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

by Stuart MacBride

  ‘Gets better every time I do it!’ he said, ‘Here, what do you call a lawyer with the shit kicked out of him?’

  ‘Gary—’

  ‘No, wait a minute, it’s what do you get if you kick the shit out of a lawyer?’

  ‘I’m taking him up to get his photo taken before he files another complaint.’ Logan went through into reception, trying not to listen as the desk sergeant shouted out, ‘A medal!’

  It wasn’t much of a photo studio, just the corner of a room on the third floor with a rumpled roll of grey backing paper, a bare seat and a couple of fill-in flashes on tripods.

  Sandy the Snake demanded the door be closed before he’d take off his shirt, disappointing the crowd in the corridor. The photographer clicked a huge Nikon digital camera onto a tripod and wired the flashes up while the lawyer struggled to get the sleeve over the cast on his broken arm.

  It had only been a day and a half since the attack, but already the bruises were spectacular – a web of purple, black, green and blue that stretched nearly all the way around Sandy’s torso.

  ‘Trousers too, please,’ said the photographer, firing off a couple of shots, then checking them on the little screen.

  ‘I don’t see why I should—’

  ‘Relax, it’s just for evidence, we need—’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing! You and that bunch of jackals out there – you just want to humiliate me!’

  Logan sighed. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson, we do this with all victims of serious assault. You know that. The more evidence we have, the longer your attacker’s sentence is going to be. You want him put away for as long as possible, don’t you?’

  He could see Sandy thinking about it, probably struggling with the idea of putting someone behind bars, rather than helping them get away with it, for a change. The lawyer scowled. ‘If I see, or hear of, any of these images being used for non-evidential purposes I’m going to sue.’ And then he reluctantly stripped. Standing there in his socks and pants, embarrassed and semi-naked, the lawyer looked like a very different man. Thin legs, slight pot belly, grey hairs dusting his chest. He was bruised all over – Russell McGillivray had really gone to town on him.

  The photographer was quick and efficient, documenting the lawyer’s injuries, especially the one on his left shoulder: a boot-print-shaped mass of dark purple, clear enough that you could see the individual treads where his attacker had stamped on him. When it was all over, and Sandy Moir-Farquharson had climbed gingerly back into his clothes, Logan pulled out the identity booklet he’d printed out earlier: a dozen faces from the force database, including one Russell McGillivray. He handed it over, but the lawyer refused to pick anyone out, saying only, ‘It was dark.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  The lawyer scowled at him, one eye clear and blue, the other vampire-red, the iris floating on a whorl of blood. ‘Of course I’m sure! It was dark. If I saw the person I’d identify them.’ He took another glance at the collection of faces. ‘I’ll not help you fit up an innocent man, just because you can’t be bothered to find who actually did it! I knew this would happen if—’

  ‘We’ve got a fingerprint and a confession.’ Logan went to take the booklet back, but the lawyer held it firm, bloodshot and good eye locked on the row of little faces. ‘The ungrateful bastard!’

  ‘Surprisingly enough, sir, that’s what DI Insch said.’

  He escorted Hissing Sid back out the front door and told him he’d be in touch as soon as a trial date had been set. Much to Logan’s surprise, the lawyer had shaken his hand and told him he was doing a good job – sounding as if he was grudging every syllable, but saying it nonetheless – before limping out into the chilly morning, just as the first flakes of snow began to fall. Logan stood beneath the canopy, in the cold, and watched him go. Wondering how it was possible to despise someone and feel sorry for them at the same time.

  A night in the cells had done nothing to improve Russell McGillivray’s BO. Stale sweat mixed with the sour smell of someone rapidly plummeting through the nightmare world of the DTs. Needing his next fix like a suffocating man needs air. Twitching one minute, still as the grave the next, sweat making his face shine like the pale belly of a toad, eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark purple. Every mother-in-law’s nightmare.

  Logan sat one of the two coffees he’d brought in with him on the off-green terrazzo floor and shut the door. ‘Well, Russell,’ he said, taking out what was left of DI Steel’s stolen cigarettes and rattling the packet, ‘you looking forward to your fifteen minutes of fame?’

