Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae)

by Stuart MacBride

  Two minutes later a small, balding man with a pair of half-moon glasses arrived. He was wearing the same uniform-blue sweater as the rest of the staff, but his name badge said: ‘COLIN BRANAGAN, MANAGER’.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Logan pulled out his warrant card and handed it over for inspection. ‘Mr Branagan, we need to get some information on someone who was shopping here last Wednesday.’ He pulled out the receipt, now safely encased in a clear-plastic evidence wallet. ‘He paid cash, but he used his Clubcard. Can you give me his name and address from the card number?’

  The manager took the see-through envelope and bit his lip. ‘Ah, well I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘You see we’ve got to abide by the Data Protection Act. I can’t just go giving out our shoppers’ personal details. We’d be liable.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  Logan dropped his voice to a near-whisper. ‘It’s important, Mr Branagan: we’re investigating an extremely serious crime.’

  The manager ran a hand over the shiny top of his head. ‘I don’t know. . . I’ll have to ask Head Office. . .’

  ‘Fine. Let’s go do that.’

  Head Office said sorry, but no: if he wanted access to their customers’ records he’d have to make a formal request in writing or get a court order. They had to abide by the Data Protection Act. There could be no exceptions.

  Logan told them about the little girl’s body in the bin-bag.

  Head Office changed their minds.

  Five minutes later Logan was outside clutching an A4 sheet of paper on which was printed a name, address and total number of Clubcard points earned since September.

  8

  Norman Chalmers lived in a tightly-packed, three-storey tenement off Rosemount Place. The long one-way street curved away to the right, the dirty grey buildings looming over the crowded road cutting the sky until it was nothing more than a thin strip of angry clouds, tainted orange by the streetlights. Cars were parked along the kerb, jammed in nose to tail, the only break formed by the massive, communal wheelie-bins, chained together in pairs, each one big enough to hold a week’s rubbish for six households.

  The endless rain drummed off the roof of the CID pool car as WPC Watson cursed her way around the block, yet again, looking for a parking spot.

  Logan watched as the building slid by for the third time, ignoring WPC Watson’s murmured swearing. Number seventeen looked no different to the rest of the tenement block. Three storeys of unadorned granite blocks, streaked with rust from the decaying drainpipes. Light seeped out through the curtained windows, the muffled sound of after-work television just audible under the downpour.

  On the fourth time around Logan told her to give up and double park in front of Chalmers’s flat.

  Watson jumped out into the wet night, splashing between two parked cars to the pavement, the rain bouncing off her peaked cap. Logan followed, cursing as a puddle engulfed his shoe. He squelched his way to the tenement door: a dark-brown, featureless slab of wood set back behind an elaborate architrave, though the carved woodwork was so heavily coated in years of paint that little detail remained. A steady stream of water splattered off the pavement to their left, the downpipe from the guttering cracked halfway up.

  Watson squeezed the transmit button on her radio, producing a faint hiss of static and a click. ‘Ready to go?’ she said, her voice low.

  ‘Roger that. Exit from the street is secure.’

  Logan looked up to see Bravo Seven One idling at the far end of the curving street. Bravo Eight One confirmed that they were ready too, watching the Rosemount Place end, making sure no one was going to do a runner. Bucksburn station had loaned Logan two patrol cars and a handful of uniforms with local knowledge. The officers in the cars were doing a lot better than the ones on foot.

  ‘Check.’

  The new voice sounded cold and miserable. It would be either PC Milligan or Barnett. They’d drawn the short straw. The road backed onto another curved avenue of tenements, the back gardens sharing a high dividing wall. So the poor sods had to clamber over the back wall from the adjoining street. In the dark and the mud. In the pouring rain.

  ‘We’re in position.’

  Watson looked at Logan expectantly.

  The building didn’t have an intercom, but there was a row of three bells on either side of the doorway, the buttons clarted round the edges with more brown paint. Little labels sulked beneath them, each one giving the name of the occupant. ‘NORMAN CHALMERS’ was written in blue biro on a square of bloated cardboard sellotaped over the name of the previous owner. Top floor right. Logan stepped back and looked up at the building. The lights were on.

