Cold granite lm-1

by Stuart MacBride

  'It was me! I told you it was me!'

  Logan didn't reply, letting the silence grow. In the lounge someone turned on the television: muffled voices and canned laughter.

  'You sure you want to do this, Darren?'

  Darren was. They drove back to Force Headquarters in silence, Darren Caldwell staring out of the window at the shining streets. Logan handed him over to the custody sergeant, watching as the contents of Darren's pockets were stacked in a little blue tray, all signed and accounted for, along with his belt and shoelaces. Nervous sweat sparkled on his face, and his eyes were pink and watery. Logan tried not to feel guilty.

  The building was quiet as he made his way up to the main reception area. Big Gary was on the front desk, a phone to his ear and a gleeful expression on his face. 'No, sir, no…aye. I'm sure that must have been a terrible shock…All over the front of your trousers…Yes, yes I'm taking this all down…' No he wasn't: he was drawing a picture of a man in a suit being squashed by a smiling man in a police car. The man doing the squashing looked like Big Gary and the squashee bore a striking resemblance to everyone's favourite lawyer.

  A grin broke over Logan's face. Settling on the edge of the desk, he lugged into Big Gary's end of the conversation.

  'Oh, yes. I agree. Dreadful, dreadful…No, I don't think so, sir.' He scrawled the words 'POMPOUS WEE SHITEBAG' across the notepad and then punctuated it with lots of little arrows pointing at the squashed figure.

  'Yes, sir, I'll make sure all the area cars are looking for the perpetrator. It'll be our top priority.' He slipped the phone back in its cradle before finishing with, 'Soon as the Lord Provost walks in here and starts giving out free blowjobs.'

  Logan picked the doodle-covered pad off the table and examined the happy tableau. 'Didn't know you had an artistic bent, Gary.'

  Gary grinned. 'Slippery Sandy: someone threw a bucket of blood all over him. Called him a "rapist lovin' bastard" and fucked off.'

  'My heart bleeds.'

  'You got some messages by the way: a Mr Lumley. Called about six times in the last two hours. Wanting to know if we've found his son. Poor sod sounds desperate.'

  Logan sighed. The search teams had all gone home: there was nothing more they could do until morning. 'Did you get hold of DI Insch?' he asked.

  Gary shook his head, sending his jowls wobbling. 'No chance.' He checked his watch. 'Show doesn't finish for…'bout another five minutes. You know what he's like about people callin' when he's givin' his all for the theatre. Did I ever tell you about the-'

  The door at the end of the reception area burst open, banged against the wall and rebounded again. DI Insch stormed through in a flurry of gold and scarlet, his curly-toed boots squishing on the floor tiles. 'McRae!' he bellowed, face furious under a thick layer of make-up. He wore a stick-on goatee beard, complete with handlebar moustache. When he ripped it off it left a patch of angry pink around his mouth. A white tidemark showed where his turban must have sat, the skin of his bald head shiny under the overhead lights.

  Logan jumped to attention. He opened his mouth to ask how the night's performance had gone but DI Insch got there first. 'What the blue fucking hell do you think you're playing at, Sergeant?' He snatched off his clip-on earrings and slapped them on the desk. 'You do not-'

  'Richard Erskine. We found him.'

  Beneath the make-up, all the colour went out of the inspector's face. 'What?'

  'He's not dead. We found him.'

  'You're kidding me!'

  'Nope. We've got a press conference scheduled in twenty minutes. The mother's on her way in to the station.' Logan stepped back and surveyed the deflating DI in his pantomime villain costume. 'That's going to look great on TV.' Wednesday morning started far too early. Quarter to six and the phone was ringing off the hook.

  Bleary and confused, Logan fumbled his way out from beneath the duvet and tried to switch off the alarm clock. It just went clunk at him. Logan picked it up, saw what time it was, swore, and sank back into the bed, one hand trying to rub some life into his face.

  The phone was still ringing.

  'Bugger off!' he told it.

  The phone kept on ringing.

  Logan dragged himself into the lounge and snatched up the handset. 'What?'

  'That's a great phone manner you've got there by the way,' said a familiar Glaswegian voice. 'Now are you goin' tae open your front door or what? I'm freezin' my nuts off out here!'

  'What?'

