Cold granite lm-1

by Stuart MacBride

Logan looked across at the inspector. Insch was not the sort of officer who normally indulged in self-pity. At least not as far as Logan knew. 'Like supervising uniforms, you mean?' he asked.

  At this a smile broke over DI Insch's large features. 'Did you like Roadkill's little collection?'

  So he had known all about the steadings full of rotting animal corpses. He had done it on purpose.

  'I don't think I've been sick so many times in my life before.'

  'How was Constable Jacobs?'

  Logan was about to ask who Constable Jacobs was, when he realized the inspector was talking about PC Steve: the naked drunkard. 'I don't think he'll forget this morning in a hurry.'

  Insch nodded. 'Good.'

  Logan thought the large man was going to say something more, but Insch just stuffed another sweetie in his mouth and smiled evilly to himself. Hazlehead was right on the edge of city, just a stone's throw from the countryside proper. On the other side of Hazlehead Academy only the crematorium stood between civilization and the rolling fields. The Academy had a reputation for drugs and violent pupils, but it wasn't a patch on places like Powis and Sandilands, so things could have been worse.

  Logan pulled the car up in front of one of the tower blocks near the main road. It wasn't as big as the ones in town, being a mere seven storeys, and was surrounded by mature, cadaverous trees. The leaves had come off late this year, coating the ground in slimy black clots that clogged the drains and made them overflow.

  'You got an umbrella?' asked the inspector, taking a good long look at the horrible weather.

  Logan admitted that he had, in the boot, so Insch made him get out of the car and fetch it, not stepping out into the downpour until Logan had the brolly open and was standing right next to the car door.

  'Now that's what I call service,' said Insch with a grin. 'Come on then, let's go see the family.'

  Mr and Mrs Lumley had a corner apartment near the top of the tower block. To Logan's surprise the lifts didn't reek of piss, nor were they scrawled all over with badly-spelled graffiti. The lift doors opened onto a well-lit corridor and halfway down they found a uniform rummaging about in his nose.

  'Sir!' he said, snapping upright and abandoning his excavations as soon as he saw the inspector.

  'How long you been here?' asked Insch, sneaking a peek over the PC's shoulder at the Lumley home.

  'Twenty minutes, sir.' There was a tiny station-house less than two hundred yards from the tower blocks. Little more than a couple of rooms really, but it did the job.

  'You got someone going door-to-door?'

  The PC nodded. 'Two PCs and a WPC, sir. The area car's off broadcasting a description.'

  'When did he go missing?'

  The constable dragged a notebook out of his pocket, flicking it open at the right page. 'The mother called at ten-thirteen. The child had been playing outside-'

  Logan was shocked. 'In this weather?'

  'Mother says he likes the rain. Dresses up like Paddington Bear.'

  'Aye, well…' said Insch, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets. 'Takes all sorts. Friends?'

  'All at school.'

  'I'm glad someone is. Have you checked with the school, just in case our little friend has decided to go learn something?'

  The PC nodded. 'We called them straight after the friends. They've not seen him for almost a week and a half.'

  'Lovely,' said Insch with a sigh. 'Right, come on then, out the way. We'd better see the parents.'

  Inside, the flat was all done up in bright colours, just like the house at Kingswells, where David Reid used to live before he was taken, strangled, abused and mutilated. There were pictures on the walls, like the Erskine's house in Torry, but the kid was a scruffy-looking boy of about five, with a mop of red hair and a face full of freckles.

  'That was taken two months ago, at his birthday party.'

  Logan turned his attention from the wall to the woman standing in the lounge doorway. She was quite simply stunning: long, curly red hair hanging loose on her shoulders, a small upturned nose and wide green eyes. She'd been crying. Logan did his best not to stare at her considerable bosom as she showed them into the living room.

  'Have you found him?' This from a tattered-looking man in blue overalls and socks.

  'Give them time, Jim, they've only just got here,' said the woman, patting him on the arm.

  'Are you the father?' asked Insch, perching himself on the edge of a bright blue sofa.

  'Stepfather,' said the man, sitting back down again. 'His father was a bastard-'

  'Jim!'

