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

by Stuart MacBride

  Logan groaned. ‘He’ll be here, OK? Where else is he going to go? Anyway, thought you were cutting back.’

  ‘Don’t you bloody start.’ She puffed up her cheeks and let out a long, slow breath. ‘You had your assessment yet then?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Lucky bastard.’ She did her puffer fish impersonation again. ‘I’m bloody starving. . .’ The house on Whitehall Place was silent and empty, curtains partially drawn. ‘Maybe we should check the place again? Maybe he’s already inside?’

  ‘He can’t be – we’d have seen him.’

  She pulled an Airwave handset out and demanded an update from the team watching the back gardens, getting nothing but complaints from the PCs about having to stand around in the cold. She stuffed the thing back in her pocket. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll wait till it gets dark?’

  Steel swore. ‘I’m not sitting in this bloody car till the sun goes down. Come on,’ she climbed out into the cold afternoon, ‘let’s go find a nice public-spirited citizen to make us a cup of tea.’

  Mrs McRitchie lived right across the road and wasn’t the kind of woman to leave it at just a cup of tea. She backed into the lounge, carrying a tray loaded down with macaroni cheese. ‘Hope you’re hungry!’ she said, clattering it down on the coffee table.

  ‘Did you. . . ?’ DI Steel raised an eyebrow, staring at the plates. ‘Chips! Alice, you’re a star!’ She slathered the lot in black pepper, salt and vinegar, before shovelling it into her mouth. Mumbling, ‘God, I needed that,’ as she chewed.

  They had a perfect view of the house opposite, the one Mr Burnett and family had abandoned for a fortnight in the Seychelles. ‘You see,’ said Steel, taking a slurp of tea, ‘much better than sitting in that bloody car.’

  Logan checked his watch. ‘Going to be another four hours before sundown. Five till it gets really dark.’

  ‘And?’ Mouth full of chips.

  ‘Well, I’ve got stuff I need to do for Insch.’

  Steel waved her fork dismissively. ‘Screw him: we’re out in the field, the CC thinks we’re doing something “proactive”, we’re warm, comfy, got good food, and nothing to do but relax till Sean Morrison shows up. It’s no’ often we get a chance like this.’ She scooped up another glistening mound of pasta and cheese sauce. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’

  She probably had a point, but Logan was already beginning to feel guilty about abandoning Rickards to chase up the carpet places on his own. As soon as he’d finished lunch he’d call and see how the constable was getting on.

  When the macaroni cheese was all gone, followed down by a slice of Dundee cake and more cups of tea, DI Steel settled back into an old leather armchair with a copy of the P&J. And five minutes later she was fast asleep.

  Logan dug out his mobile phone. ‘Rickards? Yeah . . . no, no sign of him yet. How you getting on?’ Not very well by the sound of things. According to the constable, half the places he’d visited were bleating about the Data Protection Act and the other half took forever to get anything useful out of their ancient, creaking computers. So far nothing matched the list of B&Bs.

  Logan told him to stick with it, hung up, and went to get himself another cup of tea.

  The phone call he’d been dreading came not long after three. DI Steel snored gently in an armchair, the paper draped over her like a newsprint blanket, an afternoon matinee of High Noon on the television while Mrs McRitchie sat on the couch, scribbling away in a Sudoku book. Logan excused himself, and took the call in the bedroom upstairs, where he could keep an eye on the street while DI Insch shouted at him.

  ‘Where the hell have you got to? I told you to go round the carpet places!’ God alone knew how he’d found out. Logan passed on Rickard’s update in the hope it would mollify him. It didn’t. ‘Get your arse back in gear – I want a completed list by the close of business today!’

  ‘I can’t, sir, we’re on stakeout—’

  ‘Stakeout? Get some bloody uniforms to do it – we’ve got Garvie to put away!’

  ‘But Steel’s ordered me to—’

  ‘Oh, I see, when she gives the orders you jump to it, but when I—’

  ‘How did the hearing go this morning?’ Trying to distract him, but the inspector wasn’t having any of it. Instead Logan got a two-minute rant on how he was letting Jason Fettes and his family down. Logan sighed, put the phone on mute, and tried to think pleasant thoughts while Insch complained.

