Читать книгу Logan McRae Crime Series Books 1-3: Cold Granite, Dying Light, Broken Skin - Stuart MacBride - Страница 23

Logan’s free lunch had turned into rampant indigestion. He’d lied to DI Insch and hoped to God he wasn’t going to get found out. After Colin Miller had told him all about the man with no kneecaps, Logan had reciprocated, detailing the missing child investigations. He’d been convinced he was doing good: establishing a rapport with an informant, building bridges with the local press. But Insch had acted as if he was selling secrets to the enemy. Logan had asked Insch for permission to tell Miller everything he’d already told him. And in the end Insch had agreed. God help him if the inspector ever found out the exchange had happened before he’d given the OK.

Someone else Logan didn’t want finding that out was the inspector from Professional Standards, currently sitting on the opposite side of the interview room table, dressed in an immaculate black uniform. All parallel creases and shiny buttons. Inspector Napier: thinning ginger hair and a nose like a bottle opener. Asking lots and lots of questions about Logan’s return to the force, his recuperation, his status as police hero, and his lunch with Colin Miller.

Smiling sincerely, Logan lied for all he was worth.

Half an hour later he was back in his commandeered office, looking up at the map on the wall, rubbing at the burning sensation sitting in the middle of his chest. Trying not to think about getting fired.

The blue business card Miller had given him was sitting in his top pocket. Maybe the reporter was right. Maybe he did deserve better than this. Maybe he could write a book about Angus Robertson: Catching the Mastrick Monster. It had a kind of ring to it. . .

WPC Watson had been in while he was out having lunch, leaving a fresh stack of printouts next to his witness statements. Criminal and civil records of everyone on his list. Logan sifted through it, not liking what he found. Not one of them had form for kidnapping, killing and disposing of young girls’ bodies in a bin-bag.

But Watson had been thorough. For each person she’d provided a break-down by age, telephone number, place of birth, national insurance number, occupation, length of time they’d lived at their current address. He had no idea how she’d managed to get hold of all this stuff. Just a shame none of it was of any use.

Rosemount had always been something of a cultural melting pot and that was reflected in Watson’s list: Edinburgh, Glasgow, Aberdeen, Inverness, Newcastle. . . There was even a couple from the Isle of Man. Now that was exotic.

Sighing, he pulled the stack of statements over again, the ones he’d marked as being close enough to number seventeen to share a wheelie-bin. He read the bio WPC Watson had produced and then re-read the corresponding statement, trying to get some picture of them from their words. It wasn’t easy: every time uniform took a statement they put it into police-statement-speak, a sort of bizarre, stilted English that was so far removed from the way people really spoke it was almost laughable.

‘I proceeded to work that morning,’ Logan read aloud, ‘having first removed the rubbish bag from my kitchen and placed it into the communal bin outside the building. . .’ Who the hell spoke like that? Normal people ‘went to work’: ‘proceeding to work’ was something only policemen did.

He turned back to the front page of the statement to see who had been so weirdly misquoted. The name was sort of familiar: someone from Norman Chalmers’s building. Anderson. . . Logan smiled. It was the man whose bell they’d rung so that they could get into the building without Chalmers knowing. The one WPC Watson thought was up to something.

According to her write-up Mr Cameron Anderson was in his mid-twenties and hailed from Edinburgh: which explained why he had a first name like Cameron. He worked for a firm of sub-sea engineers making remote operated vehicles for the oil industry. Somehow Logan could picture the nervous young man fiddling about with little remote-controlled submarines.

The next person on the list wasn’t much more help and neither was the one after that, but he worked his way slowly through them anyway. If the killer was here they didn’t jump off the page and tell him about it.

Finally Logan put the last statement on top of the pile and stretched, feeling his back pop and crack. A yawn threatened to tear his head in half and he let it rip, ending with a tiny, almost inaudible, burp. It was a quarter to seven and Logan had been poring over these damned statements for most of the day. It was time to go home.

Out in the hallway the building was quiet. The bulk of the administrative work got done during the day and after the admin staff went home the place was a lot less noisy. Logan stopped off at the incident room to see if anything had happened while he’d been cloistered in the office looking at statements.

