‘I wasnae sure what kind of breakfast you’d like so we’ve got croissants, sausage rolls, steak pies and Aberdeen rolls. Help yourself.’
Logan dug a couple of rowies out of the bag and slathered one with butter. He took a big bite and sighed happily.
‘Don’t know how you can eat that shite,’ said Miller, handing Logan a coffee. ‘You know what’s in them?’
Logan nodded. ‘Fat, flour and salt.’
‘No, not fat: lard. Only a fuckin’ Aberdonian could come up with a roll that looks like a cowpat. There’s half a ton of saturated animal fat and half a ton of salt in that! No’ surprising you’re all dropping dead of heart attacks.’ He pulled the bag over and helped himself to a croissant, tearing off a chunk, spreading it with jam and butter and dipping it in his coffee.
‘You can talk!’ Logan watched a thin film of sparkling grease float to the surface of the reporter’s mug. ‘Your lot invented deep-fried pizzas!’
‘Aye, touché.’
Logan watched him rip, spread and dip another chunk of croissant, waiting until the reporter’s mouth was full of soggy bread before asking him why he’d come round at this ungodly hour.
‘Can a friend no’ pop round tae have breakfast with another friend?’ The words came out muffled. ‘You know, nice and social. . .’
‘And?’
Miller shrugged. ‘You did good last night.’ He reached into the bag and came out with another croissant and a copy of that morning’s Press and Journal. The front page held a big photo of the press conference. ‘POLICE HERO FINDS MISSING CHILD’ said the headline in big, bold letters. ‘Found that little kiddie all by your ownsome. How’d you do it?’
Logan dug a steak pie out of the bag, surprised to find it was still warm from the baker’s oven. He munched down on flaky pastry, coating the newspaper with crumbs as he read and ate at the same time. He had to admit: it was a good story. There wasn’t much in the way of fact, but Miller had managed to weave what there was into something a lot more interesting than it should have been. It looked as if the reporter was the paper’s golden boy for a reason. There was even a recap of Logan’s capture of the Mastrick Monster, just so everyone would know that DS Logan McRae was worthy of the title ‘POLICE HERO’.
‘I’m impressed,’ Logan said, and Miller smiled. ‘All the words are spelled right.’
‘Cheeky bastard.’
‘So why are you really here?’
Miller settled back in his seat, cradling his mug of coffee close to his chest, but not close enough to stain his nice new suit. ‘You know damn fine why: I want the inside story. I want the scoop. This stuff,’ he poked the photo on the paper’s front page, ‘it’s no’ got a long shelf life. Today, tomorrow, an’ that’s yer lot. Kiddie’s turned up safe and well and it was nothin’ more than his dad. A domestic. No blood an’ guts for the punters to get all shocked an’ horrified about. If the kid was dead, it’d run for weeks. As it is, day after tomorrow no one will want to know.’
‘Bit cynical.’
Miller shrugged. ‘Call it like I see it.’
‘That why your colleagues don’t like you?’
Miller didn’t even flinch, just popped a swollen chunk of coffee-stained bread into his mouth. ‘Aye, well. . . No one likes a smart arse, no when it makes them look bad.’ He put on a passable Aberdonian accent: ‘“Yer nae a team player!”, “That’s no’ the way we dae things up here!”, “You keep this up and you’re oot!”’ He snorted. ‘Aye, they don’t like me, but they publish my stuff, don’t they? I’ve had more front pages since I got here than most of them old buggers have had in their whole bloody lives!’
Logan smiled. Touched a nerve there.
‘So,’ Miller polished off the last of his croissant, sooking the crumbs off his fingertips, ‘you goin’ to tell me how you found the missing kid or what?’
‘No chance! I’ve already had one visit from Professional Standards, looking for whoever told you we’d found David Reid’s body. They’ll have my arse in a sling if I go handing out information without official permission.’
‘Like you did yesterday?’ asked Miller innocently.
Logan just looked at him.
‘OK, OK,’ said the reporter, collecting up the breakfast debris. ‘I get the hint. Quid pro quo: right?’
‘You have to tell me who your source is.’