  ‘And for your information,’ said the inspector at last, ‘the greasy little sod got bail. He’s out there now!’

  ‘You’ve got someone following him?’

  There was a pause, then, ‘Of course I’ve got someone following him: I might be a Teuchter, but I’m not a bloody idiot!’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘He’ll go back to where he had Fettes sooner or later. He knows we’re on to him: he’ll want to get rid of any evidence.’ He was starting to sound a bit calmer. ‘Tomorrow I want you in my office first thing, understand? You’re supposed to be working for me, not Steel.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ As if he had any say in the matter.

  ‘And if you hear from Watson – I want to see her too. Soon as there’s any bloody work to be done round here, everyone disappears.’

  And the line went dead.

  Half-four and the light was beginning to go. The sky slid into sunset, grey clouds laced with violent pink, looking like hot coals against the glowing blue. Children meandered home from school, some in groups, some on their own, breath streaming out behind them in the cold evening air. None looked like Sean Morrison.

  ‘What d’you think?’ asked Steel, standing at the living room window, staring out at the street.

  ‘Soon.’ At least Logan hoped it would be soon. ‘If I was him I’d wait till everyone was settling down to dinner. They’re all distracted, not paying attention as he breaks into their neighbours’ house. . . Over there!’ A young boy, dragging his heels, meandered up the street, dressed in the familiar grey and dark blue school uniform.

  Steel squinted, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening to heavy folds. ‘He’s no’ wearing jeans or an AFC hoodie.’

  ‘He changed – Sean knows we’re looking for him, we’ve got his description up all over the place. So he steals a school uniform from the Struther place. Just another kid on his way back from a hard day’s learning.’

  ‘I suppose so. . .’

  They watched the little boy stop to tie his shoelace, then wander straight past the Burnett place and on up the road. ‘Maybe he’s casing the joint? Just—’

  ‘It’s no’ him.’

  ‘No, wait, he’ll be back in a minute. . .’ Logan drifted to a halt. The wee boy had stopped four houses up. The front door opened and a woman’s voice called out – something about fish fingers – the kid scuffed his way inside. Clunk, and he was gone. ‘Damn.’

  Six o’clock and the sky was dark as a bruise. The occasional car drifted past the window where Logan and Steel waited, but other than that the street was quiet. ‘He’s got to show soon,’ said Logan, shifting from foot to foot, trying for optimistic.

  ‘I dunno. . .’ Steel sighed. ‘Knowing my luck he’s buggered off for good this time. I’m beginning to think I’m fucking jinxed—’ A light blossomed in the windows across the road and the inspector stood transfixed. Someone was in the Burnett house. ‘Got ya, you dirty wee bastard!’ She grabbed her phone and started calling round the teams. ‘Who saw him? How’d he get in?. . . What you do: fall asleep? . . . Yes. . . I know it’s cold. . . No. . . Look, it’s no’ exactly been a picnic for us either. . . No! Wait till I give the word.’ She closed her phone, cutting whoever it was off. ‘Moaning bastards.’

  ‘They didn’t see him then?’

  ‘Pah.’ She snorted and pulled her shoes back on. ‘How half of them pass basic training is beyond me.’ They thanked their hostess, then hurried across the road, making for the front d
oor, DI Steel with her phone out, telling the teams to get into the Burnetts’ back garden.

  ‘What do you want to do about entry?’ asked Logan as they crept up to the front door – a pair of uniformed constables were already waiting for them, looking charged up, stab-proof vests on, extendible truncheons and pepper-spray at the ready.

  The inspector shrugged. ‘We’ve got a warrant for Sean’s arrest . . . if anyone asks we’re in close pursuit, OK?’ She turned to the burliest constable – a woman with legs like tree trunks. ‘Kick it down.’

  BOOOOOM! And the woodwork juddered. One more kick and the lock splintered out of the surround, sending shards of broken wood flying into the hallway as the front door slammed open and bounced off the wall. PC Burly shouted, ‘POLICE, NOBODY MOVE!’ and charged in, her partner hot on her heels.

  A crash from the rear of the house, ‘POLICE!’, and the sound of heavy boots battering their way in through the back door.

  Steel grinned. ‘Cracks me up every time they do that.’

