Should put a flag on the crime number, in case the insurance company got in touch.
Why was it, the richer some people got, the fewer morals they had?
Of course, maybe that’s how they got toberich in the first place...
Forest Road was even swankier, with huge granite mansions, baronial palaces, Edwardian halls, and the odd Schloss thrown in for good luck. And it was lined with trees, so there was a nice bit of shade from the punishing sun.
Good for strolling along with your hands in your pockets.
Logan’s phoneding-buzzed as he took a left onto Rubislaw Den North. Which was posher still. You’d need a serious lottery win to afford anything in this part of Aberdeen. Or old family money.
Ah, a boy could dream...
He checked his phone, pulling up the new message as he wandered through the leopard-spot shade. Not a text this time, but an email.
SHEILADALRYMPLE:
Well met, good fellow; I trust the day finds ye hale and hearty.
Attached, please find, these photographic representations of our sorry victim’s physiognomy as recorded by mine device of miraculous wire-free communication this very morning. {official pics to follow}
My mistress hath scheduled a post-mortem ere the cock crows ten tomorrow’s morn. And greatly pleased we would be to have thy presence for this grand affair!
Your obedient servant,
Miss Sheila J. Dalrymple
Swear to God, she was drinking on the job.
Logan clicked on the attachment, starting the download.
Over on the other side of the street, a woman jogged by in her Gucci tracksuit and Chanel sweatband, with a ridiculous-looking cockapoo trotting along beside her on an extending leash. No doubt impressed by Logan’s fighting suit, she gave him a cheery smile on the way past.
Little did she know that his entire outfit came from the big Asda in Garthdee.
But he returned her greeting anyway, the smile vanishing from his face as Sheila Dalrymple’s attachment finally appeared.
Bloody hell...
Logan leaned against the cool trunk of the nearest tree. Frowning at the screen.
It was a portrait shot: the body lay on its back on the pebbled beach. Even with the flash on, the camera hadn’t been able to adjust for the watery blue light that seeped in through the SOC-marquee walls, draining colour from the remains.
Which was probably a blessing.
The features were lopsided – barely recognisable through all the swelling. One cheek looked broken, and the eye socket above it was virtually gone too. The mouth nothing but a mess of tattered flesh. The nose almost non-existent.
It wasn’t just a beating: whoever this poor sod was, they’d been subjected to ahorrificlevel of violence. Didn’t matter what they’d done: no one deserved that.
Because the body had been lying facedown in the river, all the blood had pooled in the lowermost tissues. Turning the skin there beetroot-purple, while everything above it was the colour of frozen butter.
Logan huffed out a long breath and scrolled through the other photos.
Number Two was a close-up of the eyes, ballooned up to scarlet slits. Number Three showed the left ear, almost completely ripped from the victim’s head. And last, Number Four. The poor sod’s right hand – with every single finger on it broken and dislocated.
Even with the sun softening the tarmac, the day had turned a lot colder.
Logan took a breath, hit ‘FORWARD’, and thumbed out an email to Biohazard.