Cold granite lm-1

by Stuart MacBride

  Strichen pulled a knife.

  Logan staggered to a halt. The blade sparkled in the dark night, and something constricted around Logan's bowels.

  'I won't go to prison!' Martin was screaming now, eyes flickering between Logan and the approaching cordon of police.

  Unnoticed, Jamie McCreath crept to his feet and ran.

  'NO!' Martin swung around to see the toddler charge off through the snow as fast as his little legs would go. Only Jamie wasn't running towards the police flashlights. The sound of barking dogs. He was heading straight for the quarry.

  Martin leapt after him, the blade flashing in his hand, shouting, 'Come back! It's not safe!'

  Jaw clenched against the pain, Logan followed, but he had a lot of ground to make up.

  A hidden dip in the ground swallowed Strichen's foot and he went down, sprawling on his face in the snow. He was up again in an instant, but Jamie was well ahead, running deeper into the granite bowl of the quarry. Towards the black lake. Suddenly the little boy slithered to a halt. He'd gone as far as he could. There was nothing but cold, dark water ahead. He turned back, his face terrified.

  'It's not safe!' Martin ran after him.

  But Martin Strichen weighed a lot more than a small child. The ice that supported Jamie's weight wasn't up to Strichen's fifteen stone. A gunshot crack boomed out into the quarry. The larger man slid to a halt, arms spread wide, not moving. Another crack, louder this time, and he shrieked.

  Twelve feet away, Jamie watched him with frightened eyes.

  The ice gave way with a roar, a hole the size of a transit van opening up beneath his feet, and Martin Strichen was gone. Straight down. The black water swallowing his scream.

  On the other side of the hole, Jamie crept forward and peered down into the inky darkness.

  Martin didn't come up again.

  39

  Logan stood in the softly falling snow, watching the ambulance's lights flickering away into the distance. They'd taken Watson away: concussion, hypothermia, some nasty bruises and a couple of cracked ribs. She'd get a tetanus jab for the bites. Nothing to worry about, said the paramedic. Not when you thought about what could have happened…

  Logan clambered into the pool car he'd liberated from the FHQ car park, turned the engine over and the heaters up full pelt. He let his head sink forward onto the steering wheel and groaned. WPC Jackie Watson and Jamie McCreath were on their way to hospital and the Bastard Simon Rennie was already there. But Martin Strichen was dead and so was his mother…'

  He looked up just in time to see an expensive car pull in. Two long, elegantly-clad legs swung out of the driver's seat and into the snow. The pathologist was here. Logan felt his heart sink even further.

  Isobel MacAlister was dressed in some sort of Bond-Girl winter outfit, all camelskin and fur. And the worst thing was, it suited her.

  Working a stray hair back under her fur hat she popped the boot and pulled out her medical bag.

  Isobel and Miller

  Up a tree

  K.I.S.S.I.N.G…

  If he went to Professional Standards first thing tomorrow morning, the ginger-haired, sour-faced Inspector Napier would have her frogmarched out of the building quicker than you could say 'gross misconduct'. At least it would get Napier off his back.

  Logan stared morosely at the Strichen house. She'd be ruined. No police force in the country would touch Isobel with a bargepole. Unemployable. What was it Miller had said? She just needed someone to share her day with…Someone to be there for her…Just as Logan had been there for her. Once upon a time, in the bad old days.

  And now the only way Logan would ever feel the touch of her cool hands again would be when he was lying on his back in the morgue. With a tag on his toe.

  'Great,' he told himself as the windscreen finally cleared. 'Good image. Very healthy…' Sighing, he pulled the car away from the kerb.

  The city was quiet as he slid the vehicle across North Anderson Drive. Only taxis and eighteen-wheelers were out, cutting parallel black ribbons in the snow-covered roads. The wake from their wheels – arcing sprays of slush and melt-water – were turned into golden fireworks by Logan's headlights.

  The car's police radio crackled and bawled almost continuously: news was travelling fast. Strichen was dead! The kid was alive! Watson had been in her bra and pants!

  Snarling, he twisted it off. Only the silence was worse than the noise. Silence encouraged the 'what-ifs' to rattle around his head.