  ‘OK.’ He leaned forward and rang the middle buzzer, the one marked ‘ANDERSON’. Two minutes later the door was opened by a nervous man in his mid to late twenties, big hair and heavy features, with a large bruise riding high on his cheekbone. He was still dressed from work: a cheap grey suit, the trousers all shiny at the knee, and a rumpled yellow shirt. In fact most of him looked rumpled. His face went pale when he saw WPC Watson’s uniform.

  ‘Mr Anderson?’ said Logan, stepping forward and sticking his foot in the door. Just in case.

  ‘Er . . . yes?’ The man had a strong Edinburgh accent, the vowels going up and down in the middle. ‘Is there a problem, officer?’ He backed off into the airlock, his scuffed shoes clicking on the brown-and-cream tiles.

  Logan smiled reassuringly. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, sir,’ he said, following the nervous young man into the building. ‘We need to speak to one of your neighbours, but his bell doesn’t seem to be working.’ Which was a lie.

  A weak smile spread across Mr Anderson’s face. ‘Oh. . . OK. Yeah.’

  Logan paused. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there.’

  Anderson’s hand fluttered up to the swollen, purple-and-green skin.

  ‘I . . . I walked into a door.’ But he couldn’t look Logan in the eye as he said it.

  They followed Mr Anderson up the stairs, thanking him for his help as he disappeared inside his first floor flat.

  ‘He was hell of a nervous,’ said Watson when the door latch clicked shut, the deadbolt was driven home, and the chain rattled into position. ‘Think he’s up to something?’

  Logan nodded. ‘Everyone’s up to something,’ he said. ‘And did you see that bruise? Walked into a door, my foot. Someone’s belted him one.’

  She stared at the door. ‘Too scared to report it?’

  ‘Probably. But, it’s not our problem.’

  The faded stair-carpet gave out at the middle floor; from here on up it was bare wooden boards that creaked and groaned as they climbed. There were three doors on the top landing. One would lead up to the communal attic, one to the other top floor flat; but the third belonged to Norman Chalmers.

  It was painted dark blue and a brass number six had been fixed just below the peephole. WPC Watson flattened herself against the door, keeping herself and her uniform out of the line of sight.

  Logan knocked lightly, just as a nervous downstairs neighbour might if he wanted to borrow a cupful of crème fraîche, or an avocado.

  There was a creak, the roar of a television set, and then the sound of a deadbolt being drawn back. A key being turned in the lock.

  The door was opened by a man in his early thirties with long hair, a squint nose and neatly trimmed beard. ‘Hello. . .’ was as far as he got.

  WPC Watson lunged for him, grabbed his arm and showed him a way nature never intended it to bend.

  ‘What the. . . hey!’

  She forced him back into the flat.

  ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! You’re breaking my arm!’

  Watson pulled out a pair of handcuffs. ‘Norman Chalmers?’ she asked, slapping the cold metal bracelets into place.

  ‘I haven’t done anything!’

  Logan stepped into the small entrance hall, squeezing past WPC Watson and her
wriggling captive so that he could get the door closed. The tiny triangular entrance hall offered three panelled-pine doors and an open doorway leading to a galley kitchen looking more like a rubber dinghy than a galley.

  Everything was painted in eye-wateringly bright colours.

  ‘Now then, Mr Chalmers,’ said Logan, opening a door at random and discovering a compact bathroom in luminous green. ‘Why don’t we go sit down and have a nice little chat?’ He tried another door, this time revealing a large orange lounge with a brown corduroy couch, a fake gas-fire, home cinema system and a computer. The walls were covered with film posters and a huge rack of DVDs.

  ‘What a lovely home you have, Mr Chalmers; or can I call you Norman?’

  Logan settled himself down on the nasty brown couch before realizing it was clarted in cat hair.

  Chalmers bristled, his hands cuffed behind his back, WPC Watson still holding on to him, stopping him from going anywhere. ‘What the hell is this all about?’

  Logan smiled like a shark. ‘All in good time, sir. WPC Watson, would you be so kind as to read this gentleman his rights?’

