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

by Stuart MacBride

  The second message was a bit more up to date, ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at? He was eight! How could you let him get away? What the. . . Hold on, I’ve got someone on the other line. . .’ and then silence. Beeeeeeep. New message: ‘Where was I? Oh, aye – Eight! Fuck’s sake. . .’ Then some coughing. ‘Anyway, the hospital called about the bloke your wee villain attacked: punctured lung. It’s no’ lookin’ good. I’ve got a press conference set up for quarter to six, so get your arse back to the station!’ Beeeeeeep.

  Logan groaned. His head was throbbing, the skin tender and swollen where Sean had kicked it. His ribs ached from being stamped on. His suit was stiff with dried blood. Right now all he wanted to do was go home, take a couple of the pills he’d been given after an embarrassing examination – ‘You were beaten up by an eight-year-old? Seriously? Hey, Maggie, come see this!’ – climb into a long hot shower, curl up and feel sorry for himself until Jackie got back from her shift. And then get her to feel sorry for him too. Instead of which he had to be at a press conference in – he checked his watch – just over half an hour. Muttering curses, Logan slouched back into A&E and went in search of one of the PCs stationed at the hospital to give him a lift.

  The natives were getting restless as Logan limped into the media briefing room – rows of cameras and hungry faces from the national press, waiting for the main course to get to the table. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ DI Steel: an unlit fag in her mouth, clicking a cheap, petrol station lighter on then off, then on, then off. DC Rennie trailed along behind her like a nervous spaniel.

  ‘Hospital.’ Logan pointed at the inspector’s cigarette. ‘They’ll throw a fit if you light up in here.’

  ‘Jerry Bloody Cochrane – silly sod went and died on us, so now every bastard under the sun wants to know what we’re going to do about it.’ She pulled the cigarette from her mouth and stuffed it back in the packet. Then took it out again. ‘Shite – why the hell did I have to get this sodding case, why couldn’t Fatty Insch have it instead? He should be used to PR disasters by now. I don’t need any more horrible cases. . .’ she trailed off as she finally noticed Logan’s suit and shirt were clarted in dried blood. ‘Oh fucking hell! Could you no’ have changed? We’re on in seven minutes!’

  ‘I was at the hospital!’

  ‘Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. . .’ She screwed her face up, then stared at DC Rennie. ‘Right, the pair of you: find somewhere quiet and swap clothes. You’re both about the same size.’ Rennie opened his mouth to complain, but the inspector beat him to it. ‘NOW!’

  There was no one in interview room number three so they used that – Logan grimacing his way out of his shirt, jacket and trousers while Rennie stripped down to his Fred Flintstone boxer shorts, took one look at Logan’s bruised ribs and scar-spangled stomach and said, ‘Bloody hell – you look terrible.’

  Logan couldn’t muster up the energy to scowl at him. ‘Thanks a heap.’

  He got back to the briefing room with thirty seconds to spare and limped up to DI Steel. ‘Happy now?’ he asked, making it clear that he wasn’t. If he sat down too quickly, there was every chance he and his borrowed trousers were going to part company. She gave him a quick once-over.

  ‘You’ll do. But could you no’ have combed your hair? You look like a burst bloody mattress.’ Which was rich coming from her. Logan did his best with his fingers. Steel nodded. ‘Better. Did you get—’ The doors at the far end of the room banged open and the Chief Constable marched in. ‘Oh bollocks – God’s here.’ Deep breath. ‘Right, remember: we are not at home to Mr Fuck-up. . .’

  The table was longer than usual, set up so there’d be room for a Family Liaison officer and a pale, sixty-eight-year-old woman with puffy red eyes and trembling hands: Mrs Cochrane, the victim’s wife. Logan waited for her to sit down before taking his place next to DI Steel, lowering himself carefully into his chair, trying not to aggravate his bruised ribs or split Rennie’s trousers.

  ‘Right,’ the Chief Constable stood, his silver hair glowing like a shampoo commercial in the bright television lights, ‘before we start today I want to make one thing crystal clear: Mrs Cochrane has had a terrible shock today. She’s lost her husband of nearly fifty years. She’s here because she wants to help us catch those responsible. But the first person I hear making inappropriate comments or asking tactless questions is going to get thrown out on their ear and barred. Do I make myself clear?’ There was an uncomfortable silence. The CC nodded. ‘Good.’ And sat down again.