  'Sorry. His dad and me don't get on.'

  Logan started a slow inspection of the cheerful room, making a show of examining the photos and the ornaments, all the time watching Jim the stepfather. It wouldn't be the first time a stepson had fallen foul of mum's new husband. Some people took to their partner's kids as if they were their own, others looked at them as a constant reminder that they weren't first. That someone else had shagged the one they loved. Jealousy was a terrible thing. Especially when vented on a five-year-old child.

  OK, every photo on the wall showed the three of them looking as if they were having a great time, but people didn't tend to put up pictures of the bruises, cigarette burns and broken bones in the living room.

  Logan was particularly taken with a scene on a beach somewhere hot, in which everyone was in their swimming gear, grinning at the camera. The mother's figure was breathtaking, especially in a bottle-green bikini. Even with the scar where she must have had a Caesarean section.

  'Corfu,' said Mrs Lumley. 'Jim takes us away somewhere nice every year. Last year it was Corfu, this year it was Malta. Next year we're taking Peter to Florida to see Mickey Mouse…' She bit her bottom lip. 'Peter loves Mickey Mouse…he…Oh God, please find him!' And with that she dissolved into her husband's arms.

  Insch cast Logan a meaningful glance. Logan nodded and said, 'Why don't I make us all a nice cup of tea? Mr Lumley, can you show me where the things are?' Half an hour later Logan and Inspector Insch were standing at the bottom of the tower block's stairwell, looking out at the driving rain.

  'What do you think?' asked Insch, ferreting out his bag of fizzy sweeties.

  'The stepfather?'

  Insch nodded.

  'He seems genuinely fond of the kid. You should have heard him banging on about how Peter's going to play for the Dons when he grows up. I don't see him as the wicked stepdad.'

  The inspector nodded again. While Logan had been making the tea and questioning the dad, Insch had been gently pumping the mother for information.

  'Me neither. The kid's not had any history of accidents, or mysterious illnesses, or trips to the doctor.'

  'How come he wasn't in school today?' asked Logan, helping himself to one of Insch's sweets.

  'Bullying. Some big fat kid's been beating the crap out of him 'cos he's ginger. Mother's keeping him off until the school do something about it. She's not told the stepfather though. She thinks he'd go nuts if he knew someone was picking on Peter.'

  Insch stuffed a fizzy thing into his mouth and sighed. 'Two kids missing in two days,' he said, not bothering to disguise the sadness in his voice. 'Christ, I hope he's just run away. I really don't want to see another dead kid in the morgue.' Insch sighed again, his large frame deflating slightly.

  'We'll find them,' said Logan with a conviction he didn't feel.

  'Aye, we'll find them.' The inspector stepped out into the rain, without waiting for Logan to open the brolly. 'We'll find them, but they'll be dead.'

  12

  Logan and Insch drove back to Force Headquarters in silence. The sky had darkened overhead, storm clouds spreading from one horizon to the other, blotting out the daylight, turning the city dark at two in the afternoon. As they drove the streetlights flickered on, their yellow light making the day seem even darker.

  Insch was right of course: they wouldn't find the missing children alive. Not if it was the same man who'd snatched
them. According to Isobel the sexual abuse had all happened post mortem.

  Logan slid the car across Anderson Drive on autopilot.

  At least Peter Lumley had lived a bit first. Poor bloody Richard Erskine had nothing but an over-protective mother. Somehow Logan couldn't see her taking Richard to Corfu and Malta and Florida. Far too dangerous for her little darling. Peter was lucky he had a nice stepdad to take care of him…

  'You been seen by the Spanish Inquisition yet?' asked Insch as Logan negotiated the roundabout at the end of Queen Street. A large statue of Queen Victoria sat in the middle on a huge granite plinth. Someone had stuck a traffic cone on her head.

  'Professional Standards? No, not yet.' He still had that little treat to look forward to.

  Insch sighed. 'I had them in this morning. Some jumped-up prick in a smart new uniform, never done a damned day's policing in his life, telling me how important it is to find out who leaked the story to the press. Like I couldn't work that one out for myself. I tell you, I get whoever-'

  A dirty Ford van shot out in front of them, causing Logan to slam on the brakes and swear.