  Painful smile, wheedling voice: ‘Gie’s a . . . gie’s a ciggie. Go on, gie’s a fag, eh?’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long: into court, bish-bash-bosh, back to Craiginches for a couple of years on the parole violation. Not to mention all that extra time for driving while disqualified, without insurance, resisting arrest, perverting the course of justice, attempted murder—’

  ‘WHAT?’ McGillivray was up on his feet like a shot, twisting his fingers round and round, making the joints pop and crack. ‘I didnae murder no one!’

  ‘Oh, did I not mention that last night?’ Logan shrugged, ‘Must’ve slipped my mind. You think—’

  ‘I didnae murder nobody!’

  Logan dug out a cigarette and the lighter. ‘One last smoke for the condemned man.’

  ‘I DIDNAE MURDER ANYONE!’

  ‘No, but you had a bloody good crack at it, didn’t you? That cleaner hadn’t come out when she did, you’d’ve beaten him to death.’

  ‘OhJesusfuck. . .’

  ‘Here.’ Logan lit one then passed it across, the long-forgotten burn of inhaled smoke making his scarred lungs twitch. ‘Might as well enjoy it while you can.’

  McGillivray wrapped himself around the burning cigarette, puffing frantically, as if it could make this all go away. ‘Wasnae murder . . . I . . . wis just supposed to teach them a wee lesson.’

  ‘The lawyer and. . . ?’ leaving a gap for McGillivray to fill, even though he knew the answer already.

  ‘An the fuckin’ footballer. Both of them for three hundred.’

  ‘Three hundred’s way too cheap, Russell: you’ll devalue the market.’

  ‘It’s no’ my fault! I need my medicine. . .’

  ‘Who? Who gave you the three hundred?’

  He shrugged, eyes on the floor, cigarette held in a cupped hand, as if he was trying to hide it. ‘Dunno, some bloke in a pub.’

  Logan treated him to an uncomfortable silence. The kind of silence Insch would have used, if he hadn’t sodded off for an early lunch to go shout at the woman doing the ‘Gentlemen of Japan’ costumes.

  ‘I dunno! OK, I dunno . . . didn’t ask, three hundred for two fuckers.’

  ‘Cash in advance?’

  McGillivray sooked the last gasping breath from the orange filtered stub, then ground it out beneath his foot. ‘Gie’s another fag, eh?’

  ‘Did you get paid in advance?’

  He licked his lips, staring at Logan’s pocket, where the cigarettes were hiding. ‘Hunnerd up front. Hunnerd after the lawyer. Hunnerd after the footballer. . .’ More fidgeting. ‘He’s a fuckin rapist, isn’t he? No my fault! You—’

  Logan pulled out another cigarette and McGillivray’s junkie eyes lit up. ‘Which pub, Russell?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  Logan shook his head, then snapped the fag in half. ‘Which pub?’

  ‘Ah fuck! Come oan! I’m no—’

  Crack and the cigarette was half the size again.

  ‘Garthdee Arms!’

  ‘I want a name.’

  ‘He didnae gie’s his name! He didnae!’ Panicking, eyes on the tiny smokable stub. ‘Tall bloke, looked like shite, beard, glasses . . . for fucksake. . .’

  Logan gave him what was left.

  It took less than twenty minutes with the e-fit software to come up with a likeness – thin face, bags under the eyes, round glasses,
high forehead, beard. Logan sighed and printed it out, not needing to post the picture on the force intranet to find out who it was. Macintyre’s third victim – Gail Dunbar – this was her husband, the man who’d accosted Insch outside the court when the footballer was released. The man Insch had promised justice.

  They picked him up from work, taking him away in an unmarked CID car to be fingerprinted, DNA-sampled and photographed. Listening as he went from sullen silence to shouted complaints: the lawyer got that little fucker off with what he’d done to Gail. He deserved all he fucking got! His only regret was that McGillivray had started with Moir-Farquharson instead of that footballing little fuck. Far as he was concerned it was two hundred pounds well spent.