  ‘Today, at eleven minutes past twelve a pregnant woman shopping in the St Nicholas Centre was accosted by a gang of children, ranging from six to nine years old. They tried to steal her purse, but she resisted, so they subjected her to a vicious assault. Mr Cochrane went to intervene on her behalf. . .’

  Logan didn’t need to listen to the rest, he’d been one of the first ones on the scene – having nipped out to buy a sandwich and bag of crisps from Markies for lunch. Hearing the screams, running through the jumpers and trousers into the shopping centre, just in time to see Sean Morrison help himself to the old man’s wallet and scarper. Calling for backup, running over to the victim, trying to staunch the bleeding. Telling the store detectives to keep pressure on the knife wound till the ambulance got there, then chasing after the little bastards. And not catching them.

  He listened to Mrs Cochrane make an impassioned plea for anyone who knew where her husband’s killers were to come forward and tell the police, tears sparking in the harsh media spotlight, running down her pale, lined cheeks. And then the Chief Constable thanked her for her bravery and threw the briefing open to questions.

  Mostly it was the usual: ‘Do you have any suspects?’ ‘Are you anticipating any arrests?’ Then the woman from Sky News asked the Chief Constable about the trial of Iain Watt: was he going to be charged with the other rapes supposedly committed by Rob Macintyre?

  The Chief Constable glowered at her – the ‘Granite City Rapist’, as the papers had started calling Watt, was a something of a sore point. And with that, the press briefing was brought to an abrupt close.

  13

  The sun was hot enough to turn the car into a microwave oven, but when Logan clambered out into the late February morning it was so cold his nipples instantly pointed due north. His back was killing him: the bruises where Sean Morrison had kicked and battered him spreading like green and purple ink on wet blotting paper. King’s Gate stretched downhill from the King’s Cross roundabout on Anderson Drive to where they used to film The Beechgrove Garden, and the view from the top of the hill was stunning – a slice of Aberdeen: grey granite shining in the sunshine, dark slate roofs, church spires, the North Sea glittering like a vast, deep-blue sapphire, a neon-orange supply vessel slowly making its way south towards the harbour. Just a shame it was bloody freezing.

  ‘Jesus Effing Christ!’ DI Steel stamped her feet, swore, dug out a cigarette and lit it, the smoke whipped away by the icy wind. ‘My fridge is warmer than this!’

  Logan ignored her, looking down the street at the Morrison residence – a large granite two-storey job with a huge BMW 4×4 sitting outside. Not exactly the type of place you’d expect a nasty, thieving, murderous little bastard like Sean Morrison to come from. Parked cars lined either side of the road – many of them containing bored-looking journalists, cameras and notebooks at the almost ready. No one seemed to have noticed that the inspector and Logan had arrived yet. ‘You want me to get started?’ he asked, one hand rubbing the small of his aching back. The painkillers they’d given him last night were about a fifth of the strength he was used to – might as well have been Smarties for all the good they were doing. At least they would have tasted better.

  Steel shivered, hands jammed deep into her armpits, puffing away on her cigarette like mad. ‘Give us a minute. . . I only get one fag this morning and I’m going to bloody well enjoy it if it kills me.’

  Logan sighed and made a show of checking his
watch. ‘Nearly half eight – we’re going to have to get a shift on if we’re going to make the PM.’

  ‘Nicotine patches my arse. . .’ The inspector squinted into the bright sunshine ‘Anyway, think I’m going to give this one a miss. Not like we don’t know what killed the old guy, is it?’

  ‘Suppose not.’ He watched the bright orange supply boat disappear behind the tombstone slab of St Nicholas House. ‘What do you want to do about Jason Fettes?’

  ‘What about him? The whole bloody thing’s dead in the water. No one’s got any idea who did it, and no one cares either. Except the bloody parents and those fuckers at the P&J.’ Colin Miller leading another ‘campaign for justice’ as an excuse to give Grampian Police an extra kicking. The inspector scowled, cigarette smouldering away between her lips. ‘We’ve got no evidence, no witnesses and no bloody clue.’