  'Let's pull them over!' cried Insch with glee. Making someone else's day miserable might make them both feel better.

  They gave the driver a stern talking to and ordered her to turn up at nine the following morning with all her documentation. It wasn't much, but it was something.

  Back at Force HQ the incident room was in turmoil. The phones were ringing non-stop, following an announcement on Northsound Radio and the lunchtime TV news. All the major channels were carrying the story. Aberdeen was becoming a media hot-spot. The whole force was under the spotlight. And if Insch didn't get this thing solved soon, he'd get his head to play with.

  They spent a while going over the various sightings of the two missing boys. Most of them would be a waste of time, but they all had to be investigated, just in case. One of the force's technical experts was busy collating all the reports into the computer, taking every sighting and interview, location, time and date and sticking it into HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, setting the massive cross-referencing program running, churning out reams and reams of automatically generated actions. It was a pain in the arse, but you never knew when something might prove to be important.

  But Logan knew it was all a waste of time, because Peter Lumley was already dead. Didn't matter how many old ladies saw him wandering the streets of Peterhead or Stonehaven. The kid was lying in a ditch somewhere, half-naked and violated.

  The admin officer, a woman far too clever to be that thin, handed a stack of paper to Insch: the actions generated by HOLMES while he and Logan had been out. The inspector took them with good grace and skimmed through them. 'Shite, shite, shite,' he said, throwing unwanted sheets over his shoulder as he came to them.

  Every time it came across a person's name in a statement, HOLMES produced an action to have that person interviewed. Even if it was just some old woman saying she'd been feeding her cat Mr Tibbles at the time the kid went missing: HOLMES wanted Mr Tibbles interviewed.

  'Not doing that, or that.' Another couple of sheets went fluttering to the floor. When he'd finished the pile had been reduced to a mere handful. 'Get the rest underway,' he said, handing it back to the admin officer.

  She gave him a long-suffering salute and left them to it.

  'You know,' said Insch, casting a critical eye over Logan, 'you look worse than I feel.'

  'I'm not doing anything here, sir.'

  Insch parked himself on the edge of a desk and riffled through a stack of reports. 'Tell you what,' he said and handed over the pile of paper. 'If you want to make yourself useful, go through that lot. It's from the door-to-doors in Rosemount this morning. Norman bloody Chalmers gets his appearance in court this afternoon. See if you can find out who that little girl was before they let the bastard out on bail.' Logan found himself an empty office as far away from the noise and chaos of the incident room as possible. Uniform had been thorough, the times on the statements making it clear that they'd gone back to some buildings more than once to be sure they spoke to everyone.

  No one knew who the dead girl was. No one recognized her face from the photograph taken in the morgue. It was as if she hadn't existed before her leg was spotted sticking out of a bin-bag at the tip.

  Logan went out to the supply office and got himself a new map of Aberdeen, sticking it up on the wall of his commandeered office. There was one of these in Insch's incident room already, all covered with pins and lines and little sticky tags. But Logan wanted one of his own. He stuck a red pin in the Nigg tip, and another in Rosemount: 17 Wallhill Crescent.

  The bin-bag the girl was stuffed into came from the home of Norman Chalmers. Only there was no forensic evidence to tie him to the victim. Other than the contents of the bag. Maybe that was enough to go to trial, but a good defence lawyer – and Sandy Moir-Farquharson wasn't just good: the little shite was brilliant – would rip the case to shreds.

  'Right.' He sat back on the desk, arms folded, staring at the two pins in the map.

  That bin-bag bothered him. The flat had been covered in cat hair when they'd arrested Chalmers. Logan had spent most of that night in the pub trying to brush the damned stuff off his trousers. There were still stubborn patches of grey fluff sticking to his suit jacket. If the kid had been in the flat, Isobel would have found traces of cat hair during the post mortem.

  So she was never in the flat. That much they knew. That was why Insch had asked for a thorough background search on Chalmers, to see where else he could have taken her. But the research teams had come up empty. If Norman Chalmers had somewhere else to take a four-year-old girl, no one knew about it.