There was a small contingent of uniform in the room: two of them answering the phone while the remaining two got on with filing the reports generated by the last shift. He wasn’t surprised to hear they’d had exactly the same amount of success as him. Bugger all.

Still no sign of Richard Erskine, no sign of Peter Lumley, and no one had come forward to identify the little girl lying on a slab in the morgue.

‘You still here, Lazarus?’

Logan turned to find Big Gary standing behind him, a couple of mugs in one hand and a packet of Penguin biscuits in the other. The large policeman nodded in the direction of the lifts. ‘We’ve got someone downstairs looking for whoever’s in charge of the missing kid investigation. I thought you was all away.’

‘Who is it?’ Logan asked.

‘Says he’s the new kid’s stepfather.’

Logan groaned. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help, it was just that he wanted to go find WPC Watson and discover whether or not they’d had sex last night. And if they had, was she up for a rematch?

‘OK, I’ll see him.’

Peter Lumley’s stepfather was pacing the pink linoleum floor in reception. He’d changed out of his overalls and into a dirty pair of jeans and a jacket that looked as if it wouldn’t stop a sneeze, let alone a howling gale.

‘Mr Lumley?’

The man spun around. ‘Why have they stopped looking?’ His face was pale and rough, blue stubble making the skin look even more sallow. ‘He’s still out there! Why have they stopped looking?’

Logan took him into one of the small reception rooms. The man was shivering and dripping wet.

‘Why have they stopped looking?’

‘They’ve been out looking all day, Mr Lumley. It’s too dark to see anything out there. . . You need to go home.’

Lumley shook his head, sending small droplets of water flying from his lank hair. ‘I need to find him! He’s only five!’ He sank slowly down into an orange plastic seat.

Logan’s phone started blaring its theme tune and he dug it out, switched it off and stuck it back in his pocket without even looking. ‘Sorry about that. How’s his mother holding up?’ he asked.

‘Sheila?’ Something almost approaching a smile touched Lumley’s mouth. ‘The doctor’s given her something. Peter means the world to her.’

Logan nodded. ‘I know you probably don’t want to think about this,’ said Logan, working his words carefully, ‘but has Peter’s father been told he’s missing?’

Lumley’s face closed up. ‘Fuck him.’

‘Mr Lumley, the boy’s father has a right to know—’

‘Fuck him!’ He wiped a hand across his face. ‘Bastard fucked off to Surrey with some tart from his office. Left Sheila and Peter without a fuckin’ penny. You know what he sends Peter for Christmas? For his birthday? Fuck all. Not even a fuckin’ card! That’s what he sends his son. That’s how much he cares. Fuckin’ bastard. . .’

‘OK, forget the father. I’m sorry.’ Logan stood. ‘Look, we’re going to have all the area cars keeping an eye out for your son. There’s nothing more you can do tonight. Go home. Get some rest. First light tomorrow morning we’ll be searching again.’

Peter Lumley’s stepfather slid his head into his hands.

‘It’s OK,’ said Logan, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, feeling the shivering turn into silent sobs. ‘It’s OK. Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’

Logan signed for one of the CID pool cars, another battered-looking Vauxhall in need of a wash. Mr Lumley didn’t say a word all the way from Queen Street to Hazlehead. Just sat in the passenger seat staring out of the window, searching for a five-year-old child.

No matter how cynical you were, it would be impossible not to see the genuine love the man had for his stepson. Logan couldn’t help wondering if Richard Erskine’s dad was still out, searching for his missing son in the dark and the rain. Before remembering the poor sod had died before Richard was born.

He frowned, working the dirty pool car round the roundabout that lead into Hazlehead proper. Something was nagging at him.

Now he came to think about it: all the time they’d been in that house no one had mentioned the father. All the photos on the wall were of the missing child and his suffocating mother. You would have thought there would have been at least one of Richard’s dear departed dad. He didn’t even know the man’s name.

Logan dropped Mr Lumley at the front door to his block of flats. It was hard to say, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Lumley, we’ll find him and he’ll be fine. . .’ when he was one hundred percent sure the child was already dead. So he didn’t, just made vague reassuring noises before driving off into the night.

