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  ‘No need to be defensive about it,’ Moore said when she didn’t answer. ‘I know you guys are working it. Maybe you need something new. Freshen things up, you know.’

  Irvine said maybe.

  ‘No one else is free right now anyway,’ he said. ‘We’re getting slammed.’

  So what’s new?

  ‘What have you got?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a floater. Fished out the Clyde this morning down on the Broomielaw.’

  Irvine closed her eyes. Those were never good.

  ‘There’s a twist with this one,’ Moore said.

  ‘Okay. What is it?’

  ‘It’s a drug squad investigation. Those guys are at the locus already. They’ve asked for CID assistance.’

  ‘Am I volunteering?’

  ‘You already did.’

  Irvine cradled the phone with her shoulder while Moore talked, reached inside her jacket and took out a notebook. She wrote the location of the body. Was about to write the name of the drug squad contact on site when she paused.

  ‘Did you say the Director General is there?’ she asked Moore.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why is the head of the SCDEA at a crime scene?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. Must be big time, eh?’

  ‘I guess. Are we going to be in charge of the scene?’

  ‘Yes. I briefed Jim Murphy already.’

  Murphy was a veteran detective sergeant who had turned the latter half of his time on the force into a career as a crime scene manager. It was a desk job that he was entirely happy with as he headed rapidly downhill towards retirement. That wasn’t to say that he was a bad detective. He just preferred a life behind a desk to a life stepping over bodies.

  Who could blame him?

  ‘Leave it with me,’ Irvine told Moore. ‘I’ll head over there as soon as I can.’

  ‘Brief me when you get in.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Irvine had very little experience of dealing with the SCDEA — the Scottish Crime and Drug Enforcement Agency. But she knew enough about police hierarchies to realise that if the head man — the DG — was at a crime scene, then it was a very big deal.

  8

  Irvine felt cold in spite of the sun overhead as she walked along the riverside towards the small crowd gathered behind the yellow crime scene tape. She saw uniformed officers standing around looking bored and Scenes of Crime staff in the full regalia: white overalls, hoods, masks and booties.

  The sun was clear in the sky, only wisps of cloud spoiling the blue canvas. Irvine knew that it was her core temperature that had dropped, not the heat of the sun.

  When she reached the crowd, Irvine eased her way through, showing her warrant card to a uniformed officer who stepped up to block her. She saw two thirty-something men in dark suits with SCDEA gold shields fixed to their jackets. She could almost feel the sense of entitlement radiating from them.

  She approached the two men and introduced herself. They did the same: Detective Chief Superintendent Eric Thomson, head of operations at the SCDEA; and syndicate leader, Detective Inspector Bryan Fraser. Irvine didn’t know the jargon.

  ‘What’s a syndicate?’ she asked.

  ‘What we call our investigation teams,’ Thomson told her.

  Irvine wasn’t really sure what was wrong with the word ‘team’, but said nothing. She was here to make friends.

  Thomson was a short man with a neat beard and square-rimmed glasses. It looked to Irvine like he took some care over his appearance. Fraser was much taller — over six feet — with hair gone prematurely grey.

  ‘What’s the story here?’ Irvine asked.

  She looked past the two men at a white-suited technician on hands and knees going over the ground inch by inch for evidence.

  Fraser turned in the direction she was looking.

  ‘Young girl found this morning,’ he said. ‘Face down in the water.’

  ‘How old?’ she asked.

  ‘Eighteen or nineteen, we think.’

  Irvine winced.

  ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘The pathologist was here with the shell a half-hour ago.’

  Irvine knew the jargon this time: ‘the shell’ was the name given to the unmarked van that ferried bodies to the mortuary.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Fraser didn’t answer this time, looked at Thomson instead.

  ‘You should speak to the DG,’ he said. ‘And Kenny Armstrong. They’re around somewhere.’

  He swivelled his head, scanning the crowd.