  23

  They went through the place from top to bottom and back again: there was no sign of Sean Morrison.

  The inspector stood in the immaculate lounge and swore a blue streak. ‘How the hell could we miss him? He’s a wee boy, no’ fucking Houdini!’ She spun round, glowering at the team who’d been watching the back garden. ‘You! You let him sneak past, didn’t you!’

  They backed off in unison, mumbling about how they didn’t see anyone and it was cold and dark and they were sure Sean hadn’t got past them. . . That just made Steel rant louder.

  Logan slouched through to the darkened dining room, looking to get away from the inspector’s tirade before any of it got turned in his direction. He pulled out his phone and slumped in one of the chairs, sitting in the dark, dialling Jackie’s number from memory. She’d be home by now, wondering where the hell he’d got to. Eight rings and it crackled onto the answer phone: Jackie’s voice telling him they were both out fighting crime or getting drunk, but he could leave a message after the beep. He hung up.

  How on earth did Sean Morrison manage to sneak past half a dozen policemen? It just didn’t make any sense. It was almost as if— The standard lamp in the corner suddenly bloomed into light, making the polished silverware glint.

  ‘Oh sodding hell. . .’ The lamp was plugged into one of those timed switches – the Burnetts must have set it up to make the place look as if it was still being lived in. Deterring burglars and making an arse out of the police. Sean Morrison was never in the house at all.

  Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet and switched the damn thing off, plunging the room into darkness again. Logan stood at the window, wondering how quickly he could slope off after the impending bollocking, drown his sorrows in a bottle of wine and a Chinese takeaway. Steel was going to blame him for this, he could feel it. He’d been so sure the eight-year-old would come here. . .

  There was someone standing on the other side of the road, staring up at the house. A small boy wearing jeans and a heavy, padded jacket, a rucksack over his shoulder. Mouth hanging open. Sean Morrison.

  Logan dashed into the hall, shouting, ‘He’s outside!’ exploding out of the front door and down the steps. Sean only hesitated for a second and then he was off. Logan tore after him, hearing muffled cries from inside as others joined the chase, feet pounding the pavement.

  Sean screeched round the corner onto Westfield Terrace. The rucksack went flying, as the wee boy lightened the load. A flash of black at Logan’s shoulder – a PC catching up as they ran up the small street, closing the gap.

  There was a car parked halfway on the pavement: Sean jumped onto the bonnet, to the roof, then made a huge leap for the six-foot-high stone wall behind, scrabbling into someone’s back garden. The PC was first to the wall, hauling himself over as a security light stabbed the darkness.

  Breathing hard, Logan followed him, landing in a clump of conifers, staggering out just in time to see the constable make a grab for Sean’s trouser leg as the child disappeared over the next-door fence.

  Sean screamed.

  ‘Come back here, you little bugger!’ The PC yanked Sean back into the garden. They went down in a tangle of limbs and swearing. Then a loud yelp, and the PC let go, holding his left wrist in his right hand, staring at the gash across his palm. Fresh blood glowed neon-red in the security spotlight. ‘Aaaaagh!’

  Sean scrambled away, swearing, crying, holding a glittering kitchen knife. Staring at the PC, then up at Logan as a policewoman cleared the wall, crashed into a decorative border and went sprawling across the lawn. The eight-year-old murderer snarled, waved the knife and backed against the fence, eyes darting round the garden. ‘Fuckers! Fucking bastard fuckers!’

  A window opened at the back of the house and an old man stuck his head out, yelling that he was calling the police.

  ‘It’s over, Sean.’ Logan put on his understanding, approachable voice. ‘Come on, put the knife down. I know you don’t want to hurt anyone else.’

  ‘Fucking KILL YOU!’ Tears ran down his cheeks, a silvery trail heading south from both nostrils. Bottom lip trembling. ‘Kill you. . .’

  Behind him, Logan could hear the policewoman groaning to her feet as another uniformed officer crashed into the garden. ‘You don’t have to run any more.’

  ‘Fuckers. . .’ The knife’s point wavered, dipping towards the churned-up grass.

  ‘Shhhh, it’s OK, Sean, it’s OK.’

  The policewoman marched straight up and sprayed Sean Morrison in the face with pepper spray. ‘That’s for Jess Nairn, ya wee shite.’