  ‘You’re arresting me? What for? I haven’t done anything!’

  ‘No need to shout, sir. Constable, if you please. . .’

  ‘Norman Chalmers,’ she said, ‘I am detaining you on suspicion of the murder of an unidentified four-year-old girl.’

  ‘What?’ He struggled against the handcuffs as Watson went through the remainder of the speech, shouting over and over again that he hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t killed anyone. This was all a mistake.

  Logan let him run out of steam before holding up a set of duly signed and notarized papers. ‘I have here a warrant to search these premises. You were careless, Norman. We found her body.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’

  ‘You should have used a fresh bin-bag, Norman. You killed her, and just threw her out with all your other rubbish. But you didn’t check for incriminating evidence, did you?’ He held up the clear plastic wallet with the supermarket till receipt in it. ‘Avocadoes, cabernet sauvignon, crème fraîche and a dozen free-range eggs. Do you have a Tesco Clubcard, sir?’

  ‘This is insane! I didn’t kill anyone!’

  WPC Watson looked down to see a bulge in Chalmers’s back pocket. It was a wallet. And there, nestling between a Visa card and membership of the local video shop was a Clubcard. The number on the card matched the one on the receipt.

  ‘Get your coat, Mr Chalmers, you’re going for a little ride.’

  Interview room three was oppressively hot. The radiator pumped heat into the little beige space and Logan couldn’t get it to stop. It wasn’t even as if they could open a window. So instead they suffered the heat and the stale air.

  Present: DS Logan McRae, WPC Watson, Norman Chalmers and DI Insch.

  The inspector hadn’t said a word since entering the room, just stood at the back, leaning against the wall, working his way through a family-sized bag of liquorice allsorts. Sweating.

  Mr Chalmers had decided not to help the police with their enquiries. ‘I told you I’m not saying a bloody thing till you get my lawyer in here.’

  Logan sighed. They’d been over this time and time again. ‘You’re not getting a lawyer until we’ve finished the interview, Norman.’

  ‘I want a bloody lawyer now!’

  Gritting his teeth, Logan closed his eyes and counted to ten. ‘Norman,’ he said at last, tapping the investigation file against the tabletop. ‘We’ve got Forensics going through your house right now. They’re going to find traces of the girl. You know that. If you talk to us now it’ll look a damn sight better for you when you get to court.’

  Norman Chalmers just stared straight ahead.

  ‘Look, Norman, help us to help you! A wee girl is dead—’

  ‘Are you deaf? I want my fucking lawyer!’ He folded his arms and sat back in his chair. ‘I know my rights.’

  ‘Your rights?’

  ‘I have a legal right to legal council. You can’t interview me without a lawyer present!’ A self-righteous smile spread over Chalmers’s face.

  DI Insch snorted, but Logan almost laughed. ‘No you don’t! This is Scotland. You get to see your lawyer after we’ve finished with you. Not before.’

  ‘I want my lawyer!’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Logan hurled the file down on the tabletop, causing the contents to spill out onto the Formica. A photo of a little dead body wrapped up in parcel tape. Norman Chalmers didn’t even look at it.

  At last DI Insch spoke, his voice a low bass rumble in the crowded room.

  ‘Get him his lawyer.’

  ‘Sir?’ Logan sounded as surprised as he looked.

  ‘You heard me. Get him his lawyer.’

  Forty-five minutes later they were still waiting.

  DI Insch stuffed another multicoloured square in his mouth and chewed noisily. ‘He’s doing this on purpose. The slimy little git’s doing it just to piss us off.’

  The door opened, just in time to catch the inspector’s complaint.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said a voice from the door, with obvious disapproval.

  Norman Chalmers’s legal representative had arrived.

  Logan took one look at the lawyer and suppressed a groan. He was a tall, thin man wearing a luxurious overcoat, expensive black suit, white shirt, blue silk tie and an earnest expression. His hair had more grey in it than the last time Logan had seen it, but the man’s smile was every bit as annoying as he remembered. When the lawyer had cross-examined him, trying to make out that he’d fabricated the whole case. That Angus Robertson, AKA the ‘Mastrick Monster’, was the real victim.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Moir-Farquharson.’ Insch pronounced it as it was spelt – ‘Far-Quar-Son’ rather than the traditional ‘Facherson’, because he knew it annoyed him. ‘I was speaking about some other slimy git. How nice of you to join us.’