As soon as he was out of sight, Logan pulled out his mobile, turned it back on, and called the incident room. A harassed-sounding WPC answered the phone.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s DS McRae,’ said Logan, heading back into town. ‘Something wrong?’

There was a pause and then: ‘Sorry, sir, the bloody press have been on. You bloody name it I’ve spoken to them: BBC, ITV, Northsound, the papers. . .’

Logan didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Why?’

‘Bloody Sandy the Snake’s been stirring up shite. Seems we’re all incompetent and trying to pin all the murders on his client, ’cos we haven’t got a bloody clue. Says it’s Judith Corbert all over again.’

Logan groaned. They’d only ever found her left ring finger, complete with gold wedding band, and Mr Sandy Moir-Farquharson had ripped the prosecution case to shreds. The husband walked free, even though everyone knew he’d done it; Slippery Sandy got a huge cheque, three chat-show appearances and a BBC Crime Special; and three good police officers were thrown to the wolves. Seven years ago and he was still digging her up to beat them with.

Logan swung the car round onto Anderson Drive, making for the back road to Torry. Where little Richard Erskine had gone missing.

‘Yeah, that sounds like Sandy. What did you tell them?’

‘Told them to get stuffed and speak to the Press Office.’

Logan nodded. ‘Quite right. Listen, I need you to look something up for me, OK? Did we get a name for Richard Erskine’s father?’

‘Hang on. . .’ The sound of someone massacring ‘Come On Baby Light My Fire’ came on as he was put on hold.

He’d got all the way down to Riverside Drive before the WPC’s voice replaced the awful rendition. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said, ‘we don’t have the father’s name on file, but the case notes say he died before the child was born. Why?’

‘Probably nothing,’ said Logan. ‘Listen: I’ll be at the Erskine house soon. Call the Family Liaison Officer. . . She still on site?’ Distraught mother with a missing child: they wouldn’t have assigned a man to look after her.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Call her and get her to meet me out front in about. . .’ he took a look at the grey buildings drifting past, the windows shining with yellow light, ‘two minutes.’

She was waiting for him, watching him make an arse of parking the CID pool car.

Trying not to look as flustered as he felt, Logan left the thing abandoned, half on the kerb, and buttoned up his coat against the rain.

The Family Liaison Officer was better organized than he was: she had an umbrella.

‘Evening, sir,’ she said as he squeezed himself in under the brolly. ‘What’s up?’

‘I need to know if you’ve heard anything of the boy’s—’

A harsh white flash broke through the rain, cutting him off.

‘What the hell?’ he asked, spinning around.

There was a scruffy-looking BMW on the other side of the road, the passenger side window rolled down, letting a trickle of smoke escape into the cold night air.

‘I think it’s the Daily Mail,’ said the WPC holding the brolly. ‘You turn up: they think something’s happening. Flash, bang, wallop. If they can make up some shite to go along with it you’ll be on the front page tomorrow.’

Logan turned his back on the car, making sure that if they took any more snaps all they’d get was the back of his head. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘have you heard anything about the child’s father?’

She shrugged. ‘Only that he’s dead. And a right bastard, according to the next-door neighbour.’

‘What, did he beat her up, cheat on her?’

‘No idea. But the old witch makes him sound like Hitler, only without the winning personality.’

‘Sounds lovely.’

Inside the Erskine household the only thing that had changed was the air quality. The walls were still lined with those freaky mother-and-son snaps, the wallpaper was still revolting, but the air was thick with cigarette smoke.

In the lounge, Mrs Erskine was weaving away on the couch, unable to sit still, or upright. A large cut-glass tumbler of clear spirit was clutched in her hands, a half-smoked fag between her lips. The bottle of vodka on the coffee table was well on its way.

Her friend, the next-door neighbour, the one who didn’t make tea for the police, was perched in an armchair, craning her long, wrinkly neck to see who the newcomer was. Her beady eyes sparkled as soon as she recognized him. Probably hoping that this was going to be bad news. Nothing like someone else’s suffering to make you feel good about yourself.

Logan plonked himself down on the couch next to Mrs Erskine. She looked around at him blearily, and an inch of fag ash tumbled down the front of her cardigan.