Miller shook his head. ‘No’ goin’ to happen. You know that.’ He stuffed the milk and butter back in the fridge. ‘How’d you do with that info I gave you?’
‘Er . . . we’re following it up.’ Logan lied. The sodding body in the harbour! The one with no knees! After Insch chewed him out for talking to the press he’d not actually spoken to the DI in charge of the investigation. He’d been too busy sulking.
‘OK, well you go an have a wee word with your DI and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out about George Stephenson’s last known whereabouts. That sound fair?’ He pulled a freshly-printed business card out of his wallet and placed it on the table. ‘You’ve got till half-four. “How Did Police Hero Find Missing Kid?” Day after tomorrow: no one cares. You give us a shout when you know.’
16
It was too late to go back to bed, so Logan grumbled his way into the shower and then up the road to Force Headquarters. The street was like a sheet of glass, the council having done its usual sterling job of not gritting the streets and pavements. But at least it wasn’t raining any more. Above his head the clouds were purple and dark grey, the rising sun still more than two hours away.
Headquarters was like a grave as he pushed through the main doors. There was no sign of the media army that had been camped there the night before. All that was left was a pile of crumpled fag ends, lying in the gutter like frozen worms.
Big Gary shouted a friendly ‘Mornin’, Lazarus!’ as Logan made for the lifts.
‘Morning, Gary,’ said Logan, really not in the mood for another barrage of bonhomie.
‘Here,’ called Gary, after making sure there was no one else about. ‘Did you hear? DI Steel’s bagged someone else’s wife. Again!’
Logan paused, despite himself. ‘Whose is it this time?’
‘Andy Thompson in Accounts.’
Logan winced. ‘Ouch. That’s rough.’
Big Gary raised his eyebrows. ‘You think so? I always thought his wife was kinda tasty meself.’
A balding head with a wide moustache poked itself out from behind the mirrored partition that separated the front desk from the small admin area around the back, and locked eyes on Logan. ‘Sergeant,’ said Eric – the other half of the Big Gary and Eric Show – without a great deal of warmth in his voice. ‘Could I have a word with you in my office, please?’
Puzzled, Logan followed him around behind the two-way mirror. The admin area was a jumble of filing cabinets, computers and boxes of crap, piled against the walls, opposite a long, chipped Formica table covered with in-trays and piles of paper. Logan got the feeling something nasty was about to happen. ‘What’s up, Eric?’ he asked, parking himself on the edge of the table: just like DI Insch.
‘Duncan Nicholson,’ said the desk sergeant, folding his arms. ‘That’s what’s up.’ Logan looked at him blankly and Eric let out an exasperated sigh. ‘You had a couple of uniform bring him in for questioning?’ No reaction. ‘He found the dead kid down the Bridge of Don!’
‘Oh,’ said Logan. ‘Him.’
‘Yes, him. He’s been in the holding cells since Monday afternoon.’ Eric checked his watch. ‘Forty-three hours! You have to charge him or let him go!’
Logan closed his eyes and swore. He’d forgotten all about the man. ‘Forty-three hours?’ The legal limit was six!
‘Forty-three hours.’
Eric crossed his arms and let Logan stew for a while. Today was turning into an utter bastard.
‘I released him Monday evening,’ said Eric when he thought Logan had suffered enough. ‘We couldn’t hold him any lon
ger. As it was we had him far longer than we should have.’
‘Monday?’ That was two days ago! ‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘We did! About a dozen times. You turned off your phone. Tried again last night too. If you’re going to have people picked up you have to deal with them. You can’t just abandon them here and leave us to sort it out. We’re not your mother!’
Logan swore again. He’d switched off his mobile while he was in the little girl’s post mortem. ‘Sorry, Eric.’
The desk sergeant nodded. ‘Aye, well. I’ve made sure there’s no sign of anything wrong in the logbook. As far as everyone’s concerned: nothing happened. He came in on a voly, he was held for a bit, he was released. Just don’t let it happen again, OK?’
Logan nodded. ‘Thanks, Eric.’
Logan slouched his way along the corridor to the small office he’d commandeered the day before, grabbing a plastic cup of coffee on the way. The building was beginning to stir as the early birds drifted into work. Closing the door behind him, Logan sank into the chair behind the desk and stared at the map pinned to the wall, not really seeing the streets and the rivers.