  'So what if he didn't do it?' he asked himself aloud.

  'What if who didn't do what?'

  It was WPC Wat…Jackie.

  'What if Norman Chalmers didn't kill that little girl?'

  Her face hardened. 'He killed her.'

  Logan sighed and picked himself off the edge of the desk. He might have known she'd be touchy about this. She was still hoping that finding the receipt would crack the case.

  'Look at it this way: if he didn't kill her someone else did. OK?'

  She rolled her eyes.

  Logan went on quickly. 'OK, so if it was someone else it has to be someone who's got access to Norman Chalmers's rubbish.'

  'No one does! Who's going to get into his rubbish?'

  Logan poked a finger at the map, making the paper crackle. 'Rosemount has those big communal bin things out in the street. Anyone could dump their crap in one. If the killer wasn't Chalmers, then there's only two places they could get the body into that bin-bag: here-' he poked the map again, '-or here, when it gets to the tip at Nigg. If you're going to hide a body at the tip, you're not going to leave a leg sticking out. What would be the point of that? Much easier to just bury it in the rubbish bags.' Logan pulled the Nigg pin out of the map and tapped the red plastic end against his teeth. 'So, the killer didn't dump the body at the tip. It was taken there in the back of a corporation dustcart and poured out the back along with all the other junk. She was put in that bin-bag while it was still out in the street.'

  WPC Watson didn't look convinced. 'Chalmers's flat is still the most logical. If he didn't kill her, why's she in a bin-bag along with his garbage?'

  Logan shrugged. That was the problem. 'Why do you put anything in a bag?' he asked. 'To make it easier to carry. Or to hide it. Or…' He turned back to the table and began sorting through the statements the door-to-door team had taken. 'You're not going to cart a dead girl round in your car looking for a wheelie-bin to stuff it in,' he said, putting all the statements into piles according to their house number in Wallhill Crescent. 'You've got a car: you take the body away and bury it in a shallow grave out by Garlogoie, or up round New Deer. Somewhere isolated. Somewhere no one's going to find it for years and years. If ever.'

  'Maybe they panicked?'

  Logan nodded.r />
  'Exactly. You panic: you get rid of the body in the first place you can find. Again, you don't go driving round looking for a wheelie-bin. The fact she wasn't wrapped in anything other than packing tape is weird too. A naked little dead girl, all stuck together with brown packing tape? You're not going to go far carrying that…Whoever dumped the body lived nearer this particular bin than any of the others in the street.'

  He split the piles of statements into two, those within two doors of number seventeen and those farther away. That still left thirty individual flats.

  'Can you do me a favour?' he asked, scribbling down the names from each statement onto a fresh sheet of paper. 'Get these down to Criminal Records. I want to know if any of them have priors for anything. Warnings, arrests, parking violations. Anything.'

  WPC Watson told him he was wasting his time. That Norman Chalmers was guilty as sin. But she took the names away with her and promised to get back to him.

  When she was gone Logan grabbed a bar of chocolate from the machine and a cup of instant coffee, consuming both while he read through the statements again. Someone here was lying. Someone here knew who the little girl was. Someone here had killed her, tried to cut up her body, and thrown her out with the trash.

  Trouble was, who?

  Over three thousand people went missing in the north-east of Scotland every year. Three thousand people reported missing every twelve months. And yet here was a four-year-old girl missing for at least two days now, according to the post mortem, and no one had come forward to ask what the police were going to do about it. Why hadn't she been reported missing? Maybe because there was no one to notice she was gone?

  The familiar jangling tune blared out from his pocket and Logan swore. 'Logan,' he said.

  It was the front desk telling him he had a visitor downstairs.

  Logan scowled at the pile of statements sitting on the desk. 'OK,' he said at last. 'I'll be right down.'

  He dropped his chocolate wrapper and empty plastic cup into the bin and headed down to the reception area. Someone had cranked the heating up too far and the windows were all fogged up as visitors, drenched in the downpour outside, sat and steamed.