A seven-foot-long schlong on the side of a lighthouse was still funny, obviously, but was it viral video material? Maybe. If it was detailed enough. Veins, and ball hairs, and all that. Maybe some flying droplets of spunk.
It would all be in the selling of it. He knew, despite all the many comments on his channel to the contrary, that he could be funny and charming on camera. That was half the battle. Win them round with the banter, then seal the deal by spray painting a seven-foot penis on a relatively popular landmark.
This wasn’t a disaster. This could still be a success. He could still make this work, ladder or no ladder.
It was thirty seconds later when Herbert fell in the hole. It was quite a large hole, as holes went—more of a sudden dip in the ground several metres wide than a narrow drop into a confined space—and he really should’ve seen it coming.
He slid and rolled down one of the steep sides, wet mud soaking through the back of his trousers until he looked like he’d suffered an explosive bout of diarrhoea.
He landed at the bottom with a squelch and a splat, and the world came alive with insects. Even more so than it already had been, which was saying something.
Herbert spent a terrifying few seconds batting them away and shaking them off, then he jumped to his feet, made a mad dash for freedom, and fell once again.
He landed in darkness. Soot. Ash. His sudden arrival woke the smell of fire, and of smoke, as he struggled to push himself back, away, up.
But there was something beneath him. Something hideous. Something wrong.
A face grinned up from the remains of the fire. A skull, the skin and flesh charred away, the eye sockets hollow. Mostly.
Lost, alone, and miles from home, Herbert Gibson scrambled backwards through the mud, and the heather, and the bugs.
And then, he wiped his tears on his blackened hands, vomited down his front, and screamed.
CHAPTER TWO
Detective Chief Inspector Jack Logan of Police Scotland was suspicious. This was not entirely unusual—most of his days were spent being suspicious of one thing or another—but right now his finely-tuned polis instincts were making their presence felt even more so than usual.
It was the suddenness of it that had first set him wondering. His girlfriend—a word he was only just getting used to using—Shona Maguire, had sprung it on him at eleven o’clock the night before. They both had a day off—him from the polis, her from the mortuary—so they should take a wee day trip to Largs, she’d said. They should go and eat ice cream at Nardini’s, she’d said.
In all the time Logan had known the pathologist, she’d never once mentioned Largs before. Granted, she was a big fan of ice cream, and Nardini’s was widely recognised as one of the best places in Scotland to secure some Class-A Mint Choc Chip.
Still, it was suspicious. She was up to something. He just couldn’t quite figure out what.
They sat at a slightly shoogly table beneath a red and white striped awning, the cafe’s no dogs policy preventing them from venturing inside with Taggart.
Logan had owned the dog for just over three months, and had spent that time hoping the wee bastard might start behaving more sensibly any day now.
So far, this train of thought had only led to disappointment.
On the plus side, Taggart was now toilet trained, and Logan no longer had to be ready with a bottle of disinfectant spray and an apology whenever he entered a building with the animal. Other than that, though, he had demonstrated a disappointing lack of maturity. He must be coming on for five or six months old now, too. High time the bugger started to grow up.
“How’s your ice cream?” Shona asked. She was sitting with her back to the cafe doors, so she was looking out across the road, past the car park and the giant metal statue of a Viking, to where the water gobbled up the beach.
Logan jabbed at the contents of his bowl. In sunnier climes, the ice cream would have melted by now. In Scotland in late September, it would stay mostly solid for a good hour yet.
“It’s good, aye,” he confirmed.
“Can’t believe you went for vanilla,” Shona said, with a suggestion of a reprimand. “All those flavours, and you choose vanilla.”
Logan looked down at his bowl again. Taggart was partially visible beneath the table, staring up in the hope of being fed. Considering he’d already had half Logan’s fish and chips, he was on a hiding to nothing.
“I like vanilla,” Logan remarked. “Anyway, you went for literally all the other flavours, so I thought I’d better balance it up.”
Shona grinned and plunged her spoon into the rainbow of colours, chips, and sprinkles that filled her bowl. “You’ve got to take these chances when you can,” she said, then she gestured at the cafe, and the area immediately surrounding it. “Like today. How often do we both get the same day off?”
Logan blew out his cheeks. “About once a week.”
“OK, yes, things have been pretty quiet recently,” Shona conceded. “But you don’t know when a case is going to come up, and we end up working all hours. That’s why I thought, sunny day, why not take a trip to Largs for some ice cream?”
“Sunny-ish day,” Logan corrected, indicating the layer of light grey cloud cover overhead. “And because it’s a four-hour drive each way.”
“But it’s nice, though, isn’t it? To get away for a bit. It’s lovely.”
“Aye. It is,” Logan admitted. His eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Shona shoved an enormous spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, but somehow managed to say, “How do you mean?” without letting it touch her teeth.
“This. Here. You’re up to something.”
Across the table, Shona shook her head. “No ‘mnot,” she said, moving the ice-cold dessert around in her mouth in a way that maximised flavour and minimised the risk of brain freeze.
“You bloody are.”
Shona shook her head. “No. ‘m not up to anything!”
A voice spoke from the steps on Logan’s right. It was harsh, and sharp, and achingly familiar. “You have got to be bloody kidding me.”
Shona swallowed. “OK, I am up to something,” she conceded, then she turned and smiled at the couple standing on the steps of the cafe, and at the furious looking young woman, in particular. “Hello!” she said. “You must be Maddie.” Her gaze flitted across the table to Logan. “Your dad’s told me so much about you!”
There had been raised voices. Accusations slung, most of them in Logan’s direction. Maddie had accused him of masterminding the whole meeting. Of luring her here when he knew damn well that she had no interest in seeing him.
His protests had been drowned out by the shouting, and by the barking as Taggart tried to get in on the drama. It was the man that Maddie was with who eventually calmed things down. He was her husband, Logan knew, although only from stalking her social media profiles, his wedding invitation having failed to materialise in the post earlier in the year.
“What are you saying, Anderson?” Maddie had demanded when he’d started to explain. “You set this up?”