a hand, but Samantha wasn’t there – her side of the bed a rumpled mess of duvet and pillows. Always was a restless sleeper.

The alarm clock blinked ‘06:15’ at him in cheerless green.