  The doorbell bing-bonged and Logan swore again.

  'Hold on,' he told the phone before putting it down on the coffee table and staggered out of his flat, down the communal stairs to the building's front door. It was still pitch dark outside, but sometime during the night the rain had stopped. Now everything was coated in a crust of frost, reflecting the yellow streetlights. The reporter – Colin Miller – was standing on the doorstep, holding a mobile phone in one hand and a white plastic bag in the other. He was impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit and black overcoat.

  'Jesus, it's fuckin' freezing!' The words came out in a cloud of fog. 'You lettin' me in or what?' He raised the plastic bag up to eye level. 'I brought breakfast.'

  Logan squinted out into the dark. 'Do you have any idea what time it is?'

  'Aye. Now open up before all this shite gets cold.'

  They sat at the kitchen table, Logan slowly coming back to life, Miller helping himself to the contents of Logan's cupboards while the kettle grumbled and rattled to a boil. 'You got any proper coffee?' he asked, slamming one set of doors and moving on to the next.

  'No. Instant.'

  Miller sighed and shook his head. 'Bloody place is like a third world country. Never mind. I can slum it…' The reporter dug out a couple of huge mugs and spooned in dark brown granules and sugar. He suspiciously examined the carton of semi-skimmed milk lurking in the fridge, but after sniffing it once or twice thumped it down on the table along with a tub of spread-able butter.

  'I wasnae sure what kind of breakfast you'd like so we've got croissants, sausage rolls, steak pies and Aberdeen rolls. Help yourself.'

  Logan dug a couple of rowies out of the bag and slathered one with butter. He took a big bite and sighed happily.

  'Don't know how you can eat that shite,' said Miller, handing Logan a coffee. 'You know what's in them?'

  Logan nodded. 'Fat, flour and salt.'

  'No, not fat: lard. Only a fuckin' Aberdonian could come up with a roll that looks like a cowpat. There's half a ton of saturated animal fat and half a ton of salt in that! No surprising you're all dropping dead of heart attacks.' He pulled the bag over and helped himself to a croissant, tearing off a chunk, spreading it with jam and butter and dipping it in his coffee.

  'You can talk!' Logan watched a thin film of sparkling grease float to the surface of the reporter's mug. 'Your lot invented deep-fried pizzas!'

  'Aye, touche.'

  Logan watched him rip, spread and dip another chunk of croissant, waiting until the reporter's mouth was full of soggy bread before asking him why he'd come round at this ungodly hour.

  'Can a friend no pop round tae have breakfast with another friend?' The words came out muffled. 'You know, nice and social…'

  'And?'

  Miller shrugged. 'You did good last night.' He reached into the bag and came out with another croissant and a copy of that morning's Press and Journal. The front page held a big photo of the press conference. 'POLICE HERO FINDS MISSING CHILD' said the headline in big, bold letters. 'Found that little kiddie all by your ownsome. How'd you do it?'

  Logandug a steak pie out of the bag, surprised to find it was still warm from the baker's oven. He munched down on flaky pastry, coating the newspaper with crumbs as he read and ate at the same time. He had to admit: it was a good story. There wasn't much in the way of fact, but Miller had managed to weave what there was into something a lot more interesting than it should have been. It looked as if the reporter was the paper's golden boy for a reason. There was even a rec
ap of Logan's capture of the Mastrick Monster, just so everyone would know that DS Logan McRae was worthy of the title 'Police Hero'.

  I'm impressed,' Logan said, and Miller smiled. 'All the words are spelled right.'

  'Cheeky bastard.'

  'So why are you really here?'

  Miller settled back in his seat, cradling his mug of coffee close to his chest, but not close enough to stain his nice new suit. 'You know damn fine why: I want the inside story. I want the scoop. This stuff,' he poked the photo on the paper's front page, 'it's no got a long shelf life. Today, tomorrow, an' that's yer lot. Kiddie's turned up safe and well and it was nothin' more than his dad. A domestic. No blood an' guts for the punters to get all shocked an' horrified about. If the kid was dead, it'd run for weeks. As it is, day after tomorrow no one will want to know.'

  'Bit cynical.'

  Miller shrugged. 'Call it like Isee it.'

  'That why your colleagues don't like you?'

