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

by Stuart MacBride

  There was a box of DVDs in the corner of the CID office – seized from Ma Stewart’s shop then signed in and out of evidence so people could borrow a couple of films for the evening. Not surprisingly all the hardcore ones had been first to go. Logan pawed through the remainder, looking for anything that might fill the awkward silence permeating the flat, unable to face another night of Insch’s Mikado.

  A policewoman sauntered over, carrying a handful of Hollywood blockbusters – most of which weren’t even in the cinema yet – and dumped them back in the box, saying, ‘That new one with Tom Cruise is OK, but a couple of the others were well dodgy copies.’

  ‘Mmm?’ said Logan, not really paying attention.

  ‘Yeah. Is it OK if I borrow this one?’ Holding up a case for something animated with a penguin on the cover. ‘Got my niece coming to stay tonight.’

  ‘Just make sure you get it back by lunchtime – they’re shifting this lot to central storage tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Nine o’clock and he was all set to go home, hoping that Jackie wasn’t there. He grabbed a handful of DVDs from the top of the pile, stuffed them into his heavy overcoat, and headed out of the door.

  The whole flat sparkled. It was weird: the carpets had been hoovered, the surfaces dusted, and Logan got the sneaking suspicion that even the bathroom had been given a once over. And from the kitchen came the smell of baking. A sudden, very nasty thought occurred, but when he risked a peek in through the kitchen door, it wasn’t his mother standing in a blue-and-white-striped apron, it was Jackie. Which, if anything, was slightly more scary.

  ‘Did you fall on your head last night?’ he asked.

  Jackie didn’t even turn around. ‘Don’t be daft, I was here all last night, remember? Now you go get changed and I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Whatever she’d been up to she wasn’t going to talk about it without a fight. And Logan couldn’t face that right now. ‘I got some films from the raid yesterday.’

  Jackie peered out of the kitchen window, watching the thick blobs of rain join together and run down the glass. ‘Good, it’s a shite day anyway. We’ll watch something, have lunch, go get a couple bottles of wine, something for tea, nice lazy afternoon. How does that sound?’

  It sounded eerily like Jackie used to be before her obsession with Rob Macintyre. ‘Er . . . good. That’d be good.’ He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the front door. ‘They’re in my coat – big pocket at the back.’ He went through to the bedroom and swapped his damp work suit for jeans and a casual shirt, wondering how long this small bout of normality was going to last. How long it would be before she started—

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ Amusement and surprise sounded from the hall and then Jackie appeared, carrying a small stack of DVDs.

  ‘I told you: we raided Ma Stewart’s yesterday. I—’

  ‘You dropping a hint or something?’ She held up the DVD on top of the pile, showing him the cover: Crocodildo Dundee. ‘Think our love life needs spicing up with a bit of hardcore porn?’

  ‘What? No. . .’ He went to take the DVD from her, but she danced back into the hall, laughing.

  ‘You’re such a pervert McRae!’

  ‘It’s. . . No: the guy who made it – the film – he gave me and Rickards a copy for getting back some stolen goods. Insch got one too!’

  ‘Join Michelle “Crocodildo” Dundee, as she struggles to find her feet, and other bits, in the big city,’ she read, putting on an appallingly over-the-top Australian accent. ‘She’s a filthy girl who can’t wait to have adventures “Down Under”!’

  ‘I’d forgotten all about it! Look, I didn’t ask for it, OK? It’s not—’

  ‘Oh we are so going to watch this!’

  ‘Jackie. . .’ But she was already running into the lounge to close the curtains and fire up the DVD player.

  ‘Come on then! And put the heating on, just in case we get all carried away and naked.’

  It was one of the most embarrassing things Logan had ever done in his life. Jackie roared with laughter the whole way through as the actors did a reasonable pastiche of the original film. He’d only ever seen the thing on fast forward before, looking for suspects that would match the e-fit of Frank Garvie, but to be fair it wasn’t as awful as it could have been. The jokes were actually funny, there was a plot, and enough sex to keep Jackie in hysterics as people from the north-east of Scotland pretended to be antipodeans. But it was excruciating sitting here watching it with her, not wanting to seem too turned on by the whole ‘other people having sex’ thing.