  What if he'd gone left instead of right? What if he'd turned up five minutes later? What if he hadn't frozen when Martin Strichen pulled out the knife? What if he'd got to him in time…Determined not to think about it, Logan clicked on the other radio, spinning the dial until the dulcet tones of a Northsound DJ boomed out of the speakers. It was a small sign that the world was still where it should be.

  Tapping his fingers to the music, he felt some of the tension go out of his shoulders. Maybe things had turned out OK. Maybe Martin was better off dead. It was probably better than being banged up in Peterhead Prison, where every third inmate was another Gerald Cleaver.

  But Logan knew he was going to have nightmares.

  He slipped the car off the drive and cut through the north side of town, where there was nothing on the roads but him, the snow, and globes of streetlight. The music on the radio drifted off into silence. After a pause of about ten seconds, followed by a giggling apology, came the news. They were still putting out Martin Strichen's description, still telling everyone to be on the lookout. Even though he was dead. By the time Logan got back to Queen Street the clock was wending its merry way towards half-past ten. He abandoned the car around the back and slouched his way into Force Headquarters, wondering where everyone had got to. The building was as silent as the grave. Very appropriate.

  Give it a half hour. Then he'd call the hospital and find out how WPC Watson was getting on. First he'd get some coffee. Tea. Anything, just as long as it was warm. He was halfway across main reception when someone shouted at him.

  'Lazarus!'

  It was Big Gary, spraying little bits of Tunnocks Tasty Caramel Wafer over the front desk. His grin was wide enough to fit a coat hanger sideways.

  His companion's head snapped up, the telephone pressed to his ear. He grinned too, giving Logan an enthusiastic thumbs-up through the glass. Big Gary barged through the side door and embraced Logan in a bear hug. 'You wee darling!'

  Nice though a bit of recognition was, it made Logan's heavily-scarred stomach scream. 'Enough! Enough!'

  Big Gary released him and stepped back with a paternal smile of pride. It disappeared when he saw the pain on Logan's face. 'God, I'm sorry! Are you OK?'

  Logan waved him away, gritting his teeth, trying to breathe slowly, just as they'd taught him at the Pain Clinic. In and out. In and out…

  'You're a bloody hero, Lazarus,' said Gary. 'Isn't he, Eric?'

  The desk sergeant, now free of the phone, agreed that yes, Logan was indeed a hero.

  'Where is everyone?' asked Logan, changing the subject as quickly as he could.

  'Next door.' Meaning the pub. 'Chief Constable's buying. We've been trying to get you on the radio for ages!'

  'Oh…' He smiled rather than tell him he'd switched the damn thing off.

  'Better get over there, Lazarus, my man,' said Big Gary, once more looking as if he might engulf Logan in another rib-cracking, stomach-tearing hug.

  Backing away, Logan agreed that he would. Archibald Simpson's was noisy for a Wednesday night. Everywhere Logan looked there were police men and women drinking their own bodyweight in alcohol. The mood was festive, like New Year's Eve, except that no one was fighting.

  As soon as someone recognized Logan the shout went up and rapidly turned into a football-terrace version of 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow'. Endless hands slapped him on the back, drinks were pressed on him, people shook his hand, or kissed him, depending on how they were feeling at the time.

  Finally Logan worked h
is way through the crowd to a relative haven of calm. He located the expansive bulk of Detective Inspector Insch and plonked himself down on an empty stool next to him. Insch looked up, a broad smile split his face and he slapped Logan on the back with a huge hand. On the other side of the table Logan saw the Edinburgh contingent. The DI and his sergeants looking rosy and pleased, calling out congratulations, but the clinical psychologist looked as if the smile he was wearing might cause him permanent damage.

  'The CC said tonight's on him!' beamed Insch, pounding Logan on the back again. 'Flash your warrant card at the bar and it's free!' He leaned back and downed half a pint of dark beer in one go.

  Logan looked round at the assembled horde: Grampian's finest. Tonight was going to cost the Chief Constable a fortune.