  Insch was just coming back from lunch, passing through the rear doors as Rennie and Rickards manhandled Gail Dunbar’s husband down to the cells. The man took one look at the inspector and exploded. ‘YOU! YOU PROMISED ME! YOU PROMISED YOU’D PUT HIM AWAY! YOU PROMISED, YOU FAT FUCK!’ And then he got violent.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Logan, slumped back against the wall while Dunbar was dragged away, shouting, swearing and screaming.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Insch as the racket was muffled by a slamming cell door, ‘we can’t touch Macintyre. Someone rapes my wife: you better believe I’m going to do something about it.’ He sighed, staring off into the distance for a moment. ‘Only I wouldn’t use a junkie toe-rag like McGillivray. I’d do the bastard myself.’

  35

  Half past two and Logan was getting ready to shut down his computer when DC Rennie swore his way into the room, holding a wodge of damp paper towels against his cheek. ‘Bastard fucking shite bastard fuck. . .’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Your bloody beardy-weirdie took a swing at me! Took three of us to get him in a bloody cell.’

  ‘He’s a primary school teacher.’

  ‘He’s a bastard!’ Pulling away the damp towels and fingering the angry red welt beneath. ‘I was on a promise tonight as well. . .’ Rennie stopped and glowered at the tissue, then hurled it into the bin. ‘Insch wants to know if you need a lift tonight. To the rehearsal?’

  Logan shook his head. ‘I’m going home. Anyway, thought you lot only met on a Monday, Wednesday and Friday.’

  ‘Two weeks till we’re on, so it’s pretty much every night from now till—’

  ‘So who’s supposed to watch Macintyre then?’

  Rennie blushed. ‘I can come back later if—’

  ‘It’s Jackie, isn’t it? For God’s sake!’ If she was supposed to watch the footballer’s house every night for the next two weeks she’d be in a permanent foul mood. ‘What if she’s supposed to be on nights, or the back shift?’

  Rennie shrugged. ‘I’m just doing what I’m told.’

  ‘This is stupid.’ Logan stood. ‘We know Macintyre’s not hunting in Aberdeen any more; all we have to do is stick his number plates into the ANPR system and call Tayside if he leaves the city.’

  ‘Er . . . the inspector doesn’t want anyone else knowing about—’

  ‘Yeah? Well guess what? I don’t care.’ He grabbed his coat and headed downstairs, Rennie trailing along behind him like some sort of bloody puppy, yapping away about how Insch wouldn’t like it and wouldn’t it be better to just keep their heads down. . .

  The windowless CCTV room was quiet, lit by a wall of little fourteen-inch television screens: seventy-one of them flickering away, showing different views of Aberdeen. Three operators sat at the central desk, headphones on, working the cameras by remote control and drinking mugs of tea. Logan grabbed the inspector in charge and asked if he could have a word in the review suite across the corridor. ‘Can you do me a favour?’ he asked when the door was shut, leaving Rennie standing outside, looking anxious. ‘I need these number plates in the ANPR.’ Scribbling down the registrations for all of Rob Macintyre’s vehicles. Being personalized vanity plates, they were easy enough to remember.

  The inspector took the list, holding the thing as if it was poisonous. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you owe me.’

  He thought about it. ‘We can’t just stick number plates in the system willy-nilly. I mean there’s an audit trail and—’

  ‘If any of those cars leave town – you give me a call. Day or night. Pretend Insch said to watch them a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Insch?’ The inspector looked down at the list, frowned, then said, ‘These Rob Macintyre’s cars? Coz if they are, they’re already in the system. They were set up ages ago. No one told us to stop monitoring them, so we didn’t.’

  In Aberdeen, the Automatic Number Plate Recognition system monitored every car entering or leaving the city by a major road, recording the licence plate and searching for it in the local and national databases. If the car was on the ‘watch’ list, it got pinged. Rob Macintyre’s cars were all on the watch list. None of them had been ID’d leaving Aberdeen. Logan read through the log files again and swore. ‘What about Dundee?’

  The inspector shook his head. ‘Nothing. If they’d clocked his car they’d have called us. It’s all the same database.’

  ‘Damn. . .’ Logan sat back on the desk in the small room. ‘Do us a favour and give them a call, OK?’

  ‘It won’t do any good. They—’

  ‘Get them to pull their CCTV for the road into Dundee – maybe he’s obscured his number plate? He could have got one of those special ones off the internet—’

  ‘Believe it or not, we’ve already done it. Insch was in here shouting the odds when the first copycat rape happened. Same again with the second. We checked. Tayside checked. Macintyre just wasn’t there.’