  Irvine had seen photographs of the Director General — Paul Warren. He liked being high profile and was often front and centre when a big arrest was made.

  ‘Here they are,’ Thomson said, waving at two men making their way through the crowd.

  Warren was in his early fifties and wore a charcoal-coloured suit. He had short, greying hair and a narrow face. The man with him was about Irvine’s height with heavy stubble and close-cropped hair. His clothes looked like they had seen better days: stained jeans, a V-neck jumper and a black leather jacket.

  Thomson made the introductions. The man in the leather jacket was Detective Sergeant Kenny Armstrong.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ Armstrong said, looking down at himself as he shook Irvine’s hand. ‘I’ve been out all night on this and didn’t get the chance to change.’

  Irvine noticed that he had a bit of a Highland accent.

  ‘No worries,’ she said. ‘I know what that can be like.’

  ‘Kenny’s been working hard on this the last couple of weeks,’ Warren said. ‘Since it started.’

  ‘Not that it’s got us anywhere,’ Armstrong said, rubbing his hands over his face.

  ‘Since what started?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ Warren said. ‘We need to get you up to speed, don’t we?’

  He turned to Armstrong.

  ‘Kenny, can you get some steer from DC Irvine on working the scene and we can meet back at Pitt Street later today with the full team for a briefing. I’ll call you and let you know what time.’

  He told Irvine it had been nice to meet her then moved away with Thomson and Fraser in tow.

  ‘Not sure how I can steer you until I know what this is about,’ Irvine told Armstrong. ‘I mean, I’m a little in the dark.’

  ‘Welcome to Operation Red Square,’ Armstrong said flatly.

  9

  ‘CID are the experts,’ Armstrong said to Irvine as he walked with her to the top of the concrete embankment leading down to the river’s edge. ‘I mean, on murder investigations. It’s why we asked for your input.’

  They stopped at the top of the embankment. Irvine saw another of the forensic technicians being helped down the embankment wall to the muddy river’s edge. She turned to face Armstrong.

  ‘You’ve had more than one body?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the reason CID haven’t been called in before is that you didn’t think they were murders. Am I still on track?’

  Armstrong nodded. ‘You’re good,’ he said, smiling for the first time.

  ‘How many?’ Irvine asked.

  ‘How many what?’

  ‘Deaths.’

  ‘This is the fourth.’

  A line creased between Irvine’s eyes. ‘You’re saying you have four murders?’

  ‘Well, we’re not sure if they’re all murders.’ He opened his hands.

  ‘Okay,’ Irvine said, feeling more confused now than when she had arrived. ‘Let’s deal with what we have here then we can talk about the rest. What was it about this girl’s body that made you think someone killed her?’

  Irvine looked down at the technicians working in the shallow edge of the river, water halfway up their boots.

  ‘We’re not certain that she was killed,’ Armstrong said. ‘Not in the way you mean. By someone doing violence to her.’

  ‘But this one is different to the first three?’

  ‘Yes. The g
irl was naked.’

  ‘And who goes out at night in Glasgow like that before taking a swim, right?’

  ‘That’s what we thought.’

  ‘So at the very least someone was with her when she died. Stripped her and dumped her here.’ A further thought occurred to Irvine. ‘Why do you think this is linked to your operation? I mean, what’s the connection to the other bodies?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure that she is connected,’ Armstrong said. ‘I mean, the other deaths were overdoses so far as we can tell. But there are needle tracks on this girl’s body and no immediate signs of any other cause of death.’

  ‘Seems a bit of a stretch.’

  ‘You’re right. But it makes sense to treat it as potentially connected for now so that we can get a head start on working the case. If we’re wrong, we’ve lost nothing. You’ve got to understand that with three bodies already and now this one, it’s at the top of the list of priorities.’

  ‘Okay, I can see some sense in that. Anything else to go on? I mean, do we have an ID on the girl?’