  The heroine stood in a dark alleyway and a woman with a skimpy outfit and huge hair stepped out of the shadows, demanding, ‘Give me all your money!’ as she brandished an eight-inch rubber willy then twisted the end, setting it vibrating.

  ‘That’s not a dildo,’ said Michelle Dundee, hauling a massive eighteen-inch job from the holster on her back, ‘THIS is a dildo!’

  Jackie could barely sit on the couch, she was laughing so much. ‘Oh, yeah!’ she yelled, in a better Australian accent than any of the actors, ‘dan’t knaw about you, Cobber, but oim randier than a snake on a barbie! Show us yer didgeridoo!’ And then she jumped on him.

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Ooh, it’s all excited! Rippa!’ as she burrowed into his trousers.

  Then Jason Fettes appeared onscreen – making his porn debut, not knowing that it would only be a couple of years before he’d be lying face-down on a slab in the morgue with a police photographer taking stills of his cold, dead body. The thought didn’t do a lot for Logan’s ardour.

  ‘Ah naw, Blue!’ Jackie pulled a startled face. ‘We’re losin’ it! Quick – mouth to mouth!’

  And Logan suddenly found it very easy to forget all about Jason Fettes and his ruptured innards.

  The happy, post-coital glow lasted a whole two hours, the pair of them lounging about in bed, laughing and joking, enjoying each other’s company for the first time in what felt like years. Ignoring the phone; letting the answering machine take care of it.

  It wasn’t until some bloody-minded sod kept ringing, hanging up and ringing again and again and again that Logan grumbled his way through to the lounge – stark naked – and picked up. ‘What?’

  DI Steel. ‘That’s no’ very friendly.’

  ‘We’re . . . busy.’

  ‘Aye, well, you can put it away for five minutes. Telly: ITV news.’

  Logan sighed, picked up the remote and clicked the television on, getting the lunchtime news – something about the latest balls-up in the war against terror. ‘So what? It’s. . .’ and the picture switched to a stock photo of Rob Macintyre’s ugly mug. He cranked up the volume.

  ‘—missing from his home late last night. The twenty-one-year-old signed a seven-figure deal for three volumes of his autobiography this week—’

  ‘Maybe he’s just off getting drunk somewhere?’

  Macintyre’s face was replaced by his fiancée at a press conference, looking distraught in a cleavage-revealing top and perfectly-styled hair, sniffing and crying away as she told the world that her husband-to-be hadn’t come home last night. That he’d missed practice this morning. That they were worried for his safety.

  Someone from the media office appeared beside her and made an appeal to camera. Logan hit the mute button. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—

  ‘You still there?’

  ‘Er . . . yes. Yes.’ Eyes darting towards the bedroom where Jackie had started singing.

  ‘Right, get your arse back to the station – Hissing Sid’s shooting his mouth off, the press are all over us and the CC’s having kittens.’

  ‘I. . . You said I could have a day off and—’

  ‘Now, Sergeant!’

  Cursing, Logan hung up. ‘Jackie?’ He found her in the kitchen, drinking orange juice from the carton. ‘Macintyre’s gone missing.’


  ‘Yeah?’ She shrugged, wiped her mouth and put the juice back in the fridge. ‘You want Thai or Italian for tea?’

  ‘Jackie, what happened last night?’

  ‘Nothing happened. I was here with you, remember?’

  ‘Jackie—’

  ‘I fancy noodles. If you’re going out, pick some up, eh?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Dinner’s at seven.’ She planted a kiss on the end of his nose. ‘Don’t be late.’

  43

  The sky had taken on an ominous grey-blue tinge, spears of low, golden light sparking off the granite buildings, making them glow as if they were on fire as the sun sank towards the horizon. It was cold, leaching into Logan’s bones as they walked the search perimeter, checking in with the teams. ‘I still don’t see why we’re going to all this trouble,’ he said. ‘Macintyre’s a grown man, only been missing what, thirteen, fourteen hours?’ Just because the footballer had disappeared, it didn’t mean he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. . . Please don’t let Jackie have killed him!

