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

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘You know, Laz,’ said the reporter, from the depths of the pantry, ‘I used to . . . used to really like you. . .’ He emerged, twisting the cork off the top of a half-empty bottle of single malt. ‘You was always a bit . . . bit of an arse, like, but you . . . you was my mate.’ He slumped into one of the chairs by the kitchen table, scowling. ‘Why’d you have tae fuck it up?’

  ‘It was an accident, Colin.’ Logan raided the dishwasher for a mug, heaping it with instant coffee and sugar, before topping it up with boiling water. ‘I never wanted it to turn out the way it did. You know that—’

  ‘Tada!’ The reporter whipped his right glove off, dropping it on the tabletop. The third finger was missing its top two joints, the pinky everything above the second segment. The stumps pink and shiny. ‘Fucking things itch . . . itch like a bastard sometimes.’ He screwed up one eye and peered at the bottle of whisky, carefully slopping a huge measure into each glass. Then pulled off his other glove, revealing another pair of shiny stumps, rubbing them against his stubbled chin.

  Logan placed the coffee in front of him, but the reporter ignored it. Colin picked up one of the huge whiskies instead and held it aloft in a toast, ‘Here’s tae sunny Aber-fuckin’-deen.’ He waited for Logan to raise the other glass then clinked them together. ‘Sheep-shaggin’ bastards!’

  Twenty minutes later and Logan was locking Isobel’s front door and popping the key back through the letterbox, leaving Miller snoring away on the couch in the lounge. Two things were certain: Colin would have one hell of a hangover tomorrow, and Isobel would kill him. There but for the grace of God. . . Logan smiled and headed back into town.

  He didn’t even get as far as the Queen’s Cross roundabout before his phone started ringing: an irate DI Insch wanting to know where the hell he’d got to. ‘It’s my day off, sir, I’m—’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What? Queen’s Road, heading back into—’

  ‘Hold on. . .’ There was some muted conversation Logan couldn’t make out, but finally the inspector came back on the line: ‘Stay where you are, there’s a patrol car coming for you.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’re going to Dundee.’

  Insch sat in the back with Logan, passing him sheets from the Macintyre rape case while the dual carriageway south flashed past the car’s windows. The traffic cop driving seemed to be making an attempt on the land speed record, overtaking everything else on the road: saloons, hatchbacks, sports cars, and lorries. ‘I still don’t see why we have to drop everything and rush down the road,’ said Logan, accepting another victim statement.

  The inspector scowled at him. ‘You want Macintyre out there raping more women? Sooner we catch him the sooner he’s off the bloody streets.’

  Fair point. Logan scanned the statement, having difficulty taking it in. ‘You sure we’ll be back in time? Only I’ve got—’

  ‘For the last time, yes! You’ll make your bloody party. Now pay attention,’ he poked the sheets in Logan’s hand with a fat finger, ‘Christine Forrester: Macintyre’s last Aberdeen victim.’

  Logan skimmed the form. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘He gets worse with every one.’ It had taken the surgeons seven hours to stitch Christine Forrester’s face and neck back to something approaching normal. The attached photograph was enough to make Logan look away, not certain if he was feeling sick because of the picture, or because he was trying to read a whole case file in the back of a police car flying down the road at ninety miles an hour as the sun set.

  ‘So,’ he said, turning the eight-by-ten face down, ‘why me?’

  Insch grumbled something and pulled out a big bag of tiny gummy bears. ‘I’d take Watson, but she had to go shoot her bloody mouth off to the papers. Now if I have her anywhere near the investigation everyone will say it’s a witch hunt.’

  Logan watched a handful of little jelly figures disappear, trying not to imagine them screaming as the inspector chewed. ‘You’re convinced it’s Macintyre.’

  ‘Course it’s bloody Macintyre.’ The words barely audible through all the dying bears.

  Logan nodded. Insch was just like Jackie: unable to see past his own obsession. It didn’t matter what the inspector said: it was still a witch hunt. He kept his mouth shut and went back to the case file.