  ‘I know, but you’re supposed to do an update for the ACC today, remember?’

  ‘Is that today?’ Steel swore. ‘Tell you, between that, this thing, and those bloody housebreakings, my crime statistics look sodding awful. Still,’ the cigarette was flicked out into the middle of the road, where it got crushed beneath the wheels of a number twenty-three bus, ‘at least we’re guaranteed a quick result this time.’

  Logan had heard that one before.

  They marched down the pavement, making for the Morrisons’ front door where a lone uniformed officer stood looking cold and miserable. They were still one house away when a baldy wee man appeared in front of them, clutching a digital recorder. ‘Ken Inglis – Radio Scotland. Inspector, have you found the boy yet?’ It was as if someone had dropped a dead zebra in a tank of piranha: as soon as they smelled blood there were reporters everywhere.

  ‘No’ yet,’ said Steel in a sudden barrage of camera flashes. ‘But we are pursuing several lines of enquiry. Now if you’ll excuse—’

  ‘ITN News: is it true Morrison’s been in trouble with the police before?’

  ‘I really can’t comment on any—’

  ‘Has Constable Nairn recovered consciousness yet?’

  ‘Joanna Calder – Guardian: How worried are you for the boy’s safety?’

  Steel gave the uniformed PC guarding the Morrisons’ house a wave and he shambled into action, forcing his way through the cameras and questions, holding them back and keeping them there, so Logan and Steel could get to the front door. Right at the very edge of the pack, dour-faced civilians stood, glowering after them. None of them carried placards yet, but it would only be a matter of time.

  Logan leaned on the bell.

  Inside, chez Morrison was like an advert for furniture polish. Everything gleamed. Logan stood by the fire, roasting the backs of his legs, while Steel sat on the couch, working her way through a china mug of tea and a couple of digestive biscuits. Mrs Morrison was on the other sofa looking plump, startled and a lot older than she should have at thirty-two, while her husband paced, wringing his hands, flipping from worried to angry to apologetic and back again. ‘Sean’s never done anything like this before!’ he said, and the inspector snorted.

  ‘I should bloody hope not! Knifing seventy-year-old men and police officers isn’t something you want becoming a habit.’

  Logan tried a slightly less confrontational approach. ‘And Sean’s not been home since yesterday?’

  The mother shook her head, curly brown hair bouncing around her oval face. Puffy, pink eyes sparkling with tears. ‘He went out to school in the morning and we haven’t seen him since! All night! What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s hurt?’

  Steel put her mug down on the coffee table. ‘I think we need to be more concerned about him hurting other people.’

  ‘He’s a good boy!’

  ‘He’s just killed someone!’

  The father scowled at her. ‘He’s only eight.’

  ‘And Jerry Cochrane was seventy-two, but he’s still dead. And we’re bloody lucky he didn’t kill that policewoman too! Your darling wee son is a—’

  Logan cut her off before she could say anything else. ‘Mr Morrison, have you checked the outbuildings in case Sean snuck back last night?’

  ‘Fat chance of that happening with all those bloody journalists camped out on our doorstep! It’s like a—’

  ‘Mr Morrison—’

  ‘Yes. Of course I checked, and so did your damn search team – twice last night and once this morning.’

  ‘And you can’t think of anywhere else he might have gone? A friend, or a relative: anything like that?’

  ‘Why aren’t you out there looking for him? It was below freezing last night! He’s only eight! He—’ The phone rang and Mrs Morrison’s eyes went wide, bottom lip trembling. Backing away from the thing. Her husband just stared at it.

  Steel gave it five rings before asking, ‘You going to answer that, then?’

  ‘Er . . . yes. . .’ Mr Morrison licked his lips, wrung his hands, and picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’ He recoiled back from the earpiece, then slammed the handset back down into its cradle.

  ‘Let me guess: wrong number?’

  ‘They’ve been calling ever since it was on the news. About the . . . the old man getting hurt. They say terrible—’ The ringing started again. This time Steel was the one who grabbed the phone, slopping a wee tidalwave of tea on the coffee table in the process.