  Miller didn't even flinch, just popped a swollen chunk of coffee-stained bread into his mouth. 'Aye, well…No one likes a smart arse, no when it makes them look bad.' He put on a passable Aberdonian accent: '"Yer nae a team player!", "That's no the way we dae things up here!", "You keep this up and you're oot!" 'He snorted. 'Aye, they don't like me, but they publish my stuff, don't they? I've had more front pages since I got here than most of them old buggers have had in their whole bloody lives!'

  Logan smiled. Touched a nerve there.

  'So,' Miller polished off the last of his croissant, sooking the crumbs off his fingertips, 'you goin' to tell me how you found the missing kid or what?'

  'No chance! I've already had one visit from Professional Standards, looking for whoever told you we'd found David Reid's body. They'll have my arse in a sling if I go handing out information without official permission.'

  'Like you did yesterday?' asked Miller innocently.

  Logan just looked at him.

  'OK, OK,' said the reporter, collecting up the breakfast debris. 'I get the hint. Quid pro quo: right?'

  'You have to tell me who your source is.'

  Miller shook his head. 'No goin' to happen. You know that.' He stuffed the milk and butter back in the fridge. 'How'd you do with that info I gave you?'

  'Er…we're following it up.' Logan lied. The sodding body in the harbour! The one with no knees! After Insch chewed him out for talking to the press he'd not actually spoken to the DI in charge of the investigation. He'd been too busy sulking.

  'OK, well you go an have a wee word with your DI and I'll tell you what I've found out about George Stephenson's last known whereabouts. That sound fair?' He pulled a freshly-printed business card out of his wallet and placed it on the table. 'You've got till half-four. "How Did Police Hero Find Missing Kid?" Day after tomorrow: no one cares. You give us a shout when you know.'

  16

  It was too late to go back to bed, so Logan grumbled his way into the shower and then up the road to Force Headquarters. The street was like a sheet of glass, the council having done its usual sterling job of not gritting the streets and pavements. But at least it wasn't raining any more. Above his head the clouds were purple and dark grey, the rising sun still more than two hours away.

  Headquarters was like a grave as he pushed through the main doors. There was no sign of the media army that had been camped there the night before. All that was left was a pile of crumpled fag ends, lying in the gutter like frozen worms.

  Big Gary shouted a friendly 'Mornin', Lazarus!' as Logan made for the lifts.

  'Morning, Gary,' said Logan, really not in the mood for another barrage of bonhomie.

  'Here,' called Gary, after making sure there was no one else about. 'Did you hear? DI Steel's bagged someone else's wife. Again!'

  Logan paused, despite himself. 'Whose is it this time?'

  'Andy Thompson in Accounts.'

  Logan winced. 'Ouch. That's rough.'

  Big Gary raised his eyebrows. 'You think so? I always thought his wife was kinda tasty meself.'

  A balding head with a wide moustache poked itself out from behind the mirrored partition that separated the front desk from the small admin area around the back, and locked eyes on Logan. 'Sergeant,' said Eric – the other half of the Big Gary and Eric Show – without a great deal of warmth in his voice. 'Could I have a word with you in my office, please?'

  Puzzled, Logan followed him around behind the two-way mirror. The admin area was a jumble of filing cabinets, computers and boxes of crap, piled against the walls, opposite a long, chipped Formica table covered with in-trays and piles of paper. Logan got the feeling something nasty was about to happen. 'What's up, Eric?' he asked, parking himself on the edge of the table: just like DI Insch.

  'Duncan Nicholson,' said the desk sergeant, folding his arms. 'That's what's up.' Logan looked at him blankly and Eric let out an exasperated sigh. 'You had a couple of uniform bring him in for questioning?' No reaction. 'He found the dead kid down the Bridge of Don!'

  'Oh,' said Logan. 'Him.'

  'Yes, him. He's been in the holding cells since Monday afternoon.' Eric checked his watch. 'Forty-three hours! You have to charge him or let him go!'

  Logan closed his eyes and swore. He'd forgotten all about the man. 'Forty-three hours?' The legal limit was six!

  'Forty-three hours.'

  Eric crossed his arms and let Logan stew for a while. Today was turning into an utter bastard.