  ‘Because,’ said Steel, face creased up against the chilly wind, nose and ears bright red as she tramped along beside him, ‘he’s a missing celebrity, and they’re much more important than low-life nobodies like you and me. Famous people aren’t allowed to disappear while the media are watching.’ She stopped, looking up and down the line of skeletal trees and porcupine bushes. ‘Nobody looking?’

  ‘No, you’re safe.’

  ‘Thank God for that. . .’ She pulled out a packet of cigarettes with trembling fingers and stuck one in her mouth, lighting it and puffing frantically, shuddering with pleasure, then coughing violently. ‘Ohhhhhh, I needed that! Whose bloody idea was it to give people points for clypin’ on folk?’

  Logan just shrugged. So far he’d made twenty quid by telling the DCS running the ‘Fit Like’ programme when Steel was smoking. ‘Watch out – incoming.’ He pointed at a uniformed constable labouring her way up the hill. The park was a wedge of yellowed grass, snow and frost-bitten trees, sweeping downhill from Bonaccord Crescent to Willowbank Road. It wasn’t huge, but it was the closest patch of open ground to where Rob Macintyre was last spotted, and there were plenty of places to hide a body.

  Steel took one last puff and hid the cigarette behind her back, waving a hand in front of her face as if that would actually get rid of the smell. ‘Well?’

  The PC clambered up the last bit of slippery path and shook her head. ‘Nothing. Any chance of a fag? I’m gasping.’

  Steel handed one over. ‘Bugger all here and bugger all in any of the gardens. The little sod’s probably coked up in the arms of some daft tart, but I suppose we’d better widen the search area. Who knows, we might. . . Oh bugger.’ She squinted off into the distance at a large grey van with a satellite dish on top of it, pulling up on the other side of the park. ‘The bloody media’s here. Tell everyone to look busy!’ She started down the hill, dragging the constable with her, shouting back to Logan, ‘Chase up that useless bugger Rennie!’

  Langstane Place and Justice Mill Lane were one long parade of trendy nightclubs and bars. Just the sort of places a local ‘celebrity’ like Macintyre would want to be seen. The sort of place he could pick up some impressionable, star-struck girlie, go back to her place and practise the offside rule.

  Please, dear God, let Macintyre have gone home with someone! The alternative was too worrying to think about.

  Logan found Rennie in a huge, fancy-looking nightclub, the drone of vacuum cleaners fighting with a portable radio tuned to Northsound Two. The constable was sitting at the bar, drinking cappuccino and making eyes at the manageress. At least he had the decency to look guilty when he saw Logan. ‘Er . . . thank you, Miss,’ he said, putting his cup down next to a half-eaten muffin, ‘you’ve been very helpful.’ Then marched over to report in. ‘Bingo.’ He flipped through his notebook. ‘Taxi drops Macintyre here at half-eleven after some charity bash. He’s a bit pished, but they let him in anyway because he’s famous. Security cameras show him leaving with a group of people – mostly fit birds, lucky bastard – at one twenty-three, but he didn’t go to any of the other clubs on the street.’

  Logan breathed a sigh of relief: so it probably was just a late night of booze, boobs and bonking. Thank God for that. ‘Get onto the Media Office, we want anyone who remembers leaving the club with Macintyre, etc. etc.’

  ‘Already done it, sir.’

  ‘Then there’s hope for you yet. We—’

  A crash as the front door was thrown open; DI Steel stood silhouetted against the last rays of the dying sun. ‘Don’t just stand there! They’ve found a body!’

  Cromwell Road: the ambulance slithered its way in through the chainlink gates, digging muddy trenches into the playing-field grass as Rennie made a dog’s ear of parking outside on the street. Two patrol cars had got there first, their lights spinning lazily in the growing gloom, while their occupants cordoned off the area with blue-and-white POLICE tape. With all the media interest it wouldn’t be long before someone got down here and started taking photos or shooting video, demanding sound-bite comments, or just making shite up.

  Logan hurried under the fresh cordon of tape, following Steel and the twin trails of churned-up grass. The ambulance slid to a halt and the crew jumped out, dragging equipment from the back before hurrying over to where a uniformed officer was waving her arms about as if she was drowning, shouting, ‘Over here!’

  Logan ran after them, fingers crossed. ‘Please don’t let him be dead, please don’t let him be dead!’

