Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin - Stuart MacBride - Страница 15

Logan was starting to get over his embarrassment by the time they were fighting their way across Anderson Drive, heading back to Force Headquarters. The road had started life as a bypass, but the city had suffered from middle-aged spread and oozed out to fill in the gaps with cold grey granite buildings so that it was more of a belt, stretched across the city and groaning at the seams. It was a nightmare during rush hour.

The rain was still hammering down and the people of Aberdeen had reacted in their usual way. A minority trudged along, wrapped up in waterproof jackets, hoods up, umbrellas clutched tight against the icy wind. The rest just stomped along getting soaked to the skin.

Everyone looked murderous and inbred. When the sun shone they would cast off their thick woollens, unscrew their faces, and smile. But in winter the whole city looked like a casting call for Deliverance.

Logan sat staring morosely out of the window, watching the people trudge by. Housewife. Housewife with kids. Bloke in a duffle coat and stupid-looking hat. Roadkill with his shovel and council-issue wheelie-cart full of dead animals. Child with plastic bag. Housewife with pushchair. Man in a mini-kilt. . .

‘What the hell goes through his mind of a morning?’ Logan asked as Watson slipped the car into gear and inched forward.

‘What, Roadkill?’ she said. ‘Get up, scrape dead things off the road, have lunch, scrape more dead things—’

‘No not him.’ Logan’s finger jabbed at the car window. ‘Him. Do you think he gets up and thinks: “I know, I’ll dress so everyone can see my backside in a light breeze”?’

As if by magic the wind took hold of the mini-kilt and whipped it up, exposing an expanse of white cotton.

Watson raised an eyebrow. ‘Aye, well,’ she said, nipping past a shiny blue Volvo. ‘At least his pants are clean. His mum won’t have to worry about him getting knocked down by a bus.’

‘True.’

Logan leaned forward and clicked on the car radio, fiddling with the buttons until Northsound, Aberdeen’s commercial radio station, blared out of the speakers.

WPC Watson winced as an advert for double-glazing was rattled out in broad Aberdonian. They’d somehow managed to cram about seven thousand words and a cheesy tune into less than six seconds. ‘Jesus,’ she said, her face creased in disbelief. ‘How can you listen to that crap?’

Logan shrugged. ‘It’s local. I like it.’

‘Teuchter bollocks.’ Watson accelerated through the lights before they could turn red. ‘Radio One. That’s what you want. Northsound, my arse. Anyway, you’re not supposed to have the radio on: what if a call comes in?’

Logan tapped his watch. ‘Eleven o’clock: time for the news. Local news for local people. Never hurts to find out what’s going on in your patch.’

The advert for double-glazing was followed by one for a car firm in Inverurie done in Doric, Aberdeen’s almost indecipherable dialect, then one for the Yugoslavian Ballet and another for the new chip shop in Inverbervie. Then came the news. Mostly it was the usual rubbish, but one piece caught Logan’s attention. He sat forward and cranked up the volume.

‘. . . earlier today. And the trial of Gerald Cleaver continues at Aberdeen Sheriff Court. The fifty-six-year-old, originally from Manchester, is accused of sexually abusing over twenty children while serving as a male nurse at Aberdeen Children’s Hospital. Hostile crowds lined the road outside the courthouse, hurling abuse as Cleaver arrived under heavy police escort. . .’

‘Hope they throw the book at him,’ Watson said, cutting across a box junction and speeding off down a little side road.

‘. . . The parents of murdered toddler David Reid have been flooded with messages of support today, following the discovery of their three-year-old son’s body near the River Don late last night. . .’

Logan poked a finger at the radio, switching it off in mid-sentence. ‘Gerald Cleaver is a dirty little shite,’ he said, watching as a cyclist wobbled out into the middle of the road, stuck two fingers up and swore at a taxi driver. ‘I interviewed him for the rape murders in Mastrick. Wasn’t really a suspect, but he was on the “dodgy bastards” list, so we pulled him in anyway. Had hands like a toad, all cold and clammy. Pawing himself the whole time. . .’ Logan shuddered at the memory. ‘Not going to beat this one, though. Fourteen years to life: Peterhead.’

‘Serve him right.’

Peterhead Prison. That was where they sent the sex offenders. The rapists, paedophiles, sadists, serial killers. . . People like Angus Robertson. People who had to be protected from normal, respectable criminals. The ones that liked to insert makeshift knives into sex offenders. Ta-da. Colostomy bag time for poor old Angus Robertson. Somehow Logan couldn’t feel too sorry for him.

WPC Watson said something, but Logan was too busy thinking about the Mastrick Monster to pick anything up. From her expression, he got the feeling he’d just been asked a question. ‘Hmmm. . .’ he said, stalling for time. ‘In what way?’ It was a standard fall-back.

WPC Watson frowned. ‘Well, I mean, what did the doctor say last night? At A&E?’

Logan grunted and dug a plastic bottle out of his inside jacket pocket, rattling it. ‘One every four hours, preferably after meals. Not to be taken with alcohol.’ He’d already had three that morning.