  40

  Thursday morning at Grampian Police Force Headquarters was a sombre affair. Largely because ninety-five percent of the staff were heavily hungover. No one knew what the final tab for last night's revelry had been, but it had to be huge. After the beers, lagers, vodka and red bulls, the whole place descended into tequila shooters. The bar should, technically, have closed three hours before the last partygoer staggered off into the snow. But who was going to do the pub for breaching their liquor licence? Three-quarters of Aberdeen's police force were in there screaming for more limes and salt.

  Logan winced his way into work, having breakfasted on Irn-Bru and painkillers. He couldn't face solids. The morning had brought blue skies and a crisp wind that coated the previous night's snow with frosted ice.

  There was a press conference at half-nine and Logan was dreading it. Someone had climbed inside his head and was trying to push the contents out of his ears. His eyes, normally a reasonable crystal blue, looked like something out of The Brides of Dracula.

  When he entered the briefing room there was another rather quiet round of applause, accompanied by a lot of wincing from the participants. He waved them a greeting and slumped down into his usual seat.

  DI Insch shushed everyone into silence and then launched into the briefing. Flying in the face of nature, the inspector was remarkably chirpy. Even though he'd been the one calling for flaming Drambuies at two o'clock in the morning. There was no justice.

  Insch worked his way through the events of the previous night, eliciting more applause at the appropriate moment. And then it was business as usual: search teams, research, door-to-doors…

  When everyone else had filtered out Logan was left alone with DI Insch.

  'So,' said the fat man, settling back on the desk and pulling out a pristine packet of fruit pastilles. 'How you feeling?'

  'Other than the brass band kicking seven shades of shite out of my brain? Not bad.'

  'Good.' Insch paused and picked at the wrapping. 'Divers found Martin Strichen's body at six-fifteen this morning. Caught in the weeds under the ice.'

  Logan didn't even bother trying to smile. 'Right.'

  'Just so you know, you're going to get a commendation for last night.'

  He couldn't meet the inspector's eyes. 'But Strichen died.'

  Insch sighed. 'Aye, he did. And so did his mum. But Jamie McCreath didn't, and neither did WPC Watson. And no other kid's going to either.' He laid a bear-like hand on Logan's shoulder. 'You did good.' The press conference was a cattle market: journalists shouting, cameras flashing, television pundits grinning…Logan bore it with the best grace he could.

  Colin Miller was waiting for him when the conference was over, hanging around at the back of the room looking uncomfortable. He told Logan what a great job he'd done in finding the kid. How everyone was proud of him. He handed him a copy of that morning's paper with the headline: 'POLICE HERO FOILS CHILD KILLER!!! JAMIE RETURNED SAFE TO HIS MOTHER! PICTURES PAGES 3 To 6…'. He bit his lip, took a deep breath and said, 'Now what?'

  Logan knew Miller wasn't talking about the case. He'd been asking himself the same question all morning. Ever since he'd walked into Force Headquarters and didn't go straight to see Inspector Napier and the rest of his Professional Standards goons. If he turned Isobel in she was ruined. But if he kept his mouth shut it could happen again: another investigation could be compromised, another chance wasted to catch a killer before he killed again. Logan sighed. There was only really one thing he could do. 'You clear everything she tells you through me. Before you print it. If you don't: I go straight to the Procurator Fiscal and she gets dragged through the mud. Criminal prosecution. Jail time. The whole thing. OK?'

  Miller's face went blank, his eyes locked on Logan's. 'OK,' he said at last. 'OK. It's a deal.' He shrugged. 'From what she said, I kinda thought you'd throw the book at her if you found out. Said you'd jump at the chance to get rid of her.'

  Logan's smile was as forced as his words. 'Yeah, well she was wrong. I hope you guys are going to be happy.' He couldn't look Miller in the eyes.

  When the reporter had gone Logan wandered down to the reception area, staring out of the large glass doors at the gently falling snow. Thankful of the respite, he sank down on one of the uncomfortable purple seats and leaned his head back against the glass.

  Jackie was going to be OK. And he was going to see her this afternoon, armed with a mound of grapes, a box of chocolates, and an invitation to dinner. Who knew, maybe this would be the start of something good?