Duncan Nicholson. He’d forgotten all about leaving him in the cells to sweat. He let his head sink forward until it was resting on top of the stack of statements. ‘Bastard,’ he said into the pile of paper. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard. . .’
There was a knock at the door and he snapped upright. The statement on top of the pile fluttered to the floor. He was wincing down to pick it up when the door opened and WPC Watson peered in.
‘Morning, sir,’ she said and then caught the expression on his face. ‘You OK?’
Logan forced a smile and sat back down. ‘Never better,’ he lied. ‘You’re in early.’
WPC Watson nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve got court this morning: caught a bloke yesterday afternoon playing with himself in the ladies’ changing rooms at Hazlehead swimming pool.’
‘Sounds classy.’
She smiled and Logan found himself feeling a lot better.
‘Can’t wait for him to meet my mum,’ she said. ‘Look, I got to run: he’s giving evidence in this Gerald Cleaver sex abuse thing and I’m not to let him out of my sight. But I wanted to tell you we’re all dead impressed you found that kid.’
Logan smiled back. ‘It was a team effort,’ he said.
‘Bollocks it was. We’re all going out tonight again, not a big sesh, just a quiet drink. If you want to join us. . . ?’
Logan couldn’t think of anything he’d like more.
He was feeling a lot better about himself as he walked down the corridor to the incident room and DI Insch’s morning briefing. WPC Jackie Watson wanted to go out with him again tonight. Or at least she wanted him to join her and her colleagues for a drink after work. Which was kind of the same thing. Sort of. . . They still hadn’t talked about what had happened the night before last.
And she still called him ‘sir’.
But then he still called her ‘Constable’. Not the most romantic of pet names.
He opened the door to the incident room and was met by a thunderous round of applause. Blushing, Logan made his way to a seat at the front, settling down in the chair as his face went beetroot red.
‘OK, OK,’ said DI Insch, holding up a hand for silence. Slowly the clapping faded to a halt. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he went on when it was quiet once more. ‘As you all know, last night Detective Sergeant Logan McRae returned Richard Erskine to his mother, after discovering the child at his grandmother’s house.’ He stopped and beamed at Logan. ‘Come on: stand up.’
Blushing even harder, Logan pulled himself out of his seat and the clapping started again.
‘That,’ said Insch, pointing at the embarrassed DS, ‘is what a real policeman looks like.’ He had to call for silence again and Logan sank back into his seat, feeling thrilled, delighted and horrified all at the same time. ‘We’ve found Richard Erskine.’ Insch pulled a manila folder from the desktop and pulled out an eight-by-six photograph of a red-haired boy with freckles and a gap-toothed smile. ‘But Peter Lumley is still missing. Chances are we’re not going to find him kipping at his grandma’s: the father can’t be arsed with the kid. But I want it checked out anyway.’
Insch took another picture from his folder. This one wasn’t so palatable: a blistered, swollen face, black and speckled with mould, the mouth open in a tortured scream. A post mortem photograph of David Reid.
‘This is what Peter Lumley is going to end up looking like if we don’t get him back soon. I want the search area widened. Three teams: Hazlehead golf course, riding stables, park. Every bush, every bunker, every pile of manure. I want them searched.’ He started rattling off names.
When Insch was finished and everyone had gone, Logan brought him up to date on the dead girl they’d found in a rubbish bag. It didn’t take long.
‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Insch, settling back on the desk and rummaging through his suit pockets for something sweet.
Logan did his best not to shrug. ‘We can’t put on a reconstruction. We’ve got no idea what she was wearing before she went into the bin-bag and they won’t let us re-enact dumping a body. Her picture’s gone into all the papers. We might get something out of that.’ The only good thing about Aberdeen being the ‘dead kiddie capital of Scotland’ right now was that the national tabloids and broadsheets were more than happy to parade the dead girl’s photo for their readers.
Insch located an old-looking Murray Mint and popped it in his mouth. ‘Keep on it. Someone out there must know who the poor wee sod is. Norman Chalmers had his fifteen minutes in court yesterday: remanded without bail. But the Fiscal’s no’ happy. We come up with something solid, or Chalmers walks.’