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

Two minutes later they were pulling into the multi-storey car park at the back of Force Headquarters, making for the section reserved for patrol and CID pool cars. Command officers and senior staff got to use the car park. Everyone else had to make do with what they could get, usually abandoning their cars on the Beach Boulevard, a five-minute walk from the station. It paid to be an Assistant Chief Constable when it was pissing with rain.

They found Detective Inspector Insch perched on the edge of a desk in the incident room, swinging one large leg back and forth, listening to a PC carrying a clipboard. The news from the search teams wasn’t good. It was too long since the body had been dumped. The weather conditions were terrible. If, by some miracle, any forensic evidence had managed to survive the last three months it would have washed away in the last six hours. DI Insch didn’t say a word as the constable went through his list of negative results, just sat there, munching his way through a packet of fizzy cola bottles.

The PC finished his report and waited expectantly for DI Insch to stop chewing and say something.

‘Tell the teams to keep going for another hour. If we’ve not found anything by then we’re calling it a day.’ The inspector proffered the almost-empty bag of sweets and the PC took one, popping it into his mouth with obvious delight. ‘No one can say we’ve not taken the search seriously.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled, still eating.

DI Insch dismissed the munching constable and beckoned Logan and WPC Watson over. ‘Post mortem,’ he said without preamble, listening to Logan’s account of the desecration of David Reid’s body in the exact same way he’d listened to the search team progress reports. Silent. Impassive. Stuffing his face. He finished off the cola bottles and brought out a packet of wine gums.

‘Wonderful,’ he said when Logan had finished. ‘So we’ve got a paedophile serial killer running around Aberdeen.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Watson, accepting a little orange lozenge with ‘SHERRY’ embossed on the top. ‘There’s only one body, not a series, and the killer may not even be local. . .’

Insch merely shook his head.

Logan took a ‘PORT’. ‘The body lay undisturbed for three months. The killer even went back, long after rigor mortis had set in, and took a souvenir. He had to know his hiding place was safe. That screams “local”. The fact that he came back and took a bit of the body means this is something special to him. Your man’s not done this on a whim: he’s been thinking about it for a long time. This is some sort of ritual fantasy he’s acting out. He’s going to do it again. If he hasn’t already.’

Insch agreed. ‘I want all missing child reports for the last year pulled. Get the list up on the wall over there. Chances are some of them may have crossed this sick bastard’s path.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh and, Logan,’ said the DI, carefully folding the wine gum packet shut and stuffing it back in his pocket. ‘I had a call from the Journal. They tell me you’ve been up there leaning on their new golden boy.’

Logan nodded. ‘Colin Miller: used to work on the Scottish Sun. He’s the one that—’

‘Did I ask you to go antagonizing the newspapers, Sergeant?’

Logan’s mouth snapped shut. Pause. ‘No, sir. We were in the neighbourhood and I thought—’

‘Sergeant,’ said DI Insch, slowly and deliberately. ‘I’m glad you’re thinking. That’s a good sign. Something I encourage in my officers.’ There was a big ‘but’ coming: Logan could feel it. ‘But I don’t expect them to go off and annoy the local press without permission. We’re going to have to put out appeals to the public. We’re going to have to do damage limitation if someone screws something up in the investigation. We’re going to need these people on our side.’

‘This morning you said—’

‘This morning I said I’d nail whoever spoke to the press. And I will. This is our screw-up, not the paper’s. Understand?’

He’d screwed up. WPC Watson suddenly took a great deal of interest in her shoes as Logan said, ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘OK.’ Insch picked a sheet of paper off the desk and handed it to a suitably chastised Detective Sergeant McRae. ‘The search teams haven’t found a thing. Surprise, surprise. There’s an underwater search unit doing the river, but the rain’s made it almost impossible. The damn thing’s already broken its banks in about a million places. We’re lucky the body was found at all. Another couple of days and the river would’ve swamped the ditch and whoosh. . .’ He swept his hand past, the fingertips sparkling with little grains of sugar from the cola bottles. ‘David Reid’s body would’ve been washed right out into the North Sea. Next stop Norway. We’d never have found it.’

Logan tapped the post mortem report against his teeth, his eyes focused on a spot just above DI Insch’s bald head. ‘Maybe it’s too much of a coincidence?’ he said, frowning. ‘David Reid’s been lying there for three months, but if no one finds him before the river bursts its banks, he’s never going to be found.’ His eyes drifted back to the inspector. ‘He gets swept out to sea and the story never hits the papers. No publicity. The killer can’t read about his achievements. There’s no feedback.’

Insch nodded. ‘Good thinking. Get someone to drag the finder. . .’ He checked his notes. ‘Mr Duncan Nicholson. Get him in here and give him a proper grilling, not the half-arsed one he got last night. If the man’s got any skeletons in his closet I want to know about them.’

‘I’ll get an area car to—’ was as far as Logan got before the door to the incident room burst open and a breathless PC screeched to a halt.

‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Another kid’s gone missing.’