Free In the Cold Dark Ground by Stuart MacBride

an OS map of the woods. ‘Post mortem is at ten. Till then, the powers that be are no’ letting us unwrap our present.’
    The e-cigarette clicked against a close-up of the bin-bag taped over the body’s head.
    Another hand went up. ‘Guv: how come?’
    She didn’t look at the questioner. ‘What did I say about stupid questions?’
    The hand went down again. ‘Sorry, Guv.’
    ‘Soon as they break the seal and invalidate the warranty, DS Dawson will be taking an ID photo and emailing it straight up. If we’re lucky, one of the local bunnets will recognize our victim. But just in case: I want posters. Becky? You’re on that. Blanket coverage.’
    A large woman in a black suit nodded, sending her frizzy brown hair wobbling. ‘Guv.’
    ‘Next.’ She tossed a pile of printouts to the person sitting nearest – a thin bloke in a cheap fighting suit and seven-quid haircut.
    He took one, then passed the rest on.
    She waited for the printouts to get halfway around the room. ‘We got an MO hit on the database. Naked body, battered, bag over the head, dumped in woods. Last one belonged to a Lithuanian pimp operating on Leith Walk, Edinburgh, six months ago.’
    The stack had made its way as far as Logan. Steel’s handout had half a dozen photos on it: different views of a body like the one from yesterday, only this victim was lying on a mortuary slab instead of the forest floor and the bag over his head had been slit open, revealing a gaunt face with a hooked nose and crooked teeth. More bruising. Both eyes swollen shut.
    ‘Allegedly, Artu¯ras Kazlauskas didn’t bother asking Malk the Knife’s permission before hooring women out in his city, so Malky sent someone round to teach him some manners. Details are the same, right down to the body getting a dose of bleach after death to mask DNA and trace evidence.’ She took a sheet of paper from a folder and stuck it to the whiteboard with some fridge magnets. It was blown-up from a magazine, part of the text running down one side of the image. A man with a short haircut, baggy eyes, cheery cheeks, and a tuxedo. It was the kind of face that belonged on a Rotary Club steering committee, that always bought the first round, that invited friends from work over for a barbecue, and never forgot the receptionist’s birthday.
    Steel poked it in the forehead with her fake fag. ‘Malcolm McLennan, AKA: Malk the Knife. Edinburgh’s Mr Huge. You run drugs, guns, illegal immigrants, or prostitutes in the city, he gets a cut or you wind up missing important bits.
If
you’re lucky.’
    Logan turned his sheet over. There were another three bodies pictured on the back. All naked, all male, all battered, all with bin-bags duct-taped over their heads.
    Steel sniffed. ‘And before some smart aleck asks the obvious question: no, we don’t know who killed this lot. Don’t even know if it’s the same person each time. And the Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism Unit can’t prove Malky ordered the killings either. So they’re about as much use as Rennie in a knocking shop.’
    ‘Hey!’
    ‘Shut up.’
    Logan turned the paper back over again. Jessica Campbell was bringing drugs into Aberdeenshire from Glasgow. And now Malcolm McLennan was killing people in Banff. John Urquhart was right: Wee Hamish Mowat might not be dead yet, but the big boys were already muscling in.
    Which meant that sooner or later, Reuben was going to kick back. Hard.
    The post-briefing rush for the canteen and the toilets thundered through the station as Steel lounged by the Major Incident Room window, smoking her fake cigarette and exploring her armpit with one hand while the other pinned a mobile phone to her ear. ‘Yeah… Nah… Did he?… Yeah…’
    Logan folded the printout with its dead bodies into four and stuck it on the table.
    Rennie slouched over. ‘You run B Division, right?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘The guvnor wants a couple of bunnets to go door-to-door when pics of the victim’s face come in. You