Better the Devil (DCI Logan Crime Thrillers #22)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Joe Robertson knew what this was. He knew precisely what this was.

Shagging. It was obvious. He could smell it.

Well, no, not literally. Not from this distance, anyway. Metaphorically, though, he could. Metaphorically, the whole thing reeked of horrible, disgusting, animal sex.

Though not actual animal sex. That, he could deal with. That was just nature. Animals didn’t have houses, or access to hotel rooms, so they had no option but to go about their dirty business out here in the open.

Even then, though, they were discreet about it. Thinking back, Joe couldn’t actually recall any specific incidents of animal-on-animal intercourse that he’d witnessed in all of his sixty-six years on Earth.

Sure, he’d had his leg humped by a few dogs in that time, but come on, hadn’t everyone? That was just par for the course. It was lighthearted. Everyone got a laugh out of it.

Not so much with that Rottweiler, mind you. That had left a mark.

But this?

Here?

A flashy motor parked up in a secluded lay-by in his neck of the woods?

No. This was no comedic canine-based leg-humping. This was your actual human sexual intercourse, he’d stake his life on it.

And it was happening right here on his evening patrol.

Joe straightened his Neighbourhood Watch hi-vis vest. He’d been coordinator for the Aviemore-adjacent branch of the Highland Area Watch Keepers Society for going on eight years now, and he took his responsibilities seriously.

Too seriously, Maureen said. But Maureen wasn’t out here being confronted by it night after night, was she?

Maureen wasn’t the one being faced with the moral decay happening right here in their lay-by.

No, she’d be sat at home, halfway through a big Toblerone, and up to her neck in the total collapse of civilisation.

Or, as she called it, EastEnders.

Joe didn’t understand. He’d never understand. The big Toblerone, aye, but why get so engrossed in fictional drama when the real thing was out here, closing in on them, hammering at the gates of their own community?

This, out here, was where the action was. This was life at the sharp edge.

Joe popped a Polo mint in his mouth, tugged on his vest again to ensure the HAWKS logo was front and centre, then took out his grandfather’s whistle and gave three short, sharp blows on it.

The sound was shrill and piercing, and loud enough that anyone in the parked-up BMW should be able to hear it.

He hoped so, anyway. The last thing he wanted was to approach the window and catch them in the act. At it, so to speak. Maybe her on top of him, stripped bare, writhing and grinding away like nobody’s business, hair flying, sweat gleaming on all that exposed skin.

The Polo mint clacked against Joe’s teeth.

No. No, he wouldn’t approve of that sort of thing at all.

Still, maybe best not to announce himself any further. Best if they couldn’t deny what they’d been up to. If he had to come face to face with that sort of wanton filth, then so be it. Such was the price of duty.

He returned the whistle to his pocket, then marched towards the car, righteous indignation propelling him forward.

There was still an hour or so of daylight left, but low cloud cover had cast the area into darkness. Spots of rain dotted the car’s rear windscreen. Tinted, of course, to disguise the depravity going on inside.

Well, he’d soon see about that.

Joe rapped his knuckles on the driver’s side glass. Three firm knocks that signalled he meant business.

‘Neighbourhood Watch!’ he announced. ‘I know what you’re up to in there, and I’m not having it!’

No response.

So, not just degenerate perverts, then, but cowards, too. This was worse than he thought.

‘I’m giving you to the count of three to make yourselves decent, then I’m coming in!’

Still nothing.

Maybe they were frozen with embarrassment. Good. Served them right.

He tried to peer in through the windows, but the tint and the lack of sunlight made it hard to see. Like a bloody idiot, he’d left his torch at home, too. He’d better not tell the rest of the team about that one, or they’d never let him live it down.

He knocked again. Still nothing.

He tried the door handle.

Unlocked.

‘Ah-ha!’ he said, to nobody in particular.

The door gave a clunk as Joe pulled it open, already formulating the lecture he intended to deliver regarding public decency, and appropriate venues for these sorts of shenanigans.

And, if he happened to cop an eyeful at the same time, then hell mend them. They’d brought that on themselves.

‘Now, then, you dirty hooligans,’ he began.

The rest of the sentence died in his throat.

There were no sexual escapades going on. Not by this man. Not in his state.

He was slouched sideways in the driver’s seat, his head lolling towards the empty passenger side like it was about to snap off and land in the footwell.

His throat had been opened from ear to ear, the curved wound gaping and dark. A devil’s smile.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt, glistening red. It dotted the dashboard, slicked the steering wheel, pooled in puddles on the leather upholstery.

And the eyes of the dead man were open. Staring. Blank.

Joe stumbled back, his hi-vis vest suddenly feeling very visible, very bright, very exposed.

He patted at himself. At his pockets.

His phone. Where was his phone?

Not at home, surely? Not that, too?

Christ, he’d never live this down.

His heel hit a rock at the edge of the lay-by. He went down, backside-first, on the damp grass. The jolt of the impact nearly made him choke on his Polo.

This was worse than shagging. Way worse.

This was an actual murder. On his patch. Right under his bloody nose.

Hands shaking, eyes wide, arse wet, Joe Robertson took out his grandfather’s whistle, and he blew, and he blew, and he blew.