  ‘One of the uniforms that responded to the call recognised her. She’s a working girl with a record for possession. Don’t have a name yet.’

  ‘We’ll need to speak to the uniforms.’

  Armstrong nodded.

  ‘Why strip her?’ Irvine asked. ‘I mean, if none of the other victims was stripped?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Irvine thought about that. It was a significant departure if this was connected to the earlier deaths.

  ‘Maybe because whoever she was with didn’t want to be connected to her,’ Irvine said. ‘It’s a way of trying to obliterate evidence.’

  One of the Scenes of Crime team working down on the bank picked something off the top of the mud and slipped it into an evidence bag.

  ‘Okay,’ Armstrong said. ‘I can see that could be it.’

  ‘Which might mean different things,’ Irvine went on. ‘I mean, a celebrity or a politician would want to avoid a scandal.’

  ‘Or someone in the supply chain who might not want to be connected to the drugs that have killed these people.’

  Irvine looked at Armstrong again.

  ‘That’s the link?’ she asked. ‘The same bad drugs?’

  He nodded.

  ‘We can fill you in on all of that at the briefing later today.’

  Irvine peered across the river, squinting at sunlight reflected on the surface of the water. The crowd behind them started to thin as it became clear that there was nothing much to see any more except a bunch of cops going about their painstaking business.

  ‘This is your investigation now,’ Armstrong said to Irvine. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Work the evidence. We want to get the ID on the girl and information on other girls who know her. Interview them and her family too, if she has any here. Check CCTV as well: see if we can track her movements yesterday.’

  Armstrong took out a notepad, flipped it open and made some notes as Irvine spoke.

  ‘If we know who she is, then we can check where she lives. Speak to anyone who lives with her.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Find her clothes. Or maybe what’s left of them. If I know criminals, the first thought is usually to dump them or dump and burn them. Probably won’t be too far away either. Something like this, they like to get it over with fast. We might get some residual evidence from that — hair, fibres or fluid samples. And we need to ask the pathologist to look out for that kind of thing during the post-mortem. She might have had sex before she was killed.’

  ‘Should we find out who she bought her regular supply of drugs from as well? And who her regular customers were.’

  ‘If we can. The other girls might know.’

  Armstrong wrote in his pad some more.

  ‘It’s always personal,’ Irvine said.

  ‘What?’ Armstrong asked.

  She looked at him and shook her head, she had been talking to herself more than anything.

  ‘I mean, that’s pretty much the rule in CID on murder investigations. It’s usually someone that the victim knows.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘So I’d bet whoever dumped her here had met her before today. And that’s how we break this case.’

  10

  Logan had gone back to his office to work on a backlog of contracts for new CPO jobs before the call to his contact at Homeland Security. He was putting the finishing touches to the last document when Cahill came in. It was a small room next to Cahill’s and Logan kept it simple: a walnut desk, swivel chair and a unit with a low-level cupboard and shelves above it. He glanced at the photograph of Ellie on the middle shelf as Cahill walked to his desk.

  ‘You ready?’ Cahill asked, holding up his watch and tapping on the face of it. ‘Just gone two.’

  Logan looked at his own watch, surprised to see that Cahill was right. He had worked through lunch without noticing.

  ‘I guess I got caught up in this stuff,’ Logan said, standing to follow Cahill as he left the room.

  Hardy was waiting for them back in the War Room, sipping from a bottle of water and watching more news coverage of the crash.

  ‘Anything new?’ Cahill asked.

  ‘Nope. Usual talk about recovering the black box and waiting till they know more before reaching any conclusions.’

  ‘Still no mention of terrorists?’

  ‘Nothing. Looks like it was an accident from what they’re saying, but who knows what they might be holding back?’

  Logan sat beside Hardy and pulled the conference phone towards him.

  ‘If it’s not terrorists, then why all the secrecy about your friend?’ Logan asked.

  Cahill shrugged and sat beside Logan.