  Dundee’s Ninewells Hospital was huge, a labyrinth of corridors and interconnected buildings, the familiar smell of disinfectant and the buzz of fluorescent lighting depressing the hell out of Logan as he marched behind Insch down the stairs and along the corridor to the neurology ward. A middle-aged woman in white and green sat at the nurses station, peering over her specs at a clipboard festooned with forms, a huge box of chocolates lying open beside her. Insch helped himself to one, then said, ‘Nikki Bruce?’

  The ward sister looked up. ‘You relatives?’ her voice going up at the end in a classic Fife lilt.

  The inspector showed her his warrant card. ‘Police, we—’

  ‘Aye, I know. Nikki’s expecting you.’ She stood, only coming up to the middle of Insch’s enormous barrel chest, and led them down the corridor to a small, private room. ‘She’s had a tough time of it – a lot of pain. Don’t tire her out.’

  Helium balloons bobbed gently in the air-conditioning: glittering metallic things with teddy bears and kittens on them, GET WELL SOON cards pinned to the cork board over the bed, but no flowers. Nikki was propped up with crunchy white NHS pillows, her features hidden in the shadows, an intravenous drip in her arm and a pair of white iPod headphones in her ears.

  Insch cleared his throat and sank himself into the high-backed chair by the bed – the one for patients – leaving Logan to fetch a creaky plastic seat from the corner. There was a flicker of movement, as if Nikki had only just realized they were there. Then she sighed and clicked off her music with a trembling, bandaged hand.

  The inspector asked her how she was doing, in a voice so full of sympathy Logan almost didn’t recognize it. ‘I’m really sorry,’ the big man said, ‘but we need to ask you some questions. Are you still OK with that?’

  A nod. As Logan’s eyes adjusted to the darkened room, he could see the difference a couple of days had made. Nikki’s bruises had blossomed until her whole face was puffy and dark, fresh surgical padding covering the wounds he’d read about on the way down, a faint tinge of yellow and tiny red dots leaking through the white gauze, marking the path of her attacker’s knife. When she spoke her voice was small and painful, crying as she answered the inspector. Telling him about the birthday party at the nightclub, drinking too much. Not remembering anything till she was being sick in the taxi rank. Trying to walk home. The knife. His body. The blood. . . Her words made Logan feel ill all over again – how the hell could someone do this to another human being?

  When it was over Insch apologized again, placed a hand on her shoulder and promised he’d do everything he could to catch the man responsible. Then they left her alone with her pain and her grief.

  There was a man in a suit waiting for them at the reception desk: rough features and hands like shovels. He had CID written all over him. ‘Well?’

  Insch helped himself to another chocolate from the nurse’s box. ‘Nothing conclusive. But it sounds identical to Macintyre’s MO, everything fits.’

  ‘We knew that – we told you that!’ The man’s Dundee accent coming out loud and proud. ‘We didn’t ask you down here to tell us what we already bloody know.’

  ‘Listen up, Sunshine,’ said Insch, stepping up close, using his bulk to force the man back a step, voice low and menacing, ‘I’ve got six women in Aberdeen who’ve been attacked by this bastard. This is not a game, or a pissing contest. Understand?’

  ‘Who the hell are you calling “Sunshine”?’ The man bristled, shoulders back, chest out. ‘It’s Detective Chief Superintendent Campbell to you, or “sir”, one of the two. Do you understand?’

  Insch was starting to go scarlet, but he managed to say, ‘Ye
s . . . sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘That’s better.’ DCS Campbell turned to Logan, ‘That the case file?’ sticking out his hand.

  Logan looked at Insch, got the nod, and passed it over. ‘From the victim photographs it looks like he’s escalating. Won’t be long until he kills someone.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ said the DCS, skimming through the folder, ‘you Teuchter bastards train him then let him loose down here. Thanks a fuckin’ heap. . .’

  ‘You know,’ Logan was probably going to regret this, but someone had to say it, ‘it might not be Rob Macintyre. It could still be a copycat.’

  Campbell turned a cold eye on him. ‘Really, Sergeant? Any other startling insights you’d like to share with us?’ Logan could think of a few involving the DCS, his mother and a horse’s arse, but he kept his mouth shut. ‘Aye,’ said Campbell, slapping the Macintyre file shut and stuffing it under his arm, ‘thought not. Well, we’ll take it from here, and if we need anyone to state the bloody obvious I’ll give you a call. Meantime, try and keep your raping wee shites to yourselves. Understand?’