  Out in the corridor Rennie was trying, and failing, to chat up one of the admin assistants. Logan marched right past, through the door and down the stairs. Rennie scurried after him. ‘Er . . . he’s not going to tell anyone, is he? Insch’ll kill me if he—’

  ‘It can’t be Macintyre – his car would’ve set off the ANPR. It has to be a copycat. That, or it was never Macintyre in the first place.’

  Rennie groaned. ‘The Inspector isn’t going to like that.’

  ‘Tough.’ He passed through the back door and out into the snow-shrouded car park.

  ‘So,’ said Rennie, sliding in the icy slush, ‘you coming, then? To the rehearsal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Aw, come on! Please, Insch thinks—’

  ‘I don’t care! I’m not spending my evening watching you lot ponce about on stage forgetting your lines. So you can stop pouting: I’m not going.’

  36

  The Baptist church hall was every bit as cold and depressing as Logan had expected: dark wooden floorboards, stained by years of dirty shoes, pockmarked with tiny high-heel dimples; someone had given the room a coat of magnolia a long time ago, but it had been ignored ever since, the paintwork flaking and peeling as if the place had a nasty dose of eczema. The inspector sat at a small, collapsible desk, watching as his gentlemen from Japan and schoolgirls lurched through the operetta.

  Insch’s cast were . . . challenged was probably the polite way to put it. They didn’t know their lines, forgot where they were supposed to be and when they were supposed to be there, sending the inspector into regular, purple-faced fits about timing, places, and learning the bloody words. The only person he didn’t yell at was Debbie Kerr: AKA Debs – the woman playing Katisha – and Logan could see why. She was the only one of them who seemed to have any clue what she was doing. Rennie certainly didn’t – Logan had seen more coordinated jellyfish.

  He lasted two whole hours before making his excuses, picking his moment carefully, when the inspector was too busy shouting to notice.

  There wasn’t much of a queue in the Ashvale chip shop that night, just a couple of tweedy-looking women peering at the menu, arguing over whose turn it was to pay. Logan got two haddock suppers with pickled onions, Irn-Bru, and a polystyrene cup of mushy peas to go, stuffing the plast
ic bag of fish and chips down the front of his jacket, vinegar-scented steam rising up around his face as he hurried along Great Western Road.

  The snow had kept up a slow, relentless pace: fat, wet flakes of white that stuck to his hair and jacket, piled up in the gardens, or turned to turd-brown slush in the gutters. When he was young, the snow and the rain had hit long before Christmas, making the school holidays a time for sledging, pornographic snowmen, and being pelted with snowballs, but as the years went by the season for snow had become erratic. Now it came anytime between December and April, the blizzards howling in to turn the world all Dr Zhivago. The north-east of Scotland, twinned with Siberia.

  By the time he reached Macintyre’s road his hands, feet and face were frozen, but sweat trickled down the small of his back. The result of marching along in a thick padded jacket with a bag of fish suppers stuffed up his simmit.

  Jackie was parked in the same space as before, where she could watch the footballer’s house without sitting right in front of it. She looked surprised to see him as he climbed in beside her. ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Fish and chips.’ Logan, dug the bags out from under his jacket. ‘Thought you’d be tired of cold sandwiches and cups of thermos coffee.’ She accepted a paper parcel and unfolded it, filling the car with warm, tasty smells.

  ‘Thanks.’ They ate in silence.

  Sunday morning should have involved nothing more strenuous than a lie-in and a late breakfast. Instead it creaked and groaned after a night spent in the passenger seat of a manky Vauxhall Vectra. Predawn had turned the sky purple, slowly lightening between the silent grey buildings, making the snow glow pink in the gloom. Jackie was fast asleep in the driver’s seat, legs splayed out like a frog, snoring gently with her mouth open. Very feminine. But at least they were on speaking terms again.

  Logan tried to stretch, yawned, shook his head, then checked his watch. Six twenty-two. He knew this was a complete waste of time – the ANPR would have picked Macintyre up if he really was driving to Dundee to attack women – but if it meant an end to the fighting and angry silences, he was prepared to put up with an uncomfortable night in a filthy car. Even if it was his day off.