  Smiling, he stretched in his seat, yawning happily, as a heavy-set man pushed through the front doors, brushing the snow off his coat. The man was in his mid-fifties, with a carefully-sculpted beard which was now more salt than pepper. He marched purposefully towards the reception desk. 'Hello,' he said, twitching as if he had fleas. 'I need to speak to the detective with the biblical name.'

  The desk sergeant pointed at Logan. 'Biblical hero, right over there.'

  The man walked resolutely across the linoleum floor, his step only slightly loosened by however many whiskies he'd had to get his courage up this far. 'Are you the Biblical Detective?' he asked, his voice reedy and a little slurred.

  Against his better judgment, Logan admitted that he was.

  The man stood up straight as a stair rod, chest out, chin in the air. 'I killed her,' he said, the words coming out as if they were fired from a machinegun. 'I killed her and I'm here to take the consequences…'

  Logan rubbed a hand over his forehead. The last thing he needed was another case to worry about. 'Who?' he said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. And failing.

  'The girl. The one they found in the steading…' His voice cracked and for the first time Logan saw that his eyes were cherry-red, his cheeks and nose scarlet from crying. 'I'd been drinking.' He shivered, locked in the past. 'I didn't see her…I thought…all that time…When you arrested that man, I thought it would all go away. But he was killed, wasn't he? He was killed because of me…' He wiped the back of an arm over his eyes and dissolved into tears.

  So this was the man who'd killed Lorna Henderson. The man Bernard Duncan Philips had died for. The man Nurse Henderson had killed for.

  Sighing, Logan pulled himself out of his seat.

  Another case solved. Another life ruined.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book is make-believe. What few facts there are come from people who answered a whole raft of daft questions. So, thanks to: Sgt. Jacky Davidson and Sgt. Matt MacKay of Grampian Police for help on police procedure in Aberdeen; Dr Ishbel Hunter, senior anatomical pathology technician at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary's department of pathology, for her graphic advice on post mortems; Brian Dickson, head of security at the Press and Journal for the guided tour.

  Special thanks have to go to my agent Philip Patterson for sweet-talking the lovely Jane Johnson and Sarah Hodgson at HarperCollins into publishing this book. And to the magnificent Lucy Vanderbilt, Andrea Joyce and the rest of the team for doing such a spectacular job on the international rights. And to Andrea Best, Kelly Ragland and Saskia van Iperen for taking it on board.

  Thanks to James Oswald for early input, and to Mark Hayward, my first agent at
Marjacq before he left to become a tax inspector, who suggested I stop writing all that SF rubbish and try a serial killer novel instead. Most of all, thanks to my naughty wife, Fiona: cups of tea, grammatical pointers, spelling, refusing to read the book in case she didn't like it, and putting up with me all these years. And finally: Aberdeen's really not as bad as it sounds. Trust me…

  LOGAN MCRAE RETURNS IN

  Dying Light due for publication in May 2006

  1

  They will scream… they will burn… and they will die…

  He stood in the shadows, on the opposite side of the dark street, watching as they entered the boarded-up building: scruffy wee shites in their tatty jeans and hooded tops. Three men and two women, nearly identical with their long hair, pierced ears, pierced noses and pierced God knew what else. Everything about them screamed 'Kill Me!'

  He smiled. They would be screaming soon enough.

  The squat was halfway down a terrace of abandoned two-storey buildings – dirty granite walls barely lit by the dull streetlights, windows covered with thick plywood. Except for one on the upper floor, where a thin, sick-looking light oozed out through dirty glass. The street was deserted, abandoned, condemned like its inhabitants, not a soul to be seen. No one about to watch him work.

  Half past eleven and the music got even louder; a pounding rhythm that would easily cover any noise he made. He worked his way round the doorframe, twisting the screwdriver in time with the beat, then stepped back to admire his handiwork – six-inch galvanised woodscrews all the way round the door, holding it solid against the frame, making sure it stayed irrevocably shut. A grin split his face. This would be good. This would be the best one yet.

  He slipped the screwdriver back into his pocket, pausing for a moment to stroke the cold, hard shaft. He was hard too, the front of his trousers bulging with barely concealed joy. He always loved this bit, just before the fire started, when everything was in place, when there was no way for them to escape. When death was on its way.