  The lead paramedic took one look at whatever the female PC was standing over, turned on his heel and sprinted back the way he’d come.

  Logan’s heart sank. He was dead. Macintyre was dead. And Jackie had come home last night and thrown every scrap of clothing she had on into the washing machine to boil. . .

  ‘Out the bloody way!’ It was the paramedic, running back from the ambulance with a neck brace in one hand, a silvery blanket under his arm, and a bottle of oxygen over his shoulder. He crashed into the bushes and disappeared from sight.

  Logan crept forwards.

  Macintyre was lying on his side, arms and legs splayed out like a broken swastika on the cold, damp, blood-soaked ground. His face was swollen almost beyond recognition, eyes closed, mouth open, a trail of spittle and dark red trailing across the ambulance men’s gloved hands as they strapped the neck brace into position and slipped the oxygen mask over his smashed nose and mouth. ‘Oh Jesus. . .’ Logan’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘Jackie, what the hell did you do?’

  She’d been thorough: every visible inch of flesh was speckled with livid, purple bruises, the skin in between pale and waxy. Rob Macintyre had been beaten to death. He just hadn’t got around to dying yet.

  44

  Logan stood at the back of the room feeling sick as the Chief Constable read out the prepared statement, cameras flashing away as he told the world the official version of events. Rob Macintyre had been the victim of a particularly violent robbery. The podium was crowded – DI Steel, Macintyre’s fiancée and mother, Hissing Sid, someone from Aberdeen Football Club, and the woman from the press office, all there to appeal for any information on Rob Macintyre’s movements last night. Wanting whoever had attacked him to come forward and hand themselves in.

  Logan almost laughed. There wasn’t a chance in hell Jackie was going to stick her hand up for what she’d done to Macintyre. Unless someone had seen her, or they found some forensic evidence, this was one case that was going to go unsolved because Logan wasn’t going to say a word. Keep his head down. Pretend it never happened. Be an accessory after the fact and pervert the course of justice. Even though the guilt was killing him. But what else was he supposed to do?

  Colin Miller sidled up as the Media Officer unveiled replicas of the items believed to be missing from Macintyre’s body when he was discovered: a thick leather wallet; a Rolex watch; three gold
rings; a thick gold chain-bracelet; and the footballer’s trademark ruby earstud. Anyone offered any of these items was to contact the police immediately.

  ‘Course,’ said Miller, nodding at the display, ‘this is all shite, isn’t it? No way this wiz a muggin’.’ He waited for Logan to reply, got nothing, then said, ‘Come on – I been up the hospital. Fractured legs, broken arms, ribs . . . it wiz professional. Doctor I spoke to said eighty per cent chance of extensive brain damage. Aye, and that’s if he ever wakes up! Between you an’ me,’ Colin lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘both his nuts wiz ruptured. No’ just battered either, totally crushed. If it wasnae for the hypothermia he’d be deid by now.’

  When the CC threw the conference open to questions it took all of three seconds before someone else made the same connection that Miller had. It was difficult not to, with Hissing Sid sitting up there covered in bruises. And as soon as the lawyer let slip that protective surveillance had been withdrawn from Macintyre the night before last, the knives came out. The guy from AFC insisted that the police could, and should have done more, Hissing Sid claimed that a number of significant errors of judgment had been made, Macintyre’s fiancée sat there and cried asking how she could bring up a baby without its father, while his mother stared out at the cameras demanding justice. Someone had to pay for her wee boy being in a coma.

  It didn’t take long before the Chief Constable brought the whole thing to an unceremonious halt.

  Logan watched Moir-Farquharson limp from the room, handing out soundbites to anyone who’d listen, demanding an official enquiry.

  ‘Two-faced slimy bastard!’

  ‘Mmm?’ Miller had switched his mobile back on and was peering at it, holding the thing at various bizarre angles in his black-gloved hands. ‘Come on ya wee. . .’ A sudden smile, and Miller punched a button then held the phone to his ear, listening in silence for a moment, before hanging up. He gave Logan a nervous smile. ‘Izzy wiz gettin’ twinges this mornin’. Reception here’s shite byraway. What if the contractions start?’ He poked his phone again. ‘Think I’m runnin’ low on battery. . .’