  'I released him Monday evening,' said Eric when he thought Logan had suffered enough. 'We couldn't hold him any longer. As it was we had him far longer than we should have.'

  'Monday?' That was two days ago! 'Why didn't you call me?'

  'We did! About a dozen times. You turned off your phone. Tried again last night too. If you're going to have people picked up you have to deal with them. You can't just abandon them here and leave us to sort it out. We're not your mother!'

  Logan swore again. He'd switched off his mobile while he was in the little girl's post mortem. 'Sorry, Eric'

  The desk sergeant nodded. 'Aye, well. I've made sure there's no sign of anything wrong in the logbook. As far as everyone's concerned: nothing happened. He came in on a voly, he was held for a bit, he was released. Just don't let it happen again, OK?'

  Logan nodded. 'Thanks, Eric'

  Logan slouched his way along the corridor to the small office he'd commandeered the day before, grabbing a plastic cup of coffee on the way. The building was beginning to stir as the early birds drifted into work. Closing the door behind him, Logan sank into the chair behind the desk and stared at the map pinned to the wall, not really seeing the streets and the rivers.

  Duncan Nicholson. He'd forgotten all about leaving him in the cells to sweat. He let his head sink forward until it was resting on top of the stack of statements. 'Bastard,' he said into the pile of paper. 'Bastard, bastard, bastard…'

  There was a knock at the door and he snapped upright. The statement on top of the pile fluttered to the floor. He was wincing down to pick it up when the door opened and WPC Watson peered in.

  'Morning, sir,' she said and then caught the expression on his face. 'You OK?'

  Logan forced a smile and sat back down. 'Never better,' he lied. 'You're in early.'

  WPC Watson nodded. 'Yeah, I've got court this morning: caught a bloke yesterday afternoon playing with himself in the ladies' changing rooms at Hazlehead swimming pool.'

  'Sounds classy.'

  She smiled and Logan found himself feeling a lot better.

  'Can't wait for him to meet my mum,' she said. 'Look, I got to run: he's giving evidence in this Gerald Cleaver sex abuse thing and I'm not to let him out of my sight. But I wanted to tell you we're all dead impressed you found that kid.'

  Logan smiled back. 'It was a team effort,' he said.

  'Bollocks it was. We're all going out tonight again, not a big sesh, just a quiet drink. If you want to join us…?'

  Logan couldn't think of anything he'd like more. He was feeling a
lot better about himself as he walked down the corridor to the incident room and DI Insch's morning briefing. WPC Jackie Watson wanted to go out with him again tonight. Or at least she wanted him to join her and her colleagues for a drink after work. Which was kind of the same thing. Sort of…They still hadn't talked about what had happened the night before last.

  And she still called him 'sir'.

  But then he still called her 'Constable'. Not the most romantic of pet names.

  He opened the door to the incident room and was met by a thunderous round of applause. Blushing, Logan made his way to a seat at the front, settling down in the chair as his face went beetroot red.

  'OK, OK,' said DI Insch, holding up a hand for silence. Slowly the clapping faded to a halt. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he went on when it was quiet once more. 'As you all know, last night Detective Sergeant Logan McRae returned Richard Erskine to his mother, after discovering the child at his grandmother's house.' He stopped and beamed at Logan. 'Come on: stand up.'

  Blushing even harder, Logan pulled himself out of his seat and the clapping started again.

  'That,' said Insch, pointing at the embarrassed DS, 'is what a real policeman looks like.' He had to call for silence again and Logan sank back into his seat, feeling thrilled, delighted and horrified all at the same time. 'We've found Richard Erskine.' Insch pulled a manila folder from the desktop and pulled out an eight-by-six photograph of a red-haired boy with freckles and a gap-toothed smile. 'But Peter Lumley is still missing. Chances are we're not going to find him kipping at his grandma's: the father can't be arsed with the kid. But I want it checked out anyway.'

  Insch took another picture from his folder. This one wasn't so palatable: a blistered, swollen face, black and speckled with mould, the mouth open in a tortured scream. A post mortem photograph of David Reid.

  'This is what Peter Lumley is going to end up looking like if we don't get him back soon. I want the search area widened. Three teams: Hazlehead golf course, riding stables, park. Every bush, every bunker, every pile of manure. I want them searched.' He started rattling off names.