  They could have heard the boy’s screams in Peterhead.

  ‘They’ll sting for a while, but the swelling’ll go down soon enough. No’ that it’ll make much odds where he’s goin’.’ Doc Wilson, slouched against the corridor wall, hands in his pockets, face like a bank holiday weekend – long and dreich. He gave a dramatic sigh. ‘I’m seein’ one of them oncologists tomorrow morning. . .’

  Logan nodded, not really wanting to get drawn into Doc Wilson’s world of misery again. ‘Is he well enough for questioning?’

  The doctor thought about it then shrugged. ‘Doesn’t really matter, does it?’ He pulled himself off the wall, picked up his medical bag and slumped off, mumbling to himself all the way.

  ‘Well,’ said Steel when Logan got back up to her office, ‘what did Doctor Doom and Gloom say? He show you his tumour?’

  ‘No permanent damage. You can interview Sean if you want. And Big Gary says the kid’s dad’s downstairs shouting the odds: police brutality, human rights, legal action. The usual.’

  She checked her watch. ‘Twenty-seven minutes till show time . . . what do you think, worth a punt?’

  ‘Up to you.’

  She rubbed a nicotine-stained finger along the bridge of her nose. ‘What the hell: get them into an interview room. If nothing else we’ll put the fear of God into the wee bugger.’

  Interviewing Sean Morrison was like interviewing a breeze-block. He just sat on the other side of the table, sullen and silent, scowling at the camera. His face was swollen and red, like a bad case of sunburn, eyes the colour of beetroot. Still tearing up from the pepper spray. He wouldn’t even confirm his name.

  Mr Morrison sat next to his son, one arm wrapped around the little thug’s shoulders, trembling with anger. ‘I demand you take my son to the hospital!’

  ‘No – and I’m no’ telling you again,’ said Steel. ‘He’s been checked over by the duty doctor, he’ll be fine.’

  ‘He’s in pain! Look what your storm troopers have done to him! LOOK!’ Clutching Sean’s red chin, leaving white fingerprints behind when the child shook him off. ‘He’s only eight!’

  Steel slammed her hand down on the table, making the plastic cups of tea and coffee tremble. ‘Listen up: your innocent little darling tried to stab two police officers tonight. One’s up in A&E getting his hand stitched back together. Then there’
s the policewoman he stabbed in the throat and THE OLD MAN HE KILLED!’

  ‘We demand to see a lawyer.’

  Logan tapped the inspector on the shoulder and whispered in her ear, ‘Seven fifteen – press conference in five minutes.’

  She stood, scraping her chair back from the table, staring at the father. ‘You’re here at my discretion Morrison. I can have you replaced by a social worker, like that.’ Snapping her fingers under his nose. ‘I’ve got him on CCTV killing the old man. I’ve got a police witness to him stabbing Constable Jess Nairn. I’ve got even more witnesses to him trying the same thing on tonight. I’ve got the knives; I’ve got his fingerprints. I don’t need a confession.’

  She gave Logan the nod and he said, ‘Interview suspended at seven sixteen.’

  Steel leant on the table, engulfing Sean Morrison’s father in a wave of stale cigarette breath. ‘He’s going to “secure accommodation” till he’s sixteen – it’s like a children’s home, but they lock the little bastards up – then he’ll go to a young offender’s institution till he’s twenty-one. Then he’ll go to prison. If he’s lucky he’ll be out in time for his thirtieth birthday. You want to make it easier for him? Maybe cut his sentence? You get him to talk.’

  Everyone was waiting for them, the Chief Constable sticking his hand over the microphone and whispering something to the inspector as she settled into her seat – probably something about what a great job she’d done, because she smiled happily – and then they got the press conference underway. Logan sat back in his chair and listened as the CC announced Sean Morrison’s capture, then opened the floor for questions. First up: ‘Why did it take Grampian Police four days to catch an eight-year-old boy?’ Then, ‘Will there be a public enquiry into the handling of the investigation?’

  It was Colin Miller who asked the question Logan had been dreading: ‘Is it true Sean Morrison was assaulted durin’ his arrest?’

  Steel gritted her teeth. ‘No it isn’t.’