  Insch looked as if his head was ready to pop as he said, ‘We’ll do our best.’

  The road back to Aberdeen was one long stretch of dark, winding dual carriageway and it flashed past at the same speed as before – twenty miles over the legal limit as PC Stirling Moss put his foot to the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Logan as they roared past an eighteen-wheeler on its way north to Asda, ‘I was just trying to be objective.’

  Silence. Then, ‘I don’t need you undermining me in front of craggy-faced dickheads like Campbell!’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to—’

  ‘It was Macintyre, OK? You saw what he did to that girl. She’s twenty-three and he’s scarred her for life. Not just on the outside. What he did to her will never heal.’

  Logan couldn’t think of an answer to that, but then Insch didn’t seem to want one. The inspector folded his massive arms over his chest and closed his eyes. Up front, the driver clicked on the radio and seventies rock and roll sounded through the car as it ate up the road and the miles from Dundee.

  Jackie didn’t appear back at the flat until nearly quarter to eight. She stomped her feet in the hallway, muttering curses under her breath, clambering out of her huge padded jacket then draping herself over the radiator, complaining about the weather. ‘Not supposed to snow till the weekend. . .’ Her nose was AFC-red. ‘Make us a cup of coffee, will you?’

  ‘Where have you been? It’s nearly eight!’ Logan followed her through into the lounge where she kicked off her shoes and stood with her back to the electric fire, holding one foot inches from the glowing bars. ‘You’ll get chilblains.’

  Jackie didn’t seem to care. ‘Steel was looking for you. Something about a PF review for the Morrison case tomorrow?’

  ‘Wonderful.’ So much for a day off. ‘Anyway, come on, you need to get a shift on if you want a shower before we go: taxi’s booked for eight.’ He picked up her discarded boots and carried them through to the hall, calling back over his shoulder, ‘Got a card and a sort of elephant wind-chime thing.’

  ‘Oh Christ, that’s not tonight, is it?’ There was a pause and then some swearing. ‘Why the hell does it have to be tonight?’

  ‘Because it’s her birthday. Let’s not do this again, OK?’

  ‘I was only saying.’

  Shaking his head, Logan left her to it and went to get ready.

  Twelve minutes past eight and a car horn brayed from the street outside. Logan peered through the curtains: there was a taxi sitting in the middle of the road. ‘About bloody time. Jackie, you ready?’ No reply. He picked up the parcel and birthday card, then stuck his head out into the hall. Empty, but he could hear her in the bedroom, talking to herself. ‘No, I can’t. Got to go to this stupid bloody birthday thing. . . no. . .’ Logan’s hand froze over the doorknob, listening. ‘Yes. . . Look I was at it all last night, and the night before. I’m knackered, OK?’ A longer pause, then, ‘Nah, he doesn’t suspect a thing. Look, it’ll have to be tomorrow. . . Yeah, me too.’ The phone beeped as she hung up.

  Logan backed away, staring at the half-open bedroom door.

  Another honk on the taxi horn and Jackie emerged into the hall, pulling on her coat. She froze for a moment, seeing him standing there. Then said, ‘Well, come on then, thought we were in a hurry.’

  The birthday party wasn’t as horrible as Logan had been expecting: it was much, much worse. Jackie kept checking her watch, as if she had somewhere better to be, and Logan watched her grumbling her way through the party like a spoiled child.

  How long had it been going on – her and the man on the phone? How long had she been lying to him? Sneaking around behind his back. Janette’s fictional break-up, the rehearsal on Sunday that wasn’t: lies.

  What was it Ronald Berwick – champion housebreaker – had said? ‘Never trust a woman, they’ll fuck you over every time.’

  LIES

  28

  Last night’s snow hadn’t come to much, just a thin veneer of white that melted away as soon as the sun touched it, making the roads steam. Logan stood at the window of DI Steel’s office, not really watching the people marching by on the streets below – enjoying the brief respite from winter – he was too busy brooding. When he’d punched 1471 into the phone to find out who Jackie had been speaking to last night it was Rennie’s number that came back. He should have known: the two of them had always been close. Simon Bloody Rennie. Two-faced, backstabbing—

  ‘. . . or am I just being a vindictive old cow? Hoy, Earth to Lazarus, come in Lazarus!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘miles away.’

