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on the bodies—been removed with surgical precision.
    Somebody wanted to keep them. But why?
    That was another question that needed an answer sooner rather than later.
    And now that some of the adrenaline had worn off and his brain was working, he found himself thinking more and more about the thing—the swans. When he went out for a smoke around midnight—out the back, in the enclosed courtyard where the press boys couldn’t corner him—he found that D.S. Simpson had been thinking along the same lines.
    “I might have something on the swans, boss,” she said as he lit up a cigarette. She finished her own smoke and lit another from the smoldering butt before continuing. “There was a robbery out in Fife last night—six swans. Six rare black swans.”
    Six? Bloody hell.
    He managed to keep his composure. “Any details?”
    Simpson shook her head.
    “I’m getting the D.I. in Fife out of his bed as we speak. He’s to call me in ten minutes to fill us in. But his D.S. said there were no real clues—the birds were taken from the sanctuary at Loch Leven and—”
    “Let me guess? It was as if they vanished into thin air?”
    Simpson nodded.
    “Somebody’s pulling our chain here, boss,” she said.
    Grainger grunted in reply.
    “A bloody magician. That’s all we need. And we’d better hope we find those wee lassies fast, because I’ve got a feeling that if we don’t, there’s going to be four more for us to look for.”
    * * *
    The night wore on, Grainger’s spirits dropping with every passing hour. As expected, the D.I. In Fife couldn’t throw any light on the case of the missing birds—he promised to do everything he could and put more manpower onto it, but Grainger wasn’t holding his breath. They were up against an opponent who was confident enough to snatch two young girls in a busy city in broad daylight without leaving a single clue behind. Such a person wouldn’t have had many problems making off with six swans under the cover of darkness from a deserted bird sanctuary.
    There were no sightings of either of the missing girls. The McGuire case had hit the news channels in the early hours—no name had been issued to the press yet, but they know it was another wee lassie, and that was enough for speculation to go into overdrive.
    As soon as the morning papers started to come in he went straight to Alan’s report to see if there was anything they hadn’t gleaned for themselves in the bar.
    There wasn’t—and no mention of swans either, but there was a huge picture of young Ellie from Albert Road. They’d found one of her crying and the headline, in huge black point, made Grainger’s blood run cold.
    “I’m lost, Mammy.”

 
     
     
    6
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    The sun came up as Alan crossed the Forth Road Bridge into Fife. It was a fine morning looking to settle into a sunny day and by the time he reached Loch Leven a wispy mist hung in hazy sunshine over the large expanse of water.
    The RSPB reserve was halfway along the south shore—Alan had driven past it many times without really paying it too much attention, but as he pulled into the car park he saw it was a larger scale operation than he’d imagined. A watchman stood at the entrance waiting for him.
    Coming out to this spot had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. He’d watched the feeds all night, but no one had anything new on the story, and the small item about the swans preyed on his mind so much he had to scratch the itch somehow. He’d gone home, got the car out of the garage for the first time in weeks, and drove, phoning ahead while sitting in a queue to get out of Edinburgh to make sure there would be someone to talk to. As it turned out, they had put in a night watchman—after the horse had bolted, but better than no watch at all. In the course of the phone call Alan also learned that the man had been asked to stay on site beyond the end of his shift—he was expecting the Fife C.I.D. at nine. Alan didn’t want to