  ‘Let’s call your contact and see what she can tell us.’

  Logan picked up the phone handset and punched in the number he had for Susan Jones at the Department of Homeland Security in New York.

  ‘I’m looking for Susan Jones,’ he said when a man answered.

  He was put on hold and pressed a button to activate the conference setting on the phone. A Tom Petty song started playing.

  ‘Nice hold music,’ Hardy said, tapping a pen on the table in time with the music.

  The music stopped and the same man came back on to the line.

  ‘Sir, who may I say is calling?’

  ‘Logan Finch.’

  Tom Petty was back on. Hardy started humming along.

  ‘Logan, hi,’ Susan Jones said after a minute. ‘It’s been a while. How are you?’

  She sounded incredibly bright and upbeat, which was what Logan remembered about her. That and the killer cheekbones.

  ‘I’m good. How’s things with you?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Still trying to keep the world safe from harm.’

  She laughed — a high, flutey sound. Logan always thought that it was totally at odds with such a tall, athletic woman.

  ‘I’ve got you on speakerphone, Susan. Is that okay?’

  Letting her know not to talk about anything other than business. Logan glanced at Cahill who winked at him.

  ‘Sure. Who have you got there? Clients getting roughed up at one of our airports?’

  ‘Uh, no. I’m not with Kennedy Boyd any more. I mean, I left private practice altogether.’

  ‘Good for you. I never did like lawyers.’

  The laugh again.

  ‘I’m with a security company. Close protection. I’ve got two of the team here. Alex Cahill and Tom Hardy.’

  They both said hello.

  ‘Fine, upstanding Americans, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Hardy said.

  ‘Southern manners,’ she laughed. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Have you heard about the crash over in Denver?’ Logan asked.

  ‘Of course. Awful, isn’t it?’

  There was no tell-tale change in her tone.

  ‘We had a call from someone who thinks that her husband
was on the flight…’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘… but the airline has no record of his name on the passenger manifest.’

  ‘Okay. I’m not sure what this has to do with DHS.’

  ‘Well, Alex called the airline and they put him on hold and when they came back on it was someone from law enforcement.’

  ‘FBI, I think,’ Cahill said.

  Jones was silent, though they could hear the sound of her fingers tapping on a keyboard.

  Cahill hit the mute button.

  ‘She’s going to cut us off,’ he said to Logan. ‘More cover-up bullshit.’

  Logan held up a hand and re-activated the phone.

  ‘Susan, is there anything you can tell us about that flight?’ Logan asked.

  ‘I’m checking our systems. Hold on.’

  Tap-tap-tap

  ‘No alerts at our end that I can see. What’s your friend’s name?’

  ‘Tim Stark,’ Cahill said. ‘Used to be FBI and then Secret Service.’

  ‘Oh my. Let me check the name and see what I can find. Call you back in five.’

  Five stretched to ten, stretched to twenty.

  The phone rang. Logan pressed the button to answer and activate the speaker.

  ‘Logan, it’s Susan.’

  ‘That was a long five minutes.’ He tried to keep his voice light.

  ‘I know. There’s a flag on your man Stark.’

  Cahill frowned. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you that. In fact, I shouldn’t really tell you anything else.’

  ‘He’s just about the most patriotic guy I know,’ Cahill said. ‘Bleeds red, white and blue. And he has a wife at home who’s tearing her hair out in a panic because nobody will tell her anything about what’s going on.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t say any more.’

  ‘Can you tell us if he was on the flight?’ Logan asked.

  ‘At least that,’ Cahill said. ‘Please.’

  She was quiet.

  ‘Susan…’ Logan said.

  ‘Tim Stark wasn’t listed on the flight,’ she said. ‘But the manifest shows that John Reece was on it.’

  Cahill leaned back in his chair, looked at Hardy and shook his head.

  ‘Thanks, Susan,’ Cahill said. ‘I appreciate it.’