  ‘I said the wee shite’s lookin’ at eight to twelve years before he gets out. The PF’ll try for more, but you know what judges’re like when it comes to sentencing wee kids. Soft bastards.’

  ‘Oh, Sean Morrison. . .’ he turned back to the window. ‘You ever wonder what happened to him? You know, to make him that way.’

  ‘Nope. Don’t know, don’t care. We caught the wee bastard and he’s going away for a long time. That’s all I need to know.’

  ‘Hmm. . .’ A patrol car turned into Queen Street, the sunshine glinting off the windscreen as it stopped to let an old lady cross the road. ‘Six months ago he was a normal little eight-year-old boy, and now he’s a murderer. Big step for a small kid.’

  ‘You sound like a bloody social worker. He’s a spoilt wee shite and that’s all there is to it.’ The noise of a petrol station lighter scritch-scritch-scritching, and a curl of white smoke snaked its way towards the window.

  ‘You don’t kill an old man just because mummy and daddy won’t buy you a pony.’ He looked back over his shoulder – Steel was stretched out happily in her chair, heels dug deep into the carpet, arms up over her head, like a dishevelled cat, puffing away happily to herself. ‘Something must have happened.’

  She pulled the fag from her mouth, peering at him through tendrils of smoke. ‘Gonnae do me a favour an no’ piss on my parade? We won: enjoy it.’ She dragged her sleeve back and squinted at her watch. ‘Come on, just time for a pee break before the PF gets here. And cheer up for God’s sake, you’re starting to make Doc Misery-Guts look cheery by comparison.’

  The Procurator Fiscal sat in the least manky of the inspector’s chairs, looking tanned and golden, but her deputy – the one she’d left in charge while she was off basking on a beach somewhere – had taken on the typical Aberdeen mid-winter pallor. Rachael Tulloch: skin so pale it was almost white, her long, curly auburn hair held back in a loose ponytail that she fiddled with while the PF and Steel talked through the list of offences they were going to charge Sean Morrison with.

  She was pretty; Logan couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before. Not beautiful, but wholesome, Celtic, girl-next-door pretty. She looked up, caught him staring at her, and smiled.

  Feeling like a naughty teenager he blushed and looked away.

 
When they were finished, Rachael hung back, letting Steel and the PF march on ahead. ‘So,’ she said, undoing her hair, letting the curls fall across her shoulders and down her back, ‘I hear you caught Sean pretty much single handed.’ Logan demurred, but she was having none of it. ‘Not to mention solving all those burglaries.’ A smile played across her lips, then she rolled her eyes, putting on a cheesy American accent, ‘Is there anything you can’t do?’

  ‘I. . . well. . .’ Suddenly Logan was having difficulty stringing two words together.

  ‘You know,’ taking a deep breath, ‘I’m sure I still owe you a drink. From before.’ Resting her fingertips against his arm.

  ‘Ah, well. . .’ and then he thought of Jackie and Rennie – he doesn’t suspect a thing – ‘Now you come to mention it, I do remember something about a large gin and tonic.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Er . . . tonight?’

  ‘Tonight. Seven o’clock, Ferry Hill House Hotel, the bar, not the lounge. Don’t be late.’ Rachael grinned, turned, and hurried after the Procurator Fiscal. She only looked back twice.

  Logan bumped into Big Gary on the way down the stairs. The big man took one look at him and groaned. ‘What are you doing in? Thought I told you to stay off till Saturday.’

  ‘DI Steel.’

  ‘Why do we even bother having a shift rota?’ He dug his notebook out and scribbled something in it. ‘Any idea when Her Holiness will let you back to normal duties?’

  ‘No. You seen Rennie about?’ Logan didn’t know what he was going to do to the constable, but it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  ‘Court. All day,’ Gary said, putting his notebook back where he’d found it, ‘two unlawful removals, three shoplifters and an indecent exposure. He’s in tomorrow though.’

  Logan thanked him and stomped down the stairs to his commandeered incident cupboard, sitting in the windowless little room, thinking about marching over to the court building, grabbing Rennie by the throat and beating the shit out of him. He was stamping on the little bastard’s testicles when his phone started to ring.