Page 104 of Better the Devil

‘They’ve got trackers in them. GPS,’ the sergeant explained. ‘So the members can coordinate themselves. Keep track of who’s where.’

‘They’re a neighbourhood watch group, no’ the bloody SAS,’ Logan pointed out.

Just the thought of it annoyed him. Groups like HAWKS had existed for decades. Centuries, probably. Up until now, they’d somehow managed to struggle by without a satellite tracking system watching their every move.

The world was becoming needlessly complicated. Although, had Joe Robertson’s tracker been switched on, this could all have been over with hours ago, so maybe there was something to the idea.

‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance you can turn it on remotely?’ Logan asked.

‘No. Not as far as I know,’ Fleck replied.

‘Doubt it,’ Hamza agreed. ‘Be all kinds of privacy issues, not to mention the practicality of it.’

‘Yeah, as far as I’m aware, they need to activate it themselves. And I’m not even sure Joe will know how.’

Logan didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. ‘Then we’d better hurry up and find him the old-fashioned way.’

‘I honestly don’t believe he’ll hurt anyone,’ Fleck said, jumping to the old man’s defence. ‘I mean, himself, maybe. That’s my worry. But I don’t think he’s a danger to others.’

‘Well, let’s hope you’re right,’ Logan told him. ‘Let’s run an ANPR check on his car, though, just out of interest.’

‘He doesn’t have his car,’ Dave pointed out.

‘No, but if he travelled to Forres to kill Kendrick Crichton on Wednesday afternoon, then he sure as hell didn’t walk it.’

‘I’ve got access to the ANPR database, if you want me to run the search?’ Fleck asked. ‘Make myself useful.’

He broke the uneasy silence before it had a chance to take hold.

‘Although, actually, no. Given that I know Joe, maybe better if someone else…?’ He looked around the room, like he was searching for a volunteer.

He found one in DC Davidson.

‘On it,’ Dave declared, wheeling himself back to his desk.

Logan turned and studied the Big Board, his fingertips rasping across the stubble on his chin. Joe Robertson was a lead. The slimmest one, maybe, but better than nothing. They might get a hit on his car reg near Kendrick Crichton’s house.

They might find he’d taken a hacksaw to his shotgun.

They might turn upsomething.

But items on the Big Board kept jumping out at him, paragraphs popping off the Post-its and the pinned pages.

Young woman seen walking. Hostile. Aggressive. Fearless.

Bosco Maximuke framed? Why?

To deflect blame? To have him sent back to prison?

Condom wrapper.

Affair?Other woman?

‘Hold on,’ Logan said, spinning around again. ‘Condom wrapper. Other woman. Where’s the PM report for Victor Belov?’

Tyler rolled in his chair over to his desk, fingers already reaching for the keyboard. He had barely even started to type when Sinead produced a printed version from a pile of paperwork on her desk.

‘Came in while you were out earlier, sir,’ she said, passing Logan the report. ‘Haven’t had a chance to fully go through it yet.’