  ‘Aye?’ she demanded, ‘Who’s this?’ Then listened, face screwed up in concentration, as if she was trying to place the voice. ‘Listen up, shite-face, this is the police. You call here again and I’m gonnae find out where you live, come down there and ram my boot so far up your arse you’ll be tasting athlete’s foot powder for a month!’ She held the phone away from her ear. ‘Hung up, fancy that. . .’ Then she punched 1471 into the handset, repeating the automated voice as it recited the caller’s number, so Logan could write it down. She smiled at Mr Morrison. ‘We’ll send a patrol car round: give her a hard time. You in the phonebook?’ The man nodded. ‘Aye, well,’ said Steel, putting the phone back and picking up her tea again, ‘change your number and go ex-directory.’

  ‘We can’t. . . What if Sean calls?’

  ‘Calls? He’s got a mobile?’

  The mother and father exchanged a worried look, then Mr Morrison said, ‘We don’t believe children should have them. You know: brain tumours.’ He collapsed into an armchair, looking on the verge of tears. ‘He could be anywhere. . .’

  Just to be on the safe side, Steel sent Logan off to check the shed and garage again, while she stayed inside in the warm with another cup of tea. The search team had been thorough – the garage was a mess, everything piled up in one corner. Paint tins, boxes of household junk, three sets of skis, one windsurfer, more junk. Logan peered into all the cupboards, under the work top, into the chest freezer, but Sean wasn’t there. And he wasn’t in the shed either, or hiding in the garden.

  Logan went back inside and searched every room, including the washing machine and tumble drier – you never knew what an eight-year-old kid could fit inside if it put its mind to it. Nearly an hour after he’d started, Logan clambered down from the attic, coughing from the dust, little bits of rock wool insulation sticking to his suit.

  DI Steel was standing there waiting for him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He wiped a hand over his face, trying to get rid of a cobweb.

  ‘Ah well, it was worth a go.’

  They marched out through the knot of journalists and back to the car, ignoring the shouted questions, keeping their heads down till they were safely ensconced in the scabby CID Vauxhall Logan had signed for. Steel squinted out through the windscreen at the Morrison house. ‘What do you think,’ she asked, ‘he going to come home?’

  Logan nodded and turned the engine over. ‘You should have seen his room; kid’s got more stuff than I do. Parents must spoil him rotten. One night out in the cold and he’ll be desperate to get home.’

  ‘Are you mental? He just knifed a
n old man and a policewoman. He’s no’ Christopher Bloody Robin. I think the vicious little bastard’s got somewhere to lie low. . .’

  ‘Well, he can’t stay hidden for ever,’ said Logan, pulling away from the kerb and pointing the car back towards FHQ, ‘he only got fifty quid from Cochrane’s wallet and it’s not like he can actually spend it – can’t be a single person in Aberdeen who doesn’t know what he looks like by now.’ They’d tried telling the media that Sean was just a missing child, released his picture and asked anyone who saw him to come forward, but one of the witnesses from the St Nicholas Centre spotted the photo on the news, rang up the Daily Record and ID’d Sean as the kid who’d knifed Jerry Cochrane. And the press had a field day – EIGHT-YEAR-OLD KILLER!, THE NEW FACE OF EVIL!, SCHOOLBOY KILLS OAP! – it had made every second-edition front page in Scotland and quite a few south of the border too. ‘We could try following his mates; someone’s got to be getting food to him?’

  She thought about it for a moment, head on one side, chewing on the inside of her cheek. ‘Nah, that’ll take for ever. If I was him I’d be on the first bus south to London, or Brighton, or some other godforsaken hole.’

  ‘He’s eight.’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah. When did you last have anything to do with kids, eh? Eight’s the new thirteen. Oh, they look like butter wouldn’t bloody melt, but they’re smacked out their tits half the time trying to get each other pregnant.’ She pulled out her cigarettes, shoogled the packet, then put it away again with a sigh. ‘Let’s get the little bastards picked up and dragged down to the station: give them the fright of their lives. See if one of them’ll shop him. And you’d better check the CCTV for the train and bus station too. And get some uniforms down there to speak to the drivers. . . Oh, and when you’ve got that lot organized, you might as well do that update report on Jason Fettes. No point sitting about twiddling your thumbs all day, is there?’