‘He’s dead isn’t he? My little Richard is dead?’ Her eyes were bloodshot from too much crying and too much vodka, her face creased and florid. She looked as if she’d aged ten years in the last ten hours.

The neighbour leaned forward eagerly, waiting for the moment of truth.

‘We don’t know that,’ said Logan. ‘I just need to ask you a couple more questions, OK?’

Mrs Erskine nodded and dragged in another lungful of nicotine and tar.

‘It’s about Richard’s father.’

She stiffened as if someone had run a thousand volts through her. ‘He hasn’t got a father!’

‘Bastard wouldn’t marry her,’ said the neighbour with obvious relish. This wasn’t as good as the kid being dead, but dragging up the painful past was a reasonable substitute. ‘Got her up the stick when she was just fifteen and then wouldn’t marry her. He was a shite!’

‘Yes.’ The unmarried Mrs Erskine waved the rapidly emptying glass of vodka in salute. ‘He was a shite!’

‘Course,’ the neighbour went on, her voice a theatrical whisper, ‘he still wants to see the child. Can you imagine that? Doesn’t want to make the kid legal, but he still wants to take him to Duthie Park and play bloody football!’ She leaned over and sloshed another huge shot of vodka into her friend’s glass. ‘There ought to be a bloody law.’

Logan’s head snapped up. ‘What do you mean, “he still wants to see the child”?’

‘I don’t let him anywhere near my little soldier.’ Miss Erskine raised the tumbler unsteadily to her lips and swallowed about half in one go. ‘Oh, he sends little presents and cards and letters, but I throw them all straight in the bin.’

‘You told us the father was dead.’

Miss Erskine looked at him, puzzled. ‘No I didn’t.’

‘Might as well be bloody dead. The amount of bloody good he is.’ The neighbour said with a smug flourish. And suddenly Logan got a much better picture of what had happened. WPC Watson had told him the father was dead because that’s what the rancid old bitch of a neighbour had told her.

‘I see,’ said Logan slowly, trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘And has the father been informed that Richard’s gone missing?’ It was the second time he’d asked that question in the space of an hour. He already knew the answer.

‘It’s none of his bloody business!’ shouted the neighbour, getting as much venom into her voice as she could. ‘He gave up all his bloody rights when he wouldn’t make his bloody child legal. Imagine leaving that poor boy to go through life as a bastard! Anyway, the little shit must know by now—’ she pointed at an open copy of the Sun lying on the carpet. The headline screamed: ‘PAEDOPHILE SICKO STRIKES AGAIN!’

Logan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The bitter old battleaxe was getting on his nerves. ‘You need to tell me Richard’s father’s name, Mrs. . . Miss Erskine.’

‘I don’t see why!’ The neighbour leapt to her feet. Now she was playing the noble defender, protecting the poor pissed cow on the sofa. ‘It’s none of his bloody business what’s going on!’

Logan turned on her. ‘Sit down and shut up!’

She stood there, mouth agape. ‘You . . . you can’t talk to me like that!’

‘If you don’t sit down and button it, I’m going to have the nice constable here take you down to the station and charge you with giving a false statement. Understand?’

She sat down and buttoned it.

‘Miss Erskine: I need to know.’

Richard’s mother finished her drink and got unsteadily to her feet. She lurched once to the left and then staggered off in the opposite direction: to the sideboard, where she proceeded to rummage about in a low cupboard shelf, scattering bits of paper and small boxes over the floor.

‘Here!’ she said triumphantly, holding a deckle-edged cardboard folder with gold ribbons embossed on the side. Just the sort of thing they used to give you when you got your photograph taken at school. She almost threw it at Logan.

Inside was a boy, maybe a little over fourteen. He had a huge pair of eyebrows and a slight squint, but the resemblance to the missing five-year-old was unmistakable. In the corner of the picture, over the mottled blue-and-grey photographer’s background, were the words: ‘TO MY DARLING ELISABETH, I WILL LOVE YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY, DARREN XXX’ written in a child’s artificially neat handwriting. Pretty heady sentiments for someone just clearing puberty.