‘We’ll find something, sir.’
‘Good. The Chief Constable is worried about all these missing kids. It looks bad. Lothian and Borders have been on “offering their assistance”. Even sent us up a preliminary psychological profile.’ He held up four sheets of paper, stapled together, the crest of Lothian and Borders Police clearly visible on the covering page. ‘If we don’t watch out, Edinburgh are going to take over. And we’ll all end up looking like sheep-shagging, small-town halfwits.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Logan. ‘What’s the profile say?’
‘Same thing these bloody things always say.’ Insch flipped through the sheets. ‘Blah, blah, blah, “crime scene indicators”, blah, blah, “pathology of the victim”, blah, blah.’ He stopped, a wry smile on his face. ‘Here we go: “the offender is most likely a Caucasian male, in his early to late twenties, living alone or with his mother. He is most likely intelligent, but does not do well academically. As a result he will have a menial job that brings him into contact with children”.’
Logan nodded. It was the standard profile for just about everything.
‘You’ll like this bit,’ said Insch, putting on an academic voice: ‘“The offender has difficulty forming relationships with women, and may have a history of mental health problems. . .” Mental health problems! Talk about stating the bloody obvious!’ The smile vanished from his face. ‘Of course he’s got mental bloody health problems: he kills children!’ He crumpled up the profile and lobbed it, overhand, at the wastebasket by the door. It bounced off the wall and skittered across the blue carpet tiles, coming to rest under the second row of chairs. Insch snorted in disgust. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it looks like DI McPherson’s not going to be back for another month at least. Thirty-seven stitches to keep his head together. Lovely. Nothing like some mad bastard with a kitchen knife to get a couple of weeks with your feet up in front of the telly.’ He sighed, not noticing the pained look on Logan’s face. ‘That means I’ve got his caseload to carry as well as my own. Four post office break-ins, three armed assaults, two violent rapes and a partridge in a bloody pear tree.’ He poked a friendly finger in Logan’s chest. ‘And that means I’m delegating the Bin-Bag Girl to you.’
‘But. . .’
Insch held up his hands. ‘Aye, I know it’s a big case, but I’ve got my hands full with David Reid and Peter Lumley. They might not be connected, but the last thing the Chief Constable wants is a paedophile serial killer running loose, picking up little boys whenever he feels the urge. Every other DI we’ve got is up to their ears, but you found Richard Erskine without adult supervision, and the media think the sun shines out of your arse. So this one’s yours.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Logan’s stomach had already started churning.
‘OK,’ said Insch, hopping down off the desk. ‘You get going on that. I’ll go see what kind of Muppets I’ve inherited from McPherson.’
Logan’s little office was waiting for him. Expectantly. As if it knew he was carrying the can now. There was a copy of the photo they’d released to the media sitting on his desk. The one they’d taken in the morgue, touched up so she didn’t look quite so dead. She must have been pretty when she was alive. A four-year-old girl with shoulder-length blonde hair that curled softly around her pale face. Button nose. Round face. Round cheeks. According to the report her eyes were blue-green, but in the photo her eyes were shut. No one liked looking into the eyes of dead children. He took the picture and fixed it on the wall next to his map.
So far the response to the media appeal had been negligible. No one seemed to know who the little girl was. That would probably change by this evening when her picture went out again on the television. Then there would be a flood of helpful people phoning up to give them a whole heap of useless information.
He spent the next two hours poring over the statements again. He’d read it all before, but Logan knew the answer was in here somewhere. Whoever dumped the body lived within spitting distance of that wheelie-bin.
At last he gave up on the cold mug of coffee he’d been nurturing for the last hour and stretched the knots out of his back. He was getting nowhere. And he still hadn’t spoken to anyone about the body in the harbour. Maybe it was time for a break?
DI Steel’s office was one floor up, blue scuffed carpet tiles and creaky-looking furniture. There was a sign on the wall with ‘NO SMOKING’ written in big red letters, but that didn’t deter the inspector. She sat at her desk, the window cracked slightly to let the curling cigarette smoke drift out into the blazing sunshine.
Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin (Logan McRae) Page 16