  The lawyer sighed and draped his overcoat over the back of the last spare seat at the interview table. ‘Please tell me we don’t have to go through all this again, Inspector,’ he said, pulling a slender, silver laptop from his briefcase. The soft purr of it powering up was almost inaudible in the crowded little room.

  ‘All what, Mr Far-Quar-Son?’

  The lawyer scowled at him. ‘You know very well what. I am here to represent my client, not listen to your insults. I don’t want to have to make yet another complaint to the Chief Constable about your behaviour.’

  Insch’s features darkened, but he didn’t say anything.

  ‘Now,’ said the lawyer, picking away at the laptop’s keyboard, ‘I have a copy of the charges against my client. I would like to confer with him in private before we make a formal statement.’

  ‘Aye?’ Insch left his perch against the wall and leaned his huge fists against the tabletop, looming over Chalmers. ‘Well, we’d like to ask your “client” why he murdered a four-year-old girl and threw her body out with the garbage!’

  Chalmers jumped out of his seat.

  ‘I didn’t! Will you bastards bloody listen? I didn’t do anything!’

  Sandy Moir-Farquharson laid a hand on Chalmers’s arm. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to say anything. Just sit back down and let me do the talking, OK?’

  Chalmers looked down at his lawyer, nodded, and slowly sank back into his seat.

  Insch hadn’t moved.

  ‘So, Inspector,’ said Moir-Farquharson, ‘as I said: I’d like to speak to my client in private. After that we will help you with your enquiries.’

  ‘That’s no’ how this works.’ Insch scowled at the lawyer. ‘You have no legal right of access to this wee shite whatsoever. You are here as a courtesy only.’ He leaned in so close there was barely a breath between them. ‘I’m running this show, not you.’

  Moir-Farquharson smiled calmly up at him. ‘Inspector,’ he said in his most reasonable voice, ‘I am well aware of the vagaries of Sco
ttish law. However, as a sign of good faith, I’m asking you to let me speak to my client in private.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then we sit here till the cows come home. Or your six hours’ holding time run out. It’s up to you.’

  Insch glowered, stuffed the liquorice allsorts back in his pocket and left the room, trailing Logan and WPC Watson behind him. Out in the corridor it was a lot cooler, but the air contained a lot of swearing.

  When he had finished cursing the lawyer to the four winds, Insch told Watson to keep an eye on the door. He didn’t want either of them doing a runner.

  She didn’t look too impressed. It wasn’t a glamorous task, but that’s what you got when you were a lowly WPC. One day she’d make CID, then she’d be the one telling uniforms to guard doorways.

  ‘And, Constable,’ Insch leaned in closer, his voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper. ‘that was a damn fine bit of police work today: the supermarket receipt. I’ll be putting in a good word for you on that one.’

  She grinned. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Logan and the inspector left her to it, working their way back to the incident room.

  ‘Why did it have to be him?’ asked Insch, parking himself on the edge of a desk. ‘I’m supposed to be at the dress rehearsal in twenty minutes!’ He sighed: there was no chance he’d make it now. ‘We’re going to get bugger all out of Chalmers now. God save us from crusading lawyers!’

  Sandy Moir-Farquharson was notorious. There wasn’t a single criminal defence lawyer in the whole city who could hold a candle to him. Aberdeen’s best solicitor advocate, qualified to stand up and defend the guilty in open court. For years the Crown Prosecution Service had been trying to get him to come over to their side, act as a public prosecutor, help put people away, instead of getting them off. But the slippery wee sod wasn’t having any of it. He was on a mission to prevent miscarriages of justice! To protect the innocent! And get his face on the telly at every available opportunity. The man was a menace.

  But secretly Logan knew if he ever got into trouble himself, he’d want Slippery Sandy representing him.