‘He was your childhood sweetheart?’ asked Logan, turning the brown photo-folder over in his hands. There was a golden sticker with the photographer’s name, address and telephone number and another, white paper, spelling out ‘DARREN CALDWELL: THIRD YEAR, FERRYHILL ACADEMY’.

‘He was a bastard!’ said the friend again, relishing every syllable.

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Last I heard he’d upped sticks and moved to Dundee of all places! Dundee!’ The friend stuck another fag in her mouth and lit it. She sucked air through it, making the tip glow fiery-red before hissing the smoke out of her nose. ‘Little bastard can’t wait to get away, can he? I mean here’s his kid, growing up without a father and he buggers off to Dundee first chance he gets!’ She took another deep drag. ‘Ought to be a bloody law.’

Logan didn’t point out that, since Darren Caldwell wasn’t allowed to see his son, it made no difference where he stayed. Instead he asked Miss Erskine if he could keep the photograph.

‘Burn it for all I care,’ was all she said.

Logan let himself out.

It was still chucking it down outside and the foosty-looking BMW was still parked where it had a good view of the front of the house. Keeping his head covered, Logan sprinted for the pool car. Cranking the heating up, he set the blowers on full and made his way back to Force Headquarters.

Outside the big concrete-and-glass building there was a knot of television cameras, most of them sporting a serious broadcast journalist looking seriously into the camera and making serious statements about the quality of Grampian Police. The WPC he’d spoken to hadn’t been kidding: Sandy the Snake had really whipped up a storm.

Logan tucked the CID car into the car park around the back, steering well clear of the reception area on his way to the incident room.

The room was a flurry of activity again. But this time the whirlwind was centred around a harassed-looking press officer who was standing, clutching a clipboard to her chest, trying to get details out of the four officers on duty while every phone in the place went off. As soon as she clapped eyes on Logan her face lit up. Here was someone to share the stress.

‘Sergeant—’ she started, but Logan held up a hand and grabbed one of the few silent phones.

‘Just a minute,’ he said, dialling the records office.

The phone was picked up almost immediately.

‘I need to get a vehicle check on one Darren Caldwell,’ he said, doing a quick bout of mental arithmetic. Darren had knocked up Miss Erskine when she was fifteen, plus nine months for gestation, plus five years for the kid’s age. Presuming they were in the same class when their ‘eternal love’ turned physical Darren had to be twenty-one – twenty-two by now. Give or take a few months. ‘He’s in his early twenties and allegedly living in Dundee. . .’ He nodded as the officer on the other end of the phone recited the details back to him. ‘Yeah, that’s right. How quick can you get that for me? OK, OK, I’ll hold.’

The press officer was standing in front of him, looking as if someone had dropped a live herring down her pants. ‘The press are all over us!’ she wailed while Logan held on for his vehicle check. ‘That bloody Hissing Sandy Lawyer Bastard is calling us every shade of shite under the sun!’ Her face was florid, the beetroot tinge extending from her blonde fringe all the way down her neck like sunburn. ‘Do we have anything to tell them? Anything at all? Anything that makes us look like we’re getting somewhere?’

Logan put one hand over the mouthpiece and told her they were pursuing several lines of enquiry.

‘Don’t give me that!’ She almost exploded. ‘That’s the shite I give them when we haven’t got a bloody clue! I can’t tell them that!’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can’t just conjure arrests out of thin. . . Hello?’

The voice on the phone was back: ‘Aye, I’ve got fifteen Darren Caldwells in the north-east. Mind, only one of them lives in Dundee and he’s in his late thirties.’

Logan swore.

‘But I’ve got one Darren Caldwell, twenty-one, livin’ in Portlethen.’

‘Portlethen?’ It was a little town about five miles south of Aberdeen.

‘Aye. Drives a dark red Renault Clio. You want the registration number?’

Logan said he did, closed his eyes and thanked God something was starting to go his way. A witness had seen a child matching Richard Erskine’s description getting into the back of a dark red hatchback. He copied down the registration number and address, thanked the man on the other end of the phone and beamed at the agitated press officer.

‘What? What? What have you got?’ she demanded.

‘We’re hoping an arrest will be imminent.’

‘What arrest? Who are you arresting?’

But Logan was already gone.